If I am going to marry Nathaniel Starbuck one day, it is plain to see that I must learn to love this island.
12
17th day of the tenth month in the year 1767
With a cup of ginger tea clutched in her hands, Phoebe walked away from the galley, down the upper deck, wondering why Cook must always be so surly toward her. She was grateful to him and expressed as much, and all he did was glare at her as if she had sprouted horns. These ignorant seamen! So superstitious. Everything that went wrong was blamed on Phoebe’s presence on the ship. When this mal de mer passed—and surely it would soon pass—she would make more of an effort to befriend Cook, to win him over so that he would see she was not a hex but just a fellow traveler, sharing the adventure of whaling together.
Adventure. She puffed her cheeks and exhaled. There was no adventure to be found on this whaling ship—just water and waves in every direction. The only whale sighted had been the one they’d lost.
She opened the door to the captain’s cabin to find the captain rifling through her chest. “Captain! What is thee looking for?”
He straightened, a mildly sheepish look on his finely chiseled face. “I had a rare surfeit of time and thought the time was right that I would read through Great Mary’s journal. So . . . where is it?”
“It’s here, with me.” She lifted her drawstring purse. “Thee only needs to ask. Of course thee may read it.”
He took it from her eagerly and sat at the teak desk. He flipped through pages, squinting as he read, holding it close to his eyes. Phoebe folded her clothes and put them back into her chest. She heard him grumble once or twice—“Blasted weak eyes!”—saw him light a candle and hold it close to the book.
After a long while, the captain slapped the cover shut. “’Tis impossible to decipher! The ink is too faint for my eyes.”
“’Tis difficult reading for me as well. I’m making slow progress, but it does divert me.”
He leaned back. “Phoebe, has Great Mary made mention of Eleazer Foulger?”
“She has only mentioned Peter Foulger, the surveyor of Nantucket Island. Why does thee ask?”
The captain lifted a shoulder nonchalantly. “I am a Foulger. I’ve heard many tales of my relations.” He rose and took a step to the door. His hand was braced against the doorframe. “If Eleazer’s name does get mentioned, I would ask thee to tell me. Straightaway.”
“Of course.” She smiled through a sudden wave of nausea.
He took a few steps toward her and reached out to her, a certain luster returning to his gaze. Thinking he meant to take her hand, she extended her own, but he ignored her gesture and placed his hands on her waist.
Oh dear. Not now. Not when she felt so sick. She was aware of her marital duties, but she could think of nothing else but mal de mer. Her stomach did a flip-flop as he touched her, and not in a good way.
He slipped his hands around her back, then frowned. “Thee has lost weight. Thee must eat, child.”
She wondered where the nearest chamber pot was. Her stomach let out a loud gurgle. The captain seemed not to notice. He smiled a man’s smile—secret and knowing. A chill rolled over her, in a long, slow wave, like the ocean in January. She smiled at him, a tight smile, icy as the frozen beach. “Captain,” she managed to utter, knowing that she risked irritating him, but she could not swallow away how she felt. “Surely thee is aware that I have not yet turned the corner.”
“Not aware. Don’t care.” He pulled her toward him and started fumbling with her laces. “You need something else to think about.”
“I don’t think so,” she gasped, and it was a gasp, for she could hardly breathe.
It confounded her that he could think of marital duty while she felt as if she was barely functioning. Her heart beat in her chest like a trapped moth. She felt like a trapped moth! Oh Lord God, please help!
And then a hard knocking rapped on the door. “Captain? Captain, you’re needed at the helm.”
“Blast!” The captain released Phoebe, grabbed his hat, and stomped toward the door. “These imbeciles wouldn’t know how to sail their way out of a wooden box.”
She let out a sigh of relief; she had never known the Lord to work with such haste.
19th day of the tenth month in the year 1767
One of the first orders given to Matthew by Captain Foulger was to make two additional quarterboards. One with the words “British Queen” on it, and the other, “Freedom.” Matthew did what he was told, though he was unsure why the captain wanted them.
On a sunny morning, rare and relished, he was up on the upper deck when the lookout spotted a ship on the horizon. The captain pulled out his scope to identify the other ship, then ordered sailors to switch the quarterboards and change the flag on the mast. Ten minutes passed, with the captain peering through his spyglass, before the other ship turned and went on its way.
Matthew watched the sailor lean over the side to swap out the quarterboard. “Ah, now I see,” he told the captain. “You are playing with the king.”
The captain’s face turned as red as an autumn apple. “You’re paid well to keep your mouth shut.”
Matthew’s smile faded. The remark made to the captain was not one any Nantucketer would take offense to. The island juts out into the sea, and tension was brewing on both sides of the Atlantic. Nantucket must remain neutral in the conflict between England and the colonies, or it would be surrounded by danger. Matthew thought playing with the king was a clever ruse, wise and judicious during this dangerous period. And yet the captain’s rage was that of a thief caught in the act of looting.
And this was the man his Phoebe had married.
That evening, the captain entered the cabin, moved to the bed, and slowly lowered himself so that he was sitting, facing Phoebe. He pressed his palms together, then separated them and splayed them on his knees. The slight smile that usually graced his face was gone.
A trickle of unease curled through her.
The captain’s voice was low, a thick rumble in his chest. “Phoebe, I think thee has forgotten thee is a wife.”
She felt the weight of his disapproval pressing against her. And she felt indignation rise in response, rise and release. She stiffened in anger. “I have not forgotten. How could I forget! Thee reminds me each night the sea is calm!” She did not mind the lack of physical intimacy between them since she was so thoroughly seasick. A look of surprise at her sudden outrage crossed his face, but she did not back down. “Thee doesn’t need to lecture me on my duty as thy wife. I know my duty and will perform it when I am able. The sea has troubled my stomach no little bit.”
“If I am unwelcome—” he paused, all trace of warmth gone from his voice—“I will not press myself on thee. There are other options.”
Phoebe winced. “Other options,” she said dully. She was quiet for a long while, so long that he went to the door. Before he closed the door behind him, she asked, “Captain Foulger, dost thou love me?”
A terrible stillness seemed to suck the air out of the room. She ought not have asked, for he did not answer.
After that conversation, Phoebe marked a change in how the captain treated her. A chill descended like a cloak of dark clouds. He complained continually. First about her need for the window curtains to be drawn. “I require the cleansing breeze from the sea to sleep,” he told her. But the breeze brought in a heavy, nose-curling, salty scent with it, coating the room with a layer of humidity, as well as the sound of churning, churning, churning waves.
He complained of the aroma of the room. What could she do but send for Silo to bring her new pots?
And then he complained about the crew’s complaints of her. “Cook needs his pots!”
Then the captain stopped complaining to her or about her altogether. He rarely spoke to her, only out of necessity. When he did speak, there was inexplicable annoyance in his voice. He no longer asked after her health. She longed for his companionship, his devotion and empathy, and yet she only received di
sapproval in his scowling glances and a tart condescension in his tone of voice.
Her father was right. She had made a grave error.
Mary Coffin
1 January 1661
Christmas came quietly. James shot a goose so that was a fine feast for our dinner. Mother appreciated the gift of its feathers, though Stephen and I did the plucking.
And now a new year has arrived. Tonight Father thanked God for seeing us through another year, a very significant year, and asked for safekeeping in the next one. I wonder, what will this year be like? Mayhap it is better not to know.
10 January 1661
We would not be able to survive through the winter without the help of the Indians, who have provided us with dried corn and smoked meat stored in underground baskets. The Indians have taken a few men out to sea to catch fish. They know of places where schools gather. Nathaniel has become quite friendly with them. He has learned some of their language and accompanies his father to the other side of the island quite often.
12 January 1661
In Siasconset today, a dead whale drifted up to the beach and everyone got all excited. They raced ponies and carts over to Siasconset with barrels and buckets, to beat the Indians from getting first crack at it. Father said it is a gift from the sea.
Now drift whaling is all Nathaniel talks about, if he does indeed utter more than a word of greeting to me. He spends an inordinate amount of time building himself a birch bark canoe so that he can go hunting after whales, the way the Indians do.
Sometimes I think Nathaniel has the sea in his blood. He dreams about a seafaring life, he studies it, he absorbs information about it. He has cold saltwater in his veins instead of warm blood.
31 January 1661
The day dawned, a cold fog rolled in from the north, and beneath the fog, the morning was chilly and gray. Mother and I were kneading bread when we heard the sound of men calling out. We grabbed our shawls and hurried outside. Down on the shore were three men, cold and wet. We helped them up to the house and fueled the banked fire, giving them warm clothing and hot tea to fight the chill.
Their sloop had been blown off course in yesterday’s storm, and they were forced to do what no seamen ever wanted to do: abandon their ship.
Somehow word got around and soon neighbors made their way to the house to hear the sailors’ story. The fog started to clear, and Nathaniel asked if I wanted to go down to the shore to see if we could see their ship. Of course! I said, of course! I grabbed my shawl before he could change his mind.
As the fog cleared, we were able to see the ship out in the harbour, lying eerily on its side. As we watched, the tide came in and the ship slipped under. Nathaniel and I remained on the beach to watch the ship go down. Down, down, down.
“It’s sad,” Nathaniel said, “when a boat dies.”
“’Tis sadder when living beings go down in the ship.”
He turned to me with such a solemn look in his eyes. “But Mary,” he said, with sorrow in his voice, “a boat IS a living thing.”
Each time I think Nathaniel is silent with me because he has nothing to say, then out he comes with something like that. Something so beautiful it makes my heart hurt.
2 February 1661
I went walking this afternoon, and stopped on a high bank where sea oats drooped, laden with heavy water droplets. The fog swirled about my knees and obscured the distant view of the shore. I knew the sea was there, though, because of the eternal sound of incoming waves that floats in the air.
A great loneliness overwhelmed me. I moved on through the marshes, wondering what Nathaniel was doing at this very moment. And does he ever think of me as I so often think of him?
I kept walking and thinking. About Nathaniel, about how exasperating his silent ways are when I know there are wonderfully wise and sweet thoughts rolling around in that comely head of his. I walked on and on and on, puzzling over it until my mind finally wandered to other things. It occurred to me that I was lost. But in my aimless wanderings, I had an epiphany.
This island is not meant for farming, not with those wide, open moors and the sandy soil. But it is meant for something else. Something that might be a perfect solution to provide for the settlers’ well-being and sustenance.
I will have to bring this idea up carefully, so that Father will think it is his idea. That is the way to work with men. That is something else I have discovered lately.
5 February 1661
Just the right opportunity arose last evening to bring up my idea: raising sheep on the island. Father was in a state because we had run low on onions and his gout was flaring up. Mother makes a poultice for him of onions that is very curative. He had been looking forward to putting his gouty foot up, puffing on his pipe, before a quiet fire. Instead, he sat with his foot in a pail of cold water, trying to reduce the swelling, and railed on about the poor soil. I brought him a tot of brandy and sat beside him.
“Interesting to think about, isn’t it, Father?”
He looked up at me from rubbing his sore toe. “What?”
“Farming is such a toil here. Other things might be better suited for island life.”
He gave me a curious look.
“Think of all you’ve discovered about this island. ’Tis free of wolves and other natural predators.”
“Aye, I did just remark on that the other day.”
“Did not James comment on the price of wool when he was on the cape last week?”
“Sky high.”
“Did he say why?”
“Flocks have been ravaged by wolves.”
I kept my eyes on my hands in my lap, waiting to see if the spark would ignite.
“Sheep!” Father jumped up, knocking over the bucket. “The moors and meadows are ideal for sheep to graze! There is adequate room for grazing . . . and good undergrowth. Why did I not think of this sooner!” He grabbed his sock and jammed it on his sore foot. “I must go run this venture past Edward.” He grabbed his hat and coat from the back of his chair. “Mayhap goats, as well.”
As the door slammed shut, Mother came to me and wrapped her arms around me, just for a moment. “What would we do without you, daughter?” It was a rare moment of affection from her, and I did not take it for granted.
7 February 1661
Some of the men came by this afternoon (this time, Nathaniel was among them) at Father and Edward’s invitation. They sat by the fire, drinking mugs of mullein tea, considering options of economy on the island. “I know that most of you are looking to the sea for the harvest,” Father said. “I think this island might provide another possibility. Not just making an adequate living, but that we might thrive.”
The men turned to look at him. “Speak up, Tristram.”
“Sheep. Their needs are well suited to this land. There is a steady demand for wool on the mainland.”
“’Tis an interesting notion,” Edward Starbuck said. “Sheep would provide a necessary source of income through the sale of wool. We certainly need a source of steady income.”
“And the meat, Edward,” Father said. “Do not forget that they would provide us with meat.”
Stephen Hussey looked skeptical. “How will we keep them penned in? We have barely enough imported wood to build our houses.”
Father looked to me to respond.
“Let them roam,” I said. “There is plenty of common land for grazing sheep. Then we can round them up in the spring for a shearing. We could all help each other. Make it a . . . community gathering.” I looked out the small window and saw the little pond out there. “We could do it here. Wash them in that pond, shear them in the pen. Sack the wool and take it to the mainland. Or better still”—my mind was reeling with ideas—“better still, we could start a fulming process right here, on the island. Boil the wool down and send it to England. It could be an economic foundation for the proprietors.”
There was murmuring among the men, then Christopher said, “How would we know whose sheep is whose?”
I tugged on my earlobes. “Earmarks. I have read of it. It’s a little like . . . well, almost like branding cattle.”
“Bah!” Thomas Macy said. “Too easy to alter.”
“Calm down, Thomas,” Edward said. “We can make it illegal to alter an earmark. There can be fines attached.”
“I have a concern, though.” Peter Foulger leaned back in the stiff wooden chair. “Sheep are well suited for those open moors, I agree. But we only own a small portion of the island. The Indians plant their crops on much of the land. They will not permit us to graze cattle or sheep to ruin their crops.”
Such a thoughtful comment was typical of Peter Foulger. He says that the Indians are very peaceful, and he hopes they will be given no cause to change. He often reminds everyone to treat the Indians fairly, and not to try to cheat them. He wants to do everything in his power to insure that English-Indian relations continue in a mutually beneficial manner.
“Peter’s concern bears listening to,” Edward said. “We must appease the Indians and make genuine efforts to show that we are willing to cooperate.”
Again, Father looked to me to respond, as if he knew I had already considered an answer. And I had! “We could tell them we will let the sheep graze only after the Indian harvest has ended until planting time. See if the settlers might be free to use the entire island as common land from October until May.”
Edward and Father, all the men, in fact, seemed quite satisfied by my suggestions, and Peter Foulger even praised me.
My knees went weak when I saw Nathaniel watching me. Then he bent his tall, lean figure over the hearth, carefully stoking the fire with long pieces of driftwood that I had gathered on the beaches. He drained his cup of mullein tea, ran the back of his hand across his lips, and left the house without a word.
20 February 1661
On the doorstep this morning, Stephen found a quill pen, made of a swan feather!, and a small pot of indigo ink alongside it. ’Tis my birthday today, and Nathaniel left me a gift. I know ’twas him because I had happened to see that his fingertips were blackened, and noticed he had left inky smudges on his cup of mullein tea.
Phoebe's Light Page 13
