Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  “Murdered,” the first mate mumbled. “Forgive me for interrupting, but he was killed in cold blood. By Matthew Macy.”

  Phoebe ignored him. “Sarah, I am truly sorry.”

  Sarah’s eyes filled with tears, and Hiram pulled out a kerchief for her to wipe her eyes. “If thee is here to inquire of my father’s last will and testament, thee should know thee is not in it.”

  Were the situation not so serious, Phoebe would have laughed. “I am not here for my sake, but for my father’s. The captain had promised to leave one hundred pounds at the bank to provide for my father.”

  “One hundred pounds?” Sarah repeated sardonically, then laughed once, mirthlessly. “’Tis a pity that issue was not resolved prior to my dear father’s untimely death.”

  “My father is in debtor’s prison because the captain, my husband, did not provide for him.”

  Sarah walked up to Phoebe with her eyes narrowed to slits. “Does thee know what the crew has said about thee and Matthew Macy? The man accused of killing my father?”

  “Matthew Macy is no killer.”

  “I heard that there was a dalliance between thee. That he built thee a special love nest on the Fortuna. Why else would he have remained on the island when my own father left? Oh, it all makes perfect sense.”

  Phoebe was shocked by the accusation. “Sarah, I have done nothing dishonorable. Nor has Matthew. What thee heard is a vicious rumor.” Her eyes shifted to Hiram, whose eyes were fixed on the ground, then shifted back to Sarah.

  “I heard it from a very reliable source. So thee had better say goodbye to thy lover. He is headed for Gallows Field. And even if the Friends frown on my delight, I will be there to watch!” Sarah opened the door for Phoebe and practically shoved her over the threshold. “Cast off, Widow Foulger! Cast off without delay!” The door slammed in her face.

  The awful reality hit Phoebe full force. Widow Foulger? Widow Foulger? I am a widow without ever really being a wife. Her blood ran hot, leapt into her veins, and fired her heart.

  Phoebe had not expected much from the captain’s only daughter, but she had gotten even less. Who was Sarah Foulger, this cold and proud woman, to judge Phoebe and find her worthless? Right then and there, she decided: No longer!

  Mary Coffin

  10 August 1661

  Two terrible things happened, both in the same day.

  James returned from the Cape with news that Granny Joan had died peacefully in her sleep a fortnight ago.

  Father was distraught and went out for a long walk. He came back cheered, saying he had come across an oak tree and where did Stephen leave his axe?

  My tree! My beloved tree.

  I had to think quickly. “Oh Father! I know just the tree. ’Tis Granny Joan’s favorite tree on Nantucket! She loved it so dearly. Last summer, she sat under its shade and commented how it brought her such joy.” I clapped my cheeks for effect. “To think you discovered it on the very day you learned of her passing. ’Tis no coincidence. Does it not seem right to honor her by keeping it?”

  With that, the tree was declared sacrosanct. Granny Joan’s tree, he now calls it.

  14 August 1661

  The weather went from cool and rainy in June to beastly hot and humid in July and August. My hair refuses to stay pinned. I fear I look like the poor woolies, with fleece sprouting every which way.

  15 August 1661

  Yesterday, James returned from the Cape with news that the General Court is going to excess in several towns there. He was told there were upwards of a hundred people in jail for not attending church, or worse yet, attending Quaker services. Imagine that!

  How quickly things can change.

  25 August 1661

  There has been a cooler spell, and although we know that summer is not over, the heat is gentle today and things are growing everywhere, not looking so scorched as they did in July. I am making jam from berries to set up for winter.

  I had finished picking berries that grow near Hummock Pond and happened upon Nathaniel Starbuck and Elizabeth Macy. They were sitting under a tree with their heads together over a book. I said hello but kept on my way. I heard Elizabeth whisper something in her squeaky mouselike voice. I wonder if she was whispering to him about me.

  I wept all the way home. I was in such a state that I walked past the house and straight to Granny Joan’s tree and sat underneath it until I felt composed enough to go home.

  19

  29th day of the eleventh month in the year 1767

  There was only one place left Phoebe could turn, one person who would welcome her in. She knocked on the door of Libby Macy’s modest house on Easy Street. When the older woman opened the door, she froze, stunned. “Phoebe Starbuck! As I live and breathe!” Matthew’s mother opened her arms and Phoebe flew into them to be gathered high and hard against her. Her motherly touch brought forth one sob, then another. She had a sudden overwhelming need to be gentled and comforted, but what of the news of Matthew she had to give? Who would ease a mother’s misery?

  They sat at the table near the fire and Phoebe told her the whole story, start to finish, leaving no sordid detail unsaid. “There is convincing evidence. Sarah Foulger told me of the crew’s accusations. If Matthew is found guilty, he will be sent to Gallows Field.”

  His mother suffered a moment’s pause, then in a voice that was as unruffled as if she were discussing the weather, she announced, “That is not going to happen. My son is innocent of this deed.”

  “Of course, of course he is. But there are witnesses, and evidence. It does not look good.”

  “We will hire the best attorney in all New England.”

  “We will?” Libby Macy’s staunchness suddenly put starch in Phoebe’s spine. She sniffed and mopped her eyes. “Who?”

  “My cousin’s son, Ezra Barnard. He’s a genius. And he lives just over in Cambridge.” Libby rubbed her hands together. “We are going to need money. Plenty of it.” With that, for the first time, a frown crossed her face. The Macys were deep in debt from the Pearl.

  Money. Here Phoebe was again, desperately needing money. Where was she ever going to find the kind of money needed to defend Matthew? She paced nervously up and down the small keeping room. Suddenly, a light broke through her fog. “I’ll be right back!”

  “Where is thee going?”

  “To the docks. I believe an answer lies there.”

  Hurrying down toward Straight Wharf, Phoebe picked her way between clusters of townspeople who gaped at each other in shock at the sight of her. She paid them no mind but hurried down to the dock. There she found Silo stretched out on top of hers and Matthew’s sea chests, napping in the sun. “Silo! Oh Silo. Thee is a sight for sore eyes. And look, sweet boy—thee is protecting our chests!”

  He bolted up, but seemed not at all surprised by the sight of her. She realized he must have seen them arrive on the lighter a few hours back. “Would thee bring the chests to the Macys’ house on Easy Street? I will reward thee.” She wondered where he was living and suspected, by the smell of his salt-caked slops, that without the captain looking after him, he was bereft of a home. She gave him a head-to-toe appraisal. Too thin! “And food. Thee needs a good meal.”

  Matthew lay in his cell facing a whitewashed wall, smelling the fetid odors of old urine on a stale-smelling mattress. He thought about crying but lacked the heart. He thought about fighting the charges—but for what? And with what resources? He had none. On the way to the gaol, Zacchaeus had told him the case was a solid one. Any hope was snuffed out the moment that Phoebe looked at him with doubt in her eyes.

  When would he learn? When would he stop thinking that life would turn right side up for him?

  The door opened and in came Barnabas Starbuck, led by Zacchaeus. “I got him up to speed,” the constable said. “But I thought you two might have some catching up to do.”

  Despite their dismal circumstances, Barnabas looked overjoyed. “Matthew, could it be true? Is my Phoebe alive?” The old man’s face,
lit with hope, brought warmth and brightness to the dingy, filthy surroundings.

  Matthew rolled over and stood up. “’Tis true, Barnabas. I’m sure she’ll be coming to see you soon.” Not to see me, nor do I care to see her.

  The old man embraced Matthew with surprising strength, tears streaming down his face. Then he sat down in the dank and dismal cell as if it were a cozy keeping room, beaming. “Tell me everything. Start to finish. Leave nothing out. Not one thing!”

  No sooner had Matthew finished the long tale than the gaol door opened and in walked Zacchaeus, this time followed by Phoebe.

  When Phoebe was a schoolgirl, she and her friends would dare each other to run up to the old gaol, touch it, and run back to the street. Not one of Phoebe’s friends, herself included, could ever do the deed. They were too frightened. The boys, being braver, would stand at a distance and throw rocks at the small windows that were covered in thick iron bars.

  Tucked deep on Vestal Street, the grim-looking gaol had become the stuff of school yard legends: haunted by ghosts of criminals and lunatics, filled with hardened sailors from foreign lands. It had the look of a Nantucket saltbox, two stories tall, covered in weathered gray shingles, bookended by two small chimneys. Phoebe had stopped for a moment at the end of the long path that led to the gaol and took a deep breath, shaking off those silly schoolgirl jitters that still lingered. Inside this awful place, she reminded herself, sat her dear father. And loyal Matthew. She had to get them out of here.

  But as she followed the constable into the gaol, she wavered. Wobbled. The dank smells of forgotten men surrounded her, and she could feel her spirits dampen, but then her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness . . . and there was her father! Hale and hearty despite his bleak circumstances. Next to him, seated on the floor with his back against the wooden bunk, was Matthew, chin to his chest, refusing to look at her.

  Barnabas rose to his feet, clasping his hands over hers. “Daughter, thee is returned to me! Like Lazarus.” His voice shook precariously.

  “I’m going to get thee out of here, Father. Give me a little time. I am working on a plan.”

  Her father waved that away. “Concern thyself not with me, daughter. I am not at all dissatisfied with my accommodations. I’ve been able to continue my experiments with candle making right here, with Zacchaeus’s help.”

  Zacchaeus snorted. “There’s nothing to blow up in a stone gaol.”

  “I have a few difficulties still to work out.” Barnabas turned toward Matthew. “Mayhap thee would be willing to help me.”

  Matthew looked up coldly. “Why not? I find myself with a surfeit of spare time . . . at least for now.” He rubbed his hand along his throat.

  “See?” Barnabas chuckled. He squeezed her hands. “He told me about thy plight. Daughter, how is thy health?”

  She took a deep breath. “Better, now that I am on dry land. To stay.”

  “I, myself, was afflicted with a similar malady when I was but a greenie. The jouncing sea never did my stomach any kindness.”

  Phoebe stilled. “Thee was afflicted with mal de mer? How severely? Such that it would not end?”

  “Aye,” Barnabas said, chagrined. “’Twas my first and last voyage. I was bedeviled by seasickness. Matthew’s father talked me into joining a fisherman’s fleet. I spent the entire voyage heaving over the side of the ship.” He lifted his shoulders in a half shrug. “I have kept my feet on solid ground e’er since.”

  “Father, why did thee not tell me?”

  “Truth be told, I forgot. Like a mother forgets the pain of childbirth.”

  “Thee could have saved me a great deal of anguish.”

  His voice was quiet. “Would thee have listened to me? Thee seemed determined to forge thy own path.”

  Soberly, she nodded. That was the truth. She would have been convinced her experience on sea would be different. That she was different from her father. But it wasn’t, and she wasn’t.

  Listening. The very thing emphasized by the Friends. Listen for God’s voice. Listen for the Spirit to inform, to guide. Listen, listen, listen.

  Oh, she was a foolish, foolish girl.

  But no longer! She was making changes. This time from the inside out, not the outside in.

  Look at him. She felt a nudge, as real as a sharp elbow jabbing her ribs. Look at him. See him.

  Phoebe studied Matthew warily. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands were clasped tightly together, his head hung low. Utterly defeated. She had never seen him so hurt, so angry, nor so desolate. Remorse spread through her and she felt as if her heart would break. “Matthew, do not lose heart.”

  “Don’t lose heart?” Abruptly he swung to his feet with his fists balled. “Don’t lose heart? I’ll be hanging from Gallows Field soon, and you think I shouldn’t lose heart?”

  “This is not over.”

  “Isn’t it? I saw it in your eyes, Phoebe, so don’t deny it.”

  “Matthew, I am sorry. Please forgive me. I was in shock by what Zacchaeus told us, all that he told us—about the captain, and the Fortuna, and the accusations against thee. And then I remembered that thee had blood on thy hands.”

  “You should know by now what kind of man I am.”

  “I do,” Phoebe whispered. “I’ve always known.” For several long seconds, they stared at each other. Then she swallowed and dropped her hands, stepped back, and spoke levelly. “Father, there are a few things I need to take care of. I’ll return, as soon as I can, to get thee released.”

  Only when she left the gaol and walked down Milk Street did she relent to tears. They came fast and hard, pouring down her face. She was ashamed to admit it, but Matthew was right. He had been faithful to her despite all she’d done to him . . . and when he needed her to believe in him, she didn’t. Because, for just one brief moment, she did think he might have killed the captain.

  Back at the Macys’ house on Easy Street, Silo had arrived with Phoebe’s and Matthew’s sea chests and sat at the kitchen table, carving a piece of scrimshaw. Jeremiah sat beside him, watching his every move, fascinated by him. Phoebe smiled at the sight of the two boys, different in every way yet so similar.

  Libby turned from stirring a bubbling stew over the hearth. “How is Matthew?”

  Phoebe’s smile faded. “He’s . . .” She glanced at Jeremiah.

  “Don’t worry. He’s already heard it all. This island is too small for secrets.”

  Tell that to Captain Foulger, Phoebe thought, then grimaced as she remembered that the captain was no longer. She wished many things for him, but not to be dead.

  Jeremiah nodded. “I know of a way into the gaol. I go in and out all the time, to visit Matthew. Sometimes other fellows too. The gaol is where I’ve learned my best insults and swear words.”

  “Jeremiah Macy!”

  His mother sent him a black look, but he paid her no mind and leaned toward Silo. “I’ll show thee how to get in, if thee wants.”

  “I had promised Silo a good meal as a reward for lugging the sea chests here.”

  “Ah! That’s what he’s waiting on. I’m sorry, lad. I’m all adrift, with the news of my boy back on land. And of Phoebe’s return to the living.” Libby cut some fresh-baked bread for Silo and lathered it with creamy butter, then heaping spoonfuls of jam. She ladled a bowl of stew and set it on the table. Silo watched her every move, licking his lips. She nodded to him, and he dug into the bread as if he’d not eaten in far too long.

  Phoebe had opened her chest and dug through it, lifting up salt-caked clothes and setting them on the ground. She was thrifty by nature, but those clothes would be burned.

  “Phoebe, what is thee looking for?”

  “Money. I have none, but I thought of someone who could help. My great-grandmother.”

  “Great Mary?”

  “Her journal. In it, she speaks of buried treasure.” Phoebe looked up at Libby, catching the skepticism that flitted through her frank eyes. A face much like Matthew’s, she just now realize
d. “’Tis true. Mary Coffin and Eleazer Foulger found a treasure chest that drifted ashore after a shipwreck. They decided to bury it for a time when it was needed. For someone who faced great opposition. Someone worthy. Like Matthew Macy.” She glanced at Jeremiah, then at Silo. “This is one secret that must stay here, in this house. Is that a promise?”

  Both boys’ eyes were wide with interest, then they nodded.

  Phoebe unfolded the journal from the cloth she had wrapped it in, lit a candle, and sat by the window, reading through the pages for a clue as to where that live oak might be. This was one hundred years ago. What if it had been cut down for lumber? What if someone had found it?

  But then . . . the captain wouldn’t have been so determined to seek it out if it had been found. He would have known if someone had absconded with the treasure.

  And then the answer dawned on Phoebe. She sat back on her heels. She thought she knew of this grand old oak tree! It was in the Founders’ Burial Ground. Great Mary was brilliant. Who but her would think to bury treasure in plain sight?

  If one woman like Mary Coffin could move a mountain, two—plus two curious boys—could turn tides. “I need thy help tonight. Something to help Matthew and my father. Libby, Silo, Jeremiah, would thee be willing?”

  Silo looked at the loaf of bread left on the table. She took it and stuffed it into his sack. She added a crock of butter. Then he smiled.

  That night, after the night watchman had made his first rounds, they stole out of the Macys’ house and took turns pushing a cart filled with tools collected out of Matthew’s cooperage. As quietly as possible, they hurried down Cliff Road to the Founders’ Burial Ground.

  Mary Coffin

  10 September 1661

  News of world events is slow to reach our little island, but James returned from Massachusetts Bay today with earthshaking news. We are all stunned.