Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  There has been a royal decree to free the Quakers. The English threw out Oliver Cromwell’s son and created a new parliament. The new parliament invited King Charles’ son to return to England from his exile and they crowned him King Charles the Second.

  And there’s more!

  The Puritan church has lost its position and the official church is once again the Church of England.

  Still more to come! King Charles II sent a letter ordering Governor Endicott of Massachusetts to stop jailing the Quakers and to send them to England for trial if there were any complaints against them. James told Father that Governor Endicott had the Quakers released from jail and did not bother shipping them off to England.

  All evening, I have been wondering if Father had been more patient, would we have moved to this faraway place?

  11 September 1661

  A letter from Tristram Jr. came with James. He had not thought of it until late last evening, when we sat round the hearth and Father smoked his pipe. If only he had forgotten! Better still, dropped it in Nantucket Sound for the fish to nibble on.

  So troubled am I that I could not sleep last night.

  Tristram Jr. sent word that he wants me to join his family in Newbury and help with their newest baby. (A red-faced boy infant, James confided, who has an ear-piercing howl that never stops. James wondered if he might be possessed of a demon. I have oft wondered the same of Tristram Jr.)

  You can imagine what I think about that.

  Far more marriage prospects for me, Tristram Jr. reports, than a barren island. My mother’s interest lifted with that thought. There is truth in that, as currently there are only two bachelors on Nantucket, and one of them is interested only in minke whales and Miss Mouse.

  I wonder if it might be best for me to return to the mainland. I do not think I can remain here if Nathaniel and Elizabeth become betrothed. The island is too small to endure such heartbreak.

  And then I worry that I might be more like Father than I want to believe . . . always looking for satisfaction in the next place.

  I am all at sea.

  20

  29th day of the eleventh month in the year 1767

  Clouds scudded in front of the nearly full moon, causing on-again, off-again lighting and eerie shadows on the pathway to the Founders’ Burial Ground. The air smelled of coming rain, but thankfully not snow, and Phoebe prayed it would hold off. She led the small convoy straight to the live oak tree, the very one she assumed her great-grandmother had been buried under. Libby followed, with Silo and Jeremiah pushing the cart through the bumpy meadow to reach the tree. Phoebe walked around the tree once, then twice, before stepping back to peer at it. Think, think, think. Where would Mary Coffin have buried the treasure? I’ve grown to know her well. Think the way she would think.

  North side. Mossy side. Easy-to-remember side. Phoebe laid a blanket on the ground to capture the sod and make it easy to replace. She marked off six strides—woman-sized, not man-sized. She remembered that Mary had taken those six strides, not Eleazer Foulger, to the edge of the branches. That was one hundred years ago, and the branches extended much farther now. “Here,” she pointed to a spot on the ground. “We’ll start here and dig.”

  “Here? Dig up a graveyard? This graveyard of all graveyards? Has thee gone barmy?” Libby’s hands were on her substantial hips. “If we get caught, we could end up as gaolbirds right along with Barnabas and Matthew.”

  With that the two boys glanced nervously around.

  “Hush, lower thy voice. We won’t get caught. Not if we hurry.” Phoebe looked through the cart and pulled out one shovel, then another, then a pick.

  “What if we dig up a body?” Jeremiah asked and Libby shuddered.

  “I don’t think that will be the case.” Phoebe jammed the shovel into the earth—blessedly soft due to recent rain—and turned to the three as they watched her, wide-eyed. “Thee is free to leave. But if thee trusts me, I need thy help.”

  Silo was the first to respond. He took the shovel out of Phoebe’s hands and began to dig. Jeremiah grabbed the second shovel and dug. Libby hesitated, ever practical, and Phoebe could almost read her thoughts: weighing back and forth the likelihood of success for this crazy venture. It did sound crazy. But then she exhaled, and pulled a pick out of the cart. “So what are we looking for?”

  “A box. A chest. I don’t know if it would be made of wood or metal.”

  Libby dug the pick into the earth, as did Silo and Jeremiah, using all the tools they had brought. Phoebe kept pieces of sod separate from the dirt, so that she could cover up the hole when they were done. Here, she thought, as they dug and dumped, dug and dumped, was where sandy soil was beneficial. It was a laborious task, digging through tree roots and mud and peat, but then Silo’s shovel hit something that made a ting sound. He looked up at Phoebe, then dropped into the hole and used his hands to scoop around the edges. Jeremiah leaned down into the hole and worked alongside him. Before long, enough was exposed to see it was made of metal. All four tugged and tugged, and the chest eased out of the ground. It was a brass chest, not much bigger than a hat box.

  Silo used the backside of the shovel to break the rusted latch. They all looked to Phoebe to open it. She crouched down and took a deep breath before opening the lid. A dark cloud obscured the moonlight. She put her hand into the box and felt first a slip of paper, then below, the cold metal of round coins. Her heart pounded, she squeezed her eyes shut with a prayer: Thank you. Gently, she closed the lid. “This is it.”

  “Well, I’ll be blowed,” Libby said. “Phoebe Starbuck, I’m sorry I doubted thee.”

  “Now we need to fill the hole as best we can, cover it with sod”—Phoebe looked up at the sky—“pray for rain in the morrow, for no one to pass by until the sod grows back, and return to the house without anyone seeing us.”

  Rain started sprinkling on them as they hurried back to town, trying to get home before the night watchman made his rounds. She could hear his deep singsong voice in the quiet of the night: “Twelve o’clock,” he cried out, “and all is well.” She was glad for the rain, glad even as it peppered them, glad for the cold as well, as it would keep others away from the cemetery.

  The morning brought rain again. As soon as the bank opened, Phoebe stood at the desk of Horace Russell and emptied a sack of silver on his desk. Polished silver. She and Libby had stayed up to the wee hours, polishing each coin until it shone. “This is to pay off the mortgage on Centre Street. ’Tis enough?”

  He looked at the silver coins scattered on his desktop, picked one up, held it up to the light, examined it closely. “A Spanish piece of eight.” He closed his palm, hefting its weight. “One ounce bit.” He held it up to the light, ran his finger around the unmilled edge, bit down on the coin, then lifted his head. “Where in the world did thee find these coins?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He frowned at her. “Phoebe, are they stolen goods?”

  “Nay!” She looked at him, astounded. “Nay! Not at all.” Why, the very opposite. For she had found two notes tucked into the chest, one written by Great Mary, one by Eleazer Foulger. Each note stated how small amounts had been used—one to ransom a fugitive slave, one to provide seminary training at Harvard College for a grandson of Eleazer. Mary’s note, written in her spidery handwriting, said that the money was meant to be used for the betterment of their families, and she hoped whoever found the treasure would keep that in mind. Stolen goods, indeed.

  Horace peered at her. “But . . .”

  “I asked thee a question, Horace Russell. I do not know the value of these coins, but I think thee does. Will the coins cover the mortgage and my father’s indebtedness?”

  Horace inhaled a deep breath. “Come back in a few hours. I will have them weighed and be able to give thee the full value of the coins. If they are indeed silver and not counterfeit—”

  “They are not counterfeit! Thee knows that. When thee bit down on it, thy teeth made a mark, is that not so? That
is the mark of high purity.”

  “’Tis a mark, but not the only mark. I need to verify the value of these coins, Phoebe. For thy security as well as the bank’s.” He tipped his head. “But if they are as valuable as they appear, then aye, ’tis likely the Centre Street property’s lien will be cleared. Thy father will be set free. And thee will have some coinage to spare, I suspect.”

  “In that case, Horace”—she gave him a determined smile—“I will be back before the noon bells toll.”

  Matthew lay on the too-short wooden bunk of the gaol, wasting away more of his life, wondering what would happen to him. If convicted of murder on Nantucket Island, it meant he would be sent to the gallows. There had only been nine hangings on the island, all Wampanoag Indians. Even the hangman was a Wampanoag. Matthew would be remembered as the first white man to be hung on the island. He rubbed his neck, already feeling the tightening of the noose.

  The gaol door opened and a stream of late-day sunlight fell into the dark room. “Matthew?” It was the voice of Zacchaeus Coleman. “You got a visitor. Phoebe’s here.”

  His heart started pounding and he flew from his bunk. “Just a minute!” He dragged his fingers through his hair, four swift strokes, as she crossed over the threshold.

  For a full ten seconds they stared.

  “Hello, Matthew.” She greeted him with a sad smile in her eyes.

  “Hello.” Matthew’s palms were sweating and his neck felt hot as he drank in the sight of her. He turned to Zacchaeus. “Cousin, can you give us a moment of privacy?”

  Hesitating, Zacchaeus looked at Phoebe for assurance and she gave him a nod. “I’ll be right outside. Holler if thee needs me. I’ll leave the door open.”

  She waited until Zacchaeus left the room. “I was able to get my father released.”

  Matthew scoffed. “Barnabas is hardly in here. Zacchaeus gives him day privileges. Lets him fiddle around with candle making right in his office. By night, we sit by this lovely fire”—he extended a hand in the direction of the cold chimney hearth—“and have scintillating discussions over how to refine spermaceti oil.”

  “Even still. His debt has been paid.”

  She didn’t volunteer how she was able to pull that off and he didn’t ask.

  “Matthew, I’m going to find a way to prove thee innocent.”

  “Assuming that I am.” Her eyes skittered aside at his sarcasm, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Matthew . . .” She stopped, then started again. “Matthew, if thee would only look inside, seek the Light of God, thy circumstances would be far more bearable. Not just this present one . . . but past ones too.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as coming to grips with the calamity of the Pearl. Of thy father’s death.”

  “I worry about you, Phoebe,” he said quietly. “You are simply too naïve to survive very long in the real world. You think God sets the rules, but it’s really people like the captain who pull all the strings.”

  “I don’t believe that, Matthew. I hope, deep down, thee doesn’t either.” She lifted her face. “I must away.” She backed up a step, and he saw her chest begin to heave as if she were trying to stifle a sneeze.

  As Zacchaeus locked the door behind her, for the first time in this old gaol, despite many, many, many nights spent in it, panic swamped Matthew.

  Phoebe did not come to visit Matthew in the gaol again, but his mother did, the very next morning, with a look in her eyes he hadn’t seen since he was eleven years old and had tarred the tail of the neighbor’s cat. Zacchaeus didn’t even need to be persuaded to leave them alone; he seemed eager to flee the ill temper of Libby Macy.

  Matthew, on the other hand, was delighted to see her. “Mother! Did you bring me any victuals? You know how bad the cooking is here.”

  “Nay. Nor did I bring thee anything for the chip on thy shoulder.” She glared at him. “What did thee say to Phoebe?”

  “What?” His eyes widened in surprise. “When?”

  “She came back from the gaol weeping yesterday.”

  Crying? Over him? “If you came here to tell me that, you can—”

  “That’s precisely why I came here. And don’t speak to me in that tone of voice!”

  She paced a few feet, pivoted, and paced back to the door. “If there was ever a time when thee needs to stand by her, this is it.”

  “Me stand by her?” He stiffened and splayed two hands on his chest. “Ask her about standing by me!”

  “Oh, I suppose thee thinks thee has a right to sulk because she arrived in Nantucket to a plethora of disturbing news and needed a moment to absorb the shock.”

  Absorb? Absorb! “Phoebe thought I did it! She actually thought I killed Captain Foulger!”

  “Oh, she did, did she? Then why is she sailing to Boston this very minute to find a lawyer to save thy hide?”

  “Sailing to Boston?” It came out as a squeak.

  “She refuses anyone’s financial help, even mine.”

  Matthew found himself with nothing to say.

  “Son,” she said, softer now, “thee is so like thy father. Hiding behind thy cynicism, just like thy father did. Stubborn. Proud. Refusing to ask anyone for help. So sure of thyself. But what happens when thee gets to the end of thyself? Now is a good time to look up, outside thyself. To ask God to open thy eyes and heart to trust the outcome of thy difficulties.”

  “To apologize to the elders and get a bellyful of scoldings and rebukes, you mean.”

  She walked around the awful gaol, not saying a word, which worried Matthew more than if she lashed out at him.

  Finally, she turned to him and crossed her arms over her ample midsection. “Matthew, did thee ever listen to the story of the prodigal son?”

  “Aye, I remember,” he said flatly.

  “When the prodigal came to his senses and returned home, his father did not greet him with scoldings and rebukes, but with open arms. ‘The lost is now found,’ he said. Give the Friends a chance to do the same.”

  She made her way to the door. “’Tis time to make thy peace with God.” Her gaze swept the gaol. “Thee certainly has plenty of time for it.” His mother sailed out the way she sailed in, loud and clear, leaving him feeling as if he’d just taken a Nantucket sleigh ride.

  Zacchaeus poked his head in the door. “Your mother can sure take a man to the woodpile.”

  “That’s the truth,” Matthew replied, running a hand through his hair. “Can she ever.”

  He paced the dark room, cracking his knuckles. Phoebe . . . sailing to Boston? For him! Imagine that! After seeing firsthand how sick she was at sea—and she was willing to face it again, head-on. For his sake.

  But then, Phoebe faced all of life head-on.

  It struck him what his mother had set out to do—in her own unique, no-nonsense way, she’d made him realize that Phoebe must, deep down, still believe in him. Mayhap, still love him.

  Later that night, he lay on the bunk facing the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep.

  Look up, his mother had said. Look inside, Phoebe had said.

  But to accept God, he would have to accept his own abject humility. He heard a dog bark outside the door, then smelled a skunk. It occurred to him that his present circumstances could not be any more humble. No man could sink any lower than lying in a grim, stinking gaol, facing a murder charge.

  God . . . I can’t see how this will end. I just know that I am utterly, thoroughly helpless. I want to believe you are there, that you’re here. That you see this shipwreck of my life. I want to believe. He squeezed his eyes shut. I want to believe, but Lord, help my unbelief.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. He experienced a curious reaction, a minute exhilaration. His torpor disappeared, replaced by a sense of . . . hope.

  Mary Coffin

  15 September 1661

  Just when I thought that I might, indeed, consider Tristram Jr.’s invitation to come live with him, James gave me an idea. He has complained steadily about running ba
ck and forth to the cape for supplies . . . and then it dawned on me! I might have found just the thing to solve my restlessness without having to live with Tristram Jr. and his screaming baby.

  Two birds, one stone.

  I had to wait for the right moment to spring this idea on Father (remember, it always works out best if an idea seems like it is his in the first place). So when Thomas Macy came to the house today to see if there were any nails to be had on this island and offered to trade for them, I seized my opportunity. “Father,” I said, “you may be the cleverest man on Nantucket.”

  “How’s that?” He looked at me, interest piqued.

  “Having James buy those extra nails on his last trip to the Cape. Everybody on this island needs nails, with so many houses to build. Nearly everyone on Cliff Road has stopped in this week to barter for them.” I paused for a long moment, letting that sink in. “There’s talk of our house as if it’s Nantucket’s trading post.”

  Father stroked his beard. “A trading post.”

  “Now there’s an interesting notion!” I feigned innocence. “And it makes sense to stock up on the very items our neighbors need, whenever you or James go to the mainland.”

  “What sort of items?”

  “We could stock some furniture, clothing, building supplies, tools, wood. Then there are items needed for fishing.”

  “But we wish to be self-sufficient on this island.”

  “Certainly, yet that will take time. In the meantime, we can supply our neighbors with items they need now.”

  “But what of cash? We have little need for it.”

  “Barter,” I told him. “Just yesterday, two Indians wanted a basket of wool. I asked if they would consider plowing the garden for us and they were in agreement.”

  Father lit up at that news. The garden was long overdue for a plowing, and Mother was anxious to get the vegetables planted. He was never keen on farming, Father wasn’t.

  He finished the last bit of tea and went to the hearth to fill his pipe with tobacco. If he lit the pipe, I knew the matter was settled. If he did not, he was still thinking, and he would chew on the end of his pipe until he had made a decision.