Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  “You refused me because the elders told you to.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t deny me that, Phoebe.”

  “I don’t deny it!” Phoebe’s voice was strained, her cheeks blazing. “Yet thee is neglecting the fact that I could not disagree with them. Thee was disowned at sixteen for laughing aloud in Meeting, more than once. And thee cared not!” She crossed her arms against her chest. “Thee is faithless to the core. Nothing to stand on in a gale. Just look at what has happened to thee . . . thee finds solace in spirits and spends more time in the gaol than in thy own bed. Thee has lost all ambition.”

  “Have you ever wondered how it felt on my end?” He glared at her, his voice rising. “I thought I was building a future for us. I endured three long years of misery and hardship at sea. And nothing to show for it. Worse. I returned to more loss than gain. I’m still digging out of debt for the investment my father put into the Pearl. Three hundred pounds sterling.”

  When his yelling stopped, the tension between them settled as thick as the fog that covered Nantucket more often than not. The Pearl had been Matthew’s father’s grand plan to sail into a cozy retirement. He took out a loan to purchase a two-masted whaling sloop. He would not consider investors backing him in this venture, nor insurance, though Phoebe had heard that his wife, Libby, was furious with him for such stubborn thinking. Isaac Macy wanted a ship of his own, a legacy for his two sons, Matthew and young Jeremiah. When the Pearl floundered in a squall, she took everything with her. The investment, the cargo; worse still, the life of Isaac Macy. A tragedy that left Matthew’s soul closed off to any Light of God. She worked her palms together nervously. “I am sorry, Matthew. Truly sorry.”

  His eyes—such blue, blue eyes—they went soft and she found herself melting. Then he sighed and dropped his head. “Well, things have a way of working out for the best.” In a bitter tone he added, “Look at you—you’re gunning for a wealthy old man to feather your nest.”

  And there it was. Each time something went right between them, he had to ruin it. “Why do you want me to be as dark and cynical as you? Why are you so determined to snuff out whatever light and goodness is in the world?”

  “I guess it depends on what you call light and goodness. Think on it, Phoebe. Will it be all light and goodness to be Sarah Foulger’s stepmother?”

  Rather than answer Matthew, she looked over at the sun skimming the tops of the trees that lined the cemetery. In a moment of pure spite, she said, “Tales of thy misdeeds have spread far and wide. Let me not delay thy return home.” She pivoted in the other direction. “Home for thee is closer, ’tis it not?” The gaol, she meant. The place for drunks. Well, perhaps that might be too harsh a word, but it was true Matthew drank too much. He was often involved in street brawls and charged to spend nights in the gaol, a cold and drafty place. He was permitted to leave the gaol and go to his workplace during the days and return each night—only because his coopering skills were desperately needed on the wharves and there wasn’t much concern of a prisoner fleeing an island.

  Instead of being insulted, Matthew burst out with a laugh. “You’re right! Dinner will soon be served.” He covered his mouth for a social cough. “Delivered, that is.” He whipped off his hat and bowed down with a flourish. “Good day, Phoebe.” Away to the gaol he strode, hands in pockets, whistling as he walked. Not a care in the world.

  The very opposite of how Phoebe felt.

  Matthew walked to the gaol in fine fettle, growing more pleased with himself with every step. As he passed Hannah Mitchell and Eliza Pinkham gamming on the Pinkhams’ friendship steps, he smiled warmly at the two portly matrons and they waved heartily back at him. The women of Nantucket—they were a special breed. Mayhap with the men so much gone, they had proven themselves to be flexible and strong.

  As he let himself into the gaol, his thoughts kept returning to his encounter with Phoebe in the Founders’ Burial Ground. Her remarks plagued him, though he took care that she would not discern as much. Lost all ambition? Me? ’Twas a sobering thought. He had always been an ambitious man.

  “Why do you want me to be as dark and cynical as you?”

  She was right. It shamed him, but he did indeed want to dim her happiness. How dare she be so happy when he was so . . . unhappy? He sent out arrows and barbs in her direction, testing to see when she would lose her temper and break.

  She wasn’t breaking.

  Sometimes he wished he had an ounce of her steadfast faith. It would be nice to see the world through innocence and naïveté instead of his relentless skepticism.

  The more he thought on it, the more surprised he was to realize he felt sorry about what he had said to her, how he had mocked her. Biting words came easily to Matthew. To humble himself and apologize was more difficult.

  Phoebe had a way of keeping him off his soundings. She always had. He held his hand about an inch from his mouth and exhaled, then quickly inhaled. Ah no. No! She was right. Henry Coffin’s brandy lingered still! He hadn’t meant to have more than a glass with the old man after delivering the adze he’d repaired for him. Two glasses, at the most. But then Henry got talking about his theory as to why he’d been fired as warehouse security guard for Captain Phineas Foulger. A far-fetched theory, based only on something he thought he overheard. Henry kept pouring and Matthew kept drinking. And listening to the old codger’s suspicions. And thinking on it.

  There was no way it could be true—and no way such a secret could stay kept . . . not on this little island. Besides, Henry Coffin had weak hearing. And what did he really hear? A low exchange of male voices on a moonless night.

  “Keep a good watch” and “I’ll rest easier when we’re unloaded.”

  What did that reveal? Nothing! And yet . . . he had a strange sense that something was amiss with the Fortuna. Something fishy. Baffling.

  He sighed. More likely his jealous streak was heightening his natural wariness.

  Phoebe Starbuck. He should be grateful to be cured of his dangerous boyhood fancy. Thankful that she had buckled and bowed to public opinion—by that he meant the stuffy elders of the Quaker meetinghouse—and had broken off their understanding. Never mind that their understanding was what kept him going during those three long years he was away at sea. Never mind that the thought of returning to Nantucket to marry her and start a life together kept him from despair after the sinking of the Pearl. After the untimely death of his father. Never mind all that.

  He sighed again. That was the trouble with long nights in a cold, stinking gaol. Too much time to think. He needed more on his mind.

  So here was a question that kept jabbing its sharp elbow at him: Why would the illustrious captain fancy Phoebe?

  Perhaps the answer was as simple as attraction. Any man with blood pumping through his veins would find her comely. Some said Phoebe Starbuck to be the prettiest girl on the island. He would fall in that camp.

  Ah, but those eyes of hers! Their shape, like two perfect almonds, colored like coffee. And a fine aristocratic nose. The Coffin nose. Thick hair, the color of mahogany. And those lips! Large and full. He gave his head a slight shake. Too much time to think.

  There was something amiss here, like the Fortuna. And like the Fortuna, he could not put his finger on it.

  Phoebe did not have a dowry to speak of, and while the captain was thought to be fabulously wealthy, he could be miserly with his pennies.

  Could it be that Barnabas was in dire straits again?

  The old fellow always seemed to find a willing investor or two for his ventures, and he must have some income from sheep. Mayhap not. Murmurs fluttered through the taverns of his latest fiasco: Barnabas had imported a ram and ewe from England to refresh the stock, convinced he could improve the quality of his flock’s wool. Something went terribly wrong, as it often did with Barnabas’s grand ideas. This spring’s shearing was the worst ever for him—no one would buy his wool.

  It’s not that Barnabas’s ideas were without merit; it was in their execution that thi
ngs went awry. Still, Matthew had always had a fondness for him, partly because he had been his father’s lifelong friend. Barnabas was a kindhearted man, loyal to a fault, devoted to the tending of his daughter . . . though it might be more accurate to say that it was Barnabas who needed tending to.

  Matthew was never clear on the real reason as to why Barnabas chose not to pursue riches on a whaling ship, like nearly all of the men on this island did in their prime. He claimed he had no need for the world beyond the harbor. “Whales and wandering, what for?” Barnabas would oft declare. “There are voyages aplenty to be had right here.”

  That thinking never made much sense to Matthew, even though he did share a passion for this little island.

  He stretched out on the hard wooden bunk and covered his eyes with his arm, wondering where the constable was. He had always been blessed with the gift of sleep—anywhere, anyplace, anytime. Thus, he didn’t entirely mind sleeping in the dim Nantucket gaol, apart from the stench, though he would have much preferred a goosefeather mattress and a warm woolen blanket. There was a fireplace, but the constable, stingy about sharing wood, only provided peat to burn, and it stunk up the room. The food was entirely inedible. He planned to complain about it in the morning.

  The constable, Zacchaeus Coleman, was Matthew’s second cousin on his mother’s side and accustomed to Matthew’s candor, despite the fact that the cook of the inedible food happened to be his wife. A surly and sour woman on a good day. By contrast, Zacchaeus was jovial, with fuzzy muttonchops covering his round cheeks and a headful of frizzy gray curls, an effect like a halo.

  Matthew’s stomach growled. Where was Zacchaeus, anyway?

  He jumped off the plank and went to peer out the window through the iron bars, though it wasn’t much of a view from here. Not like his cooperage, right near the wharf, where he had a view of the world beyond the harbor.

  Whaling—now that was where Matthew’s heart had always lain. But that was where his heart had been lost. He let himself out of the gaol and walked to the end of the road, hands in his pockets, wondering if Phoebe might still be wandering around in the Founders’ Burial Ground. And why? She never did say.

  Phoebe walked around the grounds until she came to the live oak tree where she was convinced Great Mary had been buried. She had no reason to think so, but the thought pleased her. It was one of the only flourishing oak trees on the island and it never lost its leaves, even in winter. She often wondered how it had escaped the sharp saws of greedy settlers. It was surely safe now, providing shade to the final resting spot for those very settlers.

  She plopped down to lean her back against the tree and pulled out the well-worn sheepskin journal. In all truth, she had not felt anything but a mild curiosity about the journal when her father presented it to her. Not until the captain showed interest in it, coupled with her father’s strong reaction to resist him. Then Sarah Foulger also made reference to it as she was walking Phoebe to the door the other day—the very day she had relieved Phoebe of gainful employment—to ask if she’d had opportunity to read it.

  “Nay,” Phoebe said as she crossed the threshold. “I haven’t had time yet.”

  Then Sarah made a remark about how unfortunate it was that Great Mary’s greatness seemed to have skipped over certain generations . . . and closed the door in Phoebe’s face. At first Phoebe didn’t catch her meaning, but on the way home, as the remark rolled around in her mind, she realized that Sarah meant to insult her.

  Phoebe opened the journal and gently stroked the first brittle page with her finger. Her first reading had been slightly disappointing and the fading ink made for slow going. Mostly, from the captain’s reaction, she had gained an expectation for much more from her great-grandmother’s journal. More of what, she wasn’t sure. More wisdom, more insights, better guidance to navigate through life. Certainly, though, it wasn’t fair to expect much from the thought life of a young girl, albeit a spunky and spirited one. Phoebe needed answers now.

  She sighed. So what had she truly learned of her great-grandmother?

  Well, one thing: Great Mary had been glad she was a girl.

  Phoebe sat up and looked at the late afternoon sky, now streaked with clouds. She’d always wished she’d been born a man. Men seemed to have the best of it, of that truth there was not the smallest doubt in her mind. Traveling the seven seas, adventure, risk and danger. And riches too. Her male cousins were given full privileges from an early age, while Phoebe was expected to sit quietly in Meeting, to manage the household, to do good works, to hope for a husband and babies.

  How she longed to be roaming the world, sailing on a whaling ship, hanging on for dear life on a Nantucket sleigh ride. She’d listened with bated breath to her uncles as they recounted their voyages, starting with “Thar she blows!” yelled by the lookout in the crow’s nest, to “Fire in the chimney!” as blood spewed out of the whale’s blowhole, a sign that death was imminent.

  Phoebe straightened out a seam in her gray dress. It seemed as if gray was a metaphor for a woman’s role. Not too loud, not too quiet. Not too bright, not too dim. The Friends of Nantucket seemed to be continually exploring the possibilities of the color gray. Gray, gray, gray! What if a person was born with a longing for blue skies, not gray fog? What if she felt she had a spark inside her, if there was a flint in her?

  Her eyes shifted down to the sheepskin journal in her hand. Great Mary did not fit the metaphor of grayness. She was learned during a time when most girls weren’t even taught to read and write and cipher.

  Then it occurred to Phoebe that Great Mary was largely self-educated. Imagine that—teaching herself to read by borrowing her brothers’ books. Imagine the mind of such a child. Imagine the determination of such a child.

  Suddenly, the fog cleared in Phoebe’s mind. She was not going to let her father be declared Town Poor. She wasn’t quite sure how to manage her father, because even if she found a way to save their home from auction, he would find another way to risk everything. It was in his nature, that pride. A glimmer of good humor returned and she smiled. It was her father’s “dreadful affliction.”

  The sun had dipped below the treetops, the wind had picked up, and Phoebe would be needed at home. As she hurried down Madaket Road, her spirits lifted as a plan began to stir in her mind. A fine plan . . . one that would solve everything!

  And then she turned onto Centre Street and saw the constable standing outside of her house with the door flung open.

  Mary Coffin

  20 January 1659

  This week has brought quite a shock.

  A few days ago, Heppy’s dear aunt did not come down the stairs for breakfast. When Heppy went to check on her, she found she had passed away during the night.

  Heppy’s father arrived for the funeral, and informed her that he wants to take her back to Newton with him. Heppy and I were both devasted by such an abrupt decision. Her father, who is not an amiable man, was unbending, even though I told him she could live with us. He said no child of his would live on charity. At this point, I wanted to ask what he thought great aunt Hepzibah had been providing Heppy these so many years, but Nathaniel Starbuck stepped in and mentioned that his cousin was looking for help with her newborn baby. She would provide board and lodging, he said, along with a small wage. Heppy watched her father carefully as he considered the option, then she offered to send him her wages. Heppy’s father lit up at that offer, and quickly agreed.

  Later, thinking back on the conversation, I thanked God I had held my tongue. What a child I’d have shown myself, and what a mess I might have made of Heppy’s situation had I embarrassed her father and inspired his dreadful affliction to rear its head.

  That very evening, Nathaniel helped Heppy and me to move her belongings to his cousin’s house. Heppy will have to sleep on a pallet near the fire, a far cry from the private chamber she’d had in her great-aunt Hepzibah’s house. She did not complain. Instead, she quoted me a Scripture: “Better is a dry morsel, and quietness ther
ewith, than an house full of sacrifices and strife.”

  We said our goodbyes and Nathaniel accompanied me to my house, for the hour had grown late. He did not speak much on the way home, so I did the talking for both of us. He did not seem to mind.

  8 February 1659

  Another shock.

  Lately, Heppy has been discouraging me from setting my heart on Nathaniel Starbuck. She reminds me that he is ten years older than I am, that the Starbucks are the quiet sort—unlike the Coffins, who are not at all quiet.

  Today she told me news that she feared would hurt me, but she could not keep it from me any longer. She has learned from Nathaniel’s cousin that he has been escorting Elizabeth Macy home from church for the last four Sundays, and there is rumor of an engagement soon to be published.

  I know that Mother and God would not approve, but Elizabeth has no backbone, no vinegar in her blood. If she is the kind of lifelong partner whom Nathaniel chooses, then I fear he is woolywitted. He is a chowderhead! Weak-kneed. Spineless. wish them all the best.

  Mostly, I am brokenhearted.

  5

  15th day of the ninth month in the year 1767

  The Starbuck house at 35 Centre Street was like most Nantucket lean-tos (though on the shabbier side)—two-storied in front, one-storied in back, covered in unpainted weathered gray shingles, anchored with a central chimney. And like most Nantucket lean-tos, the house faced south to catch the sun on its face. The sloping roof of the lean-to directed the wind right up and over the house. Inside was a tiny entry leading to small rooms, doors shut tight to keep rooms warm in the winter and cool in the summer. A narrow staircase led to two small bedrooms. And it was always tidy, for Phoebe had learned from her mother to keep house well.

  The front door of the house was wide open, and the smell of simmering stew drifted out. As Phoebe crossed the threshold, she saw that everything in the house was all keeled over. The table was pushed over, the chairs were in disarray, the pantry shelves were emptied, everything tossed to the floor. Her father stood in the middle of the keeping room with the constable, turning in a circle with his hands on his hips, a stunned look on his face. When he saw Phoebe, he nearly sagged with relief.