Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Matthew’s chest squeezed. “And I don’t?”

  “Thee is not home much.”

  Humbling. Matthew could guess what the boy did not say. He spent his evenings in the taverns, and that frequently led him to the unfortunate result of spending his nights in the gaol, arrested for public drunkenness. “What you say does matter to me, Jeremiah.”

  The boy shrugged but remained silent for a moment. “She was strolling with Captain Foulger.”

  Matthew dropped the croze he’d been using to cut grooves on the end of each barrel stave. “Jeremiah, I do not need to hear a detailed report on the activities of Phoebe Starbuck.” His voice was harsher than it needed to be, and he was instantly sorry when he saw the hurt in Jeremiah’s eyes.

  “I’m not giving thee a report. I’m just getting to the good part.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I heard Captain Foulger ask around town about thee. He will be coming to speak to thee this very afternoon. See if I’m wrong.”

  “What about?”

  “That is the part I don’t know.”

  Matthew picked up the croze and turned his attention back to the half-done barrel. “Well, he knows where to find me.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  Matthew whirled around at the sound of the captain’s deep voice. Phineas Foulger stood imposingly at the threshold and Matthew wondered how much he had overheard. The captain took his hat off, tucked it under his arm, then strode into the cooperage, peering at the shelves of barrels along the walls, the tools carefully hanging on pegs, the curly wood shavings on the ground. “The very scent of raw wood—how I savor it.” He pointed to one lone oval-shaped barrel. “I’ve seen plenty of flat-sided hogshead barrels, but never one like that.”

  “’Tis an experiment,” Matthew said. “My thoughts are to keep it from rolling with the pitch of the ship.”

  The captain nodded approvingly, then glanced at Matthew’s brother, whose eyes had been following him.

  “Jeremiah, you’d better get on home,” Matthew said, tipping his head toward the door. Frowning, his brother slowly ambled to the door.

  After it shut, the captain lifted his chin. “I am in need of a cooper for the Fortuna’s next voyage.”

  “What happened to the Fortuna’s cooper?”

  “His wife told him either he stays or she goes.”

  Matthew leaned against his plank. “I do not want to set sail again.”

  “I have heard it said that thee has an eye for pursuing sperm whales.”

  Matthew shrugged. It was true that he seemed to have a knack for locating the mighty beasts. “No doubt you’re far more experienced than I.” He gave the captain a direct gaze.

  The captain picked up the croze and ran a hand along its smooth handle, then the blade where it made grooves in barrels. “Name thy price.”

  “Captain, I appreciate the offer and the interest, but there are other coopers on the island.”

  “None so skilled as thee.”

  “Not true. Many are better. I will give you a list.”

  “I did not ask for others. I am offering thee a position. A coveted position. Thee will receive a lay of one-fifteenth.”

  Matthew raised his head in surprise. A cooper’s portion of the profits—his lay—was normally fourth to the captain’s. Sizable, considerably more than the crew, but lower in rank to the captain and the first and second mates. One-fifteenth was nearly the second mate’s portion. “But . . . Captain . . . I . . .”

  He leaned toward Matthew. “Think of the greasy voyage we just experienced. Thee could be set up for life.”

  A cold spot started at the base of Matthew’s spine and trickled upward like rivulets of ice water. All kinds of conflicting thoughts danced through his mind: I will be rich!

  But I promised myself I’d never set sail again.

  Set up for life!

  But then I’d be leaving Jeremiah, and Mother.

  And yet, after this voyage, I could amply provide for them. Mayhap retire the debt of the Pearl.

  And then there is leaving Phoebe.

  Would she reconsider me if I returned a wealthy man? She ended our relationship because I was disowned. Yet I’ve always wondered: if I were wealthy, would she have dropped me so readily?

  Phoebe. Why should I bother myself about her?

  The captain cleared his throat, waiting for his answer. “Is the offer not generous enough?”

  “’Tis a very generous offer, Captain, and I am grateful, but I need time to consider it.”

  “Of course. A time of seasoning is always wise. Seek God’s guidance. Pray on it before thee responds.” As he walked toward the door, he spun around. “One more question. About Phoebe Starbuck.”

  Matthew stiffened. Phoebe again. “What about her?”

  “My daughter, Sarah, seems to think there is something between the two of you.”

  “We were once childhood friends. Nothing more. I don’t know why Sarah would entertain any other notion. As you recall, I am disowned.”

  The captain studied his face for a long moment. Then he smiled. “Excellent.”

  “Why? Why is that excellent?”

  A flush started on the captain’s cheekbones and spread down his cheeks, disappearing behind his sideburns. “I find myself quite . . . enamored with Phoebe. I have not met many women who have the purity of soul that she has.” He put his gloves back on, one finger at a time. “’Tis a rare and lovely quality in a woman.” He spoke softly, almost regretfully. As if he knew he didn’t deserve Phoebe, and he didn’t.

  He adjusted his hat and turned all captain again. “I certainly wouldn’t want to step on another man’s toes. Especially my highly paid cooper.”

  “No toe stepping here.”

  The captain lowered his voice. “I trust this conversation, in its entirety, will remain between us.”

  “Naturally,” Matthew said.

  The captain opened the door and gave a parting sermon. “Whenever I think of Phoebe, this Bible verse comes to mind—‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’”

  “Right again,” Matthew said flatly, but the captain had already gone.

  23rd day of the ninth month in the year 1767

  To Phoebe’s delight, the captain came round to 35 Centre Street regularly after the midday meal to take a turn. A routine had developed where they would walk to the harbor and sit on a bench in the afternoon sun, an ideal spot for the captain to keep one eye on the Fortuna. At the captain’s request, Phoebe would read aloud an entry or two from Great Mary’s journal.

  Today, when she finished the section on the death of the Quaker lady, the captain seemed quite distressed.

  “’Tis shocking, I agree,” Phoebe said. “After all, this is our heritage. To think that a Friend was treated so violently, when she only wanted to share the Light with others.”

  He hesitated a moment before speaking. “Does Great Mary not ever write of Nantucket Island?”

  “Not yet, but I admit I have not made much progress. ’Tis not easy reading, and not solely for the subject matter. I find I must read and reread, especially in sections where the ink has faded.”

  The captain glanced down at the journal in her lap, then squinted to try to cipher the wording. “Aye, I can see that.”

  “But, Captain, is it not a wonder? To enter into Great Mary’s thought life, to grasp her spirit, to see what made her the woman she became.” A seagull shrieked and Phoebe turned her head to follow its flight. “When my father first gave me the journal, I admit I felt a bit indifferent. But now”—she closed it and hugged it to her chest—“now I am relishing it. Savoring every entry. I feel I’ve been given a great gift. I look at it every chance I get.”

  He stared at her, his eyes bright, appreciative. “I look at thee, and I want to keep looking.”

  He smiled and she felt suffused in heat, head to toe. Whenever the captain spoke tenderly to her, she felt a rush of blood to her temples. He peered intentl
y into her eyes for a very long time, his mouth so close his trimmed beard tickled her chin. She felt her thoughts grow dazzled and scattered.

  In a low voice, he said, “Phoebe, my dearest, I am not normally an impulsive man. And yet, there is something I’d like to ask you.”

  Phoebe’s heart pounded in anticipation. My dearest. He called me his dearest. She had a premonition that this was a fulcrum point for her life, a before-and-after moment, and she would never be the same again.

  Mary Coffin

  1 May 1659

  Tristram Jr. is courting Heppy! MY Heppy! I am flummoxed.

  How did I miss this strange turn of events? And yet it never occurred to me that Tristram Jr. would appeal to her, nor to any female in her right mind.

  Heppy spends every Sabbath afternoon with our family. The last few Sundays have brought perfect spring weather, warm and gentle and sunny. Tristram Jr. and Heppy have taken long walks together. Each time, when they returned to the house, I thanked Heppy for minding Tristram Jr., as if he were a mischievous child to amuse! She would blush and I thought nothing of it. Oh, how blind I can be when I do not want to see something.

  Last Sunday, I went outside to draw water from the well and spotted them coming through the woods into the clearing. Holding hands! My jaw dropped to the bottom of the well.

  After supper, I confronted Heppy with this information and she burst into tears. She did not want to tell me of her growing fondness for Tristram Jr. for she feared I would disapprove. (I do!) She also said she was sensitive to my broken heart over Nathaniel, and did not want to rub salt in my open wound. (She did!)

  But after we both had a good cry, I hugged her and told her I would give her my blessing to court Tristram Jr. (though, for the life of me, I do not see what she finds attractive about him). I felt more cheered when I realized that my dearest Heppy might one day be my true sister.

  That is, if Tristram Jr. doesn’t botch this romance.

  31 May 1659

  Today Tristram Jr. is moving to Newbury to apprentice with a printer. He told Heppy that he will be too occupied with his work to continue their courtship. Heppy is heartbroken.

  She says that now she understands why I have been so melancholy over losing Nathaniel to Elizabeth. She asked me to forgive her for a lack of empathy, and of course I did. I am somewhat shamed to enjoy that she feels a bit of the despair I have experienced these past few months.

  But there is a difference. I have no doubt that Heppy was spared from a horrible life with my horrible brother. And I have no doubt that I might have missed a wonderful life with a wonderful man.

  I knew Tristram Jr. would botch things up.

  7

  23rd day of the ninth month in the year 1767

  Phoebe found her father on his knees in the cellar, emptying barrels onto the dirt floor. “Daughter—I have thought of nothing else but candles since the captain’s visit. Candles, candles, candles. They are calling to me. Where did thy mother keep her candle-making equipment?”

  “In the back room.” The obvious place. The place where household tools were always kept. Always, always, always.

  When he heard the timbre of her voice, he stopped what he was doing to look at her. “What’s happened? Thee looks like thee has had a fright!”

  Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse. “Nay, not a fright. A . . . surprise. A happy one. Come upstairs and I will put the teakettle on. I’ll tell thee all about it.”

  In the keeping room, Phoebe took her time preparing the tea. Her father sat at the table, patiently waiting, until she set a cup of steaming tea in front of him. She swallowed. “Captain Foulger has asked me to marry him.”

  He raised his hand to his mouth and his eyes widened in shock. “And what did thee say to him?”

  “I told him I would be honored to be his wife.” Even as she said as much to the captain, she knew her heart was bolder than her words, for what she felt was far more than being honored. Jubilation filled her sails. It’s happened! she thought. Just as I had hoped and dreamed and planned. She sighed, relieved.

  Her father stirred sugar into his teacup, stirring and stirring, as Phoebe waited for his response. But there was no time for it.

  Without even a knock, Sarah Foulger burst right into the Starbuck home and closed the door firmly behind her. Her black cloak doubled her size, giving her the appearance of a nearly man-size girth. Beneath her bonnet she glared at Phoebe.

  “Thee!” Sarah’s finger pointed at her, pinning her against the wall. “Thee has harpooned my poor, unsuspecting father!”

  Phoebe bit her lip. Ah, so the captain told Sarah of their intentions to marry. It shouldn’t have surprised her, yet it did. And then it warmed her heart, for it proved his proposal was not an impulsive one.

  Sarah switched her gaze to Barnabas. “And thee! No doubt thee is partaking in this scheme! How trite a story. The quickest path to riches is on another’s wake.”

  Barnabas blinked. And colored. And hung his head.

  Sarah snapped her head toward Phoebe. “Hear me, girl! I am the mistress of Orange Street. It is my mother’s home. She would never forgive me if I let a woman like thee take her place. I told my father that very thing.”

  Phoebe felt her cheeks grow warm. “And what did the captain have to say about thy declaration?”

  “He said nothing to defend thee. Because he knows I am right.” She marched to the door and spun around. “Do not think of installing thyself in my home. I will not allow it!” And with that, she pivoted and blew out of the house in the blustery style she entered, not even bothering to close the door behind her.

  Barnabas got up from his seat and closed the door. “I daresay that woman can rankle the oysters in anyone’s gullet. Small wonder the captain takes to sea so often.”

  “Indeed.” Phoebe looked out the window and watched Sarah sweep down the street, her black cloak billowed like the sails of a ship.

  “Phoebe, daughter, is there any truth in what she says?”

  She turned back from the window to face him. “Does thee think I am so small a person as that?”

  “Nay, of course not. But Sarah Foulger and her sharp tongue will be a permanent part of this marriage.” When she had no response for him, he grabbed his coat and hat and said he was going out to check on the sheep.

  Disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm her father showed for her betrothal, topped by Sarah’s blatant rejection of her, Phoebe sat down in her chair and covered her face with her hands, trying to fight tears. This was not how she imagined news of her engagement to be received. Even her proposal was not how she had imagined. The captain had kissed her only on her forehead, like she was a small child. She had hoped he would truly kiss her, for it was the custom when a couple becomes beholden. She had imagined more passion, more fervor. Instead of embracing her, the captain took her hands and gently squeezed them, saying, “Well done.”

  Well done. What had she done?

  Phoebe moved to the fireplace, took up a poker, and stabbed the logs, releasing a shower of sparks. She paced up and down in the keeping room. She had no illusions that Sarah would take joy in her father’s betrothal, but she did not expect to be refused a place in the captain’s house. A rightful place for his wife. How humiliating to be denied her husband’s home by his daughter. All on the isle would wag their tongues at that.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her drawstring purse, left on the tabletop next to two abandoned cups of tea, now cold. She reached for the journal and sat down by the window, opening it to a random spot.

  Little maids, do not let anyone snuff out your fire.

  Phoebe read and reread that line. They were the first words Mary Coffin’s tutor had said to her and her friend Heppy, when they were but young girls.

  She closed the journal and put it back in her drawstring purse, grabbed her cloak and bonnet, and hurried up Centre Street to Main Street.

  Do not let anyone snuff out your fire. Her step quickened, her spirits lightened
. She called out greetings to neighbors who were closing up shop for the day. She was breathless, holding a stitch in her side, by the time she reached the harbor.

  Boldly, Phoebe rapped on the warehouse door where she knew the captain had an office. No response. She tried the door, but it was locked. She knocked again, more persistently. No response. She walked around to the side and saw the flickering of candlelight inside. Someone was inside. She went back to the door and knocked again, using the palms of both hands. Finally, she heard footsteps approach and the door opened a few inches. The first mate, Hiram Hoyt, poked his head out of the crack to greet her with his typically apologetic look and the perpetual pipe stem sticking out of his mouth. “I’m sorry it took so long to answer. What can I do for thee?”

  Phoebe’s confidence wavered. Do not let anyone snuff out my fire. She straightened up. “I would like to speak with the captain.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” the first mate said, sounding sincerely regretful. “He asked not to be disturbed.” He took in a drag from his pipe and blew it out his lips.

  She coughed and waved away the smoke. How she hated the smell of pokeweed tobacco! “Tell him Phoebe Starbuck must speak with him. ’Tis important.”

  Hiram Hoyt apologized again, before taking care to close and lock the warehouse door. Phoebe waited patiently outside, hoping the timid man could muster enough courage to interrupt the captain’s important work and tell him she was outside. Surely he would come if he knew Phoebe waited on him, would he not? She tightened her fist on the edges of her cloak, thinking she might have skipped wearing it, for all the late afternoon chill it shut out. A storm was coming, dark gray clouds scudded across the sky.

  At long last, the door opened and the captain appeared, Hiram Hoyt peering over his shoulder. “Phoebe. What brings thee to the docks at the hour of gloaming? ’Tis no time or place for a maid.”

  “Captain, I need to speak with thee.”

  “I am in the middle of writing a letter of negotiation to a French perfumery . . .” The determined expression on Phoebe’s face must have made the captain realize there was a problem, but still he hesitated, as if reluctant to allow her into the warehouse.