His hands were clenched, but his voice was studiously calm. “I have looked forward to quiet evenings at sea when thee can read sections aloud to me by candlelight in my cabin.” The smile returned to his face. “Forgive me, my dear. Our cabin.”
“’Tis a lovely vision.” And it was that. She was grateful to be reminded of the journal, as she had fully intended to bring it for her own peace of mind, as well as interest. She had left off at the point where Mary Coffin was about to leave the mainland and move to Nantucket, and she was curious about what happened next.
The captain did not rest easy until Phoebe had gone into the house, retrieved the journal off the mantel, and returned to the carriage. At the captain’s persistent urging, the driver drove the horse hard to arrive at the wharf to meet the dory that would row them to the Fortuna. The wind stirred strongly as they walked along the wharf, at one point whisking off Phoebe’s bonnet and tearing at her heavy knot of hair.
“Prepare thyself, wife,” the captain said, his eyes on the Fortuna, rocking with stiff-chopped waves, as he helped her into the dory. “A sailor must always keep a weather eye for shifting winds and rough water.”
And it was on that short dory ride that Phoebe first felt her stomach began to churn. Oh no. Not this. She was sure she had outgrown the childhood malady. She had been raised on an island, for goodness’ sake! Just an hour ago, she had been so eager to go on this voyage. But a sudden gloom spread over her. Her stomach clenched, her mouth started watering, her palms grew warm, she felt a bead of perspiration on her brow. Oh no. Please, God, not this again. Let me not be seasick. Please, please, please!
The captain had signed on a motley crew. Mere boys it seemed; they were all running away from something, or someone. Because of that, they were willing to sign on to a ship rumored to be toting bad luck.
Matthew knew the reason—Phoebe Starbuck. Phoebe Starbuck Foulger.
For this very morning, she had married the captain.
The captain was true to his word. Matthew’s gaol sentence was dismissed and he had been given freedom to spend his last night at his own home.
The most difficult goodbye for Matthew was to Jeremiah. They stayed up late last night talking as his young brother pelted him with one question after another. “Tell me again the story of Captain Hussey.”
“Jeremiah, you’ve heard this story dozens of times.”
“I need to remember it while thee is gone.”
“The story, a legend, really, told the tale of the first sperm whale claimed by a Nantucket captain. In 1712, Captain Christopher Hussey was seeking right whales and his ship was blown off course.”
“Right whales were named because they remained afloat after they’ve been killed. So they are the right whale.”
Matthew smiled. “Good remembering.”
“And whales have terrible eyesight.”
“Aye. Terrible. Tiny little eyes. Big brains, though.”
“And they can dive a mile below the sea surface.”
“Aye.”
“But they have excellent hearing.”
“That they do. So Captain Hussey, he found himself surrounded by a pod of sperm whales. He laid chase to one and dragged it back to Nantucket Harbor, and the island went wild. In that one enormous beast—fifty to sixty tons, eighty feet long—and its cavernous head was something remarkable. Spermaceti oil.”
“And suddenly the streets of London were lit by Nantucket whales.”
“Nay, not so sudden, brother. Nor do I think the whales consider themselves as belonging to Nantucket Island. They consider themselves to be citizens of the seven seas. ’Tis true that London was enamored by the whale oil that came from Nantucket. And it did not take long for them to realize that the spermaceti oil could light their street lanterns.”
“What happened next?”
“’Twas not so easy to find the sperm whales, not like Captain Hussey’s good fortune. The Nantucket captains explored the North Atlantic to find them, and they did, but they also discovered that the blubber of the whales went rancid in six weeks.”
“What does ‘rancid’ mean?”
“Spoilt. Soured. So they had to keep returning to harbor even if the hold wasn’t full.”
“Until someone invented the stove!”
“Aye, some smart fellow realized that a larger ship could have a stove built into it. They could process the whale and fill the barrels with oil. So now they can go out for longer durations. One day soon, they might even circumnavigate the world, from the Arctic to the Antarctic, searching for these giant whales.”
“And that’s what you’re going to do on Captain Foulger’s ship.”
“That’s my plan, Jeremiah.”
“And thee will bring back enough of a lay to buy our own ship. Thee and me, brother.”
It was Jeremiah’s favorite dream. It used to be Matthew’s dream too. And his father’s. Tonight he would not squelch his brother’s joy. “I will be captain, you will be cabin boy.”
“First mate.”
“In time, laddie. ’Til then you’re a greenie.”
“Matthew, will thee be gone a long time?”
“Aye. Until the hold is full.”
“How many whales before the hold is full?”
“Usually, fifty to sixty whales.” Jeremiah knew all this information. Matthew knew he just wanted to hear his voice, and he understood that. He had done the same thing to his father the night before he left on voyages. Clinging to their last moments together.
Jeremiah yawned once, then twice. “Then they break up the stove.”
“Aye, when the hold is full, the tryworks is destroyed. The bricks are tossed overboard. ’Tis symbolic, and the crew delights in tossing the bricks overboard.”
“Because then the captain cannot change his mind.”
“He must pilot the ship back to Nantucket Island.”
“Thee will make something for our mother from the scrimshaw?”
The scrimshaw was the lower jawbone of the whale. It had no commercial value, so the captain saved it for the crew. Scrimshaw carving became something of a maritime art for the sailors, something to pass the long, dull hours at sea. “I’ll make you both something special.”
“Thee will come back, won’t thee, Matthew?”
His small voice seemed to come from a great distance, and Matthew took so long answering that Jeremiah sat up in bed, alarmed. Matthew shook off his dread. There were some things a man couldn’t get out of, as much as he wanted to.
“’Tis my solemn promise, brother.”
Phoebe’s sea adventure had begun. She had looked forward so eagerly to setting sail, but the moment the anchor was hauled in, she was overcome with an ominous dread. She felt homesick, and seasick, and the ship hadn’t even left the harbor yet.
Before she could say she’d changed her mind and thought it might be best if she remained in Nantucket, the sails were hoisted and the ship was under way. The weather had deteriorated ominously as dark clouds moved swiftly overhead, and the sky grew dark. A storm seemed imminent, but the captain seemed unconcerned. Phoebe, though, felt very concerned. She squeezed her eyes shut. Diversion, diversion, diversion! Do not let my mind stay fixed on my churning stomach.
The captain ordered Silo to lead Phoebe to his cabin, as his attention was required on deck. She stepped over the head of the companionway as if she were stepping over the threshold of a palace. The dark little chamber projected an authority that was at once royal, ecclesiastical. A sea king, that’s whom she had married.
Silo lit a candle, set it in a candlestand, handed it to her with a shy smile, and left her alone. She walked around the cabin in utter amazement. It had rich walls of waxed teak and finely crafted fittings. A carved bedstead covered one end of the room. The center of the room was monopolized by a teak desk over which were strewn maps, ledgers, a brass sextant, and a compass. A logbook lay on the blotting pad with an inkwell and quill pen nearby.
The candlelight gleamed off the met
al ornaments in the room. The teak desk had shiny brass pulls. The compass had been polished till it winked. She touched each thing, picked it up, put it down. The top drawer of his desk contained pipes and scrimshaw. His leather ship box was stored on the top of his desk. It was beautifully made, a foreign importation, the brass catch embossed with his initials. She tried the catch, wondering what it contained, but it was locked. Oh, it was wonderful to be in this cabin for the first time while the captain was not there to watch her appraise it. So many possessions of value. Treasures.
On a shelf affixed to the wall stood thick volumes with names on their spines tooled in gold leaf. Mathematics. Sermons. Philosophy. She was awed by the concentration of so much wisdom in one place. What a fine man she had married.
Married! She was married to Captain Phineas Foulger. Me!
Moving forward in a trance, she saw her reflection in the mahogany-framed mirror above the pitcher. Her hair was windblown, her cheeks aflame, her eyes luminous. Who was this girl? Could it be, she, here at last?
Phoebe busied herself by unpacking her trunk, then she picked up Great Mary’s journal to distract herself. She hoped her churning stomach had more to do with the uncertainties of what activities lay ahead in the wedding bed than with seasickness.
She put a hand to her stomach, feeling increasingly nauseated. A jagged streak of lightning lit the small window, casting eerie shadows on the ground. Almost immediately, thunder boomed. Following the thunder was a strange quiet. The rap of knuckles on the cabin door made her jump. And in walked the captain with a gleam in his eye. He blew out the candle and she lost her breath.
Mary Coffin
5 July 1660
The day of our departure finally arrived. After a great deal of packing, of deciding what to bring and what to sell, we set out in an open sloop for Nantucket Island. It was a fine day for sailing, and we were all of good cheer, even Mother, who has reluctantly acquiesced to Father’s decision.
The only moment that caused me pain was when I said goodbye to my dear Heppy. She promised to visit, but I think it unlikely. I wonder if our paths will cross again. I must put those thoughts out of my head, for who knows what the future holds but God?
All was fine as we crossed Massachusetts Bay to round the Cape, as we were always within sight of land. But then we were covered in fog, out in the choppy sound, and Mother grew fretful. Father was aggrieved with her for having such little faith in God, but I think Mother’s doubt was not in the Almighty but in her husband.
Father remained determined, and told her to try to sleep. “The next island will be Nantucket Island,” he told her.
But he was incorrect.
In the morning, the first land sighted was a small island. Father had gone off course toward the east and had to correct the course. Rather than admit as much, he only said, “Look, Dionis! This is Tuckernuck Island! I own this island!” as if this had been his plan all along to get lost.
A few hours later, we came to the northern shore at Capaum Harbour. The men dropped anchor and set out in the dory to go ashore, rowing through the narrow inlet, a bay with an extremely narrow mouth opening to the sea. They were hardly through the inlet when I could see the outlines of a structure down at the far right end of the harbour. As we drew closer, I could see our new home more clearly. The side frames were in place, built by my brother James earlier this summer.
The day was spent unloading the boat and ferrying the things in on the dory. We slept in a little covered lean-to that James had constructed for us. Stephen slept soundly next to me, as he is filled with a sense of adventure. But as I tried to sleep that night, I could hear the waves lap the shore. I could hear an owl hoot, and another hoot back in reply. We are living in utter barrenness.
And so, this lonely place is home.
10
1st day of the tenth month in the year 1767
Rain had started, a light tapping on the cabin ceiling turned into a steady pounding. As Phoebe’s eyes adjusted to the darkened room, she saw the captain’s gaze remain fixed on her as he started to unbutton his coat. She didn’t move, but felt her heart race and her stomach twist. Not now. Not now. Not now. Please, God, don’t let me be sick in front of him.
He took a step closer to her. “What thinks thee of thy new home?”
“Oh, quite lovely.” She cleared the hoarseness from her throat. “Fit for a queen.”
He bowed his head modestly, but she knew her words had pleased him. He tossed his coat on the floor and loosened the buttons of his shirt, pulled the tails from his trousers.
“Captain, I was hoping we could talk a little,” she started timidly, but he put a finger to her lips and stopped her words with a shake of his head.
She wondered if he could hear the thudding of her heart over the sound of the drumming rain on the ceiling. Just as he leaned down to kiss her, so close she could feel his breath, an urgent knock came on the door. The captain froze. The knock came again, louder.
“Avast! I’m not deaf.”
He yanked open the door to find the first mate, Hiram Hoyt, standing in his customary sailor stance with legs braced, a troubled look on his regretful face. He spoke in a low voice to the captain, who mumbled something back to him, then shut the door abruptly. The captain swore once, then twice more, then dropped to his knees and pulled out his sea chest from under the bed.
Such profanity mortified Phoebe. It was the language of the docks, not the Friends’ meetinghouse. Of course, she realized, he must be tense with the start of the voyage.
The captain opened his chest and rummaged through it, yanking out his rain gear. “Phoebe, my dear,” he said as he buttoned the wax-coated overcoat, “I am sorry to disappoint thee on our wedding night, but I fear we have sailed straight into a tempest. In the face of the approaching squall, I will need to be alongside my men tonight.”
Daggers of lightning slashed the small windows, thunder rumbled, then boomed like a cannonball.
As soon as he left the room, Phoebe heaved over the side of the bed, right into the chamber pot.
Huddled in the captain’s bed, Phoebe lay wide awake, sick to her stomach, frightened and dizzy from the wild pitching and swaying and rolling of the ship, like a child’s toy in a bathtub. It would skim the crest of a wave, only to plunge into a watery trough. She was sure the ship was soon to sink.
Sometime during the second watch, the captain came into the cabin, threw off his rain gear, flopped on his back on the bed, told her he was going to sleep for one hour, and covered his eyes with his arm.
“Captain Foulger, could the ship capsize?” Above the roaring wind, she could barely hear her own voice.
He lifted his arm and peered at her, annoyed. “Would I be trying to sleep if my ship was soon to founder?” Another clap of thunder boomed, but it sounded more distant now. “The storm is passing,” he said sleepily. Then he rolled over to face the wall.
So much for her wedding night. Not a foretaste of what married life would be, she was certain. It could go no lower, so she had high hopes it could only improve from this point.
Long after his breathing had become regular, Phoebe still could not fall asleep. Perhaps she had expected too much, but it seemed that now that they were married and alone and sleeping in the same bed, he might have told her to call him by his Christian name.
Phoebe woke from a fitful sleep. She reached a hand out and felt emptiness on the captain’s side of the bed. Empty and cold.
She lay on her back, eyes closed tight, trying to assess the storm outside, the storm within. There was less wind, less rain lashing the ceiling, less tossing of the ship from side to side. She heard sailors shout to each other, and the sound of feet run along the deck.
If only the storm would pass in her stomach. It was churning and twisting, every bit as much as last night, though it was thoroughly empty. Surely, this seasickness would pass as the storm had passed. She tried to sit up but felt dizzy. She tried again, more slowly this time. Once upright, she tried
to stand, not at all certain her trembling legs would support her. A wave of nausea overcame her, and mercifully, she reached the chamber pot in time. What more could her stomach have hidden within? She had hardly eaten yesterday, so nervous about her wedding.
She wiped her lips, swished her mouth with watered essence of peppermint, washed her face, and slowly dressed. She heard more loud shouts and clanging sounds outside. What was happening? Something was going on.
She looked in the mirror. Oh . . . she looked awful. Green. She took a deep breath. Never mind that now. Get thy mind on something besides thy stomach, Phoebe Starbuck!
Phoebe Starbuck Foulger.
The name seemed strange to her. Strange and wonderful, both. She combed her hair, twisted it into a knot, pinned it, and covered it with her lace cap. Then she steeled herself, pulled the door handle, stepped over the companionway.
And cringed!
She shrank from the naked sunlight. Her eyes hurt, her stomach flipped, the cold sea air stung her face like needles. She leaned her forehead against the cabin door, trying to compose herself. The relentless wind had stopped, the air was clean, the sky was blue. She took deep breaths, squeezed her eyes tight, and distracted herself by listening to the crew as they shouted to each other on the masts and upper deck. From what she could gather, a whale had been sighted.
A whale.
Her eyes popped open. She turned, took two steps, and nearly fell over on the unsteady deck, so she grabbed the railing.
“Ah! Finding your sea legs, I see.”
Phoebe opened one eye, hoping the voice didn’t belong to the man she thought it might. It did. She lifted her chin to look up at Matthew Macy. He nodded and moved to let her pass at the same moment she moved to proceed, and they found themselves face-to-face. It was an awkward impasse, even more so after she sidestepped, only to find that he, too, had decided to move sideways.
She frowned. “It appears we are destined to oppose each other.”
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