Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Still, he did not respond to her.

  “Thee cannot have two wives.”

  “Under English law, mayhap. Yet it is a custom among other countries. The Bahamas is a crown colony.”

  “What about God’s laws?” she asked more softly.

  “What of King David, of King Solomon?” He moved toward her, rounding the desk, and plucked the letter from her hand. “God seems to understand the needs of men. I certainly have gained no husbandly comfort from sharing a bed with you.”

  That wasn’t fair! She’d been overwhelmed with seasickness from the start. “Thee is twisting God’s words to suit thy own purposes.” Phoebe ground her heels into the wooden planks, put her hands on her hips. “Thee has read from the Bible about the sins of hypocrisy. I have heard thee read in church!” She gripped his arm. “Thee can’t be one man at sea and another man at Nantucket.”

  He shook her off. “Unhand me.”

  “Why did thee marry me?”

  He narrowed his eyes into a piercing stare. “Out of pity.” He lifted his eyebrows. “How could God possibly frown on that?”

  “’Tis dangerous to mock God.”

  His eyes—those hazel eyes that had once seemed so warm—they narrowed as beady as a snake’s, as cold as ice. “Who are you to censor me?”

  She used every ounce of her will to keep the tears back and to appear calm. “Thy daughter Sarah does not know of thy secret life, does she?”

  She had never seen the color wash out of a person’s face as if lifting a drain stopper. “Hear me, girl.” He grabbed her wrist, twisted it. “No one threatens Captain Phineas Foulger.”

  She glared at him, tears filling her eyes, though he was not hurting her that much.

  He flung her wrist down, and rubbing it, she thought of her father’s counsel, that he was worried the captain might harm her. How right he was!

  “Do you really think Sarah would believe you? She wouldn’t. Don’t underestimate my daughter. She’s just like her mother. She will make your life miserable.”

  “This dual life must not continue.”

  “I am not the first man to have women in other ports, nor will I be the last.”

  He had no intention to quit this! “I shall have to—”

  “What? What shall you do? Divorce me? Finish your words, girl. Or better still, allow me to finish them for you. You shall run back to your father’s drab house. Back to your former life—filled with ridicule and humiliation. Oh, don’t look so shocked. Surely you’re aware of how people speak of you, think of you. Do you really think anyone will believe you chose to divorce me?You?”

  She flinched as if he was striking her with his hateful words.

  He touched her chin as if it were made of spun sugar, but though gentle, it was as unloving a touch as that of sprinkling salt on an open wound. “Your face might be the comeliest on Nantucket Island, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re the daughter of Barnabas Starbuck—the biggest fool on the island.” He dropped his hand, stuffed the letter back into the hidden compartment of the shipbox, and closed it tight, locking it with the key. He strode toward the door, picked up his hat, and reached for the handle, then turned his head slightly. “You’re not so different from me, Phoebe. You want the admiration of others as much as I do. Maybe even more so.” The door closed firmly behind him.

  Oh, but this man was strangely mixed; she knew him not.

  She pulled out her chest, packed all her belongings, and called for Silo to carry the chest to her cuddy on the upper deck. Flensing or no flensing, she could not stay in the captain’s cabin. She paced the small cabin as she waited for Silo, and noticed a little brass key near the threshold. In his haste, the captain had dropped the key. She picked it up and put it on his desk, then thought twice. Silo’s familiar knock rapped on the door, and she slipped the key into her drawstring purse.

  After Silo left her in the cuddy, she sat on the small bunk, head in her hands, utterly distraught, and wept. She had brought this on herself, plotted and planned to coax the captain to marry her, used Sarah’s rejection of her to box him in so that he had no choice but to let her accompany him on the Fortuna. “Be careful what thee prays for,” her mother used to say.

  When she was emptied of tears, she took the vial of Sea Calm out of Great Mary’s journal. She measured out one grain. Then one more grain, and stirred it in a cup of lukewarm tea. Just to sleep tonight, to find relief from nausea, from despair, from all-around misery.

  She curled up into the bunk Matthew had made her, rolling her cloak into a pillow. She did not know what hurt her most—her aching belly or her troubled heart. As she covered herself with a blanket from the captain’s bed—let him be cold!—the last thought that floated through her mind was, What have I done? What have I done?

  Mary Coffin

  30 March 1661

  Peter Foulger came to the house today and stood just inside the open door. He asked for Mother, but she has gone to sit with old Rachel Swain today. He seemed quite concerned, so I asked him if I could help. He wondered if I knew how to stitch a bad cut. “You are hurt?” I asked. I did not see any blood.

  “No, there’s an Indian outside who cut himself while scalloping.”

  If the Indian were scalloping this close to our English settlement, I knew my father would send him away without getting stitched up, no matter the risk of infection. He would consider it a just consequence for crossing the lines. The natives felt differently about the island. They do not understand that there are invisible lines all around the island that are not to be crossed. They do not understand that they sold their rights to own the land, because they never believed they owned the land. They believed they were stewards of the land while they were alive. I like their way of thinking, but I know it won’t work in the white man’s world. We want to own land, and give it to our children, and to their children. It’s just part of our blood, and the Indian’s way of thinking is part of theirs.

  I looked into Peter Foulger’s gentle brown eyes that droop charmingly at the edges, and I made a decision. “Let me get my sewing basket and I’ll go with you.” He gave me a warm smile and I knew I made a good choice, even if Father gets bothered.

  I followed Peter down to the beach and saw the Indian. He was just a boy, not much bigger than my brother, and the cut on his foot was quite severe. He turned his head to look at me and I saw the fear in his eyes. Everyone knows that these kinds of cuts can carry you to the grave.

  Peter sat behind the boy and held him tight, but I don’t think the boy would’ve twitched a muscle. He was frozen like a statue, and I must have hurt him with that needle. I cleaned out the cut and stitched him up as neat and tidy as if I were making a buttonhole. It was the first time I felt grateful to have learned to sew.

  Peter could talk to the Indian in his own language, which I admired.

  After I had finished, Peter said that perhaps others need not know of this surgery. He was saying that to protect me from my father’s strong opinions about trespassing Indians. “I will tell my father,” I told him. “I would rather he know of it from me than hear about it from another.”

  “He will not be pleased.”

  “Nay,” I said, as I packed up my sewing kit. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do. Some things are worth the fuss.”

  I thought of the tender way Peter Foulger soothed the boy, how he tried to protect him from consequences. He’s a kind man, and I told him so. I do not think most men are particularly kind. My father is many things: strong, courageous, determined, often reckless, sometimes ruthless, but kindness is not in his nature.

  Peter put out his hand and helped me to my feet. “You are a special one, Mary Coffin.” I have to say that my heart warmed to those words. And I have been feeling very guilty about that. Because Peter Foulger is a married man, and for one fleeting moment, I wished he wasn’t.

  15

  5th day of the eleventh month in the year 1767

  Phoebe felt as
if she had turned into another person, like someone else walked around in her shoes and she didn’t know who she was before, or who she was now.

  She was indulging in Sea Calm each day now, morning by her own volition. Evening, by the captain’s. He brought her a cup of grog each night to help her sleep, and if she refused, he picked her head up, pinched her cheeks together, and poured into her mouth little by little the contents of the cup. She hated it, she loved it.

  As her tolerance to the drug increased, the benefits lessened. She doubled the dose and from double, triple was not far away. She had little appetite to speak of, as all manner of food upset her touchy stomach, so she hardly ate. She spent most of the day drowsily curled up in the cuddy Matthew had built for her, not caring about anything or anyone.

  A joyous scream from the crow’s nest shouted the news that every sailor lived to hear: land was sighted! At daybreak the next morning, the captain put the ship into a deep water cove in Abacos, one of the northern islands in the Bahamas chain, to provision the ship with fresh water, fruits, and vegetables. Matthew hadn’t seen Phoebe for a day or two and knocked on the door of the cuddy. Silo sat outside the door, scratching on his scrimshaw. “Silo, has Phoebe heard the news of the island stop?”

  Silo shook his head, his eyes grave.

  “She’s in there, is she not?”

  Silo nodded.

  Matthew knocked again, heard no answer, so he slid open the door and peered in. “Phoebe?”

  As his eyes adapted to the darkness, he saw her tucked in the bunk, breathing shallowly. “Phoebe?” She did not respond. He touched her forehead and felt fever. Alarmed by her weakened physical state, he sent Silo to fetch the captain. When they returned, the captain peered inside the cuddy.

  “Phoebe is ill,” Matthew said. “She needs a doctor. Can you send someone to fetch one?”

  “Fetch a doctor? From this island?” He scoffed. “Certainly not an English-trained doctor. Most likely a witch doctor. Even they won’t come on ship. Too superstitious. They fear we’ll abscond with them.”

  “Surely there’s someone who could help.”

  “I’ll have Mr. Hoyt ask around when he is in the village for supplies.”

  Hours later, Hiram Hoyt rowed back to the ship with a midwife, a large dark-haired woman who held herself like a queen. Matthew waited anxiously on the upper deck with the captain while the midwife went into the cuddy to check on Phoebe. The first mate interrupted once to ask when the captain wanted to push off.

  “One day to water the ship.”

  “One day?” Matthew was shocked. “Captain, you’re pushing Phoebe too hard. There’s a long voyage ahead. She needs time to regain her strength. A few days, at the very least.”

  The captain dug in his heels. “I cannot—will not—delay departure. We will be here until tomorrow’s high tide.”

  “She will need more time than one day.”

  The captain’s eyes turned flinty. “Impossible. We’re already delayed from the storms.”

  Matthew was outraged. “What is the purpose for haste? Especially if it means—”

  But before Matthew could finish, the midwife came out of the little room, shaking her head. “She die soon.”

  Matthew stared at her. “You can’t be serious! She’s seasick, ’tis all.”

  The woman shook her head. “Not seasick.” She rapped her chest. “Heart is sick.” She tapped on her head. “Head is sick. She in perilous waters. She want to die.”

  Stunned silence settled over the small group. The captain paced the deck, dragging an agitated hand through his hair.

  “I won’t accept that,” Matthew insisted. “Phoebe is young, she’s stronger than anyone thinks. She’ll turn the corner, especially if she can get off the ship for a bit.”

  The captain looked to the midwife. “Is there a place in the village where she can be cared for?”

  The midwife hesitated.

  “I will pay.”

  The midwife smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “My house.”

  The captain nodded at the first mate. “See to it.”

  Matthew felt relieved that the captain was bending to accommodate Phoebe’s serious condition. He wrapped Phoebe in a blanket and carried her out to the side of the ship, where he, Hiram, and Silo carefully lowered her down the rigging to the whaleboat, then he held her as they rowed to shore. She seemed hardly aware that she was being moved. The midwife’s house was more of a shanty, but there was a small clean cot for Phoebe to lie on. She was warm, dry, and off the churning sea. Matthew stayed by her side, wiping her feverish brow with a cool rag, giving her sips of water.

  The captain remained on the ship.

  The following morning, the captain appeared at the door of the midwife’s small house. “How does she fare? Any better?”

  Hiram Hoyt stood behind the captain, Silo behind both men, lugging Phoebe’s chest in his small arms.

  “Nay. Much worse. See for yourself.” Matthew feared for her life.

  The captain did not enter the house, but turned to look at the shoreline. “The tide returns in a few hours.”

  “Phoebe’s gone as far as she can go. Have you no eyes in your head?”

  “I’ll make arrangements with the midwife.”

  And then it dawned on Matthew what the captain intended to do. “You what?” he growled, taking a step toward the captain. “You would leave Phoebe here? On a strange island where she knows no one?”

  “She is near death. You heard the midwife. I’ve seen the look of it before.”

  “Even more of a reason to wait!” What kind of monster was this man? Matthew looked to the first mate, the only one here likely to have influence to countermand the captain. Hiram Hoyt shifted his weight, beads of perspiration trickled down his face, his eyes remained fixed on the captain. He said nothing.

  The captain seemed resolved. “’Tis unfortunate circumstances, I admit. Phoebe knew the risks. She was the one who insisted on coming on board. It was a poor decision on my part to agree. Even if she were not ill, I would send her back to Nantucket. She is not suited to a seafaring life.” He glanced at weak Hiram and silent Silo. “And then there is the crew. The men have rebelled against her presence.”

  Matthew’s fist clenched. Men? There were no men among the crew, only juveniles. He was well aware of how they perceived Phoebe. She was a hex, a witch, a demon in a skirt. They believed she put a curse on the ship. Any bit of misfortune on the Fortuna—and there had been plenty of it—was blamed on Phoebe. Barnabas had been so right—Phoebe needed minding. “I’m going to stay here. Someone needs to tend to her.”

  A knowing glint came into the captain’s eyes. “Still fancy her, eh?”

  “Nay. I told you before. We were—we are—childhood friends.”

  The captain waved his hand away. “Matters not to me. If you feel obligated to remain, so be it.” He looked at Matthew. “There are other coopers. You can be easily replaced.”

  How well Matthew knew that.

  The captain held out a brown envelope.

  Matthew took it. “What is this?”

  “After Phoebe . . . passes on . . . I would ask that you see to the disposal of her . . . remains. A proper burial. No gravestone, of course. That would not be proper.”

  The air seemed to crackle in the silence before a storm.

  Matthew looked at the captain for a long moment. A gravestone would not be proper in the eyes of the Quaker captain, but leaving his bride to die alone on a foreign island—with that he saw no moral conflict. He tucked the envelope inside his jacket pocket. “I’ll see to her.”

  “Come to the ship to receive your portion of the lay of the one measly whale the crew brought in. It will tide you over to find another ship to sign on, or to hitch a ride back to Nantucket.”

  The two men stared at each other. It occurred to Matthew that the captain was waiting to be thanked.

  When pigs grow wings.

  “You, Captain Foulger, need to be the one to tel
l your wife you are leaving her behind.”

  A muscle jerked in the captain’s jaw and his eyes darkened. “Fine!” he said in exasperation.

  In that instant, Matthew felt the bitterness of sheer, abject hatred for the captain. He felt suddenly bloodless and cold. His fists clenched and his heart started pounding. I will make him sorry.

  Mary Coffin

  8 April 1661

  Granny Joan has come! Brother Peter brought her for a visit when he delivered a load of lumber. When I saw Peter carry her up the beach, I felt momentarily saddened. She looks much older.

  But my sadness quickly evaporated. She is as spirited as ever! She said she refused to die until she saw this faraway island that has claimed her favorite son.

  Father is her only son.

  9 April 1661

  Peter Foulger came over from Martha’s Vineyard and brought his son Eleazer to be the island’s shoemaker. He is tall like his father, but gangly and awkward. He has bright blue eyes, fringed with black lashes, bluer eyes than I have ever seen before. He stared right at me from the minute he walked in the door. It was like he’d never seen a girl before. Even his father noticed and gave him a jab with his elbow.

  I offered them supper and they accepted. Father did most of the talking while they ate. (No surprise with that!) But Eleazer had much to say as well, and Granny Joan was very impressed with him because he offered to scour the beach to fill the empty woodbox. After they left, Mother said she thinks he is more comely than Nathaniel Starbuck and didn’t Granny Joan agree? Mother wants me to stop pining after Nathaniel.

  Granny Joan did not answer.

  12 April 1661

  Peter Foulger is a Baptist, I learned today. I asked him what that meant and he said that our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, was baptized as an adult and that was reason enough for him. He says he is an Anabaptist, which means that he got baptized again as an adult.

  The Puritans do not like Baptists. They think Peter Foulger is a heretic. I do not know what to think, other than I do not understand how the Puritans left England because they felt oppressed, and they turned right around and started oppressing Quakers and Baptists.