Phoebe's Light Read online

  She filled two cups with tea, picked up one to give to him, and was mortified that her hands shook so much the cup rattled noisily on its saucer. She kept her head down and quickly sat in a chair, lifted her cup, and took a sip.

  The captain seemed not to notice her discomfit. “Thee has read the journal?”

  “Nay, not yet.”

  “Phoebe, my dear, I wondered if thee might allow me to borrow it? Just for a day or so.”

  Dear! He called her his dear. “Borrow it? But why?”

  He shrugged. “I have always been inordinately curious about Great Mary.” He sipped on the tea. “She was said to be an oracle. A Deborah, like the judge in the Old Testament.”

  Yes, Phoebe knew all about Great Mary’s reputation. Her shadow cast large on her descendants.

  But to borrow it? She had just received the journal—thoughts and words and insights from her great-grandmother. It felt . . . private. Personal. Special.

  On the other hand, if she agreed to loan the journal to the captain, it would provide an opportunity to spend time with him. She was silent for a long moment, eyes on her teacup, as if she could read guidance on its dark surface. As she wavered on a decision, her father came down the stairs and into the keeping room.

  “Welcome, Phineas. Thee looks well.”

  The captain rose to his feet and reached a hand out to shake her father’s hand. “Hello, Barnabas.” He sat back down.

  “Quite a greasy voyage, I heard.”

  “It was, it was,” the captain said, looking pleased. “Substantial in every way.”

  Barnabas sat at the table. “Quite a large piece of ambergris, as well.”

  Phoebe glanced at her father. She had not realized he’d already been down to the docks to hear the scuttlebutt surrounding the Fortuna, but then, he did have a keen interest in all things new.

  “Indeed, the ambergris was sizable.” The captain dipped his head in modesty. “Word travels speedily. A French perfumery is eager to negotiate.”

  “How large was it?”

  “The ambergris? ’Tis getting weighed and valued at the countinghouse as we speak.”

  “Thirty pounds, I heard. A high-quality ambergris.”

  Captain Foulger frowned. “’Twas truly God’s great blessing.”

  Phoebe felt embarrassed. Why did her father need to poke his nose in the captain’s financial matters?

  Barnabas leaned on his elbows, and Phoebe cringed, noticing the stains on his sleeves. “Will thee stay long on-island, Phineas?”

  “The Fortuna will be emptied of her cargo. Then she will be watered, and we will make way. If all goes well, we will be off within a month’s time.”

  So soon? Panic tore through Phoebe. A month wasn’t enough time! Usually, captains and their crew were eager for a rest on land. Most had families who needed their attention, children who needed to be reacquainted with their fathers. “What is the reason for such haste?”

  “Winter migration, of course. The right whales will soon be traveling down the seaboard toward warm waters, funneled toward Nantucket by the arm of Cape Cod. Nothing satisfies Londoners but whale oil, and their consumption far exceeds our supply. The Fortuna must venture out and find more whales. The English appetite for candles is insatiable.”

  “Candles?” Barnabas’s sparse eyebrows lifted. “I thought the English wanted our oil to light the streets of London.”

  Our oil? Since when did Phoebe’s father consider himself to be part of the whaling industry?

  “Candles too,” the captain said. “They burn whiter, brighter, longer. ’Tis a shame we do not manufacture candles on Nantucket. Not a single chandlery on our sweet isle.”

  “Why? Why is that?”

  “There is some secret to the process of refining. The Brown brothers of Providence buy raw material from my warehouse. Word has it that they allow no one to enter their manufactory. ’Tis all very hush-hush.” He took a sip of tea. “Some enterprising fellow will figure it out soon, of that I have no doubt.”

  “Hmm,” Barnabas said, “that is worth a ponder.”

  Uh-oh. Such a ponder from her father worried Phoebe. She had seen that look in his eyes before. Whatever currently held his interest would fade away and all his attention would move on to his newest fixation.

  The captain finished his tea and set down his cup. “I stopped by thy home to see if Phoebe might allow me a day or so with this famous journal of Great Mary’s.”

  Barnabas laced his hands together. “I am sorry to disappoint, but the journal must not leave my daughter’s hands. It was a gift to her, and only to her.”

  Phoebe was startled by the strong tone of her father. He was not one to speak with authority, particularly to such a man as the captain.

  Even the captain lifted his head, a puzzled look in his eyes. “I would take care to protect it, Barnabas. And return it within a day’s time. Mayhap two days.”

  “Surely, Father, if he—”

  “Nay! ’Tis my final word on the subject. The journal does not leave my household.”

  “The journal holds knowledge to all Nantucketers, Barnabas, not just to thy family.”

  “Thee be not captain here, Phineas Foulger. Not in my house.”

  The sharp rebuke was not lost on the captain. “Calm down, Barnabas. I have no quarrel with thee. Why, I’ve only just returned. I was merely looking to amuse myself whilst I have a duration on the island.”

  The captain rose to his feet and a wave of fear engulfed Phoebe. Her one chance to connect with the captain and it was slipping through her hands, all because of her father’s unreasonableness.

  But the captain surprised her again. He seemed not at all perturbed. Instead, he turned to her. “Phoebe, I wondered if thee might like to take a turn around the block on this fine day? ’Tis a rare day on Nantucket to have the autumn sunshine on us.”

  She stared blindly at him. “With . . . me?” Her voice squeaked and heat flooded her face. She coughed to clear her throat. “I mean, that sounds delightful.” She grabbed her bonnet and cloak from the wall pegs before her father could object and hurried to join the captain at the door, fumbling with the ties on her bonnet.

  As they walked along the street, passing one gray-shingled lean-to after another, she wondered if she should defend her father’s bluntness or just let it pass. “I apologize for my father’s injustice. He is not usually so abrupt in manner. The journal . . . it is the one inheritance his father has bestowed on him. He takes it very seriously.”

  “Think naught of it.” The captain took her elbow, seemingly to help her over the ruts in the street, and her heart soared. He inhaled deeply. “I’ve missed the lady’s wind of the island.”

  “Lady’s wind?”

  “There’s a perfume in the air. It lacks the sting of salt.”

  She smiled. “That’s a very lovely way to describe relentless island wind. I daresay that whatever direction I happen to walk, I will face the wind head on.” As if she had beckoned it, a gust of wind ruffled her bonnet and made the ties stream out over her shoulder.

  He grinned and led her to a bench under a tree on Main Street. “If thee is fond of wind, try sailing on a sloop in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Oh, how I would love it! I envy men and their sea adventures. Ships and shops, travel and trading, they fire my blood.” The moment she said it, she felt the pink of her cheeks deepen to red. Too childish? Too eager? She glanced at the captain, wondering if she had spoiled his impression of her.

  He was staring at her, the way a man stares at a complex puzzle he cannot cipher. “Thee has an uncommon way of looking at things, Phoebe.”

  “A good thing, I hope.”

  He laughed. “A very good thing. Thee is . . . quite refreshing, like a summer sea. In fact, I find myself caught under thy—”

  Caught under what? Phoebe practically leaned forward to catch the end of the sentence, but he never finished his thought as his attention was diverted by the sight of an approachi
ng man. Hiram Hoyt. The captain’s first mate again. When he reached them, he stood in front of them, feet straddled as if he were still on a ship.

  Slowly, he removed the perpetual pipe from his mouth. “I’m sorry to bother thee, Captain, but I’ve been hunting everywhere for thee. Thee is wanted down at the countinghouse.”

  “I’ll be there presently, Mr. Hoyt.” The captain spoke dismissively, but Hiram Hoyt did not budge.

  “M’ sincere apologies, sir, but they were insistent that I not return without thee.”

  “What’s a first mate for?” Captain Foulger sighed. “Apparently Mr. Hoyt requires my full attention.” He reached for Phoebe’s hand.

  She took his hand, or rather let him take hers, which felt small and warm when clasped in his—so smooth! It surprised her, such smooth hands; she expected them to be rough. Though of course a sea captain’s duties were far removed from the harsh manual labors of his crew.

  “Phoebe, child, I feel as if we’ve just begun our conversation.”

  “Yes! Yes, that is exactly my own feeling!” And then—startled by her reckless confession—she gasped and bit her lips, but the captain only offered her a beneficent smile and gave her hand a gentle squeeze before parting.

  He was unlike any man she had ever met—worlds away from her father and his disastrous endeavors, or Matthew Macy’s cynicism, or Horace Russell’s hypocrisy, or her whale-obsessed cousins, her stern uncles, or any other man on this island. As she watched the captain stride down the street toward the wharf, heads turning as he walked, she realized that there was something in his bearing that set him apart. Her heart felt so tight it hurt.

  When she returned home, she found a note left by her father that he was seeing to the sheep and would not return until supper, so she stirred the keeping room fire with the iron poker and pulled a chair over to a west-facing window. She sat down, the journal on her lap, eager to discover the profound wisdom of Great Mary. She felt goosebumps rise up along her arms as she saw the childlike penmanship of her great-grandmother. This, this was the mind of the woman who loomed so large over Nantucket.

  Mary Coffin

  3 November 1658

  Sleep is impossible for me tonight. I am greatly distressed.

  I saw a Quaker lady in town. I knew she was one because of the way she dressed and talked. She was speaking out on a street corner to anyone who would listen to her, and no one would, but she kept on talking.

  Quakers are said to be agents of Satan himself, wandering around preaching against the church and its leaders. Patience and Margaret tell me that their father says they have horns and tails and perform evil deeds. The law prohibits anyone from having anything to do with them.

  I was curious as to what this Quaker devil had to say, so I stayed hidden behind Goody Smyth’s shop and listened as she spoke. She said that there is an Inward Light within each one of us, and we should all be listening to that Light. Because that Light was the Spirit of God, she said.

  That did not sound like the words of a devil.

  At one point, she noticed me and looked right at me, her eyes locked with mine. “Look for the presence of God, child! He is always with you!” Her face was radiant and her eyes were piercing and I couldn’t tear myself away from listening to her. She spoke with such fervor, such passion. I have never seen someone express such feeling about God. Surely, anyone who acted like her in Sunday church would be strongly criticized for being overly sentimental.

  As I listened, I wondered why the Quakers are thought to create such civil disorder. The Quaker threat, it is called. It is true that some of their beliefs are peculiar—despising the government or disrespecting ordained clergy. I have heard that they refer to our clergy as “hirelings.” That is a strange notion, for how could anyone dare preach of God without going to seminary?

  As my thoughts wandered to the Quaker threat, suddenly there was a commotion and this woman was dragged away by the constable. She did not resist him, and yet the crowd that surrounded her threw pebbles and sticks and horse droppings at her, and the constable treated her roughly.

  I was upset by the sight of such needless violence on that poor woman. So much so that I started toward the crowd to put a stop to their cruelty. Someone from behind grabbed my arm. “Mary, you must not get involved. No one is supposed to have anything to do with them or they, too, will be whipped. If you speak out, you will bring harm to yourself. Or to your family.”

  The one who spoke so forcefully and held his grip on me so tightly was none other than quiet Nathaniel Starbuck. He led me away from the crowd, down the street, and toward home, guiding me swiftly and firmly. Nathaniel did not let go of my arm until we reached my house. Then he opened the gate for me and closed it behind me, heading off down the lane without a word.

  When Father returned home that evening, he had news to tell. The Quaker woman was whipped on her naked back, her tongue was bored with a hot iron so she would never utter another word, and then she was put in the stocks for all to see her humiliation. A warning to all others, the selectmen said, to have nothing to do with these heretics.

  Father said that the Quaker woman did not seem to be humiliated, but had a look of complete peace all throughout her punishment. He seemed distressed and could not sit still through dinner. He kept returning to the window, peering out with a troubled look on his face. I overheard him tell Mother that the General Court has gone too far. That it is like England all over again.

  There is a dreadful storm raging tonight, pouring rain, thunder and lightning, and it is so very cold out. I cannot sleep, for I am deeply troubled about the poor Quaker woman.

  I do not understand why these Quakers are so determined to share their religion. I do not even understand what the Quaker lady meant about God being the Light within us. But I must admit that I was astounded at the courage and conviction she displayed for her beliefs.

  Would I ever have such conviction? I fear not. But there is a part of me that would like to have that certainty, deep down inside.

  It is all most confusing.

  4 November 1658

  The Quaker lady was found dead in the stocks this morning. I never even knew her name.

  I cannot stop crying.

  3

  13th day of the ninth month in the year 1767

  Thoughts of Captain Phineas Foulger filled Phoebe’s mind over the next few days, though she caught no sight of him, nary a glimpse. She reminded herself he was surely overwhelmed with work—seeing to the unloading of the cargo, dealing with the eager investors of the Fortuna and of course the lays to be disbursed for the crew. A whaling crew took no wages, but instead signed on for a lay of the future profits of the voyage. Barnabas had told her of the rumblings he’d heard that no whaleship had ever returned to Nantucket with such a full load, even excluding the chunk of ambergris found in a whale’s intestines. A chocked-off ship in less than two years, he said, amazed. Unheard of! The families of the Fortuna’s crew wore broad smiles and paid up their debts.

  Phoebe waited eagerly for First Day Meeting, hoping the captain might seek her out before Meeting started, but he treated her like all the others. Polite, respectful, but no special smile or look or word, no invitation to the gam Sarah had spoken of. Phoebe suffered in silence on the hard wooden bench—a different kind of silence than the usual quiet of a Quaker meeting. When the captain was “moved to speak,” she felt a tingle start at the nape of her neck. He turned and his gaze swept over the room filled with Friends, and she imagined that it rested momentarily on her.

  As she listened to his words—and not merely his words, but the strident timbre of his voice—she felt a strange constriction of her mind and heart. Oh, it was heavenly to hear God’s Word spoken from the captain’s perfectly shaped lips! She sat in a trance of admiration, gazing up at him. She thought she might swoon into a faint, right there, right in the utter stillness of Meeting.

  Of course she did not.

  The next day, Phoebe made her way toward 28 Orange
Street, the residence of Captain Phineas Foulger and his thin-lipped daughter, Sarah. She would know it blindfolded—up Centre Street, a short left on Main Street, then right on Orange Street—for she had a habit of walking past it, even without any reason. Today she had a bonafide reason. Sarah Foulger had made an appointment with her, two weeks prior to the captain’s return.

  Phoebe had been looking forward to having occasion to visit the captain’s house, a well-to-do home even amongst sea captains—a tall saltbox with blue shutters. She stood outside 28 Orange Street for a long moment, overcome by a nameless longing. As a child, she had often lingered outside this house while day turned to evening, that gloaming time, when she could remain unseen. Matthew caught her once and teased her, told her she was hungering after something that did not exist. But it did! she insisted. A perfect house, filled with a perfect family. There it was! And here it still was.

  Two gaslight sconces flanked the door . . . burning even in daylight! The Friends frowned on opulence. If anyone else were to display such flagrant waste, the elders might have something to say about it. Anyone but Captain Phineas Foulger.

  Phoebe was received by a servant into their high-ceilinged foyer and led to wait in the sitting room. She stood still for the longest while, hoping to listen for evidence that the captain might be at home. Alas, there was no indication he was present. She sighed, disappointed but not surprised. She had assumed on a weekday morning that the captain would be in his warehouse, counting his barrels of whale oil, meeting with the ship syndicate, preparing contracts for the next voyage, or whatever else it was that whaling captains did when they were not at sea.

  As she waited for Sarah, her eyes soaked up every detail of the room: diamond-paned windows, scenic paper murals on the walls, fringed draperies, fashionable London-made settees, silver candlesticks from Mr. Revere’s smithy in Boston. And such color in the rooms. Bright fabrics and rugs, bowls of flowers and greenery all about. When she was summoned to go up the balustrade staircase to Sarah’s chamber (there was indeed a mortgage button on the newel post—Phoebe looked for it!), not a squeak could be heard on the wooden stair tread. (She listened for it!)