The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  Starrat brought his pipe out also, and my father offered him a pinch of tobacco. They ambled toward a little cooking fire that was left smoldering for much of the day, only stoked up at mealtimes.

  “They are my Negroes, Starrat,” my father said with an edge that brooked no argument. Clearly, his patience with Starrat had been sorely tested.

  My father grabbed a piece of straw from the ground and stuck it into the fire. A small flame flared, birthing a smoke tendril that curled and plumed. He lit his pipe, puffing the ’bacca until it lit, then flicked the straw to the fire. “I am the owner of this property and them too. You, however, are employed at my indulgence.”

  The atmosphere turned frigid, and I tensed at my father’s immediate engagement.

  “And I would rather receive correspondence from my daughter. She has our Negroes well in hand also,” he added.

  Starrat sneered, though he attempted to hide it.

  Nodding toward the whipping post, my father went on, “Excessive labor or brutal punishment can incite revolt. I’ll not have that occurring on my land … or my conscience.”

  I knew right away I would not be visiting out here much after Father’s departure. I only hoped Starrat was trustworthy in business and would be no trouble in that regard. At that moment I had a choice to meet his eyes and show my mettle, but I decided not to throw down the gauntlet and make an enemy. He scared me, and I worried he would see through my bravado. I asked myself if avoiding his look was a cowardly act or a smart one.

  I continued to gaze innocently about and my attention was caught by some slave women carrying bundles of sticks back toward the dwellings. “Oh,” I exclaimed, genuinely surprised and disentangling myself from Papa. “Look at their skirts. It’s just like back home in Antigua.”

  We all turned to look. The women dropped their gazes to the ground when they noticed us staring at them and hastened their steps, their faded blue sack skirts swishing against dusty dark skin. I was instantly aware I’d made them the focus of Starrat’s attention.

  Starrat made a wet snorting sound behind me, coughing something up his throat. I turned just in time to see him spit a splat of red-tinged yellow slime to the ground. My stomach roiled, the sight not helping much in the heavy damp heat. “Indigo,” he confirmed with a wet growl. “Negro quality. Not quite the stuff you’re used to seeing, I’m afraid. I let them grow a bit here and there.”

  “Interesting. Are you harvesting it?” my father asked.

  “One can’t grow it in proper quantities if that’s where you’re headed, sir,” he said dismissively. “Many have tried and failed. It’s just not the right soil here. And certainly getting it into a tradable form is beyond what these folk are capable of.”

  “I’ve heard the French have some indigo growing down in Louisiana,” my father mused. “Certainly the terrain in the Indias is different. But I hear Louisiana may be more akin to our terrain and climate.”

  “Well, they don’t get frost down there,” Starrat said importantly. “I suppose that’s the difference.” His stubby fingers, the nails impressed with dirt, scratched at his rough whiskered chin. The color of the stubby growth was mottled like a mangy dog.

  I nodded in agreement. “I suppose it is.”

  After a meal of bread, cheese, and peaches that we shared with our overseer, we summoned Quash, who had disappeared to eat his own meal. Bidding farewell to Starrat, we loaded up some supplies of butter and rice and enlisted his promise to send updates to me at Wappoo on a monthly basis at the very least.

  After loading the wagon onto the Georgetown ferry, my father and I found a spot on a wooden bench. The water swelled dark in the fading light, the breeze was blessedly cool. Papa turned toward me. “What is being carried on the mill wheel of your thoughts, dear Betsey? I can almost hear the creak and groan as you think.” Somehow, with his imminent departure, I clung to the love bound up in that childish nickname.

  “We are making much pitch and tar for the shipbuilding industry,” I answered. “Should we not also plant many more live oaks for wood? They are the best for shipbuilding, are they not?”

  “Yes, the hardest for sure. Though they take fifty years or more to reach a size that can be harvested.”

  “Well, we should always look to the future. You taught me that. I should like permission to plant more live oaks at Wappoo, Papa.”

  “Of course.” My father chuckled. “Permission granted. Anything else?”

  “And I should like to speak to Mr. Deveaux about what other crops we may attempt, perhaps even indigo. I don’t believe for an instant that it can’t be done.”

  “Be careful not to make an enemy of Starrat, Eliza.”

  “I’ll be careful, sir.” I paused. “Could another be found to oversee the property? He’s such a horrid man. I know it wouldn’t be easy, but—”

  “Horrid though he may be, Starrat knows that land better than anyone. He performs. The land is profitable. For us to remove him now … could set us back irreparably.”

  “Of course, Papa.” I didn’t want to appear as though I could not handle the difficulties, so I stopped pressing. “You are right, of course. Thank you for asking him to remove that whipping post. I don’t like it. We should have stayed to make sure he obeyed this time.”

  He dropped his voice. “Not as many people have as free a mind and affection as you do, Eliza. Not many understand that we accord a certain friendship and respect to our Negroes. And ’tis a dangerous pursuit.”

  My hands gripped the railing of our vessel. “Why, Papa?” I implored quietly. We had had this discussion before on the topic of my dear friend Benoit in the Indias. Ben and I had grown up together as children; of an almost exact age, our friendship was indulged by my parents with amusement. Likened to a fairground curiosity. Indeed, as soon as the novelty wore off for my mother I had been sent to England for schooling, at a younger age than most. But upon my return, years later, our friendship was renewed, stronger than ever, and of sudden great concern to those around us. Especially my mama. I argued that it was simply impossible to put aside fond childhood memories. And Ben was so clever. I learned so much about plants and flowers from him; knowledge passed down by his grandmother. I credited him with my love of botany. It was probably the reason my father allowed it so long. Why should our friendship with Negroes cause danger? I’d begged my mother once when I was six years old. Papa talks business with Cesar. He often tells me how wise he is. I’d earned a violently smarting backside and no supper for that flippant remark.

  After the slave uprising of 1736 in the Indias that had seen the execution, by burning, of our dear Negro Cesar the following year, I was forbidden to continue my friendship with Ben. The failed revolt and its consequences had set our Negroes to wailing and singing in the night for weeks, while I, having just returned from England, shivered in my bed.

  Of course that didn’t stop a headstrong fifteen-year-old girl. So I would wander over to the fields under the guise of getting some air as many times as I could get away under my mama’s watchful eye. Her increasingly plentiful maladies meant that was more often than not.

  My father had been deeply troubled and saddened at the loss of Cesar. And I couldn’t help but want to beg why he hadn’t intervened to save his life. Even while I knew that politically my father’s hands were tied. Even Ben himself had started drawing away from me. It was as if some invisible divide had sprung up overnight, and it took my naïve self a while to realize it had always been present. It didn’t hurt my heart any less. For days and weeks I would arrive down the track, past the sugarcane, through the trees, out of breath, to the edge of the field I knew Ben always worked, only to find strangers’ distrustful eyes warily watching me. I was welcome no longer.

  “The danger is not from the Negroes, dear ’Liza.” My father’s reply jarred me from this dismal reverie. “But from the folk in town and roundabouts. You must be ver
y cautious; people will be watching.”

  “That whipping post needs to be removed in any case,” I insisted. “You’ve often said ‘one can always judge a man’s character by how he treats those beneath him.’” I didn’t need to fill in what I thought of Starrat’s character.

  Father nodded. “It’s true. And violence begets violence.”

  “You don’t think there will be a revolt here like there was in Antigua do you, Papa?”

  “I fear if there is but even a whiff of some uprising, the suspects will surely be hanged before questioning. You never want to be standing too close to someone accused. Think of poor Cesar. I know you think I could have prevented what happened to him, but it was out of my power.” He cleared his throat.

  I laid a hand gently on his arm. “I know, Papa.”

  Glancing at Quash, I imagined I saw his back stiffen. My father wasn’t as quiet as he intended. Or perhaps he meant to impart a warning. But Quash would never be involved in such a thing. Surely. Then again, neither would Cesar have done so. Or so we’d thought. And now we would never know if he was innocent or guilty.

  “I should hate to lose anyone else,” Father added softly. After that he grew very quiet as he often did when we had occasion to talk of Cesar.

  The day of my father’s departure to Antigua was finally upon us. We’d arrived in town the previous afternoon, in time for supper. It was six miles by boat from our home on the bluff at Wappoo Creek, flowing with the outgoing tide along the creek and out into the wide and more treacherous Ashley River. We rounded the peninsula toward the harbor, our hired pirogue propelled by the rhythmic motion and strength of six Negroes, their dark skin rippling with movement and glistening in the sun. The sound of their labored huffs of breath were lost in the ripple of water and cawing gulls.

  A large man-of-war was docked, and people scurried up and down a ramp loading cargo and disembarking for more. This was presumably the ship my father would be sailing upon. Currently, a group of slaves, some Negro, some Indian, and one white man hauled a wheeled pallet weighed down with timber. They moved agonizingly slowly up a long ramp, the rope looking almost as heavy as one of the trunks of wood. Sugar production in the islands was desperate for timber and that had become an export for us from Starrat’s operation. I guessed since my father was setting sail on this military vessel there was room to add additional cargo that was also destined for Antigua. I winced at the agony painted on the faces of the straining men.

  The loud and foul fish-smelling chaos of the harbor soon had my full attention as we docked and disembarked, seeking out the driver the Pinckneys had kindly sent to collect us.

  The dirt-packed roads of Charles Town were ripe with the smell of horse dung, and the heavy, wet heat of the day made sure it clung, wilting us of our last stores of energy by the time we arrived at the Pinckneys’ townhouse on Union Street.

  All of us, except for Polly, who had stayed behind with Esmé, sat in grim silence throughout the duration of our sweltering trip in the hot sun. My quiet was born of equal parts grief and anticipation at my father’s impending departure. I would miss him so, and I hated not knowing when I’d see him again. My mother was practically vibrating with something so heavy you could almost see it shimmering off her. Was she sad? Resentful? She’d held her face averted, her eyes watching the view wherever we passed. I fancied she compared every mile to the rolling green fields of England, and very obviously found them lacking.

  Mrs. Pinckney—she’d never offered her Christian name of Elizabeth and so I never used it—fussed over us as soon as we arrived in the cool, calming comfort of her home, clucking and suggesting we stay on in town a few days or weeks after my father left. I readily agreed to a few days as returning to our home at Wappoo knowing my father would not be there for perhaps a year or more was not a happy event to face. However, I was anxious to take over duties, and by my calculation, a boat was expected from our Garden Hill plantation in less than a week. I’d need to inspect and count the goods aboard before it went on to our merchant in town.

  “Oh, my dears,” Mrs. Pinckney soothed later that evening from across her waxed dining table, her kind face gently lined. She wore her hair under a white linen cap, her dress the color of primroses. It nicely complemented the pale green brocade curtains and sumptuous furnishings of her home. The table was aglow with the sweet myrtle candles. She was a daisy in a lush evening meadow. I didn’t own anything so fine, though Mama, of course, still had some of her gowns from London. My body was slowly filling out, but with my diminutive stature, I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to borrow a dress with modifications if the occasion called for it. Perhaps I’d grow taller at some stage too. “How ever will you manage?” Mrs. Pinckney continued.

  “You simply must come and visit me in town often. Also, I shall introduce you to Mary Chardon. She’s young, though widowed. But she lives with her parents near your stand at Wappoo. I can’t bear the thought of you ladies so lonely out there. Charles,” she turned to her husband, “you will go and pop in on them often, won’t you?”

  Mr. Pinckney smiled fondly at his wife. “Of course, dear.”

  I fidgeted with my napkin. “I can’t fathom having even a thought of loneliness with so much business to occupy my time—”

  “But of course we shall come and visit you,” Mama interjected. “We would be honored. Eliza must—”

  I gulped. “And we would welcome getting to know our neighbors roundabouts.” I had no idea if Mama was about to hawk me on the marriage mart, but I was compelled to use my age as an excuse for impetuous interruption. “Perhaps I could see what they are growing on their land if their soil is similar.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any eligible young men close to our stand?” my mother tacked on, and I inwardly quailed.

  “I have trained Eliza well,” my father responded to Mrs. Pinckney’s initial concern, artfully redirecting from my mother’s remark. “She has been helping me this last year, and she will be copying all her letters and the transactions of the plantations in her copy book. So should there be any question, there will be a record of events.”

  “It’s not quite the ideal pastime for a girl of sixteen.” My mother smiled apologetically at our hosts to show she really was not on board with the preposterous scheme. “But as we are waiting for George to come of age, she’ll have to do.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Pinckney graciously. “We are building a new society, and I daresay, we shall all step outside our normal roles from time to time to get the job done.” She glanced at her husband. “Don’t you always say that, Charles?”

  “Indeed, dear.”

  I smiled at her gratefully.

  “And certainly,” Charles added, nodding toward my father, “as far as anyone is concerned, you have all the business set up for production and exports. Eliza will merely be a figurehead. Doing your bidding.”

  I was momentarily incensed. Mr. Pinckney caught my gaze, his twinkling eyes in on some joke. I fancied I imagined him wink. Did he know how little my and my mother’s visions for my future coincided? Was he humoring her?

  “Quite,” my father agreed. My father wisely said nothing of the fact I’d already been running the household in my mother’s stead. Not to mention making planting decisions and directing labor when he was too busy.

  Mrs. Pinckney smiled indulgently. “No one can fault you for that, Colonel Lucas,” she said, making use of his new title.

  I squeezed my hands tightly under the table and ordered my features to remain expressionless. But I could see Mrs. Pinckney was directing her observations to appease my mama. Though I did not know if she believed what she was saying.

  Mr. Pinckney withdrew a pouch of ’bacca. His dark hair was pomaded and slightly graying at the temples. A prominent lawyer in town, he was an agreeable and well-read gentleman whose library I always seemed to find myself in whenever we visited. Goodness knew, I’d a
lmost exhausted our small library at Wappoo.

  Mr. Pinckney lit his pipe and, squinting through a plume of smoke, rested his keen and deep gray-blue eyes upon me. I was surprised he hadn’t left the table with Papa to partake of this after-supper ritual in his study. “I wouldn’t underestimate Eliza’s industry,” he said. “Besides”—he released the smoke in a long fragrant plume—“Eliza is right here to answer for herself. And I have the feeling she doesn’t much care for convention. Am I right, Miss Lucas?”

  Heat bloomed under the skin of my cheeks and I glanced at Mama, who glared, willing me not to embarrass her. Perhaps she’d hoped the Pinckneys hadn’t yet realized my differences from the average girl my age. Or at least what I understood them to be. But it was clear they surely had.

  “Well, sir.” I rose to the challenge despite, or perhaps in response to, my mother’s warning look, and lifted my chin. “If by convention you mean for the eldest child to step into the breach and ensure the legacy of one’s family, then I do believe you are quite wrong. I do surely believe in doing that.”

  My mother’s eyes bulged.

  Mr. Pinckney sat back, his lithe frame bowing away from the table as his eyes danced with amusement and satisfaction.

  “Quite right,” my father muttered, earning a scowl from Mama.

  Warmth continued to beat in my cheeks. “But if you are referring to the convention that states a son should take this on and not a daughter, then you are perhaps correct. I don’t believe in conventions. But conventions, by definition, are just that. The conventional way people of like mind do things. Conventions are not rules. And certainly that should allow for some individual freedom with which to conduct one’s affairs in the way that best suits. Besides, my brother is not here. And I am.”

  There was silence around the table.

  I blinked and took a breath, then reached for my wine.

  “Indeed, you are,” came Mr. Pinckney’s deep melodious voice. “Indeed, you are.”