The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  I dropped my gaze, chastened. “I would never dishonor you so, sir.”

  The scene down at the Charles Town harbor was busier than when we’d arrived the day before. Last minute supplies were being run up the ramp of the large man-of-war that would carry my father away; big bundles and crates hoisted with ropes swung dangerously for outstretched arms. Sailors crawled like ants over the massive vessel, calling out orders and joining with the chorus of early morning fisherman arguing with the fish merchants.

  The tide was in and the water lapped at the quays. As soon as it began to ebb, my father’s ship would be off. He had left us briefly to go and see about his berth and speak with the captain, and my mother and I waited patiently on the upper harbor wall for him to return and bid us adieu.

  “Make sure your purse strings are hidden, Eliza,” my mother chided when she could see that I was gazing in awe at the activity in front of me down on the lower level of the quay. She sounded weary as always. Her skin was pale again this morning, and I had the notion she would be abed as soon as the noonday meal was done.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  I watched with rapt interest as a group of Indian tradesmen, their lower garments of animal skins, their upper bodies bare, haggled with a merchant over some fish and deerskin. I had never before seen a man’s body. Our Negroes always wore shirts. I knew men’s chests were like ours, just without breasts. But though I wasn’t close, I could see the lines of body and muscle beneath skin, like you could under the fur of a strong horse.

  “Eliza!”

  I whipped my face away, cheeks blazing hot. “Sorry, Mama. They look so savage is all. Didn’t anyone show them how to make shirts?” I laughed, then cleared my throat at my mother’s unimpressed, pursed mouth.

  “The tide will soon turn. I must embark,” my father boomed as he headed toward us.

  My mother was getting paler and paler as the heat of the day rose, her eyes tightening in discomfort. “Is it your head, Mama?” I asked, leading her with my father’s help a few steps toward the narrow slip of shade offered by a port wall.

  She nodded.

  “Let us say our farewells with haste.” My father looked toward me, and I answered him with a tight hug.

  “Don’t worry, Father.” My voice caught. I inhaled a dose of heavy pungent harbor air and cleared my throat. Pulling away from his hug while I had the strength not to clutch him and beg him not to leave us, I blinked rapidly. “I will take care of Mama, Polly, and all your concerns,” I vowed, swallowing hard.

  His eyes too were shimmering, and it almost broke my composure. “I know you will, Eliza. How did I get so lucky to have a capable daughter such as you?”

  He drew his finger fondly down my cheek, his head cocked to one side. Then he nodded, satisfied at whatever he saw, and turned to my mother.

  I spun away before my eyes spilled over, affording my parents some privacy.

  The ship left on the tide with my father aboard.

  After less than a day in town, I was anxious to return to our home on Wappoo Creek. I had neglected my studies and my music, and I missed the deep melodious hum of the slaves working in the fields, and the birds outside my windows at first light. The clatter of hooves and shouts of men in town was not a music I enjoyed.

  And more than anything, I was eager to visit Andrew Deveaux that I might inquire after some indigo seeds with which to start experimenting. I would need to ask among our slaves if anyone had indigo knowledge and if not, send for someone from Garden Hill or Waccamaw.

  My mission was clear and I was anxious to begin.

  It hardly left me with a second to miss my departed father.

  We set out the following morning in the pirogue. White topsails still dotted the harbor and horizon, but the large man-of-war was long gone. The salt wind blustered and bashed at our ears. Mama was as somber on the way home as she had been on our way to see my father off. Only this time she wasn’t mute.

  “We probably have a year or so, then Papa will be back. Until then, we shall keep your activities in low profile. Perhaps visit Mrs. Pinckney in town more often, especially when her niece arrives.”

  “I’ll accompany you when I can, Mama,” I said firmly. “But there is much to be done. Did you see how much timber is needed in the islands? You must have seen them loading the ships. The sugar plantations are in desperate need. I shall visit our other plantations and see about having some sent to Antigua.”

  “Yes, dear.” My mother humored me.

  “I think we can do to send double the amount. When I was up at Garden Hill with Papa—”

  “Enough, Eliza. I don’t feel like discussing business. Just do what has been asked of you, and squash that ugly and unladylike ambitious streak you have immediately. What on earth was your father thinking?”

  “Ambition is ugly and unladylike? Who would have thought you would speak so harshly of ambition. You seem to have more ambition for me and my marriage prospects than I for helping Papa.” My blood thundered in my ears to speak to my mother so. I swallowed hard but determinedly.

  My mother’s eyes widened in surprise. “What has gotten into you, Eliza? And that is very different.”

  “Is it, Mama?” I flicked my gaze away, then further turned my face and body to watch the marshy banks gliding by. Tension throbbed under the surface of my skin, and I marveled that God could have created my character in such opposition to my mother’s. It was almost comical. Except it was not.

  “Finding a husband and presenting oneself in the best light to a prospective suitor is of the utmost importance. Far from ambition, I’m afraid it is more of a necessity.”

  Coming around the turn in the wide creek, our home was a welcome sight. Not for me, I wanted to reply.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, there are not a lot of eligible families in this hot, swampy, godforsaken part of the world,” she muttered.

  I made out Quash in the distance awaiting our return at the small wooden dock. News of an arriving pirogue always traveled fast as the slave children kept a watchful eye on the water at all times. Up at the house, I could see the glimpse of pale fabric upon the veranda and guessed Esmé had deposited Polly outside with her sewing basket. The early afternoon breeze brought the smell of crabs and oysters, and some long-limbed birds gently loped through the marsh grass looking for stranded shrimp.

  “Goodness,” Mama said suddenly as we got closer.

  “What is it?” I asked

  “I didn’t think. Stupid really. I just, I’ve never …”

  “Mother,” I said, tired, “what is it?”

  “Well, it’s just I usually have a gentleman’s assistance climbing out of the boat. Your papa …” She trailed off.

  I furrowed my brow for a moment knowing full well we had ventured out on small journeys without Papa before. “You’ll be fine, Mama. It’s a small step up. I’ll help you.”

  “I know.” She removed a small linen square from her purse and dabbed under her eyes. “I know. It’s a silly thing really. It’s always the smallest things that make one realize the magnitude of the loss.”

  “We haven’t lost him, Mother.” I forced an encouraging smile.

  “Oh it’s fine, Eliza. It just had not occurred to me.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “I shall simply add it to the long list of adjustments that shall have to be made now that he’s no longer here.”

  It had perhaps never occurred to me how dependent my mother was upon my father. Love? I didn’t know. For certain, they were very fond of each other.

  Just as Mama would be lonely without my father’s presence in the months to come, I would be too. More so, for I would have to work in relative solitude, not sharing my triumphs or frustrations of plantation business with a soul. It would be best if I didn’t discuss my plans much with my mama at all. She might have expired if she knew I’d asked Papa to send Ben over to South Carol
ina and certainly if she knew of the law books I’d pilfered from Mr. Pinckney’s library, which currently huddled guiltily in the cloth sack behind the bench where I sat.

  “Of course, Mama. And I did so enjoy hearing about Mrs. Chardon and her parents. To think! She lives so close. We shall have to make a plan to visit with her next week. Perhaps Tuesday? I say we should make a standing day of it. It will give us something to look forward to each week.”

  “How very thoughtful, Eliza.” Mama seemed satisfied at the change in direction. “And as she is widowed, she may be pleased for the company. Very well. I shall look forward to that.”

  As soon as I had settled Mama and bidden a fond greeting to Polly, I went into my father’s study to acquaint myself with his papers. He had shown me his ledgers, and now I spent a few hours poring over the accounts, familiarizing myself with our production and outputs.

  Then I penned two letters.

  One to Mr. Deveaux and another to my father.

  The clatter of our horse and buggy was loud but surely not heard from miles away. Yet, as usual, as we trundled along the straight road that led to Mr. Deveaux’s modest home he was already waiting, tall and stalklike. His keen eyes tracked our arrival.

  Today I’d brought Polly along in place of her usual studies. If I’d told her she was to have a lesson in botany she would have pitched a fit. Instead, she chattered away above the rhythmic noise of our journey, asking questions for which she never awaited answers before her attention was caught again by some new wisp of thought.

  “My, if he stood on one leg he would resemble one of our marsh birds.” Polly giggled as she caught sight of our host in the distance.

  Mr. Deveaux was a lean, bewhiskered gentleman who walked with a pale yellow ivory cane he once told me was a gift from a tribal chief in Africa, back when he was briefly an agent for the East India Company. He stood with it now, leaning a portion to the right, his clothes hanging from his birdlike body, framed by the lime-washed cottage behind him.

  I shook my head with a small smile as we pulled close.

  His eyes twinkled in return.

  “You make me feel far above my station, sir,” I called out. “No matter how often I ask you to await in the shade of the house, you are always out in the noonday sun.”

  “And let these old geriatric eyes miss a moment of enjoying the light and energy that is Miss Eliza Lucas?” His raspy chuckle warmed my heart.

  “You are good for my vanity, Mr. Deveaux.” I laughed delightedly and took his bony, outstretched hand as I carefully climbed down, then turned to help Polly. “And you are hardly geriatric. You remember my sister?”

  “Ahh, Polly. The youngest Miss Lucas.”

  She sank into a small curtsy, then tugged on my skirt. “Can I go with Quash and the horses, ’Liza?”

  “No, pet. I’d like you to come with me today.”

  “Please?” she begged.

  Mr. Deveaux looked down his nose at her. “Miss Polly, have you ever encountered a macaron?”

  Polly glanced up at me. I raised an eyebrow at her and gave a slight shrug, unable to answer myself.

  “No, sir.” She shook her head, then asked suspiciously, “Is it a bird or a plant?”

  Mr. Deveaux guffawed. “None of those, dear one. But let me ask you this: If you were ever to eat a cloud stuffed with a rainbow, what do you think it should taste like?”

  Polly’s eyes widened, as did mine. “Is it a confection?” She gasped in delight.

  “Well, let us go inside and find out.”

  I instructed Quash to return for me in two hours, and then I followed Mr. Deveaux and the Polly-shaped barnacle newly attached to his arm.

  “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from you, Miss Eliza?” our gracious host asked as we found perches in the faded brocade-furnished front room of his home, furniture passed down from his Huguenot ancestors. The room smelled of the eucalyptus and rosemary bundles his house servant hung from the rafters to ward off the insects. Esmé usually confined ours to the kitchen because Mama complained of them so. “Did those seeds not sprout yet?” he asked after we had caught up on pleasantries and the news of the area.

  “Oh, they have. I followed your instructions to the letter. They are on my sunny window ledge, lots of water every morning, and they have already unfurled little green shoots. I’m thrilled.” I laughed. “I shall transfer them outside at your instruction. Today, I’ve come to talk to you about growing indigo for dye.”

  He raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, I’ve grown woad, of course, but I’m afraid extracting enough dye to be profitable is not worth the effort.”

  My heart gave a leap. “So you know how to extract the dye?”

  “I confess I find the extraction process something of a mystery, or should I say drudgery.”

  “When are we going to eat the macky cloudy things?” Polly interrupted. She looked at me accusingly, as if she’d been hoodwinked.

  “All in good time, my dear,” said Mr. Deveaux. With perfect timing his house servant, a short, plump woman with dark skin and wearing a sackcloth dress and white muslin about her head, came in with a tray and laid it out upon a low table. “Ah, Letty makes these from my grandmother’s recipe she brought from Paris. In fact, I believe Letty has even improved upon them.”

  The woman, whom I presumed was Letty, hid a smile and scurried from the room.

  “Let me,” I insisted as I saw Mr. Deveaux shifting forward as if to pour. “Polly, why don’t you offer the famous macarons?” I suggested and indicated the plate piled with circular items akin to meringues in looks, yet slightly grainier and ranging from pale pink to green to the off-white color of pounded rice flour. Polly clapped delightedly.

  “I don’t believe the indigo from the Indias is extracted from woad.” I returned to our conversation. “The leaves weren’t singularly broad. The branches grow as leaves would, and each then have almost a score of leaflets upon them marching up either side.”

  Mr. Deveaux rubbed his fingers over his chin. “I believe they are using Indigofera. The true indigo. I tried some myself several years ago. Bought the seeds from a fellow in town.”

  I nodded. “Exactly. It grows messily, like a weed or a thicket would. You would never believe anything blue about it. There’s lots of it growing in Antigua where we grew up.”

  “Indeed, I have heard people talk of white indigo. That the substance is colorless before it becomes blue. There’s a complicated process to extracting it.”

  “I’ve seen it,” I said excitedly, a memory from childhood bursting into color. “When they remove cloth from the barrel you can see it turn blue before your very eyes.”

  “That sounds like magic,” said Polly who had just swallowed her third confection and had crumbs about her mouth, but her eyes were wide and listening intently. Ha! Perhaps plants had finally become interesting to the little ragamuffin. I smiled at her.

  “Indeed, Polly. It really is some great alchemy. The hand of God or the breath of angels.”

  “Can we grow magic plants, ’Liza?” Polly asked.

  “We’re going to try, love.”

  Polly furrowed her brow. “But how do you get the magic out?”

  “I daresay you may need a consultant or some such.” Mr. Deveaux nodded thoughtfully. “If it can be grown. It’s been tried, you know? Not just by myself. Without much success. And of course it will need to be made into dye cakes to sell.”

  “I know,” I responded and tried not to let my disappointment grow. Again, I wished I’d asked Papa to consider a consultant, any consultant, should it become necessary, and not pushed so hard for Ben. But with the cost of my father’s military endeavors it could well be a luxury we wouldn’t be able to afford. “That we shall have to figure out. But first things first …” I looked to Mr. Deveaux.

  “I’m afraid I will only be abl
e to give you seeds for woad plants. I don’t have any West Indian indigo. The seeds I bought were useless. Only a few came up. Besides, they don’t keep beyond a year or so, anyway. They’d be of no use to you.”

  “But you said woad had some blue in it too,” said Polly, and I felt a rush of affection for my little sister who for a moment was clearly as caught up in the idea of magic plants as I was.

  “Not as much, I’m afraid. It’s probably not even worth the effort to extract. One has to plant and harvest so much of it.”

  Polly looked disappointed, but I was undaunted. “Perhaps we could use the woad to practice the indigo extraction process while I wait for Papa to send us some seeds from Antigua.” In truth, I had already asked him as much in the first letter I penned to him.

  “Do you know when one should plant?” I directed the question back to our host, and I began a mental list of which slaves I could ask to impart some of their indigo knowledge. I’d have to visit Waccamaw and speak with Starrat about the Negroes I’d seen there with the blue sackcloth skirts. The thought of having to meet with the nasty, bigoted overseer triggered a small shudder.

  “Well, I’m certain that, as with most plants, as long as you avoid the frost times of year, you should be all right. You could plant as soon as possible, I suppose. If there is a particularly special time to plant, it is unknown to me.”

  “And me,” I said, wondering if I could remember the times of year it was planted. Twice a year even, if I remembered correctly. And rain, lots of rain. That would not be easy to predict.

  Polly had caught sight of Quash outside, and her attention on our conversation was lost; she sat on her hands, her feet fidgety in their leather travel slippers. “Polly, if you’d like to go and see what Quash is doing, you may. But do not dirty your frock and stay within calling distance. Mr. Deveaux and I will finish tea and then go pick out some seeds from his shed.”