by Natasha Boyd
“Thank you,” she squealed and made to run out of the room then came to a halt. “Sorry. Thank you for the macky things, Mr. Deveaux,” she intoned solemnly. “Tea with you was a delightful diversion.” She bobbed and then spun out the door.
“You have your hands full with that one.” Mr. Deveaux chuckled.
I smiled and took a sip of tea.
Later, on the bumpy carriage ride home, the low sun bathing us through the trees in flickering warm yellow, Polly fell fast asleep, her small body pressed against me. I fondly ran my fingers over her soft hair, brushing it from her temples. I had meant to get to her lessons today; we were to work on her reading, and had brought a few simple books for that purpose, but I was loathe to wake her.
The two of us were jammed up in the front bench with Quash. Now that Papa had left I decided it was less irksome on my stomach for travel. He and Mama would probably think it unseemly.
Quash was quiet as usual. He took direction, reported facts in his unique brand of English, but as per his position as slave, never spoke unless spoken to.
In the year we had been in South Carolina, Quash had become almost indispensable. The thought that he might run away or join some rebellion popped into my head again. Where would I be without his help? I’d have to employ some awful overseer like Starrat to help at Wappoo. There was certainly no other slave who could drive and conduct business and communicate with the other slaves like Quash could.
“Quashy?”
He jerked, surprised.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said with a soft laugh.
“Yes’m,” he responded, his eyes never leaving the track in front of our brown horse.
“I was thinking I’d like to improve the dwellings at Wappoo. Are there any that are in need of improvements?”
His face twitched to the side as if he wanted to glance at me. Like it was some trick. Then he nodded.
“Do you think you would be able to take on that extra work? I’d like it done. Just let me know if you need help and how much timber, and I’ll get it from Garden Hill or Waccamaw.”
“Thank you, Miz Lucas. Mebbe Sawney and Togo. Peter too.” I approved of his use of our three largest and most capable field hands. Since there was nothing to harvest at the moment, it would be perfect timing.
“I should like for everyone to be warm and secure for the winter. Mind they don’t neglect the weeding while helping you,” I added.
He nodded. Then he seemed to hesitate. “You send fer the timber, ya hear? There be no need fer ya to go up on Waccamaw without your father.”
I glanced at him. Quash would be with me, of course. Quash always stayed out of trouble. But he might not be able to if I went to Waccamaw. If he had to protect me for some reason.
I swallowed hard.
The reality of taking over my father’s business hit home with a thud deep in my stomach. “Of course, Quash. I’ll send for it.”
And I would have to find a different way to ask the women about their skirts.
We rumbled along and I wished the lowered sun meant the air would get cooler, but it only made it feel denser. Or perhaps that was the weight of the mosquitoes. I had dabbed rosemary and lemon oil about mine and Polly’s exposed skin at Essie’s insistence before we’d left Wappoo. I hoped it was still working.
“Quash, do you know what time of year is the best to grow indigo?”
“No, Miz Lucas.”
“Well, perhaps the women at Waccamaw know. Will you ask if you go?”
He nodded.
“Thank you, Quash. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
I said it without thinking and was immediately embarrassed. How could I thank someone for helping me when he had no choice? It was ludicrous. I thanked the servants all the time. I thanked Essie every day. I had never thought twice about it. But suddenly it was all so odd. Thanking a person who had no other choice than to help you. The comment lay out there like a gasping fish. I opened my mouth to say something, I didn’t know what.
“It’s good your family done come to the plantation, Miz Lucas.” Quash’s voice was quiet and rumbly like the wheels of the cart.
I closed my mouth.
Then I nodded and blinked rapidly, but luckily he was looking at the road ahead.
Over the next few weeks, when he wasn’t building, Quash and I picked out and cleared field areas where we might plant the woad given to me by Deveaux and also a new crop of alfalfa and some ginger.
I directed Togo, Indian Peter, and Sawney to till up the soil in the newly cleared areas and fertilize it to make it ready for planting.
We couldn’t move the peach trees, of course, so we were confined to a long narrow strip that ran from behind the house back inland away from the water.
I wrote to Starrat and asked for building timber for Quash’s work on reinforcing the quarters, and every day I checked the basket we had strapped upon the dock in case a ferry that passed had a letter or package from my father containing seeds he wanted me to try from Antigua. But in the end, we planted the woad.
Quash went up to Waccamaw and returned with the extra timber and materials he needed and the name of a Negro woman, Sarah, who had knowledge of indigo. She would come when it was time to harvest the woad plant and show me how to make the indigo solution. And as we waited for word from my father, Quash, Indian Peter, Sawney, and Togo got to work fixing up the roofs and drafty walls of the houses, rebuilding or sealing any gaps with daub. While we were building I also instructed them to erect another building as a kind of infirmary. I’d seen that the Pinckneys and also the Fenwicks over on John’s Island had done this to lower the chance of an outbreak of infection if someone was taken ill. Essie said she thought it would be good to use for expectant mothers too.
The weather had been drier than usual. But as the weeks went on, the alfalfa and the ginger began peeking from the ground.
By the end of August, there was still no woad sprouting and no seeds from my father. The sense of time ticking past fruitlessly became unbearable, and dogged my every waking thought. My mind would slide to Ben repeatedly, wondering what he would say. Did we plant too early? Too late? Was the soil not right? I would imagine walking along the fields behind him as he inspected. I wondered if he had become a man now. He’d always been taller than me, but I imagine now I’d feel dwarfed.
I invited Mr. Deveaux over to inspect my fields where I had planted, and after declaring the land high enough to be sufficiently well drained, he directed that the seeds might benefit from double the amount of watering. The first watering was to be at dawn before the heat of the day baked the moisture away. I put Togo in charge of watering these and the myriad vegetables and herbs we had planted in a newly expanded kitchen garden. The deer were extremely partial to our bounty, and we’d expanded the wood-walled garden so the servants might have their produce protected too.
Mama had been feeling better despite the brutal heat of August that bled over into September. With my busy schedule we had not done much socializing despite a few invitations from the Pinckneys and other families roundabouts. The Woodwards and their widowed daughter, Mary Chardon, whom I’d learned about from Mrs. Pinckney, were one such family I was very partial to.
When Papa had been here we had tried to go to church at least two times a month. I decided that perhaps tomorrow being Sunday, we should go. It was probably five miles inland to the white, plaster-rendered church of St. Andrew’s Parish run by Reverend Guy, a congenial shepherd who praised his parishioners for coming to worship rather than “guilting” those of us who hadn’t been in some time. At the very least, I might make the acquaintance of more area planters. It was closer to attend there than make the journey into town and attend St. Philip’s.
Sunday morning in early September dawned cool and clear. I awoke at five as usual and quickly washed.
“Good
morning, Essie,” I said softly when she appeared at the door.
She bobbed. “Mornin’, chil’.” Her dark eyes were somber and creased. Everything about Essie was usually light and comforting. She could enter a space and float on the edges of your awareness like she wasn’t really there unless you needed her. It was a quality I had come to depend on.
“Is everything all right?” I asked as we got to work lacing me up. “You seem troubled.”
“Spirit dreams,” she murmured. “There be a warnin’ in da air today. You be goin’ down to the river, you be careful, you hear?” Essie crushed some rosemary leaves with her nails, then rubbing them between the pale pads of her dark fingers, reached up, running them over my hair and dabbing the sides of my neck.
I frowned but said nothing. I was used to Essie’s superstitions. Black crows, comets, dreams … but she prayed to my God too. Glancing out the window, all looked the same as every other morning in the predawn light.
Outside, her warning clung. I walked toward the water to check the mail basket. It was rare that mail was entrusted to someone unknown passing through from Charles Town, but one never knew.
I paused as I got close and looked across the water to the opposite bank. All was dark and still amongst the trees. I stepped onto the creaking dock and made haste to check for mail, coming up empty. The gray water was still, the whine of mosquitoes the only sound. Except … I paused, straining my hearing.
Drums.
A slow, steady, and dark beat.
An iciness prickled my spine.
I stood still. The distant beat was low and menacing, unlike any rhythm I’d heard. Not a soldier’s tattoo. Something almost otherworldly. A tribal beat. The knowledge dropped like an icy shard into my belly. Indians? Or slaves?
A feeling that I was being watched crept over me. A breeze picked up, tickling the surface of the charcoal water, and a sudden loud cry of birds signaled the flight of a skein of geese. The sound gave me a start, and I turned back to the house. The stillness of the plantation around me made me uneasy. Where was Togo, watering the woad fields before dawn as instructed? Where were the sounds of people rising and chattering? Even the birds were silent today.
I veered for the stables. Quash would know what was going on; he would be helping Indian Peter ready the horses for our ride to church this morning. Even if Quash was not there, Indian Peter, who lived above the horses, would be up by now, so I didn’t worry about disturbing anyone.
In the dark stable, the horses whinnied softly, their pails of water and seed were full, but the door up to the loft was closed tight. The ladder was removed.
I backed out slowly, my heart beating erratically, then turned. The figure of Essie hurrying from the house to the dwellings caught my eye.
“Essie!”
She stopped as I ran toward her.
“What’s going on?” I panted, my voice breathy with fear and worry.
“You go on inside, and you don’t go outside again ’til it’s safe, you hear?”
“What? Why? What’s going on?”
“You’ll be safe here in da house.”
“What is going on? Where’s Quashy?” My panic grew, and I glanced about wildly, noticing all the closed doors at the dwellings and drawn curtains. “Where is everyone?”
“We’ll see where everybody be at the end of the day,” she said cryptically. “Go on inside now.”
I stood staring at her.
“Go on,” she said, her eyes fierce. “You hide. You hear?”
Hide? When my people were at risk? “From who, Essie?”
She shook her head.
Hide.
I’d never had any reason not to trust Essie. “Is everyone safe?”
She glanced toward the creek not answering.
“If I hide,” I told her, my heart thumping, “you must all hide. If I see one of you out here, I’ll come outside. Do you hear me? This is my place to protect.”
“Everyone will stay hid,” she said. “Now go on.”
Confused, I turned and then hurried back to the house. The weight of her eyes followed me the whole way until I’d entered the house and closed it up tightly behind me.
Mama was still in bed, but I heard Polly moving about above me. I hurried to the study and pulled open the small armoire in the corner. Father had taught me to use a gun while we were still in Antigua, but I was uncomfortable. The musket stood there, leaning against the back wall of the cabinet. My chest heaved in and out as I stared at the gun. Swallowing, I closed the door again, without touching it. If the need arose, I knew where it was.
The house and surrounds were still as the morning wore on. I informed Mother and a panicked Polly that we were to stay inside until I understood what was afoot, and after locking all the doors, I rustled them up some cheese, sliced apple, and leftover bread.
The drums, which I could barely hear from the house as it was, faded out for a spell, and I wondered just how long our self-imposed imprisonment would last. I would need answers soon.
Just before noon, the drums grew loud again. I hurried to perch at the window upstairs and squinted as a pirogue laden with dark figures slid slowly up the creek. Negroes, not Indians.
What was going on?
Mama had decided to stay in bed. But Polly sat with me, her needlepoint forgotten as she clutched my hand tightly. Holding my breath, I saw the oarsmen stop and the boat slow. The eyes on board were all trained on our property.
“Don’t move,” I whispered quietly to Polly. But in truth we were both frozen.
A tall, dark man stood in the boat and brought his hands to his mouth. A sharp caw, like that of a hawk, echoed into the stillness.
Polly and I were still as statues.
The man waited and watched.
There was no movement below me or anywhere I could see.
There was no sound.
The drums, which I presumed now came from one or more occupants of the vessel, were silent.
Finally, after interminable minutes, the tall man turned his face away from us and sat. Six pairs of arms began rowing again. The drumbeat started up and faded gradually as the boat disappeared from sight toward the Stono River.
Silence settled over the land and over the house. Nothing stirred. I counted the beats of my heart and knew an intense relief. It was something akin to the tight pressure and irritability one incubates throughout a long day with tight dress stays, the realization they were too tight only coming after they are finally loosened and cool air hits one’s skin.
I don’t know how long we sat there. My gaze roamed the creek and the trees either side. Every shadow became a question, and the rays of late afternoon sun provided no answers as they revealed nothing but tree limbs and vegetation.
As I looked on though, a dark shape detached itself from a tree close to the river. I gasped then blinked, surprised I had not seen him before now. Quash. His chest was bare and streaked with thick pluff mud dried to gray. All the better to hide, I supposed. A long rice scythe hung at his waist. He looked along the river in the direction the boat had traveled. Then he turned his back and walked onto the dock. I inhaled sharply. I had never had occasion to see Quash half dressed. Thick rigid scars cut across his back haphazardly, making a patchwork of mud and chaos. He knelt at the water’s edge and used creek water to wash something from the post. When he seemed satisfied, he stood and slipped toward the trees again and disappeared.
A gasp and a sob jolted me back. Polly was rigid with fear, tears sliding down her sweet cheeks.
“Oh, Polly. It’s going to be all right,” I murmured, though with the way my heart was thundering, I felt I could use that comfort myself. I pulled her close, soft curls tickling my nose.
Over her head, Mama, still in her bedrail, her hair braided and hanging like a rope over one shoulder, stood leaning against the doorframe for s
upport. “Was it the Indians?”
“No, Mama,” I whispered. My voice had quite disappeared.
“Curse your damned father for leaving us in this wild land unprotected,” she muttered. “What the devil is going on?”
Polly’s sobs subsided into hiccups, but her little body trembled still. “I think it’s an uprising, Mama,” I answered finally. “I’m sure we’ll know more soon.” At the word “uprising,” Polly gave another shudder.
“I suppose we’ve lost all our Negroes.” Mama sniffed. “That’ll teach your father.”
“No, Mama,” I said and thought of Quash out on the dock. “I believe … I believe Quash, and Essie too, protected us in some way. And I did not see our people leave.”
She made a small disbelieving scoff and shook her head. “You sound more like your father every day.”
“A fact for which I am grateful,” I responded softly, unwilling to put much heat into my retort.
Had it really been an uprising? In my mind I imagined an uprising to be more frantic. People running, muskets fired, things set alight. But as silent as the approach had been, the atmosphere had wailed and screeched of danger. I knew we had somehow skirted a dire end.
The slave quarters at Wappoo remained closed up and silent all day and into the night. Not even the singsong, chirping voices of Mary Ann’s and Nanny’s children could be heard.
Mama, Polly, and I scavenged in the kitchen for food. The three of us made a makeshift meal of hominy cakes, apples, and dried venison. I could, of course, be capable in the kitchen, but I kept thinking Essie or Mary Ann would be back at any moment. They didn’t return to the house that night. But I knew Essie would be back when she deemed it safe.
Mama decided the occasion was right to open a bottle of Madeira as we would no doubt all have trouble sleeping. For once, I was grateful for Mama’s instruction.
By unspoken agreement we used little light before bed, keeping the house invisible against the black of a moonless night. Polly curled up next to me in my room, her small body like a furnace. I rested my cheek on her curls and waited throughout the interminably long night.
