The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  “A woman,” Charles finished for me softly. The strength of Charles’ hand closed around mine and the gesture sent a shock through me. I didn’t remove my hand. He squeezed gently, and it almost undid me. The comfort and kindness as he seemed to lend his strength made me instead want to crack apart. My stomach swirled. I closed my eyes tight as I fought to control my emotions, grateful we could have this moment that could never have happened without the privacy of where we were. The words I didn’t voice were the ones about my father and his military ambition that was bleeding us dry. An ambition born of a sense of duty and love of country that I understood as equally as I now began to resent it.

  “Thank you for not coming to my aid with Starrat,” I said softly, opening my eyes. “I needed to mark my ground with that man on my own. Even though he bested me.”

  He started to speak, then stopped and cocked his head. “Well, I was about to apologize for not coming to your aid sooner. Are you sure about this? About taking Sarah to Wappoo?”

  “I—” My shoulders sagged. I felt hollow and confused. “No, I’m not sure. But how can I leave her here? He’s … he’s …” A shudder rolled over me again. “I need her anyway. Quash tells me she has knowledge of indigo. So, it just has to be.” And I felt sure if we didn’t leave with her, he would exact revenge just to mark my notice.

  Charles nodded and stood, drawing me to my feet. “We need to go if we’re to make it back to Belmont by nightfall. Mrs. Pinckney and Miss Bartlett will be happy to see you.” Then he let go of my hand.

  I made a fist as if to keep some of his comfort imprinted upon me and pressed it to my belly. “I shall be glad of their company after a day like today. You mentioned Mrs. Pinckney was unwell?”

  We turned to walk back to the ferry landing.

  Nearing the river, Charles paused, looking out over the wide channel to the marshy island that made up the other bank. Then he looked at me. “We wish for children, as I’m sure you know. Every time God decides we are not to be blessed, it breaks Mrs. Pinckney’s heart further.” He looked away, pain clear in his eyes.

  I thought of the easy way Starrat had deposited his filthy and prolific seed in Sarah’s womb to create life.

  “I’ve come to believe that a completion of happiness is not attainable in this life. And that is all I will say on the subject.” Charles smiled valiantly. “Your company will be just what she needs.”

  We stood upon the dock and waited. Sarah, Quash, and Lil’ Gulla holding the hand of a chubby small girl no more than two or three years old, walked from the dwellings. Sarah held a bundle upon her head. All her earthly possessions. My heart squeezed.

  “Why do you think she was so angry about the chance to leave here?” I murmured.

  “Who takes care of her children while she works?” Charles responded to my question with his own.

  Immediately, I understood the ramifications of my decision that had seemed so simple. There was a structure and a hierarchy among the slaves, and I was removing a piece that would have to be reinforced or worked around.

  “And—” Charles broke off.

  “And?”

  “It shouldn’t be mentioned.”

  “In such genteel or innocent company as myself?” I asked and turned to face Charles. “You wonder who will fulfill his … needs … now that Sarah is not available?”

  Charles’ cheeks flushed, and then mine did too.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered and turned away, mortified for having addressed the issue aloud.

  “So did your father really give orders to barrel up so much rice?” Charles cleared his throat.

  “Not at all. You caught me in a bald-faced lie.” I grinned ruefully, gratefully accepting the neat change of topic.

  “I knew that.” He smirked. “I told you I can read your expressions. You are a terrible liar.”

  “Well, needs-must. It worked for now.”

  Charles nodded. “For now.”

  I woke before dawn as usual. But this morning, rather than the normal routine of running through my list of things to be done that day, I lay in cold, dark, paralyzing fear. Sweat was icy against my skin. The weight of the fear upon my chest was so heavy, it was almost impossible to breathe.

  What was I doing? I needed to simply do as my father instructed. Just that and no more. And wait. It was only a few years. And really how bad would it be being married to some curmudgeon, being allowed to exert my influence only over the household and its affairs? To improve my musical ability. To spend time reading. Ahh reading! And doing needlework. It was a relaxing way to spend time. Waste time! I could call upon people and spend more time visiting and making friends and talking about … what exactly?

  The panic hit me anew. If that future was suffocating, then the reality was I had to change it. But even if I made Lucas land the most profitable in all of Christendom, it might not make a difference.

  I threw back the covers, forcing the panicky feeling off my chest. I imagined it dropping to the ground in a greasy thud, writhing around and disintegrating without a host from which to suck sustenance.

  Almost unconsciously, I slid my hands down my chest. Then I held open the neck of my gown and made out the mounds of my small girlish breasts in the dim light. Curse these things that dictated how my mind could be utilized. I let out a long sigh. Though if I was a boy, I’d be off like my brother George would be soon. To train to be a soldier just like my father. If I was a boy I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have been charged with this duty.

  Being a woman was my lot. But it was also my difference.

  I reached for the bell, giving it a brief tinkle, and washed my body with a muslin at the cold basin of water as I waited for Essie.

  When I was washed, I sat naked on the edge of my bed awaiting Essie’s arrival. It was relatively bright outside, and I’d thought dawn so very close, but it was the moon, full and bright white, low in the sky that had put me ahead of myself.

  Understanding now that Essie wouldn’t be up for an hour or so at least, I pulled a fresh chemise from the armoire. I took hold of my braid and wrapped it around itself in a tight bun at the back of my head. My dress had been laid to air on the rack against the wall. I did the best I could with my stays, pulled the dove-gray linen dress on, and secured the skirt strings.

  It was time to write to my father.

  Dear Sir,

  … I know how ready you are to fight in a just cause as well as the love you bear your country … in preference to every other regard …

  I put down my pen, worrying my lip between my teeth. I was frustrated, but there was no point taking it out on my father. He was doing what he saw fit. And I was aware that every word I wrote to him could be the last words he would ever read. We were at war. I’d have to temper my emotion.

  I have high hopes for this crop of indigo. It will save us, Papa. And if what I hear is true, it could very well be a boon for the Crown, your beloved country. Please find an indigo maker with utmost haste as I should hate to miss the chance to perfect the dye. I have been frugal. We have a little extra set aside to help with the cost of such a consultant. And perhaps, if needed, a little of the proceeds from mortgaging Waccamaw might be diverted to this cause.

  My Dearest Eliza,

  … I had hoped to spare you the concern about my decision to mortgage the Waccamaw plantation. I wrote to Manigault to take care of it privately as I had no wish to add undue concern or pressure on your already burdened shoulders. Please forgive me.

  I have contracted a man from Montserrat to aid us in our indigo endeavor. He has been running a successful indigo concern for the French a good many years. He is obligated to see our crop through to the successful production of dye. I hope this will go some way toward assuring your forgiveness of my folly in attempting to conceal my financial concerns from you, my most trusted daughter.

  Also, I must let
you know that Mr. Laurens has written to ask permission for your hand …

  Your affectionate father

  Polly was practicing her scales inside and Mama was resting. The bees buzzed lazily around the jasmine and lavender.

  I was too excited by half.

  Seeing the tall, wide frame of Togo in the distance, I took off down the track at a fast clip.

  No running.

  Ladies didn’t run.

  Papa was sending a consultant! Though, goodness knew when he would arrive.

  This third crop of indigo had reached two feet and looked hardier than anything we had produced before. Still everyone was on alert for any weed or pest that might possibly interrupt our endeavor.

  After sharing the news about the consultant with Togo, I sought out Quash to let him know also.

  At my request, Quash had asked Sawney to help construct a room for Sarah and her children. We would build an additional two dwelling cabins with a shared chimney. Sarah and the children would have one side. The extra space would be needed if we grew our indigo operation. Sawney had been reinforcing the chicken coop to keep out the foxes, so work on Sarah’s cabin had been delayed. In the meantime, she was staying with Mary Ann and her children, as well as helping out in the house and kitchen. Which, according to Essie, had set Mary Ann to muttering in the kitchen all day long. “Too many what ain’t got no sense ’roun’ here,” Mary Ann would say at least four times a day.

  “It’s just until the indigo harvest,” I told Mary Ann. “Then Sarah will be helping outside.”

  Mary Ann grunted.

  Essie, for her part, had gifted me a small talisman one morning before sunup. A desiccated chicken foot. I squealed in disgust when I saw the thing sitting on my palm, yellowed and scaly, and promptly dropped it.

  “Hush up,” Essie had admonished. “It’s for luck and protection.”

  “I have a small crucifix and a prayer book for that.”

  “A body can’ have too much.”

  “What am I supposed do with it? Wear it?” I shuddered.

  Essie had shaken her head. “I’ll be leavin’ it under your bed.”

  “Is this to do with Sarah thinking she’s a witch?”

  “A priestess? None that we ever heard of. But I’m not likin’ her thinkin’ she is.”

  Settling Sarah and her children into Wappoo proved difficult. She was surly and caused confused and restless murmuring amongst her peers. Perhaps that was the problem; she didn’t see them as peers. More as underlings.

  When I asked her simple questions, her topaz-colored eyes met mine with silent hostility and challenge. Do you recognize the indigo plant? Do you know how long it takes to flower? Do you know the signs that the leaf is ready to harvest for dye? All of it met with mutinous silence.

  She expected to be punished, I imagined, for defying me and was daring me to do it. And while my level of frustration grew with every encounter, I simply prayed harder for humility, kindness, and patience. I would wait her out and earn her allegiance.

  Now that we had a consultant coming, Sarah’s indigo knowledge might not even be needed, but I was sure more knowledge was better than none.

  The honest truth was I admired her grit. And worse, I admired her stubbornness. She held herself in a certain manner I envied. No matter that she was in bondage, it was as if her spirit would not submit to the reality of her position. And she held her power the only way she knew how. In a way, I came to understand how that must have incensed Starrat, causing him to try and break her.

  While Sarah found it hard to accept her change in geography, Lil’ Gulla had gravitated immediately to the stables and now shadowed Indian Peter all day long taking care of the horses. After a few weeks he stopped going to sleep next to his mother altogether, preferring to wake up early in the stable.

  Sarah’s little girl, Ebba, had joined Mary Ann’s two daughters in the kitchen, but being too young to do anything worthwhile, she was more of a distraction than anything else.

  Her chubby tanned hands grappled at Mary Ann’s skirts, causing irritation and muttering, until Sarah would fashion a sling from a piece of sackcloth and tie Ebba into a little cocoon on her back. There, the baby girl would press her cheek against her mother’s shoulders and for a while fall into a wakeful stupor, watching the goings-on around her while Sarah continued sweeping or doing whatever chore Mary Ann had assigned her. Eventually the constant movement would set the baby’s eyes to slow, long blinks until they closed altogether.

  Every day, the indigo plants grew taller, the leaves more perfect, the color changing so incrementally to a deeper green that some days I think I imagined a blue tinge. I couldn’t believe this field of chaotic thickets that had no structure, no order, could be capable of so much promise. Indigo was a weed, pure and simple. It was the kind of plant one threw up on makeshift borders or found on the side of well-worn roads to town where the comings and goings of man kept the wildness of nature only temporarily at bay.

  The heat of summer pressed into autumn. Overdue for rain, the afternoons had started swelling and emulsifying with humid weight even beyond a normal Carolina summer. Each day I’d look west and see the dark iron of swollen clouds, but they never came close enough to break our heat.

  Thinking of the late frost that had killed our first crop, and news from my brother George about how it had been so bitterly cold in London as to draw a snow in May, I realized the scales of justice would mean this summer would drag by and extend well into fall, roasting us slowly at the spit. I told myself it did not matter as long as the indigo continued to flourish.

  Then one day, the reality that we were missing our chance hit me. This crop might go to seed without our ever getting a chance to try.

  I sent for Sarah, asking Essie to please dispatch her to my father’s study.

  Wiping damp palms upon my skirt, I waited at the window until I felt her sullen presence enter the room.

  I turned and was struck once again by Sarah’s presence.

  Proud bearing, I’d already noticed, eyes lighter than usual and gleaming with a thousand emotions, but also smooth brown skin over perfectly symmetrical features. It was funny. I had never looked at a Negro in terms of attractiveness. But part of me recognized this woman’s beauty, and it was intimidating.

  She stared at me, wordless.

  I stared back at her.

  “Sarah,” I finally said. “I know you have no reason to trust me. I moved you away from Waccamaw because—”

  Sarah spat on the floor.

  I jerked. Shocked.

  I told myself to think and to school my expression. Charles’ noting that I wore my emotions clear on my face rang in my ears.

  Tilting up my chin, I refused to look down at the product of her disdain pooling up in a globulous mess on the floorboards. Instead, I picked up my skirts and walked forward, careful to avoid her spittle. I kept coming until I was a foot away. And a foot smaller than she. Then I stepped up even closer.

  The smell of her skin was meaty and tinged with musk and salt. Heat wafted up from her person.

  “I can see you are not afraid of me. I’m not afraid of you either.”

  Her gaze was dead and unwavering.

  “Now, I’m sure it wasn’t quite the same between you and Starrat.”

  As I said his name, I saw the most fleeting movement in her eyes.

  I stepped to the side and walked around her. “No, in fact, I believe that—”

  “I’m no’ fear of him,” Sarah snarled, her words clipped and underlaid with a French patois. Essie still had a tinge of the same. She was here via the islands and had obviously been resold into the Carolinas.

  I finished my circuit and again stood in front of her. Our eyes locked. “I was going to say that I believed he was afraid of you.”

  Surprise registered for a moment before it was repl
aced again with her impenetrable glare.

  “You don’t agree?” I asked and was met with continued silence. “Men do not like strong women.” I let that sink in for a moment, then put my face close to hers. “Starrat does not like me either.”

  She remained quiet.

  “I would like your help harvesting the indigo. I know Lil’ Gulla is happy here. He is learning a skill with horses that will make him very valuable. But if you would prefer to be at the mercy of Starrat, I can send you back to Waccamaw.”

  “Do you sell my chil’en? Do you give my son skill and sell him?”

  Her question surprised me.

  “Was that the nature of the deal you made with Starrat? That he would not sell your children? His children?”

  She was quiet. Some of the fire had dimmed from her eyes, but her body emanated a rigid defensiveness, as if she had constructed weaponry around herself that would be set off at the slightest threat.

  Perhaps that was the deal she’d made, but the truth was he would have taken what he wanted anyway.

  “Did you know that he has no right to sell slaves that do not belong to him?” I asked. But my mind whirled. How many children had been born on that plantation who had never been reported to an absentee landlord? An easy matter to sell them then and make an extra penny. That man’s audacity knew no bounds. I felt sick.

  Sarah made a snorting sound of disbelief.

  I went through the reasoning in my mind. Slaves were a commodity. I knew my father, no matter his sympathies, believed so. There was nothing to be gained by us selling any slaves at present. Certainly not while I was trying to up production from all of our land.

  I made a decision then and there. If I had need of extra hands and moved Negroes from one plantation to another, it would be on a temporary basis only. “While I am in charge here, no children will be sold from any Lucas plantation, nor separated from their mothers.”