The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  She stayed silent. Perhaps she didn’t believe me.

  “You have my word.”

  I would have to earn her trust. Somehow. But I sensed her spirit was broken and defiant in a way that might never be fixed.

  She said nothing.

  “You may go,” I finished eventually, knowing that day wouldn’t be the one I’d win. She was insulting and insolent, but I chose to overlook it. I’d be the same in her position.

  I prayed again for patience with her.

  I am resolved to make a good mistress to my servants,

  To treat them with humanity and good nature;

  To give them sufficient and comfortable clothing and provisions,

  And all things necessary for them.

  To be careful and tender of them in their sickness.

  To encourage them when they do well and pass over small faults.

  Not to be tyrannical, peevish, or impatient towards them

  But to make their lives as comfortable as I can.

  So help me, oh, My God! Amen.

  —Excerpt from prayer

  written by Eliza Lucas

  After yet more frustrating days with no help from Sarah, and my refusal to force her assistance, I called upon Mr. Deveaux. But he was unable to give us helpful advice.

  “You soak the leaves. And there’s lime involved. Though how much I don’t know,” he said.

  I’d sighed. I knew those steps too. But how long. How much?

  But then it didn’t matter because a virulent little worm made a feast of our beautiful, tired indigo plants.

  For several days, Togo and I furrowed our brows and plucked a few little yellow creatures from the leaves. A week later we were fighting a losing battle, and we had to admit defeat.

  We were left with a third of our crop.

  I asked Togo to leave me a moment.

  The urge to collapse to the ground in my hoop skirts and cry with frustration was so strong I could feel it like hands pulling me down.

  I stood still in the middle of the field. The ground beneath my feet was mortgaged. Waccamaw was mortgaged. In time Garden Hill would be too, if it wasn’t already. I had yet to get a straight answer from Mr. Manigault or my father.

  I looked to the east across the fields and the corner of our home and out to the sparkling waters of Wappoo Creek. The cool air off the water caved to the heat that flooded upward from the ground to stifle my body. Sweat slid in a tickling rush down my cheek and between my breasts. To the right, Quash was showing Sarah, Ebba strapped to her back, her finished room.

  A wave of bitter frustration and anger washed over me as I watched her. It was so strong it took my breath.

  As if she felt it, Sarah suddenly looked up.

  I swallowed.

  We stared across the fields at each other.

  Then I saw her say something to Quash, and he too looked at me and said something back to her.

  Later that afternoon as I made copies of my latest letters into the copy book, Essie appeared at the study door.

  “Sarah here to see ya,” she said with a cryptic look on her face. A smile, but not quite.

  “Did she say what she wants?”

  “Better she tell ya.”

  Again Sarah walked into the room. Like last time, her personality emanated a range far outside her stature.

  “Hello, Sarah.”

  She dipped her chin.

  I sighed. “I’m sure you are happy to be moving out from Mary Ann’s room?”

  She stood a few moments and I waited. Was I expecting a thank you?

  “I gon’ show you how I make my dye.”

  A tingle of euphoria trailed up my spine.

  I tamped it down. I hadn’t been through the last few disappointments without learning not to put too much stock in any one avenue.

  She looked at me expectantly.

  “Can you make dye cakes?” I asked instead.

  Her mouth tightened and she shook her head.

  “But you can extract the dye from the leaves?”

  She nodded.

  Who knew when the consultant would arrive in Charles Town? Tensions with the Spanish were rising. Already Oglethorpe in Savannah had put a call out for able-bodied young men in Charles Town to take on the Spanish in Florida.

  A ship headed this way might never get through, and we had indigo ready now.

  At least I’d know part of the process. I wasn’t sure I trusted Sarah; she might yet exact a price. But what choice did I have? It could be my only chance to learn anything related to making indigo. She couldn’t teach me exactly what I wanted to know, but it would be something.

  I nodded at her. “Okay. Show me.”

  Early the next morning, Togo and I trailed along behind Sarah as she inspected all the damaged leaves, clucking and shaking her head. “Did we leave the leaves on too long?” I asked.

  Sarah shrugged.

  I looked at Togo, and he shrugged too.

  She was enjoying her moment of power, I knew. And I thought how few she’d probably had. I allowed it.

  Sarah indicated we needed a very large shallow container and after coming up empty, I finally sent Quash to ask Essie and Mary Ann to bring out Mary Ann’s round wooden washing tub. I’d be fielding questions about it later, I knew, but needs must. It was to be filled with fresh water and left out in the sun to warm.

  Sarah picked leaves here and there, and as we made our way to a less blighted area, she motioned for Togo’s reaping hook and began hacking off whole branches. I pulled out my small dirk that was only useful for smaller stalks and I began to copy her, despite incredulous looks from both of them.

  Many of the little worms had started spinning cocoons indicating their feeding frenzy was over. But where they still roamed free, we picked them off into a cup that Togo was to go and burn.

  Before long, we had filled the sack slung across Togo’s chest with stalks of leaves and he went to empty it and return. Some plants were deemed in good enough shape to be allowed to go to seed. While I wanted to harvest as much as we could, I could see the value in having our own seed. Who knew how much longer the small remaining quantity I had from my father would stay viable?

  All the branches with cocoons were burned as well, and the remaining bushes inspected carefully and cleaned of the blight.

  The sun was high in the sky when we were finally done and dripping with sweat.

  I’d ruined a dress, having torn the hem and slashed open a sleeve. Mother would be spitting mad if she caught me. “Do you want to wait until tomorrow for the next stage?” I asked Sarah when I felt the weariness in my body and saw the tired faces of those around me. I wiped the dust-caked back of my hand across my sweating brow, no doubt painting myself with a mud mixture. For my part, I did not want to stop now that we’d started, so anxious was I.

  Sarah clicked her tongue at my question of waiting, shaking her head.

  We had collected Sawney and a couple of other field hands in our quest over the past few hours, and now they watched our exchange carefully.

  I was saved having to respond by a commotion out on the road. The clatter of hooves and a carriage I didn’t recognize.

  We weren’t expecting anyone that I knew of.

  Quash glanced at me, then down at my dress, and a barely discernible wince flickered across his face. I grimaced too, just imagining what I looked like.

  “Do not begin without me,” I aimed at Sarah. “I will see who this is and then return. Quash, stay and watch her.” Not waiting for her response to my mistrust, I turned and picked up my skirts and hurried toward the house. Any thought I had of taking a turn for the back door was interrupted when two gentlemen immediately alighted from the carriage.

  Master Henry and Mr. John Laurens nodded at Indian Peter, who had taken the reins from t
heir driver and now stood staring at me aghast. A third gentleman, his entire bearing showing his exhaustion, was being assisted down by another Negro I couldn’t see on the other side of the carriage.

  I came to a halt. Oh dear. Bitterly disappointed that it was not the man from Montserrat, but the Laurens and an acquaintance of theirs, I quite ignored the expressions on the men’s faces.

  Then John Laurens was striding toward me. “I say. Is everything all right? Do you need some assistance?” He scowled over my shoulder at my ragtag group of helpers, then back at me, his face grim as he took in the dirty and torn state of my dress. “Did they attack you? Henry,” he tossed over his shoulder as he strode past me, “get my gun.”

  “Oh goodness, no,” I called out in a panic and tugged on John Laurens’ sleeve.

  He shrugged me off and walked forward brandishing a wicked-looking cane that he didn’t seem to need.

  “Mr. Laurens! I demand that you stop this instant.”

  The group of slaves stood rooted to the spot, terror and confusion on their faces.

  He turned back to me, an eyebrow raised, skin mottled in agitation. My outburst rang across the yard.

  “I’d heard rumors that you were out here without an overseer,” he huffed, incensed and wide-eyed. “And I thought ‘that can’t be true,’ and yet … here you are being overrun by these Negro heathens and not coping at all. Defending them, even. Have you quite taken leave of your senses? What were your parents thinking leaving a helpless girl in charge? Have you been … compromised?”

  “I beg your pardon,” I mustered, my chest ballooning with indignation. “I have not seen you in over a year, sir. What right on earth do you have to come to my father’s plantation and tell me how to run it and make such wild accusations?” I spat the question.

  The words were out of my mouth before I could process the impudence and caution myself. I slammed my lips together, breathing heavily through my nose.

  A glance at young Henry saw him wince and avoid my gaze.

  John Laurens was dumbstruck.

  “Forgive me,” I said quickly. “I’m afraid the heat has quite gone to my head.”

  The familiar whine of the porch door on its closing swing signaled my mother had now borne witness to the exchange also, and I could feel the blaze of angered humiliation scorch my back.

  News of my radicalism would be around the countryside and into town before noon tomorrow, and my mother would blister my ears … and presumably write a scathing letter to my father.

  The third gentleman stood impassively, arms folded across his broad chest, graying hair greasily slicked back from a ruddy and tanned complexion. He eyed me with a look of awkward pity and assessment.

  John Laurens took a deep, steadying breath and with a pained expression opened his mouth. “We were headed this way and received word that this gentleman”—he motioned to the third, as yet unknown man—“had recently arrived by packet from the islands, sent by your father. Miss Lucas, may I present Mr. Nicholas Cromwell of Montserrat …”

  My stomach lurched in surprise. Emotions laced with dismay, elation, and relief struggled over each other. The indigo consultant!

  “And his …” Mr. Laurens’ lip curled up with distaste, like he had a sour apple seed trapped between his yellow teeth. “His apprentice, Mr. Ben Cromwell.”

  A man stepped from behind Nicholas Cromwell, almost of his height, his skin burnished walnut, and dark, dark eyes I’d seen in my dreams since I was a girl.

  My mouth dropped open in shock.

  His jacket of dark and beautifully dyed indigo was incongruous and shocking against the skin of a Negro, the white of a linen shirt stark against his corded neck. He was dressed formally. Like a free man. Not a slave.

  Only a fraction of time passed as the surprise shot through me, and I took in his person and felt a tightness in my chest. A sting burned behind my nose and eyes. I blinked and tried to close my mouth, but only my teeth met.

  He made a small shake of his head that was barely perceptible.

  Then Mr. Nicholas Cromwell was stepping forward, his hand held out to receive mine, any evidence of his earlier pity eradicated. Perhaps I’d imagined it after my heated words with Mr. Laurens. “Miss Lucas, I presume. The indigo girl.” He smiled. “I apologize for our unannounced arrival.”

  I swallowed, my eyes peeling away from Ben with difficulty, and shook my head to clear the shock. But my mind was a turmoil of questions and excitement and an emotion so foreign, sharp, and overwhelming, I had to close my mind off to avoid giving myself away. Every inch of my person itched and prickled with the urge to throw myself into my friend’s arms to test the reality of him. I hadn’t missed the small shake of his head. I was to pretend I didn’t know him? But surely my surprise and recognition must have been clear on my face.

  I placed my scratched and soil-caked hand into Mr. Cromwell’s, and to give him credit, he didn’t flinch, but instead bent over it. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Your father says you have a knack for botany, and I am to help you produce indigo dye.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I said to Cromwell, my voice shaky. “You came in the nick of time. We were just, I was just … we were harvesting the last of our crop. There’s not much, I’m afraid. It was afflicted with a little pest.”

  My mother came up at my side and then Polly flew out of the house. In the shade of the distraction brought by my sister, I saw Ben step back slightly behind Nicholas Cromwell’s frame. To avoid my mother? I wasn’t sure she would recognize him. Certainly not out of context. However, he was still using his given name, Ben, although he had adopted the last name of his owner as all our slaves did. I had so many questions.

  Mr. Laurens greeted my mother, introducing his son and Mr. Cromwell.

  Before he could introduce Ben, I stepped forward. “Come, let us get out of the sweltering heat to the shade of the house. We have fresh-squeezed lemon water made just yesterday to cool your travel-parched throats. Though I’m afraid we are low on sugar so this will be the last of it.”

  “Your father had us pick up two barrels for you,” Mr. Cromwell informed, thankfully not noticing I had all but cut off the introduction of his apprentice. “Though they are still at the Charles Town wharf, I’m afraid. We did not want to hold up these gracious gentlemen who offered a ride to Wappoo.”

  Ben had sidled to the back of the carriage and was busying himself with unloading two cedar trunks. Quash joined him to assist.

  If my mother wondered who the “we” of which Mr. Cromwell spoke was, she said nothing.

  “Well.” I spoke on a rush of air, eager to move us on from this awkward encounter. And then broke off as I realized with dismay the Laurenses had come by carriage the seventeen miles from Charles Town, not by boat as I’d suggested, and so would be overnight guests themselves. My stomach fell. “I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of space, Mr. Laurens. Would you be able to share with your son? There is a sleeping porch attached to the upstairs bedroom, so perhaps one of you might enjoy our Wappoo night air this evening?”

  “That should be fine. Right, Henry?”

  “Yes, Father,” Henry responded dutifully.

  Mr. Laurens glanced about his surroundings, then back at the state of my dirty and sweat-caked dress. “Just a brief visit. We shall be on our way first thing in the morning.”

  I struggled not to show my relief.

  But what was I to do about Ben? Where would he sleep? With the other slaves? Why not with the other slaves? I’d need to take direction from Cromwell.

  “Mr. Cromwell.”

  “Nicholas, please.”

  I smiled politely. “Nicholas, I’m sure you are weary from your travels, but if you wouldn’t mind starting your job right away and taking a quick look at today’s harvest before we go inside?”

  Cromwell raised his brows. “Well, uh, of course.
As you say, it is my job. And I suppose you are dressed for it.”

  It was said with a twinkle of amusement, but my mother made a small sound I recognized as horrified resignation. “Come along, gentlemen,” she offered politely to John and Henry Laurens.

  Cromwell and I turned toward the fields. Polly was pestering Henry, and the last thing I heard as distance separated us was, “I heard you were coming here to court my sister? Is that true? Is that why you’re here?”

  Why ask one question when you can ask it three different ways? That was my chatterbox sister. I was saved having to hear the response, which of course I would tickle out of Polly later.

  I felt the burn of eyes in my back.

  Ben.

  My mind careened like an out-of-control carriage pulled by a spooked horse.

  Where did I even begin my questioning?

  “I do have to apologize,” Mr. Cromwell began almost immediately. “It is always a shock for people to be introduced to my Negro, Ben.”

  I cleared my throat, grateful he had taken over the opening. Ben was here. “Not at all, I—”

  “You are too gracious. Really. I saw the surprise on your face. People do not expect a Negro accompanying a white man to be anything but a slave. Not a well-dressed one, and certainly not to be introduced to one as if they were meeting a gentleman in a drawing room.”

  “Oh well, yes, I suppose it was a surprise. Unexpected.”

  “It’s my brother’s fault, I’m afraid. He bought Ben for our plantation in Montserrat due to Ben’s proficiency with indigo, and gave him airs and graces above his station.” He sighed. “Including making him an apprentice with an agreement to buy his freedom.”

  I stayed quiet, listening intently. A rush of pride for Ben swarmed through me. “So, he is not a harsh slave owner then, your brother?”

  “Not at all. Quite the contrary. Thank goodness Patrick is away on trading business most of the time these days so I could get some order back into the place.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief that Ben had been with a fair and just owner, at least before Nicholas Cromwell had taken over. “So, if you were running the indigo business there, how could you afford to take my father’s offer to spend time here?” I asked, genuinely confused.