by Natasha Boyd
I hurried over to where Sarah, Cromwell, and Togo stood over the indigo vat, leaving Mama and Polly to go inside the house alone.
“What happened?” I asked as I approached.
Cromwell shrugged. “This batch is useless, I told her to throw it away.”
Sarah stood, her eyes blazing, then picked up a tranche of wet, bundled indigo that had obviously been fished out of the vat and threw it angrily so it scattered all over the ground.
“Well, she’s a feisty one,” said Cromwell grimly. “You’d better keep her in line. Or I will.” Then he shook his head, striding off in the direction of Ben’s cabin without a backward glance.
Ignoring him, and not wanting to dismiss Sarah’s offer of teaching me the process, an offer that had been so hard won, I refused to react to her ire. “Keep it if you want to, Sarah,” I offered.
I needed to get supper ready and see off an unwanted suitor as soon as possible. I didn’t have time for an argument. If she wanted to continue with the batch so be it. But I too was concerned with the quality, sure in my gut it had been left too long before harvest.
She marched past me, brushing aggressively against my shoulder as she did so.
“What is the meaning of this insolence?” boomed John Laurens who was nearly upon us as Sarah stalked past him.
Before I could comprehend what he was doing, he’d pulled his cane out to the side of his body and brought it hissing through the air to crack hard upon the backs of Sarah’s knees.
The sound of wood hitting flesh and Sarah’s sharp cry as she pitched forward, sprawling onto her front, pierced the late afternoon and hung in a stunned silence.
Everything slowed as the cane sliced through the air. Too fast and unexpected for me to stop it, I’d simply stood there watching in shocked disbelief.
Then the horror ricocheted through me, galvanizing me to action. In my periphery I saw Quash start forward, then Peter, then Togo.
Strength in numbers.
Almost as instantly as they’d started forward, they stopped. Years of ingrained deference to a white man.
John Laurens stood over Sarah.
Her face had mashed into the ground, and she peeled it up, attempting to get to her hands and knees.
His cane came up again.
Finally released from the clutch of paralysis, I rushed toward John Laurens, screaming. The backward swing of his cane proceeded in slow motion, and I knew the cane would hit her before I could make it. Somehow, I held my dress and lifted my booted foot planting it squarely against Mr. Laurens’ frame and pushed, kicking him back as the cane came down, barely missing Sarah.
John Laurens stumbled backward but never lost his footing. I cursed my lack of strength against his bulky frame. He dropped the cane in his surprise and stood gawking at me.
If there’d been stunned silence before, now you could have heard the cries of the fish hawkers six miles away at the Charles Town market.
The rashness of my actions immediately overcame me, roaring into my ears, and my heart leapt into a pumping cannon ball in my throat.
I didn’t know myself.
I was aware of eyes from everywhere watching this exchange and understood I had stepped over some imagined line and things would never be the same. I would never be the same.
“Well.” I laughed, shock making me light-headed and hysterical. “About your strange little plan to press your suit, how would you like to marry me now?”
A lock of hair had escaped and fell across my eye. I angrily swiped it out of the way. I took another step closer to Laurens, and he actually took a step backward. I must have looked like a witch in my state of attire and my madness.
“This is, this is ... monstrous,” he bellowed. “I—”
“Let me save you the trouble. I absolutely reject your suit. Yours and your son’s.” I sent a mental apology to Henry for dismissing him too, without explanation. But the chances were he’d grow up just like his sire. At the very least I’d have John Laurens as a father-in-law. Unacceptable. “You’ll be hearing officially on the matter from my father. Thank you for your interest, but ... no.”
John Laurens’ face grew purple as he sputtered and tried to form words. “If you think—” He looked around as if to find a witness to back him up or perhaps to see how many had witnessed his humiliation. “Consider my suit rescinded,” he announced.
I ignored his vain attempt to save face, there were bigger points to make. “I am in charge of what happens on Lucas land. No one else. Togo?”
I kicked Mr. Laurens’ offending cane the short distance across the ground toward him. “Break it.”
I was out of control.
It was so unlike me, but yet, it was me. Something was unfurling within me from behind the fear of societal expectation. Something true and deep. A part of my soul I’d always known was there but never acknowledged. I knew I’d never completely stop playing the role assigned to me in this life, but I would never, ever, let it compromise me. I knew also that Mr. John Laurens was currently paying the price for all of my frustrations and the cruelties of others, including Starrat, and even Cromwell, but yet, I felt justified.
In my periphery, I saw Ben coming over and helping Sarah to her feet and moving her away from us.
“Don’t you dare,” Mr. Laurens yelled at Togo. I thought for a moment he might be in danger of an apoplexy.
It was too late. Togo, obeying my command without question, had already brought the cane across a raised knee, and the strength in his bulky arms was no match for the item.
The crack of splintering hardwood was as satisfying as the crack of it against Sarah’s skin had been horrifying.
“I’ll see to it you pay for this.” John Laurens’ eyes swung between me and Togo. “This is, this is ... unnatural. You wait until people hear of this.”
“I’m sure they will all believe you were bested by a mere helpless girl. You are trespassing on Lucas land,” I hissed, ignoring his threat. “I suggest you get off it.”
“We did no such thing.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “We were invited.”
“Consider the invitation”—I stepped forward—“rescinded.”
Father,
As you proposed Mr. L to me I am sorry I can’t have sentiments favorable enough of him to take time to think on the subject ...
Pay my thanks to the old gentleman for his generosity and sentiments of me and let him know my thoughts on the affair in such civil terms as you know much better than any I can dictate.
The riches of Peru and Chile if he had put them together could not purchase sufficient esteem for him to make him my husband.
Your most dutiful and affectionate daughter,
Eliza Lucas
After the hasty and incensed departure of Mr. John Laurens and his son, I sat alone in my father’s study. The leather of his chair had grown warm under my person, but my bones felt chilled.
I’d written to Papa immediately of course, and then busied myself with the accounts and painstaking recording of all our correspondence into the copy book that was a few days overdue.
Sitting in here, with the smell of cypress wood and waxed pages, I could almost imagine Father’s fragrant pipe ’bacca drifting gently through the room. Oh, how I missed him. He would have taken one meeting with Laurens and the whole debacle would have been avoided.
I’d neglected Polly’s studies the last few days too but didn’t feel like seeing anyone just yet, not even my vivacious chatterbox sister.
The muted rustle of skirts at the doorway drew my attention.
My mother stood on the threshold.
Bracing myself to hear her wrath about my outlandish treatment of our guests, I laid down my quill. I squeezed my hands into tight balls and pressed them in my skirts.
“I’m not sure why your father acted against his sound judgment by send
ing that cursed Negro,” she said, surprising me with her tack. “But you are no longer a child, Eliza, and …” She paused as if changing her mind from her original intent. “We live in turbulent times.” She closed her mouth and lifted her chin.
I snapped my brows together and swallowed heavily. Ben? Ben was her issue? Well, I no longer had to worry about whether she’d realized he was here. I waited for her to say something else as we stared at each other. Perhaps she waited for me to speak.
I had nothing inside me.
Was there no admonishment for my actions today?
My fingers, still curled into their tight balls, began to throb.
As abruptly as she’d appeared at my doorway, she turned and left. And I was left staring after her. Some days I knew my mother, and some days she fair surprised me.
Ben.
I’d managed to keep my mind busy since the altercation this afternoon. But now I ruminated on his presence here. Though my heart was glad, the joy was weighted heavily with a jangling mess of barbed hooks. His actions early this morning had confused and hurt me. And perhaps they had set the tone for my day, which had resulted in me acting as I had.
I didn’t know how to move forward. And I wanted more than anything to run back to the past. All the way back. To being a carefree child who had a best friend.
Instead I sat stuck on my father’s chair, in my father’s study, coming to terms with the person I’d birthed within myself today.
I was different.
Different from other women. The crushing paralysis that came from being stuck between a past I couldn’t return to and a future I couldn’t have was heightened by the realization there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t change the fact I was a woman. Or that I had to be civil to men like John Laurens. I couldn’t change the fact that I was merely caretaking my father’s enterprises until he could give them away to my brother. His eldest son. I couldn’t change the fact my father owned other humans as chattel, chattel that indirectly included Ben now and also—a sob of breath escaped my chest—included me.
I’d crossed a threshold today. A line I’d never be able to step back over. There wouldn’t be any more suitors coming my way. That was certain. The Laurens men would, of course, see to that.
One day I might marry. Maybe if someday I had a dowry that made me an attractive prospect. But no one would come calling. Not anymore.
The confirmation of all my realizations was in my mother’s lack of admonishment.
It was done.
It was too late. All she could do was offer me a warning not to make more enemies. I sensed her feeling of failure, as if her motherly efforts had fallen short, and my conscience twisted with a pang of guilt.
I thought of my sister, Polly, who would one day be looking for a husband if I didn’t ruin it utterly for her. I thought of my father at war with the Spanish and what might become of us if something happened to him. My heart constricted in imagined grief. My brother George was still too young to take over the family. Besides, he was in England. My brother Tommy, younger still, was in poor health. And I thought of the slave revolt. And the Negro Act, hastily thrown together by fearful people, prohibiting teaching the poor wretches to read or write or even gather to pray. What kind of a world were we living in? We live in turbulent times, Mother had said.
We did.
And it had never been clearer to me how utterly rash and selfish I had been by refusing to ever consider a husband. How would I protect my family on my own? It seemed I’d gotten my wish, and only now did the consequences truly weigh in.
On a whim, I pulled out a fresh sheaf of paper and addressed my brother George.
Congratulations. Papa’s last letter informs me you are to take up your commission in the army. I hope you will forgive a girl at my early time of life presuming to advise you but beware false notions of honor. One must make the proper distinctions between courage and rashness …
I looked about the room, not really seeing anything, but trying to recall my brother’s nature. My heart squeezed as I remembered the dimple upon his cheek, his boyish enthusiasm, and his indignation on small conflicts. How trying must it be on Mama to be so separated from her children, wondering if their characters would be intact upon seeing them again. I sighed and put ink upon parchment again. I would write to George and Tommy more often, I decided, and perhaps be of some guidance in that regard. And attempt to subscribe to my own advice.
… And the proper distinctions between justice and revenge. As you enter into life one must be particularly careful of one’s duty to our Creator, for nothing but an early piety and steady virtue can make one happy.
Yes, I’d do well to follow my own advice. I needed to learn piety myself.
George would be here to take over our affairs. And I would have nothing. Without a husband, I would be nothing but a burden.
Indigo.
Indigo was what I would have. I didn’t know what it would bring me, bring us, but it was the only thing I could think of that I could contribute.
It was surely a gift. I couldn’t be mistaken.
My studies in botany, a father who supported my pursuit, my childhood and friendship with Ben, my dreams, meeting Mr. Deveaux who’d encouraged my amateur experiments. Even my father’s circumstance, leaving me in charge.
God was giving me a gift. A chance. A destiny. And I recognized it as such.
While I didn’t know what that chance could do for me, I knew I couldn’t squander it.
And I needed Ben’s help.
My chest tightened at the thought of him.
Ben, who for some reason didn’t want anything to do with me.
Many restless nights and early mornings followed that I spent ruminating on whether it was better to let Ben be. But every day as the sun rose, so did my selfish need for his friendship. And I knew it was selfish. What good would it ever do him? Or me? What was it exactly I wanted beyond his expertise with indigo? We would never again have the easy laughter and companionship of childhood.
Yet, after that first morning where he’d surprised me in the woods, I’d never attempted to see Ben alone again. Even during the day, and my work with Cromwell, I studiously avoided him as best I could. But I was aware of exactly where he was at any given moment, even if my body would have to turn around for my eyes to find him.
Initially, Cromwell inspected the remaining indigo plants daily with Ben. I often followed behind. Occasionally, they would disagree on something. I’d hear the deep soft rumble of Ben’s voice and Cromwell’s terse response. I’d watch Ben carefully finger the seed pods. I came to understand that Ben was the one to whom Cromwell deferred on all indigo knowledge. In fact, Cromwell was nothing without Ben. However, knowing that made it even more imperative that I only addressed my questions to Cromwell.
“When does one harvest seed?” I’d asked Cromwell.
“We don’t. We wait for the seeds to drop. Then we must leave them on the ground to dry before picking them up.”
I couldn’t help glancing at Ben because that seemed a little ridiculous.
“Why not just gather the seed after it falls and dry it on trays in the open shed? Surely it would dry faster.”
Ben made a dismissive snorting sound and glared at me. The longest he’d actually looked at me in days.
I narrowed my eyes back at him.
“And why don’t we plant again right now?”
Ben opened his mouth, then snapped it closed and looked at Cromwell.
“We’ll plant when I say so,” Cromwell said importantly.
Ben snorted again before turning away and walking off, his shoulders proud.
Cromwell raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Please forgive him. He’s been acting out of sorts and surly. If I didn’t depend so much on his innate knowledge of these things, I’d teach him a lesson in respect. Unfortuna
tely, as history has shown me, that gets me even less from him.”
I cringed inwardly, turning away as if to survey the field and biting down so hard I thought I might crack a tooth.
How could that question have possibly irritated Ben so much? Was it that he thought I’d addressed him and he didn’t want me talking to him? He’d made that clear the first morning, and I’d adhered to it.
“He has these superstitions,” Cromwell went on, oblivious to my discomfiture. “As all these Negroes seem to, about the seeds needing to come to know their soil, so that they will grow to their fullest selves when they are themselves planted.”
That sounded like the Ben I knew. And I’d bet that little piece of mystical wisdom had been passed down from his grandmother. I couldn’t help a small smile.
Cromwell shook his head. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I humor him.”
I thought it actually quite insightful, but kept quiet. And now I knew why Ben had just been annoyed with me. He probably thought I should know this.
In fact, I was suddenly convinced that if I asked him he would tell me the reason our crop had failed was we were using orphaned seeds, separated from their comfort zone, and planting them in foreign soil and expecting them to thrive. They needed to be gently coaxed. They would adapt. Eventually.
I would succeed with indigo, little by little. Every attempt would teach me something new. I only hoped it was enough and in time. It would be a long few months waiting until we could plant again.
“I’ll ask my father to send more seed as soon as possible for next year. And we’ll have the seeds that will drop from our plants here so we’ll be prepared. Perhaps sowing them together next year they will draw strength from each other.”
Mr. Deveaux had often mentioned to me how similar plant specimens could adapt together, cross-pollinating for strength.
Cromwell puffed up. “Miss Lucas, you have no idea what you are talking about. It’s endearing for a woman to have such an interest in horticulture. Charming even. At times.”
