The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  I kept my back turned as I asked. My face was a faint, pale apparition on my view of daylight breaking over the landscape outside the window. I saw Quash’s reflection as he stood in the shadowy doorway behind me.

  His head lowered a fraction. “Yes, Miz Lucas. Yes, he did.”

  Quash left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

  My hands clutched the sill, my knuckles turning white. The corners of my eyes pricked and stung. And I couldn’t move until long after the first light of the day washed my reflection from the window.

  And with it everything became clear. I was only surprised I hadn’t recognized it before now.

  That Ben had left before knowing how very much he was … loved.

  It was impossible of course, and Ben perhaps had known how impossible it truly was well before I did. I thought over the painful way he had kept his distance even while I craved his friendship.

  I laid my forehead upon the glass pane and prayed.

  Hours became days, and nights became endless. Only a week passed, and it could have been months.

  I sent Togo to town to procure much-needed necessities from the market and deliver a letter to Charles regarding the indigo affair. The account books took much of my time, and I tallied and retallied hoping to see a way we could avoid encumbering Garden Hill. We could make it. Just. But there would be no extra money for further consultants or infrastructure. And I asked myself if I’d have to set my indigo project aside.

  The rain came and went, the storm subsided, only to be followed quickly by another. The palm roof peeled clear off our new schoolhouse, and Sawney and Pompey got to work immediately to repair it before I could even ask them.

  Cromwell appeared at my door three days after Quash left to find Ben. “No news, I suppose?”

  “No.” I sighed.

  “I want to thank you for sending a man after Ben.”

  I swallowed. “Of course. Though I did it for his safety, not as a favor to you.”

  “Of course. Thank you all the same.” He sat, without being invited, and irritation surged through me.

  “What else can I help with? Have you finished packing your belongings?”

  “That’s just it. I, uh, well the thing is … well, this is rather awkward. I cannot afford passage home.”

  My eyebrows pulled high.

  “And, well, I do not have much to return to. My brother and I—”

  “So you were all bluff and bluster?” His brother was probably as tired of him as I was. A thought occurred to me. “Why would you want to add a wife to take care of?”

  “Well, I thought—your mother, she—”

  “You thought I came with a dowry or some such? Perhaps my father’s sugar plantations in Antigua? Well, I’m afraid those are mortgaged as well. You have done a fine job making our already precarious position that much more dangerous. Well done.”

  He hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said, ‘I’m sorry.’” He gritted the words out with effort.

  “Sorrys don’t pay our accounts unfortunately. I can’t afford to pay your way home either. You’ll have to win the money at cards, I imagine. I am sending a letter to your brother updating him on your actions and asking him to remunerate us on the loss of our investment in you.”

  Cromwell’s ruddy color leached from his face. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I will, and have. The letter left with Togo a few days ago.”

  “Oh, my God …”

  “Yes, pray if you want to. Who knows what truth there is in this Christian scheme? My praying has not done much for me recently. But what beautiful joy there is in allowing Him responsibility for our misfortunes. It certainly makes one’s culpability easier to bear.”

  He swung his head side to side as if impressed by my little speech. “You are far too intelligent for a woman.”

  “I’ll take that as the compliment you no doubt meant. Now if you’ll excuse me? I’m sure you must have packing to finish.”

  “Where will I go?”

  I smiled grimly. “For my part, I simply want you out of my sight.”

  I looked down, back at the books, not seeing anything except the hopelessness of my position.

  Cromwell stood, and I sensed the mean streak in him coalescing into solidity as he formed his words.

  “You are a pitiful excuse for a woman,” he spat. “It would seem I had a lucky escape.”

  “Mr. Cromwell.” I glanced up at him briefly. “You, sir, are a pitiful excuse for a …” I paused. “I was going to say gentleman. But …” I picked up my quill giving my head a dismissive shake. “You’re just pitiful. Now, if you don’t mind …”

  His chair screeched along the floor, and, mouth set in a line I imagined was tight with rage, Cromwell walked out.

  The pacing I did in the next few days was enough to wear a hole in the wool rug on the study floor. I tried to keep myself busy. I began teaching Polly her French again, and then enlisted her to help me teach the Negro children their letters. Due to the off-and-on nature of the rain and our out-of-commission schoolroom roof, I’d started tutoring them in the study. Mother didn’t utter a word. I’m sure she could feel the disdain for her foolishness emanating off me in waves and dared not cross my path.

  Some days when the weather was nice and we learned outside, we managed to get Lil’ Gulla to join us. We made letters from sticks laid in the dirt. Baby Ebba would watch and squeal as the children and I jumped from letter to letter, calling out the sound as we went or counting rocks and stones and arranging them in shapes. My smiles for others most days were forced. But the mornings with the children were the exception, the only time I could keep Ben and Quash—and of course my financial predicament—from my mind.

  Sarah, having recovered from her miscarriage, had reverted to helping out in the house and with the children. No longer able to hold my gaze with the defiance she once had, she averted her eyes whenever she saw me. Perhaps her defiance had bled out of her along with her baby. Or my lack of retaliation or punishment for her deeds had broken her in a way Starrat had never managed to accomplish. She’d also taken it upon herself to collect and dry herbs and make salves to stock in the small infirmary cabin Quash had built. I did not interfere with her quiet assimilation into plantation life. She had suffered enough. We all had. Her pride could have what it could salvage.

  I cursed myself for pouring so much energy into indigo at the expense of everything else. Was I any better than Cromwell? I’d gambled, and I’d lost.

  Togo returned from town. As he unpacked the goods onto the kitchen table, I could see he bore no return letter from Charles Pinckney. Disappointment skewered my already fragile heart. As if he could sense my deflation, Togo looked up, his giant face troubled.

  “What is it, Togo?”

  He sighed and scratched his head. “Mrs. Pinckney, she sick.”

  Oh no. Perhaps she’d had another miscarriage. The image of Sarah flashed before my eyes. I squeezed them closed, pushing away the memory.

  “Their lady, Bettina, she tell me, Mistress very weak and tired. Bad head and she getting the fever many times.”

  I sighed, relieved it wasn’t what I’d been thinking. Still it was worrisome. Mrs. Pinckney was so stalwart. So robust. I’d never known her to complain of so much as a sniffle or a flea bite. Not like Mama, who was always poorly and under the weather, snapping at Polly and me and blaming it on her head. If Mrs. Pinckney felt ill, she must truly be feeling bad. I was also relieved to know that there was a good reason for the lack of a letter from Mr. Pinckney about my failed indigo experiment.

  “Miz Bartlett, she say she behind on her letters to England and will send you one soon.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Togo.”

  He lowered his eyes. “Quash, he come back? Or Ben?”

 
My throat closed. I could barely answer. “No. Not yet.”

  Going over all our account books, I plotted a way to stretch the last money from the rice out into the next year.

  There were tools and upgrades we might put off buying. Luckily, the slave cabins didn’t need any improvements this year since Quash had done such a good job on their upkeep. We would sell some of the benne seeds and our other produce at the market.

  I penned a quick message to Mr. Deveaux asking him if he might be interested in purchasing some of our cows. Selling them to him, over anyone else, would mean we might have hopes of buying them back at some point. The islands were still paying a good price for our timber from Garden Hill so that would help. Next year we could plant more indigo to add to the plants I hoped would come back.

  We would try again. We had to. As long as we were able to hold on until then. The alternative, that Father would mortgage Garden Hill, our most profitable land, or lose the properties entirely, just simply didn’t bear thinking about.

  I wrote again to Miss Bartlett and thought of her uncle reading my words.

  Togo brought the Charles Town Gazette anytime he was in town, and I noted all the marriages among my so-called peers that had recently occurred. Mr. John Drayton to Miss Charlotte Bull. And I did feel a modicum of envy, though I’d rather die than ever admit such a thing to Mama.

  Essie fussed over me, assuring me Quash would be fine and would return soon. She seemed careful not to mention Ben. “What do you know?” I asked her once when the omission seemed so glaring I felt it was lumbering around the room like a great black mass. She shook her head, but I could tell she was worried. And she kept checking that her charms beneath my bed were still there. “I won’t touch them, Essie, I promise,” I said, mildly amused though a little chilled.

  And then several weeks later, a stranger rode into Wappoo bearing a letter addressed to Lucas of Wappoo.

  It was Polly who came running into the house.

  “There’s a man on a horse,” she’d yelled.

  “Shush,” Mama snapped. Mama was stiff-backed but frail, sitting on the end of the settee closest to the fireplace, having made it downstairs after weeks in her room. “Don’t shout. It’s unladylike.”

  Polly glanced at Mama, mumbling a vague apology, then turned to me. “’Liza,” she burst. “He asked me if we own a slave named Quash.”

  My stomach lurched violently as though a rock dropped into it. My ears and fingers tingled and went cold.

  “Come, ’Liza,” Polly beseeched.

  I was frozen like I’d stepped out of life for just a moment. Then the world came rushing back, and I blinked, bringing Polly into focus.

  Quash.

  I stood and followed her outside.

  For the crimes of running away and conspiring to organize a slave uprising, a slave named Quash of Wappoo, along with two others, had been arrested. They were to be tried in court in Charles Town.

  After delivering the news and letting Indian Peter water and feed his mount, the stranger took off back down the road. I raced upstairs with Essie, hastily preparing to travel.

  “Togo will have to accompany me to town. Will you let him know?” I asked Essie.

  “Essie come too, chil’,” she said, and I nodded gratefully. I’d have to arrive at the Pinckneys’ home largely unannounced. It couldn’t be helped.

  “Can I come too?” Polly asked from the doorway to my room. I could see on her face that despite asking she already expected a negative answer. Sadly, I obliged.

  “But it’s so boring here alone with Mama. And now Essie will be gone too.”

  I walked over and pressed her smaller body against mine. I made a mental note to look into the cost of sending her to school if we could afford it next year. “I’m sorry, dear one. I don’t know how long this trial will last or if I’ll be successful in freeing Quash and Ben.”

  Polly gasped. Her hand covered her mouth, her eyes filling.

  For me too, just saying it aloud caused a tight band of panic to seize my chest. Then an alarming thought occurred to me.

  “Good Lord,” I muttered. How would I even speak for Ben? I didn’t own him. Cromwell did.

  I didn’t know if Cromwell had stayed in Charles Town or continued on elsewhere. “We must hurry, Essie.”

  The voyage to town by water was choppy and perilous. I had to put complete faith in the fact the boat and its hardy Negro rowers knew the journey with such familiarity. Bilious sails of nausea unfurled in my gut, gusting from side to side in tandem with the rocking vessel. I was delirious, my mouth flooding with saliva. The air was thick with dense fog, and there was no landmark to focus on as we rocked our way through the wet cloud. I emptied the contents of my stomach twice over the side of the boat into the thick gray water. Neither episode brought relief.

  I didn’t know how much time we had before the trial began. Waiting in the Pinckneys’ front parlor for their man to announce my arrival, I worried my lips between my teeth and wrung my hands to warm them. If only there’d been a fire lit in the grate in this room. With many more rooms to use, and no visitors expected, it wasn’t surprising for there to be none. I hoped I wasn’t inconveniencing them too much, especially with Mrs. Pinckney being poorly.

  I made a decision then. I would use money from the rice harvest when it was delivered to buy Ben from Cromwell. I’d force him to sell, if necessary. And then, I clenched my fists at the rightness of my decision, I would set him free. He would be a free man. Benoit Fortuné would be a free black man.

  My heart almost floated up out of my throat.

  I would help him build a reputation for indigo-making. He would do well. He would be able to buy land. I gasped aloud at my revelation. He would be freer than I would ever be.

  I knew we could ill afford it right now, but I’d figure out a way to do it anyway. But first, sweet Lord above, I had to get both he and Quash out of this frightening nightmare.

  The sound of the door brushing open made me turn.

  Charles Pinckney’s bright face instantly sobered to a frown at whatever he saw upon my expression, and he took three long strides toward me.

  “Eliza, my dear. What is it?”

  I opened my mouth to speak but snapped it closed again and attempted to swallow down the fear that had become a large rock inside me. Tears pricked, and before I could try again to form words, Charles had me pressed against his pipe tobacco and sandalwood-scented coarse wool waistcoat.

  A deep rumble sounded against my ear as he cleared his throat and then set me away from him.

  The loss of his warm, tight comfort sent a chill through me, and I shuddered. He called for the fire to be lit. “What is it?” he asked again.

  “Quash and Ben have been arrested on charges of rebellion.” The words tumbled out. “I must go and speak on their behalf. Ben …” I paused and swallowed. “Ben ran away,” I admitted. “And I sent Quash after him. Ben was headed south, where all runaways seem to head, so I’m sure the militia is always on the lookout. I sent Quash with a letter clearing his passage, and I don’t know if he lost it, or they didn’t give it credence, but a militia man showed up at Wappoo. He told us Quash and two others were under arrest for conspiracy to organize a rebellion.” I took a breath. My voice had grown thin and panicky.

  Charles walked to a small three-tiered oval table made from mahogany and opened a stoppered crystal decanter. He poured a deep, dark red liquid into a cup and brought it to me. “Port. It will calm you.”

  I took it and sipped dutifully.

  “So he told you Quash was under arrest?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say Ben was with him?”

  “He said Quash and two others.” I frowned. “I don’t know who the third could be.”

  “And I have to ask …” Charles winced. “You are sure Quash didn’t take this opportunity you g
ave him to abscond or to join forces with other rebels?”

  “No. There is no way.”

  Charles was silent.

  “It’s true,” I said earnestly. “He had a chance to leave during the Stono uprising, but he didn’t. Not only that, I believe he protected us somehow.”

  Charles’ eyebrows grew close. Perhaps he didn’t believe me, but it was the truth. “And Ben?” he asked.

  I shook my head. The thought that Ben would join some form of rebel cause was preposterous. Although, I suppose he could be forced if they knew of his abilities. “Ben just wants to be free. He is very skilled and could potentially be quite wealthy. There is no way he would risk freedom by deflecting into some kind of skirmish.” I blew out a breath. “But I should mention …” I dropped my eyes. “Both Quash and Ben have the ability to read and write.”

  “And I suppose you taught Quash?”

  “And Ben,” I admitted. Had I handed down a guilty verdict just by educating them? I squeezed my eyes tight.

  Charles took in a long audible breath through his nose. “If the authorities know this, it’s no wonder they assume the worst. We’ll have a devil of a time getting them released.”

  “You’ll help me? I came for advice. But, Charles, I—if you’ll help, I—thank you,” I finished, my voice wobbling.

  Charles looked at me fondly. “Honestly, Eliza, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you.” He smiled fleetingly, his handsome face troubled. “Now, let’s not dilly dally. We’ll see if we can avert a trial altogether. I’ll just go and inform Mrs. Pinckney.”

  “Oh.” I gasped, aghast at myself that I hadn’t asked before now. “How is she?”

  He grimaced. “Not well, I’m afraid. Though the doctor says he can find nothing wrong. But she tells me she awakens with fever at night, feeling hot when the air is chilled. She says her bones ache, though that comes and goes. And weak. She feels so very weak. It has quite confounded us all, I’m afraid.”