The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  With a quick inhale, I laid down my armful of indigo and the knife at my feet, never taking my eyes off Quash’s offering. My fingers reverently traced the contours of it. This talisman had been upon Ben’s person his whole life as far as I could remember. Essie had told me it was where he kept his memories, his protections, his hopes, and his dreams.

  “Ben,” Quash started. His voice was rough. “Ben tell me to give to you.”

  I swallowed. “Why did you wait?” But I knew why and didn’t expect Quash to answer. I hadn’t been ready to believe in Ben before. Quash saw my belief in the indigo as my willingness to believe in Ben. A breath shuddered out of me. Gingerly taking the object, I turned it over in my hand. Soft, worn supple and smooth for the most part, its opening was stiff. I closed my hand around it. “Thank you.”

  Quash nodded. A single nod. “It weren’t Ben,” he said. “Crom’all tell Ben to throw more lime in. Ben, he say no. Crom’all come back with horse whip. Still Ben say no. Crom’all he tell him, you stupid Negro, you do what I say. And he tell Ben he will never make him free if he don’t do it.”

  My chest squeezed and my nose stung. I blinked rapidly. This was how I’d thought it happened. Them fighting, Cromwell threatening Ben’s future freedom to force Ben’s hand.

  “But Ben, he still say no,” Quash said, his tone almost incredulous.

  “What?”

  “Ben, he say no.”

  My hand covered my mouth, and I could feel my eyes growing wide in shock. The event was long past, but all this time I thought Ben had chosen his freedom over helping me.

  Nausea hit. A sickness climbed up my throat.

  Quash shook his head, lost in his story. “Crom’all, he grab lime sack. Ben, he fight to get it back. We all scared Ben fightin’ a white massa.

  “All of us, we watchin’ coz we be there beatin’ the indigo water. We think, Ben gon’ be killed for fightin’ the white massa. But Ben he bigger, he has Crom’all on da groun’. We scared for Ben if he kills white massa, so we pullin’ him off. Crom’all he say, alri’, alri’. So Ben done let ’im up. And, it happen so quick, Crom’all he grab sack and throws all in.”

  Water slid over my fingers that covered my mouth, and I realized I was crying. My other hand, squeezing Ben’s leather pouch, was pressed to my breast.

  We stood there, the three of us, for long minutes. The call of birds and hum of insects the only sounds close by. Far off, I could hear the jabber of other voices, and the strike of a tool upon stone. A breeze swam through the ocean of indigo around us, pulling on my skirts and wafting through the leaves. It picked up my hair, tickled my neck, and iced my wet cheeks.

  Then with a hand that shook, I attached the pouch to the cord at my waist that usually hung my small knife and swiped at my cold cheeks with the back of my arms.

  “We’ve waited far too long,” I snapped at Quash and Togo. “Let’s get on with it.” I bent to retrieve the knife at my feet and started cutting again. “Take only the perfect branches. Leave the rest to mature and go to seed. We won’t need much to prove we can do it.”

  The weather was warm, and it took only six days for the leaves to start bleeding into the water. I took a crystal glass from the dining room, ignoring Mother’s protestations and dipped it into the indigo vat every hour of every day and far into each night, capturing water and leaves and holding it up to the horizon or my lantern.

  Not sure what I was looking for, except Ben’s description of the leaves giving up their offering. It took my breath away the moment I saw a thin trailing smoke tendril of blue. Thinking perhaps I’d imagined it through the facets of crystal that caught all manner of colors, I hurriedly dumped the contents of the glass back into the vat and tried again. Yelling for Quash, in a most unbecoming manner, I drew the attention of everyone nearby, and shortly we were all gathered around the vat, me perched at the top of the ladder, holding a crystal glass aloft like some kind of religious ceremony.

  Quash shouldered his way through, his face split into a wide grin. Within a couple of hours, Quash ordered the stoppers removed from the side of the large square vat. I watched in wonder as dark teal water cascaded out of the holes into a lower trough.

  Togo, Sawney, Pompey, and Quash took first shift. Armed with paddles that looked like massive oars with holes bored through, they began a rhythmic beating through the stained water. It was back-breaking work and shortly sweat poured from their bodies and soaked their clothes.

  Mary Ann stoked the large cooking fires. It would be a long few days.

  Instead of all of them trading out, a new body would join and each man would shift around the vat, one of them stepping out for a long break before stepping back into the rotation. I thought they would only rotate through the men, but I swallowed thickly when I saw Sarah step up and take a spot. Tall and proud, she took up her position and within minutes had slid into the same rhythmic pattern.

  The water sloshed and churned, foam forming and spinning into a flower atop the surface. The liquid grew thicker and darker so incrementally as to trick the eyes into believing it had always been so. Shadows lengthened, the sun casting us in gold. And still the beating continued.

  It continued through the night. How much I’d missed by being away at the ball! I could almost feel Ben’s presence here with us.

  Essie brought me a shawl and dinner of hot soup.

  The moon rose. As it reached its zenith, I stood, shedding the shawl, and before Pompey could join in the rotation again I put myself in his place. Grabbing the thick pole, the wood smooth under my fingers, I pushed and pulled it back and forth, rolling my wrist as I’d watched Quash do to move the paddle with the most resistance against the flow of liquid. Forcing it through the holes. Forcing it to let the night air into its depths. I gasped at the weight of the water, tired after mere moments. I gritted my teeth and continued.

  Togo began a soft deep melody and soon other voices joined. Pompey stood close, and as I faltered, my arms and the muscles in my shoulders and back no longer able to keep from screaming, he reached for the pole and replaced me, never missing a beat.

  As the sky began seeping silver, the liquid was deep as midnight. Quash put up a hand and the beating stopped. The liquid continued to spin and swirl. Sawney approached with a small sack. Setting it on the ground, he untied the top to reveal the sand-like contents. Lime. I recognized it as lime made from the oyster shells. Dipping a cup, he handed it to Quash.

  Quash took it, and stepping up on the lip of the trough, sprinkled it across the surface.

  Then he, Sawney, Togo, and Indian Peter resumed their spots and began beating the water again.

  Essie, Mary Ann, and Old Betty, Quash’s mother, stood next to me on either side. Even the children had gathered. It was as though they knew magic was about to occur, and no one wanted to miss it.

  The first few rays of sunlight hit the top of the liquid, and I stifled a laugh of wonder. The foam was a spinning flower on the surface. It was heavy and deep, dark blue, throwing back an iridescence of purple. As they beat the liquid, it grew thicker and thicker as if the water was rejecting all of its blue, the indigo pigment being too strong of a burden to hold down. Like the water was trying to separate itself and return to what it was before it had been forced to accept its role in making indigo.

  It was no use, my smiles could not be contained. The children whooped and clapped. I leaned forward and trailed a finger through the blue scum and held it up in the morning light. It was like paint!

  Joining in the laughter, I locked eyes with Quash and boldly swiped a finger of blue across each of my cheeks. His eyes widened in surprise, and then he threw back his head and laughed.

  The children, seeing what I’d done, laughed delightedly and did the same, though it wasn’t as visible upon their dark skin.

  “The indigo lady, the indigo lady,” Lil’ Gulla chanted and began dancing around me. Soo
n all the children had joined him, and I laughed and clapped along to their song.

  As the joy ebbed into contented satisfaction mixed with exhaustion, I helped Quash and Sawney skim the pigment into a waiting flat tray where it would dry before we could cut it into cakes.

  Mary Ann and Sarah were already at the trough dipping pale swathes of fabric into the remaining green liquid to see if the water held any more dye.

  The fabric emerged green, but before our very eyes began to deepen to blue as the liquid met the morning air.

  It really was some glorious alchemy.

  I turned to look at the fields still full of wild and untamed indigo plants billowing behind me in the morning breeze off Wappoo Creek and again marveled at how anyone could have conceived that this lustrous stuff would be hidden in so unhandsome a plant. And to think I had almost given up.

  I glanced up at the cerulean sky and out to the morning haze upon the creek. “Thank you, Ben,” I whispered, then sought Quash.

  “Quash,” I said, approaching him and touching a hand to his forearm. “Thank you.”

  He did not pull away from my touch. “Thank you, Miz Eliza,” he said and nodded his head once.

  All the pigment we could capture was spread onto the trays. I tried to calculate how much we had. Perhaps six pounds? I’d try to cut the cakes into one pound increments.

  It was deep and dark and rich—indigo dye in its purest form. And I knew without a doubt we had succeeded. Was it as good as French indigo? There was only one way to find out.

  I would send some to the trading houses in London to be tested against French indigo. All of a sudden, my easy acceptance of leaving South Carolina when George arrived was like an ax lodged in my heart.

  The Negroes were singing. And it brought the sting of tears to my eyes. I breathed in their melodious voices and basked in the exultance.

  Today we had all taken part in and witnessed a miracle.

  We would be forever linked together in our shared experience. My joy was their joy. My success belonged to them.

  1744

  My brother George paced in front of the open campaign desk in the study of our Wappoo home. If I squinted just right, he was like an apparition of Father. The same height and build. The same thick, lustrous hair. But his youthful skin shattered the illusion each time he turned to me.

  “A tenant has been found to take over here at Wappoo,” George said to me. “So we shall have no more time to dilly dally in packing up the house. We should aim to book passage by May at the very latest.”

  I nodded absently, agreeing with his assessment. May would be a temperate time to travel. Warm breezes and, of course, well before the threat of Atlantic hurricanes. I sat on the wing chair in Papa’s study where Quash had often sat to read. George strode to sit behind the desk I’d occupied for the last five years.

  How had I found myself back on this side of the desk staring at a man who looked like my father, listening to him decide the terms of our future? My future?

  I would be leaving my beloved South Carolina. Oh, how it had worked its way into my heart. And I would be leaving dear friends. I counted Quash and Togo among them, though I’d say no such thing aloud. And Charles Pinckney. I would miss him most of all.

  In January, as we had arrived in Charles Town to meet George, we’d received news of Mrs. Pinckney’s death. Though we’d known it was imminent, it was no less of a shock. And seeing Mr. Pinckney’s haunted face as we laid his wife to rest pierced my heart with even more grief.

  My brother asked questions about our accounts and which ones needed to be settled before leaving, begrudgingly impressed we were not actually in too much debt. I listened and answered, even though I was thinking of how I’d sat with Mrs. Pinckney long after she’d had me read my letters aloud; long after her husband’s breathing had resumed and evened out and he was no longer eavesdropping.

  The sky beyond the window of our study was pewter gray and ominously still, an early spring storm was on the way. I thought of the land that was no longer Lucas land, our dwindled fortunes, our plans to return to Antigua as if our stay here in South Carolina had never happened. As if the time had never passed. As if I had never existed upon this land nor attempted accomplishing the impossible. As if I had never succeeded.

  How long would we have before we’d be booking passage? I wondered if the indigo plants had dropped enough of the seed we hadn’t collected, and if the fields would be prolific again this year, or if they’d freeze where they stood.

  With a thick swallow I acknowledged it would no longer be my concern. There was a new owner of the land, and a new occupant for the Wappoo home had been named and would take residence as soon as we left.

  A small boat heading along Wappoo Creek approached our landing and stopped. I watched Lil’ Gulla race down to greet it, then return at a run. Behind him, walking slowly toward the house, a black mourning band tied around his upper arm, was Charles Pinckney. I acknowledged how my heart raced with joy at the sight of him, and I allowed myself the small indulgence.

  He was handsome still, despite his stark features that had been honed by his helpless battle against his wife’s illness and death. His shoulders were broad, and he walked with strength of purpose.

  “But I have nothing to offer,” I’d said to Mrs. Pinckney.

  “You are everything he needs,” she’d replied.

  My brother was in midsentence.

  I stood.

  “Eliza?” George asked.

  “We have a visitor,” I said. “Do excuse me.”

  I hurried from the room, out the front door, and down the porch steps.

  Charles Pinckney halted when he saw me. His eyes matched the winter gray of the water behind him. But while the water looked cold, his eyes were warm. Even in their sadness.

  “You did not ride Chickasaw this time?” I asked by way of greeting. My nerves were suddenly jangling in my chest, making it difficult to remember how to converse in a normal manner. I longed to hold him to me and ease his pain.

  His mouth quirked. “It is wonderful to see you, Eliza. I despaired of you ever coming to town, so I thought I should pay you and your family a visit.”

  I was shamed by his light comment. Though he meant no seriousness, it was true. I’d witnessed him bury his beloved wife, my dear friend, and then I’d hurried back to my solitude. Poor Mr. Pinckney. How alone he must feel. “We have been busy making arrangements to leave for Antigua.” I winced as I spoke, then forced a smile. “There always seems to be more to do. Come up to the house, I’ll ring for tea. Please tell me, how have you been?”

  “Actually …” He looked around him. “I was wondering if we might take a short walk? I have news to impart.”

  I glanced toward the house as if asking permission. But truly, whose permission was I asking? My mother and I barely spoke to one another anymore. I’d sooner ask Essie. Technically, George was the one to ask permission from even though he was more than three years my junior. It was laughable. “Of course.”

  I stepped forward, and Mr. Pinckney surprised me by holding out his arm. I hesitated a moment before laying my hand in the crook of his elbow. It seemed small on his coat sleeve. He also looked down to where I held him. Did he too marvel at how tiny my hand seemed?

  “My little visionary,” he murmured.

  “Excuse me?” I was unsure if I’d heard him correctly.

  He shook his head, a small smile about his lips. “Let’s walk,” he said. “Show me your indigo. It is still your indigo, is it not? Not the land beneath it but the plants? Their seeds?”

  I let out a breath. “Yes. I hope the seed drops before we leave.” A wave of melancholy circled my throat, and I swallowed to move it away. “I should like to give some to you. Along with instructions. And perhaps you could see your way to acquiring some of my Negroes?”

  Charles stopped. />
  “Mr. Pinckney. I, I apologize. That was forward. You have your own people. It’s just that if you wanted to produce the dye, we have learned. They have learned. They would be invaluable. And Quash is so very talented. A carpenter even. He could be a builder—”

  “Hush,” Charles said, his voice soft. He laid his other ungloved hand on my own, and I started at the feel of his hot skin upon mine.

  The breath left my lungs.

  “I have news,” he said.

  “Oh.” My cheeks burned in mortification. “Oh yes.” How desperate must I sound? I couldn’t beg him to buy our slaves. He was so very dear to me, sometimes I forgot myself.

  “I received news from London today. They have tested your indigo dye.”

  The world around me seemed to narrow down to the man in front of me. To his words. I spun to fully face him, snatching my hand from his arm. My fingertips pressed to my mouth.

  “What—” I struggled to make sounds to form words. “What did they find?”

  Charles took my hands from my mouth, clasping them in his own. “They found it to be equal, or superior, to French indigo.”

  “They …” A wave of emotion flew from the depths of my chest and I half gasped, half sobbed. “Oh. Oh my.” I swallowed, and tears sprung to my eyes.

  Charles, now blurred in my sight, smiled and nodded.

  “Oh thank the sweet Lord. It worked. It worked! Oh my word. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure. Well done. You have so much to be proud of.”

  With the piercing joy came a sweet and bitter agony. It hadn’t been soon enough to save the Lucas family. But at least I could help Charles. “And Mr. Deveaux,” I said. “I must give seeds to Deveaux also. He was so very encouraging at the start. In fact, I wouldn’t have known to score or soak the seeds if it wasn’t for him.”

  Charles nodded.

  “But not to Laurens. He’s on his own. Don’t let him have any.”

  “You can do as you wish.”

  I smiled through my tears, then chuckled. “We did it,” I managed, then joy burst forth in a full laugh. I wanted to dance around in circles.