The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  Papa didn’t say a word to Mr. Murry and his wife about his imminent departure except that “if” he were absent, they could send word to him through me. After all, he hadn’t even told Mama yet. Mr. and Mrs. Murry acknowledged the news with but fleeting interest. Absentee owners were common.

  Quash stood silently yet intently listening. I could almost feel his questions, yet he voiced none. Quash’s once distrustful eyes when we had first set foot on the Wappoo land were now simply watchful.

  Papa seemed quite pleased after our visit. “A good sort, that Murry,” he’d said as we slid fast and silent downstream on the ferryboat, returning home. “You can count on him.”

  Father told Mama over breakfast the morning after we returned.

  Ann Lucas promptly slumped sideways in her chair, upsetting the silver and sending it clattering to the waxed plank floor. Essie lurched forward from her spot against the wall to catch her mistress, Papa leaped to his feet, and I half stood. Polly calmly watched with rapt attention in a rare chatterless moment, popping bite-sized morsels of bread and marmalade into her tiny mouth.

  “Oh, George.” I heard Mama breathe as my father maneuvered her from the dining table and set course for the stairs.

  “Polly,” I said, when it was clear Papa was not immediately returning. “If you are done with your bread, please go and wait for me to begin our lessons for the day. We’ll try and work on some French before I help Papa.”

  Polly smacked her napkin down on the table, her curls bobbing, clearly picking up on the mood of the morning. “You are beastly with all your lessons and rules.” Her voice rose. “I just want to play!”

  My heart thumped under my tight stays as I wrestled with my own temper. “You will have your morning lessons.” I modulated my voice. “Then you are free to help Essie out with whatever her afternoon activities are. I believe today we are coring apples for a pie. We received some from the Woodwards,” I added.

  Rising, I left the room before she could begin to argue. There was no greater skill a young child had than to trap one into pointless argument. Polly was particularly adept.

  Meaning to head outside to the veranda, I stopped when impulse led me to the stairs in my parents’ wake. I soft-footed it almost to the top before sitting on a stair and hugging my skirts to my legs.

  “It is madness what you are asking of us.” My mother’s shrill voice wafted across the upstairs landing. Perhaps she had meant to start out quietly in her exchange with my father, but she tended to work herself up rather quickly.

  “It’s necessary,” my father corrected, his tone patient.

  “Necessary to your ambitions, you mean. And where will that leave us if you are unsuccessful? Where will that leave your daughters? You are gambling with the future of this family. Eliza is almost marriageable.”

  My breath caught.

  “What faith you have in me, madam.” My father sounded defeated. “Besides, she has no wish to marry yet.”

  I let my air go slowly, but my hands had yet to relax from their bunched-up state.

  My mother made some sound, and my father continued. “But if it will appease you, I shall endeavor to send some potential suitors this way.”

  My whole body strained to make sure my ears missed not even one moment of this conversation.

  “See that you do,” my mother returned emphatically, practically hissing like a bobcat. “We shall be alone out here. What will people say?”

  “This is not England, madam. You knew this was our future when we wed. It is a different world here. A new world. If we can make it so.”

  “A new world doesn’t give you the right to gamble our livelihood for your political ambition.”

  “Ann,” my father implored.

  “Or indeed to leave your sixteen-year-old daughter in charge of our affairs. And it’s not safe! You are a selfish, selfish man.”

  I heard my father’s deep sigh. “Be that as it may, Eliza is more than capable. She will be seventeen by the end of this year. George will be old enough at seventeen to fight for his country. And she has more practical sense in her small toe than most lads I come across in His Majesty’s service. And despite your judgment of my selfishness, we moved here for you.”

  My mother huffed a breath.

  My father went on, “None of us wanted to leave the Indias, but it was my mistaken impression it would be good for your health. My intent was pure.”

  “But I don’t understand why we have to stay here while you return there,” my mother pleaded. “Surely we are safer with you than in this wild land. Just last week, when I saw Mrs. Cleland at the Pinckneys’ Belmont estate, she told us of another attack on a poor soul up near Goose Creek. Bobcat or bear, she didn’t say. And never mind the Indians fighting amongst each other, or the rumors of slaves rising up and killing us in our sleep. I’d sooner take my chances against the Spaniards.” She’d dropped to a dramatic sotto voce and I could see her in my mind’s eye, shivering as she often did when speaking of something unpleasant.

  “Ann. I can’t advance unless I am there, nor unless this land turns a profit. Think of the larger goal. I must advance my commission for our success. Eliza must stay here and run the business for me to do so. There is no other way.”

  There was the sound of movement. While I was sure their argument was not done, I suddenly realized how long I had been eavesdropping on things not meant for my ears. No matter it had been about me too. The last thing I needed was Polly leaving the dining room and catching me in the act.

  My heart was torn equally between heaviness and joy. Joy because I knew I could perform these duties and also that my father believed in me so readily. Heaviness because I did not have my mother’s support, and too I knew my father had no other choice. Would he have picked me if George was of age?

  Standing, I smoothed the wrinkles in my linen skirt and quietly descended the steps to await my father.

  The bright sunlight dappled through the large live oaks that writhed and wove together into a sinewy canopy. Such beautiful trees. So stalwart, so strong.

  In the distance I could see the work of our field hands as they bent and stood and walked through the rice and alfalfa fields in the beating sun. Beyond that, Wappoo Creek sparkled in a peekaboo with the thick marsh grass. The tide was in.

  Another three-quarter turn told me a wagon was approaching in the distance, rattling up the track toward the house. I knew the tall, lithe body upon it. Our driver, Quash. He’d take my father and me about again. This time to our plantation up near Georgetown, along the banks of the Waccamaw River.

  A faint breeze cooled the residual warmth in my cheeks left over from my upset with Polly and overhearing my parents’ conversation. Out of all four of us Lucas children, Polly needed a mother’s firm hand the most. It was unfortunate she was the only one not to get it. George and Tommy were at least schooling in England, and Mrs. Bodicott, our guardian, was fair and kind but stern.

  Breathing in one more deep lungful of moist salted air, I heard the steps of my father joining me outside on the veranda.

  “Ah, Eliza.”

  “How’s Mama?” I inquired without taking my eyes off the view.

  “Fine. She’ll be fine. I promised her I’d ask the Pinckneys to look out for your social life once I’m gone. It seems she might be more concerned about that than my leaving.”

  “No doubt.” Mama was always on with this angle to remind me to associate with people my own age. I liked the quiet life out in the country, even if it was lonely at times. “Sir—”

  “Of course, I assured her I felt the same way. I know you are young now, Eliza, but in a few years, and certainly when your brother comes across to take over my affairs here on the plantations, you will need to be wed. There are only a few years to find someone suitable.”

  A lump of dread forced its way up my throat. I hated that it was a foreg
one conclusion I would have to marry soon. The thought of it turned my stomach. Having someone touch me and expect things of my person. Not forgetting I would probably have to give up my studies and certainly the business affairs of my father. “How will anyone be suitable, Papa? I have no interest spending my days in frivolous pursuits while a man runs the business of our lives.”

  “Would that you were my son. But you are not. And you may feel differently one day, Eliza. Perhaps if you had the right friends you’d enjoy other activities that young girls enjoy. I hear Mr. and Mrs. Pinckney have a niece, Miss Bartlett, who will be joining them soon for a visit. Perhaps you two young ladies might enjoy each other’s company and catch the eye of some eligible sons in town in just a few years?”

  “I won’t,” I bit out emphatically. “And what man will indulge my interests when they run so far from the average lady’s? Mama often reminds me no man wants to take a lady to wife who will make him feel simple. I have no interest in japanning furniture and sipping tea all day long listening to boring gossip.”

  I finished my outburst and stared at my father’s confused face. He had no idea my mood had been worsened by listening to his and my mother’s exchange. My emotions were running too close to the surface today. “I’m sorry, Papa, I …”

  How could I explain without him perhaps regretting his decision to have me help with his business affairs? Besides, I had plans for our little acreage here at Wappoo. We already grew rice in the recently purchased Waccamaw property, and we could trade timber for sugarcane with the Indias. I thought of my little horticultural experiments upstairs in my bedroom and also of the dear, elderly gentleman on a neighboring plantation. Mr. Deveaux shared my love of botany, and I couldn’t wait to be left to my own devices to see what else we might grow here. I would surprise my father with my industry.

  The very last thing I wanted was for my father to second-guess his decision. Or worry about the burden of having a spinster daughter to support once I was no longer needed upon my brother George’s arrival a few years hence. Perhaps if I could show my worth, then I might yet have options beyond marriage.

  “Pray, what is ‘japanning’?” My father finally spoke.

  Taken aback, I laughed. “It’s a ridiculous pastime performed by some of the other ladies in town. I am sure Mama has already sent for supplies.” I rolled my eyes to the heavens. “You paint thick black lacquer on furniture to make it look …” I paused at the queer expression on my father’s face.

  “… like it’s from Japan?” he asked, a bushy eyebrow cocked.

  I giggled. “Yes.”

  “Well,” he mused, “I can see how you think that might be an odd way to spend one’s time. Am I to return from the Indias to find all our earthly possessions painted thus?”

  “Absolutely. But not the silver.” I laughed, and he joined me.

  “No, I daresay, not the silver. So, I know you’ve been out here scheming, Eliza. You can’t fool me that you aren’t a bit excited at being sole decision-maker around here. What do you have up your sleeve?”

  Oh, how well my father knew me. “Just questions, sir. Let us away up to Waccamaw, and I shall interrogate you on our journey.”

  “Right you will, Eliza.” He laughed, his brown eyes creasing with mirth and affection. “Right you will.”

  The afternoon wagon ride to the ferry landing up near St. Andrew’s church was hot, the scorching sun relentless in its assault.

  “Colonel Lucas, sir?”

  My father, deep in thought and sitting on a bench with me in the back rather than up front with Quash, looked up. He was troubled by his departure, I knew.

  “Will tensions really escalate to war with the Spaniards?” I asked, remembering his conversation with Mama. “Are we safe here? Will you be safe?”

  “Well, you are safer here than with me in Antigua. Should they get past us, and past Oglethorpe in Savannah, then you are to ask Charles Pinckney for advice. He’ll be amongst the first with information and will be able to advise you whether to stay put.”

  “And what about other threats, Papa? I have been reticent to mention it, but to leave three females alone … not that we aren’t capable … but are we to turn to Mr. Pinckney for everything?”

  “I know it would be almost unheard of in England. It seems more acceptable here to have womenfolk more involved. And is that so bad, Eliza? Besides, Pinckney and his wife have been wonderful friends to us. To you and your mama. In fact it was he who suggested you would be more than capable of acting as my surrogate in the plantations’ affairs rather than hire another overseer.”

  I whipped my gaze from the road to my father in order to gauge his sincerity.

  “’Tis true.” He nodded. “Not that I didn’t think you were capable myself, of course.”

  “I know I can do it, Papa.”

  “You have to. I can’t see to my duties, nor advance my commission, unless I am there. And for someone like Charles Pinckney, someone of such … esteem to agree, and moreover, to approve of you in this role, well, I see you will have an ally in him.”

  Mr. Pinckney was of an age with Father, though he had wonderfully kind eyes and a merry humor and was considered handsome. More than that, I did so love his intellectual banter regarding issues of the day, much to my mother’s irritation.

  Which made it twice the fun.

  The strong stench of tar required my linen hat tie be brought across my mouth and nose as we walked past the sheds. I listened intently as my father and Starrat, the overseer of the Waccamaw plantation, discussed yield. The heat was damp and relentless, hugging my skin and weighing down my underdress with perspiration.

  I didn’t like Starrat. Not at all.

  Just one look at the whipping post I’d seen when we’d first visited had immediately set me against him. Father had already asked him to remove it once, and had apparently been ignored. A rope was affixed to it now, hanging limply down near the scuffled dirt below. The sight of dried blood and the smell of urine turned my stomach. It wasn’t the first such post I’d seen. And certainly, I’d seen them occupied: a poor soul half hanging, half standing as they bore the punishment for some unknown indiscretion or petty crime, blood the same color as my own, running in bright red rivulets against dark skin.

  I shuddered. But never on land we owned.

  I would speak to my father again about this. Perhaps the previous owner had run his business with a severe hand, but that didn’t mean it should stay that way.

  Starrat was a portly sort with a brusque manner and the vague odor of something stronger than ale sweating from his pores. His face was a few days past a clean shave, which smacked of laziness rather than the cultivation of a beard. It was still too hot for beards in late summer.

  Frankly, there were a few too many small mulatto children running around the slave dwellings for my liking.

  I could see Quash watching them too. Their skin color matched his own. Quash’s mother, Betty, was of indeterminate age and resided at our Wappoo property. A woman with stronger hands I’d never met. She used those hands for a skill usually undertaken by Negro men: to grapple marsh grasses without cutting herself, twisting and threading them into baskets woven so tight we could carry water if necessary. Those capable hands were black as the pitch in the barrels we were currently inspecting. Sometime in the past, an overseer or some other white man had planted the seed of Quash, who had grown up to become our most trusted driver.

  I wondered if Quash knew or cared who had sired him. I was ashamed to admit it had never crossed my mind before now. We’d inherited him along with nineteen other slaves at our Wappoo property. Then Father had bought both this acreage and the one we’d visited a few days ago, deep inland on the banks of the Combahee River, and these properties had far more slaves apiece. A necessary evil, my father had counseled me. Impossible to build a new world without able-bodied help. Unfortunately, our new world
also came with “necessary” hard-handed overseers already in place. Like Starrat.

  “You can send word down to Miss Lucas at Wappoo if you have any delays or changes to things we’ve discussed.” My father shook out his kerchief and mopped his brow and the back of his neck again.

  The heat was rolling and oppressive. Rather than a cooling breeze off the water, the air off the churning, brackish Waccamaw River seemed to press the heat more firmly upon our shoulders.

  Starrat barely glanced in my direction. “Sir, I can just as easily send the note to Beale in Charles Town, it would reach you sooner.” That he made mention of our merchant contact, Othniel Beale, with so much familiarity made me wonder how much business he was conducting outside of his official capacity.

  “Be that as it may, I’d prefer Mistress Lucas to be aware of all that is relevant here so that she may take it into account. She will be keeping my records.”

  “And does Miss Lucas have other male assistance at Wappoo? An overseer to help with the business side of things? Or keep her Negroes in line.” Starrat glanced at me, his gaze shifty.

  Inwardly, I bristled.

  “Mistress Lucas is more than capable, I assure you,” my father returned curtly. Starrat either didn’t notice or ignored the warning in my father’s tone.

  “Well, if you don’t discipline these savages, who’s to say they won’t rise up and overpower their owners. I keep my Negroes well in hand, sir,” Starrat boasted with a hard tone that spoke of necessary violence.

  It was difficult not to look over at the whipping post while he spoke.

  Papa tucked his hand into his pocket and brought out a small case of tobacco and his pipe.