The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  My mother was mute.

  I dropped my eyes and picked at the seam in my brocade dinner gown, noting it needed a needle and thread.

  “Eliza has plans for the Wappoo land too.” My father jumped in, presumably to rescue the situation. And promptly made it worse. “Don’t you, Eliza?”

  “Oh dear,” my mother muttered, and then to Mrs. Pinckney, “I do apologize. I’m afraid my husband only encourages Eliza’s precocious nature.”

  “And what plans are those?” Mr. Pinckney ignored my mother’s conversational exit plan.

  “Just a few days ago she asked if she might plant more live oaks for the shipbuilding industry. An eye for the future this one.”

  “Well, the soil at Wappoo is not the right sort to grow rice on any large scale,” I managed softly. “Besides, we already have rice exports from Garden Hill and some from Waccamaw. I should actually like my father to send seeds from the Indias when he arrives there so that I may experiment.”

  “And indeed I shall,” my father said. “If this thing with the Spaniards erupts it may affect our rice exports. We’ll need alternatives.”

  “What crops do you have in mind, Miss Lucas?”

  “Well, I know cotton grows fairly well, and alfalfa.” I thought of what I’d seen grow in the West Indias. “I should like to try ginger and perhaps indigo. It shall all be a bit chaotic for a while I imagine, while we get to know this new climate. I fear last winter there was a touch of frost, which we never got in Antigua, so I shall have to be very cautious.”

  “I believe indigo has been attempted here already without much success.” Mr. Pinckney indulged my conversation. “I tried some out on our land at Belmont at Mr. Deveaux’s urging. It didn’t take, I’m afraid. We have orange trees; we could give you some of those seeds.”

  “Thank you. I should very much like to discuss what you’ve had success with.” I smiled. “Besides, even if we could grow indigo, the actual dye-making is a tricky, and quite frankly, mysterious process,” I said.

  “Does it have blue petals on the bloom then?” Mrs. Pinckney asked.

  I had the feeling that my mother’s manners were preventing her from gently reprimanding Mrs. Pinckney for encouraging me. I loved this topic, having learned a small bit about indigo from my friend Ben, so I took the opportunity while I had it.

  “That’s the absolute marvel of it. Not only does it not have blue flowers, but apparently one must harvest it before the flowers even bloom. And the work has to be done fast, very fast. And there is a formula to follow, or all hope is lost.”

  My father chuckled. “It’s true. It’s practically a dusty old weed, and the Negroes seem to have brought the knowledge with them from Africa. It is quite extraordinary. Though we never got around to producing much yield or quality on our island plantations before we left.”

  I thought of Ben and his grandmother. “The secret has been passed down through generations, perhaps even from ancient times.”

  Mrs. Pinckney raised her eyebrows. “How mysterious.”

  “Quite,” I agreed.

  “How on earth did the first person figure out how to extract the dye?” she asked. “It quite boggles the mind.”

  “Exactly,” I exclaimed, so happy to have another person think as I did.

  “Do you think perhaps someone just stumbled upon it one day?”

  “I think it’s far too complicated a process for that to have happened,” I said, thinking back to watching the Negroes beating the dye endlessly, for hours at a time. Not letting it out of their sight. Waiting for the exact moment to … what exactly? I couldn’t quite remember. And the smell of fermenting and decaying leaves was enough to turn the belly inside out. Nobody puts up with a smell like that by accident.

  “Well,” said Mr. Pinckney, looking at me thoughtfully, “it may be a mysterious process, but it is certainly a lucrative one. I do believe I read that London pays the French over two hundred thousand pounds per annum for indigo from their colonies.”

  My breath froze in my chest at that ungodly amount of money. “For how much indigo? Do you know?”

  Mr. Pinckney assessed me.

  Mrs. Pinckney raised her eyebrows.

  I could feel my mother gritting her teeth next to me at my questions, dying to apologize for my unladylike behavior but not willing to really acknowledge it. My father seemed oblivious to his wife’s tension.

  “Oh, I do apologize,” I backtracked quickly. “My mama always says I am quite headstrong and like to charge ahead. It was idle curiosity, that is all.”

  “Of course, Miss Lucas. No one thought otherwise,” Mr. Pinckney allowed. “However, now that you mention it, I would like the answer to that very question.” And then he winked at me.

  As I lay in a gloriously comfortable bed that night, in one of the few brick houses in Charles Town, I couldn’t keep my mind quiet. It was as if all the events of the last few days had been pointing me to this. The recurring dreams I had, seeing the slave women up at Waccamaw with their blue dyed skirts and finally the direction of the conversation at supper.

  A fire had been kindled inside me and no matter which way I looked at it, I knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t, let it go out.

  Back in Antigua, I’d often taken walks over to the indigo fields to watch the Negroes checking the stalks and leaves for the perfect time to harvest. Really, I was usually going to find Ben. But over time, I became enthralled.

  It is an ancient secret, Ben would say, his smile broad and blinding against the dark of his skin.

  If what Pinckney said about indigo was true, it could save us. It would save me. There was no way my father and mother would foist me off on some mean old man needing an heir. There was no way they would give the running of the plantation business to George if I was the one who had made it a success and released the property from its debt. At the very least it would allow me my pick of suitors if marry I must.

  And how long did I really have? Three crop seasons to get it right. If I didn’t succeed by then, marriage was my only option. A marriage not to save the family or our land—a wealthy man could buy himself a more biddable wife than I—but marriage so my family would not have to support me any longer.

  I’d need help if I were to try my hand at indigo and succeed. I would need someone who knew what he was doing. The Negroes up at Waccamaw clearly knew a way to do it. But how did it go from small batches of liquid dye to something we could send for trade on a large-scale basis?

  I had spent enough time fascinated with the intricate dye-making process that I couldn’t help but wonder about whether we could do it here. I wished I’d paid more attention when I’d returned to Antigua from England. Making dye and producing it in a form that was tradable were clearly two very different things. As far as I knew, the dye didn’t necessarily keep. We could hardly barrel it as I had no idea what being in wood would do to the dye long-term. I saw large, square, brick vats in my memory but those were for mixing.

  An idea had unfurled in my mind along with the fire in my chest. I would speak to my father first thing, and I knew exactly what to ask him. I just hoped I could catch him privately, otherwise Mama would have a fit.

  The following morning I arose early as usual, despite my restless night. I could hear movement downstairs and thumping as my father’s trunks were loaded. I drew on my petticoats and, without Essie to help me, hurriedly did the best I could with the rest of my dress and hair.

  The Pinckneys’ home was as nice a home in Charles Town as I’d had the pleasure to visit. Some of the furnishings were of silk from a nearby plantation and damask imported from Europe. I hoped when the Pinckneys called on us at Wappoo they weren’t offended by our more simple furnishings. Certainly, they were gracious enough never to mention it. How different from the pecking order of London society my mother lived by.

  I slipped from the guest room and padded hastily d
own the stairs to find my father standing at the open front door supervising the loading of his trunks.

  Taking a breath and mustering my best businesslike tone I began, “Father. Colonel, sir.”

  He turned in the doorway, the blue dawn giving his face a ghostly pall for a moment. For a brief flicker I felt this might be the last time I would ever see him, and the thought sent a sharp pain through me. I gasped and threw my arms about my father.

  He caught and held me close against the rough texture of his military jacket. It smelled of pipe tobacco and the linseed oil they used aboard ships to preserve the wood.

  “Papa,” I managed through my tightly closed throat.

  Immediately he withdrew his handkerchief for me.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” I said, taking it gratefully.

  “It’s not forever, Eliza. You be strong now. Do you hear? Your mother needs you. Polly needs you. I need you.”

  I nodded.

  “As soon as George finishes his schooling and then his commission in the military, he will come and relieve you. A few years at most.”

  Swallowing, I knew now was not the time to worry him about my thoughts on that score. There were more pressing matters. “Father.” Pausing, I tried to form the sequence of words I hoped would have the best outcome. “The conversation last night … about indigo. I should very much like to try it. But I was thinking we will need a consultant. I remember so much from watching and …” I went on high alert watching my father’s face as I continued. “And from watching Ben and listening to him—”

  My father’s eyes grew wary as I suspected they would at my mention of Ben. “Where are you going with this, Eliza?”

  “There are folks here who know the indigo process. I can learn. I will learn, but we need someone who knows the process well. We can’t afford mistakes.” I couldn’t afford them because I had limited time before I was on the marriage market, and because my father had encumbered our property for his military ambitions.

  “I want seeds as soon as possible, Papa. Though I shall start with some seeds from old Mr. Deveaux if he has some. And …”

  “Out with it, Eliza,” my father said impatiently.

  I took a deep breath and squeezed my sweaty hands into fists in the folds of my skirts. “I should like you to send Ben.”

  “Impossible.” My father’s surprised response was immediate. “And even if it were not, your mother would never stand for it. What is this madness, Eliza?”

  For a moment I couldn’t gather my words.

  “You don’t need anyone. I have faith in you, Eliza.”

  What a heavy mantle about my shoulders, even while I knew his words were simply to deflate my argument. “Please, Papa,” I begged, lowering my voice.

  “It’s impossible.” My father’s tone was firm.

  “It’s not,” I argued, heedless of the warning in his eyes. “Mama will understand. It will be for the plantations. For us. For our success.”

  He sighed, his eyes furrowed with concern. “It’s impossible because he was sold to an indigo maker in Montserrat around the time we left.”

  The air left my lungs, my heart falling through my stomach. I struggled not to show anything in my expression. Oh, Ben, I thought.

  I had a vision of the first time I saw him as a young boy. He’d seemed my age, though I came to know he was a year older. He and his grandmother were walking along the jungle path between the dwellings and the fields. She stopped every few seconds as they walked, pointing out this plant and that, speaking in her soft dialect I had no understanding of. Curious, I’d trailed behind. Once he turned around, catching me in my inspection, and settled his large eyes on me. Eyes so dark that, especially in the shade of the tree canopy, they looked almost black.

  Then he turned away.

  I picked up a berry and threw it hard at his back.

  Why? I have no earthly idea. Perhaps I was cross at being ignored.

  He didn’t react.

  I tried again. My aim was good. I knew he felt it. Why was he ignoring me? When they reached the dwellings, I stopped, deflated and disappointed. I was allowed no farther and suppertime was soon. I hiked up my skirts and began skipping home when a sharp thwack on the back of my dress caught me by surprise. I squeaked and turned around.

  The boy was standing on the track behind me, a hand full of berries, and slowly he picked another with his free hand and threw it hard.

  Right at me.

  The red berry juice exploded on the front of my linen frock. I inhaled in shock, narrowed my eyes, and glared. I knew I would be in trouble for dirtying my clothes. So much trouble, just the thought of it had my backside smarting.

  His dark face suddenly split open into a blinding white smile, and he threw another. I dodged with a yelp and he giggled. It was the most mesmerizing sound, a cascading waterfall of glee. I glanced about and spying some berries on an adjacent bush, hastily plucked them up while dodging another volley.

  As soon as I was armed, the boy slipped behind a tree. And for the next short while, with squeals and peals of laughter, we played an elaborate game of attack and retreat until I reached for another bush of berries and the boy all but tackled me. Pushing me roughly down to the ground in his haste, he shook his head side to side in a panic.

  “What the devil?” I’d yelled at him, and then saw the fear in his eyes. He pointed to the berries I’d been about to pluck. They looked identical to the ones I’d been hurling at him. Then he drew a line slowly across his neck.

  I’d gulped, weak with the fear of what I’d almost done. Then I’d heard the bell ringing for supper up at the house and raced away, leaving him alone in the jungle.

  The memory, unthought of for years and suddenly so clear in my mind, held my chest in a tight bind I could barely breathe through. All this time, I had assumed he was there. Back where I always thought he would be. Imagining him there gave me comfort. I don’t think in the years that had followed, I ever thanked him for saving my life, for surely that was what he had done.

  I swallowed. “Was … is the person he was sold to a good man?”

  My father’s eyebrows snapped together and his head cocked sideways.

  I shook my head and thought of a more mundane reason for my concern. “I … I just would hate for his skill with plants to be underappreciated.” My voice caught.

  “Eliza,” my father said gently. With empathy. I could hide it, but he knew what Ben meant to me. My father’s friendship with his man Cesar contained a respect that went outside the bounds of slave and owner. But he’d never known that Ben saved my life as a child. He was more than a friend.

  “Don’t,” I said quickly, turning away before he saw the sheen in my eyes. “I’m emotional with your departure, that is all.”

  “Even if I could have sent him, Eliza, your mother would not stand for it,” he said gently. “By selling him to this man, he was being given a chance. A chance to become valuable. Indigo makers are highly prized.”

  I nodded, buying myself a moment to modulate my tone. “Thank you,” I allowed, then gathered my wits. “Father, please just listen. You trust me, I know you do, or you wouldn’t be leaving me in charge. And you trust me to find a successful crop. This is it. I know it. I am sure of it. But—”

  “Then try it. I have enough faith that you will succeed without Benoit Fortuné’s help.” That he used the name I had bestowed upon my childhood friend, Ben the Fortunate, was his way of trying to appease me.

  “If you saw it in Ben, then please. Perhaps you can buy him from this man in Montserrat.” I grabbed at the opportunity—what I thought was his softening. It was a mistake.

  “Enough, Eliza,” my father boomed, his eyes flashing with anger and disappointment.

  I stepped back at his outburst, my blood pounding with humiliation so loud it rang in my ears along with my father’s repriman
d. I bit my lip at my stupidity. This was not the adult conversation I had planned to have, laying out my reasoning and sound judgment. I should have simply asked for a consultant. Any consultant. Not thrown my whole argument away on Ben when I knew how long the odds were. My eyes stung and my cheeks burned.

  “Eliza.” His tone softened in apology. He sounded tired and weary. “I’m not sure you should take on this responsibility.”

  I snapped my eyes to his, my mouth opening to protest, but he held up his hand. “Let’s just take it a moment at a time. I have left instructions with your mama to consult with the Pinckneys at any time to install an overseer at Wappoo if it becomes too much.”

  “No, Father.” I tried and failed to control the tremor in my voice. “I can do this, I swear it. I will make sure you never regret this choice. And furthermore I’ll make sure to do a better job than any person you could dream up to usurp me.” Even my brother George, I didn’t say. This was perhaps my only chance to show my father I was destined for more than being some man’s wife. Perhaps one day. But not yet. What was wrong with being a spinster anyway?

  As if he heard my innermost thoughts of my opposition to marriage, my father continued. “By the by, you are wrong about one thing. Perhaps back in London men prefer empty-headed wives. But here in the new world, it is all hands on deck. Any man would be lucky to have a practical and educated lady such as you to partner and build his future with.”

  I swallowed hard at the near impossible dream my father had for me. Oh how I wished it was so, but Mama attempted to disabuse me of the notion as often as she could. I felt my father naïve, though I humored him. “Well, I have you, my esteemed father, to thank for my education. A gift more valuable could never have been bestowed upon me.”

  “‘The very spring and root of honesty and virtue lie in good education,’” My father quoted, his eyes adrift as if he could see the words.

  “A Greek?”

  “Indeed. Plutarch. I love your headstrong nature, Betsey.” My father chuckled, his tension broken. “But I fear I have cultivated far too much ambition in you. And allowed far too much leniency. You may yet get yourself into trouble.”