by Natasha Boyd
Cromwell’s head bobbed backward in surprise that I would rather defer to Ben’s expertise.
“Well?” I persisted, ignoring the undercurrent.
“Master Cromwell says it is ready.”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
Cromwell grunted in satisfaction.
“The water, it is not warm enough,” Ben murmured, glancing sideways at Cromwell.
“Well, the sun is not strong enough, it will be. Come along. We haven’t got all day.”
“Wait,” I said. I struggled with whether to call Cromwell out by giving credence to Ben’s belief. But it was obvious Ben was the master indigo maker here. “Can I feel the water? I’d like to get a better understanding of the process.”
“Suit yourself. But if the indigo gets too dry, it will not be for my lack of advisement. I’m going in the house for some refreshment. I’ll be out momentarily.”
Ben gave me a reassuring look with a subtle shake of his head.
There were two ladders, made by Quash and Pompey, one each on opposing sides. I approached one and climbing gingerly up to the rim, I peered into the clear water. Dipping my fingers in, I was surprised when it felt neither cool nor warm. “It feels perfectly temperate to me.”
“Lower your hand.” Ben’s voice next to me at thigh level surprised me. “You must feel the water here.”
I looked to where he lay two fingers across his wrist. “Here to your arm, where you feel the …”
His brow furrowed.
“My pulse?” I offered.
Ben nodded and touched his chest. “Where you can feel your heart pulse. That’s where you must feel the water.”
I lowered my hand, and sure enough, the water that had felt neither one thing nor another, at once had a small bite of coolness as it slipped over the joint from my hand to my arm.
“You should not feel it here, if it is ready.” I startled as I felt Ben’s fingers against my wrist that hung at my side. Hidden from anyone watching, his fingers moved lightly across my skin, indicating where he meant. “This water need more heat.”
I snatched my wrist away from him. “You’re right,” I said, attempting to react normally. My voice was tight.
“It feels cool,” I said and descended backward down a rung, my legs feeling weak. “So what do we do? We can’t wait, can we? What are we to do?” My toe slipped and I gasped.
Ben’s strong arm was about my waist to steady me. I was enveloped in an aroma of salt, clove, and warm safety. The heat of a body at my back. In an instant his arm was gone and my feet were firmly on the ground.
My heart pounded with adrenaline, and I sucked in air, reaching a steadying hand out to the brick side of the vat.
I quickly glanced around to see if Cromwell had seen Ben catch me. But he was almost at the house … where my mother stood upon the wraparound veranda, turned in our direction.
My heart, already racing, seemed now to drip acid. I felt ill. I was, at once, a child caught in an act of stupidity by an unforgiving parent.
“I have bricks in the fire to warm the water.” Ben’s voice snapped my attention back to him.
“Pardon, what?”
“The water. It must be warmer.” His face was impassive and stony. Was this the same Ben whose fingers had just gentled across my skin and steadied me as I fell?
I swallowed, embarrassed.
He went to the fire, calling out something to Togo and Sawney who joined him. Poking through the logs with a large set of iron tongs, he withdrew a brick-shaped object covered in ash and glowing embers. Walking quickly to the vat, he climbed up and dropped the stone with a hiss and a plume of steam. Sawney and Togo worked more bricks hidden in the fire free with sticks, and Ben hurried them to the pool.
Ben had carved what he called a “beating paddle.” He grabbed it and agitated the water in the vat, pausing occasionally to check the temperature again.
“It’s ready,” he said at last.
Sawney called out, and bodies emerged from huts and shady corners heading back to the bundles of indigo leaves. As people materialized, Togo began a low singing. Moving to the bundles, they formed a line.
Ben positioned himself at the top of the ladder and Togo mirrored him on the other side.
As bundles came up, one hand to the next to Ben, he’d throw them in and direct Togo to move them here or there with the paddle. Togo nodded as he sang, and before long all of the plant cuttings had disappeared over the edge of the large container.
I took Togo’s place, so I could see inside the vat again.
Ben stayed at the top of his ladder facing me. He pushed, prodded, and heaved the paddle to and fro as he made sure all the indigo was lined up, the stalks like sacrifices lying side by side on the battlefield. Long, heavy, bark-stripped branches were passed along the line and fed up to Ben.
He laid their pale lengths crosswise to keep the stalks submerged under the weight.
“Amazing to watch, isn’t it?” Cromwell’s voice came from beside me.
I glanced down at him, and he indicated the chain of humans. I climbed down, more carefully this time, and slapped my palms together, dusting them off. “It is.”
“Ben could command an army of slaves. Neither you nor I have to tell anyone what to do. Ben just gets it done.” He shook his head. “Remarkable.”
The chances of Ben being manumitted by Cromwell and becoming a free man were slim, and I was sure every time Ben showed his worth, the chances grew slimmer. I bit down a kernel of despair at the idea and focused on the wonder of my scheme being so close to fruition.
“When do you leave for the ball?” Cromwell asked.
“Tomorrow. I’m grateful the harvest came upon us so suddenly. I would have hated to miss this part.” I pursed my lips. “I hate to miss any of it. And despite the lack of extra hands, it seems they managed quite well,” I couldn’t help adding. “Tell me what is the procedure next?”
Cromwell cleared his throat importantly. “Now it soaks. Anywhere from fourteen hours or more. Depending on the sun tomorrow it could take days. It will be watched and checked constantly for the leaves to give up their ‘offering’ as Ben calls it.”
“Their gift,” I agreed and gave a small smile. “He called it a gift once.”
Cromwell snorted irreverently. “Exactly. We’ll then remove the stalks and beat the water to get the air moving through it. Once it turns dark then we add the lime. I’ll watch it closely to make sure it’s done right.”
Togo and Ben worked together to secure a cover across the top of the vat that had been made from stitched-together sackcloth. To keep the heat in, I surmised. I’d seen Sarah do the same.
Finally, it seemed Ben was satisfied. He straightened and climbed down to us.
“They must eat well and rest tonight,” Ben said approaching, wiping his hands and his brow on a piece of muslin. “When it begins, the beating is hard work.”
Once again I was desperately sad I would be missing it. “I’ll have Quash speak with Mary Ann about what we can spare to add to their dinner.”
Ben nodded and made his way to the dwellings.
My eyes followed him as he walked over to the rainwater barrel. He stripped off his white shirt, revealing his black skin burnished from sweat.
“His form is certainly formidable,” Cromwell commented.
My cheeks burned with fire. And I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and looked away. A glance to Cromwell showed his eyes narrowed on me.
“Certainly,” I managed. “You must be pleased to own him.”
“Indeed,” Cromwell mused, his hand rubbing his chin. “Indeed, I am.”
“Well,” I smiled, “I must go and see about dinner and begin packing for tomorrow. It was quite an exciting day.” With that I realized I was starving, having not eaten since breakfast.
“If
it goes well, you should have some drying indigo pigment cakes awaiting your return. We shall leave a sentry posted all night. I believe Ben will want that honor.”
“It will go well,” I said stiffly. “I have no doubt that you’ll live up to your reputation. It would be unfortunate not to be able to recommend your expertise.”
King George II’s Birthday Ball was a magnificent occasion. Despite my reticence to leave the plantation, I was filled with such wonder at the sparkling elegance of Charles Town society, their wealth on full display, that I couldn’t help being glad I’d attended.
Burnished buckles, jewels, and formal military regalia glittered wherever one looked in celebration of a regent thousands of miles across the sea.
Bettina had turned our lackluster fabric choices, all we’d been able to afford, into exquisite apparitions. Mama was regal in dark green, alternating bolts of silk and velvet that must have been a donation from Mrs. Pinckney, catching the light. And I felt like a confection in dusky rose shot through with gold thread.
Essie had traveled with us and spent the better part of the day curling both my and Mama’s hair with hot irons. That was after she’d made sure I kept my farming hands wrapped in oiled muslins for most of the boat journey to soften them back to girl’s hands. We’d bathed in orange blossom–scented water and become as primped and primed as any of the Charles Town ladies.
As we left our room, Mama stopped me. “I’m counting on people’s short memories of your incident with Mr. Laurens … If ever you are to catch the eye of a future husband, tonight will be the time. You are a vision.”
Surprised, I felt overcome with emotion at her kind words, even couched in a reminder of my folly. “Thank you, Mama. You look beautiful also. I wish Papa could see us.”
She nodded as if it were her due. “Don’t mess up your chances by talking about your indigo,” she added then tapped my arm with her fan and proceeded ahead of me to the stairs.
I couldn’t think of anything but the indigo. If it would succeed. If Ben could succeed. What that might mean for our family. To my father. My thoughts were all braided together and as tightly wound as a grass basket.
Sighing, I followed.
Mama needn’t have worried that my mouth would ward off potential suitors. I never even had the chance to hold back. While I had noticed a few second glances, I feared most of them were out of curiosity. John Laurens, while not always part of the Charles Town society elite, obviously served enough of the families in his merchant capacity for his spurned outrage to have had far-reaching consequences. In fact, I saw him chatting with Mr. Manigault and wondered if John Laurens was, perhaps, borrowing to buy some land of his own, having lost his chance with me. Or at least looking for a deal from someone who couldn’t redeem his mortgage. Perhaps he’d get his hands on our property after all. I forced back a shudder of worry.
Andrew Deveaux was a welcome sight, and I approached as soon as Mama had taken her umpteenth trip to the punch table to soothe her headache.
“Miss Lucas.” He beamed. “What a delight. Tell me your news.”
“It’s most gratifying,” I told him. “And I must thank you for all your counsel regarding seeds and such in the past.”
“Nonsense. I’d hardly say I gave you much direction behind cheering you along.”
“Even the little pointers helped. And don’t underestimate what your support of my endeavors has done for me.”
“In that case, you are welcome.”
I quickly and eagerly filled him in on the progress of my indigo and promised him some seeds for next season.
Mother returned and after chatting with Mary Chardon and her mother, we sought out the gracious hostess of our stay in town, Mrs. Pinckney.
Mrs. Pinckney, Mrs. Cleland, Miss Bartlett, and I had occasion to find ourselves alone when Mama finally repaired to the ladies’ rest area for respite.
I took the opportunity to thank them.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Pinckney.
“Thank us for what?” asked Miss Bartlett. At barely seventeen years of age, I still enjoyed her youthful enthusiasm and also her obliviousness to underlying current. Though I rather thought that was less to do with her age and more her design. It was part of what I found so wonderful about her. She was a true friend. There were no hidden meanings behind her words or her actions.
I smiled, not really sure how to explain.
“You’ll find,” said Mrs. Cleland, addressing me, “that we have nothing to prove. We are both well, and grandly, married. Mr. Pinckney is so very well respected in town, in spite of his shenanigans in court this week, but frankly none could be his equal in understanding of the law. That gives he and Mrs. Pinckney a certain inoculation against petty social grievances. For my part, I simply don’t care.” She fluttered her hand-painted chinoiserie fan. “I think you are wonderfully smart, Eliza. And a dear, dear girl. Would that we all had been given your opportunity. I am your largest, most vocal supporter,” she finished and took a small sip of her punch.
My chest expanded to bursting, and I was quite unable to respond.
“Well said.” Mrs. Pinckney smiled. “I’d say I am too. But I do believe we both lose that title to Mr. Pinckney.” She laughed.
At that moment, the man in question was upon us. “My ears are burning and I do believe I heard my name. What is afoot?” He laid a hand fondly upon his wife’s shoulder, and I felt a shot of melancholic yearning to know what it felt like to have such a relationship. So trusting. So mutually uplifting. So tender. Or to at least know what it would be like to be the offspring of such a tender union. Even though I knew Papa was tender with my mother, it was clear to me in that moment that my parents did not even come close to the magic that flowed between this man and his wife. The simple physical affection alone was enviable. A brief vision of Ben gently touching my wrist startled me, and I shook it away.
“Oh, do dance with me, Uncle,” Miss Bartlett pleaded. “I can’t keep up with the cryptic conversation of these ladies.”
Charles chuckled. “Come along then. And, Miss Lucas, do you wish for a turn about the floor when I am done?”
My face flared with searing heat.
“Oh, do go on,” said Mrs. Pinckney. “Charles does so love to hear about your latest exploits. Take pity on the man.”
“All right.” I nodded, even though the thought of making a spectacle of myself by dancing with Charles Pinckney caused my stomach to knot upon itself. “I’ll wait here.”
Miss Bartlett giggled as Mr. Pinckney bowed formally over her hand, and then they were off.
“You are sweet to correspond with my niece.” Mrs. Pinckney sighed after them.
“It is a pleasure, I assure you. And I’m sure you know it is as much a way to keep your husband up to date on my endeavors as Miss Bartlett.” My eyes flicked to Mrs. Cleland at my admission, but she looked unsurprised.
“We surmised as much,” said Mrs. Pinckney, also glancing at Mrs. Cleland, and then smiling gently at me. She squeezed my hand. “Tell me, Eliza, do you keep up much with politics?”
“As much as I hear or that affects my plantation business,” I answered with a shrug.
“Then you must have heard of Oglethorpe’s tyrannical government at Georgia. And also the late act of Parliament that extends to all America to dissolve our private banks or be liable to lose our estates and put ourselves out of the King’s protection.”
My blood chilled in my veins. “What d—does that mean?”
“Oh, you won’t be losing land, I doubt. You’ll have to ask Charles. He was quite forthright before the judges this week. He was held in contempt, and the six of them unanimously fined him twenty shillings!”
“And poor man,” said Mrs. Cleland. “To fall off his horse and get in trouble with the judges in the same week. Luckily his pride is robust. He’s quite right though,” she added. “It’s ridic
ulous for some act of Parliament in London to apply to us. We are already underfunded in the war against the Spanish, and now they seek to tell us how we best conduct our affairs?”
My head swung between the two of them. We, the Lucas family, had our money in the private bank. I’d needed the ease of paper money to transact. We had personally become dependent on the paper money system, and our accounts were in good standing, thanks to my pained efforts to keep them so.
“Of course, regardless of his thoughts on the matter, Charles’ associates did stop issuing notes upon learning unofficially of the law.”
“Are you all right? You look quite pale.” Mrs. Pinckney dipped her head toward me.
“She does,” added Mrs. Cleland, reaching to squeeze my hand. “Shall we repair to the ladies’ resting area?”
“I’m fine. I, uh, I have so much plantation business on my mind. And I do wonder how this will affect us.”
At that moment Charles Pinckney returned with Miss Bartlett.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Miss Bartlett gushed. “Oh, Auntie, I do believe there are several handsome men here tonight. Who is that, for example?” She pointed across the room. Mrs. Pinckney immediately took her niece’s hand and lowered it, causing her to giggle. “Sorry.”
We all looked across the room, and I saw Middleton and Drayton talking, their heads bent together. “Well, only John Drayton is still unattached.” Mrs. Cleland had raised her monocle on a stem and was peering across the room. “And barely so. A fortnight or so and he will be married to Lieutenant Governor Bull’s daughter, Charlotte, of Ashley Hall.”
“Oh, drat,” breathed Miss Bartlett. “They shall all be married off by the time I’m of age next year.”
“I daresay there’ll be another crop of young bucks gallivanting about by then,” offered Mrs. Pinckney.
Mrs. Cleland clucked. “As long as they are not all sent to their deaths fighting the Spanish under Oglethorpe.”
I shuddered and squeezed Miss Bartlett’s hand. “I wish all men were as great cowards as myself, it would make them more peaceably inclined.” I thought of my papa, and then of dear George already following in his footsteps. “I could moralize for half an hour on the wickedness and folly of war and bloodshed, but I do believe Mr. Pinckney offered me a turn about the room.” My mind was still racing at the news about the private banks, my skin feeling at once sweaty with panic.