The Indigo Girl

  a novel

  Natasha Boyd

  Copyright © 2017 by Natasha Boyd

  Excerpts from letters by Eliza Pinckney used with

  kind permission of the South Carolina Historical Society

  E-book published in 2017 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design by Kathryn Galloway English

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-4551-3717-6

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-4551-3714-5

  CIP data for this book is available from

  the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  For Briony

  “No time is ours but the present…

  and that so fleeting, we can hardly be said to exist.”

  When I look back upon my struggle with indigo, it appears in my consciousness as a dream.

  Impressions are all I am left with—impressions of hands dragging me down, squeezing my heart, keeping me under. Hands that want me to drown in my own creation. In my ambition.

  And drown I did.

  I sank into the opaque blue abyss.

  Yet even though indigo broke my heart, it saved my life.

  Indigo ran through my veins.

  Blue blood would pulse through my children’s veins.

  In my later years, when I knew about deep and abiding love and the pride of having sons who would be part of birthing a new nation, I’d look back on that time of my life and thank God for indigo.

  How was it that the deepest of blues—the color of the sky in the predawn hours before the warm sticky blanket of the day folded its weight over our shoulders, the hue that made me think of heaven and fine silk, kings and treasures beyond imagining, ancient and unfathomable history—could come from that awkward, dusty weed?

  I would thank God also for Essie, and for Quash, for Togo, and Sawney, and especially for Ben. For the ones who believed in me.

  And Charles, of course. Always, I’d thank Charles.

  I would also thank my father for his choice to leave a sixteen-year-old girl in charge of his plantations. I never did see him again.

  To my dear friend Mrs. Bodicott in England,

  I flatter myself it will be a satisfaction to you to hear I like this part of the world, as my lot has fallen here—which I really do. I prefer England to it, ’tis true, but think Carolina greatly preferable to the West Indias.

  The people live very genteel and very much in the English taste.

  —Eliza Lucas

  1739

  The Negroes were singing.

  Light danced over the dark, inky ocean, and I blinked my eyes awake.

  No ocean.

  Just the faint blue of a breaking day casting over the white walls of my bedchamber.

  A dream still clung damp to my bones. Always the same since I was a child. Sometimes threatening, sometimes euphoric.

  Breathing in deeply, I fancied the day held the weight of destiny.

  I picked out the distinctive low rumble of Togo’s voice in the melody, the breadth of his voice in correlation to his size. In our few months in South Carolina, I’d already become familiar with how his deep tenor was the base upon which the other Negro voices blended and danced. I came to know that when they sang, they all worked together on some greater task.

  The harvest. The Negroes were singing because they had begun a harvest.

  Disliking to rise into the wave of humidity that swelled and crested each day, sapping my energy before I could finish my tasks, I kicked the slubby linens off my legs to get ahead of it.

  Esmé had already filled the water bowl and pitcher. After stretching my limbs to wring the last of the dark, sticky dream from my body, there was nothing save the vague sense of triumph that lingered from some unknown accomplishment.

  I made quick use of the stone-cooled water to freshen my pale skin. My hands, slightly darker in skin tone from my time spent outside, reached for the small tin bell. A single tinkle, so as not to wake my maudlin mama or little Polly, was enough to summon the dark wraithlike figure of Esmé, whose sight and hearing were as keen as any owl’s. She slipped into the room, her cloth-covered feet silent on the wooden boards. Her body in a simple dress of sackcloth, a white muslin wrapped tightly around her head.

  “Morning, Essie. I heard singing. Has the harvest begun? Let us make haste.”

  “Yes. But big Lucas, he be needin’ to speak wit ya.”

  I frowned. Father never asked for me. I already went to his study every morning to assist him with his correspondence after I walked the plantation. I would write his correspondence so he could dictate. His strides across the study seemed to help him find the words he needed to convey things that required a delicate care. Then I would accompany him around our small plantation, pointing out things I might have seen on my dawn inspection. Occasionally I would go with Papa and our driver, Quash, to our other two tracts of land to converse with the managers.

  Esmé unbound my coiled dark hair, shaking it out and running the fine bone comb through it before braiding and repinning it up off my neck. She was adept at not taking any longer than I wanted to get myself ready, despite my mother’s annoyance that I wouldn’t take more care in dressing. Having tended to me since my childhood in Antigua, Essie knew I was not bothered with the primping my mother undertook. Besides, my still girlish body didn’t require much stuffing into any shape-inducing accoutrements.

  Essie and Mary Ann and Nanny, the two Negro ladies we’d found in charge of the house when we arrived, kept the home life of the plantation running fairly smoothly. It was just as well, since Mama wasn’t in a fit state to do much mistress-of-the-house-ing, and I had been busy insinuating myself into Papa’s day-to-day business affairs. I found it a fascinating challenge, and of course my love of plants and horticulture that I’d acquired as a child in Antigua was put to good use whenever the subject of crops was raised.

  I hurried to water the small green shoots on my window ledge, the live oaks a gift from a nearby neighbor and fellow botany enthusiast, Mr. Deveaux. Then I made my way downstairs.

  “Eliza.” My father’s voice barked as I approached the open door of the study. He paced in front of the open campaign desk he preferred to use, rather than the polished mahogany one we’d purchased upon landing in Charles Town. Fully dressed for the day, his brown hair, graying at the temples, was waxed yet disheveled. His brow wore a new pleat of consternation.

  “Papa. Colonel, sir,” I hastily corrected myself.

  It had caused my father much amusement when I’d recently informed him I was far too old to be referring to him in the same manner as my baby sister, Polly. Though he seemed to approve. Indeed, his manner of conversing with me had slowly evolved into more partner or friend than that of a father to his offspring. I clung to this new level of respect. He was a fair man, and for the most part stuck to his promises. It taught us children early on not to test his limits.

  “Have you had your eggs?” I asked.

  He nodded absently. “Yes. I—when I was in town yesterday, I intercepted a correspondence that was heading this way. For me. A summons.”

  I swallowed. “A summons?”

  “I’m needed back in Antigua.”

  “Is it time to return already?”

  “I’m afraid so. By the end of the month. I was hoping for a little longer to see you all settled, and
at least know your mama was improved. I’m afraid this move has set her back.”

  I pursed my lips. The truth was a sea breeze could set Mama back with her migraines and dull energy. A more different person, I could not be. I often wondered how my vital father had seen the wisdom in a match with my mother. She was handsome, it was fair to say, but Papa favored other qualities. A fact he told me often and with some vigor when he and Mama had sent me off to school in England. I was separated from them with only our friends the Bodicotts to be in loco parentis. My younger brothers, George and Tommy, lived with them still while they schooled.

  “So what shall we do with the plantations when we return to Antigua? Do you trust your overseers to manage the business?”

  Papa had swung about to face me. One hand grasped his chin, the other absently fiddled with the strings on his shirt. He stared at me deeply as if I held the secret key to a universal problem. With a long sigh, he dropped both hands. “And that you should ask me such a question, Eliza, helps me with this momentous decision.” He didn’t have to tell me that he hoped to reach whatever decision he was making and have it be irrevocable by the time my mother was up to greet the day.

  The idea of returning to Antigua with its emerald green foliage, clear blue sea, and fond memories of my childhood Negro friend, Benoit, was not unwelcome. It was Ben’s knowledge of plants that had lit the flame of my own passion for botany. I missed him often as I adjusted to plantation life and grew to know this new and strange land.

  Returning to Antigua, or even England for that matter, was of course appealing, but the social expectation of wedding a nice young lieutenant from a strong British family was not. That was surely my lot once I returned to either place.

  I searched my father’s eyes closely then took note of his clothing and the general state of his desk. “You have not slept at all have you, sir?”

  “There hasn’t been time.” He spurred forward. “Come, Betsey.” He cleared his throat. “Eliza,” he corrected with a shake of his head, knowing how I tried to grow out of my childhood name. “Let us get you some food, then we must away to meet with the managers at Garden Hill and Waccamaw.”

  “So, I’m to accompany you?” I was careful to moderate my tone, not wanting to show too much enthusiasm for this “man’s work.” I followed him to the dining room where I selected a boiled egg and some cold smoked fish from the sideboard.

  My father pulled out a chair for me and took his seat at the head of the table. “Tell me, Eliza, have you enjoyed our time here? I know we were hoping the climate of the colonies would be more moderate than that of the islands and be of help to your mama’s temperament. Alas.” He smiled ruefully. “There’s not much to help her feel better.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it immensely,” I responded dutifully, thinking of what else he would like me to say. “The people in town have been most pleasing,” I added.

  But mostly I’d enjoyed the time on our lands talking of the potential my papa saw. Slowly, slowly this new world with its dripping, ghostly moss and its marshy brackish water, monsters lurking beneath the surface, seemed to fill my dreams and its very otherworldly essence to find its way under my skin.

  In the islands, our holdings—mostly sugar land—had been small and for all practical purposes at full capacity.

  Here in the colonies I, like my father, saw potential for so much more. The land was rich. I fancied I could grow anything I put my mind to. Melons, oranges, cassava, benne seeds.

  My father’s father had left him this fertile tract along the banks of the Wappoo Creek, only six miles by water from Charles Town on the peninsula. With the property came a small bevy of slaves and the not-so-small task of making a family name for ourselves beyond that of my father’s armed service to the Crown. An opportunity we couldn’t afford to waste, he often said. My father had also immediately purchased two larger parcels farther afield that already had fair production in timber and rice exports.

  “Eliza, in order to secure my commission, I had to borrow against the Antigua land and, of course, the parcel here. I’m loath to return there, but the threat of the Spanish has become too strong. And of course, I cannot advance my career from here.”

  I swallowed a chunk of chalky yolk in a rush as my mind hurried to keep up with his words. We knew the West Indias were an important strategic position against the Spanish, but I couldn’t think that he’d accrue more debt to our properties in order to continue his position in the military. While I was sure he knew what he was doing, I couldn’t help the panicky feeling that had seized my chest.

  “It is now more important than ever before that this land turns a profit.” His voice became gruff. Intimate. Imparting some secret I was too young to hear. “Coming here was never solely about your mama’s health, though I’m sure we’d both have liked that to be a beneficial by-product.”

  I dabbed my eyes that pricked from almost choking on my egg and took a sip of tea to clear my throat.

  “You asked before if I trust our managers,” he went on. “The answer is yes, of course. But if you ask do I trust them to inform me of every decision they make pertaining to our land, our crops, and our yield? The answer is surely not. For we have different end goals. For one man, the goal is to be a good worker. One hopes”—he chuckled—“and receive a wage. For the other, myself, your papa, the end goal is to secure our family for generations and be of economic service to the Crown. We are building a new world here, Eliza. We have a unique opportunity to be among the first to really accomplish something magnificent.”

  I did so get inspired by his ebullient dedication to serving king, country, and progeny. He’d have to depend on my brothers or Polly for the latter, however.

  “But, sir—”

  “Let me finish, Eliza. I know this is hard to understand as you are not yet even seventeen years of age, but I’ve attempted to impart to you the importance of standing for something greater than oneself. To work toward the greater good, be it for God or be it in service to our country or fellow man.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You have been running the household in your mother’s stead already. I have made sure you are educated with certain skills. I have been planning for this eventuality. And now is the time.”

  My skin prickled.

  “In a few years,” my father went on, “your brother George will be of age and will come across from England to take over my affairs here. In the meantime, Eliza, I’ll need you to act as my surrogate in all matters pertaining to these holdings. You will remain here in South Carolina with your mother and Polly and take charge of my business affairs.”

  I gasped, this time unable to contain my shock. My back was straight as a punting pole, my hand frozen in midflight toward my cup.

  My father continued. “You already do my correspondence. This change of plans will simply mean some decisions and communiqués will be delayed as you relay them to me and await my response. Of course, I understand that some decisions will have to be made quicker than that will allow, but you have managers to consult, and I have asked our friend Charles Pinckney and his wife to look out for you and provide counsel, should the need arise.”

  I was to run his plantations? “Sir,” I finally squeezed a word into his decree, and then failed at adding another.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you have anything to say that might make the length of a complete sentence?”

  For a moment I felt trapped under the weight of the responsibility my father was placing upon my shoulders: to make sure our land would secure our family’s wealth, and secure my own dowry for a marriage it was no secret I would never want, or allow my family to descend into poverty. Alone. He was leaving us here alone?

  Back home in England, the idea that my father would leave his sixteen-year-old daughter in charge of his estates was absurd. Would anyone even take direction from me? In fact, thinking of trying to explain in a letter to
my dear friend and one-time guardian, Mrs. Bodicott, this new turn of events almost made me think this was some ridiculously conjured up fantasy of mine. A wish to be someone of import. To not be owned as chattel by a father or one day by a husband. But this was not England. And something about this place where we’d made our home, where people around us were trying to create a new world from the ground up, made everything seem possible. Perhaps it was my precocity or my simple propensity to dream ambitiously and try to impress my father with the knowledge he’d made sure I learned in school, but I brought my trembling hand down from the table and slipped it under my thigh to press it still.

  “Well?” he asked again.

  I tilted my chin up. “I shall put the gift of the education you indulged me with to the best use. And …”

  “And?”

  “And we shall miss you,” was all I managed.

  To my dear friend, Mrs. Bodicott,

  My papa and mama’s great indulgence to me leaves it to me to choose our place of residence either in town or country, but I think it more prudent as well as most agreeable to my mama and self to be in the country during my father’s absence. We are seventeen miles by land and six by water from Charles Town—where we have about six agreeable families around us with whom we live in great harmony.

  —Eliza Lucas

  Had it been just a few days ago Papa told me his news? Everything was happening too fast. We left immediately with Quash, our driver and Father’s “man about the land,” to visit our plantation Garden Hill, up the Combahee River.

  We traveled south along the Santee River and through the treacherous Port Royal and St. Helena Sounds before embarking up the Combahee. We sailed until the oyster banks were no more, and the water inland grew dark, greasy, and still, the trees dense along the banks.

  I had only been a handful of times since arriving in South Carolina, but the journey always made me nervous. The rocking of the boat turned my stomach, and between the sharks in the sounds and the great alligators rippling under the surface of the rivers, I was quite spent by the time we arrived. We requested accountings from our overseer, Mr. Murry, regarding the projected rice output and other salables.