The day of my father’s departure to Antigua was finally upon us. We’d arrived in town the previous afternoon, in time for supper. It was six miles by boat from our home on the bluff at Wappoo Creek, flowing with the outgoing tide along the creek and out into the wide and more treacherous Ashley River. We rounded the peninsula toward the harbor, our hired pirogue propelled by the rhythmic motion and strength of six Negroes, their dark skin rippling with movement and glistening in the sun. The sound of their labored huffs of breath were lost in the ripple of water and cawing gulls.
A large man-of-war was docked, and people scurried up and down a ramp loading cargo and disembarking for more. This was presumably the ship my father would be sailing upon. Currently, a group of slaves, some Negro, some Indian, and one white man hauled a wheeled pallet weighed down with timber. They moved agonizingly slowly up a long ramp, the rope looking almost as heavy as one of the trunks of wood. Sugar production in the islands was desperate for timber and that had become an export for us from Starrat’s operation. I guessed since my father was setting sail on this military vessel there was room to add additional cargo that was also destined for Antigua. I winced at the agony painted on the faces of the straining men.
The loud and foul fish-smelling chaos of the harbor soon had my full attention as we docked and disembarked, seeking out the driver the Pinckneys had kindly sent to collect us.
The dirt-packed roads of Charles Town were ripe with the smell of horse dung, and the heavy, wet heat of the day made sure it clung, wilting us of our last stores of energy by the time we arrived at the Pinckneys’ townhouse on Union Street.
All of us, except for Polly, who had stayed behind with Esmé, sat in grim silence throughout the duration of our sweltering trip in the hot sun. My quiet was born of equal parts grief and anticipation at my father’s impending departure. I would miss him so, and I hated not knowing when I’d see him again. My mother was practically vibrating with something so heavy you could almost see it shimmering off her. Was she sad? Resentful? She’d held her face averted, her eyes watching the view wherever we passed. I fancied she compared every mile to the rolling green fields of England, and very obviously found them lacking.
Mrs. Pinckney—she’d never offered her Christian name of Elizabeth and so I never used it—fussed over us as soon as we arrived in the cool, calming comfort of her home, clucking and suggesting we stay on in town a few days or weeks after my father left. I readily agreed to a few days as returning to our home at Wappoo knowing my father would not be there for perhaps a year or more was not a happy event to face. However, I was anxious to take over duties, and by my calculation, a boat was expected from our Garden Hill plantation in less than a week. I’d need to inspect and count the goods aboard before it went on to our merchant in town.
“Oh, my dears,” Mrs. Pinckney soothed later that evening from across her waxed dining table, her kind face gently lined. She wore her hair under a white linen cap, her dress the color of primroses. It nicely complemented the pale green brocade curtains and sumptuous furnishings of her home. The table was aglow with the sweet myrtle candles. She was a daisy in a lush evening meadow. I didn’t own anything so fine, though Mama, of course, still had some of her gowns from London. My body was slowly filling out, but with my diminutive stature, I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to borrow a dress with modifications if the occasion called for it. Perhaps I’d grow taller at some stage too. “How ever will you manage?” Mrs. Pinckney continued.
“You simply must come and visit me in town often. Also, I shall introduce you to Mary Chardon. She’s young, though widowed. But she lives with her parents near your stand at Wappoo. I can’t bear the thought of you ladies so lonely out there. Charles,” she turned to her husband, “you will go and pop in on them often, won’t you?”
Mr. Pinckney smiled fondly at his wife. “Of course, dear.”
I fidgeted with my napkin. “I can’t fathom having even a thought of loneliness with so much business to occupy my time—”
“But of course we shall come and visit you,” Mama interjected. “We would be honored. Eliza must—”
I gulped. “And we would welcome getting to know our neighbors roundabouts.” I had no idea if Mama was about to hawk me on the marriage mart, but I was compelled to use my age as an excuse for impetuous interruption. “Perhaps I could see what they are growing on their land if their soil is similar.”
“I don’t suppose there are any eligible young men close to our stand?” my mother tacked on, and I inwardly quailed.
“I have trained Eliza well,” my father responded to Mrs. Pinckney’s initial concern, artfully redirecting from my mother’s remark. “She has been helping me this last year, and she will be copying all her letters and the transactions of the plantations in her copy book. So should there be any question, there will be a record of events.”
“It’s not quite the ideal pastime for a girl of sixteen.” My mother smiled apologetically at our hosts to show she really was not on board with the preposterous scheme. “But as we are waiting for George to come of age, she’ll have to do.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Pinckney graciously. “We are building a new society, and I daresay, we shall all step outside our normal roles from time to time to get the job done.” She glanced at her husband. “Don’t you always say that, Charles?”
“Indeed, dear.”
I smiled at her gratefully.
“And certainly,” Charles added, nodding toward my father, “as far as anyone is concerned, you have all the business set up for production and exports. Eliza will merely be a figurehead. Doing your bidding.”
I was momentarily incensed. Mr. Pinckney caught my gaze, his twinkling eyes in on some joke. I fancied I imagined him wink. Did he know how little my and my mother’s visions for my future coincided? Was he humoring her?
“Quite,” my father agreed. My father wisely said nothing of the fact I’d already been running the household in my mother’s stead. Not to mention making planting decisions and directing labor when he was too busy.
Mrs. Pinckney smiled indulgently. “No one can fault you for that, Colonel Lucas,” she said, making use of his new title.
I squeezed my hands tightly under the table and ordered my features to remain expressionless. But I could see Mrs. Pinckney was directing her observations to appease my mama. Though I did not know if she believed what she was saying.
Mr. Pinckney withdrew a pouch of ’bacca. His dark hair was pomaded and slightly graying at the temples. A prominent lawyer in town, he was an agreeable and well-read gentleman whose library I always seemed to find myself in whenever we visited. Goodness knew, I’d almost exhausted our small library at Wappoo.
Mr. Pinckney lit his pipe and, squinting through a plume of smoke, rested his keen and deep gray-blue eyes upon me. I was surprised he hadn’t left the table with Papa to partake of this after-supper ritual in his study. “I wouldn’t underestimate Eliza’s industry,” he said. “Besides”—he released the smoke in a long fragrant plume—“Eliza is right here to answer for herself. And I have the feeling she doesn’t much care for convention. Am I right, Miss Lucas?”
Heat bloomed under the skin of my cheeks and I glanced at Mama, who glared, willing me not to embarrass her. Perhaps she’d hoped the Pinckneys hadn’t yet realized my differences from the average girl my age. Or at least what I understood them to be. But it was clear they surely had.
“Well, sir.” I rose to the challenge despite, or perhaps in response to, my mother’s warning look, and lifted my chin. “If by convention you mean for the eldest child to step into the breach and ensure the legacy of one’s family, then I do believe you are quite wrong. I do surely believe in doing that.”
My mother’s eyes bulged.
Mr. Pinckney sat back, his lithe frame bowing away from the table as his eyes danced with amusement and satisfaction.
“Quite right,” my father muttered, earning a scowl from Mama.
Warmth continued to beat in my cheeks. “But if you are referring to the convention that states a son should take this on and not a daughter, then you are perhaps correct. I don’t believe in conventions. But conventions, by definition, are just that. The conventional way people of like mind do things. Conventions are not rules. And certainly that should allow for some individual freedom with which to conduct one’s affairs in the way that best suits. Besides, my brother is not here. And I am.”
There was silence around the table.
I blinked and took a breath, then reached for my wine.
“Indeed, you are,” came Mr. Pinckney’s deep melodious voice. “Indeed, you are.”
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.