The low rhythmic melodies of field songs drifted with me as I emerged from dreaming to wakefulness.
I opened my eyes and sat up in bed, straining to hear in the darkness. Sure enough, the low sound of African voices and one melodious voice belonging to Togo dancing over the top of it floated in from outside.
We were harvesting.
Oh, thank the Lord.
I turned my face to the door. Essie materialized as if summoned. “Hurry, Essie. I want to go down and see.” I kicked off my covers, tangling my feet.
“Slow down, chil’.” She chuckled her warm treacle laugh.
“I’m too excited, Essie. I’ve waited for this day for far too long. Make haste.” Harvest had come early. I’d get to see it after all.
I was outside in the dark morning, racing toward the harmonious voices. We were succeeding at last! Nothing could stand in our way now. We had avoided another pest attack, though Ben had assured me there wouldn’t have been time to do any real damage. When I let myself think of it, I felt enraged. Fortunately, Sarah had survived the loss of her baby. I knew Essie tended to her each day, but I had not seen her since. And it was almost a relief to know she was not present at this momentous moment.
Dark figures moved through the rows of indigo, dipping and rising like waves as they tended to their work. The whisking sound of the blades lent a percussive undertone to the harmonies.
I searched for a familiar outline, even as I picked out voices. A beautiful vibrato stood out, and I pinpointed it coming from Togo. His voice was deep in parts and beautifully falsetto in others.
My eyes found Ben. My heart thumped erratically in excitement. As I started toward him, I noticed Cromwell too. Pacing nearby, a dim orange glow from his pipe was occasionally visible. He raised his hand in greeting, and even though Ben was the person I wanted to check in with, I changed course toward Cromwell.
“It will be a long day,” he said.
I nodded. “But an exciting one.”
He made a sound of dismissal. “It will get tedious for a lady soon enough, I am sure.”
I ambled away from him to see where I might be needed.
Light seeped over the landscape. Work paused as the first ray pierced the trees at the creek’s edge and shot over the field. The cooking fire was going, Quash’s mother standing over a large, suspended pot, stirring constantly. Stone-ground cornmeal with hog’s lard and salted pork and greens from the walled garden. All our workers, young and old, played a part.
Hours passed. The atmosphere was one of camaraderie and excitement. We were united in a common cause. I’d shared with Togo one day, when he returned from the market in town, how I was depending upon the indigo crop to save the plantation. Perhaps it was pointless to explain something of such a personal nature to one’s slave. Anyone, even Charles, might have questioned my judgment in doing so. But in the end, I was glad. For whether Togo had chosen to share the information among his peers, or Ben had shared how Sarah plotted to destroy the crop, the feeling that morning of a team united and excited in the pursuit of a common goal, my goal, was beautiful satisfaction.
Every available pair of hands, including my own cased in cowhide gloves, worked until the field was green no more. We worked until every last leaf and all my hopes were bundled and laid out on sackcloth.
There were two large, square, three-foot-deep brick vats built adjacent and attached to each other. One was built up higher than the other, so liquid might be drained into the lower vessel. Ben climbed up the ladder to the higher of the two vats and returned shaking his head. Cromwell went up and returned too, though he looked less perturbed.
“What is it?” I asked, approaching.
“The water is perfect and ready for the plants.” Cromwell nodded as he spoke.
Ben’s stare scorched the side of my face. I swallowed and turned to him. “Ben, do you agree?”
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.