Over the next few weeks, when he wasn’t building, Quash and I picked out and cleared field areas where we might plant the woad given to me by Deveaux and also a new crop of alfalfa and some ginger.
I directed Togo, Indian Peter, and Sawney to till up the soil in the newly cleared areas and fertilize it to make it ready for planting.
We couldn’t move the peach trees, of course, so we were confined to a long narrow strip that ran from behind the house back inland away from the water.
I wrote to Starrat and asked for building timber for Quash’s work on reinforcing the quarters, and every day I checked the basket we had strapped upon the dock in case a ferry that passed had a letter or package from my father containing seeds he wanted me to try from Antigua. But in the end, we planted the woad.
Quash went up to Waccamaw and returned with the extra timber and materials he needed and the name of a Negro woman, Sarah, who had knowledge of indigo. She would come when it was time to harvest the woad plant and show me how to make the indigo solution. And as we waited for word from my father, Quash, Indian Peter, Sawney, and Togo got to work fixing up the roofs and drafty walls of the houses, rebuilding or sealing any gaps with daub. While we were building I also instructed them to erect another building as a kind of infirmary. I’d seen that the Pinckneys and also the Fenwicks over on John’s Island had done this to lower the chance of an outbreak of infection if someone was taken ill. Essie said she thought it would be good to use for expectant mothers too.
The weather had been drier than usual. But as the weeks went on, the alfalfa and the ginger began peeking from the ground.
By the end of August, there was still no woad sprouting and no seeds from my father. The sense of time ticking past fruitlessly became unbearable, and dogged my every waking thought. My mind would slide to Ben repeatedly, wondering what he would say. Did we plant too early? Too late? Was the soil not right? I would imagine walking along the fields behind him as he inspected. I wondered if he had become a man now. He’d always been taller than me, but I imagine now I’d feel dwarfed.
I invited Mr. Deveaux over to inspect my fields where I had planted, and after declaring the land high enough to be sufficiently well drained, he directed that the seeds might benefit from double the amount of watering. The first watering was to be at dawn before the heat of the day baked the moisture away. I put Togo in charge of watering these and the myriad vegetables and herbs we had planted in a newly expanded kitchen garden. The deer were extremely partial to our bounty, and we’d expanded the wood-walled garden so the servants might have their produce protected too.
Mama had been feeling better despite the brutal heat of August that bled over into September. With my busy schedule we had not done much socializing despite a few invitations from the Pinckneys and other families roundabouts. The Woodwards and their widowed daughter, Mary Chardon, whom I’d learned about from Mrs. Pinckney, were one such family I was very partial to.
When Papa had been here we had tried to go to church at least two times a month. I decided that perhaps tomorrow being Sunday, we should go. It was probably five miles inland to the white, plaster-rendered church of St. Andrew’s Parish run by Reverend Guy, a congenial shepherd who praised his parishioners for coming to worship rather than “guilting” those of us who hadn’t been in some time. At the very least, I might make the acquaintance of more area planters. It was closer to attend there than make the journey into town and attend St. Philip’s.
Sunday morning in early September dawned cool and clear. I awoke at five as usual and quickly washed.
“Good morning, Essie,” I said softly when she appeared at the door.
She bobbed. “Mornin’, chil’.” Her dark eyes were somber and creased. Everything about Essie was usually light and comforting. She could enter a space and float on the edges of your awareness like she wasn’t really there unless you needed her. It was a quality I had come to depend on.
“Is everything all right?” I asked as we got to work lacing me up. “You seem troubled.”
“Spirit dreams,” she murmured. “There be a warnin’ in da air today. You be goin’ down to the river, you be careful, you hear?” Essie crushed some rosemary leaves with her nails, then rubbing them between the pale pads of her dark fingers, reached up, running them over my hair and dabbing the sides of my neck.
I frowned but said nothing. I was used to Essie’s superstitions. Black crows, comets, dreams … but she prayed to my God too. Glancing out the window, all looked the same as every other morning in the predawn light.
Outside, her warning clung. I walked toward the water to check the mail basket. It was rare that mail was entrusted to someone unknown passing through from Charles Town, but one never knew.
I paused as I got close and looked across the water to the opposite bank. All was dark and still amongst the trees. I stepped onto the creaking dock and made haste to check for mail, coming up empty. The gray water was still, the whine of mosquitoes the only sound. Except … I paused, straining my hearing.
Drums.
A slow, steady, and dark beat.
An iciness prickled my spine.