At noon, Charles Pinckney came charging along the lane on his horse.
I can’t say I was not relieved to see that someone had come to check on us. And of course, we were desperate for news as to what, indeed, had transpired.
Mother, Polly, and I came to stand out in the hot yard. In the background Essie, Mary Ann, and Nanny stayed up on the porch, ready to hear the news firsthand so that they could share it amongst the other slaves.
“I must say,” Mr. Pinckney called as his horse came to a prancing stop. “I feel weak with relief at seeing you unharmed.”
His horse bellowed out hot breath, its coat shining with sweat. Quash came forward to take the reins. Indian Peter was still nowhere to be found.
“I rode hard from Belmont.” Mr. Pinckney swung down from the saddle. He wore a more casual riding attire and his dark hair was hurriedly assembled at his nape. “The news is dire. There’s been a rebellion.”
Mother gasped.
“I thought as much,” I said to him. Then I turned to Polly. “Run along inside and help Essie ready some tea for our guest.”
Polly pouted a moment but did exactly as I asked.
“Thank you so much for coming to assist us. I’m happy to report we are all well, but it was certainly hair-raising.”
Mr. Pinckney dipped his chin. “So they were here then?”
“On the creek. They did not approach.”
“Curious. But how very lucky you are,” he said. “I’m glad to know my assistance was not needed at all.”
We shared a smile.
“Come along,” my mother interjected. “Let’s get into the house and you can tell us the news.”
Within a few hours, some of our neighbors, including Mr. Deveaux, Mrs. Woodward, and Mary, had assembled in our drawing room. Mr. Woodward was in Charles Town and presumably on his way back if he’d heard the news.
I had Essie and Mary Ann assemble a hearty afternoon tea and shared with everybody what I had seen and heard.
“There will be far-reaching repercussions from this day,” Pinckney uttered to the room at large. I hoped none of the so-called repercussions would incite any further rebellion. “A group of twenty slaves took up arms yesterday morning and passed through a score of area plantations, swelling in number as the day wore on. Houses were burned and several plantation owners, though none I knew personally, were killed.”
There was an audible gasp around the room. The idea of how close we’d been to certain death sent a chill down my spine.
Charles Pinckney looked grave. “A good many were safely away at church, I presume.”
“Was the rebellion subdued?” asked Mrs. Woodward. “Or are they still at large?”
“My sources tell me the rebellion was subdued by late afternoon, but not before a large number lost their lives. Apparently, the slaves had been lured with a promise of sanctuary in St. Augustine by the Spaniards.”
“Sanctuary?” I asked.
He inclined his head. “I believe it a trick. I believe the Spanish seek to reenslave any that reach them and turn them into soldiers.”
“It makes sense,” offered Deveaux. “I’ve heard the Spanish resolve to use the Indians and the Negroes in their war against us and obliterate South Carolina.”
Mary gasped; her eyes were large in her pale face.
And I too felt dread in my blood.
Mama wrung her hands.
“God help us all,” whispered Mrs. Woodward.
I glanced at Essie who stood in the corner of the room by the door awaiting instruction, expressionless in present company.
“Mama,” I said. “Won’t you let Essie accompany you upstairs. Today has been overtaxing.”
“Nonsense,” said Mama, but she clutched the arm of the settee and attempted to rise. Mr. Pinckney and Mr. Deveaux both surged to their feet. Deveaux, being closer, reached her first.
Turning to Mr. Pinckney, grateful though I was for his presence, I felt a peculiar concoction of comfort and utter loneliness.
As Mama bid adieu to our guests and left the room, he met my gaze. “Have you counted your slaves?” he asked. “I noticed Indian Peter did not see to the horses. You’ll have to send word to Waccamaw and Garden Hill also. The militia is calling for a full count.”
“Why?” I asked, though my throat felt thick.
Mr. Pinckney winced, almost imperceptibly, his gray-blue eyes troubled. “So they may … hunt the deserters.”
My hand came to my mouth.
Mr. Deveaux returned to his seat. “What else can we do but to send a message? To make them an example?”
“Kill them, you mean?” Mary asked.
Deveaux nodded.
“It’s extreme,” I said after I felt composed.
Mary and her mother nodded, as did Mr. Deveaux.
“That aside,” I couldn’t help adding, “what field hand wouldn’t be lured and seduced by the promise of freedom?”
“Yours weren’t,” said Mary.
“No. No, they weren’t. Though the procession came right by here, down Wappoo Creek in the direction of the Stono. I count myself extremely fortunate.” I hadn’t mentioned Indian Peter or answered Charles Pinckney’s question. The truth was I didn’t know if he’d been involved. I certainly didn’t want him hunted down like an animal. My people had protected me yesterday. And I should protect them.
We’d indeed been lucky yesterday. We might not be so lucky next time.
Not for the first time, I struggled with the burden I’d undertaken in my father’s name.
“Well, it’s getting late,” Mrs. Woodward announced. “There’s probably never been a safer time to travel than tonight with all the militia on the roads. But I am tired.”
“Yes,” Mr. Deveaux added, standing. “I shall accompany you, and then be on my way too.”
Charles Pinckney would have a far longer trip than the Woodwards and Deveaux. “You can’t possibly attempt the trip back to Belmont this late in the day,” I said to him. “You must stay. I’ll have Essie prepare the guest room.”
“I’d appreciate that greatly.” Charles Pinckney bowed his head. “Who knows if the danger is fully passed.”
I saw our visitors off and let Essie and Mary Ann know of our guest. Then I joined Mr. Pinckney in the study. He’s as old as Papa, I told myself when I noticed how strange it felt to be alone with him in the evening.
“May I offer you some port?” I motioned to the decanter and tumblers. “We opened it last night.”
“Thank you, I will.” He took three long strides to the sideboard, preparing his own drink with neat efficiency. He tilted his chin at me in question.
“Not for me, thank you.”
After pouring his drink, he looked toward the gun cabinet in the corner. “Do you have a gun here with which to defend yourself?”
I glanced over to see the door was cracked open again. I hadn’t been able to seal it properly since I’d wrenched it open in my recent panic. I walked over and pressed it closed. “We do. Let’s hope I don’t ever have to use it. Though Papa did make sure I knew how. Would that I can simply focus on farming, rather than firearms.”
“Quite right. I heard Deveaux asking about your crop.”
“Yes, he gave us woad seeds to attempt. But no luck, I’m afraid.” My shoulders sagged of their own accord. “I don’t know what to do.”
Mr. Pinckney set his lips to the crystal, taking a sip of amber liquid. “There are other things you can try. There’s no need to fret.”
“That’s just it. I …”
Lapsing into silence, I wondered at how I felt such ease in talking to Mr. Pinckney.
“Something tells me you have more on your mind than growing indigo, Miss Lucas.”
“Well, you know my father has left me almost entirely in charge.”
“Yes.” He adjusted his cravat, still disheveled from his earlier frantic arrival. “That can hardly be of concern. Hadn’t you already made yourself mistress of the house? Your mama, though a lovely genteel lady, would be quite taxed by things you seem to take in stride. I’d say you were the natural choice.”
“Mama, would, I’m sure, be first choice were she not suffering so.” I felt the need to defend her, though it was a bald-faced lie. “Especially in this heat. It really has been excessively hot these last few weeks.”
“Indeed it has. And with all this on your plate, you tell me you can think of nothing but growing indigo?”
“I … I’m concerned that my father’s push to become lieutenant colonel, and now perhaps governor of Antigua, will take all the resources we have. I have looked over all his accounts.” I paused to gauge his surprise at my business abilities, or my discussing such a private matter, but to his credit he had no other expression beyond interest, so I continued. “And I don’t believe our current output will support his endeavor. Perhaps it may … but just barely. And that means—”
“You shall have no dowry unless you find a way to make the land more profitable than it is currently,” he finished for me.
A dowry was my least concern, but I’d allow him the thought. I let out a nervous laugh. “Precisely. I thought I would try indigo. But my father has yet to send seed.”
“So you attempted to grow woad. I have to say it’s been tried and it has failed. Not the right soil, I’m told. But I admire your determination. A soul would underestimate you at his own peril,” he said. “You are quite determined, and I daresay, resourceful. I have faith that you will succeed eventually.”
Indian Peter returned a few days after the crushed rebellion as unremarkably as he’d vanished. I had never reported him missing, nor asked him to account for his whereabouts. Quash trusted him, and therefore I did too.
It was as simple as that.
We accepted an invitation to begin weekly visits with Mrs. Woodward and Mary Chardon. The routine was effective to get Mama out of the house and break up the monotony of winter, and had turned into one I looked forward to immensely. I found I was starved for company outside of Mother and Polly.
On Tuesdays, in the Woodwards’ parlor, three pairs of nimble hands worked with furious ease, turning out all manner of exquisitely detailed needlework. The fourth pair of hands produced a rather hopeless assortment of samples. In large part because my eyes would wander to the window, watching the Woodwards’ field hands at work and wondering what else I could be doing for our land.
The days, weeks, and then months that followed grew colder. The marsh grasses faded to brown. The nights grew longer, but the days were more bearable.
The fear of another rebellion faded as each day crept toward winter. Rebels were hunted and executed. Rumor had it their heads were mounted on pikes lining the major thoroughfares surrounding Charles Town. Charles Pinckney confirmed the macabre and gruesome spectacle, and I grew relieved that I’d never mentioned Indian Peter’s absence during the uprising.
From dawn to dusk, I spent as many hours outside as I could spare from my letters and accounts. I studied my surroundings, taking measure of characteristics of autumn that I might remember them for next year. I welcomed rain as it softened and nourished my earth. I watched with fascination as the plants clinging to the gnarled branches of live oaks transformed from baked clay to lush green in the day after heavy rains. “Revival plants” they were nicknamed, according to Mr. Deveaux. Mockingbirds nested outside my window.
I found miracles every day and I clung to them.
A morning in early December found me contemplating the last weeks before my seventeenth birthday. The final stars blinked out in the lightening sky beyond the house before I remembered to go and check the letter basket on the dock. I’d almost forgotten, so caught up was I in my thoughts. Perhaps also because I came up empty most days, and the days I didn’t were business correspondence from town or the two plantations.
The leather buckles on the basket were loose. There’d been a delivery. Likely late last night as someone from Charles Town navigated the creek toward the Stono River. I held my breath as I reached inside. One was a letter from the address of dear Mr. and Mrs. Pinckney at their Belmont estate. The other a small package in waxed cloth with a label that read Miss Eliza Lucas, Wappoo Creek tied upon it.
My father.
Joy burst through my chest, and I hurried so fast to the house that my braid came loose from its pins.
Skidding on the heart pine floors as I came around the desk in the study, impatience made me want to cut through the twine, but of course I was always in need of it. So I willed my excited nerves to slow and commanded my shaky, determined fingers to work the knot. “By the devil,” I cursed softly, my teeth clamped tight. It took endless minutes before it finally came loose, and I was able to unwrap the waxed cloth.
There were two letters, one to me and one to Mama.
And several muslin pochettes containing seeds and cuttings.
Now, which one was indigo?
Please let some of them be indigo.
I dipped my fingers in to sample the contents, drawing out a brittle pinch of black, sticklike objects, shaped like garden pea pods, but on a minuscule scale. Seed pods themselves. Some were split open, and small black seeds tumbled out. Indigo seeds!