JUDAS
FLOWERING
A NOVEL BY
Jane Aiken Hodge
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
A Note on the Author
Chapter 1
Hart Purchis was late, took what he hoped was a short cut, and found himself, at dusk, on the wrong side of one of the many inlets in the swamp between the Savannah and Wilmington rivers. His mother might not worry, but his aunt would. Seventeen is too old to be worried over. His horse refused the crossing, and he turned angrily back the way he had come, only to pause at a side turning and the sound of shouting.
The mob must be out again. No affair of his. That was what his mother and aunt both said. “Keep away,” they kept telling him. “Nothing to do with us,” they meant. Things were better ordered on the plantation of Winchelsea. So well ordered, indeed, that he was unarmed. This did not prevent him from turning towards the sound of shouting. Because what happened here, in the Winchelsea district, was his affair. Whatever his mother, or Aunt Anne, or even Cousin Francis said, he was the owner. He was responsible.
Was that a girl’s scream? He kicked his horse to a dangerous gallop and rounded a corner of the canebrake to see a small wooden shack with too much smoke pouring from it. Down at the rough landing stage, a girl was filling a bucket, every line of her thin body spelling out the urgency of disaster. The sound of the mob came from farther off—behind the house somewhere—in full cry. “Down with George the tyrant!” “No taxation without representation!” “Three cheers for Boston; and to hell with tea and taxes!” And even, “1774:British no more!” Did they know what any of it meant? He doubted it.
Now, more ominous still, the cries suddenly ceased. The girl picked up her full bucket, saw him, and froze, white-faced, gazing.
“Don’t be afraid! I’m not one of them!” He pulled his horse, Thunder, to a halt beside her, jumped down, looped the reins to a post by the landing stage, and turned back to where she still stood, staring, her eyes huge and dark in the thin, pointed face, her shabby stuff dress drenched with the water she had been hastily drawing.
“Give me the bucket.” He reached for it. “Have you another one?”
“No! The house doesn’t matter!” She dropped the bucket and held out both urgent hands to him. “Please! They’ve got Father! They’re … I’m afraid.… Make them stop. He won’t tell them where he hid the press … of course he won’t. They’ll … they’ll hurt him!”
“Press? Cyder? But, why?”
“Printing, idiot!” Her deep voice vibrated with rage. “You’re rich!” A scornful glance flicked towards Thunder. “You’re doubtless a Loyalist. Of a kind. Who do you think takes the risks? Prints the Loyalist broadsheets in Savannah? Father did. He was Johnston’s right-hand man. I suppose you’ve heard of Johnston the printer!”
“Of course. The Georgia Gazette. But …”
“There’s no time. Father printed the things Johnston didn’t dare to. Secretly. Only—they got onto us. Someone must have talked. We came out here to hide. No one knew where we were. There’s a traitor. There has to be.” She stopped, aghast, as a sudden roar rose from the far side of the little house: no words now, just the half-human cry of the pack out for blood. “Quick! Please … before it’s quite dark. Stop them! He’ll never tell.”
“I’ll do my best.” He knew what she meant. Mobs, merely mischievous in the daylight, became deadly after dark, when face was hidden from face. “You try to save the house.”
“No use. Look!” A great burst of flame as the roof fell in gave them their first clear sight of each other. His great height and square shoulders had misled her. “You’re only a boy.” Disappointment was acid in her tone as she saw his curly fair hair and the ruddy cheeks that had never been shaved. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I’m Purchis of Winchelsea.” He untied the horse and swung himself into the saddle. “Of course I’ll try. Some of them may know me.” Silhouetted huge and black against the fire, he sounded older, more confident than he had looked. “If I don’t come back, hide in the woods. Promise? And go to my mother at Winchelsea in the morning. It’s not far.” Another burst of shouting drowned her protest. “Promise to hide!” He kicked Thunder into action, forced him past the flaming house and along the river bank in the direction of that bestial noise. Once past the house, he could see the light of another fire, driftwood-built, no doubt, on the edge of the river. How long had they been at it? He should have asked that distracted girl. But—too long? There was something, at one side of the fire—tied to a stake, perhaps? Something that screamed, once, and then, dreadfully, was silent.
It silenced the crowd for a moment. Then, “Fools,” came a shout from the far side of the fire. “You’ve killed him. Now, how do we find his press?”
“The girl!” This was another voice, and the others chimed in from all sides of the fire. “Yes, she’s bound to know.” “Should have brought her in the first place.” “She’ll be hiding in the woods now. Spread out, you lot, and search.”
Hart did not wait for more, but turned and rode, fast and unseen, back the way he had come. Behind him, it was taking the mob a little while to recover from the shock of what they had done. He had time—a very little. And there, thank God, she was, still standing where he had left her, gazing at the flaming wreck of the house.
“Did they listen?” She came towards him eagerly. “I thought they stopped. But where is he?”
“I’m sorry.” He leaned down to reach for her hand. “I was too late.”
“Too late?” She would not understand him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. She must understand, and fast. “He’s dead.”
“I don’t believe it! You’re lying, because you are afraid. They couldn’t have—”
“They did.” He had her hand in a grip that hurt, and was meant to. “Now they’re angry because he wouldn’t tell them where the press is. They’re coming for you. I’m not asking you whether you know. It makes no difference to what will happen to you. Besides, when they come to themselves, they won’t want witnesses to this night’s work. So, quick, up in front of me.”
“No!” She tried to pull away from him. “I don’t believe you. You didn’t even try. Coward!”
No time for this. He and Francis had done it often enough to Cousin Abigail, in play. Could he now, in earnest? He leaned over, let go her hand, and while she was still furiously protesting, had her round the waist and so onto the saddle in front of him. Lucky for them both, he thought grimly, that she was a featherweight and that his mother had defied Aunt Anne and given him Thunder—a horse more than up to his weight—for his seventeenth birthday.
Her free hand had raked his face in the struggle, and he felt the blood flow as she tried to bite the hand that held her. “I’ve told you the truth.’’ His voice broke on the words and added to his fury. “If you want to get us both killed, this is the way.” The sound behind the house had changed. It was calmer now, organised. The mob were beginning to beat their way forward through the woods.
She heard it too and was still against his arm. “He’s re
ally dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” What else was there to say? He urged Thunder forward into the sheltering darkness and felt her begin to cry, silently, against his shoulder. “Had they horses?” he asked.
He felt her make the effort to pull herself together and admired her for it. “No, they came by boat, I think. We didn’t hear them till they were all round the house. He hadn’t a chance … he made them think he was taking them to where the press was hidden. That’s why they left me behind.”
“You should have run for it.”
“And left him?” Scorn crackled in her voice. “As you did!”
“Believe me, there was nothing I could do.”
“Nothing you dared do.” She was struggling again. “Let me down, I tell you. There’s a back way. Through the woods. I’ve got to make sure.”
“I am sure. Must I tell you?”
“Yes.”
Reluctantly, as he turned Thunder down the familiar path towards Winchelsea, he began to describe the scene: the fire, the stake. “I think they were trying an Indian torture.” After all, why should he spare this virago whose nails had sent the hot blood streaming down his face to soak into the ruffle at his neck. “And put the stake too near the fire. Perhaps you should think he was lucky. Because, honestly. Miss—”
“Phillips.” The response was numb, automatic. “Mercy Phillips.”
“I think they were beyond reason,” he went on. “Even if I’d been in time, I don’t think I could have saved him. If they’d been locals, some of them might have known me, but riff-raff from Savannah … I’m sorry.”
“You could have tried.”
“And got you killed too?” There, at last, was the familiar turning for Winchelsea and, looming black against the thickening dusk, the avenue of young live oaks his father had planted the year before he was killed. The shells that made the drive crunched at Thunder’s hoofs.
She was struggling again. “Where are you taking me? This isn’t the Savannah road!”
“Of course it’s not.” He was tired now, and the arm that held her was hard with anger. “Have some sense, girl. Savannah’s where they’ll look for you. I’m taking you home to my mother. To Winchelsea.”
“‘Purchis of Winchelsea.’” Her voice mocked him. “Lot of good that was.”
“At least it means you’ve somewhere to hide. They’ll not think of coming after you here.”
“I should rather think not.” Her accent seemed to broaden as she spoke. “A slum wench like me. What will my Lady Purchis say when she sees what you’ve brought home?”
He had been wondering that very thing, but her use of the local nickname for his mother irritated him into a quick answer. “She’ll bid you welcome. Like a lady.”
“Not like me, you mean.” She was crying again. “Father said it was our only chance. America. To get out of the London gutter. He sold himself for the passage. After Mother died. He said, ‘In America, all men were equal.’”
“So they are.” His voice lacked conviction, and he knew it.
“You and me? Just you wait till my Lady Purchis sets eyes on me and you’ll know just how equal we are.” And then, on a note of pure amazement, “Coo—that’s never your house?”
Lights in the windows made it seem even larger than it was, looming there against the darkening sky. And, to one side, in the servants’ quarters, there were lights too and the sound of cheerful voices.
“Slaves.” She struck a new note of contempt. “Father said slavery was the abomination of desolation.”
“Oddly enough”—he made his voice cool—“my father agreed with yours. He came over, with Grandfather, on the Anne with Oglethorpe. Slaves weren’t allowed then. We’ve never had them on Winchelsea.”
“So who are these?”
He had turned away from the front of the house to ride quickly into the stable yard, and they were instantly surrounded by a smiling, questioning crowd, black faces agleam in the light of torches.
“Servants,” he said shortly, jumped from the saddle, and gave the reins to an eager pair of outstretched hands. “Jem, see Thunder gets a good rubdown, would you? We’ve had a hard ride of it.” He lifted the girl gently to the ground. “And you, Amy, tell Madam Purchis I’ve brought a guest. A neighbour—in trouble.”
“Madam Purchis is here.” The clear voice drew all eyes around to a newly opened side door. “What’s made you so late, Hart? Sister and I have waited supper this hour.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s trouble, as I said, the mob’s out. Poor Miss Phillips here has just lost her father.” He had her firmly by the arm and led her towards the open doorway.
“Lost?” And then, “Phillips? I don’t seem to recall the name.”
“You wouldn’t.” Mercy Phillips withdrew her arm from Hart’s and moved forward into the light from the doorway, a thin, almost childlike figure, who nevertheless held herself with a kind of tense dignity despite damply clinging skirts and tear-marks down her smoke-blackened face. She looked for a moment at Martha Purchis, plump and prosperous in her evening velvet, then, surprisingly, swept a handsome curtsey. “Forgive the intrusion, madam. Your son would bring me. If you’ll give me a corner for the night, I’ll go back to my father in the morning.”
“I don’t understand.” Martha Purchis turned irritably to her son. “Anything.”
No more did he. What was this girl with the face of a starved boy and the voice that was sometimes a guttersnipe’s, sometimes a duchess’? “I’m afraid the mob have killed Miss Phillip’s father,” he began, saw that she was swaying on her feet, and took her arm, gently this time, to help her indoors.
“The Whig rebels?” Martha Purchis was angry now. “And you’ve led them here! Idiot boy. We’ll all be burned in our beds, most like.”
“Nothing of the kind.” Unwonted anger rose in him to match hers. “We got clean away, thanks to Thunder. They’d come by boat. They’re doubtless still looking for Miss Phillips in the woods, if they haven’t slunk home, ashamed of what they have done.” But it reminded him of something. He turned to raise a hand and silence the tumult in the servants’ yard. “Listen, all of you. Nothing’s happened out of the way tonight. We’ve got no guest. Understood?” And then, recognising that few did, he turned to his own servant, Jem. “You, Jem, make them understand?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hart. We don’t want none of those rebs stravaging round here tonight. Or any night. I’ll get it through their thick heads, don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Jem.” He turned and led the girl into the lighted doorway, only to be stopped by a shriek from his mother.
“Hart! You’re wounded!”
He felt the girl stiffen beside him, “It’s nothing, Mother.” He put up a hand to the dried blood on his face. “Just a tree branch as we rode back.” A small, grateful squeeze of his arm made him look down and take in the full extent of his protégée’s dishevelment and despair. “Mother, Miss Phillips has had all she can stand. Do you think Abigail—”
“Abigail!” Mrs Purchis bridled. “Old Amy shall look out for her.” She had still not spoken a word directly to her unexpected guest.
“No, Mother.” For the second, extraordinary time he found himself contradicting her. “Abigail would be better.” And turned with a quick breath of relief at the sound of a voice from halfway up the stairs.
“What would Abigail be better for, Cousin Hart?” Abigail Purchis came round the corner of the stair, ready dressed for supper, golden ringlets glowing against the white shoulders exposed by her low-cut dress. Then, seeing Mercy Phillips, “Oh, the poor thing!” She picked up blue silk skirts and came hurrying down to join them. “What happened? No, don’t tell me. Not now.” She held out both hands to the girl. “Come with me, dear. Tomorrow will be time enough to talk. Hart, send me Sally with some hot milk and a dash of rum. And tell them to start heating the water for a bath. Or”—with Mercy Phillips’ arm in hers, she recognised her exhaustion—” “perhaps you had better help us upstairs f
irst.
“No need.” The girl’s neat chin went up. “If you don’t mind touching me, I can manage.”
“Mind? Nonsense!” Hart had never been so near to loving his cousin. “Come, dear. Aunt Martha, will you excuse me from supper?”
“Well!” Mrs Purchis watched angrily as the two girls climbed the stairs slowly, arm supporting arm, one a Dresden lady, the other a figure to scare crows. “I hope you know what you are doing, Hart!”
“Indeed I do. I’m going to tell Sally about the rum and milk, and that hot bath. And will you excuse me from supper too? I will be sadly late, I’m afraid, by the time I’ve made myself fit to be seen.”
“No matter for that, child. It’s a poor world if Winchelsea can’t wait for Purchis. I’ll explain to your Aunt Anne.”
“Do, Mamma.” He was at once grateful and aware that something basic had changed between them. She might call him “child” as she had always done, but she was treating him, now, as the man he felt himself. “And Francis?”
“Dines out. I quite forget where. I know your aunt was not best pleased. Low company, she said.”
“Oh? Francis gaming again?”
“If that’s the worst of it. Which we must hope. Dear Hart, what a comfort you are to me.”
“No credit to me that cards bore me to death. Now, do you make my peace with Aunt Anne, while I do Cousin Abigail’s commissions and make myself presentable. Ten minutes?”
“As many as you need, dear boy.” Something had indeed changed between them.
In the servants’ quarters, Hart found that Abigail’s orders were already being obeyed, milk and water both heating on the great outdoor range. It was a reminder, as if any were needed, of how complete was their lack of privacy in a house full of servants. Lucky they are our friends, he thought, hurrying upstairs to his own room, where Jem awaited him with his evening dress laid out on the bed and hot water in the basin.
“Must I?” He looked with distaste at black knee breeches and silk stockings.
“You know you must, Mr Hart.” Jem and Hart had grown up together and he spoke with the ease of long friendship. “Missus Mayfield, she’s in a pretty tearer already, long of Master Frank’s being off again. You’ll never turn her up sweet in day clothes. She’s wearing her black tonight.” He pulled an expressive face.
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