Judas Flowering

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “That’s what we think. Mr Francis has gone into Savannah to find out if there has been one of those hold-ups of mail at Charleston. Poor Miss Abigail hasn’t heard from England either.” Now she was friends with the servants, she was cheerfully aware there was not much they did not know about the family’s affairs. Except for her engagement to Francis. She hoped, passionately, no one knew of that.

  “That’ll be Mr Francis.” Jem’s words seemed to echo her thoughts as the familiar signal sounded from the drive entrance. “I’ll take your flowers, Miss Mercy, and put them on the grave.”

  “Thank you, Jem.” Did he expect her to go to meet Francis? And if so, why? Instead, she took the quickest path back to the house and joined Abigail, who was pretending to read in their little downstairs room. “Frank’s coming, I think. They’ve signalled from the gate.”

  “At last!” Abigail jumped up eagerly. “He’s come back so quick, there must be letters.”

  But Francis’ face, when they met him in the hall, was so grave that the two girls clutched each other’s hands. “Where’s my aunt?” He had not even paused to greet them.

  “In the drawing-room, I think,” Abigail told them. “But, what is it, Frank?”

  “I’d rather tell it once and for all. Come up with me? And, Mercy, send for cordials.”

  “It’s bad?” She hesitated a moment to ask the question.

  “War, I think. And for us, perhaps worse. There’s a messenger rode in this morning. Exhausted. They’ve been riding south in relays. Hurry, Mercy, my aunt must be told before some gossiping neighbour comes to mock her with sympathy.”

  “Dear God, not Hart?”

  “Who knows? The news, so far, is general. As bad as possible. The time for individual grief comes later.” He was flushed with his swift ride and with a suppressed excitement Mercy recognised from previous crises. Hurrying to do his bidding, she thought of Hart, the boy who had rescued her, the man who had welcomed her to his home, and swallowed a great knot of tears.

  In the drawing-room, she found that Francis had just succeeded in rousing his mother from her morning lethargy. “It’s news, Mamma. Bad news for us all. Worse, I am afraid, for you, Aunt Purchis.” He turned at sight of Mercy, who had brought the cordial and tray of glasses herself. “Good. Pour a glass for my aunt.”

  “For me? What is it?” Martha Purchis had gone very white. “Not Hart?”

  “Must devoutly hope not. But bad, just the same. Where did he say he was spending the spring vacation?”

  “With the Pastons, of course, at Lexington. You know that as well as I do. Francis, tell me!”

  “There’s been fighting. At Lexington and at Concord. The British marched out of Boston, God knows why, and when they reached Lexington, fired on the Minutemen on the Common there. Madness! Left eight dead, they say—more wounded.”

  “Dear God.” Martha Purchis’ breath was coming in hard gasps. “The names of the dead?”

  “Some known. Some not yet. Mark Paston was one.”

  “Hart!” As Martha Purchis fell, fainting from the sofa, Mercy leapt forward to catch her.

  “You should know better than to break it to her so sharply,” she turned furiously on Francis. “Send for her maid, with those drops of hers. Why did you not tell me to have them ready?”

  “I’ll go,” said Abigail. “Quicker.”

  “I’m a fool.” Francis hurried to help Mercy support his aunt on the sofa. “Haven’t rightly known what I was doing since I heard the news.” A quick look at his aunt reassured him that she was unconscious. “I’ve not told her the worst yet. I’m so afraid someone else will come …”

  “There’s worse?” Mercy had taken Anne Mayfield’s vinaigrette and was holding it under Martha Purchis’ nose.

  “Much worse. The British must have been out of their minds. They marched on to Concord, leaving the dead and wounded behind them. The news travelled ahead of them. There was fighting, savage fighting, at Concord too. They seized some ammunition, burned some carriages, and began to withdraw. They were attacked every step of the way, from behind walls and trees, from houses. At Lexington, they found a relief party under Lord Percy. He had made Munroe’s Tavern his headquarters and drawn his troops up in square on the Common. They opened their ranks and their exhausted comrades staggered in. Percy rested them for a while. Then … is she still unconscious?”

  “I’m afraid so. I wish Abigail would come with the drops. But what happened then?”

  “He burned Munroe’s Tavern and the houses round it. Said they might be used by snipers to fire on his rearguard.”

  “The houses round it? But … the Pastons’?”

  “Must have been one of them, from everything Hart has said.”

  “And the people in them?” asked Anne Mayfield.

  “Who knows? The message has been passed on, from mouth to mouth, all the way from Lexington. With so much of general disaster, there’s been no time for individuals. Except we do know that Sam Adams and John Hancock, who were staying with the Reverend Clarke at Lexington, got clean away. Some say that it was to arrest them that the British marched. Ah, there you are at last, Abigail. But where are my aunt’s drops?”

  “I don’t know.” Abigail had returned empty-handed. “I looked for them everywhere. They are always by her bed. What shall we do?”

  “I’ve some.” Mercy was on her feet now. “The doctor gave them to my father. I always carried them with me. His trouble seemed very like your poor aunt’s.” She was out of the room already, running upstairs. When she returned, Martha Purchis was still unconscious and Francis was pacing anxiously about the room. “May I?” she asked.

  “Suppose they are not right. Might kill her.”

  “Look at her now,’” said Mercy. It was unanswerable. Mrs Purchis’ breathing had become shallow and rapid, and there was a blueish tinge to her face.

  “Go ahead, child,” Anne Mayfield spoke with unusual decision. “Try them. Let the responsibility be mine.”

  “Thank you.” Mercy wrestled for a moment with the stiff cork of the bottle, then shook three drops onto her handkerchief and held it under Mrs Purchis’ nose. The result was almost instantaneous. Her breathing eased, her colour improved, and she was soon moving restlessly in a return to consciousness.

  Opening her eyes at last, “Hart?” she said.

  “You mustn’t fret, Mrs Purchis.” Mercy took her cold hands and began to rub them gently. “Think how cross Hart will be when he gets home and finds you’ve worried yourself ill over him.”

  “When he gets home? But I thought Francis said …”

  “Only that poor Mark Paston was dead. Which is terrible enough, but remember, Hart would never have joined those Minutemen. I expect, if he was there when the trouble started, he escorted poor Mrs Paston and the girls to safety. That would be like Hart, wouldn’t it? And something else I’d expect him to do is come home as fast as he can, as soon as he can leave Mrs Paston. At a time like this, he’ll know his place is here. And he mustn’t find you looking so wretched. I think bed, don’t you, Abigail?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Abigail moved forward to help get her aunt shakily to her feet. “I wish I could imagine what happened to those drops.”

  They found them, after they had got Mrs Purchis safely into bed with a hot brick at her feet. The bottle had fallen off the table, rolled into a dark corner, and broken there, its precious drops seeping out to stain the polished wood floor. “Thank God you had your father’s,” said Abigail.

  “Amen to that. But we’d best send for the doctor, just the same.”

  “Francis can tell him. He’s riding back to Savannah after dinner. It was good of him to come out and tell us.”

  “Yes,” said Mercy, “but I could wish he had done it more carefully.”

  Dr Flinn did not arrive until next day, and then he was so full of news he hardly had time for his patient. “She’ll do well enough,” he told Mercy and Abigail. “Yes, child, you took a terrible chance with those dr
ops of your father’s but they did the trick, so we’ll say no more about it. I’ve brought you two bottles of her own, as you asked.”

  “Two?” Abigail sounded surprised.

  “In case of accidents,” explained Mercy. “But, Doctor, what’s the news?”

  “Nothing more from the North, I’m afraid. I know how anxious you ladies must be for news of young Hart. But we’ve had stirring times in town, I can tell you. Ah”—he looked with approval at the assortment of cold meats, fruit, and cheese laid ready for him, and reached out a loving hand for the claret bottle—”it’s always a pleasure to come to Winchelsea, dear ladies. Will you take a glass with me?” And as they shook their heads, pouring his own. “You’ve not heard about the powder magazine?”

  “No.” Anne Mayfield did not sound much interested, but the two girls leaned forward eagerly as he carved away the breast of a smoked turkey.

  “Yesterday.” He wiped his hands on his damask napkin, took a good pull at the claret, pronounced it delicious, ate a huge mouthful of cold turkey and spiced watermelon, and smiled benignly round at their attentive faces. “A group of gentlemen.” Another approving sip of claret. “Not disguised this time. Mr Habersham—Joseph, of course—and Mr Jones Junior. And Edward Telfair and I don’t know how many others—Where was I?” He was silent for a moment dealing with a huge mouthful of home-cured ham.

  “A group of radical gentlemen,” prompted Mercy.

  “Yes, quite so. Very radical indeed in their behavior. If you’ll believe it, ladies, they marched—well, walked along the bluff to the powder magazine at the east end of town. I drink their healths.” He did so, with a wary, considering look at his hostesses. “Do you know, they found it, by some strange chance, totally unguarded. So, in they marched, cool as you please, broke open the doors—or found them open, I don’t rightly know. Down to the cellar where the ammunition is … was stored, and off they go with six hundred pounds of gunpowder. I reckon there’s not a cellar or attic in town today but has its share, and poor Sir James can offer what reward he pleases for evidence. He won’t get it—nor yet his powder back. Far as I know, some of it’s on its way to Beaufort already, for safe keeping, and some on the long haul north, where it’s most needed. Poor Sir James and his hundred-fifty-pound reward! I reckon he might as well give it to charity at once.”

  “But you mean the guilty men are known?” Anne Mayfield was never a fast thinker.

  “Known and applauded, ma’am. The word is not ‘guilty’; it’s ‘heroes.’”

  “Oh.” She took it in slowly. “And my Francis?”

  “Was not there, ma’am, I’m sorry to tell you.” He rose, dabbing at greasy lips with the napkin. “With your good leave, I must be on my way. There are a few ‘accident’ cases round here that I must visit.”

  “Accident?” asked Mrs Mayfield.

  “You could call them that. Fools who thought they might like to collect Sir James’s reward. They’re none of them well enough, this morning, to go into town. Odd, ain’t it? I hope your son will bear their fate in mind, Mrs Mayfield.”

  “What did he mean?” Anne Mayfield asked querulously after he had taken his leave.

  “He meant to frighten us,” said Mercy.

  “He succeeded,” said Abigail, “I wish Giles were here.”

  “I think you should thank God he is not,” said Mercy. “It’s Hart I’d like to see. The mob must have been out this way last night. Thank God, they didn’t come here.”

  “You mean those ‘accidents’?” Abigail was very white. “What can Sir James be doing?”

  “His best, I have no doubt, poor man—and not worth much by the sound of it. If he can’t even keep sentries on duty at the powder magazine …”

  “You mean, he. can’t protect his friends?” Mrs Mayfield had been taking it in slowly. “What are we going to do?” Her voice rose to a dangerous note of hysteria. “Francis shouldn’t have left us like this.”

  “I expect Francis knows what he is doing,” said Mercy.

  “Well, I wish he had thought fit to tell me,” grumbled his mother. “What in the world do we do if the mob comes here tonight?”

  “Everything they tell us,” said Mercy.

  “Shame.” Abigail turned on her.

  “Suit yourself.” As Mercy spoke, Mrs Mayfield rose and tottered from the room. “Be a martyr if you wish it, but see to it that you don’t involve the rest of us. For my part, I intend to survive this, and if a little shouting of liberty’ will do it, then shout I will. No, never priss up your mouth at me! Be honest, now. As things stand, can you tell me there is a pennyworth to choose between the two sides?”

  “Mercy? But your father! They killed him. The rebels.”

  “The mob killed him. He hated mobs, whatever they called themselves. Whig or Tory, what’s the odds! Look at our ‘civilised’ masters, the British. What were they but a mob when they attacked the Lexington Minutemen? Mark Paston is dead, Abigail, and others with him. Hart may be.”

  “I won’t believe it.” Abigail was crying helplessly. “Oh, how I wish he would come home.”

  “So do I. And be sure, love, he will. In the meanwhile, it behoves you and me to act with sense. I think we should say something to the servants, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” gasped Abigail through her tears. “But what?”

  They were saved the decision by Francis’ return. “It’s open revolt.” He helped himself to a glass of the claret the doctor had left. “I wish I knew what to do for the best.”

  The admission, so unlike him, earned him a sharp look from Mercy. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve temporised as long as I can. Now, the cards are on the table—the sides are being drawn—I must declare myself.”

  “As what?”

  “How can you ask that? As the Loyalist I have always been. Only, if I do so, I endanger this household most horribly. It wants only for Giles Habersham to come back, and we are all ruined. But what can I do? A man must act up to his conscience at a time like this.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Abigail eagerly. “To tell truth, Francis, I have sometimes had my doubts about you, this winter past. I ask your pardon; I should have known you better. As for the danger to us, you must not think of that.”

  “No?” said Mercy. “But what about your aunts? Are they to suffer for Francis’ conscience? Tell truth, Francis. What purpose will be served by your declaring yourself, as you call it, and drawing down who knows what kind of vengeance on this house?”

  “Why, the greatest of all. How can you be so wilfully stupid? You must see that now is the time when men of influence must use it. There are plenty of honest Loyalists in Georgia, but this news may panic them into flight, or a pretence of conformity. It is a time when one must stand up and be counted.”

  “Whatever the cost?”

  “Whatever the cost.”

  “To yourself, yes,” said Mercy. “I think your mother and aunt have a right to be consulted about the cost to them.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, I count for nothing.” The exchange between them was all the sharper because of Abigail’s presence. “But as for you … you should, I think, consider your Cousin Hart, and your position as substitute master of Winchelsea. If you come out as a Loyalist and get the house burned down, where does that leave Hart, quite aside from the rest of us?”

  “My dear Mercy.” His tone was patient, as to a child. “You are as bad as my aunt. Can you not bring yourself to face the facts? All China to a Lombard orange, Hart is dead. Which means, to all intents and purposes, that I am master of Winchelsea.”

  “Oh? Might not your aunt have something to say to that? And your cousin, here, who is Purchis, where you are not?”

  “Oh, don’t!” Abigail could bear it no longer. “Are not things bad enough without you two quarreling?”

  “She’s right.” Francis reached a plate from the sideboard and carved himself a slice of ham. “Join me in a glass of claret, ladies, and let’s kiss an
d be friends.” His smile, behind Abigail’s back for Mercy underlined the words.

  But they had reminded her that the doctor had been gone some time and still no servant had appeared to clear away his luncheon. “It is time we talked to the servants,” she returned to the subject. “What are they thinking of, to leave things thus?”

  “My convenience, as it happens,” said Francis. “But I take your point. They, too, will need their minds settling.”

  “I doubt if your coming out as a Loyalist will have a very settling effect.”

  “You’ll be surprised.” He finished his glass of wine and poured another. “Tory to the backbone, most of them.”

  “And loyal to Winchelsea,” said Abigail.

  “I hope so.” Mercy looked up. “What’s that?”

  The sound of a horse, ridden hard. “Where the hell are the servants?” Francis strode to the window. “What’s happened to Hart’s famous warning system?” And then, “Good God! It is Hart!”

  The three of them reached the front portico as the lathered horse came to a weary halt. Hart himself was white with fatigue under a caked layer of dust and sat for a long moment, swaying in the saddle, gazing at them blankly.

  “Hart! By all that’s wonderful.” Francis hurried forward to help him alight and then steady him as he swayed with fatigue. “We were afraid—”

  “Right to be.” He looked about him. “But where are the servants? Were you not warned I was coming?”

  “No. Things are at sixes and sevens here, cousin. It makes it all the better to see you. But come in and rest. You look worn out.”

  “I am.” He had an exhausted smile for Abigail and Mercy. “I’ve ridden day and moonlight, when I could. Better that than thinking. You’ve heard the news?”

  “Yes. Past believing. Is it really so bad?”

  “Worse. They came out from Boston, the British. I was staying with the Pastons. There were—oh—seven hundred of them. Something like that. The Lexington Minutemen were waiting for them, drawn up on the Common—forty men—fifty? I don’t know. A demonstration, nothing more. The British fired on them, Francis, went for them with the bayonet—their officers couldn’t stop them. I saw it all. I’ll never forgive myself. I hid. And then Mark found me. He was dying. Shot in the side, as he obeyed the order to disperse.”