Judas Flowering

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “But how?” asked Francis sharply. “How did the British let them get dug in?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But seems like they woke up in the morning, and there was these lines kind of looking down on them. So, ‘course they had to do something ‘bout it. It was a bloody dreadful fight, they do say. The British, they come up the hill, over and over again, drums beating, fifes playing, and was thrown back down again, right into the sea. Dunnamany they lost.”

  “Thrown back?” said Francis. “The British line. Impossible.”

  “You’d have thought it impossible for them to have let the rebels entrench themselves on Bunker Hill,” said Hart. “If you knew the lie of the land as I do. Once they had let that happen, I should have thought anything was possible.”

  “Of course, we must defer to your superior knowledge.” The sneer in Francis’ voice was a little too pronounced for comfort. And then, sharply, to Jem, “But, naturally, they beat the Americans in the end?”

  “Well, yes, sir, that they did, ‘cos our lot done run out of powder, but everyone in Savannah’s saying that a few more battles like that one and that British General Gage will sure be needing to send home for more men. They’re drinking ‘Liberty or Death’ at Tondee’s Tavern today. Oh, I clean forgot, Mr Gordon, he sent you a letter, sir.” He handed it to Hart.

  “Thanks, Jem. Go get your horse rubbed down and yourself a drink. You’ve earned it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He dug his heels in the tired horse’s sides and moved off towards the house.

  “We must not quarrel in front of the servants, Frank.” Hart was opening the letter.

  “No, sir, Mr Purchis.” And then, impulsively, “I’m sorry, Hart, this news has quite upset me. It sounds too much like war.”

  ‘“It is war.” Hart had been quickly skimming through the closely written pages. “‘War to the death,’ Gordon says. Jem had it pretty well right. A most bloody engagement, and the British line thrown back twice.”

  “But they won in the end?”

  “Well, yes. So it seems.” Hart had turned to the last page, where the handwriting degenerated into a scrawl. “They took the position, but with what Gordon describes as ‘immense losses, much greater than ours.’”

  “Yours,” said Francis. “Don’t include me in any of your rebel calculations, cousin.”

  “I may have to,” Hart told him. “President Bulloch has asked me to vouch for you, Frank.”

  “And you did! Of course you did! Oh, kind and generous cousin. Oh, patient and loving cousin.”

  “That’s enough.” There was a note in Hart’s voice Mercy had not heard before. “These are hard times, Frank. Let us do our best not to make them harder. If we cannot be friends here at Winchelsea, God help us all. Mercy”—he turned to the two girls with an effort at a smile and change of subject—“I came past your house, your father’s house, on the way back from town today. Did you know that someone had been digging between there and the river?”

  “No. Have they?”

  “Yes. I wondered if they could be searching for that vanished press of your father’s. Poor Mr Johnston—” Having given him time to cool off, Hart turned to include Francis in the conversation. “I reckon he’s got problems enough without having Mr Phillips’ press found. He’s in deep trouble with the Council of Safety for taking so long to print the news of Lexington and Concord.”

  “Three weeks,” said Mercy. “Yes, it was a long time. I wonder how long he will take over Bunker Hill. And how much longer he can contrive to continue his policy of publishing both Sir James’ proclamations and those of the Provincial Congress. These are bad times for neutrals.”

  “Bad times for traitors,” said Francis.

  “Traitors?” Hart flushed angrily along tanned cheekbones. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Why, anything you care to think, little cousin. Turncoats, then. Gentlemen’ who send loyal petitions to George the Third with one hand and elect themselves a president with the other. President Bulloch indeed. And you expect me to thank you for being so gracious as to vouch for me to him.”

  “Don’t call me little cousin,” said Hart.

  Next morning, he and Francis quarrelled. Abigail and Mercy were sitting in their little downstairs parlour, Mercy mending sheets and Abigail reading aloud. “Oh, dear.” Abigail put down Sir Charles Grandison at the sound of raised voices in the next room. “They sound dreadfully angry. Do you think they might fight?”

  “Cousins? Surely they would not …” But Mercy, too, put down her work and cocked her head, listening anxiously.

  “I’d never have thought it possible,” agreed Abigail. “But now … With this terrible political difference. And you know what the point of honour is like, among our Southern gentlemen. They’ll kill each other for a nothing, a trifle.”

  “Yes.” Mercy had gone very white. “You’re right, Abigail. We must fetch your aunts. Quick. Or, rather, you fetch them.” The voices had suddenly grown much louder and she thought she heard the word “dowry.” “I’m going in there to interrupt them.”

  “Do you dare?”

  “Of course I dare. Do you fetch the others. Quick!” As Abigail ran upstairs, she hurried down the hall and threw open the door of the room Hart used as study and office combined. The two young men were on their feet, glaring at each other. A chair, pushed over by the desk, showed that Hart had just jumped up. Francis was leaning against the window-ledge, smiling. “Afraid, little cousin?” His tone was mocking. “So you should be.”

  “Francis! Hart!” Mercy moved forward between them, as Hart’s hand came up to strike that sneering face. It caught her on the cheek. “Are you out of your senses?” She put her own hand to the smarting place. Hart had struck hard. Should she faint? No time for that. As angry as they were, they might well leave her to lie and fight it out across her body. “Your mothers are coming.” She kept her place firmly between them. “I’ll accept your apology later, Hart. In the meantime, what sort of a scene do you intend to present? They’ll be here directly.” She was saying anything, nothing, simply to give them time to cool off.

  It seemed to be working. “Mercy, I ask you a thousand pardons,” said Hart.

  “Granted. It was my fault I came between you and the fly you were trying to swat.”

  “Fly?” For a moment he did not understand the way out she was offering him. Then, “Just so. You must forgive me, Mercy.”

  “Fly!” Francis took a step forward. “It’s a fly with a sting, little cousin, as you shall discover.”

  “Francis”—she held out a pleading hand to him—“for the love of—” She left a pause long enough to suggest that she was going to speak of their secret engagement, then concluded with, “God. Remember who you are, and where. Ah.” She turned with a sigh of relief as the three other ladies came crowding into the room.

  “What is it?” asked Martha Purchis. “What are you two boys fighting about?” Quite unintentionally, her tone of the anxious parent reduced the whole thing to absurdity.

  “What indeed!” Francis managed a rueful laugh. “I cry you a million pardons, cousin. Only, you must understand that what you said about Abigail’s dowry came a little near the bone with me.”

  “My dowry?” asked Abigail, puzzled. “What’s that to the purpose?”

  “Why, everything,” said Francis, as Hart stayed silent, apparently slower to collect himself. “Hart here seemed to imply that I failed in my duty to you when I refused to advance it from the estate. For a moment I thought he was suggesting something worse.”

  “Nothing of the kind.” Hart had himself in hand now. “Of course you acted most scrupulously for the best. I only feel sad”—he turned to Abigail—“that I was not here to make funds available so that you could marry Giles Habersham before he sailed for England. I am afraid it may be a long day now …” And then, back to Francis, “Frank, I hope you did not for a moment imagine that I was suggesting you had not, always, acted for the best interests of Winchelsea.�
� He held out his hand. “If anything I said could have been so construed, I beg you will forgive me.”

  “Handsomely spoken,” said Anne Mayfield. Was her look for Francis a warning one? “Nobody could possibly quarrel with that, Francis.”

  “No.” Francis had taken Hart’s hand in both of his. “What fools we nearly were. We owe our thanks to Miss Phillips for saving us from a great absurdity.” And then, quietly to Mercy, as they all began to talk at once, “You’d best get away and do something about your face before anyone notices.”

  Since both mothers were now roundly abusing their own sons, and Abigail was doing her best to pacify them, Mercy found it easy enough to escape from the room and hurry upstairs to survey her rapidly reddening cheek in the glass. She pulled a face at herself and ran down the hall to Mrs Mayfield’s room, where it was easy to borrow masking cream and powder from a heap of other aids to beauty. Returning to Hart’s study, she found that a kind of uneasy calm had settled on the party there. Everyone, she thought, was beginning to realise just how near to disaster they had been. She had brought her broad-brimmed straw hat with her. “I am just going to walk down with some flowers for my father’s grave,” she told anyone who cared to listen.

  Francis joined her there a little while later. “Whew,” he said. “That was a near thing, love. If you hadn’t come in just then, I don’t like to think what would have happened.”

  “No more do I,” she said. “Oh, don’t for a moment think I was anxious for your life, my dearest. I know that you’d have made mincement of poor Hart, and were in a mood to do so, too. But I would have hated to see you hanged for murder.”

  “Murder?” He took her up on it sharply.

  “Well, yes. Had you not thought? If you, a known Loyalist, were to kill a radical convert like Hart—and one from whom you are like to inherit too—it might go hard with you. I’ve never seen a lynching, nor want to.” She shuddered and rather thought he did too.

  He took her hand. “And with my inheritance would have gone yours, eh? You’re a cold-blooded, quick-witted little piece, aren’t you, love, and I admire you for it. Had it all summed up in the moment of opening that door, didn’t you?”

  “Well,” demurely, “yes.” No need to add that she had had it all summed up before that. “But, Francis, I remain anxious about you. Do you think it is safe for you to stay here? Suppose Hart were to decide to get rid of you.”

  “Hart! Get rid of me?” His astonishment was almost ludicrous.

  “He’s not the fool you let yourself think. And”—she paused expressively—“he has friends. Who may not want a Loyalist in a position of power here at Winchelsea. Dear Francis”—she raised pleading eyes to his—“for my sake, go back to Savannah. I truly think you will be safer there. If only you would sign their Articles of Association!

  “Never! And as for safety!” He dismissed it. “But, it’s true, I had begun to think that I might be more useful in town. I’m nothing but a cipher here on the plantation now that Hart is home. That black bastard Sam smiles and says, ‘Yes, sir,’ and does just as he pleases. And as for Hart—he and I are oil and vinegar since he has been away. What nearly happened today might come at any time. You’re right, love. Had it not been for you, I’d have gone the moment I could, but how could I tear myself away?” He raised her two hands and kissed them roughly, one after the other. “Now, with your leave, I will go. But my heart stays here.”

  He rode into town the next morning and returned a few days later with an announcement that surprised even Mercy. He had been invited to stay with the McCartneys. “They feel their position,” he explained, “out there near the Common with no man in the house. No need to look so disapproving, Mamma. I know it is a little out of the way, but so are these times. And you have Hart here, amply able to take care of you.”

  “Yes,” doubtfully. “But, Frank, you are never going to propose for one of those freckle-faced girls after all?”

  “Good God, no. You must be aware I’ve seen metal more attractive.” A quick side glance for Mercy before he went on, “What do you hear from Mrs Doone, by the way?”

  “Nothing good. Since the news of Bunker Hill, the mob has been out in Charleston with a vengeance. I tremble for our house, Frank.”

  “And for our friends,” he said drily. “Don’t look so anxious, ma’am. I’ll get myself domesticated with the McCartneys and then ride north and make sure all is well in Charleston.”

  “And pay a call on the Doones?”

  “Well, ma’am, what do you think?” Once again he managed a private glance and smile for Mercy.

  Saying good-bye to her, later, down by her father’s grave, he had a note of apology. “You mustn’t mind my mother. She can’t help being an inveterate match-maker.” He laughed. “It’s only a miracle she hasn’t got on to us long since. And, frankly, another reason why, alas, I think I am best away. You’re wonderfully patient, love.” It did not surprise him.

  “What else can I be?” She looked up at him wistfully. “But, Frank, how long do you think …”

  “God knows. This news from the North has set all to sixes and sevens. With Hart home, I had hoped the time might be coming when I could apply for a grant of land in the West, but, Mercy, I cannot risk you there now, with the mob on the rampage, and very likely the Indians too. Have you heard anything, by the way, about that powder ship of Captain Maitland’s that’s supposed to be due from England?”

  “Not a word.”

  “I’m worried about Hart,” he explained. “There’s all kinds of talk in town about what they mean to do. Ask help from South Carolina—commission a schooner to take Maitland’s ship … madness … patent treason. And I did hear that Bowen was to captain the schooner, with Joseph Habersham as second in command. Well, they’re old friends of Hart’s, and he’s a damned useful man on board ship.”

  “Is he?”

  “Oh, yes. We grew up on and off the river, he and I, but I lost the taste for it when I went to England. Hart knows every creek and channel between here and Tybee. I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather have aboard on a mad venture like that. Or anything I’d less like to see Hart involved in. That really would be treason to the Crown. Worse even than signing that damned rebellious Association. So, Mercy, if you should hear anything—anything at all to make you anxious—you would send for me, would you not?”

  “Dear Francis, who else?”

  Hart was away a good deal during the next few days, and his mother and aunt began to complain and wish for Francis back. “Why should he protect the McCartneys when we need it just as much or more?” wailed Mrs Mayfield. “My nerves won’t stand much more. For all the use Hart is …”

  “I wish we knew what he was doing,” said Martha Purchis.

  They learned a few days later when Sir James Wright paid them a stiff-necked, angry visit. He had asked for Hart, but showed no surprise at finding him absent. “I feared as much.” He kissed Mrs Purchis’ hand. “I’m afraid you will live to regret sending that boy of yours north, ma’am.”

  “Oh, Sir James, I do already! But why today in particular?”

  “You’ve not heard? Those madmen have taken Captain Maitland’s ship. The powder’s vanished without trace. God knows how Captain Stuart is going to pacify the Indians for whom it was meant. I’m only grateful you and I both have our estates on this side of town, ma’am. When the Indians start attacking, as I fear they will, it is bound to be from the west. Though, mind you, the mob will doubtless turn out to help protect Winchelsea from the redskins if they come, which is more than it will my plantation.”

  “Sir James, you’re not suggesting—You don’t think Hart was involved?”

  “Well.” He looked about him. “Where is Mr Purchis?”

  When Hart returned, much later that night, it was to face a barrage of questions from his mother and aunt, so that Mercy had merely to stay quiet and listen. “So you’ve heard of our little foray.” Hart was looking tired, sunburnt, and exalted, like someone a little
drunk, perhaps with success.

  “‘Little foray?’” His mother was horrified. “Hart, you mean you admit it!”

  “I boast of it, ma’am. And so may you. The first ship commissioned by the patriots, and the first British ship taken. I think we have made history today. Savannah may be only a tiny port compared to Charleston or New York, but we have shown that we have teeth as good as theirs. If the powder seized from the magazine here in Savannah last spring was really used to good effect at Bunker Hill, along with the cannon captured at Ticonderoga, I wonder where today’s haul may not explode into action.”

  “But what have you done with it?” asked Abigail.

  “Ask no question, cousin, and I’ll tell you no lies. What’s the news of Francis, Aunt Anne?”

  “He was here the other day,” said Mrs Mayfield. “Asking after you. I think he was afraid you might involve yourself in this mad venture.”

  “So he knew about it?”

  “I suspect everyone in town knew about it,” said Mercy. “The servants certainly did. Sam came back from Savannah talking of nothing else.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Purchis. “And that reminds me, I must speak to Sam. His manner to Sir James was quite the outside of enough. There was a kind of gloating smile about him that made me itch to strike him.”

  “Mamma!” Hart’s tone was unusually sharp. “Hush!” And then, as she looked at him in angry amazement, “As to Sam, leave him to me. I’ll deal with him. Sir James is an old friend and must be treated with respect in this house, but you must see, ma’am, that nothing is as it used to be.”

  “Hart!” She was close to tears. “I see it, and I hate it.” She rose and tottered from the room, followed by Mrs Mayfield and Abigail.

  “Mercy.” Hart held out a hand to detain her as she was folding up her work. “I never did get a chance to apologise, to thank you. Your face, I was so sorry—is it better?”