Judas Flowering

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Many years ago, watching a dress rehearsal at Drury Lane, she had heard the great Mr Garrick teach a young actress how to throw her voice to the back of the theatre. She took a deep breath. “What do you want, gentlemen? There’s no one here but Miss Purchis and me, and she’s ill. What can I do for you?” As she spoke, she was desperately scanning their faces, hoping to recognize someone among the leaders.

  “It’s the printer’s daughter,” came a voice from the back of the crowd. “Him as hid his press so snug we never found it, I know what we can do with her.” And as another voice chimed in with an obscene suggestion, the crowd surged forward.

  “Stop!” But still they came on. She raised the pistol she had concealed among her skirts and fired into the air. It gave her the moment’s quiet she needed. “Are you men or savages?” Her voice came fuller and clearer now, compelling them to silence. “You, or your friends, killed my father. You doubtless burned his press with his house. Kill me too, if you like, and you kill as hearty a rebel as yourselves.” Now, at last, she recognised a face in the crowd. “You, there, John Stubbs, you know Hart Purchis. What will he say to this day’s work? Or his friends on the Provincial Assembly, Mr Habersham, Mr Jones, and the others. Kill me, fire the house, and you give the British out there—” She pointed away towards Tybee, and was glad to see heads turn obediently in that direction. “You give them the excuse they need to attack Savannah.”

  “It’s true.” John Stubbs spoke up. “Mr Purchis is a good friend of ours, since Lexington. We didn’t reckon to hurt his house, did we, brothers?”

  The mood of the crowd had changed. There were cries of “‘Course not” and “Hurray for Mr Purchis.” But then, more menacing, “Just give us the traitor and we’re on our way.”

  “Traitor? What traitor?”

  “Francis Mayfield.” It came back as a growl, from many voices, and she wondered if he could hear it, round at the side of the house, where he huddled in the Purchis tomb.

  “Him as played us off so neat and sweet,” came one voice.

  “Running with the hare and hunting with the hounds,” chimed in another.

  “Such a fine Liberty Boy.” This was John Stubbs. “Till it came time to declare himself and sign the Association, and then, ‘Oh, dear me, no.’ His conscience won’t allow that. Traitor’s too good a word for him. We wondered who kept blowing our plans, didn’t we, boys? And now we know.” Another angry growl answered him. “So, miss, just let us at him.”

  “But he’s not here.” For a breathing space, as Stubbs spoke the damning words, she had been horribly tempted to betray Francis. It had all been true, every unspeakable suspicion that had haunted her since that day at McCartneys’ when she thought she recognized him as the mob’s leader. He had indeed been playing off the two sides against each other, with the stake, of course, Winchelsea. Well, it would serve him right if he was to cause its burning. No time for this now. “Why do you think to find him here?” she asked as the crowd began to murmur angrily again, like the hornets’ nest it was. “He’s not been here for weeks. You should look for him at Mrs McCartney’s house.”

  “We did,” said John Stubbs. “Searched the house proper, we did, and nothing there but those two girls, screaming and carrying on.”

  “You didn’t hurt them?” How strange—they were almost conversing.

  “’Course not. There’s no harm in them, bar silliness. They said Mr Francis had gone, and their mother too. And it was true, there wasn’t a bit of his stuff about the place. So then we picked up his trail in town and followed it here. Where is he? And the old woman?”

  “Mrs McCartney? I’ve not seen her since before Christmas.” Here at last was truth. “Think, man. He’d never have brought her here. Ten to one they’ve gone to Sir James Wright’s plantation. Or the British ships. Best hurry if you want to catch him before he gets clean away. But before you go, I beg you will search this house, just in case he has got in. We’ve been round at the side, Miss Purchis and I. The servants are all run. He might have come this way and be hiding. If he’s the traitor you say, I don’t want him here at Winchelsea. Please.” Seeing them hesitate, debating among themselves, she made it more urgent. “Don’t leave till you’ve searched!”

  “That great house!” One of the mob’s leaders spat on the ground. “We’ve no time for that. It’s true, he’s likely gone down the Wilmington River to the British ships. Not a moment to lose. After him, boys. After the traitor! You, the land party, go take a look at Sir James’s plantation; we’re off downriver.”

  Mercy leaned against the porch rail, shivering convulsively, and watched them go as swiftly as they had come, but quieter now, and, she thought, even more dangerous. The suggestion that Francis might actually have joined the enemy had stirred the blood-lust in them. Lucky for him that he was well hidden.

  “Well done, ma’am.” Sam emerged quietly from the front door. “I never thought you’d manage them. But what now?”

  “I don’t know.” The words came out slowly, jerkily, as reaction began to set in.

  “You can’t go to Savannah.” Sam confirmed what she had feared. “Go by river, you’ll likely meet the mob someplace; go by road, the same’s true. Either way, I’d have to take you, and someone ought to stay and mind the house.”

  “Do you think the servants will come back?” She thought she had seen two or three familiar faces, hanging well to the back of the mob.

  “I don’t know, miss. If Mr Hart came home, they might. Either way, if I was you and Miss Abigail, I reckon I’d stay here tonight, till the mob’s safe home, and go in town tomorrow as you planned. Right now, maybe you’ll keep Miss Abigail company while I go and talk to Moses at the drive entrance. I’m afraid I saw the man from the new wharf in the mob, but I’m right down anxious about Pete. He’d never have run. I just don’t understand it.”

  “Yes. Do that, Sam, but don’t be too long about it.” She shivered again and looked up at the sky, from which a little brightness had drained away. “I doubt we couldn’t get to Savannah before nightfall anyway, and if there’s one thing we don’t want, it’s a meeting with that mob in the dark.”

  “You’re right, miss. Specially if they don’t catch Mr Francis, which, please God, they won’t. But what was that they kept shouting? It sounded like ‘traitor’ to me.”

  “Oh, a lot of nonsense.” She had been thinking hard about what she would say. “Just because he wouldn’t sign their Association they’re out for his blood.” She left him and walked through the dark, strangely silent house to find Abigail still sitting where she had left her on the porch.

  “Mercy! Have they really gone? How did you manage? Are we safe? And poor Francis?”

  “I think so. I urged them to search the house for him, so of course they refused. Who wants to be guided by a woman? They’re off to look for him at Sir James’ and downriver as far as they dare go towards the British ships. By he time they draw a blank there it will be nearly dark. They'll head home, I hope.”

  “Dear God, so do I! But what are we going to do about Francis?”

  “Leave him where he is. He's got food and blankets, and the nights aren’t too cold. We dare not do anything else. Sam mustn’t know he’s here, for his own sake as well as ours. And, besides, the other servants may come back, now the danger’s over. Suppose they found him here.”

  “Yes, But, poor Frank.”

  “Poor Frank’s alive.”

  “Why, Mercy, how can you be so hard. Do you know … I half thought you were fond of Frank.”

  “Did you, dear? Well, perhaps I was, just a little. I’m not sure we are going to have time to be fond of people in the days that are coming.”

  “Oh, Mercy, do you think it’s so bad?”

  “As bad as can be, I wish now I’d made Giles Habersham take you away with him.”

  “As if you could have,” said Abigail. And then, “So do I.”

  “Well.” Mercy had allowed herself the luxury of collapsing onto a rocking chair,
but now got wearily to her feet. “‘Talk pays no toll,’ as my father used to say. We’d best go indoors and make sure we know where lamps and food are, before night falls. I doubt the servants will be back today. Except Sam and his two stalwarts.” And how she hoped they would.

  It was good for Abigail to be occupied in cleaning neglected lamps and fitting new candles into their holders. Mercy, relieved to find ample stores of food in the big, cool larder at the darkest end of the cellar, could think of nothing but Sam as she cut great slices off a home-cured ham and looked out a jar of Abigail’s favourite water-melon pickle. By now he must have relieved Moses at the drive entrance and, presumably, sent him back to the house. He could not be expected to stand watch all night. He would be back soon, and she must be ready for him and his questions. Sam would no doubt cut across the rice-fields to the old wharf, since that way took him past the new wharf and he could make sure that all was safe there. She did not think the leaders of the mob would have had the wits to leave a man on guard, but anything was possible. And, as for the old wharf—another long shudder made her put down her load and lean for a moment against a huge kitchen table—what would Sam find there?

  “Mercy!” Abigail’s anxious voice from upstairs. “I can hear someone coming.”

  “Here I am.” Mercy left the ham on the marble slab and and hurried up the steep cellar stairs.

  “Who is it?” She saw Abigail at the front door, peering out.

  “Only Moses. Well, of all things!” Her voice was shrill with anger. “He’s coming in the front way. I’ll give him a piece of my mind for that!”

  “No, you won’t,” said Mercy. “You’ll thank God that he’s coming at all.”

  Moses had little to report. The mob had not molested him, either going or coming, and he said he thought some of them were about ready to give up and go back to Savannah. “They wanted me to go too.”

  “But you didn’t, said Mercy. “Thank you, Moses. Mr Hart will be grateful.”

  “Mr Hart taught me to read,” said Moses. “I’ll go light the lamps, Miss Mercy. It will be dark soon.”

  “Yes. I wish Sam would come. He cut across the fields, did he?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He said he was going to both wharves. He’s worried about Pete.”

  “And so am I. But worrying won’t help. Abigail, dear, you must eat something and get to bed. Tomorrow’s another day, and not an easy one, I’m afraid.”

  She had just seen Abigail safely tucked up with a hot brick at her feet when she heard Moses greeting Sam, and hurried down to join them. One look at Sam’s face told her she had been right to be afraid.

  “He’s dead,” said Sam. “They killed him. Pete.”

  “How?”

  “Hit from behind. I don’t know how they managed to land without him hearing. The noise they were making. I suppose he was listening to the other lot, up at the new wharf. But, why, miss? Why did they go for to do it?” He was painfully close to tears. “Pete was a good friend of mine.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Please God he would never discover how much worse it was than he thought.

  “I couldn’t even bury him, just had to leave him there. My friend Pete.”

  “You and Moses must do it first thing in the morning. Now, we’re all worn out, but you two are in the worst case. I’ll keep watch till midnight, then wake you, Sam. You take your turn, then wake Moses.”

  “But, miss—”

  “No argument, Sam. Please.”

  “You should ’a been a man.” It was capitulation, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Half an hour later, with the house quiet as death and the moon rising, she let herself quietly out of the library window. There was just enough light to show her the well-known way to her father’s grave and, beyond it, the big family one. “Francis?” she whispered at the crack of its door.

  “And about time too.” He pulled it angrily open. “I thought you’d never come.”

  “You’re lucky I did.”

  “And what, pray, do you mean by that?” But for all the bravado of his tone, she thought he knew.

  “Sam’s been down to the old wharf,” she said.

  “So?”

  “He found Pete’s body. Stupid, Francis. You should have hidden it.”

  “There was no time,” And then, aware of how fatally he had betrayed himself, “I had to kill him! He was bound to have made a noise, given one of those absurd signals, brought them down on me. I couldn’t risk it.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you could. And nor can you risk staying here. In the morning, the servants will be back. If they learn you’ve been here, they’ll put two and two together, soon or late. And everyone loved Pete. Your life wouldn’t be worth five minutes’ purchase. You’d best be off to the King’s ships, Francis. They are the only place for you now.”

  “You won’t tell?”

  “That’s all you care about? No, I won’t tell. I can’t. I lied to the mob. If they were to find out, they’d be back for me. You’re safe enough from me, Francis.”

  “I know I am. Dearest Mercy.” He found her hand in the dark and made to raise it to his lips.

  She snatched it away. “No. There’s blood on it.”

  “A slave’s.”

  “A man’s. And—I must go. Sam will be waking, looking for me. You’ll have to walk, Francis. If you take the boat, he’ll know.”

  “You think of everything. Dearest Mercy,” Once again he tried to pull her to him,

  “No, I tell you. There’s no time, Francis. If you don’t value your own life, value mine. I must go. I don’t suppose we will meet again. Good luck, Francis. I think you are going to need it.”

  “Mercy!” But she had pulled away and was hurrying along the familiar path back to the house.

  Chapter 13

  After that, the night passed quietly, and Mercy even slept for part of it, while Sam and Moses stood watch in turn. But at first light, she got up, threw her clothes on, and went down to find Moses peering out at a fine morning. “I think you should wake Sam,” she told him. “And go and bury poor Pete, quick. I don’t want Miss Abigail to know. It would only make her worse.” If it sounded heartless, she could not help it, and she knew well enough that it was the kind of attitude many a white employer would take.

  As soon as they had gone, she hurried out to the graveyard, picking a quick bunch of early spring flowers as she went. They must be her excuse if anyone should find her there. Laying them on her father’s well-tended grave, she breathed a quick prayer, then moved over to the family tomb. As she had expected, Francis had left unmistakable signs of his presence:, blankets rumpled, a half-gnawn crust of bread, and even, final folly, a monogrammed handkerchief. The bread she could not replace, but it might easily have been eaten by chipmunks. She retrieved the handkerchief, tidied the blankets, and was back in the house in time to hear a faint call from Abigail’s room.

  She made her stay in bed and fetched hot milk and stale cornbread for them both. Abigail was quiet this morning, and looked drawn, listening.

  It was hard not to listen. And, at last, they both heard the sound of horse’s hooves, far off, muffled by the crushed shell-surface of the drive. “What now?” Mercy hurried to throw open the window and lean out. Then, “It’s Hart!” she exclaimed. “Thank God. I’ll go down to him. No need to hurry yourself, Abigail.” She must have a moment alone with Hart to tell him about Pete’s death. And about Francis?

  By the time she got downstairs, Hart had ridden round to the stable yard and dismounted. “Mercy!” He saw her. “Thank God. You’re not hurt?” He came towards her, hands outstretched, then stopped, collected himself, looked about him. “Where is everyone? The mob’s been. I’ve seen their traces all the way, been mad with worry. They didn’t hurt you, Mercy? You’re … you’re all right?”

  “Of course.” She stood there, looking up at his anxious face and fighting the temptation to throw herself into his arms, and cry, and cry, and cry. How horrified he would be. �
��The servants have run.” She made her voice cool. “Except Sam and Moses. They’ll be back soon. Pete was killed last night, Hart. They’re burying him.”

  “Killed?” It hit him hard. “Pete? We grew up together, he and Jem and I. But, Mercy, why now? Why here? Surely not your father’s press after all this time?”

  “No. They were after Francis. Said he’d refused to sign the Association. I talked to them a bit, and they went away.”

  “Admirable Mercy! You talked to the mob and they went away! Without burning the house, or hurting anyone, except poor Pete.” It was the inevitable assumption, and she found she was not going to disabuse him. Francis was gone. Pete was dead. What use to make bad worse! Hart’s tanned face was fine-drawn with exhaustion already.

  His next words explained it. “Sir James has broken his parole.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. He slipped out of his house by the back way. There was a boat waiting to take him to his friend Mulryne’s at Bonaventure. I imagine that by now he’s safe on board the Scarborough. I trusted him, Mercy. I advised Joseph Habersham to accept his parole. These times make traitors of us all.”

  “Oh, poor man,” said Mercy. “How wretched he must feel.”

  Hart had finished attending to his horse and now turned angrily towards the house. “Don’t waste your pity on him. He’s not worth it. Anyone who will break parole—And, Mercy, I’m afraid there’s worse news—for us.”