Judas Flowering

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Oh?” She thought she knew what was coming.

  “Francis. I’m not surprised the mob was after him. But he would never have brought them here! Not even Francis. Mercy, I’m ashamed to have to tell you: he’s been playing a double game all along. When he refused to sign the Association, it all came out. How he had collaborated with both Tories and Whigs, informing on either as it suited him. I … I can’t understand it, Mercy. Oh, at first, perhaps, it was a game to him, the kind of gamble he enjoyed. Dressing up, playing the two sides against each other, convincing himself he was acting for the best. But, later, when it became serious—Mercy, how could he? Why would he? Frank … my cousin … a Purchis.”

  “Oh, Hart.” She could not help a shaken little laugh. “Is that the worst of it? That he’s family?”

  “Dear Mercy.” Suddenly he bent to take both her hands in his. “I’m glad you can laugh about it, take it so well. You’re gallant. And you’ll see, he’ll settle down, now he’s been forced into the open. He was always a Loyalist at heart.”

  “Do you think so?” Something about his tone puzzled her, and she decided this was no time to tell him of her own far more unpleasant suspicion that in fact Francis had been playing his double game for the stake of Winchelsea itself. Mrs Purchis’ curiously mislaid medicine drops, that attempt to provoke Hart to a duel—what had they been but moves in a gambler’s game to eliminate the lives standing between him and Winchelsea? But how could she bear to try and convince Hart of this? Convincing herself had been bad enough, with memory of those Judas kisses still scorching her.

  “I’ve not told Abigail about Pete’s death.” She changed the subject. “She’s not well enough, and she’ll be down directly. Will you go and warn the men to say nothing?”

  “Of course. You think of everything. And then I am going to close this house, leave Sam in charge, and take you to stay in town until things are quieter.”

  “If they ever are.”

  Abigail protested passionately against the move to Savannah, and earned a long, sad look from Hart. “You’ve seen Giles Habersham. I heard he was with the British. And did not choose to tell me.” His look of reproach was more for Mercy than for Abigail.

  “I tried,” Mercy began, but Abigail interrupted her.

  “Yes, I did see him,” she said defiantly. “And begged him to take me away. But he would not. It seems there’s no room for human feelings in the world anymore. We must all be things until this war is over.”

  “I’m glad you see that it is war,” said Hart. “The British still seem to think it can all be settled with a few fair words. But they are wrong, as they will find in the end. And, Abigail, for the moment I truly think you have a better chance of meeting Giles openly, at Savannah, as a British emissary, than in some hole and corner way here at Winchelsea.” He turned on Mercy. “I cannot think how you could have connived at it.”

  “Connived!” Abigail took him up angrily, “She wouldn’t let us have a single moment alone together. You’re all against me.”

  “Abigail.” Hart’s patient tone was strained. “This is not the time for such refining. Please, come to Savannah. I need your help. And Mercy’s. My Aunt Mayfield is in such a fret about Francis that I am afraid she is making my mother worse.”

  “Hart, I’m a brute. Of course I will come.”

  Back in Savannah, life achieved a dour routine of its own. Sir James wrote of peace and olive branches from the British ships that stayed, threatening and unsupplied, off Tybee, and the Council of Safety ignored him and looked to its defences. Busy with the militia, Hart was hardly home at all, and the house on Oglethorpe Square was a sad enough place. Mrs Mayfield spent most of her time in her room, mourning her son as if he was dead, though he was, in fact, known to be safe on board the British ship Cherokee.

  “Oh, Mercy,” said Abigail, “why didn’t I make him take me with him!”

  “Francis? You can’t be serious!”

  “He took Mrs McCartney.”

  “Abigail!” Mercy looked at her with something between love and exasperation. There was a kind of obstinate innocence about her that had so far proved impermeable to the truth about Francis. Well, of course, with his mother in the house, they did not talk about him much. Hart did not talk about anything, and Mercy sometimes suspected him of making excuses to stay away from home, and could hardly blame him.

  Mrs Purchis missed him, and grumbled, and seemed, for some reason, to take it out on Mercy, who could do nothing right these days. Too ill to run the house herself, Mrs Purchis nevertheless seemed to resent the automatic way the servants turned to Mercy for orders. It was she, now, who went to the market in Ellis Square every morning to buy the provisions that grew dearer each week, and therefore it was on her that Mrs Purchis’ wrath fell as the cost of living rose. Martha Purchis had never been short of money in her life, and the prospect frightened her, Mercy would have been sorry for her, ill as she was, if there had not seemed something personal, almost spiteful about her complaints. If Abigail had been better, she would have been tempted to turn the house-keeping over to her and apply for a post in one of Savannah’s dame schools, but Abigail had had no word from Giles Habersham and crept about the house like a ghost.

  Deeply sorry for her, Mercy could not help, sometimes, comparing their positions. Giles loved Abigail; they were engaged. In the end, surely, all would come right for them. But what future lay ahead for her? She tried not to think of the past, of Francis’ long betrayal. Had he ever loved her? It would be easier to bear if he had. Sometimes she thought so; sometimes, waking from a dream when she had melted once more into that hot embrace of his, she thought she could not bear herself.

  If Hart were home more, it would be easier. Sight of him, somehow, put those old nightmares to flight. But instead of Hart, there was Saul Gordon, whose wife had finally died that winter. Inevitably, with Hart busy both with the Council of Safety and with the militia, Saul Gordon had taken over what estate business there still was. He spent most of his time in the little office next door and made a habit of sidling into the main living room with each new rumour, specially, it seemed for her. There was a sense of breathless waiting in the air, as the days passed, and still those threatening ships lay out of sight but never out of mind at Tybee. Rumours flew through the streets and squares like wildfire, but there was no solid news. James Johnston, the printer of The Georgia Gazette, had given up the struggle to be fair to both sides. In his issue of February 7, he had announced both the arrival of the British ships and the appointment of the popular patriot Colonel Lachlan McIntosh to the command of a new battalion of Continental Troops. The February issue was his last for a long time. The financial crisis had hit him as it had everyone, but worse still were the threats of the Council of Safety.

  “He’s gone, and I can’t blame him.” Hart had brought the news on one of his quick visits to collect his equipment for infantry drill. “With a wife and five children, he could hardly risk a visit from the mob.”

  “Poor man,” said Mercy. “But what of the Gazette? People need to be kept informed.”

  “They do indeed. Trouble is”—he laughed ruefully—“we’ve no printer. They’ve even sent after Johnston to ask him to come back and keep up the Gazette, but he won’t, and it’s not surprising. Strange, isn’t it, that after all the fuss about your father’s press, now we have a press and no printer.”

  “Very strange.” Mercy was going to say something more when Mrs Purchis joined them.

  “Hart! I thought you gone long since. You’ll be late for that drill of yours. What are you thinking of, Mercy, to keep him gossiping here?”

  “My fault, ma’am.” Hart smiled down at his mother, and it made Mercy realise that she had shrunk a little that winter. “I was telling Mercy about the Gazette. But you are up very early for an invalid!”

  “Someone has to take thought for economy these days. I should have thought you would be out back with cook by now, Mercy, instead of gossiping here.”

&nb
sp; “So I should be,” agreed Mercy. “It is so hard to convince her that we must be saving with things like salt.” She smiled at Hart. “Don’t work too hard, Hart.”

  “What would we do without her?” said Hart warmly, after she had left them.

  His mother sniffed. “Very well indeed, if you ask me. It would do Abigail good to pull herself together and do the job that is rightly hers.”

  “Poor Abigail.” He looked at the clock and bent quickly to kiss her. “Mother, I must go.”

  “Good-bye, dear boy.” She looked after him thoughtfully, then sat down to write a note.

  A few days later the McCartney sisters called in Oglethorpe Square. “Dear Mrs Purchis,” said Bridget effusively, “and dear Mrs Mayfield. How lucky we are to find you both at home. And Miss Abigail”—she kissed her on both cheeks—“and Miss Phillips, of course.” Dismissing her, she turned back to Martha Purchis. “Ma’am, we are come as humble petitioners, as beggars, if you like.” And then, laughing and jingling her diamond bracelet, “Well, not exactly that, but with a proposition rather. Ma’am”—she leant forward earnestly as Mercy rang the bell and ordered tea—“we’re scared out there on the edge of the Common, plumb scared. Two girls on our own, now Ma’s gone; it ain’t nice and it ain’t safe. Claire was saying to me only last night, weren’t you, Claire? What if the mob comes back, you said. I’ll never forget that last time, when they came after Mr Mayfield.” She shuddered. And then, colouring and turning to Mrs Mayfield, “Forgive me, ma’am. Perhaps the less said about that, the better. Mrs Purchis”—she laid a pleading hand on Martha Purchis’ plum-coloured skirts—“may we … could you possibly … might we come and stay? We’d”—she opened her jewelled fan and looked coyly over it—“we’d wish to help pay our way. We know how things are these days—everyone does—butter twice what it was last year, and as for rum … not that we buy it, of course, except for the gentlemen. But, how I’m running on. Mrs Purchis, please, just till the British ships go away?”

  Mercy had watched Mrs Purchis with interest through this surprising speech and wondered whether, in fact, it had surprised her. She certainly gave her consent with unusual graciousness, and the two sisters and a formidable collection of baggage were installed in the best guest-chamber that same evening.

  “It will mean more work for you, dear Miss Phillips.” Saul Gordon had caught her in the yard as she went out the back way to market. “But nobody thinks of you. You must let me help you in any way I can.”

  “Why, thank you. But short of finding me a bushel of salt, I don’t know what you can do for me.”

  “Your wish is my command.” He produced the salt that same evening, and she wished she had not asked for it.

  Hart had welcomed the McCartney girls hospitably and, Mercy thought, spent more time at home now their cheerful presence was added to the household. Well, no wonder. Abigail talked less and less, and Mercy herself, busier than ever, hardly had time for more than a few words with him, but Miss Bridget and Miss Claire would listen to him forever.

  He came home one night late in February looking unusually grave, and Bridget was on to him at once. “Dear Mr Hart, you look quite fagged out. Come here and sit by me, and Miss Phillips will order you a glass of your favourite punch to warm you.” She gathered up blue satin skirts lovingly to make room for him on the small sofa beside her. And then, “Don’t look at this old thing! We found a boxful in the attic at home, Claire and I. It’s so out of fashion, it makes you laugh, but it’s bright and will help to keep our spirits up.”

  “And that we need.” He sat down beside her. “There’s a rumour going round town today that I don’t much like.”

  “Oh?” She leaned closer to him, and Mercy, handing him his glass of punch, was aware of the heady perfume she wore. “Is it a secret, Mr Hart, or may a mere woman hear it?”

  “I’m afraid everyone will hear it. Thank you, Mercy. That’s what I needed.” He took a long pull at the punch. “It’s the rice ships,” he explained, “over at the wharves on Hutchinson Island. Their captains are tired of being bottled up by the British—seems some of them reckon to sail and be ‘captured.’ The Council of Safety has ordered their rigging dismantled and their rudders shipped, but God knows whether they will be obeyed. Our merchants still seem to think of pockets first and country last.”

  “Well, it’s hard for them.” Bridget smiled at him over her fan. “If they sell to the Council, they’ll be paid in Georgia paper, and you know what that’s worth!”

  “Just because of people like those same merchants,” said Hart angrily. And then, as she made big, shocked eyes at him over her fan, “Forgive me, Miss Bridget, but you must try to understand.”

  “I’ll try, if you will just explain.”

  The explanation took most of the evening, and Mercy, listening with interest, thought it unlikely that Bridget understood a word of it, but she sounded as if she did, and it was good to see Hart so animated, and Mrs Purchis nodding approval from her corner. It was odd, after this unusually sociable evening, to go to bed, so strangely depressed.

  She slept badly and was waked very early by the sound of agitated knocking on the porch door below. Hurrying down in her grey dressing gown, she found Hart before her, in shirt and breeches, talking to a breathless messenger. “It’s the British!” He turned to Mercy. “The Hinchinbrook has managed to sound her way up the back river behind Hutchinson Island in the night. She’s grounded off Rae’s Hall.”

  “Too far upstream to harm the town,” said the messenger. “Well show them! Major Habersham wants you, Mr Purchis. He’s taking a picked band of riflemen to attack from the shore. If only we had the boats, he says, we could take her.”

  “Yes. If only. Mercy”—he turned to her with a smile—“I’m glad you’re here. I count on you to keep things quiet. Don’t let my mother worry and look after Bridget and Claire.”

  Had he coloured when he spoke of the McCartney girls? No time for such imaginings. “You’ll take care of yourself, Hart?” She had found his jacket for him. “And send a message if you think I should take them all down to the cellars.”

  “No need yet. The Hinchinbrook’s well out of range up there above the island. I just wish I understood. Thanks, Mercy.” He pulled on his jacket, gave her a quick smile, and was gone.

  It was still very early and no one else was stirring. Mercy hurried down the steep cellar steps to make sure everything was ready there in case they had to take refuge from a bombardment. Like Hart, she wished she understood. Why had the British sent this one ship, and by such a circuitous route? She puzzled away at the problem all through a long morning devoted to soothing the nervous terrors of the household. The McCartney girls urged that they all move to their house, which was so much farther from the river.

  “Suppose the Hinchinbrook floats clear on the tide and comes down this side of Hutchinson Island,” shuddered Miss Bridget. “We’d be in easy range of their guns! Mrs Purchis, Mrs Mayfield, do let us go!”

  “No.” Martha Purchis was firm. “Hart’s up there with the riflemen. He’ll see she doesn’t come any nearer. And, besides, what if he came home and found us gone!”

  “That’s quite true. Dear Mrs Purchis, you are absolutely right,” said Bridget. “We must show ourselves worthy of him, of course.”

  The mention of Hutchinson Island had sent a frightening thought flashing through Mercy’s mind. The rice ships! Suppose this was all a ruse of some kind to free them. “I must go to the Council of Safety,” she said.

  “You?” Bridget’s tone was almost a sneer. “They don’t reckon much on females. And I expect they’ve a good deal on their minds today.”

  “I must go just the same.” Mercy picked up her bonnet.

  But Bridget proved right. It was a vain errand. The Council of Safety was indeed in session, but no plea of hers could gain her admittance. “They’re busy, ma’am,” said the man on duty at the door. “They’ve got matters of state to see to.” And then more kindly, “No need to lo
ok so frit. You go home and look to your children.”

  “I’m not frightened,” she said angrily. “Or—not for myself. Won’t you just send my name in? To Mr Bulloch, or Mr Glen, or Mr Jackson even? Tell them it’s urgent.”

  “So are their affairs, ma’am. Now, be a sensible girl and don’t kick up a rumpus.” He gave her a sudden, sharp look. “Ain’t you the British gal whose father worked with Johnston the printer? If I were you, I’d stay home and quiet today. You don’t want to run into the kind of trouble your pa did! Lucky to have a roof over your head, if you ask me. Now, you cut along or I’ll call the guard and you’ll be in real trouble.”

  “Will you take them in a note?”

  “No, I will not. Now git, ma’am.”

  She had been away too long already, but must take time to go back by way of the bluff. A handful of loiterers were gazing first upstream to where the masts of the Hinchinbrook were just visible beyond a bend of the river, and then across to Hutchinson Island. All seemed quiet there. “What’s happening?” she asked a fatherly-looking man in a respectable black broadcloth.

  “Nothing to see,” he told her. “Couple of the ships over there are taking down their rigging like they’ve been told to. See, there and there.” He pointed. “And there’s been firing upriver. I reckon the men on the Hinchinbrook are good and sorry they ever left Tybee. Storm in a teacup, looks to me. Just the same, I’d go home if I was you, ma’am. Things is rough in town today. No time for ladies to be walking the streets.”

  “No. Thank you.” She took one last long anxious gaze at the quiet ships docked by Hutchinson Island and decided she had let her imagination run away with her.

  Back at the house in Oglethorpe Square, she found the two Misses McCartney deep in a game of whist with Mrs Purchis and Mrs Mayfield. “Well?” Bridget McCartney gave her a challenging glance. “And what did the Council of Safety have to say?”

  “You were right.” Mercy did not enjoy admitting it. “They would not see me.”