Judas Flowering

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Mr Purchis says that comfort is all important to a fighting man. He thinks it one of our greatest advantages over the British troops in those great red woollen coats of theirs.”

  Bridget pressed her arm. “I like you the better for defending your benefactor. Will you be able to manage the house while he’s away? I feel it my duty to return to my poor Claire now the town is so full of troops.”

  Mercy was delighted to hear it, and not at all surprised when Abigail returned home next day. “Miss McCartney pressed me to stay,” she told Mercy, “but to tell truth, I did not much want to. I’m fond of poor Claire, for all her silliness, but, do you know, Mercy, I am ashamed to confess it, but I cannot quite like Bridget.”

  “Don’t be ashamed,” said Mercy. “I’m proud of you for trying. We shall do very well without them. If only Hart were safe.”

  “But it’s to be a walkover, this campaign, is it not? Bridget was sure of it. She had it from General Lee himself.”

  “Then we must hope General Lee is right.”

  As the hot August days drew on and barefoot slaves hesitated to set even their hardened feet on the baking sand of the streets, disquieting news began to trickle back from Sunbury. Officers and men alike were ill, and the death rate had reached fourteen or fifteen a day.

  “And this without even encountering the enemy,” Mercy told Abigail bitterly, then looked up, irritated, as Saul Gordon pushed open the office door and peered at them round it.

  “Just as well if they do not, I am afraid, Miss Phillips. Ah, lemonade! Delicious.” He advanced on the cool jug from which she was helping Abigail. “Miss Mercy, may I beg a word of advice from you? In the office, not to trouble Miss Abigail.”

  “Advice from me?”

  “It’s about the sheep,” he explained with one of his sidelong apologetic glances for Abigail. “Mr Purchis told me to come to you if there was any trouble about them.” As he spoke, he bowed ceremoniously to Abigail and ushered Mercy into the office. “I have had a message from Sam.” He closed the office door behind him. “It seems they are suffering gravely from this heat.”

  “Are not we all.” said Mercy. “I wonder. Do you think they should be shorn a second time? It might help them, and we could do with the wool to send north. Our troops will freeze in Boston this winter.”

  “Not Boston, Miss Phillips. Had you not heard? The word is that the British fleet has appeared off New York, and General Washington has marched to its defence. But I’m sure you are right as usual. I’ll do what you say about the sheep.” His soft, white hand picked up the pen on his desk and put it down again. “Miss Phillips, as you know, my poor wife died this winter. I shall miss and mourn her forever.” His hand went to his heart under the silky black broadcloth he now wore. “But she’d been ill a long time.” Businesslike now, “A man suffers, and survives, and looks about him. I am a poor man, but”—he looked down at the black broadcloth—“not, perhaps, quite so poor as I was. And not without ambition. If I’m not very much mistaken, there are fortunes to be made from this war, and I intend to make one. Miss Phillips, will you share it with me?”

  “Good gracious!” She gazed at him in honest amazement, and was aware, and angry, that her amazement surprised him. He had been sure of her answer. It made it that much easier. “Mr Gordon, forgive me, I had no idea. You have quite taken my breath away.” If not entirely true, it was the nearest she could get to courtesy.

  “I do not wonder,” he said. “Situated as you are—forgive my plain speaking—it must come as a surprise to receive such an offer. A dependent and not always, ahem, in the easiest of circumstances … yours is not a happy lot, Miss Phillips, and I have been filled with admiration at how you have borne it, and how you have, if I may say so, reduced this house to a state of order. It’s no wonder that Mr Purchis has come to depend on you, but there will be changes soon, if I am not very much mistaken, and then think what an asylum my little house must be to you. And there is much to do there, Miss Phillips. I will be plain with you. Since my poor wife died, I have been quite at sixes and sevens, lacking a woman’s domestic hand, We could be much for each other, you and I.”

  “Mr Gordon.” She was hesitating how best to deal with this remarkable offer, when a sound in the main house made her turn. “It’s Mr Purchis! Forgive me, Mr Gordon, if I say it cannot be.”

  “Cannot?” But he, too, turned towards the door into the main house as it was flung open to reveal Hart, dust-streaked, exhausted, hair, shirt and breeches clinging to him with sweat.

  “There you are, Mercy, thank God. General Lee sleeps here tonight. The best bedroom, everything, dinner—he’ll be here in an hour or so.”

  “Defeat?” She must ask it.

  “No. A recall, and a most timely one, if the reason for it was not so black. General Howe has outwitted Washington and taken New York. The town has burned to the ground, and Washington saved his army by a miracle. No time now for mad ventures down here in the South. We are fighting for our lives.”

  Chapter 15

  If Mercy had hoped that Hart’s dramatic interruption had settled the question between Saul Gordon and herself, she was to be disappointed. Authority had changed the overseer from an insignificant man to one who liked to domineer, at least over women. Mercy sometimes sensed the hint of a sneer under his elaborate courtesy to Mrs Purchis and Mrs Mayfield. Abigail he tended to ignore, but worst of all was his manner to herself. In some curious way he contrived at once to relegate her to the position of housekeeper, as opposed to member of the family, and to imply a bond between them. Manager and housekeeper, what could be more logical? And yet there was nothing she could put a finger on, nothing to which she could actually object.

  “Hart,” she said one dark February morning when he had come in equally depressed by the news from the North and by the slowness with which the fortification of Savannah was going on. “Could we not go back to Winchelsea? It’s hard on Abigail, here in town.”

  “I know.” There were no Loyalists in Savannah now, or rather, those who were kept very quiet. But everyone knew of Abigail’s engagement to Giles Habersham, and everyone also knew that Giles was in a British regiment at New York, where the British garrison was passing a comfortable winter, while George Washington did his best to hold his army together in the bleak New Jersey countryside. And the messenger who brought news of Giles had also reported that Francis was now attached to the staff of the British General Cornwallis and was in winter quarters with him at New Brunswick, threatening Philadelphia. As Bridget McCartney said, it was lucky for the family in Oglethorpe Square that Hart was such a prominent patriot. “Though, mind you, it weakens his position with the Council of Safety,” she added, and Mercy knew it was true.

  “Do let’s go,” she said now, seeing that Hart was actually considering it. “Surely the rice crop is as important as anything these days, and then there’s the lambing to be thought of.”

  “Yes. Food for George Washington’s soldiers and wool for their uniforms. I never did thank you properly for that second shearing, Mercy, and all the work you did getting the wool spun and made up, I like to think that some of the soldiers in that freezing camp at Morristown are wearing Winchelsea homespun. I wish we could go out there. Now that we’ve finished drafting the Georgia Constitution, I seem to have less and less influence with the Council of Safety. Since Lachlan McIntosh drove the British back to St Augustine, people seem to think the threat to Savannah is over. As if it ever will be while the British navy keeps control of the sea. And secret enemies enough here, I’m afraid, to betray us when the moment comes. There’s talk of another southern offensive, but I don’t feel much more hopeful about it than I did of the last one. Not while President Bulloch continues so unwell. What is the use of the Council of Safety giving him absolute power, when everyone knows he’s a sick man?”

  “Is he so bad?”

  “I’m anxious about him. But you will say nothing of this, Mercy. In the meantime, we’ll think about Winchelsea, but I be
lieve I must stay in town until there is better news of Bulloch.” He gave her a quick, considering look. “Would you like me to send Gordon out to see to the lambing?”

  “Oh, yes! Thank you, Hart.” Through the long, gloomy winter, Saul Gordon’s attentions to her had become so heavy-handedly obvious that it had been impossible for anyone to ignore them. “Though,” she felt in honour bound to go on, “I cannot think he will be much use.”

  “No. But there’s nothing for him to do here, now that the blockade and the non-importation agreement have put an end to trade. A bit of cross-country trade with Charleston and some upriver traffic with Purrysburg is about the extent of our business.”

  “And worthless paper all you get for your hard work.”

  “Don’t call it that!” He flushed angrily. “I’m surprised at you, Mercy. I thought you at least understood.…”

  “I’m sorry. But how can I help understanding that you are working yourself to death for no pay and not much thanks.”

  But he had picked up the broad-brimmed hat that was beginning to show its age. “I’ll be out for dinner. Miss McCartney is having trouble with those slaves of hers again, and I promised I’d ride over as soon as I could find the time. I’ll give her your compliments, of course.”

  “If you wish.” Left alone, she picked up the woollen stocking she had been knitting and threw it as hard as she could across the room.

  “I beg your pardon!” Saul Gordon had opened the office door just in time to catch the prickly bundle full in the face. “My dear Miss Phillips!” And then, with one of his quick, knowing looks, “Alas, am I too late to catch Mr Purchis?” He was busy winding up her wool with those soft white hands, and now handed the stocking back to her with an attempt at a courtly bow. “Always at your good works, I see.”

  “Thank you. Yes, Mr Purchis is gone out.” Wild horses would not make her say where. She began to knit again, savagely, as if each movement of the needles were stabbing an enemy to the heart. “If only I was a man!” She regretted the words as she spoke them.

  “I am so very glad you are not. Miss Phillips, it is some months since I last had the honour to address you. Let me … allow … bear with me while I speak once again about the matter that lies so close to my heart.” He laid his white hand on the appropriate area of his glossy black coat. “Dear Miss Phillips, let me, for once, speak frankly to you.” And then, with a sudden and disconcerting change of tone, “It’s no use at all, you know. You must see that by now. You’re the housekeeper—worth your weight in gold, invaluable, whatever you like, and invisible. So … marry me. Show the lot of them. Let them see what a prize they’ve undervalued. And, talking of prizes, I’ve not spent this winter too unprofitably myself. If you remember, when I last had the honour to address you, I admitted to my hopes. Well, my dear young … my dear Miss Mercy, they are more than hopes now. I told you there was money to be made, did I not? Well!” He blew out his chest with a deep, satisfied breath. “I’m thinking of setting up my own plantation, Miss Mercy.”

  “You will call me Miss Phillips!”

  “I will call you anything you please if you will only let me call you mine.”

  “Never! Do you think you can buy me, Mr. Gordon, with the blood-money you have made out of this war?”

  “Blood-money? Nonsense.” How enormously he had changed in the course of the winter. “Just because Mr Purchis chooses to act the spendthrift and take worthless paper for his produce, there’s no need for everyone else to be so stupid. Even in times like this, Miss Phillips, money breeds money if you treat it right. Mark my words, by the time the British recapture Savannah, I’ll be a rich man and Hart Purchis will come begging to me.”

  “The British recapture Savannah! Are you out of your mind, Mr Gordon?”

  “No, just a little saner than most, as you will come to see sooner or later. In the meanwhile, never forget that I am your devoted slave. I’ve bought a new house, by the way.” He threw it in as an afterthought. “Down on the Bay. A Tory house, going so cheap I couldn’t resist it. But it seems forlorn enough without a mistress.”

  “Then you had better look for one elsewhere.”

  “Dearest Miss Phillips. Never. We Gordons are men of single mind, and I tell you the time will come when you will be glad and proud to call yourself Mrs. Gordon.”

  President Bulloch died suddenly that February, and Button Gwinnett, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, was elected in his place. “It’s only a temporary appointment,” Hart explained. “Until the new Assembly meets. But I am afraid not much good will come of it. Gwinnett has hated my friend Lachlan McIntosh ever since McIntosh was made commander of our troops on the Continental Establishment last September. I think Gwinnett wanted the job himself. God knows why. He may be a politician, but he’s no general. He’s making it pretty clear he wants no truck with McIntosh or his friends. He’s planning an expedition of his own against St Augustine, and Lachlan and I am most significantly not included. To tell the truth, I don’t much like the feel of things here in Savannah these days. It’s hard to tell fair-weather friend from foe.… Too many turncoats and too many profiteers in high places. There are even rumours about how poor Bulloch died. But for goodness sake don’t speak of that!”

  “As bad as that?” asked Mercy. She wished she knew whether he had been referring, among others, to the McCartney girls, who were keeping open house now for the members of the Council of Safety, the stigma of their mother’s flight to the British apparently quite forgotten in the lavishness of their entertainment.

  Bridget called at the house in Oglethorpe Square a few days after Bulloch’s funeral to chide Mercy and Abigail for being, as she put it, “Quite strangers. I missed you at my soirée the other night.”

  “I’m sorry.” Abigail’s little chin went up. “It was our night to sew for the militia.”

  “You!” Bridget pantomimed amazement. “Sewing for a parcel of rebels!”

  “They are men, just the same,” said Abigail. “And need shirts. I only hope some patriot lady would do as much for my Giles if he were to need it, which, please God, he does not.”

  “What do you hear from him?” asked Bridget.

  “Why, nothing. And you from your mother?”

  Bridget coloured angrily. “Nothing, of course! Do you think Claire and I would communicate with a traitor? We have quite washed our hands of her and so I trust she knows.” She rose to her feet. “I have kept you two ladies from your good works long enough. Give my regards to poor Mr Purchis. His nose is badly out of joint these days, is it not? He and his rumbustious friend McIntosh are quite out of favour with our new President. Mr Gwinnett blames McIntosh for all our disasters in the south.”

  “And one cannot wonder Mr Gwinnett feels strongly about them,” said Mercy, “considering his plantation is down at Sunbury.”

  Bridget closed her fan with an angry snap. “It’s easy to be cool and level-headed when one’s estate is here in the environs of Savannah. I think Mr Purchis would be wise to retire to his, and so you may tell him with my regards.”

  Left alone, Abigail and Mercy looked at each other for a moment in silence, then, “Well!” said Mercy.

  Abigail laughed. “Very well, if you ask me. She has decided to fly for higher game now Hart’s star is no longer in the ascendant. Oh, Mercy, do you know what I sometimes dream, sometimes let myself hope? I love Hart so dearly; I’d give anything to see him happy.” She shook back her fair curls and looked up at Mercy. “Sometimes I wish the McCartney girls had gone with their mother.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mercy.

  “No? Then I’m sorry I spoke.” She sat down at her spinet and played a few notes.

  As Abigail’s fingers wandered into a Bach prelude, Mercy subsided into wretched thought. First Saul Gordon, now Abigail. Had everyone seen that she loved Hart before she even recognized it herself? And Hart cared nothing for her—or, rather, cared as one would for the stray animal one had
rescued. He would always be a brother to her, as he had promised. No more. No less. And not enough. At all costs, she must get away from this house, where, try how she would—and she had tried hard since that talk with Saul Gordon—there was no avoiding daily contact, the daily calm courtesy that fed and starved her.

  And yet, how could she leave? Abigail was much stronger these days, it was true, but she had been brought up to be a young lady, to be marriageable, to be accomplished. She could no more go to market and fight for her share of whatever provisions were available than Mercy could have spent all those hours reading Richardson’s novels or playing Bach on the spinet.

  In the end, the problem was solved for her by Hart himself, who surprised her by changing his mind, leaving the family and Saul Gordon in Savannah, and spending most of his time at Winchelsea. If only he had taken Saul Gordon with him. Did he, too, as his mother so obviously did, expect her to yield in the end to Gordon’s advances? Intolerable thought. She wished now that she had spoken more firmly about Gordon, who had passed from words to soft, quick touches with those damp hands of his. And how could she avoid him? With Hart away, they must work together. If she left the office door open when she had to talk to him, he made a ceremonious point of closing it. Handing her the week’s housekeeping money, he would detain her hand, raise it for a soft, wet kiss. She longed to strike him. But he was indispensable too.

  She had escaped from one such encounter, feeling a little sick, to take a breath of air in the back yard under the protection of the servants’ friendly eyes, when her spirits rose incorrigibly at sight of Hart riding in at the gate.

  “Mercy! What a stroke of luck!” He jumped to the ground and handed Thunder’s reins to Jem. “I was hoping for a word with you.” His fair face was flushed; he looked, for once, younger than his years. “Come round to the garden?” He pushed open the little gate for her, then paused under a flowering dogwood, his face dappled with shade from its leaves. “I seem never to see you alone.”