Judas Flowering

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “He promised to write from Charleston.” Saul Gordon had joined them on the porch. “You will doubtless find a letter waiting for you when we get back to town, Mrs Purchis. I think we should be able to set forward by the end of the week, do not you, Miss Mercy?”

  “I can certainly be ready by then.” With so much wretchedness, there had been a faint, ironic amusement in watching Saul Gordon’s bafflement when Hart rode away leaving Mercy still in her position of—what had Hart called her? “Housekeeper, dear friend, and valued confidante.” He would not call her that now. But housekeeper she still was, and it baffled Saul Gordon and added a twinge of caution, for which she was grateful, to his advances.

  Or was he perhaps flying at higher game? He did not propose to her once all that autumn and, curiously, this began to make her anxious. Hade he other plans for her? She had scorned him once; now she feared him.

  Sometimes she wondered if Bridget McCartney did too. The McCartney sisters had apparently forgotten about the Loyalist taint of the Oglethorpe Square household and were frequent visitors again, but when Saul Gordon appeared, Bridget tended to cut their visits short. But then, he hardly compared favourably with the officers and politicians who frequented the McCartney house.

  Mrs Purchis lived, visibly, from one of Hart’s letters to the next. He had been disappointed at first because he was not sent to join Lachlan McIntosh, who was commanding in the western district of Virginia and Pennsylvania, but his mother was glad of it, and so in the end was Hart, who wrote exultantly that he was serving with his hero, the commander in chief, George Washington. “Much better,” said Martha Purchis. “That way, the old sad business of the duel will be forgotten sooner.”

  She changed her tune a few days later when the bad news of Washington’s defeat by Howe at Brandywine began to trickle through, but at least a scrawled note from Hart reassured her that he was hurt only in his pride. “It was a bad, muddled business, and the less said of it the better.” She read this passage aloud to the family over dinner, and Saul Gordon seized on it.

  “Congress must be packing their bags.” Was there a note of pleasure in his voice? “There’s no defending Philadelphia now.”

  He was right, but the bad news of the evacuation of Congress to York was soon balanced by the amazing report that a whole British army under General Burgoyne had been forced to surrender to the American General Gates at Saratoga. Dr Flinn called it the best news since Bunker Hill. “It may mean allies for us,” he explained to Bridget McCartney, who had arrived just as he was leaving.

  “Allies?” she asked brightly. “Oh, you mean the French! Just think, if they were to come in on our side, it might mean a beginning of trade again, might it not?”

  “More like a continuation,” he told her. “It’s been an open secret that they’ve been helping us with arms and ammunition all along. But to have them publicly on our side, their fleet to trounce the British, that would be something.” He turned back to Mrs Purchis. “Now, ma’am, you are to quit worrying about that boy of yours and take care of yourself. General Gates may be the hero of the hour, but I’ll back George Washington to take care of his men through thick and thin. Look how he got them across the river and safe away from New York.”

  “A splendid man in a retreat,” said Saul Gordon. “I wonder where he will retreat to next.”

  “Dear Mrs Purchis.” Bridget jumped up to press the older woman’s hand. “No need to look so anxious. Whatever the men suffer on a retreat, the officers are sure to be taken care of.”

  “I wish she wouldn’t call me ‘Dear Mrs Purchis,” said Martha Purchis later.

  “She almost sounded pleased that George Washington was in trouble,” said Abigail. And then, “Oh, I know, Mercy, so ought I to be, but how can I when Hart is there?”

  “If only we would hear from him,” said his mother.

  Hart’s letters, when they came, told little, since there was always a chance they might fall into enemy hands. The most important thing for his mother as the unlucky autumn campaign continued, was that he was well and unhurt. Ending with loving messages for them all, he contrived to omit Mercy’s name, or to send a message so formal as to be almost as bad as omission. But her suffering over this dwindled to unimportance when, with December, the letters stopped altogether.

  Mrs Purchis would not be comforted. Anxiety made her ill and illness made her bad-tempered. “Why would he not stay home?” she wailed. “And look after the estate. We’ll be bankrupt by spring at this rate.” She turned on Mercy. “And you go on taking your salary in kind, when Hart made Mr Gordon promise to sell our goods for Georgia paper. And we all know what that’s worth!”

  She was interrupted by a beaming servant with, at last, a letter from Hart. “He’s well enough,” she read it eagerly. “But cold. Those dreadful Northern winters. My poor Hart.” And then, impatiently, “It’s not so much a letter, more a list of things he wants. And such a scrawl, too! Anyone would think he had never learned to write. And as for the paper—”

  “What does he want?” asked Mercy.

  “Why, everything! Here.” She threw the letter across the table. “The most personal words in it are ‘My dear mother.’ No reason why you should not read it.”

  It was indeed a scrawl, but Mercy, working her way patiently through the straggling, ill-written lines, presently found the explanation Mrs Purchis had overlooked. “He wrote it on his lap,” she said. “By firelight. And, Mrs Purchis, he says his hands are cold and apologises for making such a mull of it. What kind of a winter camp can it be where the officers have cold hands?” She was running a quick eye down the list of things Hart wanted sent. Blankets, knitted stockings, shoes …“‘Some of the men have to face these arctic conditions barefoot.’” she read aloud, slowly, puzzling out the words. “And food … it’s unbelievable,” she said. “There must be supplies up North.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs Purchis. “He says something about that. You must have missed it.” She took the letter back. “Here it is, in the margin, something about the country people preferring to sell to the British for hard money.”

  “It’s scandalous,” said Mercy. “And there is General Howe wining and dining Mrs Loring in Philadelphia.”

  “I wonder if Mrs McCartney is there too,” said Abigail. “Mercy, if there’s mail from the North—Would you feel you could call on the McCartney girls? They might have heard something. You know they don’t like me to visit them, but they would be glad to hear of Hart’s letter and perhaps they might have news too.” She had still had no word from Giles Habersham, and Mercy suffered with her.

  “Very well,” she said now, reluctantly. “I don’t suppose they will be almighty pleased to see me, but I will go if you would like me to, Abigail.”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  “But only after I have gone through Hart’s list with Mr Gordon to see what we can contrive.”

  Mr. Gordon was not helpful. “My dear Miss Mercy.” He had put on weight in the course of the winter. “In the excitement of the moment, we must not lose sight of Mr Purchis’ best interests. Naturally, he is shocked by his first experience of a winter camp. He is very young, Miss Mercy, and quite untried as a soldier.” His soft white finger tapped the list she had copied out from Hart’s letter. “From this, you would think he wished to feed and clothe George Washington’s army single-handed.”

  “Or that things there are very bad indeed,” said Mercy. “I must have your answer, Mr Gordon. Are you going to set these commissions in hand or must I?”

  “I am going to do my duty to my employer and to my country. I am going to take this remarkable list of Mr Purchis’ down to the Assembly. There is talk of another expedition against St Augustine as soon as the weather permits. I think we will find they decide such supplies as we can collect will be better employed there. By all reports, George Washington has lost as many soldiers by desertion as he has by illness in the course of this unlucky winter at Valley Forge. Come spring, I imagine General Howe will w
alk out of Philadelphia and trounce him. Then, perhaps, we will get a commander in chief we can trust.”

  “Oh?” Mercy gave him a straight look. “Mr Purchis seems to trust General Washington. He says in his letter that he’s amazed how few desertions there are, considering the appalling conditions and the fact that many of the men’s time was up at Christmas. There was something he said—” She had the letter in her pocket and now fetched it out. “Yes. Here it is: ‘We’ve a German officer called Steuben. He drills us in the snow. Those of us who have shoes. I think General Howe is in for a surprise when the spring comes.’ Does that sound like a dwindling army to you, Mr Gordon? Or one that will be trounced come spring?”

  He favoured her with a patronising smile. “You and Mr Hart were always optimists. But I am afraid in this case he is letting his hopes guide his reason. At all events”—he picked up the list she had copied so carefully—“this must go to the Assembly. I will, of course, let you know what they say when they have decided.”

  Mercy found small comfort at the McCartney house. Bridget and Claire did not admit to having heard from their mother, but seemed curiously well informed about affairs in the North. “General Howe continues to live in the best society at Philadelphia, I understand,” said Bridget. “Monstrous! But human nature, I am afraid. And as for that ragtag and bobtail George Washington is trying to hold together at Valley Forge, it is hard to hope much for them.”

  “Except that Hart Purchis may survive.” Claire spoke up for once.

  “Oh, that’s of course. But an untried soldier like him will never be sent into any position of trust or danger. I do not think we need trouble ourselves excessively for Hart. He will be home, I wager, a wiser man, in time for our spring campaign against East Florida, from which I hear great things are expected.”

  “So they have been before,” said Mercy.

  “Defeatist talk, Miss Phillips? What a fortunate thing none of our friends from the Assembly is here yet. You, from your household, must be just a mite extra careful these days. You have heard, perhaps, of the attainder proceedings against James Johnston?”

  “Yes. The man they begged only last year to come back and keep the Gazette running for them.”

  “The one who refused to do so. Let him but show the tip of his nose here in Savannah and he’s a dead man. I do wish you could persuade Miss Abigail to take the patriotic oath. She must see what harm she does you all.”

  “What harm can she do?”

  “Who knows? Who can tell whether she is not in treasonable correspondence with her fiancé, or her cousin, for the matter of that? A little bird told me Frank Mayfield was in Philadelphia with Howe. How strange it would be, would it not, if he and Hart were to meet on the field of battle.”

  “Horrible,” said Mercy. “Did your little bird say anything about Giles Habersham?”

  “No. Miss Abigail does not hear from him?”

  “Not a word. I suppose he fears to compromise her.”

  “As well he may. These are terrible times.” She rang the hand bell that stood on the table beside her. “Let me give you a little light refreshment before you go?”

  It was an offer that half expected the answer no, and this combined with a still-unanswered question to make Mercy accept. The summons was answered almost at once by two neatly clad maids with all the apparatus for a lavish collation. Wielding the heavy silver teapot, Bridget urged Mercy to help herself to one of a surprising variety of pastries and sugar cakes. “Do not stint yourself, my dear creature. I warn you, it will all be swept up by our gallant legislators, who tend to visit me in the intervals of their labours. They will be surprised, I doubt, to find you here.”

  If it was intended as a suggestion that she leave, Mercy chose to ignore it, merely congratulating Bridget on her cook’s hand with pastry. “We have found it impossible to get light enough flour.”

  “I imagine you might.” There was the slightest possible emphasis on the word “you.” “When the gentlemen come, I would not talk too much about Hart, if I were you. He is not altogether popular, I am afraid, in certain quarters, poor Hart. Ah!” There were sounds of arrival. “Here come the gentlemen. I rely on you, my dear.”

  When the first arrivals proved to be Joseph Wood, a son, and a cousin, Mercy wished she had gone when the going was good. They were followed by several more of the less reliable members of the Assembly, and all of them entered the McCartney house with the freedom of habitués. Pouncing on delicate little pastries, cramming their mouths hungrily with the devilled oysters that now made their appearance, they talked loud and angrily about the increasing shortage of food in Savannah. “It’s all the farmers’ fault,” said one of the Wood connection. “They are holding out for higher prices.”

  “Which will come soon enough,” said Miss Bridget. “Do you know that I had to pay ten shillings a pound for butter in the market the other day. And fifteen for best candles. I burn nothing else, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Joseph Wood. “But, dear lady, you surely never attend the common market yourself?”

  “Oh, no!” She smiled and flirted her fan at him. “Only figuratively speaking, of course. I am afraid I am not so bold as Miss Phillips here, who, I believe, goes there regularly, shopping basket, umbrella, and all.”

  “Yes.” Mercy rose to her feet. “And that reminds me that I have duties to attend to at home. We are making candles today. Thank you for my delicious tea, Miss Bridget. Goodbye, Miss Claire.” A rather blind general curtsey got her safely out of the room before she could say anything she might regret. The sight of these well-fed, prosperous men, in their imported clothes, gorging themselves from the McCartney cornucopia, while Hart and his men went cold and hungry at Valley Forge, had almost been too much for her discretion.

  “William, let me drive!” The coachman had brought the light whisky round at sight of her. “I’m in a bad temper!”

  “So long as you don’t frit the horse, ma’am.” William handed her the reins and moved over on the seat. “But you’d never do that.” She and William had been firm friends since she had cured his wife Amy of a fever by a ruthless combination of blisters and jalap. She had then further cemented the friendship by persuading Mrs Purchis to let old Amy accompany William to Savannah, explaining that she was one of her best stocking knitters and must be kept at work.

  She turned the whisky towards the Common. “I need a breath of air after that, William. We’ll go the long way home.”

  “Such company for a lady like you. I watched them come. And those servants. Ma’am, I was plumb glad to see you come away. I don’t like the way they talk. Lot of no-good trash! I was almost at fisticuffs with Mr Wood’s man. He was saying such things about Mr Hart!”

  “William, you mustn’t!” This was a hazard she had not thought of. “Our household’s in trouble enough without you kicking up a row. Promise me?”

  “Very good, ma’am, if you say so, but the Lord knows there will come a day of reckoning and that man of Mr Wood’s will be sorry he was born. And dressed up fit to bust, too.” He looked down gloomily at his own homespuns. “Ma’am, it don’t seem right.”

  She laughed. “You should have seen Miss Bridget and Miss Claire, William, fine as fivepence in imported lutestring and declaring it was a little old bolt of cloth they’d found in the attic. That attic of theirs—”

  “Ma’am.” William turned to her earnestly. “Talking of attics—I wanted to speak to you about the cellar.”

  “The cellar?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Our cellar in Oglethorpe Square. You know how it is. The big one under the big house, and the little one right beside it, under the office. That we don’ use.”

  “No.” Puzzled. “Because there’s no way through, and plenty of room in the new one.” The big, cool cellar of the main house was invaluable for keeping stores brought in from Winchelsea.

  “That’s it. I was down there the other day, fetching up salt pork for cook. I had kind of a mosey round. There’s a pla
ce in the tabby wall where the builder must a’ started to make a door through and then changed his mind. Give me half a day down there on my own and I could take it right through. Funny thing”—he threw it off casually—”I’m the only one of the folks knows about that other cellar. Before their time, ‘twas that it was last used, and the only door being from Mr Hart’s office. Well, you can see. Actually”—more casual than ever—“Mr Gordon, he don’t know neither. The door from the office, it’s at the back of a big old cupboard nobody’s used since the little house was lived in. Full of cobwebs it is, and black as tophet. He look in and then he come out quick and send for water to wash those white hands of his. He don’ know. I reckon Mrs Purchis must a’ known once, but bet your last dollar she’s forgotten. And that’s it. So if I made a kind of a secret entrance in the corner of the big cellar, then, come trouble, you and the other ladies could nip in, I’d close up after you—”

  She shivered. “You think trouble’s coming, William?”

  “Trouble do come, ma’am, as the sparks fly upwards, and we’d be foolish not to be ready for it. Mr Hart, he told me before he went to look out for you ladies, and I’m agoing to do it. I’d hide the door through,” he explained. “It’s at the dark end of the big cellar, away from the grating. Easy enough to mask it with a layer of tabby. Just give me a day clear to do it.”

  “It would stick to the wood?” She knew about tabby, the curious compound of sand and shells of which so much of Savannah was built.

  “Not in the usual way, ma’am, it wouldn’t, but my pa, he had a mortal good way of making it. I reckon his way it would stick. If you’ll let me try, ma’am? Only, secret like? Then you’d have two ways in and no one the wiser.”

  “Yes. I’ll fix it. And—thank you, William.”

  The Assembly issued a decree a few days later, banning the export of flour, rice, and a list of other commodities, and Mercy had to be content with sending Hart a consignment of shoes, stockings, and the coarse shirts she and Abigail had been stitching at all winter. She was lucky. Captain Smythe, who commanded the packet, was an old seagoing friend of Hart’s.