Judas Flowering (15 page)

“No.” When he opened the door, the thud of marching feet sounded alarmingly near, the tap of a drum, the rattle of harness; he was across the road, making for the path that skirted the hill behind Mulliken's and cut a corner off the road to the Common. Lucky he knew it so well. There were lights in the Loring and Merriam houses. He cut behind them, splashed through the Vine Brook, and emerged, panting, just across the road from Buckman's Tavern. Now, the urgent tap of William Diamond's drum almost drowned that other, more menacing sound of marching feet.

Torches flared here and there on the Common. People hurried to and fro. The door of Buckman's Tavern was open, casting its beam of light on to the confused scene and making faces harder to distinguish. Where was Mark? He must give his warning, and only Mark was sure to listen. Captain Parker was shouting, trying to urge his men into line. Into line? Why? No—two lines. Absurd, ridiculous. About two dozen men, or maybe three, forming up to challenge the armed might of Great Britain.
They'll laugh at us
, he thought, and then,
Us?

Where was Mark? Somewhere in that awkwardly forming line, but where? Speak to Captain Parker? Too late. As he had hesitated, the marching feet had caught up with him. It was hypnotic—the beat of the blood, the pulse of the heart. Instinctively, he retreated to the shadowed entrance of Malt Lane as the British tide surged out onto the Common. There were orders now, snapped out. “Disperse … don't fire!” Parker's voice, thank God. And an English voice, too, “Don't fire … surround them!”

Horsemen galloped past the end of the lane, cutting behind
the Meeting House. The Minutemen on the Common were dispersing, slowly. It was lighter, but he could still not make out faces. And all the time the measured tramp of marching feet, the menacing drum, shaking the nerves, troubling the blood. He had not thought it would be like this.

Red and white uniforms were between him and Buckman's now. No hope of finding Mark. No use anyway. The red and white tide flowed smoothly out on the Common, dawn light catching, here and there, the polished tip of a bayonet. He was so near he could smell the soldiers' fatigue, hear their grunted curses as they spread out to form into line on the edge of the Common. And then, crashing across the dawn, one shot. Who fired it? He had no idea. He had thrown himself on his face in the mud of Malt Lane as the British infantry let out a ragged volley of fire and went in with the bayonet.

When he sat up, sick with disgust at himself, it was over. A British drum was beating. Furious British officers were cursing their men back into line. On the Common, some men lay still, others were moving, shakily, this way or that. It was much lighter now. He recognised Jonathan Harrington as he crawled across the Common towards his own house. He ought to help him. He must find Mark. If the British attacked him as he searched, he thought he would be glad. He had proved himself the coward Mercy had once called him. Redcoats were swarming all over the Common now; an officer was beating back a party who threatened to break into the Meeting House. Horrible. The British. So who am I?

A rebel. And, on the thought, a voice, a whisper, Mark's. “Hart? Thank God.” The redcoats were so busy around the Meeting House that they had not noticed him come staggering across the Common.

“You're hurt?” Hart went to meet him, got an arm under his, and felt him shudder with the pain of it.

“In the side. As I turned to go. Obeying orders. Get me home, Hart, if you can.”

“Soon.” Very gently, he eased Mark to the ground, cradled his head in his lap, and watched as the British slowly drew off, drew together, reformed in marching order, and then, unbelievably, fired a triumphant volley, gave three cheers, and marched off down the Concord road. Could he be crying? Yes. Coward again. A tear fell on Mark's face.

“Don't mind it so much.” Mark's eyes flickered open. “It
had to come. Not all their fault. Ask … ask Jonas. But first, Hart, get me home.”

He got him home, to die there, as Jonathan Harrington had, on his own doorstep, and Mrs Paston, dry-eyed, closed his eyes, and said, yes, she and the girls would indeed be grateful if Hart would take them to her cousins' secluded house five miles from the road. “They'll be back,” she agreed. “The British have to come back from Concord.”

It was May. The huge magnolia down by the bend in the river was covered in blossom, and Indian corn was a foot high in the fields. Mercy had her choice of catalpa, dogwood, or garden roses for her father's grave, but the flowers withered fast in the hot sun. It was strange to see the seasons coming round again at Winchelsea and to feel how much she was at home there. Hard to remember the frightened girl who crept about, afraid of masters and servants alike.

That was a year ago. Now her anxieties, or most of them, were shared ones. There had been no letter from Hart for over two months, and Mrs Purchis was beginning to fret herself ill over him, while Jem, who had been furious at being left behind by the master from whom he had never been parted, mooched about the plantation, grey-faced with worry. “It's too long, Miss Mercy.” He reached up to pull down a high branch of catalpa for her. “He'd never leave Madam Purchis so long without a letter.”

“That's what we think. Mr Francis has gone into Savannah to find out if there has been one of those hold-ups of mail at Charleston. Poor Miss Abigail hasn't heard from England either.” Now she was friends with the servants, she was cheerfully aware there was not much they did not know about the family's affairs. Except for her engagement to Francis. She hoped, passionately, no one knew of that.

“That'll be Mr Francis.” Jem's words seemed to echo her thoughts as the familiar signal sounded from the drive
entrance. “I'll take your flowers, Miss Mercy, and put them on the grave.”

“Thank you, Jem.” Did he expect her to go to meet Francis? And if so, why? Instead, she took the quickest path back to the house and joined Abigail, who was pretending to read in their little downstairs room. “Frank's coming, I think. They've signalled from the gate.”

“At last!” Abigail jumped up eagerly. “He's come back so quick, there must be letters.”

But Francis' face, when they met him in the hall, was so grave that the two girls clutched each other's hands. “Where's my aunt?” He had not even paused to greet them.

“In the drawing-room, I think,” Abigail told them. “But, what is it, Frank?”

“I'd rather tell it once and for all. Come up with me? And, Mercy, send for cordials.”

“It's bad?” She hesitated a moment to ask the question.

“War, I think. And for us, perhaps worse. There's a messenger rode in this morning. Exhausted. They've been riding south in relays. Hurry, Mercy, my aunt must be told before some gossiping neighbour comes to mock her with sympathy.”

“Dear God, not Hart?”

“Who knows? The news, so far, is general. As bad as possible. The time for individual grief comes later.” He was flushed with his swift ride and with a suppressed excitement Mercy recognised from previous crises. Hurrying to do his bidding, she thought of Hart, the boy who had rescued her, the man who had welcomed her to his home, and swallowed a great knot of tears.

In the drawing-room, she found that Francis had just succeeded in rousing his mother from her morning lethargy. “It's news, Mamma. Bad news for us all. Worse, I am afraid, for you, Aunt Purchis.” He turned at sight of Mercy, who had brought the cordial and tray of glasses herself. “Good. Pour a glass for my aunt.”

“For me? What is it?” Martha Purchis had gone very white. “Not Hart?”

“Must devoutly hope not. But bad, just the same. Where did he say he was spending the spring vacation?”

“With the Pastons, of course, at Lexington. You know that as well as I do. Francis,
tell
me!”

“There's been fighting. At Lexington and at Concord. The
British marched out of Boston, God knows why, and when they reached Lexington, fired on the Minutemen on the Common there. Madness! Left eight dead, they say—more wounded.”

“Dear God.” Martha Purchis' breath was coming in hard gasps. “The names of the dead?”

“Some known. Some not yet. Mark Paston was one.”

“Hart!” As Martha Purchis fell, fainting from the sofa, Mercy leapt forward to catch her.

“You should know better than to break it to her so sharply,” she turned furiously on Francis. “Send for her maid, with those drops of hers. Why did you not tell me to have them ready?”

“I'll go,” said Abigail. “Quicker.”

“I'm a fool.” Francis hurried to help Mercy support his aunt on the sofa. “Haven't rightly known what I was doing since I heard the news.” A quick look at his aunt reassured him that she was unconscious. “I've not told her the worst yet. I'm so afraid someone else will come …”

“There's worse?” Mercy had taken Anne Mayfield's vinaigrette and was holding it under Martha Purchis' nose.

“Much worse. The British must have been out of their minds. They marched on to Concord, leaving the dead and wounded behind them. The news travelled ahead of them. There was fighting, savage fighting, at Concord too. They seized some ammunition, burned some carriages, and began to withdraw. They were attacked every step of the way, from behind walls and trees, from houses. At Lexington, they found a relief party under Lord Percy. He had made Munroe's Tavern his headquarters and drawn his troops up in square on the Common. They opened their ranks and their exhausted comrades staggered in. Percy rested them for a while. Then … is she still unconscious?”

“I'm afraid so. I wish Abigail would come with the drops. But what happened then?”

“He burned Munroe's Tavern and the houses round it. Said they might be used by snipers to fire on his rearguard.”

“The houses round it? But … the Pastons'?”

“Must have been one of them, from everything Hart has said.”

“And the people in them?” asked Anne Mayfield.

“Who knows? The message has been passed on, from mouth to mouth, all the way from Lexington. With so much
of general disaster, there's been no time for individuals. Except we do know that Sam Adams and John Hancock, who were staying with the Reverend Clarke at Lexington, got clean away. Some say that it was to arrest them that the British marched. Ah, there you are at last, Abigail. But where are my aunt's drops?”

“I don't know.” Abigail had returned empty-handed. “I looked for them everywhere. They are always by her bed. What shall we do?”

“I've some.” Mercy was on her feet now. “The doctor gave them to my father. I always carried them with me. His trouble seemed very like your poor aunt's.” She was out of the room already, running upstairs. When she returned, Martha Purchis was still unconscious and Francis was pacing anxiously about the room. “May I?” she asked.

“Suppose they are not right. Might kill her.”

“Look at her now,'” said Mercy. It was unanswerable. Mrs Purchis' breathing had become shallow and rapid, and there was a blueish tinge to her face.

“Go ahead, child,” Anne Mayfield spoke with unusual decision. “Try them. Let the responsibility be mine.”

“Thank you.” Mercy wrestled for a moment with the stiff cork of the bottle, then shook three drops onto her handkerchief and held it under Mrs Purchis' nose. The result was almost instantaneous. Her breathing eased, her colour improved, and she was soon moving restlessly in a return to consciousness.

Opening her eyes at last, “Hart?” she said.

“You mustn't fret, Mrs Purchis.” Mercy took her cold hands and began to rub them gently. “Think how cross Hart will be when he gets home and finds you've worried yourself ill over him.”

“When he gets home? But I thought Francis said …”

“Only that poor Mark Paston was dead. Which is terrible enough, but remember, Hart would never have joined those Minutemen. I expect, if he was there when the trouble started, he escorted poor Mrs Paston and the girls to safety. That would be like Hart, wouldn't it? And something else I'd expect him to do is come home as fast as he can, as soon as he can leave Mrs Paston. At a time like this, he'll know his place is here. And he mustn't find you looking so wretched. I think bed, don't you, Abigail?”

“Yes, indeed.” Abigail moved forward to help get her
aunt shakily to her feet. “I wish I could imagine what happened to those drops.”

They found them, after they had got Mrs Purchis safely into bed with a hot brick at her feet. The bottle had fallen off the table, rolled into a dark corner, and broken there, its precious drops seeping out to stain the polished wood floor. “Thank God you had your father's,” said Abigail.

“Amen to that. But we'd best send for the doctor, just the same.”

“Francis can tell him. He's riding back to Savannah after dinner. It was good of him to come out and tell us.”

“Yes,” said Mercy, “but I could wish he had done it more carefully.”

Dr Flinn did not arrive until next day, and then he was so full of news he hardly had time for his patient. “She'll do well enough,” he told Mercy and Abigail. “Yes, child, you took a terrible chance with those drops of your father's but they did the trick, so we'll say no more about it. I've brought you two bottles of her own, as you asked.”

“Two?” Abigail sounded surprised.

“In case of accidents,” explained Mercy. “But, Doctor, what's the news?”

“Nothing more from the North, I'm afraid. I know how anxious you ladies must be for news of young Hart. But we've had stirring times in town, I can tell you. Ah”—he looked with approval at the assortment of cold meats, fruit, and cheese laid ready for him, and reached out a loving hand for the claret bottle—”it's always a pleasure to come to Winchelsea, dear ladies. Will you take a glass with me?” And as they shook their heads, pouring his own. “You've not heard about the powder magazine?”