Judas Flowering (35 page)

“If you insist, Mr Purchis, I must naturally do as I am bid,
but I should warn you it will do you no good with them. I fear it will merely convince them that you are still very far from being yourself and are being led by the nose by a clever woman. But that is another story.”

“And not an edifying one as you would tell it. I still have my hearing good as ever, Mr Gordon. There is talk, is there not, of a great accounting when I am well enough? Well, be sure your figures can stand up to it. I know Miss Phillips' will. Now go.”

Mercy could feel the effort by which he kept himself rigidly erect until Gordon had left the yard. Then, “Mercy,” he said, “I'm not well; help me indoors.” As he leaned more and more heavily on her arm, she cast a wild look at the nearest of the servants' huts, and instantly William was there, putting his strong arm round Hart's waist, helping to guide his shaky steps towards the office door. “Delilah told me,” he said to Mercy across Hart's sagging body. “That's a good girl, that one.” He was almost carrying Hart by the time they got him back into his room and had to lift him bodily onto his bed, where he lay, white-faced, half conscious, breathing heavily. “That Mr Gordon could hardly have done worse if he'd done it a purpose.” He summed up her own suspicions. “I'll send Amy to you right away.”

“And fetch the doctor, William.”

Dr Flinn was angry, and Mercy did not blame him. “Quiet, I told you. I even persuaded Mrs Purchis not to fuss at him, and you have to let that rat Gordon at him. We'll just have to pray God it don't mean brain fever. I'll give him a stiff dose of laudanum for tonight, and someone had best sit up with him, just in case. In the morning, we'll see. I'll come straight over from the hospital.” Like Savannah's few other doctors, he spent every minute he could in the hospital tending the sick and wounded from Sunbury.

“Mercy!” She had dozed off in her chair, but woke, somewhere in the dead hours of the night, at Hart's voice.

“Yes!” She reached out and found his hot hand in the darkness.

“Do
you
think I'm mad? Suffering from delusions?”

“No, Hart. I almost wish I did. It's not a pleasant prospect you hold out.”

His shaky laugh was enormously comforting. “No. Proper Jonah I am. Or Cassandra, more like. But how can I blame
them for not believing me, when I can hardly believe myself? Mercy, there's worse than I told you. That's why I keep wondering if it
is
all delusion. But I swear to God, as I lay there half conscious, on that stinking pallet in the hulks, I heard Frank's voice. He pretended not to know me. ‘Him?' he said. ‘Good God, no. Never saw him in my life.' Mercy, was I—am I very much changed? Could Frank not have recognised me?”

“Impossible. But he might have denied you. Betrayed you. Left you there to die.” They were into it now, and she thought it best to go on, get it clear at last between them.

“Frank? You believe that? That he could have betrayed me, denied me? A traitor to me as well as to his country? Francis? My Cousin Francis? Mercy, it's time we talked about that day, the day I left.” He reached out with his left hand to grasp her right one in a grip that hurt. “After Frank denied me, left me there to die in my own dirt, I began to think, to wonder. Mercy, what really happened that day?”

“I don't know exactly. But not what they told you. Bridget met someone down at the old wharf, and Saul Gordon knew about it, sent me off on a wild-goose chase after you, when he thought I might catch them. Hart, I think it has to have been Francis. Who else would have known enough to set up that convincing story against me? I don't blame you for believing it; it held together too horribly well.”

“Francis and Bridget? And Saul Gordon named you instead? And I believed every word of his filth, just because I so badly wanted not to.” His hand was gentle now, its fingers moving softly in the palm of hers. “Mercy, what a fool, what a blind, credulous fool …”

“No. It was my fault. After all, I had kept things from you before. Why should you trust me?” A tear dropped onto his left hand, and it came up instantly to feel for her face in the darkness and trace the wet outline of her eyes.

“Mercy. Tell me it's not too late. I've been so stupid.”

“Not stupid. Trusting. The way I'd have you be. Easy for me to mistrust Francis. I hadn't grown up with him; he's not my family.”

“But you did love him, engage yourself to him secretly. It wasn't all lies?” He hoped to hear it had been.

She longed to lie to him, but would not. “No. I wish it had been. But at first I let him fool me, with his sweet talk.” She would not think of those sweeter kisses. “Only, as time
went on, talk and actions never seemed quite to jibe. I had seen the way he treated Abigail; I began to wonder what would happen to me. From wondering to mistrusting was an easy step. Painfully easy. And then, one night, at the McCartneys', when the mob was out, I thought I recognised him as one of the leaders. But I wasn't sure … I didn't know what to do. It was a terrible accusation to make, without proof.”

“So you stayed engaged to him.” His tone blamed her.

“Yes. Don't you see? I was afraid. For you, for all of us. I thought it safest to let him think he still had me fooled. He's deadly dangerous, your cousin Francis.”

“It's hard to believe.” His voice was tiring. All through the happiness of this strange, dark confrontation, she had been aware of Dr Flinn's insistence that Hart must rest, must sleep.

“Hart”—she tried to release her hand from his—“you must sleep; you must not worry; in the morning, we will talk.”

He sighed, and she could hear the exhaustion in it. “Your obedient invalid. Yours indeed. Don't try to pretend to me that you did not nurse me until I recovered consciousness. That's when I began to hope. Loving hands, Mercy. Unmistakable, loving hands.” The laudanum was taking effect again. “Kiss me good night.”

She bent to brush his cheek with her lips, was caught by his left hand, pulled down for a long kiss that searched, that asked, that demanded. At last, she felt a bubble of laughter well up in him. “What happiness,” he said. “And I'm drugged to the gills. Dear Mercy …” He was asleep.

Mercy, too, dozed off in a dream of happiness, but woke very early. There was a quiet scratching at the door to the other house, and she was simultaneously aware of bustle in the street outside. It was just light enough to see that Hart was still sleeping heavily. She hurried to the door and opened it to see Abigail, white and anxious in a wrapper and slippers. “What is it?” she whispered as she half closed the door behind her. “He's deep asleep; better, I think.”

“Thank God for that. There's a rumour going about town. It seems Hart may be right. They have picked up a deserter from a British ship … a transport … the
Neptune
. He says there's a whole fleet on its way from New York. Here. To take Savannah. Mercy what shall we do?”

“Nothing yet. After all, they've not been sighted. Even at
the very worst we've the time it will take them to come up from Tybee, and surely now the Assembly will put up some kind of defence.” And then, as the oddity of it struck her, “But, Abigail, they are your friends!”

“After what they did to Hart? Mercy, they must not catch him again.”

“They shan't, if I can help it. But no need to panic yet; the most important thing is to get his strength back. And bad though it is, this news may do him good. I think his fear that he was really suffering from delusions has done him more harm than anything.” And that was all she was going to say, even to Abigail. “Have you sent out for news?”

“Yes, William's gone. But you look exhausted, dear. Shall I sit with Hart till he wakes?”

“No, bless you. He's got used to me, I think. It will be better for him to find me still there. And, selfishly, I'd like the pleasure of telling him he was right all the time.”

“Mercy, you were never selfish in your life.”

“I sometimes think I am nothing else.” How true it was, she thought, settling down again on her low chair by the bed. Savannah was going to be attacked, disaster loomed for them all, and she could feel nothing but happiness. And best of all, she really did think Hart looked better this morning, was sleeping more naturally as the effect of the laudanum wore off.

He was still asleep when Dr Flinn arrived towards noon, and she joined him, finger on lips, in the next room, grateful that Mrs Purchis and Mrs Mayfield were still taking their ration of weak chocolate in bed. “He's better,” she said. “I think. I hope.”

“Thank God for that. Have you heard the news? He was right, and on both counts.”

“Both?”

“Yes. The Assembly had just heard the news of the sea attack when a messenger rode in from the south. General Prevost is massing his troops at St Augustine. It has to mean another attack on us, and this time full-scale, led by a general. There's panic in town today. You had all best stay indoors. Especially Miss Abigail.”

“Yes. But what's happening? What's being done?”

“Everything that should have been done long since. The militia are gathering. Our American General Howe is in command. I think he means to march south and intercept
the enemy. Pray God he succeeds. And here in town all available hands are summoned to work on the fortifications. You had best send everyone you can spare.”

“And the servants from Winchelsea. They will be far too close to the front line, if the British sail upriver. I'll send a message to Mr Gordon at once. He's out there still.”

“Best have Mrs Purchis send it.”

So the news of her quarrel with Gordon was public knowledge. Well, it was inevitable and probably not important. She ushered the doctor into the little office where Hart was still sleeping peacefully. “You're right.” He was taking his patient's pulse. “He's better this morning than I had dared hope. Laudanum is a powerful agent.”

And so is happiness. She watched a hint of a smile flicker across the sleeping face. Was he, perhaps, dreaming of her?

Hart woke soon after the doctor had left and reached out his left hand to her. “Tell me it was not a dream, Mercy.”

“If it was, I dreamt it too.” She let him pull her down for a long, gentle kiss. Then, “But, Hart, my darling, we must keep it secret for the moment. Until you are better and can protect me.”

“Secret? I don't like secrets. I want to tell everyone. My mother, my aunt, Abigail, the world—”

“And I want you to, but not yet, my darling. Your mother will be angry, I am afraid, and you are not strong enough for scenes. Besides, there is news this morning. You were right; that was no delusion of yours. The British fleet is on its way, and General Prevost is getting ready to march up from East Florida. We're going to need all your strength soon, and all your good counsel. So, for now, you must be my obedient invalid and let me play the bullying nurse.”

“They
are
coming.” The weak fingers of his right hand flexed just a little on the patchwork quilt. “And I am like this! You're right. Kiss me once, my love, and then we will apply ourselves to getting me better so that I can shoot one Englishman when they attack, even if you have to load the gun and guide my hand.”

“Oh, my dear …” Through the long kiss, she knew she must not tell him her plans for him. He would be angry with her afterwards, furiously angry, but he would be alive. She had, all the time, a vision in her mind of the British attack and of two men who would make their way to the house in
Oglethorpe Square. Francis and Giles. But Giles would stay to do his duty before he came. Francis would come direct.

Rumour blew with the sand about the streets of Savannah. General Prevost had indeed marched north from St Augustine, and the American General Howe had made a brave show as he started south to intercept him. A group of British ships had been seen off Tybee, but had been dispersed by a storm. Hope grew, as irrational as the previous terror. The British had decided to attack Charleston instead … to seek out the French in the West Indies … to go anywhere but to Savannah. People even began to make preparations for Christmas, and the Assembly was duly summoned for its January meeting.

William, returning from his stint on the fortifications to the south of the town, was gloomy. “Fewer men turn up every day,” he told Mercy. “Some have run, some are busy making hideouts in their cellars, and I've no doubt, there are ladies in many houses washing out their British flags and ironing them ready for show. But our Winchelsea lot are doing us proud, ma'am, and so you can tell the master. How is he?”

“Better every day. But not well.” Next time Dr Flinn came, she seized a chance to beg an extra dose of laudanum from him. “I may need it,” she said.

“Oh?” He delved in his shabby black bag. “I'm trusting you, Miss Phillips.”

“You may.”

Next morning, bad news came thick and fast. Prevost had outmanoeuvred Howe, who had been forced to withdraw on Savannah, leaving Sunbury to hold out as best it might, and as if that was not bad enough, the British fleet was taken in full force off Tybee. “Please God they don't learn how weak our defences are,” said Hart. “Our only hope lies in the kind of slow, orthodox siege military experts prescribe.” He had recovered from his setback and was walking up and down the yard with Mercy and Abigail.

“Hush!” said Mercy. They were outside the hut Gordon now used as his office.

“How do you mean, hush!” Convalescence had sharpened his temper, and so had the enforced secrecy about their engagement. “Surely I can say what I like in my own back yard.”

“I hope so.”

That evening Gordon rode out to Winchelsea to make sure, he said, that nothing had been left behind that could be of the slightest use to the enemy if they should attack, which he, personally, made bold to doubt.