Judas Flowering (40 page)

“I was looking for Miss Mercy, sir.” Gordon's voice was apologetic. “I found a couple more cases of wine I thought she might like to have.”

“You'll find her in the summerhouse.” Francis strode off through the gate to the street, and Saul Gordon came forward, hesitantly, his pale face shining in the darkness.

“Miss Mercy. I do hope I did right.” He was very carefully not looking at her.

“Quite right, thank you. And the less said about it, the better.” She moved forward to meet him before he, in his turn, could corner her in the summerhouse. “It was foolish of me to be sitting out so late. It shall not happen again. I'm … grateful. I'll not forget.”

“Thank you. But, Miss Mercy, I had been wanting a chance to speak to you … to warn you. He has gone, has he not?”

“Yes.”

“It's precisely about Mr Francis. This Reb Pamphleteer that's making so much trouble. Had you thought it might be he? He's changed sides once. Who's to say?”

“Good God, what a horrible thought. No, it's not possible. Think, Mr Gordon, he was always a Loyalist really.” She could hardly point out to Gordon that Francis changed sides only when it was to his advantage, while the Rebel Pamphleteer, whose broadsides against the occupation were convulsing Savannah, was risking his life. “Mr Gordon, for my sake, say nothing of this wild idea of yours. Think of the harm it would do us, his family, and to the club.”

“Asked like that.” He was developing quite a courtly air, she thought, as he kissed her hand. “How can I refuse?”

By general request, they had cleared one of the downstairs rooms for dancing, and tonight, Mercy, who usually stayed at the profitable card tables, made an excuse to go in there as the three fiddlers were striking up for a country dance. She was surrounded, at once, by hopeful partners, Francis among them.

“Am I forgiven?” He took her hand to lead her out into the circle that was forming. “I was carried away. You madden a man, Mercy.”

She curtseyed low, as the dance began. Then, edging past him sideways, in the first figure, smiled up at him over her shoulder. “This once, you're forgiven, but I'm a marrying woman, Francis.” They parted and met again. “And I'll thank you to remember it.” And then, as he took her hand to lead her down the room, “I've a warning for you, Frank. You won't believe it, but Saul Gordon actually suspects you of being the Rebel Pamphleteer.” She looked up at him anxiously. “Frank, be careful.”

“You can't believe …” They had to part.

“Of course not.” She met him in the middle of the room.
“I've sworn him to silence. Convinced him, I think, that you have always been the truest of Loyalists.” She smiled at him reassuringly and passed on to a new partner.

Later that evening, she watched Francis pick a quarrel with Saul Gordon, saw the swift, angry exchange of words and then the contemptuous flick of Francis' hand that made it a fighting matter. Watching his face, from the far side of the room, she was almost sorry for Saul Gordon in his dilemma. If he fought, he proved himself a gentleman, but might end up a dead one. She thought he would fight.

William brought the news in the morning. They had fought at first light in the Jewish Graveyard within the town limits, and both been wounded, neither of them seriously. “I reckon they were both afraid of a murder charge,” William explained it. “Sir James is dead set against duels.”

Writing notes of condolence to both of them, she sighed with relief for a pair of problems at least postponed.

“If only we could have Frank here to nurse him,” wailed Mrs Mayfield. “It doesn't seem right for the poor boy to lie ill among strangers.”

“But think of the noise and bustle here, ma'am,” said Mercy patiently. “Besides, he's not among strangers. Mrs Reynolds will look after him, for her children's sake.”

She saw Mrs Reynolds in the square that afternoon and ran quickly out to greet her. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

Mrs Reynolds had aged since she had heard of her husband's death. Now she looked at Mercy for a long silent moment, then spat in the sand at her feet. “That's what we think of traitors like you.” Bones showed through the skin of her tired face. “No need to worry about that worthless Frank Mayfield. I'll look after him. I've got to. But don't you come near me, Mercy Phillips. The Rebel Pamphleteer has a word for women like you.”

In fact, the Rebel Pamphleteer was rather quiet that August. “I believe you may have been right, Miss Mercy.” Sir James was paying a morning call at the house in Oglethorpe Square. “Now James Johnston is back in charge of the
Gazette
, there are fewer of those cursed revolutionary broadsheets. When can we hope to see your performance of
The Beggar's Opera
advertised?”

“Oh, any day now, Sir James. Since Frank Mayfield has resumed rehearsals, we are getting on like a house afire.”
“Shocking business.” It was perfunctory. “I hear Mr Gordon is out and about too.”

“Yes,” said Mercy. “A foolish affair, and not at all the kind of thing we want at the club. I wish you would speak to your young men, Sir James.”

He sighed. “I'm afraid I have not much control over the officers, Miss Mercy, but I will certainly have a word with General Prevost.”

For a while after the fall of Savannah, the British stranglehold on Georgia was complete, but the attack on South Carolina meant a weakening of the occupation force in Georgia, and at sea, too, though the British technically held the coast, rebel privateers could lurk in safety in secret creeks and inlets along the marshy shore.

A small boat put off from one of these on a misty evening of late August and pulled steadily northwards up the sheltered inland passage. Though the British still held Sunbury, they had been forced to abandon Augusta, and their lines of communication were badly stretched. It was easy enough for someone who had friends and knew his way to move in and out of the territory they held, and even, if he dared and if no one was likely to recognise him, to enter Savannah.

Sitting in the stern of his gig, Hart Purchis thought the risk well worth taking. He had been ill in bed all the last time he had been in Savannah, and before that had been away since he had joined George Washington's army. Not so long in years, but they had been years that changed a man. He smiled wryly to himself. Changed a boy to a man. If his experiences on the prison hulk had aged him by ten years, Mercy's treachery had made an old man of him. “Never stop loving me,” she had said, handing him the draught that would make it possible to have him spirited out of town. He had asked her to marry him next day if they survived,
and she had smiled, and smiled, and handed him her drugged potion.

No one would ever fool him again. He had decided that, in the black, silent rage that had endured through the dangerous journey to Charleston. Curiously enough, the rage, or the journey, or the combination of the two had immensely speeded up his recovery. When the British had made their unsuccessful attack on Charleston in May, he had been able to help build the defences, though not to fight, owing to the weakness of his right arm. That was when he had decided he would be most useful as a privateer captain. Luckily, he had found accumulated funds with his agent in Charleston and been able to buy a small sloop captured when the British retreated, and his name and reputation had ensured him a reliable crew. They had been lucky so far and had sent more than one consignment of invaluable specie to swell the empty coffers of the Continental Congress. Now, with a full bear completing the transformation from boy to man, he was ready to venture into Savannah on errands both for the Congress and for himself. Congress, or rather General Lincoln, who commanded in the South, wanted to know what help could be expected from secret rebels in Savannah, if the Americans should join with the French Admiral d'Estaing in an attack on the town.

And he, terribly, wanted to see Mercy. He had not written. He had sent no message to her. He had, quite simply, not known what to say. How could he thank her for saving his life, when, in so doing, she had lost him his honour? How could he be sure that she had not smuggled him out of town simply because he was a risk to her? How, in the face of all the lies she had told him, could he believe in her love for him? And yet, he still wanted to. He had loved her for so long. It was a habit hard to break. But, if he must, he would. That was really why he had undertaken this hazardous journey, to go to Savannah as a spy, risking certain death if he was caught.

“Quietly there.” He spoke softly as the little boat rounded a point and he caught a glimpse of lights ahead. “Not a word from now on.”

The oarsmen grunted in acquiescence. In fact, they had not spoken much, subdued both by the rashness of the venture and by their captain's mood. They landed him half an hour later in a deserted creek well south of Savannah, on the edge
of the Parish of St John's, which had always been in the forefront of the rebellion. Here, if anywhere, he would find friends to help him get into Savannah itself, and if he survived to return, he was sure of a safe hiding place here until his boat kept its rendezvous. There was nothing to be said now; everything was arranged; he shook the rowers' hard hands, slipped gently into shallow water, and waded ashore,

A week later, he helped take a load of Indian corn into Savannah, where food was still so scarce, his host had told him, that it would act as almost passport enough. “And I'm a prominent Loyalist these days! We all are. Or dead. You're my cousin from the West Indies, and no brighter than you should be. Keep quiet; you'll pass. Your voice is the only thing I'd have recognized about you. Oh—your eyes maybe, but their expression's changed.”

“They've seen a good deal.”

“We all have.” They could see the spire of Christ Church now, rising above the trees. “Nearly there. Quiet now and look the fool I'll call you.”

Hart let his shoulders sag and chewed vacantly on a tough leaf of the Indian corn. If only he knew what to expect. But though his host. John Jackson, could tell him about the political situation in Savannah, where Sir James Wright was still hoping to recall the old Loyalist Assembly and achieve some pretence of legitimate government, he knew little or nothing of social life there. “Though I think I'd have heard if anything had happened to your family.”

It was cold enough comfort, Hart thought, when, after helping unload the corn in the familiar market place, he started along Julian Street towards Oglethorpe Square. It was all so extraordinarily the same. And so unbelievably different. Two Hessian privates shouldered past him, immaculate in blue uniforms with yellow facings, talking together in their native German. They were heading, he saw, for a house he had often visited. Its patriot owner had died of his wounds that hideous winter at Valley Forge, but where were his wife and children? Jackson had described the mass exodus of women, children, and slaves from Savannah after the British had taken the town. Had his friend's family been in that wretched crowd or were they perhaps still hiding somewhere in town?

No time for this kind of general anxiety. And now that he had crossed Whitaker Street, the sandy road was too
crowded for comfort or safety. A carriage rolled by, smothering him in its dust, and he recognised the McCartney sisters, resplendent in bright satin, with a British officer riding beside them. So Mercy had been right in her suspicions of them.

Mercy. He quickened his pace, then made himself drop back into his halfwit's slouch as he turned off Julian Street and cut across lots so as to approach the house in Oglethorpe Square from the front. He found the square crowded with carriages and noisy with the oaths of coachment manoeuvring to set down their passengers. The sun was in his eye, and he paused to shade them with his hand trying to make out the focus of the confusion, but already sure he knew it. Whoever lived in his house was entertaining, and doing so in style. He saw the McCartney carriage, driving away empty, and clenched his teeth. Through all his rage with Mercy it had never, somehow, occurred to him that he would not find her here, a useful ally and informant. How could he have been such a fool as to take this for granted?

“Here you!” The voice brought him out of his dreams with a jerk. The English officer who had been in attendance on the McCartney carriage had pushed his horse through the crowd to approach him. “A penny for you if you'll take my horse round to the Purchis stable! They're all asleep out front today.”

“Sure will.” Hart touched his shabby coonskin cap, accepted the penny, and took the reins as the officer dismounted.

“Thanks. And tell that good-for-nothing William he's to look to him better than last time, or I'll speak to Miss Phillips.”

“Yes, sir!” Hart was amazed to have learned so much. It was still the Purchis house. William had got back safe, Mercy was there, and best of all, he had his reason for going into the servants' yard. He must have straightened his shoulders as he turned away, for he was stopped by an imperative. “Here, one moment!”

“Yes, sir?” He turned to peer vaguely at the red face and redder uniform across the horse's glossy back.

“You look able-bodied enough! What are you doing loitering here?”

“Who, me?” A still more vacant look as he rubbed a dirty right arm across his face, letting the hand droop limply as
it would. “Earning a penny, sir! My ma won't half be pleased.” A broad, vacant grin showed the teeth he had carefully blackened. “She do say I ain't bright enough to tell dinner from breakfast, but”—anxiously—“I'm good with animals, sir. I'll look to your horse, I surely will.”

“Mind you do!” The officer seemed satisfied and turned away as a voice summoned him from outside the Purchis house, and Hart recognised the Loyalist of the two divided Telfair brothers. What kind of party could this be?