Wide is the Water (14 page)

Hart had been thinking that very thing but said, ‘No doubt she was waiting to find someone she could really love.' Mrs. Purchas might be a cold-blooded fortune hunter on her daughter's behalf; he was very sure that
Julia, so friendly to a penniless cousin, was nothing of the kind.

‘Very likely,' said Dick, and set his horse to the last steep bend of the track. At the top he stopped again. ‘Look!' He pointed with his whip. ‘A fair inheritance, is it not? When my father succeeded, the Purchas lands stretched from that winding river in the valley there clear over to that line of woods. Good land, too. It could have been made to pay for all. I begged my father to let me run the place for him, try improvements, like Turnip Townshend, or Rockingham in the north. He would have none of it. Thought a farmer son would be a disgrace. And with Farmer George for our king! As a result, the estate has dwindled to the land between those lanes.' Again the whip pointed. ‘And I must decide what next to sell, so poor Julia can have her chance at last. It's a pity we sank your
Georgia.
The prize money would make a deal of difference.' And then: ‘Forgive me!'

‘No need. But surely you must have taken other prizes?'

‘There are two kinds of captains. Cousin, in our navy: the ones who look for prizes and the ones who consider their country's good. And there's another thing. I have taken prizes in my time and found the profits from them so whittled away by prize courts that I have even found myself having to pay out lest my men suffer.' He drew in a deep breath of sweet-smelling downland air. ‘If we were not at war, I would send in my papers tomorrow. I never liked the navy. Never wanted to join it. But in the navy the Purchas family has influence. So – it was the navy for me. It's a horrible life, cruelty from start to finish. I would not treat a beast on my land the way I was treated as a midshipman. And then, as captain, to know that the same things are happening to the young creatures in one's charge and to be powerless to help them. Horrible! Do you know when I first really liked you, Cousin?'

‘No?'

‘When we had to flog the man Grant. You looked the way I felt. Sick. But what can one do? It's the law.'

‘A bad one,' said Hart. ‘God knows, I had trouble enough with my crew, but you almost make me feel that our way is better.'

‘Do you know, I am beginning to wonder if it is. And that's why, in the end, I think you will beat us, whatever the wiseacres say. I just wish it would be soon, for all our sakes. In the meantime, which would you sell? The fields to the east or those to the west?'

‘Must it be so many?'

‘If Julia is to have another season and a dowry at the end of it. Yes, it must.'

‘First tell me about your agriculture here. I'm a farmer myself, remember, though you can hardly imagine anything more different than our land.' He was ashamed to feel a blurring of his eyes as a vision of the flat green rice fields at Winchelsea and the great sweep of the Savannah River imposed itself over this neat prospect of field and coppice and hill.

‘Gladly.' If Dick noticed, he gave no sign of it but plunged into a technical description of the problems of Sussex agriculture, of fallowing, and root crops, and the new machinery that was causing trouble among agricultural labourers.

They returned home late in the afternoon in great charity with each other, having replanned the entire economy of the Denton Hall estate. ‘And then turnips,' Dick was saying as they rounded the curve of the drive to see the hall, as they had the day before, mellow in afternoon sunshine. ‘Do you really think I might pay our way without selling, Cousin?'

‘With luck and the way agricultural prices are rising? I don't see why not. Mad to sell land at the moment. And surely anyone who truly loved your sister must be prepared to wait more than a year for her hand.'

‘Maybe,' said Dick. ‘But would Julia?' And then: ‘Look, there she is.'

Once again Julia had appeared at the top of the steps to greet them. But this time it seemed to be Hart who had all
her attention. ‘Hart!' She came down the steps as they dismounted. ‘Oh, my poor Cousin!'

‘What is it, Julia? Why the long face?' Dick sounded almost impatient.

Julia ignored him, holding out her hand to Hart. ‘Come indoors, Cousin. I've … I've bad news for you.'

‘News?' He gave the reins to the groom. ‘But how?'

‘That bundle of New York papers you brought home, Dick.' She turned to her brother. ‘Price has just unpacked them. You had never looked at them, I collect?'

‘No chance,' he told her. ‘I don't even know where they got stowed in the end. Just some duplicate copies; the others must be at the Admiralty by now. But why the amazement, Julia?'

‘News from New York?' Hart's voice shook. ‘My wife? What is it? Tell me!'

‘Come in here.' She took his hand and led him into an empty book-lined room. ‘My mother's in the morning room.' She turned to face him. ‘Not your wife, my poor cousin. Your mother and aunt.'

‘My mother? Savannah?'

‘No.' Still gazing at him with huge, pitiful eyes, she picked up a ragged copy of
Rivington's Gazette
from the study table. ‘Read it. Cousin. I can't. I'm so very sorry … I'll leave you. Come, Dick. Hart will want to be alone.' The door closed softly behind them as Hart began to read.

When he put the paper down, his eyes were full of tears. Both his mother and his aunt. Dead. Horribly dead. The article in the Loyalist paper was obviously not the first report of the disaster and did not go into details, but its implications were clear. The grim story was used as an argument for a swift, just peace. Mrs. Purchis and Mrs. Mayfield were innocent victims, the anonymous writer said, of savagery of what amounted to civil war. They had decided to flee the safety of British-held Savannah for the hazards of life in American Charleston. Their little party had never got there; their mutilated bodies had been found by a band of Tory soldiers and given decent burial. Mrs.
Purchis was the mother of a well-known privateer captain. Every thinking person must feel for him and hope that this personal disaster would bring home to him the folly of fighting against his king and country.

Horrible. He stared blindly at the paper. Had it been Scopholites, up from St. Augustine, or those other savages, the King's Rangers, who followed the embittered Tory leader, Thomas Brown? It could even have been Indians. Unspeakable. And his cousin Abigail? No mention of her. Had she been with them and carried off to endure a slower, more horrible fate? He would not believe it. Turning the page with a shaking hand, he found a further paragraph. Sir James Wright, British Governor of Savannah, who had reported the sad news to New York, had written that he had done his best to persuade the two ladies not to leave the safety of Savannah and risk the dangerous journey north to rebel-held Charleston. They had stolen away, in the end, without his permission and in too small a party for safety. It was one of war's tragedies, and they were mourned by their niece, Miss Purchis, a devoted Loyalist, who had wisely refused to go with them.

Ah, poor Abigail, he thought, all alone in the house in Oglethorpe Square, mourning the aunts who had brought her up. Why had they gone? And in too small a party for safety? What had been happening in Savannah, since the unsuccessful French and American siege, to make them embark in so desperate a venture? But he was afraid he knew. The disgrace of Mercy's activities as the Rebel Pamphleteer must have been too much for them. They had loved their social life, enjoyed acting as hostesses to the British officers who visited Mercy's club. If they had found themselves suddenly ostracised, it would have been painful indeed. So – all Mercy's fault?

He must not think like that. She was a heroine, had risked her life over and over again for the American cause. It was sheer chance that it was not her own life that had been lost, but those of the two elderly ladies who had been good to her. It was all horrible … too horrible to be borne. Absurd.
It must be borne. Vengeance? What use was that? He had a sudden, mad vision of himself attacking Dick's mother because she was English. Attacking Julia?

A little scratching at the door. ‘Hart? Cousin Hart, may I come in?' Julia's big eyes were full of tears as she held out both hands to him. ‘You must not stay alone any longer. It is too much to bear alone.'

‘Thank you.' He pressed her hands in his and raised them to his lips. ‘That is just what I was thinking. It is like you to have thought of it.'

‘You must talk about them,' she said. ‘Tell me about them. It will make you feel better, I promise you. Come into the garden, Cousin.'

She was right. It did do him good to talk about them, sitting beside his newfound cousin in the little Gothic summer house that looked across parkland to the downs. Extraordinary to sit here, in peaceful England, and try to explain about the Scopholites, about the appalling savagery of the war in the southern states.

‘And they are fighting on the British side, these savages?' she asked. ‘It's horrible, Cousin. It maked one ashamed … We should have worked harder to make an end of this wicked war.' She turned her big, tear-dimmed eyes full on him. ‘I am afraid we must face it that our opposition papers will make the most of this sad story. The copies of the New York papers that Dick sent to the Admiralty will have been read by now; the news will be out. You must resign yourself to being very much in the limelight for a while, my poor Hart.' And then, as he continued silent: ‘Oh, Cousin, I do hope you have not been thinking about vengeance for this tragedy.'

‘How can I, when you are all so good to me?' he said.

‘I am so glad you feel like that.' She reached out an impulsive hand to take his. ‘Thank God Dick never looked at those papers, that you were here, among friends, before you heard the news. Otherwise, it might well have made you mad. As it is, I am sure you will see that it gives you a duty to do everything you can to work for peace.'

‘Peace and liberty,' he said.

‘But that's of course. Only, dear Hart, now you must see that peace can be worked for only by peaceful means. By honest ones. Not' – she hesitated – ‘not underhand, hole-in-corner … You will be a public figure,' she went on quickly. ‘You must speak out. Tell of your own tragedy, to help avoid others. You will be happier, doing that.'

‘Not at once,' he said. ‘First I must mourn my dead.'

‘But not alone.' She rose to her feet and put on the big chip hat she had been carrying. ‘Come for a walk with me, Cousin. I have an old woman I visit most days, an old servant, pensioned off, who thinks the sun rises and sets in our family. She will be longing for news of Dick, and to tell truth, he is sure to be too busy to visit her. Will you come with me and get a glimpse of how our people live? It will distract you, a little, if anything can.'

‘I'd like that. Thank you.' Anything to stop thinking about his mother, about Aunt Anne, horribly dead. But what had Julia meant when she spoke of underhand activities, hole-in-corner? Could she have known of Mercy's work as a spy? Impossible. The British themselves had hushed it up. It was just his morbid imagination that had applied the words to Mercy. Mercy, who had risked her life over and over again for the cause of liberty. Would she be wondering if that rash journey might have been partly her fault? How wretched she must be feeling if so. He longed to be with her, to comfort her, and thought with horror of the wide waters of the Atlantic, stretching between them.

‘You must not mind it so much, Cousin.' Julia put a gentle hand on his arm. ‘It is all over, all done with. And here we are. You must smile, please, and be good to my old lady.'

Granny Penfold lived in a tiny thatched cottage close to the lodge gates at the end of the drive. Approaching it by a shortcut across the park, they came on her in her garden, feeding hens. ‘Miss Julia.' She bobbed a quick curtsy and surveyed them with bright eyes. ‘This is a sight to cure
blindness, and no mistake. Come in, you and the foreign gentleman, and taste a drop of my cowslip wine.'

‘Not foreign,' said Julie. ‘American, Granny, and our cousin.'

‘Course I know that.' She was wrinkled and withered like a last year's apple, but her eyes were sharp with intelligence. ‘Everyone in Denton knows about the captain and how he saved my Dick's life, God bless him.' To Hart's surprise, she seized his hand and kissed it with dry old lips. ‘Dick was my baby,' she explained. ‘Did Miss not tell you? I fostered him after mine died. He's the only son I'll ever have. And you saved him for me, sir. He says you're a right one, and no mistake.'

‘You've seen him?' Hart glanced in quick surprise at Julia, but she had turned away to listen to the chiming of the village clock.

‘Jimini,' she said. ‘It's four o'clock. We must be on our way, Cousin, or we will be late for dinner. We'll taste your cowslip wine another day, Granny.'

Julia proved right. The two items of news, simultaneously received in London, of Hart's saving of the
Sparrow
and his mother's death, became a nine days' wonder. As she had predicted, the Whig newspapers seized on it as typifying the savagery of what they described as an unnecessary war. Even the government papers were friendly in their references to Hart and sympathetic in reporting the deaths of his mother and aunt. To his deep, unspoken relief, there was no reference to Mercy's identity as the Rebel Pamphleteer. In their fury at having been duped by a woman, the British in Savannah had kept her secret well. But he could not forget it. What had Mercy gained for the American side by her activities as spy and pamphleteer that could possibly make up for this personal disaster?

He had spent the morning after he learned of his mother's and aunt's deaths in trying to write to Mercy and found it even more difficult than the long diary letter he had written her on board the
Sparrow
. Would she ever get
that? Dick had laughed, promised to find a smuggler in Plymouth to start it on its hazardous way to America by way of France, and said, with a note of apology, that he would have to read it. It had not made its writing any easier.