Judas Flowering (16 page)

“No.” Anne Mayfield did not sound much interested, but the two girls leaned forward eagerly as he carved away the breast of a smoked turkey.

“Yesterday.” He wiped his hands on his damask napkin, took a good pull at the claret, pronounced it delicious, ate a huge mouthful of cold turkey and spiced watermelon, and smiled benignly round at their attentive faces. “A group of gentlemen.” Another approving sip of claret. “
Not
disguised this time. Mr Habersham—Joseph, of course—and Mr Jones Junior.
And
Edward Telfair and I don't know how many
others—Where was I?” He was silent for a moment dealing
with a huge mouthful of home-cured ham.

“A group of radical gentlemen,” prompted Mercy.

“Yes, quite so. Very radical indeed in their behavior. If you'll believe it, ladies, they marched—well, walked along the bluff to the powder magazine at the east end of town. I drink their healths.” He did so, with a wary, considering look at his hostesses. “Do you know, they found it, by some strange chance, totally unguarded. So, in they marched, cool as you please, broke open the doors—or found them open, I don't rightly know. Down to the cellar where the ammunition is … was stored, and off they go with six hundred pounds of gunpowder. I reckon there's not a cellar or attic in town today but has its share, and poor Sir James can offer what reward he pleases for evidence. He won't get it—nor yet his powder back. Far as I know, some of it's on its way to Beaufort already, for safe keeping, and some on the long haul north, where it's most needed. Poor Sir James and his hundred-fifty-pound reward! I reckon he might as well give it to charity at once.”

“But you mean the guilty men are known?” Anne Mayfield was never a fast thinker.

“Known and applauded, ma'am. The word is not ‘guilty'; it's ‘heroes.'”

“Oh.” She took it in slowly. “And my Francis?”

“Was not there, ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you.” He rose, dabbing at greasy lips with the napkin. “With your good leave, I must be on my way. There are a few ‘accident' cases round here that I must visit.”

“Accident?” asked Mrs Mayfield.

“You could call them that. Fools who thought they might like to collect Sir James's reward. They're none of them well enough, this morning, to go into town. Odd, ain't it? I hope your son will bear their fate in mind, Mrs Mayfield.”

“What did he mean?” Anne Mayfield asked querulously after he had taken his leave.

“He meant to frighten us,” said Mercy.

“He succeeded,” said Abigail, “I wish Giles were here.”

“I think you should thank God he is not,” said Mercy. “It's Hart I'd like to see. The mob must have been out this way last night. Thank God, they didn't come here.”

“You mean those ‘accidents'?” Abigail was very white. “What can Sir James be doing?”

“His best, I have no doubt, poor man—and not worth
much by the sound of it. If he can't even keep sentries on duty at the powder magazine …”

“You mean, he. can't protect his friends?” Mrs Mayfield had been taking it in slowly. “What are we going to do?” Her voice rose to a dangerous note of hysteria. “Francis shouldn't have left us like this.”

“I expect Francis knows what he is doing,” said Mercy.

“Well, I wish he had thought fit to tell me,” grumbled his mother. “What in the world do we do if the mob comes here tonight?”

“Everything they tell us,” said Mercy.

“Shame.” Abigail turned on her.

“Suit yourself.” As Mercy spoke, Mrs Mayfield rose and tottered from the room. “Be a martyr if you wish it, but see to it that you don't involve the rest of us. For my part, I intend to survive this, and if a little shouting of liberty' will do it, then shout I will. No, never priss up your mouth at me! Be honest, now. As things stand, can you tell me there is a pennyworth to choose between the two sides?”

“Mercy? But your father! They killed him. The rebels.”

“The mob killed him. He hated mobs, whatever they called themselves. Whig or Tory, what's the odds! Look at our ‘civilised' masters, the British. What were they but a mob when they attacked the Lexington Minutemen? Mark Paston is dead, Abigail, and others with him. Hart may be.”

“I won't believe it.” Abigail was crying helplessly. “Oh, how I wish he would come home.”

“So do I. And be sure, love, he will. In the meanwhile, it behoves you and me to act with sense. I think we should say something to the servants, don't you?”

“Yes,” gasped Abigail through her tears. “But what?”

They were saved the decision by Francis' return. “It's open revolt.” He helped himself to a glass of the claret the doctor had left. “I wish I knew what to do for the best.”

The admission, so unlike him, earned him a sharp look from Mercy. “What do you mean?”

“I've temporised as long as I can. Now, the cards are on the table—the sides are being drawn—I must declare myself.”

“As what?”

“How can you ask that? As the Loyalist I have always been. Only, if I do so, I endanger this household most horribly. It wants only for Giles Habersham to come back, and we are all ruined. But what can I do? A man must act up to
his conscience at a time like this.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Abigail eagerly. “To tell truth, Francis, I have sometimes had my doubts about you, this winter past. I ask your pardon; I should have known you better. As for the danger to us, you must not think of that.”

“No?” said Mercy. “But what about your aunts? Are they to suffer for Francis' conscience? Tell truth, Francis. What purpose will be served by your declaring yourself, as you call it, and drawing down who knows what kind of vengeance on this house?”

“Why, the greatest of all. How can you be so wilfully stupid? You must see that now is the time when men of influence must use it. There are plenty of honest Loyalists in Georgia, but this news may panic them into flight, or a pretence of conformity. It is a time when one must stand up and be counted.”

“Whatever the cost?”

“Whatever the cost.”

“To yourself, yes,” said Mercy. “I think your mother and aunt have a right to be consulted about the cost to them.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I count for nothing.” The exchange between them was all the sharper because of Abigail's presence. “But as for you … you should, I think, consider your Cousin Hart, and your position as substitute master of Winchelsea. If you come out as a Loyalist and get the house burned down, where does that leave Hart, quite aside from the rest of us?”

“My dear Mercy.” His tone was patient, as to a child. “You are as bad as my aunt. Can you not bring yourself to face the facts? All China to a Lombard orange, Hart is dead. Which means, to all intents and purposes, that I am master of Winchelsea.”

“Oh? Might not your aunt have something to say to that? And your cousin, here, who is Purchis, where you are not?”

“Oh, don't!” Abigail could bear it no longer. “Are not things bad enough without you two quarreling?”

“She's right.” Francis reached a plate from the sideboard and carved himself a slice of ham. “Join me in a glass of claret, ladies, and let's kiss and be friends.” His smile, behind Abigail's back for Mercy underlined the words.

But they had reminded her that the doctor had been gone some time and still no servant had appeared to clear away his luncheon. “It is time we talked to the servants,” she
returned to the subject. “What are they thinking of, to leave things thus?”

“My convenience, as it happens,” said Francis. “But I take your point. They, too, will need their minds settling.”

“I doubt if your coming out as a Loyalist will have a very settling effect.”

“You'll be surprised.” He finished his glass of wine and poured another. “Tory to the backbone, most of them.”

“And loyal to Winchelsea,” said Abigail.

“I hope so.” Mercy looked up. “What's that?”

The sound of a horse, ridden hard. “Where the hell
are
the servants?” Francis strode to the window. “What's happened to Hart's famous warning system?” And then, “Good God! It
is
Hart!”

The three of them reached the front portico as the lathered horse came to a weary halt. Hart himself was white with fatigue under a caked layer of dust and sat for a long moment, swaying in the saddle, gazing at them blankly.

“Hart! By all that's wonderful.” Francis hurried forward to help him alight and then steady him as he swayed with fatigue. “We were afraid—”

“Right to be.” He looked about him. “But where are the servants? Were you not warned I was coming?”

“No. Things are at sixes and sevens here, cousin. It makes it all the better to see you. But come in and rest. You look worn out.”

“I am.” He had an exhausted smile for Abigail and Mercy. “I've ridden day and moonlight, when I could. Better that than thinking. You've heard the news?”

“Yes. Past believing. Is it really so bad?”

“Worse. They came out from Boston, the British. I was staying with the Pastons. There were—oh—seven hundred of them. Something like that. The Lexington Minutemen were waiting for them, drawn up on the Common—forty men—fifty? I don't know. A demonstration, nothing more. The British fired on them, Francis, went for them with the bayonet—their officers couldn't stop them. I saw it all. I'll never forgive myself. I hid. And then Mark found me. He was dying. Shot in the side, as he obeyed the order to disperse.”

“I can't believe it,” said Abigail. “Cousin Mark—”

“You've got to.” He turned on her, and Mercy saw new lines deep in his drawn face. “Everything's changed, Abigail.
Everything's different now. Because that wasn't even all. They gave three cheers, the British, and marched off to Concord, and there was fighting there too. I expect you've heard.”

“Something,” said Francis. “It sounds a barbarous enough business. An Englishman scalped, the retiring column fired on from behind walls—Indian tactics. I do trust you had nothing to do with that, Hart.”

“They wouldn't let me. By the time I'd got Mrs Paston and the girls safe to her cousin's house, they had their plans made. I asked … I
begged
to join them.” His challenging glance raked their faces. “Jonas Clarke and Dr Warren said, no, I must come home, tell you what happened, tell everyone. Make you understand. It's war. D'you know what they did to the houses round Munroe's Tavern? Burned them in cold blood. The Pastons were safe away, thank God, and the other women and children, but they'll have a hard winter of it, specially the Pastons with no man to look out for them. And Ruth Harrington, whose husband was shot on the Common and crawled home to die under her window.”

“But why?” Mercy was searching the face of this exhausted man for signs of the boy who had ridden away, the boy who had saved her life.

“God knows.” His tired eyes, meeting hers, were the same as ever. “It's past understanding. But it's happened. Nothing will ever be the same again.” He turned as a group of servants came hurrying round the corner of the house. “Well!” The furious blue eyes condemned them. “And where have you been, pray?”

They were all round him, with loving, outstretched hands and cries of “Welcome home,” and Mercy, watching, thought how instantly Frank's brief authority had snuffed out. And no wonder. Haggard, dirty, sweat-stained, Hart towered over the little crowd, the focus of all eyes, the man of the moment, while Francis stood on one side, elegant as always, faintly petulant, totally ignored.

Now Sam, the overseer, came forward to take Hart warmly by the hand and explain, “There was a servants' meeting called, Mr Hart. We was ordered to go. We thought, best obey, for the ladies sake.”

“Quite right. You shall tell me about it later. We have much to talk about. All of us.”

“Yes, sir, Mr Hart. You, there, Jem, take the master's
horse; you girls, into the kitchen and get to work. And a hot brick in Mr Hart's bed, first thing.”

“Not bed.” Hart shook a weary head. “Hot water. I must see my mother. How is she?”

“Anxious,” said Mercy.

“Overjoyed.” Martha Purchis had appeared at the top of the steps. “Oh, my dear boy!” She tottered down them and fell into his arms.

“But you've been ill!” He looked down at her white face and swansdown-trimmed negligee. “What's happened?”

“It was the news.” Francis spoke up as they moved into the house, Hart supporting his mother. “I told it something too quickly, like a fool that I was. But you ought not to be up, Aunt Martha.”

“No. Nor letting me dirty your pretty gown.” Hart led his mother to a sofa in the morning room. “Rest there, Mamma, while I make myself fit to be seen. I'll be with you directly. Ah”—he had seen the table of cold meats—”food. Now that I could do with. No, don't clear”—to a servant who had just timidly entered the room—“bring clean things and another bottle. Mercy, give my mother a glass of cordial.” He paused at the door. “I'll be back directly.”

“He's grown up.” Martha Purchis was gratefully sipping her cordial.

“Yes,” agreed Abigail. “His voice has changed.”

“More than his voice, I think,” said Mercy.

“Madness to have let him go!” Francis turned on Martha Purchis. “Do you realise, Aunt, that your son has come back a flaming rebel! What do you propose to do about that?”

“Why, Frank, I believe I shall say that that has to be his own affair. Do you know, I believe I could eat a morsel of that cold turkey myself. And here, in good time, comes the new bottle.” Her tone reminded Francis that politics were not discussed in front of the servants, though it was a rule, Mercy thought drily, more honoured in the breach than the observance. She wondered if the curly-headed girl who was neatly changing plates and glasses would hurry out to the servants' quarters at the back of the house with a story to be sent to Savannah. She did not like the idea of that servants' meeting either.