Judas Flowering (17 page)

“Abigail?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Sally would tell you what went on at that meeting?”

“I don't know,” Abigail said it slowly, looking anxious. “We used to talk—oh, about everything, but lately I've felt she was … careful.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Oh well.” More cheerfully, “I expect Sam will tell Hart.”

Sam would. Hart had been surprised to find him waiting with the hot water in his bedroom. “You, Sam?”

“Yes, sir, me. We have to talk, and quick. You didn't stop in Savannah.”

“No.” Only afterwards did Hart realise that it had not been a question. “I had the boatman set me ashore at the east end of town and came direct. I wanted to know what had happened here. Thanks.” Sam had helped him out of coat and sweat-stained shirt.

“So you don't know about the powder?”

“Powder? No? What about it?”

“A parcel of gentlemen took and broke into the magazine. Yesterday. No disguise. Broad daylight. And nothing Sir James can do, but shout treason and offer a reward. Couple of people out this way thought they might try for it. A hundred and fifty pounds is a lot of money.”

“Yes?” Hart was busy with sponge and hot water.

“The mob was out last night. The informers don't feel so like going to Sir James this morning.”

“I see. You're never going to shave me, Sam?”

“Someone's got to, sir, before you face the ladies again, and your hand's shaking too much.”

“Thank you. For everything, Sam. I've been … anxious.”

“You've had a right to be. I'm glad you're back, Mr Hart, and that's the truth. These are bad times. And Mr Francis hasn't helped much.”

“Oh?” Hart looked up quickly and met Sam's eyes in the glass.

“The mob nearly came here last night.” He had worked up a good lather and now reached for the razor. “Mr. Francis, he didn't go along with the other gentlemen to the powder magazine. So, there was talk, last night,
and
about Miss Phillips and that press of her father's no one's ever found. Luckily, someone spoke up, loud and clear about you, Mr Hart.”

“Me?” He ran an appreciative hand along his smooth chin.

“Yes.” Now he met Hart's eyes in the glass with a faintly apologetic grin. “Seems like word's got around about your doings up at the North. And the word is maybe you're not quite such a fire-breathing Tory as you used to be?” Now it was a question and, Hart recognised, a hopeful one.

“My God, no.” Hart pulled on the clean shirt Sam had found for him and reached out a still-shaking hand for a cravat. “After what I saw at Lexington? I helped bury the dead, Sam. My friends. No, I'm no Tory, if that's what you need to know.”

“It surely is, sir. I'll pass the word around, quick, while you break it to the ladies.”

“It's like that, is it?”

“It's like that, sir.” He had found a broadcloth coat that Hart had left behind, and held it out for him.

Shrugging into it. “Good God!” said Hart.

“You've grown, sir, I saw it right away. It's a tight fit, but you'll do.”

“I'll have to.” Hart surveyed the straining seams ruefully in the glass. “Thanks, Sam. For it all.”

Sam smiled at him. “It's only what we owe Purchis of Winchelsea, sir. Some of us remember. But”—a warning note—“not all.”

“I'll remember.” He adjusted his ruffles with a quick flick of the wrist and smiled oddly at Sam. “They wear homespun in New England. I find I prefer it.”

“We'll come to it here, sir. Lucky if it's only that.”

In the morning room, Hart found his mother happily eating her first square meal, she told him, since the news of Lexington. Francis, pacing up and down the room, turned to greet him with a hard look. “We were afraid you had fallen asleep, cousin.”

“Just making myself fit to be seen. Dear Mother, you look better, and so shall I be, when I have had something to eat.” He moved over to the table to help himself, while Mercy poured and passed him a glass of wine. “Thanks, Mercy.” His eyes rested on her thoughtfully. “You look worn out. I hadn't thought you could be thinner. What's the matter?”

“Oh, nothing … everything,” she said. “These times try us all.”

“There's not time for all this talk,” Francis exploded.
“While you sit there in your clean linen, drinking your wine, Hart Purchis, the mob may be on its way to Winchelsea.”

Hart looked at him squarely across his lifted glass. “If it is, cousin, it seems it will be on your account.”

“On mine?”

“Yes. Where were you, Frank, when that powder was taken?”

“You've heard?” Surprised, “I was dining with Sir James.”

“One dinner too many, I think. I'm glad you are all here.” He looked round them. “Because I have something to tell you.” He lifted his glass. “I've turned my coat. Will you drink with me? A vengeance for Lexington!”

“Hart Purchis, you can't be serious!” Anne Mayfield put down her glass with a little click on the table. “To think that I should see this day … a Purchis talking treason.”

“A Purchis facing facts, Aunt. This quarrel with Great Britain is none of my seeking, but by God they've gone too far now. What they did at Lexington made free men of us Americans, and I'm glad at least some people down here in the South have seen it.”

“Some fools,” said Francis. “Hotheads, rebels.”

“Not rebels anymore, Frank. Patriots. The British have broken the social contract that bound us to them. They don't want us as citizens, they want us as slaves. It's been clear in everything they have done in Boston this winter. And I'll tell you one more thing.” He turned on Francis, who had sat very silent, twisting his empty glass in his hands. “If you had seen the way they treated the Loyalists up in Boston, you'd be wondering about your own position. Oh, friendly enough, and all that, but as master to subject, as tyrant to slave. Swallow that, and you can swallow anything.”

“Hart, you don't understand. You must be patient with the British. You haven't been there. How can you see what a small issue this has seemed to them? Now, I'm sure, you will find a change in their handling of the business.”

“A change? I expect you're right. But not for the better. So, who will drink my toast?” He looked round them, blue eyes bright and challenging.

“I will,” said Mercy.

“And I,” said his mother. “Though I don't pretend to understand …”

“Not I,” said Abigail. “I'm sorry, Hart.”

Francis had gone very white. “What happens to those
who refuse, Hart? Are we to be exiled from Winchelsea?”

“No. No, of course not.” He looked suddenly young again. “I'm sorry. I should not have insisted. If we, who are family, cannot behave like civilised people, what hope is there for us all? Of course you must stay—all three of you.” He managed a smile for Anne Mayfield. “Only I must ask you to be careful what you say and do. There are bad times coming, and whatever any one of us does, may harm us all.”

“You mean”—Francis looked at him very straight—“you don't want Winchelsea burned down.”

“No. Nor my mother and aunt, nor the girls, molested.”

“Right,” said Francis. “Then here's a toast we can all drink: to Winchelsea!”

“What did you mean by agreeing to drink Hart's rebel toast?” It had been some days before Francis contrived to find Mercy alone on her evening pilgrimage to her father's grave.

“That I agree with him, I suppose. What did you mean, Frank, when you proposed the toast to Winchelsea?”

“Why, just what I said.” He turned to look through the delicate leaves of the Judas tree towards the big white house behind its screen of dark ilexes. “Long may it stand to shelter us all.”

“Amen to that. So you are going to do as Hart asks and be careful?”

“Naturally. It's common sense. No time yet for bonnets over the windmill. Hart's right; there are bad times coming, but what will come of them is anybody's guess. There may yet be a day when it is the Loyalists in the family who are the saving of Winchelsea.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I think the world's turned upside down.” He began to whistle the popular march, then stopped short at sight of her face. “I'm sorry. I quite forgot where we were.”

“No matter. Father wouldn't mind. I only wish I knew what he would say today.”

“I know what he'd say. You forget, Mercy, what a Loyalist he was. He was Phil Anglius, wasn't he? Died for his beliefs. He'd call you a fool of a rebel, as bad as my little cousin Hart.”

Mercy tried to laugh it off. “You could hardly call Hart little!”

“In mind, dearest Mercy, in mind. Like all the others. Just because Sir James has been left with only a hundred or so troops and can do nothing for the moment, they are letting themselves forget about the British Navy. And the garrison at St Augustine in East Florida. I wonder which will get here first, to shock some sense into them. And who will be the saviour of Winchelsea then? In the meantime, since Hart must needs go and play at rebellion in Savannah, it seems my duty, still, to stay here and keep the estate going.” He laughed. “And how that brute Sam hates taking orders from me! He'll pay for his surly looks when the British come. As they will, my little love, as they will.” His fingers moved, warmly caressing, in the palm of her hand. “I long to tell the world of my happiness, but dare not yet, since my Loyalist taint might endanger you. When the British fleet sails up the river, then will be the time to come forward and claim you as my bride.”

“And Winchelsea?”

“Why, Mercy, what can you mean? If Hart survives the troubles to come, which, with my help, please God he will, he is master of Winchelsea. Remember, love, you and I are to build our own future in the West.”

“Yes.” Doubtfully, “But may not poor Hart lose Winchelsea if the British do win? And might not you be the obvious—”

“Hush, love.” He put a warm finger on her lips. “Those words are dangerous.”

She moved a little away from him. “It seems to me that everything is dangerous. The servants go on having meetings, I think.”

“I'm sure of it. They'll pay for it when the British come. As for that dog, Sam, hanging's too good for him. Hush!” His head went up, listening. “They're signalling from the gate. It must be Hart. Better not let him find us together, love.” He bent to snatch a kiss. “You go the short way; I'll meet Hart.”

“Be careful, Francis.

“I'm always careful.” He threw it back over his shoulder as he left her.

Alone, she sighed, bent to re-arrange the flowers on her father's grave, and then moved slowly towards the house. The familiar signal had brought Abigail out onto the broad stoop and the two girls stood and watched as Hart rode up, with Francis walking beside him.

“Council of Safety!” Francis' voice floated mockingly towards them. “President Bulloch! Provincial Congress! A lot of boys playing at politics!”

“Be careful, Frank.” Hart looked quickly about to make sure none of the servants was in earshot. “Mind what you say. They tarred and feathered young Hopkins for making fun of the new Council of Safety. Started at the Liberty Pole by Tondee's Tavern and rode him in an illuminated cart all through the town. Oh, why can we not live up to the grandeur of our cause!”

“Mob rule, cousin. You asked for it. You'd better like it. Or pretend to. After all, they're not sure of you yet, are they? Can't be, or you'd have been elected to their precious Council of Safety.”

“I begin to be glad I was not,” admitted Hart. “Except that I might perhaps have some kind of sobering influence.”

“Not with your background, Purchis of Winchelsea. They must be amazed to find you among them at all. But what other news is there in town?”

“There's a rumour.” Hart looked drawn with anxiety, and Mercy thought he was now coming to its nub.

“There are always rumours,” said Francis lightly. “What's this one?”

“That there's been a battle at Boston.”

“A battle? A real one? You can't be serious! That rabble you call an army can never have been so mad as to attack the armed might of Great Britain.” And then, seeing that Hart was unconvinced, “But if they have, rejoice, little cousin, our troubles must be nearly over. One real encounter between British regulars and those rebel ragamuffins and the revolutionaries must see the writing on the wall. It was all very fine to dodge, and lurk, and shoot down a retreating column, man by man, from behind trees and walls and from inside the safety of houses. Let them just meet the British lines and they'll learn their lesson soon enough. Mark my words, Hart, if your rumour is confirmed, it will be with news of a rout.”

“We should know soon enough,” said Hart. “I left Jem in town with orders to ride out directly if there was anything certain.”

Jem came cantering up the drive two days later in a state of such breathless excitement, what with the news that he carried and his hard ride from Savannah, that it was some time before they could make head or tail of his panting, un-grammatical sentences. There had most certainly been a battle outside Boston on a bit of rising ground called Bunker Hill—or was it Breed's Hill? He seemed not to be sure. But, anyway, the Americans had dug themselves in there at night and been attacked by the British next day.

“But how?” asked Francis sharply. “How did the British let them get dug in?”

“I don't know, sir. But seems like they woke up in the morning, and there was these lines kind of looking down on them. So, ‘course they had to do something ‘bout it. It was a bloody dreadful fight, they do say. The British, they come up the hill, over and over again, drums beating, fifes playing, and was thrown back down again, right into the sea. Dunnamany they lost.”