Judas Flowering (21 page)

“Very likely.” She had not seen the wharf itself. “But, Sam, if there's a cove where a boat could land, should we not have a guard on it, just in case?”

“We certainly should. I'll see to it right away. I'll send Pete. He's one I
can
trust.”

“Not to do anything, Sam. Just to warn us. In case—” What exactly did she mean?

“That's right.” At least he seemed to understand her. “I've got a man at the other wharf, day and night, since the British ships came. And at the drive entrance. Mr Hart must have clean forgot the old wharf. Well, no wonder, the things he's got on his mind.”

Back at Abigail's bedside, Mercy thought she noticed a slight change for the better, and thanked God for it. If the British should raid the plantation, she did not intend to be there to see. Somehow the arrest of Sir James Wright seemed to have changed everything. “The die is cast,” Hart had said, and she was afraid he was right. When the British heard of it, as they soon must, anything might happen.

Next morning, Abigail was perceptibly better, and Mercy felt able to begin to plan for an escape, if it should be necessary. Sam had been thinking about it too. “If they come by the new wharf, we'll have quite a bit of time from the warning,” he told her. “If you can have your things ready, you can be away in the carriage before they so much as see the drive. If they come by the old wharf, it ain't so easy, but if we have all ready, I reckon you could still do it. It's if they come all ways that we're in trouble.”

“Yes.” She had thought of this too in the long watches by Abigail's bed. “We might hide in the house, I suppose.”

It was not an idea she liked.

“No, ma'am. Remember what they did to those houses at Lexington? You don't want to be hiding in no burning house.”

“No.” She looked at him hopelessly out of dark-ringed eyes. “I don't dare move Miss Abigail for another day or two. Not unless they come.”

“I know, Miss Mercy. So I've been thinking, if you're not scared, you could hide, the two of you, in the family grave. Lord knows it's big enough. I've been down there the last two nights, fixing the door so you can open it easy and shut it tight. The air's a mite close, but nothing to hurt you. There ain't been a burial there,” he explained, “since the first Mr and Mrs Purchis, You wouldn't mind, would you, miss?”

“Sam, you're a marvel. Of course I'd not mind. I'm so grateful.” And then, quickly. “Who else knows?”

“No one. I thought, best that way. There's a lot of talk goes on, from house to house these days. I reckon the only safe secret is one no one knows. I've put food there and some blankets. If there's an alarm from all three look-outs at once, you and Miss Abigail just get down there as quick and quiet as you can. I'll let you know when all's safe. If I can.”

“Yes.” They both knew that he might not be alive to do so.

Abigail continued to progress steadily, but with her strength, all her anxieties returned, and she pined for news even more obviously than Mercy did. And still there was none. The British ships had made no move, Sir James remained under house arrest, the Provincial Assembly was debating what to do next, and Hart wrote that he could not leave Savannah for the moment. “Keep good watch,” he ended his letter, and Mercy, reporting this to Sam, thought he looked anxious.

“The men is getting restive, ma'am,” he said. “I'll be right down glad when you and Miss Abigail move into town. I
never thought I'd see the day I had to say it, but there's not more than three or four, here on the plantation, I can rightly trust anymore. Talk is the British will free the slaves; they want them to turn against their masters.”

“No!”

“Yes, ma'am. ‘Course, I told the boys, we ain't slaves, but ‘What's the difference?' said they. It's hard to make them see. I'm ashamed, ma'am. After all the kindness we've had.”

“Don't mind it, Sam. And don't worry too much. I'll take Miss Abigail into town tomorrow.”

“That's good.” His huge smile split his face. “That's mortal good news, Miss Mercy.” It was strange, how, these days, he alternated between calling her “miss” and “ma'am.”

That afternoon Mercy persuaded Abigail to come out of doors for the first time, and sit, warmly wrapped in shawls, on the screened porch. “The air will do you good.” She pulled a footstool close to Abigail's rocking chair. “And you'll need all your strength for the trip to town tomorrow.”

“But I don't want to go to town!” Abigail was gazing through the screen of ilex trees towards the family lot, and, beyond it, the thicket of scrub and jasmine and wild vine that masked the river bank.

“Abigail, dear.” Mercy tried to sound more patient than she felt. “Please. Giles won't come back. I warned him. And he must know how horribly it would endanger us all.”

“He might come to fetch me. If he did and found me gone, Mercy, I couldn't bear it.”

“But, dear, he told you—he's under orders, he can't. And, Abigail, you've heard how the British treat their Loyalist allies. As inferiors. They laugh at them, use them, and treat them like dirt. He'll never expose you to that.”

“I don't believe it. And even if it were true, I'd want to share it. If only I had gone with him when he first asked.” And then, breathless, “Look! Mercy! It's he—it must be!”

A man's figure had emerged from the scrub that hid the river, and was moving very cautiously around the wooded edge of the little graveyard, taking advantage of every bit of cover. If they had not seen him when he first emerged, Mercy doubted if they would have noticed his stealthy progress. “But what's happened to the guard at the wharf?” she exclaimed. And then, straining her eyes, “Abigail, it's not Giles.”

“No.” Abigail's voice was dead. “I think it's Francis.”

Mercy moved closer to the screen. “You're right. But—why?” He had paused at the near side of the graveyard and was gazing cautiously towards the house. She raised her hand in a curious gesture, half warning, half salute, and he stopped in his tracks, then put a hand to his mouth, urging silence, and came swiftly towards them.

“Francis!” Mercy greeted him, low-voiced. The very look of him spelt danger. “Come in, quick!”

“Thank God it's you. And Abigail.” His smile for her was perfunctory. “You've got to hide me, Mercy. The mob are after me.”

“The mob! Francis, why?”

“I wouldn't sign their piddling Association. I, Francis Mayfield. To put my signature along with that scum!”

“Hart has.”

“That's Hart's business. But, Mercy, there's no time. They'll be here any moment. I gave them the slip on the river, but they're bound to come here. They mustn't find me.”

“You led them
here!
” Abigail turned on him. “And expect us to hide you and face them!”

“Pshaw.” Uneasily, “They'll never hurt you. Two girls on their own. Not in a thousand years. Just tell them you've not seen me. Suggest I might have gone to Brewton Hill or Sir James' place. But first hide me, Mercy.” He turned back to her. “It's death if they catch me.”

“Death?” She had never liked him so little. “Just a suit of tar and feathers, surely? I wish I knew what has happened to Pete. You didn't see him, Francis? He was on guard down at the wharf. Should have been. If he's not there, we'll get no warning if the mob comes that way.”

“You'll be warned all right. You should hear them! They're in full cry, out for blood. Mercy, where am I going to
hide?
”

“In the family lot.” He was probably right. If they were caught sheltering him, they had no chance, any of them. If he was not found, there was still hope. And now, far off, from the direction of the main river, she did indeed begin to hear the familiar, terrifying sound of the mob. “They're in boats?”

“Yes, little ones. All kinds. All speeds. How do you mean, the family lot?”

“In the tomb, Sam made it ready for us. He's told no one.” She anticipated his objection. “There are blankets and food. He's fixed the door so you can shut it from inside. Hurry! If they find you here, we are all lost. Will they know
about the old landing?”

“I don't know.” Something wrong in his tone. “You're sure there's food?” And as she nodded, speechless with anxiety. “Then I'll be on my way. Let me know when it's safe to come out. Good luck, girls.” He was gone as silently as he had come.

“How could he?” exclaimed Abigail.

“No time for that now. There's something terribly wrong, and I don't know what it is. Stay there, dear, and keep a lookout. I must find Sam.”

“Ring for him.”

“No.” She must not talk to Sam In front of Abigail, and risk alarming her still more. She looked white and drawn enough already, her newly regained strength visibly ebbing.

Sam met her in the wide main hall of the house. “Miss Mercy! Do you hear them? On the river. Coming fast. And Moses—he's at the drive entrance—he's just signalled. There must be more coming by land.”

“So we can't get away?” She had wondered whether they should not leave Francis to his fate and make a bolt for it. After all, Abigail must come first. But was she strong enough?

“I don't think so, ma'am. Unless from the old wharf. Pete's there. We can count on him. We'd have heard from him if there was trouble that way. There's a little boat there, ready. I could take you and Miss Abigail if you want to run for it. We could hide down-creek somewhere till it's over.”

“Till they've burned Winchelsea, Sam?”

“You and Miss Abigail are more inportant than Winchelsea, miss, and so Mr Hart would be the first to say.” He was grey with fatigue and worry. “But, it's true they'd likely do you no harm, two young ladies. If only we knew why they was coming.”

Mercy was not going to tell him about Francis. What he did not know, he could not be made to tell. “I think we'd best stay.” She had made her decision. “If they caught us trying to get away, we really would be in trouble.”

“Yes.” It was what he had been thinking. “I've let you down, ma'am, not getting a warning to you sooner. I wish I knew what had happened to the men at the wharves.”

“So do I, Sam.” Half her reason for not trying to escape by the old wharf was fear of what they might find there.

“You'll not hide in the graveyard?”

“And leave you to face them? No!”

“I wouldn't have to. I'd just mix with them; it's what the others are doing, I'm afraid.”

“All of them?”

“Looks like it. There's none left. I'm ashamed.” And then, “Listen! They've landed. They'll be here in ten minutes. How are you going to meet them?”

“On the front steps. Alone. I'll tell them about Miss Abigail. You stay with her, Sam.”

“But will they listen to you?” The mob were singing, raggedly now, as if they were tiring and needed to keep their spirits up.

“I hope so, but just in case, fetch me one of Mr Hart's duelling pistols.”

“Miss!”

“I won't use it. Or only to fire in the air. It might give me a moment's silence. Hurry, Sam.”

But still he lingered. “Do you know how? Suppose you shot one of them, by mistake.”

“Of course I know how! My father taught me, years ago. If I'd had a pistol the first time I met the mob, I'd have killed as many as I could. But not this time, Sam. There's Miss Abigail to think of. So hurry.”

Five minutes later, she stood on Winchelsea's high portico, the pistol loaded and ready in her right hand. Sam had joined Abigail at the back of the house, promising that if the worst should happen he would try and get her away into the bushes. The mob was very close. Mercy thought that the two parties, from the road and from the river, had met. They had stopped singing, and instead she could hear voices raised in what sounded like argument. Was this hopeful? Impossible to tell. But at least her greatest fear—that they might spread out and attack the house from all sides at once—was not going to be realised. They came round the curve of the drive in a ragged body, then halted at sight of her, a growing crowd of angry figures, some with sticks, some with stones, a few, she was afraid, armed.

Many years ago, watching a dress rehearsal at Drury Lane, she had heard the great Mr Garrick teach a young actress how to throw her voice to the back of the theatre. She took a deep breath. “What do you want, gentlemen? There's no one here but Miss Purchis and me, and she's ill. What can I do for you?” As she spoke, she was desperately scanning their faces, hoping to recognize someone among the leaders.

“It's the printer's daughter,” came a voice from the back of the crowd. “Him as hid his press so snug we never found it, I know what we can do with her.” And as another voice chimed in with an obscene suggestion, the crowd surged forward.

“Stop!” But still they came on. She raised the pistol she had concealed among her skirts and fired into the air. It gave her the moment's quiet she needed. “Are you men or savages?” Her voice came fuller and clearer now, compelling them to silence. “You, or your friends, killed my father. You doubtless burned his press with his house. Kill me too, if you like, and you kill as hearty a rebel as yourselves.” Now, at last, she recognised a face in the crowd. “You, there, John Stubbs, you know Hart Purchis. What will he say to this day's work? Or his friends on the Provincial Assembly, Mr Habersham, Mr Jones, and the others. Kill me, fire the house, and you give the British out there—” She pointed away towards Tybee, and was glad to see heads turn obediently in that direction. “You give them the excuse they need to attack Savannah.”

“It's true.” John Stubbs spoke up. “Mr Purchis is a good friend of ours, since Lexington. We didn't reckon to hurt his house, did we, brothers?”