Judas Flowering (24 page)

“Oh?” She leaned closer to him, and Mercy, handing him his glass of punch, was aware of the heady perfume she wore. “Is it a secret, Mr Hart, or may a mere woman hear it?”

“I'm afraid everyone will hear it. Thank you, Mercy. That's what I needed.” He took a long pull at the punch. “It's the rice ships,” he explained, “over at the wharves on Hutchinson Island. Their captains are tired of being bottled up by the British—seems some of them reckon to sail and be ‘captured.' The Council of Safety has ordered their rigging dismantled and their rudders shipped, but God knows whether they will be obeyed. Our merchants still seem to think of pockets first and country last.”

“Well, it's hard for them.” Bridget smiled at him over her fan. “If they sell to the Council, they'll be paid in Georgia paper, and you know what that's worth!”

“Just because of people like those same merchants,” said Hart angrily. And then, as she made big, shocked eyes at him over her fan, “Forgive me, Miss Bridget, but you must try to understand.”

“I'll try, if you will just explain.”

The explanation took most of the evening, and Mercy, listening with interest, thought it unlikely that Bridget understood a word of it, but she sounded as if she did, and it was good to see Hart so animated, and Mrs Purchis nodding approval from her corner. It was odd, after this unusually sociable evening, to go to bed, so strangely depressed.

She slept badly and was waked very early by the sound of agitated knocking on the porch door below. Hurrying down in her grey dressing gown, she found Hart before her, in shirt and breeches, talking to a breathless messenger. “It's the British!” He turned to Mercy. “The
Hinchinbrook
has managed to sound her way up the back river behind Hutchinson Island in the night. She's grounded off Rae's Hall.”

“Too far upstream to harm the town,” said the messenger. “Well show them! Major Habersham wants you, Mr Purchis. He's taking a picked band of riflemen to attack from the shore. If only we had the boats, he says, we could take her.”

“Yes. If only. Mercy”—he turned to her with a smile—“I'm glad you're here. I count on you to keep things quiet. Don't
let my mother worry and look after Bridget and Claire.”

Had he coloured when he spoke of the McCartney girls? No time for such imaginings. “You'll take care of yourself, Hart?” She had found his jacket for him. “And send a message if you think I should take them all down to the cellars.”

“No need yet. The
Hinchinbrook's
well out of range up there above the island. I just wish I understood. Thanks, Mercy.” He pulled on his jacket, gave her a quick smile, and was gone.

It was still very early and no one else was stirring. Mercy hurried down the steep cellar steps to make sure everything was ready there in case they had to take refuge from a bombardment. Like Hart, she wished she understood. Why had the British sent this one ship, and by such a circuitous route? She puzzled away at the problem all through a long morning devoted to soothing the nervous terrors of the household. The McCartney girls urged that they all move to their house, which was so much farther from the river.

“Suppose the
Hinchinbrook
floats clear on the tide and comes down this side of Hutchinson Island,” shuddered Miss Bridget. “We'd be in easy range of their guns! Mrs Purchis, Mrs Mayfield, do let us go!”

“No.” Martha Purchis was firm. “Hart's up there with the riflemen. He'll see she doesn't come any nearer. And, besides, what if he came home and found us gone!”

“That's quite true. Dear Mrs Purchis, you are absolutely right,” said Bridget. “We must show ourselves worthy of him, of course.”

The mention of Hutchinson Island had sent a frightening thought flashing through Mercy's mind. The rice ships! Suppose this was all a ruse of some kind to free them. “I must go to the Council of Safety,” she said.

“You?” Bridget's tone was almost a sneer. “They don't reckon much on females. And I expect they've a good deal on their minds today.”

“I must go just the same.” Mercy picked up her bonnet.

But Bridget proved right. It was a vain errand. The Council of Safety was indeed in session, but no plea of hers could gain her admittance. “They're busy, ma'am,” said the man on duty at the door. “They've got matters of state to see to.” And then more kindly, “No need to look so frit. You go home and look to your children.”

“I'm not frightened,” she said angrily. “Or—not for myself.
Won't you just send my name in? To Mr Bulloch, or Mr Glen, or Mr Jackson even? Tell them it's urgent.”

“So are their affairs, ma'am. Now, be a sensible girl and don't kick up a rumpus.” He gave her a sudden, sharp look. “Ain't you the British gal whose father worked with Johnston the printer? If I were you, I'd stay home and quiet today. You don't want to run into the kind of trouble your pa did! Lucky to have a roof over your head, if you ask me. Now, you cut along or I'll call the guard and you'll be in real trouble.”

“Will you take them in a note?”

“No, I will not. Now git, ma'am.”

She had been away too long already, but must take time to go back by way of the bluff. A handful of loiterers were gazing first upstream to where the masts of the
Hinchinbrook
were just visible beyond a bend of the river, and then across to Hutchinson Island. All seemed quiet there. “What's happening?” she asked a fatherly-looking man in a respectable black broadcloth.

“Nothing to see,” he told her. “Couple of the ships over there are taking down their rigging like they've been told to. See, there and there.” He pointed. “And there's been firing upriver. I reckon the men on the
Hinchinbrook
are good and sorry they ever left Tybee. Storm in a teacup, looks to me. Just the same, I'd go home if I was you, ma'am. Things is rough in town today. No time for ladies to be walking the streets.”

“No. Thank you.” She took one last long anxious gaze at the quiet ships docked by Hutchinson Island and decided she had let her imagination run away with her.

Back at the house in Oglethorpe Square, she found the two Misses McCartney deep in a game of whist with Mrs Purchis and Mrs Mayfield. “Well?” Bridget McCartney gave her a challenging glance. “And what did the Council of Safety have to say?”

“You were right.” Mercy did not enjoy admitting it. “They would not see me.”

Hart returned late, exhausted and discouraged. “Oh, we did them a little damage, but nothing to signify. If we'd had a few boats, it would have been another story, but they are well informed. I have no doubt they knew we were helpless. We kept the decks swept clean with rifle fire until the tide
rose and she floated clear. And that was that! I just wish I understood.”

“Hart!” Mercy had tried in vain to catch his attention, but inevitably the whole household of females had surrounded him on his return. “I had an idea. I tried to tell the Council of Safety, but they wouldn't see me. Suppose it was all a feint? A ruse to distract attention from what they're really planning?”

He had not heard her. Bridget McCartney had summoned him to her across the room with an imperious gesture. Why had she ever thought both McCartney girls plain? Had it merely been because they had always been overshadowed by their handsome mother, or had Bridget come into late bloom? She suddenly felt too exhausted for further effort. And, after all, she had been to the bluff, she had seen Hutchinson Island, lying quiet in evening light, the rice ships moored in their accustomed places—very likely it really was all her imagination.

“Come, dear.” Abigail was beside her. “You're tired out and so is Hart. He won't go to bed till we do. Shall we set the example?”

Next morning, the same strange quiet held Savannah. The
Hinchinbrook
had vanished in the night. “A flash in the pan.” Hart was eating a yeoman's breakfast. “I think the British still don't like to admit they are fighting us. But they are! No use Sir James's talking of olive branches now.” He finished his last draught of rather dubious coffee and rose to his feet. “I must be off to the Council of Safety. And that reminds me, Mercy, what's this Bridget McCartney tells me of your running off to them yesterday?”

“Nothing. A folly, I suppose. I told you last night. I had an idea the British might have sent the
Hinchinbrook
to distract attention. That she might even have grounded on purpose. They wouldn't see me.”

“The Council of Safety?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, Hart, I suppose I was foolish to go.”

“Well, perhaps not quite so strongly sensible as usual.” He rose quickly to his feet as the Misses McCartney appeared in the breakfast-room doorway. “Good morning, Miss Bridget, Miss Claire. I trust you are none the worse for yesterday's alarms. You certainly do not look it!”

“Not the least in the world.” Miss Bridget swam towards him, her beautifully fitted gown of finest blue worsted bringing
out red highlights in her hair. “We feel so safe, dear Mr Purchis, under your protection. I just hope we are not too great a burden on your household.” A glance at Mercy suggested that this was to her account.

“Good heavens, no. It's our great pleasure to have you, is it not, Mercy?”

“Why, of course.” In her plain grey homespun, she felt herself relegated to the position of a domestic servant and was glad when Abigail joined them, just as soberly attired.

“Dear me.” Miss Bridget stroked her blue dress lovingly. “You make me feel quite ashamed to be so bright, Miss Purchis, but so long as our old gowns last, we feel it our duty to show the flag by appearing as well-dressed as possible. Only God shall know how we suffer inwardly, when we think of our poor mamma.”

“I am sure it does you the greatest credit,” said Hart with more good manners than sense. “But I must take my leave of you ladies.”

“You'll send word if there's any news?” asked Mercy.

“Naturally. But I expect none. Unless it be another of Sir James' ‘olive branches.' The more I think of it, the more I think the
Hinchinbrook's
appearance yesterday must have been a mere show of strength, designed to frighten us into submission.”

“I do hope you are right.” She regretted the scepticism of her tone as soon as the words were uttered.

“Of course he's right,” Miss Bridget seized on it. “The gentlemen usually are, Miss Phillips.”

But not this time. In the course of the morning, two sailors rowed over from Hutchinson Island. They had escaped from the rice ships at the risk of their lives and reported that while all attention had been centered on the
Hinchinbrook
, another British ship had anchored behind the island and a force of British soldiers had marched across and captured not only the ships but also the detachment of men from Savannah who had been seeing to the dismantling of their rigging.

Hart brought this news as he hurried from the Council of Safety's meeting to join Colonel McIntosh and his detachment of three hundred men who were throwing up a breastwork on Yamacraw Bluff to protect three four-pounder guns trained on the shipping. “You were right, Mercy,” he told her, “and I was wrong. They've pulled the wool over our eyes finely, but they'll regret it. As if arresting our captain and his men
wasn't bad enough, they have taken Roberts and Demeré, who went over under flag of truce to negotiate for their release. Will you warn the other ladies that I expect fire to be opened very soon? Poor Miss McCartney, she will be wishing she'd stayed safe on the other side of town, though I truly do not think the British will fire in this direction. They are more likely to concentrate on the gun emplacement on the bluff.”

“Yes. But do you not wish to tell the Misses McCartney yourself? They are in the parlour.”

He looked tempted. “No. There's no time. Take care of them, Mercy. They've been through so much.”

“Yes.” Mercy hurried round the house making sure that the buckets of water she had ordered were all full and ready. “At least there is plenty of sand!” She had met Saul Gordon, who was making a similar check.

“Yes. Dear Miss Phillips, let me tell you how I admire your calm.”

“No time for anything else.”
Or for flattering speeches
, she thought, joining the rest of the party in the main living room. “Dear God!” As she closed the door behind her, the house shook with the first gunfire from the bluff. They looked at each other, white-faced. None of them had ever heard guns fired in anger before. They waited, silent, breathless, for the answering fire from the island, and when it came, exchanged glances of shamefaced, unspoken relief. Wherever the balls were falling, it was nowhere near.

“May I join you ladies?” Saul Gordon peered round his office door, white-faced and sweating. “I find I cannot concentrate.”

“And that's no wonder,” said Mercy in a blessed moment of silence. “Abigail, dear, would you feel like giving us a tune on your spinet?”

“A tune!” She was silent for a moment as another blast from Yamacraw shook the house, then, surprisingly, smiled a ghost of the old delightful smile that was so like Hart's. “Well, why not! Shall it be a hymn or a song?”

“Oh, a song. One we all know.”

“Ridiculous!” said Bridget, but Abigail had opened the spinet and started to play one of the choruses from
Acis and Galatea
, “Oh, lovelier than the cherry.” Mercy, picking up the tune, heard Saul Gordon follow her in a surprisingly strong bass, and then the others join in one by one.

It made the continuing gunfire a little easier to bear, but
at last Abigail started on “Greensleeves”—“Alas, my love, you do me wrong”—and burst into tears, her head in her arms.

“I shall go mad,” said Bridget. “This noise is killing me.”