Judas Flowering (38 page)

“I'm sorry, ma'am.” If he recognized her as the wife of an old friend, he concealed it very well. “We have our orders. All carts and horses to be commandeered. Besides”—more kindly—“you don't want to be out on the road today amongst those ruffians Howe calls an army. You'd not be safe.”

“And I'm safe here, Francis Mayfield? If you think that—”

“Get into your house, ma'am, shut the doors, and I'll tell the man on guard here to have an eye to you.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then turned and went slowly back, the children crying beside her, to where her baggage lay scattered in the sand.

“Francis!” Mercy began a protest, but he interrupted her.

“She's lucky I'm here,” he said. “Otherwise they'd be
looting the house. This is no day for rebels. Jim Reynolds is dead, by the way. I saw him cut down on the Common. You'd better tell her later. He should have kept with the retreating army, not tried to come home. Now”—briskly—“where's Hart? I must take him with me, for his safety and yours.”

“Hart? He's not here. We woke this morning and found him gone. And two of the men with him. God knows how he contrived it; he's hardly strong enough to walk.”

“Then he can't have gone far.” Nothing loving about his look now. “You wouldn't lie to me, Mercy? You wouldn't be hiding Hart by any chance?”

“No, she would not,” came Abigail's clear voice from above. “Don't forget, Cousin Francis, that you are not the only Loyalist in the family.”

“I forget nothing,” said Francis. “And I take nothing for granted. So, I fear, we must search the house.”

They found old Amy and her grand-daughter Delilah huddled together behind the hay in the coach-house, They found Mrs Purchis and Mrs Mayfield sitting white, silent, and surprisingly dignified in the big drawing-room. They found Hart's clothes in the room next door, but they found neither Hart nor, to Mercy's great relief, the secret corner of the cellar. At last Francis turned to Mercy to ask a significant question. “And where is Saul Gordon?”

“At his house on Bay Street,” said Mercy. “He said he must look to his own.

“Wise,” said Francis. “I'm afraid there will be no holding our men today. Those crazy Americans turned and fired on the Seventy-first Highlanders when they thought they'd surrendered. The blood and tears shed today will be on their head, and Howe's. They are looting all down Broughton Street, feathers and papers all over the place. It's lucky you're off the main track here. But I'll leave men on guard front and back. You should be safe enough if you stay indoors. I'll visit you when I can, Mother.” She had thrown herself, sobbing, into his arms, and he detached himself with ungentle firmness, saluted, and was gone.

“What are we gong to do?” wailed Martha Purchis.

“What he tells us, I'm afraid.” Mercy was standing from the window as Francis and his men marched off towards Whitaker Street. “Oh, my God!”

“What is it?” Abigail hurried across the room to join her.
And then, “The brutes.” The soldiers who were unloading Mrs Reynolds' chaise had come on a case of spirits and knocked the head off a bottle. One of them had found a silver vase and filled it. They were all around Mrs Reynolds, pressing it on her, obviously urging her to drink the loyal toast.

“No!” Mercy threw open the front window and spoke savagely to the man on duty in the street.

“Sorry, ma'am.” He refused to budge. “I got no orders about those rebs. Just you I'm looking after. And you stay put!”

How like Francis to have forgotten. If he had forgotten. “Abigail, keep our guard talking. Offer him a drink … anything.… I'm going to fetch Mrs Reynolds.”

Abigail was still looking across the square. “I thought them my friends,” she said. “Yes, quick, Mercy. Fetch her quick. Once they're drunk—”

“I know.” At the moment, the soldiers crowding round Mrs Reynolds were merely amusing themselves. It would not last. As Abigail poured a glass of rum and handed it out to the soldier, Mercy picked up the protection and let herself quietly out of the little house next door. Running across the square, skirts held high from the sand, she snatched the silver vase from the soldier who was still drunkenly pressing it on Mary Reynolds. “Ill drink your toast,” she said. “We're Loyalists here in the square, and here's our protection. You leave my friends alone! George the Third!” She took a pull of neat rum, coughed, spluttered, and, mercifully, amused them.

“Spunky little thing,” said one.

“It's a protection all right,” said another. “Can you read, Jeb?”

“Not I, but it looks like Campbell's signature. I've seen that often enough.”

“Come along, dear.” Mercy picked up the smallest Reynolds child, took Mary Reynolds' hand, and led the way back across the square. Strangely, absurdly, the men cheered her as she went, and then went systematically back to work looting the Reynolds house.

“I hope to God they don't set it on fire,” said Mercy when they had got Mrs Reynolds and the children safely to bed at the back of the house.

Abigail was looking out of the front window. “They're
going away, I think. There's a British officer speaking to them.” And then, as the splendid figure in scarlet and gold regimentals turned their way, “Dear God, it's Giles! Mercy, I can't … I won't see him … conquering heroes!” She lifted shabby skirts to run swiftly towards the stairs, turning as she went to answer Mercy's protest with “Tell him there's blood on his hands.”

Since the two older ladies had both retired to their rooms with all the comfort that sal volatile could offer, Mercy found herself compelled to receive Giles alone. “I'm sorry,” she answered his anxious question. “They are all prostrate. It's been a bad day.”

“Horrible. But, Mercy, you mean Abigail won't see me? After all this time?”

“Not yet, Giles. Not today. You should have written to her. Now, you must give her time.”

“How could I write? What could I say? As to time, I may not have it to give. General Howe is in full retreat and my guess is we'll be starting after him in the morning. Tell Abigail it's now or—”

“Don't say it, Giles,” she interrupted him. “You don't understand what she's gone through. First Hart, coming home so ill, and then today, the things we've seen, the sounds we've heard. It's been—”

“I know, but
you're
speaking to me, Mercy.”

“I'm not a Loyalist,” she said. “I begin to think I'm not anything. Just a survivor, I hope. I'm sorry you're not staying in town, Giles.”

“So am I. Tell Abigail I'll come when I can. Once more.” The subject was closed. “Mercy, how is Hart? Am I not even to see him?

“He's not here. He went last night. Lucky for him he did. Our protection does not include him. Giles, wait a moment while I tell Abigail what you've said.”

“No.” He could be obstinate too. “I've stayed too long already. Give her the message exactly as I gave it to you. It's strange about Hart—I was sure—But no time for that now. I'm glad he's safe away.”

“We've never thanked you for what you did for him in New York. I know his mother—”

“Or his cousin Abigail?” Bitterly, “Good-bye, Mercy. I must thank
you
, I suppose, for seeing me.”

Next day, the town was quiet at last, with martial law
rigorously enforced under Colonel Innes, Sir Henry Clinton's aide-de-camp. Detachments of blue-coated Hessians, red and white British infantry, and smart, green-jacketed New York Volunteers patroled the streets, preventing looting and arresting all able-bodied men. If caught with arms, they were given a simple choice. They could swear allegiance to George III and enlist with the British army, or be sent to the stinking prison hulks downriver, and probable death. Shaken by the swift and total defeat, many chose service with the British, and soon General Campbell, who had nearly caught the battered American army on his march to take Ebenezer, had his own corps of Savannahian riflemen.

Every day brought its new rash of proclamations. Arms and supplies must be surrendered to the military storekeepers; prices were fixed and only those who had sworn the oath of allegiance might trade.

“As if there was anything to trade,” wailed Martha Purchis. “With Winchelsea gone, and neither Francis nor Giles here to protect us, what shall we do?” She had received, the day before, a formal notification that Winchelsea was to continue in use as a military hospital, being confiscated as the property of a known rebel.

“It's thanks to my Francis that we have kept this house,” said Anne Mayfield.

“True enough, Sister, but how can we manage with nothing coming in? Saul Gordon has given in his notice and says we have no money, no credit, nothing. Without Winchelsea, we must all starve.”

“Or go to Charleston, to my house,” said Anne Mayfield.

“And lose this one? And yet, if we stay here, how can we live?”

“I have a suggestion to make,” said Mercy. “You know Hart insisted on paying me a salary, Mrs Purchis. I've saved it all—or almost all. If you will be guided by me, I believe we might manage to make a living in this house.”

“Oh,” said Mrs Purchis eagerly. “How, child?”

When Mercy outlined her plan, Abigail exclaimed in horror. “A gambling house! Mercy, you cannot be serious.”

“Never more so. But I did not say gambling house. I said a genteel establishment where ladies and gentlemen might meet for a hand of cards. What could be more decorous? There will have to be a subscription, of course; it will be a kind of club, but not for men only like the others.”

“Cards?” Mrs Purchis had brightened at the idea. “Do you think we could, Mercy? Without harming our position in society?”

“Oh, society.” Mercy shrugged. “There's not much of that now, with so many people fled to the West Indies. It's survival I'm thinking of. We must do something, ma'am, or starve. My money won't last long, with this whole household to feed.” Several of the servants had come creeping back by now, each with a new story of danger and escape. “Besides”—she thought of a powerful argument—“they are confiscating rebels' slaves, you know. I think, if we were to put it to Colonel Innes that we were offering hospitality to his officers, it might make a difference.”

“Officers only, I do trust,” said Mrs Mayfield. “I wonder what Frank would say.”

Francis, visiting them that afternoon, looked at Mercy with surprised respect. “An excellent idea. Colonel Innes was speaking only this morning of the problem of entertainment. I'll approach him about it, ma'am,” to Mrs Purchis. “But I think you can be sure of the necessary permissions.” This was to Mercy.

“We'll need to make a few small alterations to the house,” she told him. “Nothing, I'm sure, that our own people could not handle, just so long as they're not taken away.”

“You think of everything, don't you? Very well, I will speak about that too. It's a good plan, Mercy. I'm pleased you're
being so sensible. I was delighted to hear you had all taken the oath of allegiance.”

“Well, of course,” she said. “What else could we do?”

Two days later, Francis arrived with the necessary permissions, and an invitation. “Drive out with me to the McCartneys', Mercy? The air will do you good.”

They must talk alone sometime. The sooner the better? “Is Mrs McCartney back?” she asked.

“No. She stays in New York. Wisely, I think. Easier for everyone.” Was that all he was going to say? Apparently. “Bridget is enthusiastic about your plan for an officers' club, and most particularly asked me to bring you. They want to help.”

“Then I will certainly come.”

“You never answered my letter.” He had dismissed his man and was driving the whisky himself.

“I did not know what to say, what to believe.” She had known this conversation must come, had tried to plan for it, was still doubtful what to do for the best. “Francis, I have to say this. I know about you and Mrs McCartney. All Savannah knows.”

“Devil take Savannah! Mercy, I explained in my letter. I was penniless. With the mob after me, what could I do? I made her very happy for a while. But I never forgot you for a moment, Mercy. Never shall. There's something about you that gets into a man's blood. And you”—he turned to smile down at her with all the old confident charm—“you did not take Saul Gordon.”

“Never!” He actually believed her still faithful to him, thought she had rejected Saul Gordon for his sake. It was almost too good to be true. “How could I, Francis?” She made her eyes wide and wistful as she looked up at him.

“That's my girl. We'd best keep it quiet awhile longer.” What pretext would he hit on this time? But he thought her his slave, and no explanations needed. He reached out a hand to pat her small brown one where it lay in her lap. “My admirable Mercy.”

The Misses McCartney were expecting them, and Mercy, watching closely, saw that Bridget, too, had been well trained by Francis. One quick, flashing look, and she turned all her attention to Mercy, whom she had not met since the fall of Savannah. “So here we all are in our true colours at last.” She kissed Mercy warmly, for the first time. “Sister and I
are quite delighted with this plan of yours for an officers' club, and wish to help in every way we can. And one first thing—you will forgive me for speaking out, my dear creature—but”—an expressive glance swept from Mercy's shabby homespun skirts to her own dark green silk—“if you are to play hostess, you surely must dress the part.”

“I know.” Mercy smiled at her. “But I am ashamed to tell you how poor we are. Hart
would
sell for Georgia paper. I don't know how I am to contrive—”

“You must let us help you. Claire, dear, take Mercy upstairs; explain …”