Judas Flowering (44 page)

“Dear God, no.” Every moment things seemed worse. And it was all his fault. He had brought Mercy into this unspeakable danger. Cherokees … Francis … the British. It did not bear thinking of. “But what message would you take, William?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” They were staring at each other in a kind of mutual despair, when one of Hart's men knocked on the cabin door and handed him a sealed packet. “Looks like orders at last, Captain. The word's all over that we're attacking tomorrow or the next day. Want to bet they don't know in Savannah too?”

“No.” Hart broke the seal and read through the orders quickly, watched by the other two men. Everybody knew that Americans with family in Savannah made a habit of crossing the lines at night and slipping into town to see them. How could anyone be sure they did not tell tales? But with the attack so imminent, the guard would surely be closer; any attempt to reach Mercy so much the more dangerous. “Thanks. That will do.” He dismissed the man without satisfying his curiosity, then turned to William. “It's for tomorrow, thank God. And, best of all, I'm to weigh anchor right now and take his orders to Lieutenant Durumain on the
Truite
.”

“But she's off the east end of Hutchinson Island!”

“Right. Bombarding the town, but without much success from all one hears. William, do you know the path across the island? The one the British used when they attacked the rice ships back in seventy-eight?”

William shook his grey head mournfully. “I used to, sir, but I don't reckon I could find it now. Or get through. I'm an old man, Mr Hart, I'm sorry.”

“You've done more than anyone could already. That settles it.” In his heart he was glad. “I'll have to go. So far as I can see, the
Georgia's
to play an inglorious enough part tomorrow in what looks like at best a diversion. She'll do well enough without her captain, if I don't get back. You must tell me, as we go upstream, William, how I am to find Miss Mercy.”

Presented with his orders, Lieutenant Durumain did not try to conceal his fury. “Seventy-five men!” he exclaimed. “I told d'Estaing that with five hundred I'd be over the bluff and
spiking the guns at the end of town before the rest of the attack was launched. But seventy-five, for a ‘false attack.' What is a ‘false attack,' Monsieur Purchis? I know only of the real thing.”

“You'll have two American galleys in support,” soothed Hart. “And my
Georgia
, for what she's worth.”

“Which is a great deal,” said the Frenchman warmly. “I have heard of your exploits, monsieur. But as for the use she'll be tomorrow, or the American galleys either, with only seventy-five men for the attack, we might just as well be amusing ourselves running races round the island.”

Hart was inclined to agree with him, and it eased his conscience as he handed over command of the
Georgia
just after dark and slid quietly down into the boat that had rescued him from St John's. Once again, his picked crew had their orders; again, each one of them knew just what risk he was running. Hart had explained it all to them, behind locked doors in the big main cabin, just before they started. If surprise was the key to the plan for the Allied attack on Savannah tomorrow, it was still more vital for the rescue of Mercy. And so was his men's full cooperation in the face of the long, dangerous wait they would have for him. So he had told them just whom they were rescuing. They had been hard to convince at first. Most of them inhabitants of Charleston, they had all heard of the Reb Pamphleteer, had even seen some of the broadsheets that appeared mysteriously in Savannah. But to believe that this dangerous character, with a price on his head, was actually a woman! This was difficult, this was very nearly impossible. Luckily, William's story carried its own conviction, and two of the boat's crew were Savannahians and remembered the lynching of Mercy's father and the long, baffled search for his press.

In the end, they had voted on the project and agreed to go, with only one dissenting voice, though whether this was because they actually believed that Mercy was the Reb Pamphleteer or simply because they loved Hart and recognised how he felt about her, he would never be sure. Of one thing, though, he was certain. The man who had voted against could neither safely be left behind nor taken along. The man saw this at the same moment and looked suddenly terrified. “No need,” said Hart. “William, you'll see he speaks to no one till we return. We'll draught another man as we go.”

“Take my grandson,” said William surprisingly. “He owes
the British something for Delilah.”

“Your grandson?”

“He didn't tell you? Well, why should he? But proud to be serving under you, is Bill, and treated just like the others. You take him, Mr Hart, you won't regret it.”

So here they were, rowing quietly through the darkness, oars silkily in and out of the water, heading towards the undefended north side of Hutchinson Island. This time, two men were to accompany Hart. Bill, who had begged to come, and one of the other Savannahians, who knew Mercy at least by sight.

No challenge halted them as they drew quietly into the cove Hart remembered from boyhood picnics. Why should it be guarded? To take Hutchinson Island would be no use to the Allies, since they would still have to cross the strongly held channel and climb the bluff into Savannah itself. It was not the general, but the particular enemy Hart feared. Francis undoubtedly knew by now that he was in command of the
Georgia
, Would he also know how much he would be prepared to risk for Mercy's sake? Was this, just possibly, a carefully baited trap into which he was walking?

But Francis did not know that it was among the blacks he would be searching. Or would he? Would he have finally realised that he had had Mercy actually under his hand, disguised as old Amy? If he had thought to check up and had discovered that Amy had been killed along with Delilah, it would be among the blacks that he began his search.

Hart quickened his pace, and the two men behind him followed suit, the current of anxiety running strong between them. They were through the worst of the swamp now, where they had had to follow Hart almost footstep for footstep, and were beginning to see and hear signs of life ahead. Most of the barns on the island had been built in Savannah's prosperous years, since Hart had played here as a child, but William's description had been clear enough. Once onto firm ground, he turned and led the way eastward, towards the exposed tip of the island, where the blacks had their quarters. Mercy had promised William she would stay in the hiding place he had found for her, a rat-infested shack well away from where the Purchis servants were quartered. Hart prayed, silently, that she had been able to do so.

Something was going on down in the shanty-town where the blacks were quartered. There was light there, too much light. Coming out from behind the last of the big barns that housed the white evacuees, Hart saw, with cold dread, that a huge fire had been lighted down on the flat ground where, as children, they used to have their picnics. By common consent, the three of them paused, straining their eyes to make out what was happening.

A group of Cherokees stood by the fire, unmistakable as its flames lit up their shorn heads and gaudy, painted faces. Among them stood one white officer. Francis? Impossible to tell, but horribly obvious what he was doing. One by one, the black women were being manhandled past him, each one held for a moment so that he could scrutinise her face by the light of the fire. The women who had already been inspected formed a larger group beyond the fire, and beyond them again was an uneasy crowd of men, kept in check by a couple of British soldiers.

It was entirely hopeless. Hart was grinding his teeth again. They were too late. Mercy must be in the smaller group of women yet to be examined. She would never pass close scrutiny. And what could they do, three of them, against that band of Cherokees?

“Captain,” whispered Bill, “let me go down to the men. They don't like it. You can see they don't. Their women treated like that. And we hate the Cherokees. Some of them will know me. Bound to. I'll start something, you join in; it's a chance!”

“Yes.” They all three knew how slim a one. “We two will spread out. When you start the fight, we'll come in, shouting and firing, as if we were a whole troop of men. But, Bill, if you can, wait till they spot her. That way, it will be easier to get her clear. If we manage to get to her. Good luck! And … thanks!”

Bill slid quietly away through the darkness, and the other two separated after a quick, whispered conference to wait in the shadows to east and west of the fire. Hart was praying that Mercy would wait till the last, or nearly the last, in that grim queue. If, as all logic suggested, the white officer was Francis, she would know he was bound to recognise her, and surely would put off the fatal confrontation as long as she could.

And now he noticed something else. The women were playing for time. They were slow in coming forward, though it meant rough handling by the Cherokee warriors who dragged them out. And when they were held for inspection, they wriggled this way and that, hiding their faces as best they could. One of them even twisted her head to bite the arm that held her and was knocked flat on her face for it, then picked up and dragged towards the fire, her struggling figure silhouetted back against its light.

They were going to throw her in. A low growl rose from the helpless audience, and at the last moment, a voice, Francis' voice, shouted, “Stop. Not her! That's for the one we want. Or the next one that struggles. You've had your warning.” He turned to the small crowd of women who remained to be inspected. “Quick, now, and get it over with. I'll see no harm comes to the innocent.”

He was answered by another low growl from the crowd, angrier this time. They believed him as little as Hart did. Even if he wanted to, would he be able to restrain his savage allies? There could be no good end to this night's work. If the Cherokees once got out of hand, it would not be only the blacks down at this end of the island who would suffer. Hart thought of his mother and aunt, of Abigail, and of all the other women and children up island in the barns, and cursed his right hand for its weakness. He could manage one shot with his specially adapted pistol, but reloading was impossible. Hand-to-hand fighting was his best hope, and at least, in the dark, it was a hope.

There were only a very few women left now, and suddenly one of them stepped forward, head up, faced Francis boldly, and pulled off her black wig to reveal a tumble of hair that glinted in the firelight. “I'm the Reb Pamphleteer!” She spoke not to Francis, but to the crowd. “And proud of it. Are any of you good enough Americans to stand by me? I warn you, there can only be one end to tonight's work if you don't!” The Cherokees had her now, dragging her
towards Francis and the fire, one with his hand over her mouth to silence her.

Hart was sweating with fear as he fired his one shot. Suppose he missed his aim and killed Mercy. No time to think of it. The Cherokee whose hand had covered Mercy's mouth crumpled sideways and fell into the fire. She seized the moment of surprise, slipped from the grasp of the other one, and vanished into the darkness as Hart and his men raised the agreed cry of “All along the line. Attack!”

It happened so suddenly that the Cherokees were taken unaware. One moment in command of what seemed a subdued and unarmed crowd, the next they were fighting for their lives against black men, some armed with knives they had concealed, others simply combining furious strength with surprise. Even the younger women had joined in, helping their men in a furious kicking, biting, scratching free-for-all by the chancy light of the fire.

Hart pushed his way through the seething crowd towards where he had seen Francis vanish in pursuit of Mercy. A Cherokee leapt at him, tomahawk raised, and he dodged sideways, caught him with an unexpected left-handed lock, and dragged him towards the fire, cursing his weak right hand that could not administer the coup de grace. “Here!” Bill was beside him in the dark. “He's mine. You go for Miss Mercy!”

“Thanks!” Now he was pushing his way through a group of older women who clung together, sobbing with fright. Beyond them was darkness where the curve of the shore blocked out the firelight. He paused, straining eyes and ears for any hint of the grim game of cat and mouse that must be playing itself out there. From behind came the din of the fight that still continued, but it too was muted by the rise of the ground. He made himself stand quite still for a moment, letting his eyes get used to the darkness, alert for a sound nearer than the oaths and screams from the fight by the fire. At last he heard it, Francis' voice, soft and persuasive. “Mercy, I can see you, thank God. You must know 1 mean to save you; asked for this unpleasant assignment so I could. You may be the Reb Pamphleteer, you'll always be my beloved.”

Dead silence. Mercy would never, surely, let him trick her now? Hart moved very quietly, very carefully down towards the shore in the direction from which Francis' voice had
come. If he could only surprise him as he searched for Mercy, the odds between them would be enormously lessened, and he knew he would need every possible advantage on his side.

“Ah!” Francis' voice was triumphant as the wind blew the clouds away from the moon. “Now I do see you, my girl. You'll be sorry you didn't throw yourself on my mercy when you had the chance.”

He was answered by a shot, and laughed. “Missed, my dear! And no time to reload. Have you a knife too, I wonder? Proper virago you turned out to be. Pity really I need to take you back alive, but they want you badly in Savannah, and my credit depends on it. I wonder if they will allow you your shift as they ride you through town on a rail, before they hang you.”

Now Hart could see him, a darker shadow against the faint phosphorescence of the river, moving along towards a black patch that must be a wharf. He could still see no sign of Mercy, who must have dived for the shadows when the moon betrayed her.