Judas Flowering (46 page)

“We can't leave him,” said Hart. “Besides, it's the only chance—to smother it down there.” But when he opened the door a careful crack, a blast of smoke and flame swept up through the long hall. No hope for Gordon, down in that inferno, and not much for wood-built Winchelsea. Anyway, the wounded must come first. Mercifully, only the ground floor had been used, and half an hour of sweating, desperate labour had them all safely evacuated through outside doors and windows as the fire swept upwards through the house, making a great chimney of the hall and main stairway.

“I'm sorry, Hart.” The last commandeered waggon had rolled away, and Dr Flinn turned to where Hart stood
watching the great pillar of flame and smoke that had been his home.

“No need. Could you have lived there after what went on today? There would have been blood on it, always. Anyway, it hardly looks as if there will be a chance, after today's disaster.” He managed a wry smile. “Francis had the promise of it, you know, from the British, I wonder if Gordon had too.”

“I'll never forgive myself—”

“Don't mind it.” He ought to tell Dr Flinn about Francis, but could not make himself. “It seems so trivial, compared with our defeat today. What will you do now, Doctor?”

“I'm an old man, Hart. I shall go back to Savannah. The British need doctors. They'll have me. They might even let me live in my own house. And you?”

“I've my ship still. I shall go on fighting. Will you tell my mother, Doctor? About the house? Break it gently? And give her my best love … to them all. And … good-bye.”

It was daylight when Mercy woke, but which day? No gunfire now, but a rush of water to tell her that the
Georgia
was in motion. She sat up shakily, saw that someone had covered her with a blanket, and found bread and a mug of water securely placed in an ingeniously designed shelf by her head. Best of all, there was a bucket of water equally safe in a similar shelf at the foot of the berth and a sailor's shirt and trousers lying beside it.

The ship was too quiet. She wolfed the bread, trying to remember how long it was since she had eaten, washed off the worst of the black stain from her face, and was relieved to find that she could just get into the trousers. She smiled to herself, imagining Hart lining up his crew and deciding whose would fit her best. Hart! The ship
was
too quiet. She pulled on the shirt, grateful for its concealing size, ran her fingers through her hair, and opened the cabin door.

The sailor on duty outside came smartly to the salute. “Ma'am!”

“What day is it?” she asked. “What's happened?'

“We're beat,” he said. “All along the line. They was waiting, see! For us, for the troops! D'Estaing's wounded, Pulaski's dying, Jasper's dead. They must be laughing their guts out in Savannah today. I'm glad you got away, ma'am, that's for sure.” His expression, as he studied the trousers and called her
“ma'am,” was comic. “You'd be dead as mutton else.”

“But Captain Purchis?” she asked. “Is he—”

“In a rage, ma'am. In a flat, boiling, bloody-ahem-rage.”

“But he's not hurt?”

“Hurt? Captain Purchis? No, he don't get hurt. We see to that. But he sure is mad as hell today, and no mistake.” He straightened suddenly as Hart came storming down the companionway from the deck. “Sir!”

“You're awake!” Hart nodded dismissal to the man. “Has he told you?”

“We're beaten.”

“Horribly. Absurdly. God almighty! Allies who don't understand each other's language. Muddle. Disaster. And he won't try again.”

“He?”

“D'Estaing. He's off to the West Indies and plague take the lot of us. The
Georgia's
to help cover the retreat. Retreat! It's a shambles. Oh, God, what's going to happen to Georgia now! The British and Loyalists are going to take cruel toll for yesterday's disaster. Thank God, at least we got you clear, Mercy.” He seemed really to be seeing her for the first time. “But what in God's name am I to do with you?”

She considered saying, “Marry me,” but decided against it. Looking down at her trousers. “You wouldn't consider taking me on as ship's boy?” she suggested.

“I would not. It's no time for joking. I've told d'Estaing I'll cover his paltry retreat and then I'm taking you to Charleston. It's the only thing.”

“Oh, no, it's not.” She regretted the sharp answer the moment it was spoken.

“No?” His face had been white with rage and fatigue under the tan, but now angry colour flooded it. “The Rebel Pamphleteer has orders for me, has she? And what are they, pray?”

“Oh, Hart, I'm sorry! I didn't mean—Only, there are things I know.”

“Such as?”

“That the British are planning an attack on Charleston. It's part of the whole strategy, don't you see? They've given up in the North, at least for the time being. They think they'll get more help here in the South.”

“And they're right,” he interjected bitterly.

“I'm afraid they are. And holding Savannah will settle it
for them. They're bound to attack Charleston now, sooner or later.”

“You could be right,” he said slowly, and this time she managed to swallow a quick rejoinder. “Well, in that case,” he went on, “I'm taking you north. You'll stay with the Pastons, of course. Things are quiet in New England now, just as you say. You'll be safe there. And popular. The Reb Pamphleteer!”

“Hart?” What had happened to that instinctive understanding that had flowed between them when they were in danger?

“Yes?” His face was still rigid with anger. Not at her, she realised. At everything. This was no time.…

“Nothing,” she said. “Just—I'm sorry.”

The inevitable outcome of that betrayed, disastrous dawn attack was mutual recrimination between the French and American allies. The bitter tension between them was not eased by the light-hearted way French officers went to and fro across the lines to Savannah on one pretext of business or another. “Anyone would think the British and French were allies,” said Hart bitterly, “not French and Americans.”

“I've noticed it before,” Mercy agreed. “They have the same habits and convictions. And in their hearts, they all look on us as barbarians. But at least, Hart, they have brought us the good news that your house and family are safe, and poor Mrs Mayfield rather better than one might have expected. That was a clever story you invented for her, of Francis trying to save me. I'm glad she believes it. And”—she looked down at grey homespun skirts and changed the subject—“I'm glad they've brought me some clothes.”

She was the old Mercy again, the one whose image he had carried so long in his heart. Her hair, neatly braided once more round her head, still had the faintest hint of red about it, to remind him of the scarlet woman she had seemed that
day in Savannah, but otherwise it was hard to believe that any of it had happened. Only from time to time, she would shake him with a casual remark that showed just how much she had learned from her guests when she was running that strange establishment in his house. He did not like to think about it and could not stop.

When the list of the few British officers who had been killed or wounded came through, his first feeling was rage at the disproportion between the tiny British losses and the huge Allied ones. Mercy too was looking grave, and he assumed she felt the same, only to be disabused by her remark. “Poor things,” she said, “in a way they were my friends.”

He turned on her, white with fury. “You'd better not let the men hear you say that!”

“They would understand,” she said. And then, with an effort, “Hart, I've received a most courteous letter from Captain Bougainville. He writes on behalf of Admiral d'Estaing to offer me safe-conduct with their fleet to the West Indies. I think I'd better accept.”

“You will do, of course, what you think best. Naturally, you'd find life much more luxurious—much more what you're used to—on a French line of battle ship. No doubt you'll make many new ‘friends' during the voyage. French or English, as you say yourself, what is the difference?”

“Hart!” But, as happened so often in the close quarters of the little
Georgia
, they were interrupted. This time it was by Bill, who had established himself in Jem's place as personal servant to Hart and now brought a message from Bougainville himself, inviting Hart and Mercy to dine with him on his
Guerrier
.

“They want to fete the Reb Pamphleteer, I have no doubt,” said Hart. “Do you wish to go?”

“I suppose it would be a courtesy. Particularly if I am to sail with them?” Her tone made it a question, but he ignored it.

“It's for today,” he said. “I suppose you're right. We should go. Things are bad enough between the Allies as it is.”

“Yes.” It was what she had thought, but managed not to say.

“They'll be in full dress,” he said gloomily. “And laugh behind their hands at our plainness.”

But when Mercy joined him on deck, there was nothing plain about her. She was wearing the low-cut bronze satin that had so scandalised him that time in Savannah, and her hair, loose in ringlets about her shoulders, seemed to take back some of its colour from the satin. She smiled at his look of shock and swept him a low curtsey which let him see she had done something to the neckline of the dress so that it was considerably less revealing than before. “I may be the Reb Pamphleteer”—she smiled up at him and rose gracefully—“but I thought I would show our French friends that we are not all bluestockings in America.”

“You're showing them a great deal,” he said angrily.

She laughed and twisted a light gauze scarf round her shoulders. “Is that better? I'm sorry I left my emeralds behind. I feel undressed without them.”

“Who bought them for you?” He had longed to ask the question.

“Mr Gordon.” And then, laughing, “Oh, Hart, your face! But it's not fair to tease you. He bought them with my money. The way things were in Savannah, jewels were the best thing to buy, if one could only come at them. I am afraid I shall regret them when I start earning my keep in the West Indies.”

“Earning?” How could he not have thought of this?

“Well.” She smiled up at him. “It was careless of me, I know, but I left my savings behind along with the emeralds. Anyway, I have no doubt there will be some rich French planter who just needs a Reb Pamphleteer as governess for his daughter.”

“You'd do better to come to Charleston with me.”

“Are you telling me or inviting me? But here is Bill to tell us the boat is ready. I do hope the French have something better to give us than the year-old provisions they've been starving on. I'm hungry!”

She was the only woman on the
Guerrier
. She was the Reb Pamphleteer. In that dress she would have been the centre of attention anyway. No, thought Hart, angry with himself all over again, it was not the dress, it was that sparkling, intelligent look of hers, the breathless interest with which she was listening as Captain Bougainville talked of his passion for natural history.

But another of the guests, Count Dillon, had crossed the big cabin to join Hart. “Captain Purchis, I had the pleasure of meeting your mother when I was in town today. I have
a message for you from her. She asked me to tell you she is anxious about Miss Phillips.”

“Anxious?” Impossible to keep the hostility out of his tone.

“Yes. I told her that we hoped for the pleasure of mademoiselle's company on the voyage to the West Indies, and she asked what I thought would become of her when we got there. Well, she had reason, had she not? Besides”—an elegant uplifted hand stopped Hart's attempted interruption—“she told me, forgive me, that they had been living on Miss Phillips' savings since the British took Savannah. I was to say she was infinitely regretful, but now things are so bad in the town she has had even to pawn the emeralds mademoiselle left behind. I know it is painful for you to hear this from me, and I apologise, but it is something, your mother said, that you need to know.”

“It is indeed.” Hart made a supreme effort. “And I thank you.”

Dillon bowed and went on remorselessly. “It was a fine gesture on d'Estaing's part, that invitation, but I think he did not quite consider what kind of a reception mademoiselle might get in the West Indies. Loyalties are divided there as they are here, monsieur, and her reputation goes before her. Would you hire a lady, a young and beautiful lady who had run such a house as she did and—as man to man—acted the spy to boot? Would you hire such a one to teach your daughter? And there seems only one other profession open to her.”

Luckily for Hart, the company rose just then to toast the King of France, and his point made, Dillon tactfully moved away before it was possible to speak again. Hart got through the rest of the occasion as best he might, watching Mercy, who was penniless and, so far as he could see, without either reputation or future, flirting light-heartedly with one French officer after another. At last it was time to go. “I must talk to you.” His grip on her arm was one of iron, but she did not flinch.

“Not on the
Georgia
!” She turned back for a last, smiling farewell to Bougainville. “In fact, I have a favour to ask of you. Could we possibly go to Winchelsea before we return to the ship?”

“Winchelsea!” It was a whole new chapter of suffering. Though it was still well within the Allied lines, he had refused to visit the house since he and Dr Flinn had left it burning.

“Yes. Dear Hart, I know, and I'm sorry. But perhaps you forget. My father's grave is there. The way things are going, I may never come back to Savannah. I would like to say good-bye to him. To tell him I did what I could.”