Judas Flowering

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  There was a buffet table of cold refreshments in the room. Wine and punch and glasses stood ready. No servants. What kind of a club was this? What precisely was this room used for? Assignations, of course. Now a green-uniformed officer guided his partner in through the open door. Red lights in the high-piled hair; bronze satin cut far too low off the white shoulders; the face tilted provocatively up at her companion. Dear God. Mercy. And Francis. Francis looking quickly back over his shoulder, leading her to the corner of the room invisible from the dancers. Francis bending for a confident kiss, his hand on her breast.

  “No! Francis! It’s not safe.” She pulled away from him, but not in anger.

  “Nonsense!” He had her again. “We’re rehearsing, aren’t we? I can’t rehearse too often with you, my beautiful little love.” But the music in the next room had stopped, and be let her go as two more couples entered the room. Saul Gordon and Bridget McCartney, a strange Hessian officer with Claire.

  “One of your most brilliant evenings, Miss Mercy.” Saul Gordon seemed very much at home as he poured cordial for the ladies and punch for the men. “I trust you found the new consignment of wine to your taste?”

  “Dear Mr Gordon, I don’t know how I could manage without you.” She smiled up at him over her fan, her colour high from the recent exchange with Francis, her eyes sparkling. Another smile drew the Hessian officer into her circle, and she said something incomprehensible to him that won her a glow of gratification and made him visibly her slave. He broke into a flow of guttural German and she listened with breathless interest, while Francis and Saul Gordon glowered at each other, and Bridget and Claire carried on an artificially animated conversation of their own.

  “Mr Hart, please.” William’s agitated whisper from below brought him back to his senses. He had seen enough. Too much. He climbed swiftly back down the vine.

  “Mr Miles has just come in,” whispered William. “He helps Miss Mercy lock up most nights. You must get back to my hut, sir, quick.” And, once there, “Do you still want to see her, sir?”

  “Yes! Fetch her as soon as you can, but don’t tell her who it is. Say it’s a message from Mr Habersham. That should bring her. If she’s not to be trusted, I’ll know what to do.” His left hand felt inside his grimy shirt for the knife it had learned to use. Could he really mean to kill her?

  Might there not, still, be an explanation, an excuse? Blackmail by Francis? But she had been enjoying herself. Playing the three men off against each other. Triumphant … beautiful … glowing from Francis’ permitted kisses. Did she let Saul Gordon kiss her too? Press his soft hands where Francis’ had been, on that exposed breast? His own hands sweated at the thought, and he looked down in surprise to see the useless fingers of his right one curling slightly, as if even they were trying for a stranglehold on that slim neck.

  The knife would be surer. He loosened it in its sheath, staring out of the cabin window at the house, where windows were darkening now, one by one. Behind him, the hut door creaked, and he whirled round to see her sanding there, dimly illuminated by the lantern she carried. William had not dared give him a light, so she could not see him. “You’re from Mr Habersham?” When she lifted the lantern, to try and make out his face, it picked out the red lights in her hair, green stones flashing round her neck, the great expanse of white skin, the scandalous, clinging bronze dress. Francis’ questing hand must have found a nipple to play with. No wonder she had had that purring look of satisfaction.

  “Who are you?” His silence had disconcerted her, and she took a quick step backwards, her hand on the door-latch.

  “You don’t remember?” He caught her hand, with a quick recognition of its firm, strong smallness, pulled her into the room, and fastened the door behind her.

  “Hart!” She took a step backwards and put the lantern down, gazing up at him, her eyes wide with tears. “Dear God, it’s you at last!”

  “So you actually recognise me—and back away. Wisely. I’d not have recognised you. Strumpet!”

  “Hart!”

  “Whore then, if you prefer it. How many of them have had you, Mercy Phillips, and what do you get for it? Besides pleasure, of course. No wonder you wanted me out of the house. Did you hope I’d die? I slept eighteen hours. Would you have thought yourself careless, or careful, if I had never waked?” His eyes, raking her satin-clad body, had now focussed on the jewels at her neck. “Whose emeralds, pray? Francis? Or Gordon? No need to ask what they bought. Dear God, and I thought to come to you for help!”

  “Help?” His tirade had silenced her, but this won him a quick look and the one, breathless question.

  “Help I’ll not ask now. I’m a Yankee still, but not the Doodle you think me. Yes, I heard you singing it for them, heard them laugh and clap you. I saw you with them, Mercy. I climbed the vine. Saw you and Francis. The enemy. Our enemy, I thought. How long ago did you sell out to them, Mercy? Did you perhaps know I was on that hulk of theirs? Did you and Francis laugh over it? If so, you played me a pretty scene of drama when I came home, but then, I understand, you do play a pretty scene. What plays do you put on in my drawing-room, you and your English friends?” His left hand was under his shirt, feeling for the knife. “Did you ever play Desdemona, Mercy Phillips?”

  “No! Hart!” Only her eyes—wide, frightened, and yet, somehow steady—were as he had remembered them. They stopped him, for a moment, hand still on the hilt of the knife, and she went on, “I don’t blame you for what you think, nor for being so angry. But you must listen, Hart, before you kill me. If you do, they’ll all starve.”

  “Starve? What do you mean?” His hand still clutched the knife.

  “Idiot! Have you thought of nothing but yourself? If I’d not drugged you, got you away, you’d be dead, and serve you right, and the rest of us in prison for harbouring you. As it is, Winchelsea is gone—the British have it for a hospital, and Francis has the promise of it. Saul Gordon had sold out to the British, God knows how long ago. He proved to their satisfaction that you had no assets in Savannah. Your mother had the house, and nothing else. So I’ve been running it as a kind of club for British officers. They come, they enjoy themselves, they pay, they play and lose.” She started to add something, then checked herself with a quick look at his set face. “We’re paying our way now. Kill me, cause a scandal, get caught, and your mother, your aunt, and Abigail will be on the streets. But you’re not going to kill me.” She took another step backward, folded her fan, twisted its handle, and held a needle-sharp knife. “You called me strumpet, Hart Purchis, and I’ll not forget. The English officers don’t. I’ve made a joke of this, but it’s a joke they remember.”

  “Mercy.” The fingers of his right hand were moving again, was it in an attempt at murder or a longing to touch those white shoulders. What should he do, what believe?

  “Well.” A shrug of the tantalising shoulders. “I can’t stay. I’ll be missed, and for all our sakes you must not be caught here. Tell me, Purchis, have you come here only to insult me?”

  “No! Mercy!” Was he asking for mercy? It almost felt like it. “I’ve come … I can’t trust you!”

  “You must, I think. This is more important than you and I, Hart.” She twisted the hilt of her stiletto and it was a fan again. “There!” She moved a step nearer to him. “Now, even with one hand, you can kill me with the knife of yours if you still think me a traitor.”

  “William does.”

  “Of course William does! What use would I be if the very servants knew I was playing a double game. Quick, Hart. Kill me or tell me what you need to know. There’s no time for talking.”

  More than anything in the world he wanted to touch the white shoulders, to let his hand travel down, down along the edge of that provocative satin gown. Her eyes, meeting his with that same steady gaze, knew this. “That’s no answer,” she said.

  “No. No.” He held out his empty left hand. “Mercy, I can’t kill you, so I suppose I must trust you.”

  “Good.” She
took it, the fan dangling harmlessly from her wrist. “Now, what’s your errand? I promise, I can get it where it should go.”

  “I believe you. God knows why. Two things. First. If General Lincoln and Admiral d’Estaing attack Savannah, how much help can they expect from within?”

  She looked at him squarely, sadly. “Not much. I can answer that. I’ve watched. I know. The real patriots are gone—to Charleston, to the West Indies. It’s only the turncoats who remain, and I doubt they’ll turn again. There’s no spirit left here. It was so quick, so sudden.” A long shudder shook her. “So horrible. Men bayonetted in the streets as they tried to surrender, their wives watching. Did William tell you about Amy and Delilah?”

  “Enough. And after all that, you entertain the British!”

  “Oh, Hart, will you not try to understand? They’re no worse than the rebels. I could tell you things they’ve done … our people. But there’s no time. What I’m trying to tell you is that people here in Savannah have seen one sack, and that’s enough. For God’s sake, tell General Lincoln and his French admiral to take themselves somewhere else.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  She brushed a hand across her eyes. “No. Not really. It’s loathsome, this life we’re leading. You called me strumpet. It’s what I feel. But at least we’re alive here, surviving.”

  “Dancing with Francis Mayfield and Saul Gordon! Entertaining those beefy Hessian officers. When did you learn German, Mercy Phillips?”

  “Father taught me.” For the second time he had the impression that she was about to say more, but checked herself. “We’ve talked too long already. It’s late. I must get back. What is your second errand?”

  “There’s someone I want to meet. Someone I’m surprised you have not chosen to mention. You say that everyone here in Savannah has given up hope, lost their spirit. What about the secret pamphleteer who is making the British so angry? I saw a couple of his broadsheets down—” He stopped. “Where I was staying. If you had seen them you’d know there’s one true patriot here in Savannah, but I can see it’s useless to ask a collaborator like you to put me in touch with him.”

  “Quite useless. You don’t choose to tell me where you have been staying, and you are quite right. Do you think, even if I did know the pamphleteer’s name, I would tell it you! But it’s the best-kept secret in Savannah. Of course I’ve seen his pamphlets. Everyone has. They grow on the trees, like Judas blossom. We tear them up, we exclaim against him, we read them first.”

  “So. My errand need not be quite in vain. He’s not a coward; he will urge people to fight on the right side when the time comes.”

  “And so warn the British that it’s coming? The whole point of an attack, if there is one, must be surprise, as it was when the British came. And you want broadsheets up and down the streets announcing it? Tell your friends, if it comes, it must come fast! And if it does come, I’ve no doubt the Reb Pamphleteer—that’s what they call him—will come out strong for the patriots. But first you must mount your attack, Hart Purchis. And for God’s sake, speak to no one, no one, no one as you have to me. You’re mad to have trusted me. If you get back safe, tell your general and your French admiral to send a more cautious emissary next time.”

  “Because I trust you!”

  “These are not the times for trust. I don’t know how you got into town, but if I were you, I’d find my own way out. There’s a generous British bounty for the capture of people like you. It makes Judases of us all.”

  “So you admit it was convenient for you to have me out of the way when the British came!”

  “Oh, Hart! Have you learned nothing? Do you understand nothing? Yes, William!” She moved quickly to the cabin door in answer to a low knocking.

  “Mr Miles is asking for you, Miss Mercy. He’s ready to lock up.” He looked quickly from one to the other, relieved to find them both alive.

  “I must go. William, see Mr Hart safe away. By river, I’d think, if you’ve men you can trust.”

  “They keep a close watch, Miss Mercy,” said William, and at the same time, “I need no help,” said Hart.

  “Good.” Mercy crossed the room to make a quick check of her appearance in the cracked glass that had once served Amy, then turned to Hart. “Every inch the strumpet,” she said. “Good-bye, Hart.”

  Chapter 23

  Next day Jackson was waiting at the second rendezvous, sitting slouched in the shade of his empty cart. Hart paused for a moment, Mercy’s warning vivid in his mind, etched deep by his own anger at her jibes. What else could he have done but trust her? And yet, if now, or as they left Savannah, a British posse should appear to arrest him, who would be to blame? Mercy, or Jackson, who had now seen him and was waving a lazy arm in greeting?

  “Trust no one” she had said. It was good counsel; all part of the general horror. William’s Amy and little Delilah. Jem, who had died fighting the British at Charleston. Mercy dressed up like the whore of Babylon. Mercy and Francis. Mercy and Saul Gordon. And the stranger, Mr Miles. What did he and she do after they had locked the house?

  “Let’s get going,” he said.

  “Bad, eh?” Jackson got up, stretched mightily, and began to untether his skinny horse. “Any luck at all?”

  Trust no one. “No,” said Hart. “Oh yes. I’m lucky to be here and alive to meet you.”

  “Sure thing,” said Jackson. “Let’s go.” And then, leisurely climbing into the rough driver’s seat of the wagon, “No news of the Reb Pamphleteer then? I’d sure like to shake him by the hand. Powerful fine pieces he writes. I found one in the wagon when I got back from Tondee’s. I’ll show it you when we get home.”

  Suspicion, worse than an illness, crawled through Hart’s blood all the way back to his friend’s isolated farmhouse. Could Mercy have had him followed? Easily. Would she have? How could he tell? He understood nothing. “A generous British bounty,” she had said, “for the capture of people like you.” But she had offered him William’s help, and William he knew he could trust. So, why this uneasy shiver in his bones as they emerged at last into the clearing round Jackson’s farm? Everything was as usual, peaceful in the light of the setting sun. No. Everything was too quiet. The watchdog barked, it was true, cattle lowed but where were the children who should have rushed out to greet their father?

  “Peaceful,” he said.

  “Sure is. I reckon Mina must have taken the kids over to see her ma. The less they know, the better.”

  “Yes.” It made perfect sense and did nothing for the creeping anxiety in Hart’s bones. Why had he not thought how much more valuable a capture he would be on returning from Savannah than before he went there? Trust no one. “I’m bushed.” He yawned hugely as they dismounted from the wagon. “Long, useless trip.”

  “Tough. I’ll rustle us up some grub and you can sleep it off. Pity you can’t get away tonight.” It was half a question.

  “Yes.” Thank God he had not said anything about his rendezvous with his men. “I’m sorry to put you at risk a moment longer than need be.”

  “I’m only sorry it’s done so little good.” Once again it might be a question.

  Hart shrugged. “Luck of the draw. It was an idea—worth trying—no good. I’m starved. Fine welcome I got! Not a bite to eat. Nowhere to sleep. Like me to stable the horse while you find us that food?”

  “Thanks!”

  Was it his imagination or did the other man pause for a moment, doubtfully, on the house’s shabby threshold? Suspicion breeds suspicion. Hart stopped unharnessing the tired horse and straightened up. “Anything to drink in the house? I’m dry as dust. All that waiting around!” he grumbled. “And no good come of it. Rum would be best.”

  “And rum you shall have.” If Jackson had been wondering about the wisdom of leaving Hart outside alone, this made up his mind for him. “I didn’t reckon you for a drinking man.”

  “I’m not, when things go right.” Hart jerked the horse’s bridle impatiently and led it away towards
the tumble-down stable as the other man went indoors. How long did he have before he was missed. Ten minutes? Fifteen at the outside. Just the same, he tethered and fed the horse, noting with relief as he did so that the light was fading fast. When he emerged cautiously from the stable, leaving the door open to suggest he was still inside, it was into the long, dark shadow of the house, and he kept carefully within it as he edged his way out of view of the front windows. Pausing at the corner to look back, he saw a light flicker behind one of them. His friend had lit a candle. With luck, he would then pour himself a drink of the promised rum.

  Memory of Mercy’s naked shoulders above the clinging bronze satin tormented Hart as he made his cautious way down the path to the shore. It had seemed, at the time, an excess of caution to arrange his rendezvous with his men several creeks north of the farmhouse’s own landing stage. Now, he was glad of it, and glad, too, that he had told them to come every night, just in case.

  But it was going to be an awkward enough walk in the clouded light of a half moon. The tide had just turned, and he would be able to save valuable time by cutting across the shallows of the intervening creeks. If their channels had changed since he used to come wildfowling here as a boy, he would just have to swim for it and hope for the best. Absurd if this was all quite unnecessary, if he had let Mercy fill him with groundless suspicion. By running away like this, he would merely have made an enemy of a friend, lost one supporter for the patriot cause.

  “Hey!” Jackson’s voice came soft yet urgent through the darkness. “Where the hell have you got to, Hart Purchis? Rum’s out, grub’s up, what’s keeping you?”