Judas Flowering (45 page)

“Ha! Got you cornered!” Francis' tone sent a chill down Hart's spine. Did he really mean to take her back alive to Savannah, or was that just another of his lies? “Thought there was a boat tied up there, didn't you?” His feet sounded on the planking of the wharf. “Didn't know we found it when we landed. You won't get away that way, little Mercy, and little mercy is what I mean to have on you.”

Hart was onto the soft sand of the shore now, able to move more quickly and yet without a sound. If only his pistol was loaded! But he had had to use his one vital shot to start the fight he could still hear raging back by the fire. No time to wonder how it was going. He reached the wharf and saw Francis half way down and something dark at the very end that must be Mercy.

“Francis!” he called. “I don't want to do it, but one step nearer to Mercy and I fire!” Would the bluff work? How much did Francis know about his injured right hand?

Too much. “It's too good to be true!” A laugh in Francis' voice now. “My little cousin as well! This is my day. No, Hart, you won't fire on me, because you can't, and Mercy won't because she's had no chance to reload, so which of you shall I have first? Mind you”—thoughtfully—“I might almost be tempted to come to an arrangement with the two of you. Mercy's life for yours, Hart? Come out in the open,
hands up, where I can see you, and I promise to get her down river to your French friends.”

“Don't, Hart!” As she spoke at last, Hart thought he could see Mercy bend as if to pick something up. Francis had his back turned to her, and Hart was only half way down the rickety wharf. If only he had a tomahawk he might have a chance, but try how he would he had not mastered the art of throwing a knife left-handed. He must get nearer, and fast.

“Stop!” Mercy was upright again. “Touch me, Francis Mayfield, and I'll drag you into the river with me and hold on. It flows fast here at the tip of the island. I've watched it all day and I know.”

“Fool of a girl!” For the first time there was a note of uncertainty in Francis' voice. He knew Mercy well enough to know she meant every word. “Wait there, then, while I deal with my little one-handed cousin. You'll enjoy watching that, won't you? I do hope the moon stays out and the alligators are hungry.” He half turned to see how close Hart had come, and Mercy threw whatever it was she had picked up. It caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head and he swore, staggered, and almost, for a breathless moment seemed to be going to fall into the river. And, as he recovered himself, Hart was on him.

It was a shocking fight, subhuman, bestial, and Francis, Inevitably, unmistakably, the stronger. Horrible to remember how they used to wrestle as boys, as they swayed now, too close for knives, always aware of the hungry water below, and the din of the fight beyond the hill. And farther down the wharf, Mercy, who could do nothing.

Nothing? Suddenly, incredibly, Hart knew exactly what she was going to do. As they swayed and struggled, they had shifted positions so that Francis now had his back to the shore. In a moment, Hart knew, Mercy was going to distract him, shout something, do something. And that was his moment, the chance for the left-handed attack that Francis would not remember from those old, unbelievable, friendly bouts.

“Here they come!” screamed Mercy, and Hart, who had expected it, was ready when Francis' attention slackened for the one vital instant. He twisted, broke free, and brought his left hand up to get Francis squarely on the chin. Not hard enough to knock him out, the blow sent him back
towards the edge of the wharf. He tripped, fought for balance, and then with one harsh cry was over, lost in the dark surge of the water.

“Oh, God!” said Mercy. “There
are
alligators!”

“Don't look.” Hart had her in his arms, her face pressed against his shoulder. “There's nothing we can do.”

She raised her head to look him full in the face. “And I wouldn't if I could. Oh, Hart!”

No time for this. “We must go and help the others,” he said.

They climbed up the slope hand in hand. The sounds of fighting had died down. Someone had won. “Quietly,” he whispered. “We may have to run for it.”

“And leave them?”

“You're more important than anything. And not just to me. I've a boat the other side of the island, waiting. Your arrival, you Reb Pamphleteer, will be worth a thousand men in our attack tomorrow.”

“But the others …” As she began to protest they reached the top of the slope and saw that the fight was indeed over. Triumphant black faces gleamed in the firelight, and Bill was just coming up the slope, obviously in search of them.

“Thank God,” he said, “you found her.” He did not ask what had happened to Francis.

“Yes. And the Indians?”

“Tied up. Those who survived. Captain, what are we going to do for the men who helped us. There'll be trouble here in the morning.”

“Yes. There must be boats at the wharves?”

“Enough. But they'd never get past the guard posts.”

“No, I'm a fool. But we're in control of the whole island?”

“For tonight. Unless anyone's noticed over in town, which I doubt.”

“No, they've other things on their minds tonight. Very well. Talk to your friends, Bill. Thank them for me and tell them that anyone who wants to cross the island with us is sure of a welcome from the Allies. They've black troops of their own, as you know. Well treated.”

“The French have.” Bill's voice was dry.

“Yes.” No use pretending not to understand. “But, Bill, don't you see, so long as some come with us the others can pretend they were fighting on the British side, and beaten. We'll tie a few of them up, alongside the Cherokees.”

“Some of them are,” said Bill as he turned away.

Mercy had stood close beside Hart, listening. “Are you going to visit your mother?” she asked.

Their minds had been running parallel. “I can't make up my mind.” He turned to her with a kind of desperation. “It's a terrible risk … and such a chance.…”

“But she wouldn't come, you know. Still less Mrs Mayfield or Abigail.”

“You're right, of course. Not across that swamp. Not anyway, I suppose. But, Mercy, will they be safe?”

“Oh, yes. No need to fret about them. You forget, Hart, what a Loyalist house we've been keeping. Just think of how angry it made you that day you came to see me.” She was laughing at him. “Besides, where would the officers go for their entertainment if they closed it down. Everyone knows Abigail for the true blue Tory she is, and forgive me, Hart, no one takes your mother and aunt very seriously. No one's going to blame them for my carryings-on in the cellar.” She smiled past him at Bill, who had returned with a considerable group of men. “And if we're going to get all these people across the island, we had better get started.”

“You're right.” It must be past midnight already, and all the time Hart was aware of the minutes ticking away towards the dawn hour set for the Allied attack on Savannah. Already French and American troops must be making their silent way towards the positions from which they were to launch their surprise assault. If it was a surprise. He looked across the river to where lights here and there must indicate Savannah, asleep on its bluff.

“Too many lights.” Mercy had read his mind again.

“More than usual?”

“Many more than last night. And … listen!” Across the water came the muffled roll of a drum. “A surprise attack?” she asked.

“Yes. And not a chance of warning them that it's been blown.”

Mercy put a warm hand on his. “I thought I'd never hear you grind your teeth again!”

Luckily, the
Georgia
had already moved upriver with the
Truite
, which made the task of getting the refugee blacks away much easier. The last, exhausted, mud-covered party were just being helped on board when a signal shot fired by the
Truite
announced the start of their diversionary action.

“You'll go below, to my cabin, and stay there.” Anxiety made Hart's tone sharper than he had intended.

“Yes, sir, Captain Purchis.” A hint of mockery underlay the exhaustion of her voice. “If I just knew the way.”

“I'll show you, Miss Mercy.” Bill had insisted on waiting to come off with the last escape party and had just climbed on board. “Captain's busy right now.”

“So he is,” she said.

Hart's sleeping cabin was little more than a cupboard with a berth in it, opening off the main cabin where two brass ten-pounders had already been run out for the attack. The men in charge of them grinned at sight of Mercy with her tousled hair and blackened face. “The Reb Pamphleteer,” said one. “Huzza!”

“Thanks!” She swept them a curtsey with tattered skirts. “And good shooting.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I hope we don't keep you awake.”

“It would take more than gunfire to do that.”

On deck, Hart was grinding his teeth again as he read his latest order from the captain of the
Truite
. The little
Georgia
, with her light draught, was to make the best speed she could down the Wilmington River to the Allied ammunition depot at Thunderbolt, where Hart must urge the need for more ammunition, more troops, everything for a stronger three-pronged attack from Thunderbolt, Causton Bluff, and the Savannah River itself. “Tell them their plans are blown,” wrote Lieutenant Durumain. “The whole of Savannah is on the alert. Our only hope is in a last-minute change of strategy.”

Feeling his way down the familiar channel of the Wilmington, Hart thought it a forlorn hope indeed. The moonlit night was ebbing towards morning now; the troops for the intended surprise attack must be fully committed; even a commander less obstinate than d'Estaing had proved himself would never change his whole strategy at such an eleventh hour. And, besides, his headquarters were at Beaulieu, far to the south, and he himself was doubtless already on his way across the treacherous marshes to lead the assault on the Spring Hill Redoubt to the west of the town.

The morning wind was light, and progress maddeningly slow. What had begun as a forlorn hope was merely ludicrous by the time the
Georgia
pulled into the familiar landing
at Thunderbolt. They had heard spasmodic tiring all the way, when the height of the bluff allowed it, but here was a scene of chaos.

“Ammunition!” The officer in command actually laughed as he read Durumain's letter. “More men! What we need is stretchers and men to carry them. How many can you spare? Our hospital here's full. We've taken over one down the creek; the British were using it. The wounded are coming in from the right wing already. It was only meant as a diversion, but, by God, it's been a bloody one. The British were expecting us, met us with music, mocking. ‘Come to the Maypole, Merry Farmers All.' And musketfire. We Americans did our best, but if you ask me, the French marines hardly tried. And if the English expected us there, knew it for a diversion, what hope for d'Estaing at Spring Hill?”

“You've not heard?”

“Only rumour. Sounds bad. No time for that. How many men can you let me have?”

Hart left Bill to guard Mercy on the
Georgia
and took the rest of his small crew to help move the wounded. Extraordinary to come back to Winchelsea, at last, like this, leading a tired horse with a cartful of wounded, some French, some American, militia, some groaning, some swearing, some dying.

The house was changed beyond belief, beyond bearing. Not a stick of the old furniture remained, only, on the floors of the downstairs rooms, pallet beds put there by the British, now taken over by their defeated enemies. A grey-faced doctor came down the wide stair to greet him, his hands and coat stained with blood. “More? This way.” He directed the bearers towards what had been the family dining room.

“Dr Flinn!”

“You know me?” And then, after a moment's gaze from eyes bleared with lack of sleep, “Good God! Hart.” He looked about him. “Sorry about your house. The British did it. We just took over.”

“No matter.” It seemed extraordinarily unimportant. “How can I help? I'm afraid I can't carry—My hand.”

“Of course. You speak French?”

“A little.”

“Good. I can't get them to believe I'm a doctor. Can't say I blame them. Just a few words in their own language
would have made all the difference, would have in the battle. God, talk of muddle.”

The rest of that morning was a nightmare of blood and stench, groans and screams, curses in French and American, and, through it all, Dr Flinn, white with fatigue, making decision after decision, until at last, towards noon, he was relieved by a French military surgeon. By now the full news of the disastrous attack on the Spring Hill Redoubt was in, but he hardly paid attention to it.

“There's something—” He mopped his forehead with a hand that left a smear of blood, and peered at Hart through red-rimmed eyes. “Something needs doing.” And then, “My God, Saul Gordon!”

“Gordon?”

“He's off his head. Raving. The British thought him Mercy's accomplice.” Flinn laughed shakily. “Saul Gorden and the Reb Pamphleteer. They confiscated everything he had—his house, the money he's made, the lot. Where is Mercy?” It had reminded him.

“Safe, thank God. On my boat. But what of Gordon?”

“He escaped in the confusion of the attack. Came here this morning, ranting, swearing vengeance. The wounded were just beginning to come in. I had no time. I locked him in the cellar.” He felt in a pocket and produced the key. “Hart, go and see.”

But Hart was looking past him at the door to the cellar stairs, and the thin trickle of smoke seeping out from under it.

“Don't open it,” said the doctor. “There's no water nearer than the river. We've used it all up.”