Wide is the Water (11 page)

‘We certainly do.' Mercy had noticed the landlord give his wife a quick, angry glance in the course of her last speech and wondered just where the sugar had come from. Like salt, it was scarce enough these days to make a very handy bribe. Could it perhaps have come out from New York in return for services rendered? And just what, she wondered, had the so friendly landlord's relationship been with the Bartram brothers, who, he said, had plagued the district. And were they Cowboys or Skinners? He had not said. She would be glad to get away from here, she thought, rising to say good night.

‘An early start in the morning, ma'am?' George Palmer rose too.

‘As early as you please.'

‘But will your friend be well enough?' asked his brother.

It was a natural mistake, and she was about to explain about Brisson when she heard Ruth scream, and turned with a quick apology to run up the steep attic stairs.

This bout of hysteria was worse even than the one on the day they had left Farnham, and Mercy noticed that now it was the name of Ruth's sister, Naomi, not her mother's that came over and over again between the horrible half-human screams. Today's adventure must have brought back memories of the Indian attack. In the end she administered a short, hard slap and a dose of laudanum supplied by the landlady in the interests, she said, of a little quiet in the house for the other guests. ‘You'll be moving on tomorrow,' were her last firm words
as she bade Mercy good night, and Mercy could hardly blame her. Ruth was certainly a formidable responsibility, and it was difficult not to wish she had never met her or made that rash promise to her mother. But after all, Ruth was Abigail's cousin, the family's affair. She only hoped they would see it that way.

To her relief, Ruth waked quiet and docile as ever, and when they went down to the kitchen, they found Charles Brisson also up and dressed, his arm in a sling contrived by the landlady out of an old sheet. His colour was back, and his dark eyes sparkled as he rose to greet her. ‘My guardian angel.' For a moment she actually thought he was going to kiss her hand, but he contented himself with a look of warm gratitude. ‘Did you get some sleep?' he asked as he pulled out a chair for her. ‘I'm afraid your sister is not well.'

‘No.' She was grateful for the understatement.

‘I hope you will let me travel with you and help you to look after her.' He was speaking quietly, under cover of a babble of general talk from the rest of the company. ‘Indeed, I would be most grateful if you would allow me a place in your sledge today. My shoulder is much better, but I am not sure whether I could manage the reins. Perhaps your brother would be so good as to ride my horse?'

It would mean that she had to drive all day, but she did not see how she could refuse him, and besides, she would be glad of his company. Last night's scene with Ruth had been exhausting, and the burden of today's journey, still through the debatable ground, had been weighing rather heavily on her. She was very fond of Jed by now, but the fact remained that he was only a boy and she had to take all their decisions. She smiled at the Frenchman. ‘I'll be happy to have you,' she said. ‘And I'm sure Jed will be glad to ride your horse.'

Jed was delighted. ‘If you can manage the sledge?' He had not yet contrived to use Mercy's first name as she had urged he do.

‘I shall help Mrs. Purchis,' said Charles Brisson. ‘I may not be able to ride, but I can certainly manage those horses of yours with one hand.'

‘Poor things,' said Mercy. ‘I do hope they get us safe to Philadelphia.' She was beginning to be afraid that that was about as far as the horses would ever get and wondered how she was going to pay Mr. Golding for them. But that was a problem for another day. At the moment they were facing another dangerous day's journey. The Palmers were armed too, she was glad to know, and had undertaken to take the lead, since they had come this way before. They showed no surprise when Brisson got into her sledge and probably still thought they were all travelling together. It hardly mattered …

Brisson proved admirable company, and Mercy realised for the first time just how lonely she had been since she parted from Hart. Ruth hardly ever spoke. Jed was a dear boy, but he had no conversation and was so obviously shy of her that she was afraid Brisson was bound to see through the pretence that they were brother and sisters.

She drove for the first part of the journey, and Brisson sat beside her and told her about the little town south of Paris where he had been born and grown up in a small château. ‘We are of the nobility, we Brissons,' he told her, ‘though of course, you Americans make nothing of that.'

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she was, in fact, English by birth, but she restrained herself. He had been very careful, she had noticed, to tell her nothing of importance about himself. He had described his voyage from Nantes to Providence in vigorous and entertaining detail, but had given no hint of why he had made it or what his errand was to Philadelphia. Nor, indeed, had he explained why he had sailed to Providence at all, but then she knew that with both the British navy and British privateers at work, one had to take any passage one could and pray for a safe arrival.

He had just volunteered to drive for a while, and she was slowing the sledge to let him take over, when they heard shouting from ahead and saw that the Palmers had been stopped by a small band of militia. ‘Americans, thank God,' said Mercy, recognising the shabby attempt at uniforms. She pulled the horses to a halt and watched the sergeant in command of the troop talk briefly to the Palmer brothers, then wave them forward and stop Jed, who was riding between the two sledges. To her surprise, he seemed to spend longer with Jed than with the Palmers but finally let him go and came back to where they waited.

‘Morning, ma'am.' The sergeant's tone was friendly. ‘I hear you've done us a favour, wounded a couple of the Bartram brothers, they tell me, you and that young brother of yours. Good shooting, ma'am. What was the name? You're all travelling together, Mr. Palmer tells me.'

‘Mrs. Purchis.' Should she explain that Brisson was only a chance-met companion?

‘Purchis?' The sergeant looked startled. ‘No kin to Captain Purchis of the
Georgia
, I hope?'

‘His wife?' Her voice shook. ‘Why?'

‘Bad news, I'm afraid, ma'am. In
Rivington's Gazette.
We took a man with a copy just yesterday. I'm sorry to have to tell you.' He paused, searching for words.

‘He's dead?' She swayed where she sat. ‘My husband's dead?'

‘No, no. I'm sorry, ma'am. Stupid of me. No, but it's bad just the same. His mother is. And his aunt. They tried to get up from Savannah to Charleston. Too small a party. The Scopholites got them. The British are making a big story of it, a warning to others that they're safer in British hands.'

‘Oh, dear God.' She put a cold hand to her brow. Poor, kind Mrs. Purchis; poor Mrs. Mayfield. But what about their niece? What of Abigail? ‘Just the two of them?' It was an effort to keep her voice steady.

‘So far as I know, ma'am. A nasty business, I'm afraid. Those Scopholites are little better than animals.'

‘Stop it,' said Charles Brisson. ‘Don't tell her!'

But she had heard too much already. ‘Mrs. Purchis,' she said. ‘Anne Mayfield.' The world was spinning round her. ‘I am so sorry.' She clung with cold hands to the seat of the sledge. ‘But I think I am going to faint.'

‘I'm sorry.' She heard herself saying it again as she came reluctantly back to consciousness.

‘No need.' Brisson had found the smelling salts she used for Ruth and was holding them under her nose. ‘You have been so very brave, always, madame, but that bad news was too much for anyone.'

‘My poor husband. His mother and his aunt. Oh, the poor things.' She would not think about it. ‘Have the soldiers gone?'

‘Yes. With a thousand apologies from that dolt of a sergeant for breaking it to you so crudely.'

‘There was no other way,' she said. If she only knew what had happened to Abigail. No time for that now. ‘We must get on. The Palmers will be wondering what has become of us. If you would be so good as to drive, monsieur?'

‘I wish you would call me Charles,' he said. And then, sensing her reaction: ‘Forgive me. I know it is presumptuous. But I really do not wish to be known as a Frenchman. My business is most confidential.'

They found the Palmers and Jed anxiously awaiting them at a place where the road forked. ‘We were beginning to be afraid you'd had trouble with those soldiers after all,' said George Palmer. ‘I'd told them all about you. I was sure there would be no difficulty, or we would have waited for you.'

‘No trouble,' said Mercy. ‘But they gave me terrible news. My mother-in-law and her sister …' She could not go on and was deeply grateful when Brisson intervened to explain, as briefly as possible.

After the inevitable exclamations of horror and sympathy she managed to explain her gnawing anxiety about
Abigail, and it was soon decided that they would push on through Princeton to Bristol and hope to reach Philadelphia late next day. ‘You should get news there, and let us hope it will be good,' said George Palmer. ‘I really think we could get another stage even out of your horses, so long as we make sure they are extra well fed at night. And to tell truth, it would suit us very well, ma'am.'

That night, as they were getting ready for bed in a tiny room that they actually had to themselves, Ruth suddenly stretched out a hand to Mercy. ‘Poor Hart,' she said. ‘How he will mind. And poor Mercy. I am so sorry.'

‘Why, Ruth!' The tears Mercy had controlled all day suddenly flowed fast and free. ‘Why, thank you!' She pulled her close for a long, warm kiss. ‘You love Hart, too, don't you?' Suddenly she was glad she had assumed what had seemed the burden of Ruth and reproached herself for her previous doubts. ‘Maybe this sad news will bring him home.' She was ashamed to hope it. ‘And surely there will be news of Abigail in Philadelphia.'

‘My cousin Abigail,' said Ruth.

Next day the sun shone at last, a brilliant change from grey, snow-laden skies, and from time to time, passing under trees, Mercy would hear the drip of water, as icicles began to thaw. The sun was actually warm on her face, and she felt a strange little leap of hope and began to think about spring – and Hart. Disgusting. And yet it did seem possible that the deaths of his mother and aunt would make it necessary for him to come home, if only to make arrangements about the Mayfield house in Charleston. Besides, he, too, would be racked by anxiety about Abigail. She herself was beginning to hope that Abigail had stayed in Savannah. After all, she had always been Loyalist in her sympathies and was in love with another Loyalist, Giles Habersham, who was overseas somewhere, serving with the British. What a strange, horrible business it all was. More than anything else that had happened to her in the long, sad years of the war, the deaths of Mrs.
Purchis and Mrs. Mayfield had brought home to her the savagery of this fight between friends.

She was driving, and glad of the distraction, when they caught up with the Palmers, who had stopped by the side of the road to mend a broken piece of harness. I'll go on,' she told them. ‘The road's clear enough now; ‘I'm sure I can find the way. We'll see you at the inn in Bristol.'

Driving on, she found her mind kept coming back to Mrs. Purchis and Mrs. Mayfield. The Scopholites, followers of the illiterate Loyalist Colonel Scophol, were known for their barbarous cruelty. What horrors had the two elderly ladies endured before they died? Plagued with these thoughts, she had been letting the horses take their own reliable way downhill along the well-used road when an exclamation from Brisson brought her attention back with a jerk. She had thought the road unusually smooth as it reached level ground and now realised that they were crossing a river on the ice. She could hear the rush of water. But that was all wrong. That was horribly dangerous. And on the thought, one of the horses plunged suddenly through the ice.

‘Dear God!' said Brisson. ‘Stay where you are, madame. The sledge should be safe enough.' He was out already, struggling to free the horse from the sledge, before she remembered his bad shoulder. He would never manage by himself.

‘Stay here, Ruth,' she commanded. ‘Here, take the reins, hold the other horse steady. Please God he doesn't go through too.' The broad-based sledge really did seem safe enough, but as she spoke, the second horse also let out a snort of fright and plunged through the ice. ‘Let go the reins, Ruth,' she urged. ‘It's our only hope, even if we lose them both.' She was out on the ice now, beside the sledge, frantically trying to push it back to safety, desperately aware of the struggling, panicked horses, dangerously close. Then, horribly, she felt the ice give under her. Plunging into freezing water, she felt, with despair, the unexpected strength of the current and was
fighting for her life, trying to get a grip on ice that crumbled away as she clutched at it.

How long did she struggle there? The cold was numbing; her hands and feet would no longer obey her; her skirts had become a clinging shroud; she felt herself begin to give up, to let go. Cold … cold …

Life, coming back, was thrillingly painful. Someone was chafing her hands. She could hear shouting. Then: ‘Mercy! Mercy!' Ruth's voice. ‘Dear Mercy, be better.'

She was in the sledge, soaking wet, wrapped in all the rugs. Ruth was bending over her, smelling salts in hand. ‘You are better.' Smiling, Ruth was suddenly beautiful. Life was beautiful. To be alive was a miracle.

‘What happened?' Mercy saw that the sledge was safe on the other side of the river.

‘Mr. Brisson saved your life. He got you to the bank before the Palmers caught up. I don't know how they got the horses out. I was looking after you. Oh, Mercy, I was afraid you were dead.'