“What is it?” she called. “What’s wrong?”
“Shut up!” he barked, throwing his leg over the front of his steed and jumping to the ground.
Lauren was shocked that a man of his years could move that quickly. He tore off his cloak and stuffed it in the hollow of a large tree, then yanked off his topcoat and waistcoat stuffing those into the tree as well. Clad only in his linen shirt, breeches and boots he continued to watch the trail as if someone was coming.
“What are you doing?” hissed Lauren, her heart pounding. “What’s going on?”
He pulled off his white periwig and much to Lauren’s surprise Mr. Fitch was not gray at all. He had long, smoky blond hair; which was tied back in a leather strap. Next he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face makeup off. Once more Lauren was thunderstruck. Underneath the orrisroot and lampblack was the face of a man much younger in years. Fitch rolled up his sleeves and quickly grabbed a musket. Like a miracle, the stooped, frail old gentleman was gone replaced by a tall robust man in the prime of his life.
“Get down!” he ordered.
Lauren continued to stare in amazement. Fitch’s voice was no longer harsh and raspy but smooth and commanding, and for the first time, she noticed finely defined muscles under his linen shirt. Too impatient to wait for her to collect her wits, he stepped over and yanked her off the horse. As she tumbled to the ground, he shook her saying, “Run!”
Grabbing her arm, they tore madly through the woods. Brush tore Lauren’s skirt and ripped her skin while branches slapped her in the face. Several times she fell, and Fitch yanked her to her feet again. He never loosened his grip on her wrist as they dashed madly through the woods.
Suddenly, a horse and rider burst onto the path followed by two more mounted regulars. The first soldier jumped off his horse, tumbling Lauren to the ground as the other two men grabbed Fitch.
One of them pulled his arms back while the other one punched Fitch repeatedly in the face and torso. He dropped to the ground panting, and the men laughed. Suddenly, a surprised look came over the sergeant’s face. He moved his lips as if trying to speak but could only sputter and gurgle as blood oozed from his mouth. The younger soldier stared at him, dumbfounded. Fitch had driven a blade deep into the sergeant’s neck.
Fitch stepped back yanking the knife out and turned to confront the younger regular, who dashed into the underbrush. Grabbing the sergeant’s musket, Fitch turned toward the large, raw-boned regular who was holding a knife to Lauren's throat.
“Let her go and you live,” Fitch ordered, blood trickling from his lip.
“Not a chance,” the regular said. “There is more help on the way.”
“Drop the knife, or I’ll kill you,” Fitch threatened.
Sweat poured off the regular’s brow.
Lauren took short little breaths, too terrified to move.
“No one is that accurate with a musket,” the soldier gloated. “You’ll end up killing the girl.”
Fitch sighed, dropping his musket. “You’re right,” he said.
“You cowardly bastard, Fitch!” Lauren screamed.
The regular started to laugh and backed away dragging Lauren with him. Suddenly there was the report of a firearm, and Lauren toppled backward with the British regular. The soldier had been shot through the forehead.
Fitch stepped over and offered his hand to Lauren. After pulling her to her feet he looked at the dead soldier and said, “You’re right, my friend. No one is that accurate with a musket. My comrade had a rifle.”
“Who--” Lauren gasped. “Who shot him?”
Fitch whistled and a tall, thin man stepped out from the underbrush.
“You knew someone was there all along!”
Fitch did not reply, bending down to pick up the regular’s weapon.
She turned to thank the young man for saving her life but stopped abruptly too startled to speak. The young man had tousled brown hair freckles and fine straight teeth, but he possessed one major flaw which overshadowed these fine qualities: he was without a nose. There in the middle of his face was a dark, gaping hole.
Lauren was too stunned to speak. The young man dropped his eyes. He turned from Lauren saying to Fitch, “We must hurry. They are near.”
Each man took an elbow propelling Lauren through the woods again. At times she felt as if she were flying. Their speed and adeptness at running through the brush was phenomenal. They leaped over fallen logs and carried her over tangled roots, avoiding branches and rocks like they were deer. She could hear the British regulars behind them, and several times shots rang out but the soldiers were at a disadvantage; horses did not fare well on this terrain. Nevertheless, when the trio reached a deer path the thunder of hooves grew louder. They were gaining ground.
Lauren saw that Fitch was growing winded, and she heard the young man shout to him, “She’s just bit farther!”
Suddenly Fitch dropped to his knees gasping and coughing. When the young man stopped to help him, Fitch gestured for them to go ahead.
The boy hesitated, and Fitch gasped, “Go, Isaac!”
Fitch rolled into the brush as Isaac clutched Lauren’s elbow. The two left Fitch and dashed through the woods again, but the regulars were soon upon them. Shots were fired. Just as a regular on horseback was about to seize them, they escaped down a steep embankment toward a river. The area was dense with foliage, and several times Lauren slipped down the incline.
Much to her surprise, there was a ship with men scrambling on the deck unfurling sails. The crew raised rifles and began to fire upon the British regulars. As they tumbled into a small boat, Isaac told Lauren to lay low to avoid shots as he paddled them to the vessel.
In a matter of moments the crew was pulling them on board, and Lauren was pushed roughly down onto the deck to avoid gunfire. The volley with the British regulars grew in intensity as Lauren heard Isaac shout, “He said we must go!”
Suddenly the sails began to bulge and the fluyt began to creak as they set sail. They continued to send rounds into the regulars when someone roared, “Look! There he is!”
Lauren jumped up, looking over the rail just in time to see Fitch running down the hill, his hair flying behind him with a musket in hand. Just as he was about to jump into the river a soldier knocked him to the ground. With the swiftness of a cat, Fitch rolled to his feet holding his musket like a club. When the regular lunged at him he took the butt of his weapon, and smashed the soldier in the face. The regular pitched back falling to the ground as three other soldiers started down the riverbank in pursuit.
Fitch plunged into the river and began swimming out to the fluyt. The crew continued to load and fire as he swam to safety. Miraculously the volleys of the regulars missed their mark. Fitch climbed a rope and hit the deck panting. The vessel was set at full sail and moved swiftly down the river leaving the British far behind.
Chapter 26
The crew sailed the fluyt up the Hudson River, and by the end of the day were well north of the city of New York. Fitch offered Lauren his cabin under the quarterdeck where she collapsed into a deep sleep until late afternoon. She had been so exhausted that she had not even noticed her surroundings, caring only for sleep to heal her tired muscles and mend her scrapes and wounds. When she opened her eyes the first thing she saw was a highly polished oak desk covered with charts and maps. Some were rolled up; others lay open as if someone had just been reading them.
Lauren stretched and sat up. She marveled at the luxurious maple paneling covering the walls and the highly polished white pine floors. She did not know captain’s quarters were this rich and comfortable. The room smelled of spicy soap and cedar with the unmistakable aura of musk reminding her that this cabin belonged to a man.
Someone had left a small tub in the room, and Lauren wasted no time locking the door and stepping into the tepid water. She took a ladle and let the water drench her auburn tresses and roll down her back. The bath felt delicious. The soap freshened her hair and cleansed her abrasion
s melting away the stiffness of her joints and the soreness of her muscles. After toweling off, Lauren stepped out of the tub looking for her riding habit. Instead, she found a clean shift and wine-colored gown hanging on the back of the door. Without hesitation she dressed, pinned up her thick hair and went out on deck.
The snow-white sails of the vessel snapped smartly in the warm breeze as the fluyt cut quickly through the Hudson. The water was as blue as the sky above it and on either side tree-covered banks rose up loftily. Fallen trees, subdued by wind littered the shore; some caught up by the branches of younger, sturdier companions, some clinging tenaciously to land while the rush of water struggled to sweep them away. Mallards rode the current while hawks and gulls soared overhead.
Several crew members greeted Lauren when she came on deck then returned to their work polishing brass fittings, coiling rope or scrubbing the deck. The ship was impeccably clean and well maintained.
Lauren was leaning on the railing when a deep voice behind her said, “The Captain would like to see you.” She turned and looked up into the kind eyes of Mr. Groot, the giant from the house on Duke Street. Before she could ask him how he had arrived so quickly from the city, he bowed and was gone. The man astonished her. His appearance was that of an overgrown oaf, yet his manner was refined and educated. She found him to be a sort of Goliath sporting a drawing room demeanor.
Fitch’s reception was not as cordial. He did not look up when she arrived at the helm. He had bathed since their adventure that morning, and he had tied his smoky blond hair back in a leather strap. He was clean-shaven and neatly dressed in a crisp linen shirt britches and boots. Gone was the frail aged creature Lauren had met on Duke Street. A vigorous, copper-skinned commander of a vessel had replaced him.
“Thank you for the tub of water and clothing. It was most thoughtful,” said Lauren.
“I didn’t do it. It was Isaac Burroughs,” he replied abruptly.
“Why did you want to see me?”
“You said yesterday that you wanted to know where you are going. Well, I have come to a decision. You will be living in the interior of the Hudson River Valley, and in time you will be working in the north on Lake Champlain.”
“What?”
“You will clean up your life. You will no longer be involved in tawdry affairs and meaningless liaisons. There will be no parties with degenerate aristocrats and no more hedonistic adventures. You will breathe fresh air and eat healthy food. You will conduct yourself in a respectable manner and exercise good taste.” Fitch looked Lauren up and down then said, “With any luck at all you will regain your looks--but I’m not hopeful.”
Her eyes narrowed, and her hand tingled with desire to slap him. “My life and my appearance are none your affair and make no mistake--I will not live in this God forsaken wilderness. Now turn this vessel around!”
“And what will you go back to? You have no home in New York, and the authorities are pursuing you.”
“If it means swimming back to civilization, I will, Fitch!” she cried.
He chuckled and shook his head.
Furious and afraid, Lauren opened her mouth to stay more but reconsidered. Her eyes were filling with tears, but she would not let this man see her cry. She turned on her heel and started back to her quarters.
“Oh, and by the way,” he called after her. “My name is James St. Clare, Captain to you.”
* * *
Lauren stayed below the rest of the day avoiding Captain St. Clare. Granted, she had grown weary of her lifestyle on Duke Street, but she did not welcome the isolation and loneliness of the frontier. St. Clare had so incensed her that she spent the afternoon pacing below, but by evening she needed to clear her mind and breathe fresh air. She climbed the companionway onto the deck. It felt good to stretch her back and watch the sun set. The crew had dropped anchor, and Lauren observed several of them on shore building a fire. Pangs of hunger gnawed at her belly, but she was too proud to ask for anything to eat. Lauren heard a noise behind her and saw what appeared to be only one-half a man smiling up at her.
“My name is Henry Bologne,” he said. “I am the ship’s purser."
Lauren stopped and ran her eyes over him. The man was without legs and his torso rested on a flat wooden platform on wheels. He propelled himself on this vehicle with his huge, overly developed arms. The ship’s purser had thick dark hair and a full beard, and he handed her a plate of food smiling broadly in spite of his missing teeth.
Lauren stammered a thank you and took the plate. She had never seen anyone so misshapen, and she was at a loss for words.
“Hear the fiddle?” he said jerking his head. “Mathias plays every evening when we drop anchor. He’s pretty good.” She looked toward the stern at the old black man with a fiddle to his chin, playing a sad tune.
“He is good. Who taught him to play?” she asked.
“No one knows, Miss. We probably never will. He is mute. Got his tongue cut out back when he was a slave. ”
Bologne looked at Lauren’s plate. “Your meal's gettin’ cold,” he said turning to go.
She watched him roll away then looked at the man who couldn’t speak. Captain St. Clare’s crew was most unusual, she mused. Lauren gobbled the food greedily, then brushed the crumbs from her skirt and walked over to the railing to watch the bonfire. The flames bathed her in flickering light as she leaned against the railing, watching the sparks jump high into the night sky.
“I was abrupt with you this afternoon,” she heard someone say.
Lauren whirled around and faced St. Clare. She raised an eyebrow and replied, “You are a man used to giving orders. I am a woman unused to following them.”
“I dare say you will be my most rebellious crew member.”
Lauren smiled. “I have some questions for you.”
“I’m afraid I cannot answer them all.”
“Please try.”
“First of all, who are you and what sort of trouble are you in?” she asked.
He studied her face for a moment carefully choosing his words. “I am an agent who provides goods to the aristocrats of the Colonies.”
“What sort of goods?”
He shrugged. “Many things-- fabrics, perfumes, wine, tea.”
“It sounds innocent enough. Why do they pursue you?”
“Because the goods are not from Great Britain.”
“Where are they from?”
“France, Spain, The Netherlands, all over.”
“So you avoid customs. What about the Benchs? What is their part in all of this?”
The men on shore laughed loudly distracting them for a moment.
St. Clare looked back at her and he continued. “Heloise has been an associate of mine for years and Cornelius too. It is simple. They move into a city, establish themselves with the local aristocracy and bribe government officials to be silent. Once everything is in place, we smuggle goods at a reduced rate to the pretentious snobs of society. Heloise convinced General Ambrose Stuart to look the other way down at New York Harbor, and it opened up the entire city to us.”
“I see,” said Lauren. “And my role was to attract men of wealth and power to this web of deceit.”
“Yes and you were good at it. Nevertheless, when General McAffee replaced Stuart, our operation fell. The man cannot be bought. An informant told him of our dealings, and he planned on arresting all of you at the dinner party.”
“What if they had caught us? What would have happened?”
“You would have been imprisoned,” he stated flatly.
Lauren gasped. All those years she had attended parties, consumed champagne and led a carefree existence never knowing the danger. “I appreciate you informing me after the fact,” she snapped sarcastically.
“Don’t play the innocent with me,” he said. “You knew Heloise was up to something.”
“I’m through with this business, St. Clare,” Lauren said, tossing her head.
“Oh you’re done, are you?” he replied. �
��Where will you go?”
“Back to New York.”
“How, pray tell?
“I’ll walk, if I have to.”
“Oh, of course! You’ll walk!” he repeated smiling. “Do you have any idea how far north you are?”
“Well I won’t stay here. It’s too primitive.” Lauren said. “I--I hate being outdoors.”
St. Clare started to laugh. “Outdoors or indoors your job now is to return to full health here in the Hudson River Valley.”
“Well, you should attend to your own health. I‘ve seen and heard your fits of coughing.”
He looked away. “My living quarters were substandard this past year. I’ll mend.”
“And what about your crew?” she said.
“What about them?”
“There’s no mending them. They’re misfits.”
His face darkened. “Misfits!” and he nodded his head briskly. “Well then you’ll fit right in because you’re a broken down old whore.”
Lauren gasped and tried to slap him, but he caught her arm in the air with a smack. With a menacing look, he held it for a moment, dropped it then left.
Ashamed she had scoffed at the crew, Lauren gripped the railing and ground her teeth, fighting back tears.
“Are you alright, Ma'am?” It was the young man who had helped her and the Captain in the woods.
Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she said, “Yes, you’re Isaac, aren’t you?”
“Aye, the First Mate.”
“I’m sorry, Isaac. I am just tired. It’s been a day of surprises.”
“Me and the crew surprised you a bit. Didn’t we Ma’am?”
Lauren started to protest but Isaac stopped her. “Not to worry. We’re used to it. We are unusual, all of us, and we are together on this vessel for a reason. Cause we’ve nowhere else to go.” Isaac smiled tenderly at Lauren and said, “You have no where else to go either.”
It was the first bit of warmth Lauren had experienced in months, and her eyes filled with tears. She looked away and cleared her throat trying to hide her emotion.
To ease her embarrassment he looked at the shore and explained, “When I was a tot, a pack of dogs attacked me and tore the nose right from my face. My poor mamma was beside herself. I bled a lot, and they thought I would die. After a while, I wished I had died. No one wanted to have anything to do with me. Everywhere I went people thought I looked disgusting, or they were scared of me, until I joined this crew.”
The Pride of the King Page 16
