The Pride of the King

by Amanda Hughes

  Shaken from her reverie she blinked at St. Clare, struggling to remember what he had said. He had used her name. It was unnerving to hear him say her name, and his familiarity made her uncomfortable. To steady herself, Lauren took a pull on her ale.

  “Now listen to me,” he continued, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “I have several ideas on how you can make contacts at Fort St. Frederic. First of all you must--”

  “No,” interrupted Lauren.

  “What?”

  “Heloise and Cornelius neglected to tell you that I work alone. You will leave everything to me, or there will be no assignment,” she stated flatly.

  St. Clare’s eyebrows shot up and he chuckled, “Well, well, I have underestimated the princess.” He crossed his arms and sat back with an amused look on his face. “Go on.”

  Lauren stood up and looked out the window deep in thought, “I want the names and ranks of the officers and their marital status. I need to know their interests and dislikes. Are their wives with them? Do they have children? Do they live in the fort or a settlement outside the fort? Are they religious? Are you getting all of this?” she said suddenly looking down at him.

  Startled, St. Clare sat up and said, “Yes, yes. I will get the information for you, but who will you be? Who will you say you are?” he asked.

  Lauren sighed and rubbed her brow. She paced in front of the window thinking and muttering. The two elderly men by the fire glanced at her momentarily and went back to their conversation. St. Clare heard her mumble something about needing more information before deciding.

  At last she stopped, tossing her hands into the air declaring, “The old ways are always the best ways.” She turned to St. Clare and said, “Heloise told me to be myself whenever possible, and if I have to be someone else, I must believe wholeheartedly the lie, or I shall most certainly fail.”

  “So you will be?”

  “Me, Lauren De Beauville Heathstone, homeless French girl from New Orleans searching for a place to live. I am running away from the English Colonies and everyone I know here longing for everything French once more.”

  St. Clare sat back in his Windsor chair studying her as she looked out the window. He asked, “Is the part about running away from here the truth?”

  Lauren considered his question. “That remains to be seen,” she murmured, and looked away.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, James St. Clare took Lauren up onto the bluffs overlooking the Hudson to give her a lesson in using a rifle. It was of the utmost importance that she be familiar with firearms for her own protection and also to market the goods properly.

  They found an open area just beyond the tree-lined bluffs that looked down on Kingston landing. They could see The Pride of the King waiting patiently for them on the river below. The sun was dropping low in the sky illuminating the brilliant colors of the trees, and the wind had died down.

  It was a tedious process loading and firing the flintlock, and Lauren seriously doubted her ability to perform it correctly under pressure. Even now under St. Clare’s watchful eye, her hands shook and her palms perspired.

  “You must practice it until it becomes second nature,” he advised. “You must be able to be watching and thinking about your mark as you load. A cool head is of the utmost importance.”

  She tried it several more times until St. Clare noticed her arms were shaking. “Starting tomorrow, I want you to help Blasco and Price load cargo to strengthen your arms. These weapons are exceedingly heavy, and you must keep them steady for accuracy.”

  Looking at the weapon she asked, “Can you tell by sight where this musket was manufactured?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “This is English. I have French weapons as well. Those, of course, will go to Fort St. Frederic, but in reality the demand will be higher for powder and shot. As you can imagine, consumable goods are always in the highest demand.” Then glancing up he stated. “It is dusk already. That will be all for tonight.”

  Lauren took a deep breath and stretched. Her arms were sore and her mind weary. St. Clare walked to the edge of the embankment and gazed down at the river. The sun had set and the sky was darkening into a deep blue. A large orange harvest moon shone down on the Hudson as the fluyt bobbed on the water. Lauren walked over beside him.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked, looking out at the river valley.

  Lauren was startled. It had been months since anyone had spoken to her intimately. She knew that he was referring to Fort St. Frederic.

  She hesitated and then replied, “I don’t know. I can’t feel anything anymore.”

  St. Clare made no reply. He gathered up the guns and powder horns, slinging them over his shoulders. Lauren followed him down the path to the fluyt, which was illuminated by the full golden moon. They were trudging down the hill through the trees in silence when suddenly he stopped and faced her.

  St. Clare searched her face for a moment and said, “When I was a boy in New York. I fell into one of the canals in the winter. The water was so frigid; I knew that I was most certainly going to die. I gasped for air and floundered. Then suddenly above me in the light, I saw hands. There were hands everywhere reaching down to me. When I grasped these hands, they pulled me to the surface and saved me from drowning. These were people I didn’t know. People I had never seen before or since,” he said shaking his head. “Strangers that valued a small boy’s life enough to extend a helping hand.”

  He looked down for a moment, then up into Lauren‘s eyes, “If you start to drown, I will always reach for you.”

  * * *

  Within two weeks, St. Clare was ready to take Lauren to Fort St. Frederic. He knew they must move quickly and have her established at the fort before the snows came. She must spend the winter making contacts and gaining the trust of the French. He sat at the desk of his cabin making final preparations when Isaac knocked, entering the cabin. The Captain had sent for him.

  Isaac knew what the Captain was about to say. He had lost sleep worrying about it and dark circles lined his eyes.

  “We are leaving tomorrow. It is all written here,” St. Clare said. He stood up and handed Isaac a piece of paper. “You will find delivery locations for the firearms, fabrics, wines, perfumes and your contacts as well. Everything has been taken care of. They are expecting you. You will be in command of the ‘The Pride’ once more, Isaac. When the river becomes impassable this winter, I will meet you in Albany at the usual location. The girl is ready, and her identity is determined.”

  Isaac looked down at the floor and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. St. Clare continued arranging papers on his desk, oblivious to the boy’s anxiety. Isaac swallowed hard and asked, “Will she be in danger, sir?”

  St. Clare looked up suddenly. He studied the young man’s face then said, “What’s wrong with you? Why do you ask a question like that?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Isaac said staring at the floor.

  The Captain sighed, then turned to a cabinet behind his desk and took out two crystal glasses and a decanter of brandy, pouring a drink for Isaac and one for himself. Handing Isaac a glass he said, “You have never met anyone like this woman from New Orleans, have you? She knows and has experienced far more than you can fathom, Isaac. She is a survivor to the core. She can take care of herself, don’t worry.”

  Isaac looked at the Captain, squared his shoulders as if at attention and stated, “I cannot allow you to put her in harms way, sir.”

  St. Clare’s eyes grew large. He looked hard at the young man for several minutes, then sighed and tossed his drink back. He knew Isaac had known few females. Many times the Captain had seen girls in town recoil at the gaping hole in his face or cruelly mock him when he turned his back. Lauren was the only female to converse ever with him, or flirt with him, and St. Clare knew Isaac was madly in love with her.

  He would not punish him further. “You have feelings for this woman, don’t you?”

  Isaac said nothing.

 
; “You know she is married,” St. Clare warned, looking at Isaac out of the corner of his eye.

  “He abandoned her,” Isaac replied defiantly.

  The Captain chuckled and walked back to the liquor cabinet filling his glass one more. Isaac’s face was flushed, and he twisted his hat in his hands longing to be dismissed before he lost his temper.

  St. Clare was not finished. “Heloise schooled her for many years. She taught the girl how to entice a man, how to entertain a man, how to tease a man. Heloise made her a consummate professional. Quite simply, this woman from New Orleans is a whore.”

  Fire flashed in Isaac’s eyes, and he raised his fist to smash the Captain’s face, but quick as lightening the Captain caught his arm and lowered it gently saying quietly, “No, Isaac.”

  When the young man’s breathing slowed, St. Clare continued, “She is dangerous. Do not pine for her. She may never return. This woman is French and an adventuress to the core. She will never be satisfied anywhere.”

  St. Clare tipped his head back, tossing the other brandy down his throat. “I am sorry to be so blunt, but as you know, we must not allow our emotions to cloud our judgment here on The Pride of the King.

  He reached out and put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Sleep now. Review the information I have given you, and I will make clarifications in the morning. You are dismissed. Good night.”

  That night Isaac lay on his bed with eyes open, feeling like there was a tight band around his chest. His mouth was dry and his muscles tense. For the first time in his life, he hated the Captain. He knew Lauren was different from all the others, and he hated the Captain for demeaning her. He also knew that somewhere on the vessel she lay near him for the last time in many months, maybe forever.

  St. Clare retired shortly after the discussion as well. He lay on his back in the darkness, staring at the ceiling of his cabin too, feeling unsettled and anxious. He did not understand why this operation felt different. Was it because of the threat of war with the French, the English and all of their Indian allies? Or perhaps the coming of winter in a land filled with danger. Either way he was filled with a sense of dread which he had never felt before. He had misgivings about the prudence of the mission.

  When sleep came to him, it was fitful and restless. The same dream haunted him that night over and over, robbing him of his rest and peace of mind. It was a dream of hands reaching out to him desperately in the darkness, hands which he could not reach.

  Chapter 30

  The crew of The Pride of the King sailed on the Hudson as far to the north as the river would allow then dropped anchor, bidding farewell to Lauren and Captain James St. Clare. The two would make the remainder of their journey on foot crossing overland at the Great Carrying Place, then canoe up Lake George to Fort St. Frederic on Lake Champlain.

  Lauren dreaded saying goodbye to the crew on the morning of their departure; she squared her shoulders and climbed the companionway from her cabin to find them lined up with hats in hand, ready to bid her farewell. She shook their hands one after the other carefully avoiding eye contact, tears filling her eyes. She hated the finality of the English, “goodbye,” so she used the French phrase, “Au revoir,” hoping they would understand its meaning which was, in fact, “until we meet again”.

  At the last minute, Lauren realized Isaac was not among those on deck, and she asked Mr. Groot his whereabouts. The giant mumbled something indistinguishable and cast his eyes down. Lauren looked everywhere, but Isaac was not to be seen. She was confused and hurt. When she approached Henry Bologne for an explanation he advised her with, “Let him be, Ma’am.”

  Reluctantly, Lauren climbed into the canoe and began to paddle to shore with St. Clare. As she stepped onto shore, she searched the deck once more, but the young man never appeared to say farewell. She turned away, disappointed and hurt and began her walk deep into the interior with the Captain.

  A slate gray November sky lingered ominously over James St. Clare and Lauren as they traveled through the woods to Lake George. The wind grew cold, and Lauren pulled her hood up and her woolen cloak closely around her. She trudged behind St. Clare who said nothing only led the way in silence, carrying his rifle on his shoulder. She watched his long hair, tied back in a pigtail, trailing down his collar and his dusty three-cornered hat pushed back on his head. Occasionally the wind would carry his scent to her, a mixture of tallow soap, spice and tobacco. As much as she disliked the man, she knew she needed to stay close to him. His ability to survive gave her peace of mind as they ventured farther and farther into the wilds of the continent.

  Late that afternoon they rendezvoused with a fur trader who allowed them to sleep in his greasy cabin on Lake George. He also agreed to sell them a canoe. They would start out in the morning. Several Indians and voyageurs St. Clare knew camped nearby, setting Lauren on edge. She saw the men ogling her, and she stuffed her hair deeply under a cap putting her hood up and her eyes down.

  That evening as the two built a campfire; St. Clare informed Lauren they would canoe the length of Lake George and stay the next night at a fur trading post called Warren’s Landing. At that point, they would be close to Lake Champlain and only a few hours away from Fort St. Frederic.

  “At Warren’s Landing I will introduce you to Phillipe Cozen,” he said. “He trades furs with the English and the French. He knows both worlds and may be aware of positions at the fort for servant girls.”

  “He deals with both the French and the English?” asked Lauren suspiciously.

  “Yes, and you are right to question everyone’s motives here. Boundaries are blurred in this part of the world. The French and the English, the Mohawk, the Abenaki, and the Iroquois all mingle and spill each other’s blood in this place. There is no more dangerous part of the continent. No man can claim dominion here, and no corner is safe. Forty some years ago, France and England declared a boundary at Split Rock. New France was to stay to the north and New England to the south. Here is where the important waters converge, and whoever gains control here rules the New World.”

  The fire crackled and popped sending sparks high into the sky as Lauren looked into St. Clare’s eyes. Cold fear suddenly washed over her, and her palms began to sweat. She realized at once the danger surrounding her, and that Fort St. Frederic was indeed the heart of the beast.

  Lauren stood up and paced trying to rub the cold from her arms. She longed for the safety of the Ursuline convent, the lush surroundings of Duke Street, or even the humble loft of the Lupones. She had been wrapped in safety, swaddled in security at those places, but now she was standing in the middle of a tempest of war.

  Lauren’s sleep was fitful that night, and when St. Clare woke her hours before dawn, her muscles ached from fatigue and fear. The stale smell of animal fat and human urine from the trapper’s cabin lingered on her clothing. She longed to slide into a tub of warm water to bathe and rest her muscles, but when they pushed the canoe onto Lake George the crack of the November wind awakened her mind and heightened her senses.

  St. Clare insisted on changing their plans, and they left well before the sun rose. All day long they paddled on Lake George, the north wind pushing against them. Occasionally flakes of snow drifted down from the sky, and at these times Lauren could feel the tension in St. Clare. He was abrupt and short tempered at every turn. He allowed few breaks, driving them to press on at an unendurable pace.

  By late afternoon, they saw a break in the pine trees which he identified as the trading post of Warren’s Landing. As they steered the canoe toward the small timbered stockade the skies opened up, driving large wet flakes into their eyes blinding their approach. Lauren’s fingers were numb and her cheeks were burning. To hasten their voyage, Lauren drove the paddles deep into the water while James strained to see the landing, paddling madly as well. Through the veil of white the timbered walls of the structure became discernible, and in a moments time the shoreline was upon them. They jumped out and hastily pulled the canoe up on the sand and rocks.


  As Lauren yanked a pack out of the craft, St. Clare shouted, “Leave it!" and grasped her wrist, yanking her under some pine trees. It was quiet and dry under the blanket of green. They stood on a thick cushion of needles as Lauren wiped the wet hair from her face and rubbed the moisture from her eyes. St. Clare stood panting with his eyes riveted on the trading post, water dripping from his face and his hair plastered to his skin. His body was taut.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He ignored her question, continuing to survey the post and its environs. He grasped Lauren’s wrist like an iron shackle and whispered, “We must approach everything here with the caution of a cat.”

  At last the wind died and the snow began to drift lazily to the ground. The trading post on the hill became visible and they looked up. There on top of the small stockade were three men seated at all corners, keeping watch. They were dressed in buckskin and fur overcoats with hats pulled low and collars pulled up to protect themselves from the elements. One spare young man was sitting up at strict attention facing the lake with a musket on his lap. Another had his back to them guarding a path in the woods, and the last man faced them. He had dropped off to sleep his bearded jaw resting on his chest.

  Lauren shuddered. The snow was turning to ice on her volumes of hair. “Come, we must get warm. The snow is melting all over me,” and she took a step toward the clearing.

  “No!” hissed St. Clare, yanking her back. He pointed at the post and said, “Look you little fool. The snow is not melting on them!”

  To Lauren’s horror the snow that had gathered on the guard’s shoulders had not melted or been brushed off because the men had not moved.

  “This is a trap, they’re dead. We must get back to the canoe. No one is here yet, or we would be dead already.”

  St. Clare turned toward the canoe then stopped abruptly. “Look!”

  There on the lake was a canoe carrying three passengers heading toward the trading post. The snow intensified, and the travelers were lost from view.