“Quickly, we must pull the canoe out of sight,” he ordered.
Lauren picked up her soaked skirts dashing behind him. They dragged the canoe filled with packs onto shore behind a pile of wood cut for the upcoming winter. The snow was blinding as they ran to the shelter of the fur post. The snow was melting on the grass so their footprints were invisible. Rifle in hand, St. Clare passed through the courtyard, kicked open the door of the post and stepped in scanning the room for danger. It had obviously been ransacked. Empty crates and barrels were scattered everywhere, a fur press had been smashed to pieces, and some dried blood was spattered on the wall. Lauren followed behind him carrying a rifle too. She followed him up the ladder onto the lookouts where the dead held vigil.
“This is an old trick. They use dead bodies as decoys to lure traders with goods to the post," James said. "Go over there and strip that one of his clothing. Then push his body to the ground inside the walls of the post.”
Lauren was speechless. She blinked several times and walked toward the corpse. The boy looked to have been only Lauren’s age. He had red hair with freckles, and his wide vacant eyes resembled the milky eyes of old fish. Bile rose in her throat, but she squelched the urge to wretch and bent over undressing the corpse.
First she must pull a long stake from the jacket. The stake had held the dead boy upright, feigning guard duty. The buckskin jacket and pants were next. They were stiff and frozen as Lauren struggled, ripping the drawstrings open, pulling the pants off and yanking the shirt from a body that was stiff from death and frigid temperatures. When the corpse was reduced to only small clothes, Lauren straightened up and looked over at St. Clare. He was pushing his corpse off the wall.
“Do it!” he shouted. “Do it now!”
Lauren scrambled and sat down between the cadaver and the timbered wall, drew up her knees then pushed the body with her feet over the edge of the battlement. Before she had time to stand up and look over the edge, St. Clare was down the ladder and into the yard pulling the two bodies out of sight hiding the muskets as well.
“Now dress in his clothing quickly, and sit as he was sitting!” he barked dashing up the ladder to his post.
Lauren obeyed, dreading what she was about to do. She pulled on the stiff clothing. It skinned her knuckles and scratched her arms, but as the heat from her skin melted the ice on the fabric, the clothing gradually conformed to her body.
St. Clare finished dressing in the clothing of the bearded trader and leaned forward straining his eyes through the blizzard. He could make out the canoe coming ashore. Crawling on his hands and knees to Lauren, he pulled a pistol from his belt. “Hold your rifle in your lap and stay still. Put this pistol in your belt. You will know when it is time to kill.”
Lauren watched him crawl back to his corner, her heart pounding. Her eyes widened as he rolled forward onto the sharpened timbers, motionless. He needed to hide his face and the fact that he was clean-shaven. Suddenly, she heard voices and quickly pulled the dead boy’s cap low over her head, stuffing her long hair into the buckskin coat. With the rifle on her lap and pistol in her belt, Lauren sat upright barely breathing staring straight ahead.
A huge Mohawk man got out of the canoe first and started up the hill followed by a white fur trader. The Indian wore the traditional stiff crest of hair, or roach as it was called, along the middle of his head with a long fur coat and leggings. He carried a rifle and looked around furtively as if suspecting trouble. The European backwoodsman followed close behind him carrying a musket. He was of average height but appeared dwarfed next to the gigantic Indian. He stared up at Lauren and James. They remained motionless on the lookouts.
The last to step from the canoe was a young Indian woman who dropped her fur hood staring at the decoys as well. Her long dark hair was in a braid and her eyes sharp and clear. “The bearded one has fallen,” she said in her native tongue, pointing to St. Clare.
The Mohawk pointed down to the ground. “Someone has passed here.” His dark eyes darted around the trees and swept over the post.
The backwoodsman said nothing passing under the decoys into the yard. Lauren strained to hear his steps on the ladder, but the wind roared loudly in her ears. She saw the Mohawk enter the post as well. The Indian girl remained in front watching the woods and the lake.
There was a vibration on the floor as the men climbed the ladder. The blood rushed so madly in Lauren’s ears she thought her head would explode. Her palms were drenched, and her throat was dry.
“Straighten him,” demanded the backwoodsman of the Indian.
The Mohawk put his rifle down and started toward St. Clare just as a strong gust of wind swept across the lookouts. The wind was so strong it lifted the cap from Lauren’s head sending it soaring into the air. Her voluminous hair blew around her head, encircling her face and escaping from her jacket. The cap landed on the ground by the Indian girl, and she looked up. Her eyes widened, and she yelled to the men.
In two steps the backwoodsman was upon Lauren, yanking her to her feet. Her rifle misfired. Her heart pounding, she yanked the pistol from her belt, looked into the man’s watery eyes and pulled the trigger. Lauren saw his face explode into blood and mangled tissue. He staggered back, impaling himself on the sharpened timbers of the outpost, his musket dropping onto the ground below. Before she could take a step, the gigantic Indian was upon her, grabbing her by the neck with his bear-sized hand. She stared into his black eyes as he began to lift her from the ground. She felt her backbone stretch, and she struggled madly as he choked her. Trying to free herself, she clawed at his face, tearing at his hair. Then there was a bang, and the Indian staggered into Lauren. James St. Clare was standing behind him holding a smoking rifle.
Still alive, the Mohawk straightened up pulling a buck knife out of his legging. He lunged at St. Clare, slashing his thigh. James jumped back, dropping the rifle. With arms outstretched, he faced the Indian. The Mohawk towered over him. They circled each other as Lauren pulled herself to her feet. She could see the blood oozing onto St. Clare’s pant leg. As skilled as he was, she knew James was no match for a man of this size. She saw the Mohawk backing toward his rifle. Searching madly for a weapon, Lauren spotted the stake she had pulled earlier from the jacket of the corpse.
Lauren called, “St. Clare!” tossing him the stake. He caught it, took two steps forward and with both hands drove the stake into the Indian. Blood spattered onto his face and arms. The Indian roared and staggered back grabbing St. Clare by the jacket, toppling them both over the edge of the lookout onto the ground below.
Lauren cried out and started to run to the edge of the lookout but was stopped abruptly by a sudden burning in her shoulder. She stumbled and fell against the timber fortifications, stunned. Looking up she saw the Mohawk girl holding a smoking musket. Blood stain oozed onto Lauren’s jacket as the Indian girl began reloading.
Lauren looked about frantically for a weapon. Her heart drummed as the Indian girl withdrew the ramrod from the muzzle of her musket. So it would all end here, thought Lauren, after all she had endured, everything she had overcome, killed at an ugly outpost wearing the clothing of a corpse.
Enraged, she dashed over and said, “Not yet!” and with one swift motion pushed the girl over the wall of the outpost, musket and all.
Blood gushing from her shoulder, Lauren dropped to her knees and began to crawl toward the ladder. She must find James. She knew if she could reach him, they would find a way out of this. Then everything began to spin, and she fell to the floor losing consciousness.
The injuries and the fall from the lookout killed the Mohawk man and stunned St. Clare. Pushing the hair from his face, he dragged himself to his feet, clutching his thigh. He pulled himself up the ladder where he found Lauren unconscious and bleeding. She was alone, and he scooped her into his arms starting down the ladder. Bearing weight was excruciating, but he carefully eased her to the ground.
Concerned there may be others coming, James elected to tend Lau
ren’s injuries away from Warren’s Landing. He threw all the rifles and muskets into the canoe and pushed off. Not until he was away from shore did he notice the Indian girl waking from her stupor on the side of the outpost. They would be long gone by the time she could raise the alarm, and he turned the canoe out into the lake.
Moving them to a safe location, he rested the paddles in the canoe and bent over Lauren. She was ghostly pale, and her lips were white. He tore open one of the packs and pulled out a shirt soaking it in the lake to clean her gunshot wound. He then applied a salve of comfrey and oil he kept on hand. Even when he touched the wound Lauren did not move, her swoon was so deep. He wound a bandage made from torn small clothes then around her shoulder and eased her back onto the bottom of the canoe.
Completely drained, St. Clare slumped back panting. He was exhausted and worried. His own injuries demanded attention, so he pulled himself up again. With much discomfort, he yanked the cloth from his thigh that he had applied earlier and inspected his wound. The blood had dried underneath the dirty rag, adhering bits of fabric to the wound. He winced removing the threads one by one. After dabbing his laceration with salve, he bandaged the injury and slumped back once more. He could only rest for a moment because the sun had dropped in the sky, and already the air felt frigid. Throwing several blankets over Lauren, he picked up the paddles and moved on. Where they would spend the night was a mystery to him, but he was sure of one thing; he would return Lauren to the Hudson River Valley and bring her back to full health.
Chapter 31
The fire popped and Lauren’s eyelids fluttered. She opened her eyes and stared at the flames for a moment and then fell back to sleep. James looked up from the table of maps where he was standing and sighed. He was still not convinced she would live. He walked to the window and looked outside. The sun had set, but it was not evening yet. In a few weeks it would be the shortest day of the year. Lauren had been ill for a month, and it was not until the last few days that she had shown any improvement. On occasion she would open her eyes or mumble but nothing that lasted.
James yanked his topcoat from a peg. Taking his powder horn and rifle, he left the cabin to find food. The dwelling where Lauren slept was the hideaway of James St. Clare. It lay deep in the interior on Popple Creek which flowed into the mighty Hudson highway. Lauren was its first guest, and it sheltered her from the raging snow and winds of December. St. Clare used the cabin to collect his thoughts and formulate new plans. Here he could rest and think clearly being free of intrigue and tension.
The cottage was furnished simply but had a quality of complete security and warmth. There were several braided rugs on the pine floor woven in warm rich colors and a bed warmer rested against the hearth near the trivets, kettles and pots. A small corner hutch was by the fireplace with several painted plates and cups that appeared to be Dutch, and two Windsor chairs sat on either side of a homemade table by the window with a candle on it. St. Clare’s bed was pulled in front of the fireplace for Lauren. She was buried in clean white goose down blankets and pillows. A bedroll lay on the floor where St. Clare slept.
What was singular about this dwelling was its camouflage. St. Clare had constructed it partially into a hill and the face of the cottage was completely covered in vines, so when the house was not in use, the front of the cabin could be covered easily with brush and leaves and hidden from view. It was a refuge for James and a corner of the world all his own. A world he had shared with no one until now.
Lauren opened her eyes again and looked around the room. She could not get her bearings. The last time she had this experience she was in the house of Madame Vanoss, and this certainly was not that dwelling.
The door swung open and in stepped James St. Clare. After stamping the snow from his feet, he put his overcoat on a peg and walked to the fireplace to put his rifle on the rack. Suddenly, he stopped and turned around. Lauren had been staring at him. She looked into his dark eyes and smiled. He laughed and said, “My God, girl. I thought you were going to leave us.”
Before he could say anything else Lauren drifted off again.
* * *
The next morning, James helped Lauren sit up and gave her some broth from the stew he made. It steamed as he fed it to her, and the warm liquid cleared her throat enough for her to ask him questions. He told her that he had canoed all night that first night, thanks to a full moon, getting them to safety. Then at a fur post he bought supplies and hired two boys to portage his canoe back to the Hudson, leaving it at the mouth of Popple Creek. He dragged her on a litter over the Great Carrying Place, and then canoed up Popple Creek to this cottage.
As sick as she was, Lauren understood the magnitude of this undertaking and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Here, eat more,” he demanded. “I’m tired of taking care of you.”
The following day, Lauren sat up taking solid foods and steadily making progress everyday thereafter until she was able to walk small distances.
One evening St. Clare announced, “The crucible of hot water for your bath is ready. I am going to pour it in the wooden tub here by the fire. I will help you in.”
Lauren blanched. “I think not,” she said.
“I think so,” he stated firmly. “You may leave your shift on but you must wash. It is time to thoroughly wash the stench of disease and death off of you.”
Lauren remembered wearing the clothing of the corpse and nodded her head.
He stood up and ladled buckets of hot water into the tub. After getting a crock of soap and a towel, he rolled up his sleeves. Lauren could not help noticing the muscles in his forearms and his tan skin. She felt unsettled as she watched him stoke the fire.
He looked outside and said, “It is snowing again. You know that it will be Christmas soon. You have slept a long time.”
He bent over the bed looking into her amber eyes and pulled the covers back. Sliding one arm under her back and the other under her knees, he picked her up and held her for a moment. Lauren had never been this close to him before. She felt his warm skin and his breath on her face. It seemed effortless for him to lift her.
James lowered her into the warm water, and Lauren felt herself melt. It felt delicious and relaxing in the bath by the fire. Her thin shift did little to hide her figure, but it was enough to satisfy her modesty. She picked up the soft soap and began to lather her arms while James knelt by the tub, unwinding her braid. She did not see him holding the auburn tresses in his hands, pulling handfuls up in the flickering light. He washed her hair by the fire, running his fingers over her scalp, lathering her tresses, pouring water down her hair and over her body. It had been months since anyone had touched her, and Lauren felt confused. Only a few weeks ago this man had treated her with disdain, now he took care of her.
James lifted her out of the tub, water running down his clothing. Her shift hugged her skin, and he ran his eyes down her figure then up again, stopping at her lips. The firelight danced over them and for a moment Lauren lost herself. Fear, loneliness and desire all clouded her judgment, and she opened her lips to kiss him. James leaned toward her, and then as if embarrassed, he set her down on her feet abruptly. He mumbled something about her catching cold and handed her a towel with a clean shift.
Lauren felt foolish and awkward. She looked at the floor and folded her arms in front of herself. St. Clare put on his coat and went out standing for a long time outside the door, staring straight ahead. Then he walked briskly down to the creek.
Putting on a dry shift, Lauren slid into bed. She was embarrassed. He had made a fool of her, and that would not happen again. It was nothing more than a moment of desperation. The last man for whom she had felt passion was Frederick Brink, and that had ended in disaster. No man would toy with her again. St. Clare was married, and that was the end of it.
When James returned, his arms were filled with firewood. Without a word, he threw some logs on the fire and snuffed the candles by her bed. Lauren pretended to be asleep, but she saw him walk to t
he cupboard and pour a drink. He did not sit down. He stood there tipped his head back and poured the drink down his throat and then repeated it again. He went at last to the Windsor chair by the window and sat down to smoke. She did not know how long he sat there, but in the morning he was gone.
* * *
On Christmas Eve, Lauren felt strong enough to go outside. James had left early that morning to hunt, so she stepped outside the cottage door and looked around. The air was cold, but she tied her cloak around her shoulders and stepped out. It was a clear afternoon, and she watched a brilliant red cardinal and his mate pick seeds from an evergreen. She could make out James’ footprints crossing the frozen creek and trailing out under the trees. She wished he would not come back. She wanted to get as far away from him as possible, but she needed him. She longed to go back to New York or even to Fort St. Frederic, but now in the middle of winter that was impossible.
The wind picked up reminding Lauren of her task. Gingerly, she took steps to a pine tree near the house cutting several boughs and putting them into a basket. It was difficult for her to raise her arm, but she knew she must work the muscles to loosen the painful, stiff joint.
Returning to the cottage, she arranged the branches on the mantel and placed some over the window. The birds had left a few red berries on a bush outside the door, and she scattered those among the greenery for color. She smiled when she remembered the angry chickadee scolding her as she plucked them from the branch.
Tired but satisfied, she sat back in a chair to observe her work. It pleased her to see a bit of cheer this time of year. She missed life in New France. New Englanders were so austere and serious, she mused. The nuns had always made the season so joyful, and she remembered her days in Kaskaskia; the Christmas Eve Gabriel danced with Anne, the snowball fight with Rene when he kissed her, and playing cards with Madame Aberjon on Christmas day. They had made themselves sick on chocolate and petite fours, laughing until they cried. They were all gone from her now, many dead and gone forever, and Lauren suddenly felt cold.
The Pride of the King Page 20
