The Pride of the King

by Amanda Hughes

  Fatima was dressed like Lauren, in a shift and bodice with a homespun skirt, but beside her, Lauren felt like a common sparrow.

  “You are from France, Madame?” the girl asked.

  “New France, by the Mississippi River,” explained Lauren.

  “I have heard of this river. You are far from home.”

  Lauren nodded her head. Mrs. Blasco pushed some ribbons and lace off the table so Lauren could have a seat for tea. After pouring, the old woman and her daughter pulled long pieces of material onto their laps, sat down and began to sew. Their fingers moved quickly and deftly, but they were oblivious to their work as they visited with Lauren.

  They spent the afternoon conversing in English and French, Fatima translating much of it into Portuguese for her mother. Lauren learned that in the warmer months, the family toured villages up and down the Hudson with their wagons, entertaining with music, dance and theater. Sometimes they would join with other troupes and put on small festivals celebrating midsummer or the harvest. The Blascos would entertain, all the while making contacts and new customers for The Pride of the King. Lauren noticed whenever the girl spoke of James, her eyes dropped demurely to the floor as if she was embarrassed.

  Looking at Lauren’s copper tresses Fatima apologized for her short hair. “I must keep it this way to wear wigs. Sometimes I must play a boy on stage as well.”

  Lauren looked at Fatima’s figure and thought the role of a boy would not be very convincing.

  “Do you get lonely out here all winter?” she asked

  “Oh Madame, there are ten or twelve more cabins not far from here,” gestured Fatima. “There are aunts and uncles, cousins, and many more of our people. Vincent and Gaspar have wives and children too. My Father died several years ago, so it is Mamma, Davi, and me here in this cabin.”

  Leaning forward, Lauren addressed Mrs. Blasco and said, “I was on The Pride of the King with your son, George.”

  The elderly woman looked at Fatima who translated her words. Madame Blasco shook her head and looked down. “She misses my brother very much,” Fatima said. “We are all very grateful to Captain St. Clare for his help sheltering him.”

  “He is an excellent ship’s carpenter,” Lauren offered.

  Fatima put her needle down and sighed, “Yes, he is a good carpenter, but George has been in trouble many times. Many times he has disappointed my mother, yet he remains her favorite child.”

  Late in the afternoon, a chill came into the air and Fatima and her mother brought the fire up to warm the cabin and make supper. They made spicy soup of fish, dried tomatoes and peppers which Lauren found delectable paired with herb bread.

  Lauren saw nothing of the men all day. They stayed by the sugar house watching the sap boil and making plans for the upcoming season of trade for The Pride of the King.

  When it was time to leave, Lauren thanked the women. Just as she stepped to the door, Fatima touched her gently on the arm to say something, but when she opened her mouth no words came.

  “Mademoiselle Blasco,” said Lauren. “What is it?”

  “Oh--” the girl hesitated. “Oh, its nothing, but--you are not what I thought. You are very nice. I did not want to like the Captain’s wife.”

  Lauren raised her eyebrows and laughed. “No, Mademoiselle. I am not his wife. I simply work for the Captain.”

  The girl looked surprised, and her mouth dropped open.

  “No, not like that!” exclaimed Lauren, realizing the girl thought her relationship with St. Clare was carnal. “I am hired only to find contacts at Fort St. Frederic.”

  Fatima translated for her mother, but neither one looked convinced as Lauren pulled her cloak over her shoulders. She was sick to death of everyone doubting her virtue, and St. Clare was the most condemning of them all.

  As they were leaving, Lauren saw Fatima trying to catch the eye of the Captain, but he showed no interest in the girl. It was obvious the young woman was madly in love with him, but he remained aloof as always. Lauren wondered what qualities St. Clare’s wife possessed to bewitch him into such devotion to her. Foolish women, all of them, thought Lauren, putting her hood up and starting down the trail.

  Chapter 33

  When they returned to the cabin, Lauren was tired and wanted nothing more than to drop her soggy skirt, unlace her bodice, and go to sleep, but James lit several tapers and told her to sit down. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, tomorrow we start preparations for our journey to St. Frederic. The Blasco brothers have just returned from the area. They were conducting business with the Abenaki, and they obtained the information you requested.”

  Lauren slumped into a chair. “And?” she said.

  “There is an established settlement just outside the Fort. A number of settlers reside there, some of them are farmers and some are in trades. The French are encouraging growth. They have a windmill and a sawmill. The population is much higher than I realized. These colonists need supplies and are dependent upon the mother country for a number of things. France has a monopoly on certain articles and forbids the settlers from producing some of their own necessities.

  “Yes, I remember,” agreed Lauren, rubbing her forehead.

  James continued, “A settlement beside the fort opens up many new opportunities to us; fabrics, spirits, spices and of course weapons. The war is escalating, and there will be a confrontation here soon. Many weapons and supplies will be needed. If the British cut off Fort Frederic from Montreal, the demands may be staggering. But, beware. It will be dangerous.”

  She straightened up, now interested and asked, “How many officers?”

  “Several.”

  “Married?” asked Lauren.

  “All,” was his reply.

  Lauren sighed.

  “But,” St. Clare added, there is an aristocrat visiting for the season from Montreal who is unattached.”

  Lauren looked at James, and one corner of her mouth curled up into a half smile. “I’m guessing he finds the peasant fare at the fort ghastly. He may want a cook.”

  “What if food is not important to him?” St. Clare cautioned.

  “There are two things important to a Frenchman and food is just one of them,” she replied.

  James stood up abruptly and started stacking papers. Lauren did not notice the scowl on his face. He continued, “We will say that you befriended Miss Blasco when the family was performing in the Hudson Valley, and that you are paying them everything you have to help you escape to French soil.”

  “Yes,” agreed Lauren. “Running away from my husband.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” he said curtly.

  There was a pause, and he said sharply, “We are done now. If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  Lauren ignored him, and sat for a long time absorbing this news. It was all starting to happen, and it was thrilling. She stepped behind the wooden screen, dropping her soggy clothes and putting on a clean shift for bed. She was too excited to notice St. Clare leave the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

  * * *

  The next day supplies were gathered and packs placed in canoes. James took a lantern, and in the small hours of the morning set off for the Melungeon settlement. He told Lauren to be ready by sunrise, and they would meet her at the shores of Popple Creek.

  The air was cold and filled with moisture as Lauren trudged down to the water at sunrise. The sun struggled to show through the gray clouds hanging low in the sky. She saw two canoes gliding toward her silently. Gaspar and Davi were in the first canoe followed by Vincent and a stranger just behind. “You are in this canoe,” ordered the stranger.

  She realized the stranger was James. He was dressed as one of the Blasco brothers. They had darkened his skin with makeup, and given him a woolen Monmouth cap. Lauren did not have time to ask questions. She sat down in the middle of the canoe, and they pushed off.

  The group paddled deep into the backwoods portaging the canoes over the Great Carrying Place to Lake Geo
rge by afternoon. They camped that night outside the same fur post where Lauren and James had slept the autumn before. Lauren discovered a fire pit with a wooden tripod some trapper had erected and started supper. Gaspar built a fire for her while she assembled the scant cooking supplies and ingredients they had packed. Once the stew was prepared she straightened up and stretched her back, hands on her hips looking at the men of the group. They were an unusual assortment of characters. Vincent was the oldest brother, huge, strong as an ox and good-natured; Gaspar thoughtful and kind, willing to help anyone and Davi; humorless, thin and wiry. Lauren did not trust him.

  The men stoked the fire after supper as the light faded, and the temperature dropped. The flames soared high into the sky.

  Lauren asked James about his disguise.

  “Fatima is a master of makeup and costume,” he explained. “She is the one who assisted me this morning. Thanks to her I have passed undetected a hundred times under the most dangerous circumstances, such as the night on Duke Street when I met you. Heloise didn’t recognize me at first. Corny didn’t either, but he was too drunk to see anyone.”

  “Why a disguise this time?”

  “I want to blend with the Blascos.”

  “You weren’t in a disguise the first time we came up here,’ she said.

  “I should have been. I was careless,” he admitted kicking a log in the fire. “It was almost fatal for both of us. I believe someone recognized me here at the fur post and set the trap for us at Warren‘s Landing.”

  “Why?” asked Lauren.

  “Ransom may be one reason. My organization is not entirely a secret. Maybe someone wants to take over The Pride of the King and start a smuggling operation of their own up here.”

  Lauren’s palms began to sweat. The thrill of adventure she felt yesterday seemed foolish and immature to her now. “Why did you come up here? The Blascos could have brought me to the fort.”

  “We have other business to conduct up here,” he replied. He turned to Vincent after that, and they began talking in hushed tones which made Lauren uncomfortable. She knew that there was more going on here than they were telling her.

  Even though she was exhausted, Lauren’s sleep was fitful. When they finally pushed out into the lake at sunrise, she was relieved. She wanted nothing more than to put this trip behind her and settle at the fort in a new position. All day they paddled up Lake George, the air frosty and the wind raw. Lauren cheeks were red and chapped and her body weary. It reminded her of being on the convoy in the Illinois Country, but here a heavy sense of doom clouded everything. By late afternoon, they portaged around a series of small waterfalls and joined a larger body of water James told her was Lake Champlain. He signaled to the men and said, “We will stop here.”

  They guided their canoes toward a clearing and Lauren crawled out of the craft to collect firewood for supper as the men pulled their packs out for the night. Lauren noticed James standing for a long time on the shore watching the lake, his dark eyes scanning the woods and water. Finally, he sighed and turned around. She was standing behind him, and he looked down at her. “What is it?” he asked irritably.

  “Something is troubling you,” she said.

  He shook his head and mumbled, “Nothing.”

  Lauren could tell from the pinched look on his face that he was uneasy. He had been quiet all day, constantly surveying the lake. Tired of the disguise, James took off his cap and pulled his shirt off over his head. He would put on his disguise again in the morning. Lauren stole a look at him as he bent down on one knee lathering and splashing his face and chest. She saw the well-defined muscles in his back and arms and wondered how his wife felt when he held her. She looked away. Tomorrow he would be gone, and maybe she would never see him again.

  The sun went down as Lauren finished cleaning up from supper. She hung her towel on a branch, and James took her arm leading her to the shoreline. The moon was full, casting a white glow on them as they faced one another. “This is our last night,” he began. “And you will be gone for months. Are you familiar with everything?”

  “Yes, I know how to do my job,” Lauren said rolling her eyes.

  “No, I mean have you committed to memory, the types of weapons, powder, quantities, types of luxuries we have, fabrics--”

  “We have been over this a hundred times. Yes, I know everything,” she said, nodding. “Why are you acting like this? Don’t you trust me?”

  He continued, “When you have information go to the highest point on the windmill and shine a lantern. Someone will be watching on the first day of the every week. Meet them at the base of the windmill, and tell them what you know.”

  Lauren was looking down at her nails, concerned because they were broken and jagged.

  “Are you listening to me!” he barked.

  “Yes, I am! Why are you so cross?” she complained.

  “Because this is important,” he continued. “Tomorrow is the day we will take you--”

  Suddenly, there was the crack of a musket. Gaspar was dashing from the bonfire screaming, his clothing and hair ablaze. He tore to the water, flames reaching into the sky, and threw himself into the lake shrieking and writhing in agony. Vincent was struggling with the Indian who had hurtled his brother into the fire.

  James tore up the hill, pulling a buck knife out of his belt. He yanked the Indian’s head back and drove a blade into his neck. He dragged it savagely across the throat, spraying Vincent with blood. As he threw the body to the ground another Indian dropped to one knee taking aim at him. James dove to one side as the gun went off.

  Davi was dodging the buck knife of a brawny Huron who was backing him closer and closer to the bonfire. A wounded Vincent staggered over to help his brother, but a Huron jumped in front of him, and with one swift stroke smashed Vincent’s face with a hatchet.

  Lauren watched as the Huron kicked the body out of the way and turned toward James. In a flash, she picked up her skirts and dashed up the hill. As quick as lightning, she grabbed a flaming branch from the bonfire and swung it at the Indian. The Huron jumped to one side and crouched down, growling and smiling at her. Lauren was stunned when she realized he was a European dressed as a Huron. He was about to lunge at her when St. Clare smashed his head with the butt of his rifle.

  Panting, James reached down and with one hand yanked Lauren to her feet. Davi ran over to them, blood trickling from his lip. They swung around in readiness for another assault. The three listened and waited, but it was over. The only sound was their heavy breathing and the crackling of the fire.

  James took a deep breath and murmured, “There may be more. We must move quickly.”

  Davi nodded and bent over the dead body of Vincent, gently closing his eyes. Next, he pulled the lifeless body of Gaspar from the water, placing him next to his brother on shore while Lauren and James scooped up rifles and supplies. The three survivors pushed off, looking back one last time at the two brothers at rest, side by side in the moonlight.

  They paddled swiftly in silence for what seemed like hours when finally James directed them to shore and whispered, “We are near the fort now.”

  They jumped from the canoes, crouching down in the brush by shore. St. Clare spoke to Davi for a moment, and the young man nodded. Lauren watched him take her pack out of the canoe and go into the trees across from them.

  “James, who were those men back there?” she whispered. “They weren’t Huron.”

  He shook his head and said, “No, they were not Indians. Whoever they are were they did not want to be recognized. From here you will go the rest of the way with Davi,” he stated.

  “What!” she gasped, standing up. James clapped his hand over her mouth and pulled her into a pine grove. She struggled and kicked, trying to break free.

  “Be still!” he demanded.

  Finally, she settled down, and he released her. Her chest heaving, Lauren demanded, “Why aren’t you taking me the rest of the way?”

  “I must go back. I cannot en
danger you any longer. I believe it is me they want,” he whispered.

  A chill went through her. Suddenly she realized that she was on her own again. James would be gone, and she would be all alone. The wind blew making the pines overhead sigh and creak.

  “Where will you go?” she asked searching his face in the half-light of the moon.

  “I am not sure yet.”

  “I must know,” she insisted wringing her hands. “I must know where to find you.”

  James swallowed hard and looked away exasperated. “I don’t know,’ he whispered. “I wish I could tell you, but I just don’t know.”

  “Just say it. Tell me the truth. You will return to your wife!”

  “Not this again,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t understand.”

  Lauren jerked from his grasp and started toward Davi. “Not yet,” he said, yanking her into his arms.

  She felt his arms tighten around her and felt his breath on her face. He ran his lips over her skin and down her neck, and her heart began to pound. His arms seemed to crush her as he pressed his mouth down onto her lips. Drenching in desire, she returned his kisses then suddenly remembered his wife and her spine stiffened. Pushing him away she said, “Is this how you kiss her?”

  James stopped, looked down at her in the moonlight then pulled her into his arms once more, bending her head back parting her lips. She felt the heat from his hands as he ran them up and down her back, tangling her hair in his fingers. His breathing quickened as she pushed her breasts up against his shirt wrapping her arms around his neck. He held her face running his lips over her cheeks, forehead and the tip of her nose.

  Lauren thought she heard him whisper, “Don’t go.”

  “What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.

  James stepped back, swallowed hard and replied, “I said you must go.”

  Chapter 34

  “Madame, Madame!” cried the little boy from a branch high in a chestnut tree. “Look how high I can go!”

  Lauren looked up and laughed, “High enough. You have won, Xavier. You are better at tree climbing than me.” Swinging her legs and chewing on a blade of grass, Lauren was sitting several branches below her new friend, Xavier Moreau. She was looking down on Fort St. Frederic and Lake Champlain. It was a beautiful afternoon in May and Lauren was thinking about the convent and wondering about her sister, Simone. She pictured her kneeling with a rosary in her hands, cloistered in a dark sanctuary that smelled of candle wax and incense, petitioning to save Lauren’s soul.