The Pride of the King

by Amanda Hughes

  Lauren’s prison cell was nothing more than a wooden box, smaller than a coffin, and she could only lay in the enclosure with her knees drawn up to her chest, languishing on soiled straw, delirious and injured. A soldier shoved food and water through the bars, but it was of no consequence; she ate nothing and drank little.

  “It’s only a matter of time for you. You English cunt,” the guard snarled. “They’re making gallows special just for you.”

  He bombarded Lauren with insults throughout the day, but she did not respond. On most occasions, she was unaware of his comments, being too weak and too tired to be aware of anything. After the third day, it became difficult for her to distinguish illusion from reality. Her perception of time became confused; one moment she believed she had been in jail for months, the next for only for a few hours.

  One morning she heard a jangling of keys, the grinding of a lock, and the door was yanked open. Reaching in, the guard yanked Lauren up out of the cell to set her on her feet. She crumbled to the floor, her legs too weak and numb to stand.

  “Bring a cart!” he demanded of another soldier. “Jesus Christ, she stinks,” he said, turning his face away in disgust.

  They dropped Lauren onto a pony cart and wheeled her across the parade ground into a room on the first floor of the citadel. It was the headquarters of the commanding officer of Fort St. Frederic, Paul Louis Dazemard de Lusignan. Lauren opened her eyes as they placed her on a chair in the middle of the room, a room filled with men in blue uniforms. An older gentleman in a powdered wig presided at the desk while several officers stood at attention behind him. Gautier was among them, a bandage over one eye. The room was small and crowded, filled with the musky odor of men in unwashed woolen uniforms.

  Lauren struggled to hold her head up, but she was too weak, her chin dropped down onto her chest, her hair hanging in matted tangles around her face. The trial was quick, a mere formality for the officers of Fort St. Frederic. In their eyes, the girl was guilty of treason well before the hearing. Gautier accused her of being a spy for the British, and they convicted her without question. Lauren heard the words treason and punishment, and then someone leaned close to her ear and roared, “I said, ‘Do you want a priest!’ ”

  With great difficulty, she raised her head and whispered, “Yes.”

  The officer straightened up and ordered, “Get him over here!”

  Lauren’s mind drifted to the Ursulines. Once more she heard their soft voices and whispered prayers. She was back in New Orleans, young again and filled with hope and promise. Sister Gertrude smiled down at her brushing the hair from her face. Lauren could feel the touch of the young nun’s hand as she lifted her chin.

  Opening her eyes, she realized that it was Father Reynard, the old deaf priest, who had heard her confessions at the fort. He placed a small piece of paper into her hand, closed her fingers on the note, and then teetered back to a corner. Lauren tried to read it, but her eyes would not focus. One of the officers grabbed it from her roughly. He squinted at the note and exclaimed, “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Just read it out loud,” barked the commanding officer from his desk.

  The officer looked down at the note and announced, ‘If you start to drown. I will always reach for you.’ ” He shrugged handing the paper to the commanding officer.

  Dazemard muttered impatiently, “Must be from the Bible. The old fool.”

  Lauren opened her eyes blinking several times as if waking from a dream. She recognized those words but could not place them. Where had she heard them before? They sounded so familiar. Then in a rush, she remembered. James St. Clare had spoken those words to her last autumn on the banks of the Hudson River, when he told her about falling through the ice as a child. Lauren lifted her head and looked for the priest. He was standing quietly in the corner. It took a moment for her vision to adjust, and then she recognized him. The eyes were unmistakable. Father Reynard was none other than James St. Clare.

  * * *

  “I want every inch of the fort watched, the settlement, the lake and the woods!” demanded Gautier pacing anxiously. “St. Clare will come for her tonight. I know it.”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” replied an officer, who bowed briskly and left the room.

  Everyone had left headquarters except Commander Dazemard de Lusignan and Gautier. The commander was lounging behind his desk, packing a pipe as Gautier paced back and forth dressed in dark blue breeches and waistcoat, an expensive white wig arranged on his head. His left eye was covered in a bandage and three red gouges ran up his forehead as if he were wearing a plumed mask for Carnival.

  “You’ve told me little about this St. Clare,” said Dazemard putting his feet on the desk and lighting his tobacco.

  “There is little to tell,” said Julien, placing a hand on his hip. “He is an adventurer from the English Colonies, a smuggler and profiteer who masquerades as a gentleman.”

  Stroking his chin, Dazemard studied Gautier. “Why is he a threat to you?”

  Julien shrugged, “He is of little consequence to me. Although, I think the interests of the Crown may be at risk.”

  The commanding officer smiled. “Oh, of course you have the best interests of the Crown at heart,” he said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “But this St. Clare may interfere with your business ventures as well.”

  Gautier said nothing.

  The commander continued, “You and your brothers have always dominated the merchant shipping industry in New France. Is it possible this man may prove to be more daring and successful than you?”

  Ignoring the comment, Gautier looked out the door at Lauren as she was being pushed back to her cell in the cart. The soldiers were returning her to the stockade where she would await hanging the next morning.

  “What does that woman know about you?” Dazemard de Lusignan asked after looking at Lauren.

  Gautier shrugged. “I told her I was a fur trader from Montreal, nothing more. The women I tumble don’t need to know anything about me.”

  “Yes, it really is unnecessary. Isn’t it?” agreed the commanding officer. “They find out soon enough what a ruthless bastard you are anyway.”

  * * *

  It was growing late and only a few torches lit the dark parade ground. The soldiers on guard duty leaned carelessly on the battlements, and two officers played cards outside the door of the citadel. They leaned back in their chairs, their boots on a barrel examining their cards, talking quietly while three Huron Indians stooped near a fire smoking in silence. Most had retired for the night.

  Everything was still until Father Reynard banged the chapel door, stepping out into the courtyard, holding a leather bag in his hand. He nodded a greeting to a Mohawk slave woman pulling a fertilizer cart and continued slowly across the parade ground toward the stockade acknowledging no one else. At the sight of the wagon, the Huron scattered aromatic herbs on the fire. They knew the honey cart was filled with human feces used as fertilizer for the fields.

  Suddenly a gust of wind swept across the courtyard whipping the cassock of the priest and blowing a hat off of an officer playing cards. Everyone looked to the sky. Clouds were sailing across the moon and a rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. The officers grumbled, threw their cards down and retreated inside the citadel to avoid the rain as the sentries on the bastions pulled up their collars. Only the Hurons ignored the threat remaining outside.

  Father Reynard hobbled up the steps and into the stockade. It was a small timbered structure, holding six cells for prisoners. It had a stone floor and the enclosure smelled musty and damp.

  “What do you want?” barked a guard at the old priest. Father Reynard continued past him without a word. “Hey! Just what do you think you are doing?” The guard hopped to his feet in a huff then stopped abruptly remembering the old man was deaf and dumb. He was too feeble to present any kind of a threat, so the soldier waved his hand in disgust and sat back down.

  Father Reynard approached Lauren’s cell bending dow
n stiffly onto one knee, opened his pouch and drew out a crucifix, then some bottles containing holy water and oil used for the sacrament of Extreme Unction. Seeing this, the guard relaxed. He sat back in his chair crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  Father Reynard made the sign of the cross and put oil on his finger reaching through the bars to anoint Lauren. He bowed his head in prayer as the guard’s eyelids grew heavy.

  Suddenly a bell clanged outside the door of the stockade. With a start, the guard sat up, cleared his throat and shouted, “Alright, God damn it, just a minute!”

  Grumbling profanities, he got up stiffly, and went to the door. The same Mohawk woman Reynard had greeted earlier waited outside with the honey wagon. She was dressed in a traditional buckskin shift, her black hair hanging in a neat braid down her back. She had come to collect excrement from the stockade.

  “Well, well,” the guard said running his bloodshot eyes over the girl’s cinnamon colored skin. “I don’t remember you.”

  She smiled and cast her eyes down modestly. In the dim light, he could see the curve of her full breasts under her supple, leather shift. Licking his lips, he moved closer to get a better look. Suddenly, he stumbled forward abruptly with a grunt. His eyes bugged out as he staggered, then tumbled to the ground, hitting his head on the stone floor like a melon.

  Fatima, masquerading as the Mohawk, jumped back to avoid the sentry’s fall. James threw aside the chair he had smashed over the guard’s head and smiled down at her. Fatima felt a thrill go through her body. In spite of the disguise of an old man, Fatima could still feel the youth and vigor emanate from St. Clare.

  He bent down to make sure the Frenchman was unconscious as she scanned the parade ground. They grabbed the guard’s feet and tossed him into the honey wagon. Although it was empty the stench was overwhelming, and they turned away in disgust.

  Next St. Clare unlocked Lauren’s cell, rolled her in a blanket and placed her carefully in the wagon as well. He was glad she was unaware of the pungent smell as he covered the vehicle with a tarp and signaled for Fatima to take the reigns.

  “Is Davi waiting on the road?”

  “No, his leg is broken. George is here instead.”

  St. Clare scowled. George had a temper, and he did not want trouble. Still dressed as Father Reynard, James pulled up the hood of his cassock and hobbled back across the parade ground toward the chapel. There was a crack of thunder, and it began to pour. The wind began to blow the rain in horizontal sheets, and the sound was deafening. Water ran down Fatima’s forehead and into her eyes plastering the hair to her face. St. Clare watched the girl approach the gate. She pulled up on the reigns until a sentry jerked his thumb toward the road directing her to cross the drawbridge. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, enslaved Mohawks transported excrement to the fields every night.

  St. Clare knew that the gatekeeper would never ask to see the contents of a honey wagon and with the rain; it was even more unlikely he would climb down from his post to investigate.

  Fatima passed out of sight unmolested to meet her brother, George Blasco, who was waiting down the road in the bushes. The plan was to toss the unconscious guard into a ditch and carry Lauren to the safety of a canoe on Lake Champlain where Isaac waited ready to take Lauren back to the Hudson Valley.

  Father Reynard approached the gate shortly thereafter. The old cleric was known to minister to the sick at all hours of the night in the village, so when he teetered by, nothing seemed unusual either.

  The rain pummeled St. Clare’s back and soaked his robe as he hobbled across the drawbridge. The material was heavy with moisture and weighed him down considerably. He longed to break into a run, but knew that he was still in plain view of the fort. Finally, by an abandoned cabin, he ducked into an outhouse where Fatima had hidden dry clothing and a rifle. Shedding the wet woolen robe, James yanked on his breeches, shirt and boots and loaded his firearm. Using his soaked garment, he rubbed his face clean of makeup, then stepped cautiously out into the night.

  Dashing into the woods, he ran down an overgrown path, holding his rifle out at his side, jumping over branches and tearing through underbrush. He must move quickly before his powder became damp. Emerging from the trees, he arrived at Gautier’s cottage.

  He took several long strides to the threshold and kicked the door open. Pointing his rifle, he stepped in cautiously scanning the sitting room and kitchen. It was dark except for a few embers in the grate. They shed enough light for St. Clare to see the remains of supper scattered on the table. He heard a woman giggle behind a closed door. Without hesitation he lifted his boot and smashed the door open. There on the bed was Gautier naked, his pale skin covered in perspiration and a woman with blonde hair straddling him. The bug eyed female screamed and leaped off Julien, dashing out of the room.

  St. Clare dropped his rifle, reached down and pulled Gautier to his feet, ramming him into the wall before he had a chance to move. A mirror crashed to the floor and a small end table toppled, smashing a crystal decanter. Julien whimpered and squirmed as St. Clare choked him.

  “Tables have turned,” hissed St. Clare. “Now you are the woman struggling.”

  He ripped the bandage from Gautier’s face revealing a scarred and disfigured eye. “I see she left her calling card. That’s my girl.”

  St. Clare itched to kill this dandy, but chose a warning instead. “Know this,” he snarled. “If you ever harm my family again I will ruin you and your little cartel. Killing you is too merciful. Instead, I will see you lose everything. You will be reduced to a dog on the street. Mark my words, Gautier. I will find you.”

  With that, St. Clare dropped the Frenchman, and he fell to the floor gasping for air, his naked body a ghostly gray. James picked up his rifle, put one leg on the bedroom sill, and hoisted his body through the window just as regulars rushed though the front door of the cottage. He slipped down the steep hill to the lake shore, the embankment slick with mud and debris. The rain had ceased, but the descent was slippery. Just as he reached the shoreline, the clouds passed from the moon illuminating two canoes waiting out in the lake.

  James plunged into the black water and swam out to the craft where he caught the outstretched hand of George Blasco. After pulling his Captain to safety, he paddled furiously to where Isaac and Fatima waited with Lauren. Shots rang out from the French, but it was too late. The members of The Pride of the King were underway for New England.

  Chapter 37

  They canoed down Lake Champlain the night of the escape unmolested, then across Lake George and moved Lauren overland, joining The Pride of the King after several days. They were fatigued but joyful. With diligence and care, the ship’s company brought Lauren back to full health in a matter of days.

  The fluyt resumed sailing on the Hudson leaving St. Clare in Albany to attend to business at Fort Orange and Fatima in Rhinebeck to join her mother. Once recovered, Lauren returned to her duties as cook feeling as if she had never left The Pride of the King. She was at peace here, and the current of the Hudson animated her body as if it was lifeblood.

  Although there was a routine, the days were never monotonous. Lauren would rise before the sun, shop for food on shore in town, feed the crew breakfast, then bake and cook all afternoon preparing an evening meal. The crew slipped back into their old routines as well. Henry Bologne joked with Lauren again, Robert and Mr. Groot ran errands, and even George Blasco conversed with her on occasion. Her distaste for the man lessened considerably after she had witnessed his loyalty to his family, yet she would never be entirely comfortable with him.

  Everyone reverted to the old ways again except Isaac. Always courteous, never rude, the young man avoided Lauren, and she avoided him. He did not invite conversation, and Lauren did not encourage it. She did not press him and stayed at a respectful distance. Reluctantly she admitted St. Clare had been right; Isaac had cared for her beyond friendship. She did not try to ease her guilt by making amends with him, but carried on in silence.


  She was also silent about the absence of Captain St. Clare and her longing to see him again. It had been easy to push the man from her mind in New France. She was infatuated with Julien and life at the fort was a novel distraction, but now back on The Pride of the King she was reminded of him constantly. His imprint was on every aspect of the ship, his memory a constant.

  On one occasion she stole into his cabin in the quarterdeck and stood as if hypnotized, memorizing every detail of his room and his belongings. It appeared as if James had just stepped out. Maps and parchments were scattered on his desk, he had left his chair pushed back, and his berth was rumpled and unmade. The cabin was small but warm and inviting.

  An old barrel, gray and rusty with age, caught Lauren’s attention. It appeared to be serving as a nightstand by the bed with a half consumed glass of brandy sitting on top of it. Barely visible on the side of the cask were the words, ‘Châteaux St Clare, Provence.” Lauren gasped, realizing that this was the barrel from which he had obtained his surname. She ran her hands along the coarse wood, smiling at his sentimentality.

  Then impulsive as always, she stepped over and pressed one of his shirts to her to nose, taking in his scent once more. Suddenly, tears filled her eyes, and she brushed at her face frantically, fearing discovery. Lauren left the room abruptly, vowing never to return.

  The days grew shorter as autumn arrived in the Hudson River Valley. The Pride of the King returned to Albany and Lauren felt the excitement in her grow. She did not care if St. Clare had been with his wife or any woman for that matter; she just wanted to lay eyes on him once more. She told herself she needed to thank him for his daring rescue, but in reality, she just wanted to be near him.

  The first day in Albany she waited patiently, and he did not return to the fluyt. The second day, Lauren found herself bored and irritable as the crew went on shore for leave. She cleaned her room and the galley from top to bottom, collected slush from the barrels, shined pots and pans, did her laundry, and then when the warm autumn sun beckoned, she went ashore to shop and amuse herself. When she returned, Henry Bologne handed her a note from Captain St. Clare. Lauren’s heart jumped. At last, he had contacted her. He requested her presence at the 'Red Lion Tavern' at sunset for an urgent meeting.