The Pride of the King

by Amanda Hughes

  “You don’t seem afraid at all,” she said one day to Mrs. Quill as they entered the tavern hanging their cloaks on pegs by the door.

  Mrs. Quill walked stiffly over to the fire and threw another log onto the grate. “I am not afraid anymore. I have lived out my days. I will die a woman contented with her life.” She sat down and watched Lauren as she stared into the fire. “You, my dear are not content. You still have a life to live. That is why you fear losing it.”

  “But I never cared before. I don’t understand. I never cared until now,” Lauren replied.

  The matron picked up her sewing and began to stitch. “Perhaps for the first time there is someone that needs you to live,” Mrs. Quill suggested.

  * * *

  While Lauren made her life in Hampsted, The Pride of the King put out to sea. They left the customs officers along the coast, Heloise and Cornelius in Providence then headed to warmer waters to seek firearms. All winter long they acquired contraband then returned to the Hudson River Valley in the springtime, successful and bulging with munitions, eager to supply the British or the French with low cost weaponry.

  General McAffee’s replacement in New York City, General Barnhill, welcomed bribes, so the fluyt had little trouble sailing past the city and on up the Hudson. They navigated far to the north to the secluded creek, and then canoed munitions up the water to the remote gunsmith operation Lauren had visited two years earlier. There the guns were refurbished and stored until buyers were obtained.

  Everyone who knew Captain St. Clare noted a change in him since he left the Van den Berg manor. He had never been a demonstrative man, but now more than ever, he retreated within himself. He spent hours alone in his cabin examining charts and maps and pouring over plans. He was short with the crew and impatient with his business associates. Occasionally he went ashore to visit patroons on business and could be seen dining with some of the more distinguished women of Albany, but he never visited the same one twice. He always returned to the fluyt sullen and out of sorts as if dissatisfied and frustrated.

  The crew had changed as well. The loss of Isaac then Lauren drained the joy from the men, and laughter was seldom heard anymore. The work of sailing the fluyt, once a pleasure and a satisfaction now turned to drudgery. The crew merely went through the motions of sailing her.

  In spite of it all, the organization prospered. The war between the English, French and their Indian allies fueled the growth of the operation, and James St. Clare seized every opportunity to expand. At last he had found several contacts in New France who were willing to initiate trade with the Pride, and the expansion of troops on Lake Champlain and Lake George provided ample opportunities to supply arms to both sides, including the Indians.

  It was for this reason that Captain St. Clare left the fluyt and traveled first to his gunsmith community, then to the north to his cabin and the Melungeon settlement on Popple Creek.

  “Ola` Capitao!” called George Blasco as St. Clare stepped off the path late one afternoon into the clearing of the Melungeon community. In three long strides the ship’s carpenter was upon him, shaking his hand vigorously.

  “Welcome back!” George said.

  “I am glad to see you are well after your run in with the authorities,” said St. Clare. “And how does Mr. Misckowic fare?”

  “He left, Captain, when the roads became passable. He didn’t say where he was going.”

  St Clare scanned the settlement. “I see new cabins.”

  “Two couples have just wed,” explained Blasco. “My cousin is expecting their first child. Family is good. No?”

  St. Clare smiled and nodded. He knew in spite of the upcoming birth, a void was strongly felt in the community after the loss of Vincent and Gaspar. The men shouted greetings and put down their work gathering around the Captain eager for news as the women stood in the back straining to hear what was being said. Captain St. Clare informed them of the successful acquisition of guns and new contacts, and then the Melungeon men informed St. Clare of troop movements, French and English.

  “Is it true the Hurons and Abenaki have been conducting raids?” St. Clare asked.

  “Yes, but it is the white soldiers we fear above all,” they replied.

  Davi looked around as if searching for someone, “You have come alone this time? No Madame?”

  “No, no Madame,” St. Clare said flatly. Any reference to Lauren made his throat tighten.

  Suddenly, a woman demanded in Portuguese, “Step aside, you oafs! Move out of the way!”

  The men parted and there stood the tiny, aged matron Madame Blasco. “Come, come!” the wizened old woman barked, taking St. Clare by the hand. “You are hungry.” She lead him to a long table placed under a large oak tree, gave him some ale, bread and cheese and hobbled back to her cabin to prepare supper.

  Fatima, delighted to see James, visited with him for a moment before she too disappeared into the kitchen with the rest of the women. St. Clare could not understand why her face was so flushed and why she was so tongue tied.

  Several more tables were set up and everyone gathered for supper just as the sun was about to go down. After a hearty meal of venison, root vegetables and pie, the men gathered around a large bonfire for an evening of drinking and taking tobacco. As James walked over he noticed several Indians sitting off in the shadows. There were three of them, two men and a woman. They were of a tribe he did not recognize. The men’s heads were shaved except for a single scalp lock, and they wore colorful tunics over their buckskin pants.

  “They work for you, Capitao,” Davi explained. He introduced St. Clare to the two men who told him in English that they had traveled a long way from the lands of their people, and that they were of the Chickasaw nation far to the west. St. Clare remembered that several years back he had hired interpreters for the organization, but he had never met them. He employed in all eight Chickasaw individuals who were strategically placed across the northern colonies. When a confidential message needed to be sent it would be dictated to a Chickasaw interpreter. The interpreter carried the message to its destination, often over great distances and under great peril. Being of a separate Indian nation and speaking the Muskegon language, the Chickasaw was considered neutral in the war posing no threat to either side.

  “I hold your skills in high esteem, gentleman,” said James. “Thank you. It is an honor to have you serve with us.”

  As he was about to turn away Davi took his arm and nodded in the direction of a woman, “There is another you have forgotten and is probably the most learned of the eight Chickasaws.”

  A petite woman stepped forward. She wore a buckskin shift and her black was hair tied on top of her head with decorative beads. St. Clare noticed her face was scarred. He nodded a greeting and said, “I am told you have exceptional skills. What languages do you speak?”

  “English, French, my people’s language and now Portuguese. I was a slave for many years, Captain St. Clare and forced to learn the words of the white man.”

  “Where were you enslaved?”

  “On the great river called the Mississippi in a town named Kaskaskia,” she said.

  James stared at her a moment then took Davi by the arm, turning away from the girl. He whispered, “Is this the woman Adair Heathstone purchased from the French years ago?’

  “Yes,” Davi said. “She was about to be hanged. Do you know her?”

  St. Clare did not reply but approached the young woman once more.

  He put his fist to his lips for a moment deep in thought then said, “You left Kaskaskia several years ago after being emancipated by an Englishman. Is that correct?” She nodded and James continued, “With the understanding you would serve as an interpreter for The Pride of the King for a set period of time.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, her brow furrowed.

  Every muscle in his body pulled tight as he searched her face. “Please think back to when you were in the town of Kaskaskia. Did you ever meet a girl by the name of De Beauville?”<
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  The young woman frowned, and she shook her head slowly.

  “Are you certain?” he urged.

  He studied her face. Again she shook her head. St. Clare sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Just as he was about to turn away he realized his mistake. “No,” he exclaimed, correcting himself. “No, it was not De Beauville. It would have been Heathstone. Lauren Heathstone.”

  The young Chickasaw’s eyes widened, and she nodded. She began to chatter excitedly in French.

  St. Clare grasped her arms and cried, “In English, please!”

  “Yes! Lauren was my friend there. My only friend,” she said thickly, her excitement and scarred lip slurring her speech.

  “What is your name?”

  “At that time, I was called Eugenie,” she replied. “I lived at the Aberjon household with her.”

  St. Clare ran his eyes over Eugenie. Just being near someone who had been close to Lauren gave him joy. For the first time in months, he smiled and said, “Yes, she spoke of that place, and she told me that she had a friend there.”

  “Is she near?” she asked.

  “Yes. I believe she lives somewhere on the Hudson River. Please sit with me,” he said gesturing politely for her to sit down by the fire. “We must speak of many things.”

  Chapter 44

  The winter had been long and exceptionally cold in the Hudson River country. When the sun finally strengthened and began to stir the inhabitants of the valley, Lauren was beyond restless. Something erupted within her that was akin to panic as she watched for the signs of spring. Mother Nature played its usual tricks, melting the snow one day and sending an icy blast the next, teasing everyone especially Lauren into a frenzy of frustration. She was anxious to be as far away from the Boar’s Head Tavern as possible, gone from the river valley. She knew that in no time the white sails of The Pride of the King would billow on the waterway, and she was determined never to see its captain again.

  “This is impulsive foolishness. You are nothing more than an immature flibbertigibbet!” barked Mrs. Quill when Lauren informed her she was leaving with the first thaw.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Lauren said. “You have two new barmaids starting soon. They will help you.”

  The matron trotted behind Lauren as she carried a load of wood into the kitchen one dark morning. She dumped the pile by the hearth and bent over to feed the fire, ignoring the woman’s badgering. Mrs. Quill made several more comments then scooped up her little dog Ogden and placed him on the canine turnspit to run the treadmill which turned the meat.

  “How do you think you will live? How are you going to feed yourself?” she pressed.

  Lauren tossed Ogden a bit of fat ignoring Mrs. Quill’s challenge.

  “Who are you running away from?” the woman continued.

  Lauren stood up straight and said, “If that had been your business, I would have told you a long time ago.”

  “It has something to do with that St. Clare man doesn’t it?”

  “St. Clare?” Lauren said shrugging. “I hardly know him.”

  “Know him! No one knows him. That is part of his damned allure.”

  Lauren swung around with a look of surprise at Mrs. Quill.

  “Oh come now,” the matron said. “I may be a horse faced old woman, but I can still appreciate a fascinating man.”

  Lauren had to agree, he was an enigma, but she was no longer interested in his riddle. At the first opportunity she would put a great distance between them.

  Mrs. Quill looked at Lauren out of the corner of her eye and remarked, “The townspeople say that he is your husband.”

  Lauren stopped prodding the fire. She clenched her teeth then said, “The residents of Hampsted enjoy speculation.”

  “Word travels fast up and down the Hudson especially among servants and workmen. They have big ears,” Mrs. Quill said smugly.

  “And even bigger mouths,” Lauren replied. She wiped her hands on her apron and passed into the empty common room.

  Mrs. Quill followed her, continuing to talk while Lauren lowered the wooden chandelier lighting several candles. “I think you are in love with your husband.”

  “And I think you are on a flight of fancy, Mrs. Quill. No one marries for love. You know that marriage is nothing more than a business agreement.”

  “Yes, but on rare occasions spouses fall in love with each other after they are married.”

  Lauren stopped and looked at the matron, saying with surprise, “I believe you fell in love with your husband.”

  Mrs. Quill thrust her chin into the air and answered, “I may have, but he died. So there is nothing more to say on the matter. Your husband is still alive. Don’t wait until it is too late.”

  * * *

  The women did not speak again about marriage, love or parting. Their attention turned to matters of war. As the snow melted, reports of Indian raids increased, and the residents of Hampsted became terrified. They seldom left their homes and even fewer travelers were on the post road. Business was slow at the Boars Head which added to Lauren’s impatience. She needed diversion to keep her mind from racing, and the endless monotony of waiting for customers grated on her nerves. The ice was almost out of the Hudson, and she looked forward to being on the first craft headed to the north. She knew it was dangerous near the lakes, but she needed to be among the French again if she ever hoped to be away from the English Colonies and return to New Orleans. She had no concrete plan in mind, but she was certain an opportunity would arise.

  The sun was sinking low in the sky one April afternoon as Lauren walked briskly up the post road from Hampsted. She had avoided leaving the inn of late but on this day it was imperative she get salve for the open sore on Mrs. Quill Adam’s leg. What started out as a minor scrape now had become swollen and bright red.

  She carried a rifle, but she knew it would be of little use as the sunlight faded. The night was growing cold, and she increased her pace. She hated the dense forest that lined either side of the post road. The impenetrable darkness unnerved her, and she constantly had to push back stories she remembered of settlers brutalized by Indians. By the last turn she startled a herd of deer, and her heart jumped into her throat. It took several minutes for her to calm herself again, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the flickering candlelight of the Boars Head Tavern. She chided herself for her foolishness remembering that, after all, she had endured far greater dangers at Fort Frederic and on the streets of New York.

  Suddenly a dark form stepped into her path. She froze in her tracks, flooded with cold fear. In a heartbeat she could tell that the shadowy figure was an Indian. Lauren turned on her heel and burst into a full run. Another Indian jumped into her path. Consumed with panic Lauren threw her rifle and dashed into the thick underbrush of the woods, clawing madly at the branches and brush. In no time the two men were upon her, stifling her screams and dragging her back out onto the path. She thrashed about wildly, but she was helpless against them.

  They carried her with lightning speed into the stable of the Boar’s Head Tavern where someone waited with a lantern. They pulled the doors shut and put Lauren roughly onto her feet, still grasping her tightly and covering her mouth. One of them held her head, forcing her to look straight ahead. Lauren tried to wrench herself free but could not move the grip was so rigid. Gradually her eyes focused, and she saw a petite Indian girl standing in front of her. The girl did not move a muscle; her dark eyes watched Lauren intently. Lauren stopped struggling and looked at the young woman. There was something about the girl that seemed familiar, but she was confused.

  “I am still of this earth, my friend,” the girl said gently. “You knew me once as Eugenie.”

  Lauren started. The man tightened his grip, but he had such a firm grasp on Lauren that she could not breathe. She started to gasp for air. As her mind tried to absorb Eugenie’s words, her body reacted with shock, and she began to swoon. Eugenie jumped forward releasing her from the man before she fai
nted. The men eased Lauren down onto the floor of the stable, and she began to regain to her sensibilities. Her hair lay in tangles all over her face, and Eugenie pushed the mass of curls back to examine her eyes.

  Lauren gazed at her and whispered, “I dream.”

  Eugenie shook her head as her eyes filled with tears, “You do not.”

  “How can this be? How is it you have been delivered to me?” Lauren asked still not believing the reality.

  “Captain St. Clare,” Eugenie murmured.

  Lauren sat up and grabbed Eugenie, kissing her hair and holding her face in her hands, tears streaming down her face. She touched her cheek and repeated, “You are alive. You are alive. How can this be?”

  “An Englishman bought my freedom the morning I was to hang. He sent people for me who brought me here, and I have been here working with the organization, The Pride of the King, ever since.”

  Lauren looked at the two men and Eugenie explained, “There are eight of us from the Chickasaw nation employed here. This is how I met my husband.”

  Eugenie stood up, pulling Lauren to her feet, helping to steady her for a moment. Taking one of the men by the arm, Eugenie introduced him as her husband. Lauren looked from one man to the other. They appeared identical in every way.

  Eugenie smiled and said, “You are correct, Lauren. They are twins.”

  Lauren rubbed her forehead. She felt overwhelmed and unsteady. It all seemed so fantastic and unbelievable. “How did you ever find me?”