The crew was elated seeing Lauren again and delighted to hear of the marriage. They gathered around her as family gathers around a loved one that has been too long from the fold, bombarding her with questions, teasing her like schoolboys, vying for her attention.
James indulged them for a while then announced, “It is time for supper, Mr. Bologne. Can you and Robert cook something better than dried peas and biscuits?”
“That I can, Cap’n. Be more than happy to!” Henry boomed.
Ben Groot stepped forward bending over Lauren’s hand, offering best wishes. It never ceased to amaze her that someone of such gigantic and cumbersome proportions could be so delicate and genteel.
Then for the first time, Lauren saw the new first mate, Josef Duerr. James had known the man for many years and spoke highly of him as a sailor and a person. Lauren watched them talk on deck. Duerr was a man of later years, thick necked with short gray hair and leathery skin. When he tipped his hat to Lauren, she noticed one of his arms hanging limply at his side, shriveled and small. No further explanation was needed why he was part of The Pride of the King.
She heard James say, “Mr. Duerr we will only be here for supper. Tonight we take the post road to Hooksett. The “Pride” should join us there in three days.”
Lauren looked at James and smiled. It pleased her that he had set aside time for the two of them.
After supper, they went to the Boar’s Head to gather Lauren’s belongings and to speak with Mrs. Quill.
“So you are up and leaving me!” the matron barked. “After all I have done for you!” Mrs. Quill acted slighted, muttering and complaining, but it was all a ruse, she was truly happy for the girl.
As James saddled two mares for the journey, Lauren and Mrs. Quill faced each other for the last time. The matron pursed her lips then said begrudgingly, “Papist or not, you will always have a home here.”
“I will be back, Mrs. Quill. I’m sure that I forgot something,” Lauren murmured. She reached out and embraced the woman then crossed the threshold out into the twilight. Mrs. Quill watched them as they mounted and rode off in the dim light of sunset on the post road.
“Yet another person disappearing from the Boar’s Head,” she grumbled to Ogden. Sighing, she climbed the stairs to the inn.
Mrs. Quill felt suddenly very tired and went straight to her chair by the fire. As she sat down, she noticed something hanging from the wooden mantel. Leaning to get a closer look, the matron smiled broadly at Lauren‘s final joke. Taking the rosary from the mantel, she chuckled and said, “Damned Papist.”
* * *
Lauren and James devoted three days to finally living as one. They understood that the intimacy they had known in the past had been fraught with secrets and dishonesty, but now they could start fresh and explore one another completely.
Lauren told James everything. She talked of her friendship with Cornelius, her love for Isi and her sincere affection for the crew of the Pride of the King. Curiosity about her past consumed him, and he would listen to her reminisce endlessly. They would sit for hours in the common room of the inn by the fire talking. Elbows on his knees, James would ask Lauren about her home in New Orleans, her life in Kaskaskia and her escapades on Duke Street. He devoured every word she said, trying to make up for their lost time together.
James was more reticent to speak of himself, but he did try. Lauren knew that he would give as much to her as he could, but asking him to drop his reserve and reveal everything was unrealistic and unkind. He frequently did not understand his own feelings and actions, so it seemed pointless and cruel to press him further. He seldom spoke of his own experiences but when he did share, Lauren carefully disguised her keen interest with casual questions then quiet reflection. She was grateful for any little thing that he revealed to her and satisfied just knowing that he loved her.
“I am an exception to a rule, James,” Lauren announced rather abruptly one evening over supper.
He looked up from his meal, still chewing. “Why?”
“I am a wife that has fallen in love with her husband.”
He studied her eyes with the hint of a smile on his lips. “It is a most agreeable business arrangement. Is it not?” After a moments reflection he went on, “For your safety, I do not want our marriage to be a public affair, Lauren. I know the crew is aware of it, but I would prefer that no one else in the organization know.”
Lauren nodded and murmured, “I understand.”
The three-day holiday was like a dream for them both. They went for long walks along the river; they slept late in the morning and lay together in the afternoon. They dined alone in the evening by the fire, and held each other close throughout the night. In those few days of intimacy, they forged a bond of love that would last a lifetime.
On the third night at supper, Lauren slumped back in her chair and said, “I don’t want to go back tomorrow.”
James sighed and put his fork down slowly. He had been quiet over supper, and Lauren assumed that he too was disappointed their holiday was ending. He sighed and said, “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I am afraid we must leave the inn after we dine tonight.”
“What! Why?” Lauren cried.
“Ben Groot was here earlier with a message for me. There has been an incident in the Melungeon community to the north.”
“The Blascos?”
James looked down. “Yes, and others.”
“What happened?”
He signaled the innkeeper to bring another glass of rum, which he tossed back in one swallow. Grimacing he said, “The British cleaned out the camp three nights ago. There are many dead, many injured and many have scattered into the woods. They are defenseless and alone in a land under siege. We must find them.”
Lauren stared at James, “When do we go?”
“No, you will not be going, Lauren.”
“What! You know that I will be at your side from now on.”
“Do not argue with me on this,” he warned. “I cannot take you up there. You will stay here with Mrs. Quill.”
Lauren leaned in and said, “So we have come full circle, have we? We are back to where we were before you put out to sea. I survived all these years alone. I stand a much better chance of surviving if you are near me.”
“A very convincing argument but the answer is still, no.”
“When you depart I will simply set off to the north on my own.”
St. Clare’s jaw tightened, but Lauren was determined.
She continued. “I cannot and will not forget that the Blascos risked their lives for me at Fort St. Frederic and that two of them died by my side on Lake Champlain. I am a member of The Pride of the King as well.” She nodded her head vigorously. “I will go, James St. Clare whether I have your blessing or not!”
He sat back in his chair and was silent while Lauren waited for an answer. The air was thick with tension. “Alright,” he said. “Pack your things. We must make haste.”
* * *
St. Clare met briefly with his first mate familiarizing the man with last minute details before he left him in command. At a post outside Albany, Lauren made a trade for a buckskin shift and plaited her hair down her back. Practicality and speed were of the utmost importance and heavy skirts with tight bodices would encumber her on an overland trek.
The fluyt got underway quickly that morning and dropped anchor at the mouth of the creek, which flowed to the gunsmith community. Hidden on the bank was their canoe. Immediately Lauren and James waded through the water, pulled it out from its hiding place and started paddling up the creek. The air was thick and stale as they canoed all day back to the remote locale, bugs buzzing around their heads and stinging them relentlessly. Occasionally James would hand Lauren some dried meat encouraging her to eat while they paddled. It was exhausting and difficult ignoring her weary arms as they paddled deeper and deeper into the interior at breakneck speed.
She knew that it was approaching midday by the way sunlight filtered through the
boughs overhead, and she wished they would break and rest, but James drove them forward. Whenever she wavered, she reminded herself of the Blascos and all their kin, dead or homeless and her resolve strengthened.
Farther and farther back they paddled until at sunset, James steered the canoe toward shore. The journey seemed interminable, and they climbed stiffly out of the canoe wasting no time pulling the boat onto shore and into the underbrush.
Without saying a word, James took Lauren’s hand and pulled her up the hill quickly toward the encampment. Suddenly someone grabbed St. Clare from behind and there was a flash of steel. A gigantic man with matted hair, held a knife to James’ throat, and a boy stepped into Lauren’s path aiming a rifle at her chest. Her heart jumped into her throat as she locked eyes with this grubby young man about the age of fourteen. His hat and his clothing hung on him like a scarecrow.
Without moving a muscle James murmured, “It is Captain St. Clare, Mr. Magneson.”
It took a moment then the man announced in a loud Swedish accent. “Why it’s the Captain, Gunnar!” With a push, he released St. Clare and said, “Ya, I should have known!” Magneson signaled to the boy to take the rifle off Lauren and began to brush the Captain off and straighten his coat. “I am sorry but one can never be too sure, Captain.”
“No, no,” James replied. “Excellent work. Now more than ever we need your diligence.”
“Ya, tank you, Captain. I try,” the big Swede replied.
Lauren studied Mr. Magneson. The man made no eye contact with the Captain, staring straight ahead without blinking. Surely, Lauren thought, they would not have a man who was blind patrol these woods, but as she studied him she realized he was indeed without sight.
“Gunnar,” James said to the boy, “You have grown up. I am pleased to see you are helping your father.” The boy shuffled his feet and mumbled something indistinguishable. Then turning to Mr. Magneson, St. Clare said, “I wish to meet with Mr. Griffith right away so I will not keep you. Thank you both.”
Mr. Magneson tipped his hat and elbowed his boy to do the same. “Ya Captain, tank you too, Captain.”
St. Clare started up the path toward the outpost. Lauren ran alongside him and asked, “Was that man blind?”
“Yes.”
“How can he patrol these woods?”
“His lack of sight is not a problem. In fact, it is an asset. The fact that he is blind makes his skill superior to that of a man with sight,” explained St. Clare. “His hearing is so acute that he can even identify an Indian out here in this wilderness. On the other side of the outpost, I have a sentry who is deaf. His eyesight is so keen that he can see the slightest of movements, like a bird of prey. He too is an exceptional guard.”
When they arrived at the gunsmith community, St. Clare greeted the artisans cordially but wasted no time on small talk looking for Mr. Griffith. The village was as it had been the last time Lauren had visited, bustling and efficient, yet so far from civilization. Sounds of hammers hitting metal rang through the air as smoke pumped out from numerous forges. Lauren heard smiths shouting instructions to apprentices as workmen pushed planes back and forth blanketing the floors with sawdust. Several times, she had to jump aside as carts carrying firearms roared past her on the road.
A tall, lanky gray-haired man in a smith’s apron emerged from a workshop shaking St. Clare’s hand, and Lauren recognized him at once as Mr. Griffith, the foreman of the outpost. They walked to the cabin where Lauren and James had dined several years earlier, but this time they sought privacy and sat inside the dwelling rather than on the porch. There were several long tables with benches and they sat in the back corner near the fireplace.
Griffith sighed and shook his head. “It was a terrible thing, Captain. Many were butchered in their sleep, many fled to the interior. If they lose their way, it could be--”
The door of the cook shanty opened suddenly. It was George Blasco. His nose was bandaged and his face was swollen and purple. When he greeted them, Lauren noticed several of his front teeth were missing.
He sat down stiffly at the table and looked at James. “They slaughtered my family, Capitao,” he said.
James said nothing, searching his face.
“They came in the night,” he continued, his voice cracking. “Breaking the doors down, British regulars and some Mohawks. They pulled everyone out and those that resisted they shot. They left some of the family in the cabins then burned them to the ground. Many women and children tried to run to the woods, but many did not make it, their throats were cut or they were scalped. I fought my best but was knocked out. When I woke up, no one was left.”
St. Clare asked, “Did anyone else survive?”
“I had word from Davi. He said some have fled into the woods.” Blasco’s eyes filled with tears, and he murmured, “They even killed my little Mama.”
Lauren squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears.
George continued, “Davi sent word a short time ago. Two British regulars are holding Fatima hostage at the burned out remains of our village. God knows what they are doing to her.”
Griffith was studying St. Clare. He asked, “What is it Captain?”
James stated, “If any of these butchers still remain, they are deserters. Are the Mohawks still there, Mr. Blasco?”
George shook his head. “Davi said only two regulars.”
“We will eat, rest for a few hours then leave under cover of darkness for the settlement,” stated St. Clare. He looked at Lauren and asked, “Are you able?”
She nodded.
“Certainly she may stay with us, Captain,” Griffith offered. “I believe it would be safer--”
“She stays with me.”
The Captain stood up and ordered the foreman to gather a group to search for the Melungeons who fled into the woods. He wanted them to set out immediately.
Lauren was awake most of the night. She would occasionally turn and look at James who lay awake as well. He would reach out and run his hand along her cheek then turn back to staring at the ceiling. She watched his silhouette in the darkness, the line of his jaw, his hair spilling down the pillow and his arms behind his head. After several hours, they rose, rendezvoused with George Blasco and set out for the remains of the Melungeon settlement.
Springtime was new to the colony, and the night air still carried a chill. Lauren had goose bumps at first but eventually the brisk pace warmed her blood. Several times, they upset deer and sent owls into flight, their wings flapping heavily. They forged ahead at breakneck speed, determined to make the settlement before sunrise. Lauren found it difficult to keep up with the long legs of the men, but she did not falter, vowing not to slow them down.
The sun was just beginning to rise when they drew near the community. Their first clue was a charred smell. When they spotted the settlement, James signaled for them to drop down into a crouch.
“Davi said to meet him near the creek by the privies,” whispered George.
In the dim light, only shadows were visible of the skeletal remains of the Melungeon homes. With horror, Lauren imagined how the village must have looked several nights earlier when it was engulfed in flames and how the screams of agony must have resounded. James pulled her arm, and they moved around the periphery of the settlement. There was only one cabin remaining, and Lauren guessed this was where they held Fatima hostage. Keeping low, the three moved through the underbrush until they reached the privies by Popple Creek.
Without a sound, Davi emerged the brush and into the clearing on the shore. Lauren would have known him anywhere; tall and lithe with hair like a black sheet hanging down his back. George jumped forward and hugged him. Lauren found it curious that Davi’s arms were hanging limply at his sides as his brother embraced him.
Without warning, he pushed away from George and swung his rifle up taking aim at St. Clare. James froze in his tracks. Lauren did not move.
“Drop your firearms,” Davi demanded of them all. The rising sun shone on his rigid face. His
eyes were black and lifeless, his expression flat. They dropped their rifles.
“My brother, what has come over you!” gasped George. “Where is our sister?”
“Dead,” stated Davi. “There is no one left but me.”
George pleaded, “But why? Why do you do this thing--?”
“Shut up!”
Never taking his eyes off St. Clare, Davi snarled, “You were lucky that morning on Lake Champlain at Warrens Landing and again at your campsite when Gaspar and Vincent were killed. My plans failed at Fort Frederic as well. I broke my leg and could not warn Gautier that you were in hiding there as a priest.”
James did not move a muscle. Lauren’s chest heaved with fear and panic. They were all stunned by Davi’s admission of guilt.
“But at last, here and now it will happen. Move away from them, St. Clare,” Davi demanded jerking his head to the side.
James moved away from Lauren.
“St. Clare,” Davi said. “Here is a calling card from Monsieur Gautier.” With those words, his swung his rifle around, aiming at Lauren.
James yelled, “No!” and dove at Davi, but it was too late. George had thrown Lauren to safety and instead of hitting Lauren; Davi shot his own brother through the head.
Chapter 47
Davi dashed into the woods as James scrambled over to Lauren. George Blasco lay on his back, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Lauren cried out, trying to get to George, but James pulled her into the underbrush.
He shook her demanding, “You must run!”
James pulled onto her feet, and they tore through the woods, running down a deer path at a feverish pace. On and on they dashed, fearful Davi would jump out at any moment. Perspiration ran down Lauren’s back and drenched her forehead. She thought her lungs would explode but she wanted nothing more than to put distance between her and the carnage at the settlement. To avoid discovery, they zigzagged through the woods crossing Popple Creek, on several occasions climbing down ravines and cutting through meadows taking any path rather than the one they had traveled earlier.
The Pride of the King Page 32
