Gunnar returned moments later with a coarse linen smock, breeches and a large felt hat for Lauren. She pulled the clothes on then stuffed her hair into the hat.
“We must tell Mr. Cavendish where we are going first,” said Gunnar as they walked down the stairs into the main room of the tavern.
Lauren made no eye contact as she passed through the room of drunken soldiers, farmers and sailors. There was a circle of men shooting dice in the corner and others played cards by the fire. Most of the patrons bellowed tavern songs at the top of their lungs sloshing beer and rum down the ample bodices of the blowsy whores on their laps. Two men almost knocked Lauren’s hat off as they pushed each other arguing about money.
She felt Gunnar grab her wrist and drag her over to the bar where John Cavendish was drawing beer for customers. Gunnar tried to talk to the innkeeper, but he did not seem to be listening. He was watching his wife Georgiana talk with an attractive young Major. The woman took a deep breath and leaned onto the bar allowing the soldier to look down her bodice, then pouted her lips, moving closer. The Major ran his eyes over her breasts then up to her mouth where he saw the sores. He jumped back and exclaimed, “Not on your life!”
The smile dropped from Georgiana’s face, and her eyes narrowed. Before the woman could act, Cavendish called, “Georgiana my beauty. There is a table that’s been asking for you all night. I have a tray for you to take to them.”
Angrily she pulled the tray into her arms then spotted Lauren. Georgiana set her jaw and turned away. Lauren had seen that expression before on Duke Street. Women frequently saw her as a rival for male attention, and Georgiana Cavendish was no exception. In the past men had fallen in line to bed Georgiana, but now because of her pox their ardor had grown cold.
Lauren followed Gunnar out the door into the night. He pulled on his floppy hat, looked both ways, and then set out with Lauren behind him. The hour was late, but the hamlet was alive with activity. Drunken soldiers and sailors were everywhere, sporting with women near the river, smoking by the docks, staggering down the road toward the fort. Lauren was grateful she had an escort and a disguise, which made her resemble a teenage boy. They walked in silence down a path into the woods and soon the sounds of the tavern were indistinguishable. Gunnar carried a lantern as Lauren followed him along the trail, which led them to a clearing and a cabin on the river.
Suddenly a large dog sprang into their path, standing stiff legged and snarling. Lauren froze as Gunnar put his fingers to his lips and whistled loudly. She heard a whistle in return from shore, and the dog relaxed. He trotted back in the direction of a dying campfire.
Isi and her husband stepped out of the shadows. Lauren pulled off her hat letting her hair tumble down, and the two women embraced. “You are safe,” Isi said.
Lauren sighed, “Most have not been so lucky. We must talk, my friend. I have so much to ask you.”
She nodded, and they walked down to the campfire. Isi’s husband threw several logs onto the embers, sending sparks flying. Lauren could see Isi’s eyes in the firelight, and she read fear in them.
“Tell me who is left,” Lauren said.
“I only found out yesterday about the slaughter,” Isi murmured. “Few are left. Some members survived near Lake Champlain, but everyone else is gone. All that is left of The Pride of the King is in the south.”
“James is headed for the fluyt now.”
“Good. There are the three vessels and members all the way down to a place called Providence.”
James had shared little about his operation in the south with Lauren. There was still so much to learn about the man. A tug of loneliness pulled at her.
“Surely Gautier cannot reach that far into the English Colonies,” Lauren speculated.
“Lauren, I think these white men are capable of anything.”
“You are right. We must know more. I believe Gautier and his men will not be happy until The Pride of the King lay completely in ruins. I must gain access to those close to Gautier to understand what is going on.”
Isi’s eyes grew large. “You are not going back to Fort St. Frederic,” she said.
“No,” said Lauren chewing on a nail, deep in thought. “That would be suicide. There must be another way.”
Late the next morning, Lauren came downstairs, stiff and sore but rested at last. She pressed several coins into John Cavendish’s hand insisting Captain St. Clare would want him to take compensation for her food and lodging. She took her breakfast outside on the front step of the tavern. Morning sunshine, rest and sustenance gave her new resolve.
She stood up, emptied the dregs of her tea onto the ground, and walked down to the water. Yet another journey lay of her ahead of her, and she felt uncertain. She did not know where to go or how to begin this undertaking, and if she was not careful, she could lose her life.
Lauren did not hear Georgiana Cavendish walk up behind her. Feeling her presence at last, she jumped and turned around. The woman did not apologize, but instead looked boldly at Lauren then ran her eyes over her figure. Instantly Heloise’s words echoed in Lauren’s ears, “No matter how fine your manners and attire. They will recognize the blight in you.”
Lauren raised her chin and said, “What is it you want?”
“I know you. I know your kind,” said Georgiana. “Years ago I belonged to Captain St. Clare.”
A look of disgust passed over Lauren’s face, and she turned away. She disliked this woman and knew that she could only mean trouble. She started up the hill toward the tavern. The woman grabbed her arm and said, “Listen to me you stupid slut. I can help you.”
“I think not,” Lauren replied and turned away again.
Georgiana called after her, “I don’t give a damn about you, but I do about St. Clare. I have what you need to put everything right.”
Reluctantly, Lauren turned around.
“Someone wants to destroy The Pride of the King, but it is more than that. I believe they want to ruin St. Clare, to rob him of everything he values and loves.”
Lauren remembered when Davi tried to kill her instead of James. It was apparent they wanted revenge not just elimination.
“With your French background you need to go up there and find out who is doing this and what they intend to do next.”
Lauren said sarcastically, “Really? That never occurred to me.”
Grabbing Lauren by the wrist, Georgiana hissed, “I’m not finished yet. For many years, I was a sutler following the British and sometimes the French armies all over the North Country. I had a pony cart and sold wares to the troops--liquor, tobacco and sometimes entertainment. There is knowledge to be had as a sutler. You are in the heart of everything.”
“So you are suggesting I become a sutler and a spy,” Lauren said.
“Yes, but if you are not careful you will get your neck stretched. It is very dangerous.”
“How do I become a sutler?”
“Take my place, cart and all. I have only just returned. Get that trashy Chickasaw to go with you.”
“If you care so much about the Captain why don’t you go?” asked Lauren.
“I would but I’m too damned sick. It turns my stomach to think that I have sleep night after night next to that creature Cavendish, but I have nowhere else to go.”
Lauren studied Georgiana a moment then asked, “What happened to him?”
“Cavendish? Oh, that was years ago. I had a little too much rum one night and set the bed on fire. Damned fool dragged me out. His clothes caught on fire.”
Lauren stared at Georgiana.
“I wish to hell we would have both burned.” She turned and walked toward the tavern her hips swaying from side to side. She called over her shoulder, “The cart, donkey and supplies are in the barn. Take everything and get out. I don’t want to see you or that cart ever again.”
Chapter 49
Lauren accepted Georgiana’s offer of the pony cart and supplies almost immediately, and after finalizing plans with John Cavendis
h, Lauren Isi and Gunnar set off for Lake Champlain. After many hours of travel they stopped at the home of an elderly couple. John Cavendish instructed Gunnar to stay with them to operate as a courier for Lauren and Isi while they gathered information on Lake Champlain and to help them with their farm.
“Remember, my indigo skirt on the clothes line, Gunnar. It is the signal that we have news,” said Lauren. “Bon chance and au revoir, mon ami.”
The boy looked up from under his hat and nodded. Isi snapped the reins and the donkey snorted, pulling them away from the cabin. Lauren turned back to look at the farm. The smoke looked cozy curling up from the field stone chimney. The elderly couple Dutch and Lena Claus had immigrated to the Lake Champlain area from Prussia over twenty years ago. She wondered how the couple endured this life of isolation and grueling labor back in the dark interior. With the war escalating these simple people could expect not only privation but violence as well. It was not surprising that the couple was overjoyed to have Gunnar for the summer to help with chores and protection during raids.
Lauren and Isi rode in silence winding their way through the woods nearing Lake Champlain. They had been traveling for many days now, and they were road weary. The fog was thick that morning leaving a fine layer of mist on their skin and clothing. Lauren was sick to death of watching the rolling rump of the donkey as he obediently pulled the cart along the bumpy trail heading north. Her neck grew stiff and she rotated her head several times to loosen the muscles. Isi was quiet as usual, and when Lauren glanced at her profile the girl’s face was taut and her eyes were bloodshot.
Isi asked, “How often will Gunnar come to look for a signal?”
“Once a week on the Sabbath. If he finds the indigo skirt hanging out he will come to us under the guise of delivering supplies. Gunnar will run information to your husband who will in turn run it to Cavendish.” The women could now speak freely in French. For many days Lauren had to remain mute carefully guarding her accent from the British patriots and soldiers they met along the road, but now they had at last entered French occupied territory, and Lauren could speak freely.
She touched her bodice to make sure the letter of introduction from Georgiana Cavendish was still there. Georgiana had instructed them to report to the French commanding officer and present this letter of reference when they found the encampment. Georgiana was well acquainted with those in charge at Lake Champlain, and she assured them there would be little hesitation to employ the women as sutlers once they read the letter of guarantee from her.
Isi straightened up cocking her head and listening. “What is that?”
“What?” questioned Lauren.
“I hear something--chopping, I think.”
In the distance were voices and they heard a cracking sound followed by a dull thud. The donkey jerked his head, startled at the vibration on the ground.
“Sounds like they are felling trees,” said Lauren. They observed stumps and brush along the trail and gradually the voices grew louder.
Suddenly around a bend two young sentries jumped out of the mist and into their path. One grabbed the donkey’s bridle while the other pointed a musket at them. “Present yourselves!” the young French soldier barked. He wore the blue uniform of a French officer.
“I am Madame de Beauville,” said Lauren. “And this is my Chickasaw slave, Isi. We are here to see your commanding officer.”
“About?” he demanded, stepping alongside the cart running his eyes over the canvas covering.
“We are sutlers,” said Lauren.
The young bas officier jerked his head at the sentry. The regular, a boney youth with stringy hair, dropped the donkey’s bridle and went to the back of cart throwing back the canvas to examine the contents of their wagon. After pushing some barrels and jamming his musket into to some clothing he gave a nod of approval to the bas officier.
“Follow me,” he said.
With one sentry in front and the other in back, Lauren and Isi guided the wagon toward the French encampment. The soldiers escorted them into a huge clearing littered with brush and debris from fallen trees. A breeze picked up lifting the fog to reveal a panoramic view of Lake Champlain. The area was alive with men at work as they toiled on a sloping hillside not far from a clear rushing stream. There was a thick smell of sawdust and pine tar punctuated by fresh lake breezes. Everywhere French regulars moved like ants, chopping and dragging logs and brush, digging trenches, mixing mud and stacking logs while officers barked orders at crews.
“They build a fort?” Lauren asked the bas officier as they wound past the workmen.
“They do. It is Fort Carillion.”
“It is large,” Lauren said running her eyes over the spectacle. Then turning to Isi, she dropped her voice and murmured, “This is hard work. They will need much alcohol and tobacco at the end of the day.”
Isi raised her eyebrows and nodded.
The sentries took them to a large canvas tent, and the young officer disappeared inside. After a few moments he threw back the flap, poked his head out and said to Lauren, “He will see you now.” The women exchanged looks as Lauren climbed down off the cart.
The first thing she saw as she entered the tent was a large desk littered with maps. In the shadows was a tall man in a powdered wig and uniform standing with his back turned. He had thrown his gray top coat onto a chair, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up at the elbows revealing graying hair on his arms. The room smelled of stale tobacco and perspiration. He turned around to address Lauren, and she felt her throat constrict.
“I am Lieutenant Brobriant. What is your business here, Madame?”
Lauren recognized the man, but she struggled to remember where she had seen him.
He sighed impatiently and said, “I am a busy man. What is it?”
Suddenly it came back to her in a rush. Brobriant was the commanding officer of Fort de Chartres in Kaskaskia many years ago. This was the man to whom she had reported the suspicious nature of Madame Aberjon’s demise a long time ago. It was apparent that he did not recognize her.
Lauren babbled, “Lieutenant, I apologize. The journey has been arduous and I am slow to speak.” She reached inside her bodice and withdrew the letter of introduction from Georgiana.
Brobriant took it, noting that it was still warm from the skin on her breast. He ran his eyes over her figure, broke the seal on the letter and read it. “You have a wagon?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What do you bring?”
“Tobacco, wine,” she shrugged. “Some rum, brandy, pipes, food.”
He sighed and turned away.
Lauren felt her palms start to perspire.
“Well,” he warned pursing his lips. “I will not tolerate you gouging my men with high prices.”
“We will only ask fair market value, Lieutenant.”
“We? Who is we?” he said his brow furrowing.
“My slave woman and I.”
He sighed again and circled around his desk leaning on the front of it. “My men need diversion. They work hard. Do you sell your services as well?”
“No sir. We do not.”
There was a pause and he said, “That is just as well. It causes problems.”
Lauren felt her stomach jump; he seemed to be considering the offer. The sooner he consented, the sooner she could go before he remembered her. “That Cavendish woman used to obtain her supplies from a smuggler in the English Colonies by the name of--” he rubbed his brow. “His name escapes me.”
“If you are thinking of the organization called The Pride of the King, they exist no longer.”
“I don’t want to know where you obtain your supplies or who brings them, just get them here promptly, and don’t bother me with anything,” he said handing the letter back to her.
“Very good, Lieutenant,” Lauren said with a curtsy.
“You may use the abandoned shack by the stream. If you cause any problems you will be out on your ear. Do you understand?”
&
nbsp; “Yes sir, Thank you, sir,” said Lauren leaving the tent.
* * *
Business was brisk for the new sutlers at the French encampment. The women cleaned and repaired the abandoned shack and white washed the interior. Using her charms Lauren approached several of the soldiers to cut a large window in the shack so the women could erect a counter and sell their wares. This shop window could be bolted tightly with shutters at night since they would also sleep there. Their quarters were Spartan and cramped with wooden crates and barrels, but Lauren and Isi slept soundly working furiously throughout the day to fill orders.
The French regulars and the officers were anxious for alcohol and tobacco and consumed large quantities returning regularly to the sutler shack when they were off duty. Initially they assumed Lauren and Isi were whores but the women soon established boundaries rebuffing their overtures. Nevertheless, females were a novelty on Lake Champlain, and the men returned to the store regularly for the female companionship.
Lauren was in her element once more, encouraging snappy repartee and good-natured flirtation. She worked the men as if she was a courtesan of the Sun King, flattering and teasing, laughing and cajoling each one of them. Then gradually, without their knowledge, she manipulated the conversation to local politics and gossip to gather information about the French officers and local inhabitants of New France.
Isi had her own strategy for obtaining information. The young woman used her status as a slave to eavesdrop on the soldiers as she sold them alcohol and tobacco, silently mixing among them, listening to gossip. They believed her incapable of understanding the white man’s language, and even if she did speak French they cared little what she heard. They believed women, especially Indian females, were either too stupid or too lazy to be a threat.
Weeks passed and the timber walls of the fort were starting to outline a massive fortress. It was approaching mid summer and the troops now turned their attention to erecting barracks, officer’s quarters, storehouses and a powder magazine as well. The spring had been extraordinarily dry and because of the lack of rain great progress had been made on the construction. The hot, dry winds of summer gave the men a great thirst and drove them back continually to the sutlers for libation.
The Pride of the King Page 34
