The Pride of the King

by Amanda Hughes

  “Ya, that’s the one. I saw that woman talking to him earlier, all fancy like. I saw her pull him upstairs, nuzzling up to him. A moment later she came down holding Lucy’s little girl and shouted that she caught Robert with the child.”

  Lauren put her hands to her cheeks and repeated, “My God!”

  “She is going after the whole crew saying they are cripples and misfits and can‘t be trusted.”

  “Where is Captain St. Clare?”

  “No one knows. The soldiers were taking him to the fort, but those Indian friends of yours opened fire. He ran into the woods with them.”

  “Good,” said Lauren breathing a sigh of relief. “And what of Robert?”

  Gunnar looked down. Lauren knew that he was dead. “Gunnar, we must find Captain St. Clare.”

  “Ya, Miss, but the soldiers and townspeople are all over the woods.”

  Gunnar stared at Lauren waiting for her to make a decision. She unconsciously touched her belly as if to protect her baby then said, “I think I know where they are.”

  Chapter 53

  The crowd at Cavendish Tavern did not disperse for many hours reveling in the excitement of a lynching. The troops from the fort made an attempt to put the mob down, but the soldiers seemed to enjoy the hanging as much as the crowd. The mob called for vengeance and hanged the terrified Robert from the nearest tree.

  John Cavendish watched in horror, impotent to stop the maelstrom of hatred. St. Clare and the rest had been taken to the fort to be detained until morning when they would most certainly hang. It was late before John could convince the last patron of Cavendish Tavern to go home.

  Anxious and distraught, trying to devise a plan to free St. Clare and the others, Cavendish paced the bar room. After several hours, Georgiana came through the front door. She had been drinking heavily with one of the soldiers down by the river.

  Throwing herself into a chair, she declared, “Well, quite the night!”

  Cavendish did not respond. He squatted down and began banking the fire. She leaned forward and said, “Are you deaf?”

  He turned his scarred face toward her and mumbled, “I heard you.”

  Georgiana stood up and staggered to the bar, pulled the cork out of a bottle and poured herself a drink. “Well, since you can hear me, listen to this. I am leaving tomorrow in the morning.”

  Still John did not turn around.

  “I have been waiting for my opportunity to get out of this stinking hole for too long. Now I can go.” She bent her head back and threw the drink down her throat.

  John stood up slowly putting his hand on the mantel, still not looking at her. “Where are you going?”

  “North, if that’s any of your business.”

  She picked up a bottle and a mug and headed for the bed chamber. Pouring herself another drink she started to stuff clothes into a bag. John stood in the door, his berry colored face expressionless. Georgiana’s blonde hair was disheveled, and the charcoal on her lashes had smeared under her eyes.

  “Don‘t try to get me to stay,” she sneered.

  “You lied about that boy, didn’t you?” he said.

  She cocked her head and replied; “Now what if I did?” She staggered a few steps backward, catching herself on the commode.

  “Who paid you?”

  “I would have done it for free. St. Clare and that group of freaks disgust me. I didn’t think that French slut of his would make it back from Champlain.” Then sweeping her arm, she said thickly. “But she did.” Pushing her dirty hair off her face she poured herself another drink.

  “Who paid you?” he demanded.

  Hearing the rage in his voice, Georgiana’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. “Never met him. A messenger came down from Champlain.” She continued to look at him and swayed. “He was sent by some Frenchman, a cousin of Gautiers’.”

  John stared at her for a moment then closed his eyes. He remembered the first time he met Georgiana in Albany; she was a barmaid then at his modest tavern on State Street. How captivating she was, so beautiful and so full of life, and all the men wanted her. John had never been the kind of man to turn a woman’s head, so when Georgiana consented to marry him a few months later, he felt like Heaven had blessed him.

  He opened his eyes again. He watched her drop her gown onto the floor and fall onto the bed, the alcohol dragging her into a dreamless sleep.

  He paced again for a long time trying to figure out what to do. He rubbed his forehead and mumbled to himself. He knew that he should tell the authorities, but in the end he decided to keep her secret. He loathed himself for his weakness, but his wife meant everything to him.

  John pulled the covers over Georgiana and lovingly brushed back her hair. There was a chill in the air, and he moved to the fireplace to light a fire. It sprang to life, flames of gold and blue warming the room. Cavendish stood up and sighed, looking at Georgiana. He picked up a broom and walked to the hearth. When the straw was ablaze he turned and lit his wife’s bed on fire.

  * * *

  Lauren and Gunnar found St. Clare, Samuel Claypool and Henry Bologne at the hideaway on Popple Creek. Flooded with relief, Lauren ran to James then embraced Henry and Samuel. Tears rolled down Henry’s face, and he said, “Glad I am to see my girl.”

  “We went to the fluyt, but it was too late,” said James. “They were dead and you were gone. What happened? Did you see anything?”

  Lauren shook her head slowly. “The soldiers moved quickly and quietly. I came on deck and found the bodies then canoed down to Cavendish Landing and found Gunnar right away.”

  “I am grateful to you for keeping my wife safe,” said St. Clare to the boy. Gunnar sat in the corner on the floor with his knees drawn up. He simply nodded.

  James bent over the fire and lit his tobacco. Blowing out the smoke he said, “Isi and the other Chickasaws ambushed the British on the road and broke us free. If it wasn’t for them we would be swinging from a noose this morning.”

  “Where are they?” asked Lauren.

  “They have gone back to their posts. We need our couriers up and running again.”

  What?” cried Lauren. “Certainly you don’t believe the threat is over? “

  Samuel chimed in, his white eyeballs rolling, “Oh it most certainly is over! The Captain has sent his calling card to your French friend from the West.”

  Lauren looked at James, but he dismissed the subject by walking to the window. She wondered how he would have Claude killed. If he would send a henchman to strangle him in the night or have him assassinated at some gambling table. Either way she knew the deed would be done.

  The conversation continued, but St. Clare did not listen. He cursed himself for not feeling grief like the others. After all the horror that day, he could feel only frigid numbness. He watched the sun rising through the trees.

  He straightened up suddenly and leaned out the window. He realized with a jolt that he was not looking to the east at all. “That is not the sunrise!” he exclaimed. “That’s fire!”

  Springing to action, James and Samuel put Henry in a canoe and pushed off shore, followed closely by Lauren and Gunnar in their own craft. Henry drove the paddles deep as James guided them down Popple Creek. Samuel sat on the floor of the canoe, his chin held high using his keen sense of hearing to alert them to danger.

  “I believe the fire is at Cavendish Landing,” called James.

  “And north of it,” replied Samuel.

  Gunnar and Lauren paddled furiously keeping pace with the three men. The light from the flames lit up the sky ahead of them, and smoke began to fill the air between the tree trunks, rolling quickly toward them. In spite of the sun rising, the light began to fade as the group came closer to the Hudson. A scorching wind carried the scent of burning resin to Lauren’s nostrils, and she remembered the tinder dry debris strewn up and down the Hudson River and around Lake Champlain, debris from hastily built forts and cabins. Treetops, dry leaves and stumps which had never been cleared littered the floo
r of an already parched forest. All summer Lauren had smelled smoke from wildfires, but she never believed it would go beyond an isolated eruption.

  Suddenly several explosions sounded in the distance as if cannons were being shot off from the fort.

  “Why the hell are they shooting cannon!” shouted Henry.

  Samuel shouted back, “That’s not cannon, Bologne. Those are fire balls!”

  There was another report behind them this time sounding like thunder as a globe of flame burst high into the sky. Sweat began to roll down Lauren’s back as the heat intensified and the anxiety. Now with flames on both sides, the group had no choice but to flee downstream to The Pride of the King. The smoke thickened into a grayish mass, and the two canoes became barely visible to each other. Lauren and Gunnar covered their faces with neckerchiefs and paddled on at top speed, their eyes running from the fumes.

  James jerked back as Samuel cried, “Oh my God!” Something slammed into their canoe. Water splashed as something heavy hit Lauren’s craft. Gunnar held a paddle up to protect himself as a terrified doe smashed into his face. Another panicked buck put his hoof into their canoe, tipping the craft onto its side. Lauren screamed and threw her body in the other direction. The buck reared up onto its hind legs and withdrew, leaping off into the brush behind them.

  “Lauren!” called James.

  “We are safe!” she cried picking up her paddle with trembling hands. Blood streamed out of Gunnar’s nose, but he resumed paddling without words.

  Samuel was the first to be aware of The Pride of the King and called, “I can hear the old girl. She is just ahead.”

  At last the hull of The Pride of the King loomed large in front of them, a ghostly giant waiting in the smoky shadows to carry them to safety. James scrambled onto the deck then lowered a platform for Henry Bologne and lines for the rest of the group. The skeleton crew burst into action, scampering about, taking comfort in being back on board once more.

  Lauren noticed the corpses were gone. St. Clare had thrown them overboard earlier. With no time to lose, she turned her attention to easing the sheets as Gunnar carried out commands from Henry and Samuel.

  “It is a hot unpredictable wind we must fight,” cried James at the helm as the fluyt heaved forward. “Steady now!”

  Careening out onto the river they got their first glimpse of Cavendish Landing. In a sky black as night, gargantuan flames illuminated the settlement. Fire raged along the river banks, deep into the woods and up to the fort. Except for the chimney, Cavendish tavern was gone and the cabins and outbuildings surrounding it crumbled in the blaze. The burning trees surrounding the settlement shot fire high into the black sky showering the fluyt with a rain of ash and sparks.

  The firelight illuminated the soot-covered face of St. Clare as he called for buckets of water. He commanded everyone to drench themselves to keep their hair and clothing from igniting and to be ready to douse the sheets if necessary. He watched Lauren anxiously as she scrambled about the deck, her wet gown clinging to her belly. James caught her by the wrist as she raced past. Just as he was about to say something, Henry shouted, “Cap’n look!”

  Wading into the water by Cavendish Landing were a score of people waving their arms wildly and calling to the fluyt. Many were naked, their clothing burned away from their bodies, some were holding children screaming in pain, and others held their chests, rendered mute from scarred lungs. Several soldiers attempted to swim out to the vessel but stopped when a regular began to struggle in the current and was pulled under.

  Setting his jaw, St. Clare turned back to the helm and commanded, “Sail on!”

  The crew did not move, too stunned to obey.

  “James!” screamed Lauren. “What are you doing? These people need us!”

  As if possessed, James turned on her; his face contorted with rage and screamed, “What a short memory you have, Lauren! These are the people who killed my crew!”

  Their eyes locked, sparks spiraling around them. Lauren knew he spoke the truth. She heard a child crying and said, “There are innocents among them, James. Innocents like our child.”

  St. Clare hesitated, grimaced then barked, “Mr. Bologne we head for Cavendish Landing.”

  The crew turned their soot-covered faces toward shore. St Clare looked up at the sky. He knew that at any moment a fireball could explode, jumping the river and igniting the vessel. He gripped the wheel so tightly his fingers were white.

  As they approached shore, the crew raced to the side of the vessel hauling the children first onto the fluyt, then the injured. Many fell onto the deck coughing and gasping for air, their eyes swollen shut, others babbled incoherently. Lauren held a toddler under her arm as she examined the wounds of the mother. St. Clare and Henry pulled up four regulars and an officer from the fort. The men fell onto the deck drenched and gasping for air.

  “John Cavendish, the tavern owner,” urged St. Clare. “Does he live?”

  The officer shook his head, panting. “The fire started there, at his tavern. He and his wife were lost.”

  James turned to Henry, “Mr. Bologne. Is that everyone?”

  “Aye. Captain!”

  Sails surging in the hot wind The Pride of the King groaned into motion sweeping rapidly down the Hudson. In the few moments that they had paused to take on the injured, the blaze had rolled ahead of them downriver, showering the Hudson as far as the eye could see with a rain of fire.

  Gunnar scampered up the main mast to douse the sheets as Henry passed buckets of water up to him. Sustaining only minor burns, the soldiers put out fires on deck as Lauren ministered to the sick and injured. Claypool drenched in sweat, helped Captain St. Clare maneuver the fluyt through the tricky, unpredictable winds.

  Several cows, dogs and some hogs took refuge in the river as well as a herd of deer. A black bear bawled loudly from the shoreline, terrified and overcome from the heat.

  Just as Lauren finished bandaging a small boy, cool air filled her lungs. The Pride of the King had outrun the fire and pushed confidently on into fresh breezes. She looked up at the helm where St. Clare stood, his long hair loose and tangled, his jaw set, still intent on putting distance between them and the fire. Several of the settlers fell to their knees thanking the Lord for deliverance while others cried tears of joy. Lauren heaved a sigh and started for the helm but was stopped by one of the regulars.

  “No, you don't,” he ordered.

  Lauren’s jaw dropped. She was about to protest when three soldiers grabbed James and jerked his hands behind his back. “What are you doing!” she screamed, trying to wrench free.

  “Your Captain is under arrest,” said the regular holding her back.

  Lauren called to James, but he would not look at her. His attention was riveted on the fire’s approach from behind.

  “You damn fools,” he said through his teeth. “You don’t know how to sail her in this wind!”

  The officer took the wheel as the regulars pulled James roughly down the stairs. All at once sparks began to rain down on the fluyt again.

  Rushing up, Henry Bologne cried, “What the hell is going on!”

  Lauren heard someone scream from the stern. She looked aft and saw a compact mass of black smoke rolling up the waterway. Before she could drop onto the deck a thunderous blast shook everything. Fire sprang to life again, this time on both sides of the river and flames shot up on The Pride of the King.

  Gunnar jumped down from the mast and began to run madly, his clothing on fire. Quick as lightening Lauren doused him with a bucket of water.

  The regulars were so stunned by the commotion; they didn’t notice Claypool loosening the rope on St. Clare’s hands. Grabbing a bucket, the Captain began to climb the main mast to put out the fire on the canvas while Henry filled buckets.

  The settlers began to jump overboard howling in terror. In a flash a scorching hot wind encircled the fluyt like a cyclone and the flames jumped high into the sky. Lauren realized her gown was ablaze. Tongues of fire climbed
up her legs, scorching her skin. The pain was intense. She slapped at them frantically trying to snuff them out. Gunnar dragged her to the railing and yanked them both backward, down into the waters of the Hudson.

  The water gurgled around Lauren’s ears, muffling the cries of anguish overhead. When she came to the surface she was near shore and pulled herself to her feet not far from Gunnar. The entire ship was a mass of flames and she cried out in horror. No one was left on the Pride of the King except James and a British officer whose uniform was ablaze. Overcome with panic, Lauren lunged toward the water, but Gunnar stopped her. “The Captain told me to protect you,” he shouted.

  Lauren watched as James struggled with the man to pull him overboard to douse the flames on his clothing. Convinced St. Clare meant him harm, the man punched James in the face knocking him to the deck. James jumped to his feet once more and tried to pull the crazed man into the water, but the officer fought back with a vengeance.

  Suddenly, there was a loud groaning sound as The Pride of the King began to shudder. Next there was a loud crack as the main mast began to split. James looked up and tried to jump out of the way, but the officer, unaware of the danger, restrained him. The mast swayed ominously in the wind then began to fall. Lauren screamed as the flaming timber toppled down crushing the officer and her husband under its vast weight.

  Chapter 54

  Heartbroken and lost Lauren returned to New Orleans where the good sisters of the Ursuline Order helped her give birth to little Janie St. Clare. The child was beautiful and healthy, and for Lauren it was love at first sight. Simone was there too, older and more at peace with herself, fawning and fussing over her little niece.

  In spite of the love and comfort at the convent, Lauren did not wish to stay. Even though she was of French birth, her home was now in the English Colonies, and as soon as the child could travel she returned to the Hudson River Valley. She felt nearest to James there, and more than anything she wanted their daughter to know the beautiful river her father had sailed.

  She hired Gunnar and another young man to build her a small cottage on her parcel of land and had him clear some trees, so she could see the river. Mrs. Quill, no longer able to run the Boar’s Head, sold the tavern to Lauren for a modest sum, and Polly Quackenboss stayed on to help Lauren run the inn. Gunnar did odd jobs for a year then he found an apprenticeship with the local blacksmith.