The Pride of the King

by Amanda Hughes

  “Upstream. Now get in.”

  The Captain threw a rope over the side of the vessel and lowered himself into a canoe that Robert had retrieved for him. The craft was hidden in some bushes on shore. Lauren leaned over and looked at the rope dangling down the side of the fluyt, opened her mouth to protest and thought better of it. Swallowing hard, she took it in her hand throwing one leg over the railing and then the other. Dangling helplessly on the side of the ship, she started to slide down the rope, but yelped as it burned the palms of her hands.

  “Oh, for the love of God!” moaned the Captain. “I should have known. Mr. Burroughs!” he shouted.

  After a moment, Isaac leaned over the side of the vessel and said, “Aye, sir?”

  “Lower her.”

  Smiling, the young man eased Lauren down into the canoe while she mumbled profanities in French.

  “That will be all,” St. Clare said to Isaac. “As for you,” he said to Lauren, “Take an oar and start paddling.”

  Frowning, Lauren took up a paddle as the Captain sat down in the rear of the canoe with his paddle. They pulled away from the fluyt and traveled up the creek in silence slicing the water like butter. For most of the day, they traveled deeper and deeper into the interior. The tree limbs joined overhead, forming a tunnel for them to glide through, and the air was thick with moisture. Lauren could feel the watchful eyes of wildlife all around them as they drifted through the backwoods. Occasionally she spied an otter slide into the creek or a fish jump. She saw no sign of human habitation until a landing came into view with several canoes and two bateaux.

  “Pull up here,” St. Clare ordered and jumped out, pulling the canoe to shore. He did not offer his hand to help her out of the craft or wait for her to come on shore. He instead walked up the embankment out of sight into the woods. Lauren muttered and slogged through the water to shore by herself. Picking up her wet skirts, she climbed up the path to the top of the hill and stopped abruptly, amazed at what lay before her. There in the middle of the wilderness was an encampment bustling with activity and life.

  “Surprised?” St. Clare said stepping up beside her.

  “A village this far in the interior?”

  “Yes. You lived far to the north on the Mississippi. This is no different.”

  Before Lauren could ask him how he knew about Kaskaskia, St. Clare gestured for her to follow. The workers looked up as they approached the community but said nothing only nodded a greeting to St. Clare. They all appeared to be tradesmen; blacksmiths, woodworkers all at work in shops.

  “Welcome back, Captain!” someone called. A tall man with thin gray hair stepped away from one of the forges and approached St Clare. He wore a leather apron, and his sleeves were pushed up. Smiling broadly, he said holding out his hand, “You had us worried, sir. It’s been a while.”

  “Mr. Griffith. How goes it?” said the Captain shaking his hand.

  “I am well,” Mr. Griffith said, and then he looked at Lauren, “Welcome to you too, Ma’am.”

  “We will be staying one night only,” said St. Clare.

  The two men left Lauren standing alone. She looked after them for a moment, puzzled. St. Clare appeared to be in a position of authority here as well.

  Unsure what to do, Lauren walked over to watch the blacksmiths at work. The men invited no conversation but did steal looks at her out of the corner of their eyes. She watched a burly smith slam his hammer savagely against pieces of metal sending white sparks flying while his sooty apprentice labored at the bellows. The boy paused for a moment to nod at Lauren through the murky smoke. As she strolled farther along she saw a smith was working on a rifle. Then in one of the woodworker’s shops, she saw an artisan run a plane back and forth over some oak; shaving fine curls off something that looked like the stock of a gun.

  Finished with Nathaniel Griffith, the Captain walked into the shop where Lauren was standing and picked up a musket. He checked the sight for accuracy, and then replaced it, giving his nod of approval.

  “The sun is dropping,” he said to Lauren. “We had better eat before it gets too late. I have much to share with you, and it is best done over a meal.”

  The evening was sultry, and St. Clare told the cook they would eat on the porch of one of the cabins. As they sat at a small table, a breeze cooled Lauren and lifted her auburn hair lightly. St. Clare leaned back in his chair, putting his boots on the railing of the porch lighting tobacco. Lauren noticed that he smoked the same kind of rolled tobacco stick Heloise had on Duke Street.

  He blew out the smoke and said, “You must understand. Every man here has a role to play in this operation. Every man here understands the nature of my work and benefits from it. If you cooperate and play your role properly, you too shall prosper.”

  “Why are these men making firearms, secluded back here in the woods?” asked Lauren.

  “They are not making firearms. They are repairing them. You will find few men making firearms in this part of the world. If you want a new rifle or musket, you must buy it from England. His Majesty has the arms monopoly here in New England. It brings in revenue for the mother country, and she can monitor how many weapons come into the colony. “

  “So you are repairing guns?”

  “Yes, and selling them. I refurbish some firearms and others I acquire brand new just off the ship.”

  “I imagine you obtain all of these guns at an extraordinarily low price,” Lauren stated pursing her lips, implying he was a pirate.

  “Yes,” he said, flipping some ashes from his tobacco. “It may surprise you that in my youth I was apprenticed to a gunsmith. However, I am in quite another business now. And because of this business the firearms are frequently free.”

  Lauren knew he was alluding to piracy but chose not to comment. She watched some of the men loading rifles and muskets onto a cart. “Does the landowner know you are here?”

  “Of course. The landowner is Cornelius Bench. Together we own this property, but it is in his name only. His mother and I have been colleagues many years.”

  A pang of hurt shot through Lauren, there was so much Heloise and Cornelius had not told her. All she remembered was Heloise saying they owned property in the Hudson Valley but nothing more than that, especially about this James St. Clare. Lauren was beginning to realize the Benchs had many ties to St. Clare.

  “Where are Heloise and Cornelius now?”

  “Scouting new prospects, marketing our luxuries elsewhere. I cannot share their whereabouts at this time. There are many facets to our operation. Delivering luxuries to the aristocrats in the cities is their specialty; gunrunning is here, shot and powder too. In fact, gunpowder is more in demand than anything is right now. The Crown restricts and forbids its manufacture here in the New World. I offer all these things to the locals at a much lower price,” he said with a shrug.

  “Still,” stated Lauren suspiciously, “it seems like excessive secrecy for merely selling arms and ammunition to the Colonists.”

  “Ah, but you are an astute girl,” he said with a smirk.

  Lauren narrowed her eyes. “Monsieur, we are extraordinarily close to New France and war is imminent. What are your intentions with these weapons?”

  St. Clare inhaled his tobacco and looked thoughtfully at the setting sun. Blowing out the smoke, he dropped his boots from the railing, turned and looked coolly into Lauren’s eyes. He did not have to say anything. Lauren had her answer.

  Changing the subject, St. Clare said, “The men are pleased with your cooking. You have a talent for it. My health has returned, and I owe it to the fresh air of the Hudson and in part to your food.”

  “I do not hear you cough anymore,” Lauren observed.

  “It is over and I am grateful. I prefer to forget the past few years. Oh, look,” he said. “Here is Mr. Harrigan with our repast.”

  A large man with a bald head and wearing an apron set a plate of food before Lauren. She smelled the pheasant and new potatoes swimming in brown sauce and suddenly ha
d an appetite.

  “I will return with ale shortly,” said the cook. “May I ask after the health of your wife, Captain?”

  Lauren looked up suddenly at St. Clare.

  “I’ve had word recently,” the Captain said putting his napkin in his lap and looking up at the cook. “She is in good health, Mr. Harrigan. Thank you.”

  “Very good, sir,” he said, bowing and stepping away.

  St. Clare’s eyes fell on Lauren for a moment, but she had started on her meal. She found it surprising that any female would find this man remotely attractive, but it only proved what she believed about the women of the English Colonies; they were obtuse.

  “How long have you been married?” she asked.

  “Several years now. We are frequently apart, but it is the way of it.”

  “It seems a most unusual arrangement,” Lauren observed slicing her meat.

  St. Clare wiped his mouth and sat back looking at her. He waited while the cook poured his ale then said, “Oh, and your marriage is not unusual?”

  “My marriage is none of your affair,” snapped Lauren. “And by the way how do you know about my life in Kaskaskia?”

  “Heloise informed me of it. Heloise informed me of everything. I had a right to know who was spending my money in New York City.”

  “I earned that money,” stated Lauren.

  “Oh, and indeed you did, my dear. You were known for enjoying your profession a little too much.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Lauren frowning.

  “Nothing,” he said, taking a drink of ale.

  Lauren suddenly lost her appetite. The impertinence of St. Clare was grinding on her. The sun was setting and cast long, red rays across the porch where they dined. The workshops had grown silent, and candlelight appeared in some of the cabin windows. Lauren sat stiffly watching the lights flicker. It brought back memories of that night long ago in Kaskaskia when she had walked after dark in town and witnessed Monsieur Aberjon with his new conquest. Lauren had that same feeling again of apprehension and dread.

  St. Clare continued, “Heloise wrote me a great deal about you. You were talented with the aristocracy of New York. The rich and powerful were taken with your charms in spite of your French background, so I am certain you would be even more successful with your own people.”

  He had her attention. “For this reason I am assigning you to Fort St. Frederic on Lake Champlain to be our liaison. I need someone to open doors, to make connections for me with the officers at the fort, so we can market our goods and services to the French.”

  “Oh,” said Lauren her eyes flashing. “Oh, because you flatter me I should be eager to take this assignment? How stupid do you think I am? We are at war.”

  “Not officially, but I admit relations are a bit strained between England and France.”

  “Strained. Oh yes, strained and I could strain my neck in a noose, St. Clare!”

  He pushed his plate away and stated, “The way I see it, your choices are few.”

  Lauren clenched her teeth. How dare this man put her in harms way once more. She watched him light his tobacco. How careless he was with her life. At least on Duke Street she was ignorant of the risks, but here in this wilderness during a time of war the stakes were much higher.

  Suddenly, something occurred to her. “How foolish I have been,” she exclaimed. “It just occurred to me. I am the only French person you know. Yes, that’s it. Why, I imagine you need me quite desperately.” She chuckled and began to examine her nails. “I will sell myself for you, St. Clare, but I come at a high price.”

  The Captain sat back in his chair and blew out his smoke. “You are an adventuress to the core, Madame.”

  The way he said ‘Madame’ was most unflattering. When she looked into his eyes, she saw something disturbing yet familiar.

  “If I refuse?” she asked raising her eyebrows.

  “You may return to the streets of New York.”

  Lauren’s smile dropped, and her heart began to thud. How could he have known about her life on the streets? She remembered what Heloise had told her that first day on Duke Street. She had said, “There are others out there who have suffered similar privation. No matter how fine your manners and attire, they will recognize this blight in you. They know exactly what you fear and they will use it against you.”

  Lauren knew he saw the blight in her. She hated St. Clare. She hated him because he knew her every weakness, every frailty, every fear. They were of the same blood, cut of the same cloth.

  In a heartbeat Lauren considered everything; the dangerous proposition, her lack of prospects and her need to survive. She stiffened her back, meeting St. Clare’s gaze straight on. She would not allow him to bully her. She had spotted the blight in him too, so she repeated with even more conviction, “Captain, I will sell my services for you, but they must and will come at a high price. That price will be a home for me, a parcel of your land.”

  Chapter 29

  Mathias came to the encampment at sunrise for Lauren, and she returned to The Pride of the King with him that morning. She did not see St. Clare for many weeks after their conversation, and for this Lauren was grateful.

  The Pride of the King spent much of the autumn sailing south on the Hudson without the Captain, delivering shipments of firearms to the English colonists. Lauren resumed her position as cook once more, saying nothing to the crew about her discussion with St. Clare. Her daily talks with Isaac began again, and she engaged in cheerful banter with the crew all over again. They teased her at every opportunity, and she loved it. As her comfort level increased, so did her wit. She flirted and cajoled, winked and laughed, tossing her head and using her talents from Duke Street to charm them all.

  She had almost forgotten about St. Clare when he appeared one afternoon in October. It was a bright autumn day, and Lauren had gone ashore in Kingston to market. The village was filled with fresh country faces buying and selling harvest bounty. Giggling children darted around the stalls with cheeks as bright as the autumn foliage, reminding Lauren of her days in Kaskaskia with Rene. The banks of the Hudson River were splashed with reds, oranges and yellows, and the air was cool and crisp.

  Stepping from the fluyt, Lauren pulled her shawl close, longing for the sultry days of New Orleans. It was hard to believe only five years ago she was living with Simone at the convent. It felt like she had been searching for a home forever.

  She was walking past the vendors of Kingston handling the produce and scrutinizing the catch of the day when a voice said, “If the fish smells like fish, you don’t want it.”

  Startled, she stepped back abruptly and sent a tray of bass teetering. St. Clare jumped, catching it before it crashed to the ground.

  “You scared me!” she cried clutching her chest.

  He looked at her and smiled. He ran his dark eyes over her face as if he was memorizing it and then stepped back as if embarrassed. “I just wanted to show off my limited knowledge of cooking,” he joked awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He was dressed in a white linen shirt, tan coat and dark britches. A leather strap crossed his chest and a cravat was tied loosely around his neck. His dusky blond hair was pulled back with a leather strap, and he held a tricorne hat in his hand.

  “You’re back,” Lauren stated flatly. She was not happy to see him, and it was apparent on her face. Suddenly her carefree autumn on board The Pride of the King was a distant memory. She looked down at the ground.

  Noting her frosty reception, his smile dropped. His demeanor changed suddenly from light-hearted to strictly business. He straightened up and said, “Come with me. We have some conditions to discuss before we embark.”

  Lauren followed him down the busy streets of Kingston to a tavern named, “The Red Lion” not far from the landing. It was a small, dark establishment patronized by many of the locals, but that afternoon only two elderly gentlemen sat on high-backed benches smoking pipes by the fireplace. Pewter plates lined the
mantel, and the floor creaked loudly as Lauren and St. Clare walked to the bar. A maid with a baby on her hip emerged from the hams, tongues and bacon suspended from the ceiling and drew them pints of ale as St. Clare chose a table by the window overlooking the landing. The innkeeper retired to the back of the pub with her child again as soon as Lauren and St. Clare sat down.

  Pulling a pistol from his belt, St. Clare set his firearm on the oak table, taking a long drink from his tankard. Lauren sat opposite him, with her hands in her lap, stone faced.

  “I have considered your demands and spoken with Heloise,” he said.

  Lauren’s eyes grew wide, and she gasped, “You saw them? Are they well?”

  “Yes, they are well.”

  “Tell me about them. How does Corny look?”

  “I don’t have time for that now. Listen to me,” he demanded.

  Lauren frowned and sat back in her chair with a pout.

  “Heloise and I are prepared to give you a parcel of land which overlooks the Hudson River. It is not large, but it has a stream and some tillable land. If you choose to live there, it would be a good site to set up a home. This is in exchange for a successful contact with the French.”

  Lauren blinked in disbelief. They had accepted her terms. She would be a landholder. She may even build a modest home someday. It all seemed too good to be true!

  She stared at St. Clare, speechless.

  “You realize,” he continued with a cautionary tone, “that as long as your husband is alive he can lay claim to this land.”

  Lauren shrugged. “That does not concern me.” She wanted to jump up and down with joy, but she continued to sit primly.

  “We will draw up the papers when the contact with the French is secure and only when it is secure,” he demanded.

  Lauren wasn’t listening. She was staring out the window thinking about the land she would own. It would be a place all of her own with a garden, a hearth and a large oak bed with a cream-colored duvet.

  St. Clare leaned forward and hissed, “Are you fully aware of the dangers involved here, girl? This is not a game, Lauren.”