The Pride of the King

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The Pride of the King Page 37

by Amanda Hughes


  They pulled Lauren to her feet for everyone to see. She was completely bald with only a few turfs of hair remaining, blood running down her scalp and neck.

  They grabbed her chin as tears ran down her cheeks and announced, “Behold! She wears the brand of a spy. Everywhere she ventures, they will know she is not to be trusted!”

  The crowd cheered. The soldiers began to disperse the spectators, informing them that the show was over and demanding they find entertainment elsewhere. Lauren dropped to her knees sobbing, burying her head in her hands filled with shame and fear. Stunned and battered, she cried for James.

  Suddenly, she was yanked to her feet, and she felt an arm go around her waist. It was a large trapper with greasy red hair and a beard. Lauren was pressed against his bare chest as he dragged her into the woods. She struggled wildly, but it was useless against his strength. He was followed closely by a group of men roaring, “I’m next!”

  The man’s breathing quickened as he pulled her into the brush and pulled up her shift putting his hand between her legs. Suddenly her face was sprayed with blood and the man fell back, choking and sputtering. Putting the heels of her hands to her eyes to clear her vision, Lauren saw the man writhing on the ground with his throat slit.

  A trapper jumped in front of her holding a knife out. “I’ll kill all of you!” he bellowed.

  “Whoa, my friend. We are leaving!” cried one of the men. They all started to back away hurling insults at him. Lauren realized this was the trapper who had been following her at the rendezvous. He reached out and she recoiled. Clamping down hard on her wrist, he said, “St. Clare sent me to watch over you.”

  * * *

  It was dark when they arrived at the sutler hut on Lake Champlain. Breathlessly she thanked the man and assured him Captain St. Clare would reward him handsomely. He nodded, lumbered off into the darkness and was gone.

  Not far from the shack by the woods, Gunnar waited for Lauren staring wide eyed at her altered appearance. Asking him to wait she stumbled into the shack, poured some water into a bowl, washed her hands and face and cleansed her scalp wounds. She held a candle up and looked in the small mirror that hung over the washstand. Her amber eyes filled with tears when she saw her reflection. “Oh, merciful God in Heaven,” she sobbed, dropping onto a chair. She felt hideous and ashamed. She didn‘t want to face James. She didn’t want to see the pity and revulsion in his eyes.

  Suddenly, she remembered what Claude had said about attacking the crew of The Pride of the King, and she jumped to her feet. After wrapping some bandages around the cuts and abrasions, she ran down to the lake to wash the stench of the soldiers and trappers off of her body. She was grateful for the lack of moonlight as she hastily soaped her skin, pulled on her shift and returned to Gunnar.

  Putting her hat on, she said, “I am ready now,” and climbed onto the cart. They traveled as quickly as the donkey and cart would allow down the path toward the Hudson River, bumping and jostling until Lauren’s teeth hurt. They allowed themselves one night at the Claus residence then took turns sleeping in the back of the cart while the other drove. Lauren knew she was exhausted from worry and anxiety, but something else plagued her, a gnawing feeling in her belly, a restless driving desire to find comfort and safety as soon as possible. It was not until they reached Cavendish Tavern that she realized she was going to have a child.

  Chapter 52

  The sign looked worn and the hats in the window faded as James stepped into Madame Vanoss’ millinery shop on Broad Street. He stopped for a moment inside the front room and looked at the fabrics and ribbons spilling out of drawers, at the flowers and feathers heavy with dust on hats no woman would ever wear. He sighed and walked to a door at the back of the shop.

  He did not like coming here. He did not like seeing Kaatje Vanoss. It brought back memories of his experiences here as a youth. He remembered her taking his hand, leading him to the back of the shop where she introduced him to a world of carnal pleasures and erotic experiences. For most of his life James had believed this was the true nature of love. He had never experienced the unconditional devotion of a parent or the bonds of a true friendship, and when he witnessed affection between couples he assumed it was merely a prelude to sexual gratification. Over time he began to see love as a trap people fell into, becoming slaves to their lusts and desires. He never understood the true spiritual awakening, until Lauren. Without question he would lay down his life for her, and now he too became a willing victim of his desire, but this time he realized that love transcended mere carnal pleasure.

  When Kaatje Vanoss opened the door and smiled seductively at him, his stomach churned. She represented a tawdry past he would rather forget. Her eyes moved across his broad shoulders, lingering where his shirt was open. “It’s charming to see you again, James,” she murmured, holding out her hand.

  St. Clare bent over it briefly, making a pretense at kissing it. He had to admit, by most standards, she was still a handsome woman. Her figure was still firm and her eyes a stunning blue, but he was repulsed by her presence.

  “Are Heloise and Cornelius in?” he asked.”

  “They certainly are,” she said sweeping her arm. “Right this way.”

  It was midday and the house was just beginning to stir. James could hear several of the girls moving about in their rooms. Although the shop was neglected, Madame Vanoss kept the rest of the house clean and in good repair. Many of the walls were richly paneled or wainscoted. Some rooms were painted with landscapes or flowers, and all the chambers had luxurious carpets. They climbed a flight of stairs to the rooms Heloise and Cornelius’ occupied. They had insisted on the finest rooms in the home, and Madame Vanoss had indulged the two knowing that they would only stay a short time.

  “Oh my God, I feel like a prisoner here!” gasped Cornelius after Madame Vanoss left the room. “When can we go?” he asked James.

  St. Clare sighed. He was weary and not looking forward to a fight.

  Heloise who was seated by the window fanned herself and said, “The heat is oppressive here, and the noises I hear coming from downstairs turn my stomach.”

  “I came to tell you that it will be just a few weeks longer then you may return to Duke Street,” St. Clare said. “It will not be safe for you until the snows begin in the north.”

  “We were just beginning to catch up with everyone in New York when word came we must go into hiding. They probably have forgotten us by now,” whined Corny.

  “Don’t worry, Cornelius. You’re hard to forget,” said James feeling edgy. This confused Corny long enough for James to continue. “Everyone is in hiding. Not just you. The fluyt has been on the Schuylkill in Pennsylvania most of the summer, our Providence connections went inland and those from the north have dispersed to the mountains of the western interior.”

  “Have the Chickasaw and Prussian mercenaries been successful with your blockade on the Mississippi?” asked Heloise.

  “Yes. I received word a week ago. No convoys are coming or going from the lead mine.”

  “Have you ever thought the mine owners might be behind these slaughters?”

  “Of course,” said James, picking up a cupid figurine and looking at it with distaste. “Initially I thought it implausible, but now I think they may be responsible for the strikes everywhere.”

  “And what of Lauren?” said Heloise noting the dark circles under his eyes and his unshaven face. James said nothing.

  “Where is the girl?” she demanded.

  “In the north with Cavendish, gathering refugees from the Northern communities.”

  “What! How could you leave her there!” cried Heloise.

  James felt his palms began to perspire. He tightened his jaw and turned toward the door. With his hand on the latch he stated, “You will receive word when it is safe to return to Duke Street,” and he left the room.

  Another month passed as James monitored the safety of the members of The Pride of the King on the Hudson and through the colonies to
the south. He also continued business on a limited basis while his members were in hiding trying to generate some revenue while the organization was down. The strain began to show on his face, and his brief happiness with Lauren seemed now like a distant dream.

  Late one September afternoon after a meeting with one of the local patroons, Ben Groot handed St. Clare a note. “This came for you while you were inside, Captain.”

  James read the message and said, “So the fluyt is here.”

  “Yes sir,” was the giant’s reply.

  “Any word about--”

  Ben’s brown eyes sparkled, and he handed him another note, “And this came too.”

  James stared at Ben a moment stunned, then tore the note open, read it and breathed a sigh of relief. “All this news in one afternoon,” James said.

  “Is she safe, sir?”

  “She is safe and waiting for us at Cavendish Landing.”

  James put his arms back and stretched. For the first time in months, he noticed the afternoon sun streaming through the colorful autumn leaves and the sparkling water of the Hudson. He put his tricorne on and announced, “The Pride of the King awaits, Mr. Groot!”

  * * *

  Lauren watched the canoe approach Cavendish Landing in the twilight. She was told James was hiding The Pride of the King on Popple Creek and that he would look for her on shore when the sun had set. She saw him climb out of out the canoe with Ben Groot and another man who she assumed to be his new first mate.

  Stepping back into the shadows, Lauren held her breath struggling to find the nerve to approach him. She watched James scan the shoreline as his companions started for the tavern. Drunken soldiers and whores loitered outside in the balmy night air laughing and shouting obscenities at one another. Patrons came and went and still he waited, his arms crossed. He began to pace. Suddenly, he shook his head and started for the inn. Lauren’s heart jumped. She knew that she should not allow him to look for her inside. It was far too dangerous. Someone would recognize him. Even Cavendish Landing was no longer a safe haven for members of The Pride of the King.

  She stepped out from the shelter of the trees and started toward him. She wore a simple blue skirt and bodice with a white kerchief on her head. When James saw her he grinned, took several strides then broke into a full run. She watched him a moment then something inside of her snapped. She picked up her skirts and ran from him bolting back into the woods and down the trail.

  James stopped, looking confused. He called to her then dashed down the trail after her. When he finally reached her down by the river, he yanked her into his arms and exclaimed, “What’s wrong with you!”

  Lauren pushed away from him, her eyes down. Suddenly, he saw her bare forehead and his jaw dropped. His eyes ran over her as tears rolled down her face. Slowly and carefully he reached up and lowered the kerchief. Lauren swallowed hard as he looked at her shaven head. She reached up and tied the kerchief back on.

  “Who did this to you,” he said through his teeth.

  She whispered, “French soldiers. I was branded as a spy.”

  “How is it you were in French territory?” His voice sounded threatening.

  “I was gathering information. I found out that Julien Gautier, Jean-Baptiste and Claude Aberjon are responsible for the raids. Two of them are being tried for treason, but Claude remains free and vows to destroy us.”

  There was a long silence while James absorbed the news. His jaw tightened, and he began to pace the shoreline, rocks and twigs crunching under his boots. Lauren stood with her eyes down, feeling ashamed and embarrassed. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and she hung her head.

  He walked up suddenly and stroked her cheek. “My beauty,” he whispered then he took her face in his hands and kissed her. Lauren put her arms around him, tears streaming down her face. He ran his lips over her cheeks.

  “Don’t ever leave me again,” he said. “At last I understand. At last I understand.” He repeated the words to her again and again as he kissed her.

  * * *

  The crew of the Pride of the King guarded the mouth of Popple Creek as James and Lauren canoed back to his hideaway. Their passion for each other, frenzied at first with fire and desperation melted into contentment and serenity. They spent hours together drowsing by the stream, sunlight filtering through the trees, dancing across their entangled limbs. They talked long into the night at the kitchen table by candlelight.

  It was late one afternoon by the creek when Lauren told him of their unborn child. James stared at her in disbelief than rolled onto his back on the moss and laughed with joy. “A child! Why did you not tell me sooner?”

  “I wanted it to be a quiet moment such as this.”

  “A child who shall have a name.”

  “Yes,” Lauren agreed. “And a child who will have a home.”

  Several days passed and James began to grow restless. Lauren knew he was worried about the safety of the crew, and to ease his burden she suggested they return to the fluyt. She too could not fully appreciate their time together knowing that Claude may strike before winter approached.

  The next day they returned to the vessel. The first thing James did was consult with the first mate. She overheard Mr. Duerr say in his thick Prussian accent, “Ya, I agree Captain, Robert, Mr. Bologne and a few others may go ashore.”

  “The crew needs shore leave,” said St. Clare. “I know the doldrums are upon them.”

  Lauren missed Isaac, and she knew James did too, but Duerr was a diligent and responsible first mate. She nodded a greeting to him then followed James down the companionway to his quarters. It feels wonderful to be home again, thought Lauren. She loved her husband’s cabin. It still smelled of spicy soap and cedar, and the barrel still sat by the bed with the name, Chateaux St. Clare, Provence.

  James worked at his desk all afternoon while Lauren rested. She had been fatigued lately never seeming to get enough sleep. The baby demanded constant food and rest from her. Sliding under the covers she wiggled her toes and watched James work at his desk then peacefully drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke many hours later to find the cabin dark and James gone. All was quiet above, and when she looked out the moon was high in the sky. Pulling a gown over her shift she went barefoot onto the deck. The only sound was the water sloshing against the hull and a light breeze rustling the dry leaves on shore. She wondered who was on night watch. She leaned on the rail and looked out at the silent woods then up at the moon.

  She listened once more for movement and heard nothing. She walked toward the stern and tripped on a large bundle on the deck. Stepping to the side, her foot slipped on something slick. She realized it was not a bundle. The moonlight cast a pale light on the lifeless face of Josef Duerr. His throat had been cut. Lauren realized she was standing in his blood.

  Terrified, she scanned the deck for danger, realizing she must grab her rifle before she too became a victim. Dashing down the companionway she ran into the cabin and locked the door. She loaded her firearm with trembling hands. Taking a deep breath she took the stairs two at a time and rushed onto the deck, rifle in hand ready to fire, but nothing moved, and no one lunged at her from the shadows. The only movement came from the trees swaying in the night breeze.

  Lauren’s legs were so wobbly she wasn’t sure she could walk. Nevertheless, she moved toward the bow where she saw another form on the deck slumped against the rail. As she drew closer, she realized it was Ben Groot his throat also cut. Across from him sprawled face down on the deck was old Mathias. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob and bile began to rise in her throat. She felt her head start to spin. The grisly scene was overwhelming.

  She took a deep breath and steadied herself. If she was going to survive, she must not lose her head. Lauren realized Claude had fulfilled his promise. Jumping down onto the lower deck she searched madly for other victims especially for James. Finding no one else, she strained to see the shore. St. Clare usually posted a sentry on land, but she saw no
one. Having searched every inch of the fluyt, Lauren stopped a moment clenching her fists. Her heart was pounding so wildly it was hard to collect her thoughts. How could this have happened while she slept? They must have taken the crew by surprise.

  She assumed whoever committed this treachery did not know she was in the cabin otherwise she too would be dead. She knew she must find James and the others, so without delay she lowered herself into a canoe and set off for the Cavendish settlement. She looked over her shoulder at the macabre specter of the ship in the moonlight and shuddered.

  The woods seemed alive as she paddled down stream, the brittle dry underbrush on shore making snapping sounds as night creatures moved through it. Lauren stopped before Cavendish landing coming ashore at the clearing where she had met Isi by the bonfire months earlier. She pulled the canoe up onto the sand and the rocks making certain the cabin was dark and silent before she started up the path.

  When she reached Cavendish settlement, she paused in the shadows. The tavern was ablaze with light and activity. Loud voices came from inside the establishment, and Lauren noted several patrons outside the door waving their arms and gesturing toward the river and woods. Several British soldiers ran down to the landing, juped onto bateaux and pushed off down the Hudson. Lauren spotted Gunnar in back of the tavern returning from the necessary. She scanned the clearing then dashed toward him, startling him.

  He cried, “Damn it, Miss!”

  She grabbed him and dragged him into the woods. “Mon Dieu, Gunnar, what is happening?” she panted.

  He looked furtively at the tavern then said, “It’s a lynching. Cavendish’s wife says she saw one of your crew using a child.”

  “What! Who did she accuse?”

  “The one that’s slow.”

  “Who? Robert!”

 

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