Pride of the King, The (24 page)

“Well, she was a broken down old wreck when he found her--sort of an outcast like the rest of us--and with the knowledge he gained at sea, he resurrected the old gal.”

Suddenly Isaac spotted the Captain and scrambled to his feet. Tipping his hat he said, “Good day to you, Ma‘am,” and left.

Lauren stirred her stew, and then turned her attention to St. Clare moving about the vessel. She watched him inspect every detail of the craft. She saw him run his hands over the polished brass fittings and touch the sails with reverence. His concern for the vessel was tantamount, and she believed that he viewed her as an old friend. She observed that he was dressed in evening attire. He had on a dark coat and breeches, burgundy waistcoat and highly polished boots. Lauren liked the fact that, even though he was dressed formally, he did not powder his long, smoky blond hair. She guessed he was dining with one of the local patroons that night.

Suddenly, he began to cough and grabbed the mast for support. Lauren heard him many nights coughing and pacing in his cabin above hers, and many mornings he would emerge looking drawn and tired. She wondered what disease plagued him and how he had contracted it.

She noticed George Blasco leaning against a tree watching her. “He was in prison,” he announced in a voice thick with accent. He threw the bit of grass away that he had been chewing and came near her.

Lauren ignored him and went back to her bouillabaisse.

“I know what you was wondering. You was wondering what gave him that cough. It was prison. He was in prison, thirty feet underground in a cavern never seeing the light of day for months. Sumptin’ like that puts the rot in a man.”

Lauren could hide her interest no longer. “In prison? What for?”

“He got caught running goods. We had to do it by ourselves while he was in prison, and we did a damn sight better job than him too.”

Lauren knew Blasco wanted her to question him further about St. Clare, but she refused. She knew it would only encourage the man, and his presence made her uncomfortable. She turned back to look for the Captain, but he was gone.

That evening something unusual happened. For the first time ever, old Mathias played a merry tune on his fiddle. The crew was on shore playing cards when they heard the light-hearted strains, and they began to cheer.

“By Jove! What’s gotten into the old man!” cried Henry Bologne.

Isaac bounded up from the hold and bellowed, “Why it sounds like a celebration, Mathias! What’s the occasion?”

Mathias nodded at the setting sun then played on. Isaac dashed to the railing and shouted to the men. “What day is it?”

When no one answered, he declared, “Wait! It’s Midsummer, the longest day of the year!”

With little urging from Isaac the crew hustled on board clearing an area for dancing, and Mr. Groot disappeared to ask the Captain if the crew could have a celebration. The giant emerged from the hold with a smile on his face and a barrel of rum on his shoulder. He announced, “Compliments of the Captain!”

Everyone contributed something to the party. Robert and George put up torches, Isaac and Ben Groot arranged the deck, and Henry Bologne pulled out his tin whistle along with Samuel and his drum. Lauren made rum syllabub and brought sausage and cheese to the festivity. Even Mother Nature blessed them with a clear moonlit night.

For the first time in months Lauren could discard her dirty pinner and change into something soft and feminine. She had obtained fabric from Kingston several weeks earlier to make some everyday gowns, and even though none of the dresses were grand, the indigo muslin with the green stomacher seemed festive. She pinned up her auburn tresses and grabbed her skirts dashing up the companionway two steps at a time. She was not about to miss a single dance. When she reached the top step the men stared at her dumbfounded. Even Mathias stopped playing.

Seeing Lauren blush, Isaac roared, “What’s wrong with you fools! Ain’t you never seen a lady before?

They laughed, and Mr. Claypool started the slip jig, “Kid on the Mountain” on his drum. Mathias followed putting the fiddle to his chin. Finding the right moment, Henry Bologne took up his tin whistle and joined in as well.

Isaac took Lauren by the waist and swung her out onto the makeshift dance floor. Tonight Lauren had no cares. Tonight she would dance and flirt with every man on board
The Pride of the King
and feel pretty once more.

The rum was flowing and after several drinks Isaac jumped on top of a barrel to show the crew his fancy dancing. He struck his boots on the barrel in time with the music and kicked his legs high into the air. He did a handstand on the barrel then jumped down onto the deck with a flourish.

Lauren laughed and clapped her hands with delight. She danced with every one of the crew and flirted outrageously with them all. She could not remember having more fun. She danced with Robert who stepped on her feet, with the graceful giant Ben Groot and with Isaac Burroughs three times. She even danced with George Blasco.

At last she turned to the ship’s purser saying, “Come along, Mr. Bologne. It’s your turn,” and held out her hands.

Being without legs, Henry Bologne did not think he could dance, and he refused Lauren, but she would not allow him to sit out. She took his large hands and whirled him around and around in circles on his platform. She darted under his arms and out again skipping around him like a gypsy around the fire.

“This is my first dance, my girl!” Henry shouted with glee as she tripped about him. His eyes twinkled merrily as he watched her dart around him like a bird.

The torches burned low as the merriment and music continued into the night. When the men were not dancing with Lauren, they were drinking rum, playing cards or singing their favorite chantey. No one noticed St. Clare come on deck and lean against the rail in the shadows. None of them noticed his dark eyes following Lauren as she danced around and around.

Chapter 28

Without realizing it, Lauren began to change. The fresh air of the Hudson Valley filled her lungs and reddened her blood, returning the lusty color to her cheeks. The dark circles under her eyes disappeared and her posture became erect and strong. Her pirate smile returned, and she brandished it eagerly along with a laugh contagious to the entire crew. She brought energy and life to everyone on board
The Pride of the King,
and they grew to love her. 

There was a spiritual transformation in Lauren as well. The wilderness nourished her and gave her strength like nothing before. It calmed her uncertainties and soothed her senses. She would stand on the deck of
The Pride of the King
and let the winds cleanse her and the scents of the pine trees purify her. The boundless interior seduced her and beckoned to her to explore its mysteries.

At sunrise one morning late in the summer the Captain announced they were sailing into the upper Hudson River country, north of Albany. Until now Lauren had ridden the vessel from village to village, oblivious to its course, but today she noticed the stretch of the river on which they sailed was more remote, and she noticed the vessel hugged the shore as if in search of something.

Suddenly, St. Clare began barking orders, and the crew sprang into action. The fluyt came about hard, and in the blink of an eye entered a creek which a moment earlier had been invisible. Instantly the green darkness enveloped the fluyt. The tangled limbs of elms, oaks and maples rose up on either side of the vessel, and Lauren could hear the beating of wings as waterfowl sprang from the water, startled at the swift appearance of the fluyt. Without the benefit of wind or momentum,
The Pride of the King
slowed to a standstill and the crew dropped anchor.

“You there!” shouted the Captain.

Lauren glanced up, and then went back to coiling rope.

“You there!” he barked again, standing by the rail. “Are you daft? I am talking to you, girl.”

He signaled to her impatiently, and Lauren moved to the railing.

“Where are we going?” she asked, looking at the dense underbrush.

“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 was 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. “