Pride of the King, The (27 page)

“He deals with both the French
and
the English?” asked Lauren suspiciously.

“Yes, and you are right to question everyone’s motives here. Boundaries are blurred in this part of the world. The French and the English, the Mohawk, the Abenaki, and the Iroquois all mingle and spill each other’s blood in this place. There is no more dangerous part of the continent. No man can claim dominion here, and no corner is safe. Forty some years ago, France and England declared a boundary at Split Rock. New France was to stay to the north and New England to the south. Here is where the important waters converge, and whoever gains control here rules the New World.”

The fire crackled and popped sending sparks high into the sky as Lauren looked into St. Clare’s eyes. Cold fear suddenly washed over her, and her palms began to sweat. She realized at once the danger surrounding her, and that Fort St. Frederic was indeed the heart of the beast.

Lauren stood up and paced trying to rub the cold from her arms. She longed for the safety of the Ursuline convent, the lush surroundings of Duke Street, or even the humble loft of the Lupone’s. She had been wrapped in safety, swaddled in security at those places, but now she was standing in the middle of a tempest of war.

Lauren’s sleep was fitful that night, and when St. Clare woke her hours before dawn, her muscles ached from fatigue and fear. The stale smell of animal fat and human urine from the trapper’s cabin lingered on her clothing. She longed to slide into a tub of warm water to bathe and rest her muscles, but when they pushed the canoe onto Lake George the crack of the November wind awakened her mind and heightened her senses.

St. Clare insisted on changing their plans, and they left well before the sun rose. All day long they paddled on Lake George, the north wind pushing against them. Occasionally flakes of snow drifted down from the sky, and at these times Lauren could feel the tension in St. Clare. He was abrupt and short tempered at every turn. He allowed few breaks, driving them to press on at an unendurable pace.

By late afternoon, they saw a break in the pine trees which he identified as the trading post of Warren’s Landing. As they steered the canoe toward the small timbered stockade the skies opened up, driving large wet flakes into their eyes blinding their approach. Lauren’s fingers were numb and her cheeks were burning. To hasten their voyage, Lauren drove the paddles deep into the water while James strained to see the landing, paddling madly as well. Through the veil of white the timbered walls of the structure became discernible, and in a moments time the shoreline was upon them. They jumped out and hastily pulled the canoe up on the sand and rocks.

As Lauren yanked a pack out of the craft, St. Clare shouted, “Leave it!" and grasped her wrist, yanking her under some pine trees. It was quiet and dry under the blanket of green. They stood on a thick cushion of needles as Lauren wiped the wet hair from her face and rubbed the moisture from her eyes. St. Clare stood panting with his eyes riveted on the trading post, water dripping from his face and his hair plastered to his skin. His body was taut.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked.

He ignored her question, continuing to survey the post and its environs. He grasped Lauren’s wrist like an iron shackle and whispered, “We must approach everything here with the caution of a cat.”

At last the wind died and the snow began to drift lazily to the ground. The trading post on the hill became visible and they looked up. There on top of the small stockade were three men seated at all corners, keeping watch. They were dressed in buckskin and fur overcoats with hats pulled low and collars pulled up to protect themselves from the elements. One spare young man was sitting up at strict attention facing the lake with a musket on his lap. Another had his back to them guarding a path in the woods, and the last man faced them. He had dropped off to sleep his bearded jaw resting on his chest.

Lauren shuddered. The snow was turning to ice on her volumes of hair. “Come, we must get warm. The snow is melting all over me,” and she took a step toward the clearing.

“No!” hissed St. Clare, yanking her back. He pointed at the post and said, “Look you little fool. The snow is not melting on
them
!”

To Lauren’s horror the snow that had gathered on the guard’s shoulders had not melted or been brushed off because the men had not moved.

“This is a trap, they’re dead. We must get back to the canoe. No one is here yet, or we would be dead already.”

St. Clare turned toward the canoe then stopped abruptly. “Look!”

There on the lake was a canoe carrying three passengers heading toward the trading post. The snow intensified, and the travelers were lost from view.

“Quickly, we must pull the canoe out of sight,” he ordered.

Lauren picked up her soaked skirts dashing behind him. They dragged the canoe filled with packs onto shore behind a pile of wood cut for the upcoming winter. The snow was blinding as they ran to the shelter of the fur post. The snow was melting on the grass so their footprints were invisible. Rifle in hand, St. Clare passed through the courtyard, kicked open the door of the post and stepped in scanning the room for danger. It had obviously been ransacked. Empty crates and barrels were scattered everywhere, a fur press had been smashed to pieces, and some dried blood was spattered on the wall. Lauren followed behind him carrying a rifle too. She followed him up the ladder onto the lookouts where the dead held vigil.

“This is an old trick. They use dead bodies as decoys to lure traders with goods to the post," James said. "Go over there and strip that one of his clothing. Then push his body to the ground inside the walls of the post.”

Lauren was speechless. She blinked several times and walked toward the corpse. The boy looked to have been only Lauren’s age. He had red hair with freckles, and his wide vacant eyes resembled the milky eyes of old fish. Bile rose in her throat, but she squelched the urge to retch and bent over undressing the corpse.

First she must pull a long stake from the jacket. The stake had held the dead boy upright, feigning guard duty. The buckskin jacket and pants were next. They were stiff and frozen as Lauren struggled, ripping the drawstrings open, pulling the pants off and yanking the shirt from a body that was stiff from death and frigid temperatures. When the corpse was reduced to only small clothes, Lauren straightened up and looked over at St. Clare. He was pushing his corpse off the wall.

“Do it!” he shouted. “Do it now!”

Lauren scrambled and sat down between the cadaver and the timbered wall, drew up her knees then pushed the body with her feet over the edge of the battlement. Before she had time to stand up and look over the edge, St. Clare was down the ladder and into the yard pulling the two bodies out of sight hiding the muskets as well.

“Now dress in his clothing quickly, and sit as he was sitting!” he barked dashing up the ladder to his post.

Lauren obeyed, dreading what she was about to do. She pulled on the stiff clothing. It skinned her knuckles and scratched her arms, but as the heat from her skin melted the ice on the fabric, the clothing gradually conformed to her body.

St. Clare finished dressing in the clothing of the bearded trader and leaned forward straining his eyes through the blizzard. He could make out the canoe coming ashore. Crawling on his hands and knees to Lauren, he pulled a pistol from his belt. “Hold your rifle in your lap and stay still. Put this pistol in your belt. You will know when it is time to kill.”

Lauren watched him crawl back to his corner, her heart pounding. Her eyes widened as he rolled forward onto the sharpened timbers, motionless. He needed to hide his face and the fact that he was clean-shaven. Suddenly, she heard voices and quickly pulled the dead boy’s cap low over her head, stuffing her long hair into the buckskin coat. With the rifle on her lap and pistol in her belt, Lauren sat upright barely breathing staring straight ahead.

A huge Mohawk man got out of the canoe first and started up the hill followed by a white fur trader. The Indian wore the traditional stiff crest of hair, or roach as it was called, along the middle of his head with a long fur coat and leggings. He carried a rifle and looked around furtively as if suspecting trouble. The European backwoodsman followed close behind him carrying a musket. He was of average height but appeared dwarfed next to the gigantic Indian. He stared up at Lauren and James. They remained motionless on the lookouts.

The last to step from the canoe was a young Indian woman who dropped her fur hood staring at the decoys as well. Her long dark hair was in a braid and her eyes sharp and clear. “The bearded one has fallen,” she said in her native tongue, pointing to St. Clare.

The Mohawk pointed down to the ground. “Someone has passed here.” His dark eyes darted around the trees and swept over the post.

The backwoodsman said nothing passing under the decoys into the yard. Lauren strained to hear his steps on the ladder, but the wind roared loudly in her ears. She saw the Mohawk enter the post as well. The Indian girl remained in front watching the woods and the lake.

There was a vibration on the floor as the men climbed the ladder. The blood rushed so madly in Lauren’s ears she thought her head would explode. Her palms were drenched, and her throat was dry.

“Straighten him,” demanded the backwoodsman of the Indian.

The Mohawk put his rifle down and started toward St. Clare just as a strong gust of wind swept across the lookouts. The wind was so strong it lifted the cap from Lauren’s head sending it soaring into the air. Her voluminous hair blew around her head, encircling her face and escaping from her jacket. The cap landed on the ground by the Indian girl, and she looked up. Her eyes widened, and she yelled to the men.

In two steps the backwoodsman was upon Lauren, yanking her to her feet. Her rifle misfired. Her heart pounding, she yanked the pistol from her belt, looked into the man’s watery eyes and pulled the trigger. Lauren saw his face explode into blood and mangled tissue. He staggered back, impaling himself on the sharpened timbers of the outpost, his musket dropping onto the ground below. Before she could take a step, the gigantic Indian was upon her, grabbing her by the neck with his bear-sized hand. She stared into his black eyes as he began to lift her from the ground. She felt her backbone stretch, and she struggled madly as he choked her. Trying to free herself, she clawed at his face, tearing at his hair. Then there was a bang, and the Indian staggered into Lauren. James St. Clare was standing behind him holding a smoking rifle.

Still alive, the Mohawk straightened up pulling a buck knife out of his legging. He lunged at St. Clare, slashing his thigh. James jumped back, dropping the rifle. With arms outstretched, he faced the Indian. The Mohawk towered over him. They circled each other as Lauren pulled herself to her feet. She could see the blood oozing onto St. Clare’s pant leg. As skilled as he was, she knew James was no match for a man of this size. She saw the Mohawk backing toward his rifle. Searching madly for a weapon, Lauren spotted the stake she had pulled earlier from the jacket of the corpse.

Lauren called, “St. Clare!” tossing him the stake. He caught it, took two steps forward and with both hands drove the stake into the Indian. Blood spattered onto his face and arms. The Indian roared and staggered back grabbing St. Clare by the jacket, toppling them both over the edge of the lookout onto the ground below.

Lauren cried out and started to run to the edge of the lookout but was stopped abruptly by a sudden burning in her shoulder. She stumbled and fell against the timber fortifications, stunned. Looking up she saw the Mohawk girl holding a smoking musket. Blood stain oozed onto Lauren’s jacket as the Indian girl began reloading.

Lauren looked about frantically for a weapon. Her heart drummed as the Indian girl withdrew the ramrod from the muzzle of her musket. So it would all end here, thought Lauren, after all she had endured, everything she had overcome, killed at an ugly outpost wearing the clothing of a corpse.

Enraged, she dashed over and said, “Not yet!” and with one swift motion pushed the girl over the wall of the outpost, musket and all.

Blood gushing from her shoulder, Lauren dropped to her knees and began to crawl toward the ladder. She must find James. She knew if she could reach him, they would find a way out of this. Then everything began to spin, and she fell to the floor losing consciousness.

The injuries and the fall from the lookout killed the Mohawk man and stunned St. Clare. Pushing the hair from his face, he dragged himself to his feet, clutching his thigh. He pulled himself up the ladder where he found Lauren unconscious and bleeding. She was alone, and he scooped her into his arms starting down the ladder. Bearing weight was excruciating, but he carefully eased her to the ground.

Concerned there may be others coming, James elected to tend Lauren’s injuries away from Warren’s Landing. He threw all the rifles and muskets into the canoe and pushed off. Not until he was away from shore did he notice the Indian girl waking from her stupor on the side of the outpost. They would be long gone by the time she could raise the alarm, and he turned the canoe out into the lake.

Moving them to a safe location, he rested the paddles in the canoe and bent over Lauren. She was ghostly pale, and her lips were white. He tore open one of the packs and pulled out a shirt soaking it in the lake to clean her gunshot wound. He then applied a salve of comfrey and oil he kept on hand. Even when he touched the wound Lauren did not move, her swoon was so deep. He wound a bandage made from torn small clothes then around her shoulder and eased her back onto the bottom of the canoe.

Completely drained, St. Clare slumped back panting. He was exhausted and worried. His own injuries demanded attention, so he pulled himself up again. With much discomfort, he yanked the cloth from his thigh that he had applied earlier and inspected his wound. The blood had dried underneath the dirty rag, adhering bits of fabric to the wound. He winced removing the threads one by one. After dabbing his laceration with salve, he bandaged the injury and slumped back once more. He could only rest for a moment because the sun had dropped in the sky, and already the air felt frigid. Throwing several blankets over Lauren, he picked up the paddles and moved on. Where they would spend the night was a mystery to him, but he was sure of one thing; he would return Lauren to the Hudson River Valley and bring her back to full health.

Chapter 31

The fire popped and Lauren’s eyelids fluttered. She opened her eyes and stared at the flames for a moment and then fell back to sleep. James looked up from the table of maps where he was standing and sighed. He was still not convinced she would live. He walked to the window and looked outside. The sun had set, but it was not evening yet. In a few weeks it would be the shortest day of the year. Lauren had been ill for a month, and it was not until the last few days that she had shown any improvement. On occasion she would open her eyes or mumble but nothing that lasted.

James yanked his topcoat from a peg. Taking his powder horn and rifle, he left the cabin to find food. The dwelling where Lauren slept was the hideaway of James St. Clare. It was deep in the interior on Popple Creek which flowed into the mighty Hudson highway. Lauren was its first guest, and it sheltered her from the raging snow and winds of December. St. Clare used the cabin to collect his thoughts and formulate new plans. Here he could rest and think clearly being free of intrigue and tension.

The cottage was furnished simply but had a quality of complete security and warmth. There were several braided rugs on the pine floor woven in warm rich colors and a bed warmer rested against the hearth near the trivets, kettles and pots. A small corner hutch was by the fireplace with several painted plates and cups that appeared to be Dutch, and two Windsor chairs sat on either side of a homemade table by the window with a candle on it. St. Clare’s bed was pulled in front of the fireplace for Lauren. She was buried in clean white goose down blankets and pillows. A bedroll was on the floor where St. Clare slept.

What was singular about this dwelling was its camouflage. St. Clare had constructed it partially into a hill and the face of the cottage was completely covered in vines, so when the house was not in use, the front of the cabin could be covered easily with brush and leaves and hidden from view. It was a refuge for James and a corner of the world all his own. A world he had shared with no one until now.

Lauren opened her eyes again and looked around the room. She could not get her bearings. The last time she had this experience she was in the house of Madame Vanoss, and this certainly was not that dwelling.

The door swung open and in stepped James St. Clare. After stamping the snow from his feet, he put his overcoat on a peg and walked to the fireplace to put his rifle on the rack. Suddenly, he stopped and turned around. Lauren had been staring at him. She looked into his dark eyes and smiled. He laughed and said, “My God, girl. I thought you were going to leave us.”

Before he could say anything else Lauren drifted off again.

*      *      *

The next morning, James helped Lauren sit up and gave her some broth from the stew he made. It steamed as he fed it to her, and the warm liquid cleared her throat enough for her to ask him questions. He told her that he had canoed all night that first night, thanks to a full moon, getting them to safety. Then at a fur post he bought supplies and hired two boys to portage his canoe back to the Hudson, leaving it at the mouth of Popple Creek. He dragged her on a litter over the Great Carrying Place, and then canoed up Popple Creek to this cottage.

As sick as she was, Lauren understood the magnitude of this undertaking and whispered, “Thank you.”