Pride of the King, The (45 page)

Suddenly, the charred smoke of the Romany settlement filled her lungs again. She wondered why James had brought them here once more, back to this scene of ruin and carnage. He stopped abruptly at the clearing and dropped down into a squat. When she reached his side, he yanked her swiftly to the ground as well. Confused and exhausted, she struggled to understand why they were here. Finally, when the clouds passed from the full moon, she understood. She could see that they were not at the Romany settlement at all but at the smoking remains of the gunsmith community. The French had destroyed this settlement as well.

James rolled onto his stomach, rifle in hand. “Watch our backs, Lauren.”

In a flash she too rolled over and turned her firearm behind them, scanning the woods by the light of the moon. It cast long shadows through the trees with an eerie glow. She held her breath; there was no movement, no sound. Even the creatures of the forest had fled. Minutes seemed like hours as they waited and watched, straining in the semidarkness to see or hear anything.

“They are gone. No one remains,” St. Clare whispered finally.

“When did this happen, James?”

“It must have been within hours of our departure for the Romany
settlement. Davi knew we that we would be much easier to confront up there at the settlement, rather than here with help all around us.”

“All this pain and butchery. Gautier already has a lucrative business. Why go to this much trouble?” asked Lauren.

“This is what confuses me. There is more to this than Gautier eliminating his competition,” James said cryptically.

Like the Romany community, only a few charred walls stood, alongside blackened stone fireplaces and forges. Lauren’s stomach churned at the thought of the gruesome human remains that lie within. She turned her head away from the stench, nauseated.

“These men were outnumbered here,” he said. “God knows they had access to weapons. We can only hope some escaped.”

“To the interior like the Romany?”

“No. Cavendish Ferry. That is where we are to meet if there is a raid. I tried to convince the Romany to have such a plan, but they insisted on remaining apart from the rest of us. They said that they would take care of their own.”

When at last the clouds drifted back over the moon, James and Lauren slipped cautiously to Popple Creek for their canoe. They found it undisturbed in the brush where they had left it a few days before. All night long they paddled down the creek in the pouring rain thankful for the deluge which covered the slosh of paddles in the water. Lauren knew James was taut with worry and fear. She tried to quell her own anxiety by sorting through all that had happened over the past few days. Her mind kept returning to what James had said earlier about members of
The Pride of the King gathering at Cavendish Ferry.
How many would be there? Would they be waiting for instructions? Would the Pride of the King dissolve?
All night she agonized over these questions, and by morning when they arrived at the Hudson, she had made a decision.

  It was here, at the confluence of Popple Creek and the Hudson River where they would conceal their canoe and start their journey overland to the south to the fluyt to make plans. She avoided looking at James as he stepped out of the craft pulling it toward shore.

The rain had stopped and the sunrise bathed the Hudson in a golden light. St. Clare strapped on his soaked pack and with a sigh started down the path toward Albany. When he did not hear Lauren’s footsteps behind him, he turned around and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Lauren took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and said, “I have been thinking all night. There is no one to salvage what remains of the organization
here in the north. I have decided that
I
will go to Cavendish Ferry and try to find the missing and reorganize. After a lifetime of searching, James I have at last found my home and my people. I will not lose them without a fight.”

Their eyes locked. Lauren was unsure whether he was surprised or furious. Swallowing hard she continued, “And you James, must fly to the crew of the fluyt alone. They may be next.”

He took a deep breath and turned his back. His shirt was drenched, and his hair was hanging in a wet ponytail. He drew his hands into fists and began pace on the riverbank. Finally, he stopped and looked at the river as it flowed by catching the golden sunlight. “I’ve had you such a short time,” he murmured.

Lauren’s eyes filled with tears, and she stepped up beside him. “And you will have me again.”

James draped his arm over her as they watched the river in silence. Finally, he said to her, “I can still see those hands reaching out to me from above, those hands that saved me from drowning. I know now one of them was yours.”

Chapter 48

They parted that morning by the river, James heading south in search of the fluyt, Lauren to the north to Cavendish Ferry. Reluctantly, St. Clare let her go. Every instinct to protect his wife was under siege, yet in his heart he knew that he must safeguard everyone in The Pride of the King
not just Lauren. He told himself that she was like him, a survivor to the core, but it was small consolation when he watched her figure grow small in the distance.

Lauren did not look back. She would not allow herself to falter for one moment. She feared that one gesture from him would send her flying back into his arms, and her resolve would be lost. She had not told him all of her reasons for going to Cavendish Ferry, the most significant being a feeling of dread. Her instincts told her there was something more to the destruction of The Pride of the King
than Julien Gautier’s wounded pride, and she had to uncover the truth before any of them could be safe again.

After sitting in the canoe most of the night it felt good to stretch her legs, and Lauren moved swiftly along the banks of the Hudson. She punctuated running with walking along the deer path, staying close to the river in the warm sunshine. Occasionally she would observe a British military vessel sailing north filled with regulars, evidence of the escalating war with the French, but she gave it little attention. Her only thought was Cavendish Ferry.

Just as James had instructed, by late morning she came around a bend in the river and saw a cluster of buildings and a fort in the distance under construction. Stumps and brush were everywhere from construction. The small settlement in front of it was Cavendish Ferry. The most prominent structure of the hamlet was a tavern made of field stone and dark wood, a flatboat and a bateau bobbed on the river with a mill and several small cabins clustered along the water. A gangly looking young man in a cap which was pulled almost over his eyes stepped out of the tavern toting a bucket, headed for the pigpens. Chickens scattered, clucking and scolding around his feet as he made for the swine.

“Good day to you,” Lauren called.

There was no reply.

She came closer and repeated her greeting. “Good day, young man.”

When the boy turned to look, Lauren recognized him immediately as the son of the blind guard at the gunsmith outpost. “Oh!” she said with surprise. “We have met. I was with Captain St. Clare at the outpost.”

He looked at her in a dazed way then dumped the slops into the trough, the sharp wind snapping his jacket.

“I am so glad to see you are well after everything,” Lauren said pushing the hair from her face. “Is your father inside?”

Gunnar hesitated then mumbled, “No.” He shook the bucket several times, buried his face in his jacket and trudged back to the inn.

Lauren stood frozen in place, horrified by her insensitivity. She realized by the boy’s reaction that Mr. Magneson may be dead. She had been in such a hurry that she had not remembered the refugees seeking shelter at Cavendish Ferry were probably grief stricken. She remembered Fatima and George Blasco and a sickening feeling washed over her. Taking a deep breath she started up the steps of the tavern, reminding herself that everyone must and will be accounted for, and that The Pride of the King
will endure.

As she walked up the stairs, her head began to spin. Stopping a moment, she steadied herself. Lauren knew the strain of the past few days had been severe. Anxiety had reduced her appetite to nothing, and the hours of physical exertion had been extreme. She ran her hand over her forehead. Her skin was clammy. She stumbled into the front room of the tavern, leaning heavily upon the door. A man in a white apron looked up from his sweeping. His skin was the color of strawberries, and his face appeared as if it had been melted, his features running together like red candle wax.

Startled, she reminded herself that she was feeling ill, and it was her mind playing tricks on her. “
Pardon, Monsieur
,” she mumbled. Lauren leaned on a table for support, but it was no help, she began to reel.

The man dropped his broom and ran to her side, easing her onto a chair. “Georgiana! Come quickly!” he called.

Lauren heard footsteps.

“She seems ill. That’s French isn’t it? What is she saying?” the innkeeper asked anxiously.

“Something idiotic, something about a music box and clothes on a line,” she heard a woman reply.

“What?”

“It makes no sense.”

The innkeeper dabbed a wet towel on Lauren’s face, and her eyes gradually refocused. She had not been mistaken earlier, the innkeeper did indeed have skin the color of strawberries, and it was drawn taut over the bones of his face. He had no chin and his features melted from his lips down into his shoulders as if he had a pink flour sack pulled over his head and gathered at the neck. Lauren stared at him in disbelief, lost for words. As if ashamed, he suddenly lowered his eyes.

“Look here! You scared her, Cavendish!” the woman snapped. “How would you like to wake up and see you!”

Lauren looked up at the woman. She had beautiful blue eyes, a full sensual mouth and volumes of golden hair tied behind her head. She was a beautiful woman in the prime of her life, but there were open sores along her lips and under her eyes, and tiny red bumps peppered her forearms as well.

“What is it you want?” she said testily to Lauren.

“I am looking for John Cavendish,” she mumbled.

“I am Cavendish,” the man said.

Lauren started to say something then looked at the woman hesitantly.

He stated, “It’s alright. You may speak freely. She is my wife. There is no one else here.”

“I am here on behalf of The Pride of the King.”

His eyes widened. “You have escaped from the north?” Mr. Cavendish said eagerly.

“I was with Captain St. Clare until this morning," said Lauren. "He headed south to the fluyt, and I came here to help search for survivors.”

Georgiana Cavendish chuckled and said “Good luck,” sarcastically. She turned on her heel and left the taproom.

John Cavendish looked at Lauren apologetically. “I am sorry, Madame but there is practically no one left from The Pride.”

“No one?” said Lauren.

“Most were lost. Two smiths survived from the outpost and made their way here. They left this morning for Albany. The boy, Gunnar Magneson is the only one who remains here now and the two Indians.”

“Chickasaw messengers?” Lauren asked anxiously. “Is there a woman?”

The innkeeper nodded. “She is staying not far from here. I will send Gunnar for her if you wish.” Lauren had been anxious about Isi from the start although James assured her that she was near Lake Champlain.

John Cavendish continued, “She arrived yesterday completely ignorant of what had been happening. Her man works here at the Ferry as a translator. He sent runners out immediately across the north country putting everyone that survives in the Pride on high alert.”

“Is there anyone who can carry this information to Captain St. Clare?” she asked. “He must be informed that almost no one remains from the outpost.”

“The smiths who left today will be contacting him as soon as they reach Albany.”

Lauren nodded then sighed. She put her face in her hands then rubbed her eyes.

“You are weary, Madame,” said Mr. Cavendish. “May I suggest a hearty meal and some sleep?”

“Thank you indeed that would be most welcome.”

Lauren did not realize how hungry she was until John Cavendish brought out a plate crammed with hot turkey in gravy, dark bread slathered with butter and two wedges of thick sharp cheese. She thought she would faint from the aroma when he set it in front of her. After gobbling the meal, she pulled herself up the stairs, bathed and fell onto a bed in a backroom where she slept through the afternoon and into the evening.

Late at night, raucous laughter and singing awakened her. Judging by the noise, Lauren could tell the tavern was of a much different character than Mrs. Quill’s inn near Hampsted. A drunken couple burst through her door, landing with a crash on the floor as Lauren bolted upright. They started to roar with laughter.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss,” slurred the man with an Irish accent. He dragged himself to his feet and bowed. “Didn’t mean to give ya a start. This room was empty last night.”

The woman stayed on the floor, laughed and said, “Just go back to sleep, darlin'. We’ll be real quiet, and if I know Lieutenant Cartwright, it’ll be quick too.”