Pride of the King, The (44 page)

She knew that it was approaching midday by the way sunlight filtered through the boughs overhead, and she wished they would break and rest, but James drove them forward. Whenever she wavered, she reminded herself of the Blascos and all their kin, dead or homeless and her resolve strengthened.

Farther and farther back they paddled until at sunset, James steered the canoe toward shore. The journey seemed interminable, and they climbed stiffly out of the canoe wasting no time pulling the boat onto shore and into the underbrush.

Without saying a word, James took Lauren’s hand and pulled her up the hill quickly toward the encampment. Suddenly someone grabbed St. Clare from behind and there was a flash of steel. A gigantic man with matted hair, held a knife to James’ throat, and a boy stepped into Lauren’s path aiming a rifle at her chest. Her heart jumped into her throat as she locked eyes with this grubby young man about the age of fourteen. His hat and his clothing hung on him like a scarecrow.

Without moving a muscle James murmured, “It is Captain St. Clare, Mr. Magneson.”

It took a moment then the man announced in a loud Swedish accent. “Why it’s the Captain, Gunnar!” With a push, he released St. Clare and said, “Ya, I should have known!” Magneson signaled to the boy to take the rifle off Lauren and began to brush the Captain off and straighten his coat. “I am sorry but one can never be too sure, Captain.”

“No, no,” James replied. “Excellent work. Now more than ever we need your diligence.”

“Ya, tank you, Captain. I try,” the big Swede replied.

Lauren studied Mr. Magneson. The man made no eye contact with the Captain, staring straight ahead without blinking. Surely, Lauren thought, they would not have a man who was blind patrol these woods, but as she studied him she realized he was indeed without sight.

“Gunnar,” James said to the boy, “You have grown up. I am pleased to see you are helping your father.” The boy shuffled his feet and mumbled something indistinguishable. Then turning to Mr. Magneson, St. Clare said, “I wish to meet with Mr. Griffith right away so I will not keep you. Thank you both.”

Mr. Magneson tipped his hat and elbowed his boy to do the same. “Ya Captain, tank you too, Captain.”

St. Clare started up the path toward the outpost. Lauren ran alongside him and asked, “Was that man blind?”

“Yes.”

“How can he patrol these woods?”

“His lack of sight is not a problem. In fact, it is an asset. The fact that he is blind makes his skill superior to that of a man with sight,” explained St. Clare. “His hearing is so acute that he can even identify an Indian out here in this wilderness. On the other side of the outpost, I have a sentry who is deaf. His eyesight is so keen that he can see the slightest of movements, like a bird of prey. He too is an exceptional guard.”

When they arrived at the gunsmith community, St. Clare greeted the artisans cordially but wasted no time on small talk looking for Mr. Griffith. The village was as it had been the last time Lauren had visited, bustling and efficient, yet so far from civilization. Sounds of hammers hitting metal rang through the air as smoke pumped out from numerous forges. Lauren heard smiths shouting instructions to apprentices as workmen pushed planes back and forth blanketing the floors with sawdust. Several times, she had to jump aside as carts carrying firearms roared past her on the road.

   A tall, lanky gray-haired man in a smith’s apron emerged from a workshop shaking St. Clare’s hand, and Lauren recognized him at once as Mr. Griffith, the foreman of the outpost. They walked to the cabin where Lauren and James had dined several years earlier, but this time they sought privacy and sat inside the dwelling rather than on the porch. There were several long tables with benches and they sat in the back corner near the fireplace.

Griffith sighed and shook his head. “It was a terrible thing, Captain. Many were butchered in their sleep, many fled to the interior. If they lose their way, it could be--”

The door of the cook shanty opened suddenly. It was George Blasco. His nose was bandaged and his face was swollen and purple. When he greeted them, Lauren noticed several of his front teeth were missing.

He sat down stiffly at the table and looked at James. “They slaughtered my family, Captain” he said.

James said nothing, searching his face.

“They came in the night,” he continued, his voice cracking. “Breaking the doors down, British regulars and some Mohawks. They pulled everyone out and those that resisted they shot. They left some of the family in the cabins then burned them to the ground. Many women and children tried to run to the woods, but many did not make it, their throats were cut or they were scalped. I fought my best but was knocked out. When I woke up, no one was left.”

St. Clare asked, “Did anyone else survive?”

“I had word from Davi. He said some have fled into the woods.” Blasco’s eyes filled with tears, and he murmured, “They even killed my little Mama.”

Lauren squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears.

George continued, “Davi sent word a short time ago. Two British regulars are holding Fatima hostage at the burned out remains of our village. God knows what they are doing to her.”

Griffith was studying St. Clare. He asked, “What is it, Captain?”

James stated, “If any of these butchers still remain, they are deserters. Are the Mohawks still there, Mr. Blasco?”

George shook his head. “Davi said only two regulars.”

“We will eat, rest for a few hours then leave under cover of darkness for the settlement,” stated St. Clare. He looked at Lauren and asked, “Are you able?”

She nodded.

“Certainly she may stay with us, Captain,” Griffith offered. “I believe it would be safer--”

“She stays with me.”

The Captain stood up and ordered the foreman to gather a group to search for the Romany who fled into the woods. He wanted them to set out immediately.

Lauren was awake most of the night. She would occasionally turn and look at James who was awake as well. He would reach out and run his hand along her cheek then turn back to staring at the ceiling. She watched his silhouette in the darkness, the line of his jaw, his hair spilling down the pillow and his arms behind his head. After several hours, they rose, rendezvoused with George Blasco and set out for the remains of the Romany settlement.

Springtime was new to the colony, and the night air still carried a chill. Lauren had goose bumps at first but eventually the brisk pace warmed her blood. Several times, they upset deer and sent owls into flight, their wings flapping heavily. They forged ahead at breakneck speed, determined to make the settlement before sunrise. Lauren found it difficult to keep up with the long legs of the men, but she did not falter, vowing not to slow them down.

The sun was just beginning to rise when they drew near the community. Their first clue was a charred smell. When they spotted the settlement, James signaled for them to drop down into a crouch.

“Davi said to meet him near the creek by the privies,” whispered George.

In the dim light, only shadows were visible of the skeletal remains of the Romany homes. With horror, Lauren imagined how the village must have looked several nights earlier when it was engulfed in flames and how the screams of agony must have resounded. James pulled her arm, and they moved around the periphery of the settlement. There was only one cabin remaining, and Lauren guessed this was where they held Fatima hostage. Keeping low, the three moved through the underbrush until they reached the privies by Popple Creek.

Without a sound, Davi emerged from the brush and into the clearing on the shore. Lauren would have known him anywhere; tall and lithe with hair like a black sheet hanging down his back. George jumped forward and hugged him. Lauren found it curious that Davi’s arms were hanging limply at his sides as his brother embraced him.

Without warning, he pushed away from George and swung his rifle up taking aim at St. Clare. James froze in his tracks. Lauren did not move.

“Drop your firearms,” Davi demanded of them all. The rising sun shone on his rigid face. His eyes were black and lifeless, his expression flat. They dropped their rifles.

“My brother, what has come over you!” gasped George. “Where is our sister?”

“Dead,” stated Davi. “There is no one left but me.”

George pleaded, “But why? Why do you do this thing--?”

“Shut up!”

Never taking his eyes off St. Clare, Davi snarled, “You were lucky that morning on Lake Champlain at Warrens Landing and again at your campsite when Gaspar and Vincent were killed. My plans failed at Fort Frederic as well. I broke my leg and could not warn Gautier that you were in hiding there as a priest.”

James did not move a muscle. Lauren’s chest heaved with fear and panic. They were all stunned by Davi’s admission of guilt.

“But at last, here and now, it will happen. Move away from them, St. Clare,” Davi demanded jerking his head to the side.

James moved away from Lauren.

“St. Clare,” Davi said. “Here is a calling card from Monsieur Gautier.” With those words, his swung his rifle around, aiming at Lauren.

James yelled, “No!” and dove at Davi, but it was too late. George had thrown Lauren to safety and instead of hitting Lauren; Davi shot his own brother through the head.

Chapter 47

Davi dashed into the woods as James scrambled over to Lauren. George Blasco was on his back, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Lauren cried out, trying to get to George, but James pulled her into the underbrush.

He shook her demanding, “You must run!”

James pulled onto her feet, and they tore through the woods, running down a deer path at a feverish pace.  On and on they dashed, fearful Davi would jump out at any moment. Perspiration ran down Lauren’s back and drenched her forehead. She thought her lungs would explode but she wanted nothing more than to put distance between her and the carnage at the settlement. To avoid discovery, they zigzagged through the woods crossing Popple Creek, on several occasions climbing down ravines and cutting through meadows taking any path rather than the one they had traveled earlier.

It was not until James stopped and began yanking brush back, did Lauren realize they had come to his hideaway. At last, she could catch her breath and feel safe. They collapsed onto the floor, panting.

Lauren asked breathlessly, “Does Davi know about this place?”

James shook his head and pulled himself up. He yanked the top off his powder horn with his teeth, primed and loaded his flintlock then did the same for Lauren. Standing up, she walked to the cupboard and pulled the cork out of a bottle of brandy, putting it to her lips. She relished the warm glow the liquor brought to her body and offered some to James. Taking a long pull, he set it on the table, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Collapsing onto a chair Lauren said, “I’m scared, James.”

He sighed and sat down heavily. “I knew something was wrong, but I just could not see it. What is wrong with me! I almost got you killed.”

“I don’t understand how Davi was involved in any of this,” Lauren said. “What was he talking about? Was he one of the men by the lake the night before we went to Warren’s Landing?”

“Yes, he was among the group that camped nearby when we slept in the trapper’s cabin. You had not met him yet, but I spoke to him there briefly. Even then, my instincts told me something was wrong. Do you remember? I changed our plans and we left in the middle of the night, arriving at Warren’s landing just before the Indians. It was our good fortune to be able to surprise
them
, not the other way around.”

James continued, “Those Indians were not of the Mohawk tribe at Warren’s Outpost that morning, and now I know it was not British soldiers massacring the Romany several nights ago. They were French masquerading as British and Mohawks. It served two purposes, to slaughter members of the Pride and to bolster hatred for the British.”

Lauren said suddenly, “Davi accompanied us to Fort St. Frederic!”

“Yes, he informed Gautier of all of our movements.”

Lauren’s jaw dropped. “So, Gautier knew all along! He knew why I came to Fort St. Frederic from the first because of Davi. Gautier turned out to be the one playing me!”

“Gautier must have paid him handsomely.” He took another pull off the brandy and ran his hands through his hair. “I must think, I must think.”

After a moment he said, “We will rest for a few hours then at nightfall we will journey again.”

*            *            *

James awakened with a start, soaked with perspiration. He sat up in bed rubbing his eyes and panting. His jolt roused Lauren, and she pushed herself up on one elbow. The two were fully clothed with flintlocks by their sides. Utterly exhausted they slept through the daylight hours, and it was now twilight.

“We must go,” he ordered, jumping off the bed.

Asking no questions, Lauren rubbed her eyes. Her muscles shot pain through her body as she slid off the bed. Fear of discovery prevented them from lighting a fire, and the room was frigid. After eating some bread and cheese from their packs they stepped out of the hideaway, powder horns, belts and packs strapped to their bodies and rifles in hand. Lauren ached all over, her body and mind under assault. They started their journey at a swift and steady pace, but before long, James urged them into a full run again. Lauren followed him closely as he dashed madly, bounding through brush, pulling branches aside, leaping over fallen trees. He would stop and let her rest for only a moment before he resumed their pace again too anxious to wait for long. Several times, branches whipped her in the face, but she did not falter, she raced on behind him feeling his urgency and his panic.