The Judge Hunter

by Christopher Buckley

  Pepys was not yet aware of another element at play here. Years later, after a particularly stormy marital battle, his wife would inform him that Sandwich had asked her to be his mistress. One can only imagine his lordship’s innermost thoughts when Pepys showed up to berate him for his carnality with Mrs. Becke.

  Was it true, Flott asked Sam, that the Chelsey trollop had given his lordship the clap?

  Eager to change the subject, Pepys pretended he knew nothing about that unhappy subject. Meanwhile, he remarked that he was surprised Lord Downing had not asked him to do any ciphering for him recently. Pepys enjoyed working at “character”—that is, devising private codes for confidential messages. He told Flott that he felt a bit put out at not having been asked. Had his skill at character been eclipsed by someone else?

  Flott replied that he, too, was surprised that Lord Downing hadn’t called on Pepys, for in recent weeks, his lordship had dispatched so many ciphered messages that, “all collected, they would surpass in number the pages of King James’s Bible.”

  Pepys was speechless. Why hadn’t Downing called on him?

  It could only be that Downing didn’t want Pepys to know about whatever it was. Which meant that whatever it was must concern the Navy. But why, Pepys asked himself, keep a Navy matter secret from the Clerk of the Acts of . . . the Navy—the person most responsible for naval preparedness?

  What Navy matter could Downing be keeping from him? Pepys mentally reviewed the roster. He knew the location of every anchored or docked ship in the Navy—not that there were many.

  There was Colonel Nicholls, commander of a British force, and his squadron of four ships at Portsmouth, preparing to sail in May for Boston. This was a peaceful undertaking, an administrative review of the New England colonies. The mission itself wasn’t secret, so there would have been no need for a blizzard of ciphered messages. Downing had even alerted the West India Company in Amsterdam about it, so that there would be no misunderstanding should Nicholls’s squadron wander into Dutch waters near New England. Downing even proposed to them that Nicholls pay a courtesy call at New Amsterdam. A gesture of goodwill would go far, at a time of such great tension between the two nations.

  Musing on the Nicholls squadron reminded Pepys that he meant to ask Nicholls to inquire after Balty. And to give him letters for Balty from his sister and wife, who’d both been in a swivet since he’d left. How they fretted over their Balty! But how peaceful it had been without Balty barging into Pepys’s office every day, sniffing about for a sinecure or another “loan.”

  A bustle approached: the clack of heels on parquet.

  “Ah, Mr. Pep-iss.”

  “My lord.”

  “Suivez, suivez.”

  Pepys followed Downing into his chambers.

  Downing spoke with a distracted air. “Haven’t seen you about, Sam. Where have you been lurking?”

  “At the ropeyard, testing hemp. And Waltham Forest, supervising the hewing of timber. And dealing with cheating flag makers.”

  “Ah. I trust you made an example of the flag makers.”

  “I had them whipped.”

  Downing frowned. “I call that lenient. Symbolic things, flags. Sends a bad signal. I’d have had a hand taken off. At least a thumb.”

  “I agree. But removing their hands and thumbs would only encumber their stitching.” Enough badinage, Pepys thought. “I wonder, my lord, if we might have a tête-à-tête, vis-à-vis Holland?”

  “Holland,” Downing groaned theatrically. “Mr. Pep-iss, I begin to think that Holland is the only thing in your tête.”

  “I assure your lordship that it is not my intent to inflict tedium. I merely—”

  “Yes, Sam, you merely worry that we are rushing pell-mell into a war for which we are inadequately equipped. Et cetera, et cetera. Your concern has not gone unnoticed. How could it have, it being your only conversation these days.”

  Pepys bowed. “Yet again, I marvel at my lord’s ability to distill the quiddity of any matter at hand.”

  “As I delight, yet again, in our tête-à-têtes. Do come and see us again. Soon.”

  Pepys lingered, unwilling to quit the field. “As I find myself here, is my lord in need of any service? Ciphering?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Pepys knew not to press. As a spymaster, Downing would be suspicious if he did. And he must not reveal to Downing what Flott had told him about the recent torrent of ciphered messages. Still, he was reluctant to leave it at this.

  “I’m to Portsmouth next week,” Pepys said casually.

  “Ah?”

  “Um. To complete the victualing of Colonel Nicholls’s squadron.”

  “Yes? Good.”

  Downing was reading, barely listening. Pepys probed for an opening: “I have letters for him to convey to our Mr. St. Michel.”

  “Who?”

  “My brother-in-law. He whom you dispatched to New England. To arrest the regicides Whalley and Goffe.”

  Downing looked up from his desk. “Ah, yes. Our intrepid judge hunter. I’d forgotten him. Any word?”

  “No. But it occurs to me that Colonel Nicholls’s mission, his administrative review of the colonies, might intersect with Mr. St. Michel’s undertaking.”

  “Intersect?” A flicker of interest.

  “Perhaps Mr. St. Michel may have found something of interest to Colonel Nicholls.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think. Anyway, your formidable brother-in-law’s mission is to make a nuisance of himself in New Haven. You did avouch that being a nuisance was his great facility.”

  “Yes. No doubt he’s vexed them to the point of making them want to move to New Netherland.”

  “No, no,” Downing said, suddenly stern. “We can’t have that.”

  “I spoke in jest. Why?”

  “New Englanders forging alliances with New Netherlanders? No good could come of that. We’ve had a report that some of the New Haveners, chafing under Connecticut rule, are making plans for a new settlement. New Ark, they’re calling it. Better that they remain in Connecticut, where we can keep a eye on them, rather than having them go making common cause with Peter Stuyvesant.”

  “In that case,” Pepys said, “I shall instruct my brother-in-law not to annoy them so greatly as to drive them into the arms of the cheese makers.” Pepys bowed. “To Portsmouth, then. If your lordship has any dispatches for Colonel Nicholls, I should be glad to convey them.”

  “We have couriers for that.”

  “It’s no trouble. I am going there, myself.” Pepys smiled. “No task in his majesty’s service can be considered menial.”

  “Accommodating of you. Very well. Come back tomorrow morning. Flott will give you a packet for Nicholls.”

  – CHAPTER 10 –

  What a Dreadful Story

  Balty awoke to the flutter of bat wings. He gasped, then remembered that he was in a place were bats tended to be—namely, a cave.

  He sat up. Huncks was by the entrance, tending a small fire. They’d finally stopped here after riding for twenty-four hours, just as dawn was breaking. Now the sun was setting. He’d slept all day. He remembered Huncks saying that from here it was no more than a half day’s ride to Hartford, which for reasons Balty had forgotten, Huncks also called “Hoop.”

  “I let you sleep. No need to set out in the dark. We’ll leave for Hoop at first light.”

  “Is it Hartford we’re going to, or Hoop? Not that I care.”

  Huncks seemed amused by Balty’s pique.

  “Hartford, Hoop. As you please. Hoop’s the old name. Block, the Dutcher, called it that—House of Hope. Hooker renamed it after his home in England. Most places here are on their second name. Third, if you include the Indian names. Which is only fair. Local tribe around here are the Podunks. Their name for it meant place of black river dirt. Good soil. So for now it’s named after a town in England. Maybe someday you Frenchies will own it and call it Nouveau Paris.”

  “I’m not a Frenchie. I’m English.
”

  “I was going to shoot something for dinner but I fell asleep. Here.” Huncks tossed Balty a small pouch of dried fruit.

  It was a spacious cave with plenty of head room, about a hundred or so feet up a sharp incline. Huncks seemed quite at home, as he seemed everywhere.

  Balty went and sat next to Huncks. The mouth of the cave looked over the forest, now loud with crepuscular avian chatter.

  “This would make a good refuge from one of your . . . what did you call them? Catamites?”

  Huncks grunted with amusement. “I suppose you could hide from a catamite here. Or a catamount.”

  Huncks chewed on dried fruit and looked about the cave, aglow from shafts of the dying light.

  “Two lovers took refuge here,” Huncks said. “Thirty years ago? Yes, thirty. There, where you were sleeping, where the rock’s dark? That’s where he died. The discoloring of the stone is his blood. It’s all that remains of him, poor beggar.”

  Balty shuddered. “You might have told me.”

  “You went to sleep kinda sudden.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Peter. Peter Hager. About your age. Dutcher, one of Block’s crew on Onrust. Fell in love with a daughter of the Podunk sachem. A princess. We have princesses here, too, you know. Wunnectunah. Called Wunnee. They say she was very beautiful.

  “Peter wanted to marry her, Christian like. So they went to Boston. He was arrested for failing to observe the Sabbath and put into the stocks. Somehow Wunnee freed him. They fled into the woods—as we did. One of the pursuivants who went after them fell and hit his head on a rock and died. So now Peter and Wunnee were murderers.

  “They made it back to Fort Hoop. But with a price on them, they had to keep moving. One day a bounty hunter shot Peter. He managed to crawl here to this cave, where he died in her arms, there, where you slept.

  “Wunnee buried him. She never said where. She returned to the Podunk, to the place by the river with the good black soil. Ended up a servant to an English family. Died just a few years ago. I knew her. By then she was no longer beautiful. She was known as Wun Hag. She’s buried over at Windsor. Her gravestone says, ‘One Hag.’ They spelled it wrong. Like I say, the names here are always changing.”

  There was only the sound of the birds, exchanging the last gossip of the day.

  Balty wiped his eyes. “What a dreadful story.”

  “Wasn’t my intention to bore you.”

  “No. I mean . . . what a sad story. A terrible sad story.”

  Huncks poked at the fire. “Oh, we have lots more of those here, Mr. St. Michel.”

  * * *

  They quit the cave at first light and by noon had fetched the east bank of the river. The ferryman greeted Huncks jovially.

  Balty was relieved to be out of the woods. Huncks had told him about the Puritan belief that the devil is physically present in nature. At first Balty thought this foolish, a superstitious notion. Then trees closed around them as they made their way deeper into the forest, and scoffing gave way to chill. Balty was a city creature. Seeing the rooftops of Hartford heave into view downriver on the far bank was very welcome.

  “This river, what is it called?” Balty asked the ferryman.

  “Depends who’s arsking.”

  Balty sighed. Another impudent New England peasant? Did no one in this dismal wilderness possess even rudimentary courtesy?

  “I’m asking.”

  “Where be you from?”

  “London. A very great city, by a great river. Called the Thames, no matter who’s asking.”

  “Ain’t heard of it. A Hollander’ll tell you this is the Fresh River. But you won’t be finding many Hollanders hereabouts anymore. We calls it the Great River. Which it be. Look at her, the beautiful, brown thing. Old Dildo Leg may still claim it for his. But we don’t pay him much mind now, does we, Mr. Huncks?”

  Huncks grinned.

  The ferryman summoned a gobbet of tobacco-colored sputum. Balty edged away so as not to be misted.

  “Who, pray, is Old Dildo Leg?”

  “Stuyvesant,” Huncks said. “Governor of New Netherland. Of which all this fine, rich black river soil was once part.”

  “Why is he called that?”

  “His leg got taken off by a cannonball while he was sieging against the Spanish at Saint Martin. Stumps about on a wooden one.”

  “It’s his head what’s wooden,” the ferryman said. “Like all Dutchers.”

  “He’s a tough old bird, Stuyvesant. You may meet him.”

  “Why would I be meeting the Governor of New Netherland if our destination is New Haven?”

  Huncks shrugged. “Perhaps in New Haven we’ll learn that your regicides have legged it to New Amsterdam. They wouldn’t be the first Englishmen to seek refuge there. Stuyvesant loves taking in English refugees. It’s a way of sticking it to us.”

  “Why should he want to do that?”

  “How long did you say you’ve been in service to the Crown?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “But you are aware that relations between England and Holland aren’t what you’d call cordial.”

  “I had heard something about it.”

  “The border between New England and New Netherland isn’t much of a border. Stuyvesant tends to be pettish about it. Feels encroached on. He’s always sending men to nail metal signs on trees: HERE BEGINS NEW NETHERLAND. BUGGER OFF, YOU TRESPASSING ENGLISH BASTARDS. The trespassing English bastards pry them off and trade them to the Indians, who melt them into arrowheads. Which the Indians shoot into Dutch and English alike. A cycle, you might call it.”

  “In the event I meet Governor Stuyvesant, do I address him as your dildoship, or is there a more respectful form of address?”

  “He’s an educated man. He was going to be a minister. Knows his Latin and Greek. And Hebrew. His name being Peter, he signs it Petrus. Like in Tu es Petrus.”

  “Is that Dutch?”

  “Not unless Jesus and the disciples were yakking in Dutch at the Last Supper. You have heard of the Bible, Mr. St. Michel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tu es Petrus is Latin for ‘You are Peter.’ Ring a bell? ‘Upon this rock I will build my church’? Not that they were speaking in Latin. So we call him Old Petrus. It’s what his friends would call him, if he had friends. He’s not a bad man, Stuyvesant. In many ways, a rather good man. But temperamentally, he’s more of a generalissimo than a governor. That doesn’t make you many friends.”

  The ferryman left them at the landing, declining payment from Huncks.

  They made their way up the riverbank into the marketplace. From there Huncks led the way to a neat, prosperous-looking house whose door was attended by an armed sentry. The sentry greeted Huncks as an old friend. Inside, Huncks was clasped in a tight hug by a man whose gay, playful eyes and almost comically large nose contrasted with his somber Puritan attire. Here was John Winthrop (the Younger), Governor of the Connecticut Colony.

  Balty stood awkwardly, waiting to be presented as the exuberant reunion continued. Finally, Winthrop noticed Balty.

  “Who’s this, then?”

  Balty drew himself up, preparing to announce his credentials as Crown commissioner in the service of His Majesty King Charles.

  Huncks said, “He wants explaining. Me, I want a drink.”

  Winthrop laughed. “No surprise there! Come!”

  “Mr. St. Michel could also use a good washing up,” Huncks said. “We had a run-in with a catamount. He had a bit of an accident.”

  Balty’s cheeks flushed. Winthrop nodded sympathetically. “Fearful things, catamounts, specially to newcomers. Don’t worry. We’ll get you cleaned up. Martha! Priscilla!”

  Balty’s humiliation was now compounded by finding himself captive of two stout, aproned women who tugged at him like termagant nursemaids, pulling off his hat and gloves and other articles of clothing. A door closed behind him. Balty beheld a beautiful sight: a soft, clean bed. How it beckoned.

  From
the other side of the door came stern female commands to disrobe and hand over his remaining garments. Shortly, he heard the sound of water splashing into a tub.

  He soaked in deliciously hot, soapy water. Then, as commanded by his jailers, he returned to the bedroom, where he found a bottle of rum and a glass on a side table. A clean nightshirt was laid neatly upon the bed. He filled the glass to the brim and drained it, tumbled into the bed, and fell into a sleep as deep as the Atlantic Ocean.

  * * *

  Balty awoke to darkness. His clothes had been washed and fire-dried and laid out on a chair. The rips and tears had been repaired with neat stitching. Hospitality of the first order. How different from the disgraceful reception accorded him in Boston by its governor!

  Balty dressed and ventured into the house, pleasantly filled with aromas of cookery. The rations of dried meat and fruit had left him famished for real victuals.

  One of his female captors found him and prodded him into a parlor. Winthrop and Huncks were so deep in conversation that they took no notice of him. Balty stood, listening. He heard names. Pell. Underhill. Nicholls.

  Winthrop saw him and grinned. “Ecce homo!” He clapped Balty on the shoulder and nudged him to sit by the fire.

  “Come, Mr. Balthasar. Join us. Colonel Huncks has been telling me all about you.”

  Colonel Huncks?

  “Hartford is honored by your presence. Honored, indeed. It’s not every day we receive such a distinguished visitor. The fatted calf awaits. You shall feast, sir! Meanwhile, might I force upon you a glass of Madeira?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Splendid!”

  Balty struggled to assert a semblance of control but was overwhelmed by Winthrop’s prodigal geniality. The Madeira went down warm and silky, with a bit of a kick at the end. For the second time in this house today, Balty found himself a happy captive, all at peace on the far side of the river from the roar of catamount and ghosts of poor Peter and Wunnee.