The Judge Hunter

by Christopher Buckley

Winthrop said, “Now, sir, before we get down to business, tell me, how is my cousin? Sir George. Lord Downing. The Colonel tells me it was he who has sent you here.”

  “Ah. Yes. He is . . . well. Very well indeed. He asked me to convey his compliments. A superlative personage, Sir George. Lord Downing.”

  “Not sure I’d go that far,” said Winthrop. He and Huncks roared with laughter.

  “But I rejoice to hear he is well. He must think very highly of you, sir, to entrust you with such an important mission.”

  “Well, I . . . I suppose. It is a serious business. Regicide.”

  Winthrop seemed to be waiting for more. Balty added, “The late King Charles, God rest his soul, may not have been a perfect monarch. Still . . .”

  “Nullum argumentum est.”

  Balty had no clue what this meant. Should he nod in agreement?

  Winthrop said, “Doubtless, you are aware of my father-in-law.”

  Balty found himself again clueless. Winthrop’s father-in-law must be some other significant personage.

  “Oh, indeed, yes. Splendid. Admirable.”

  Winthrop stared. He looked puzzled. “Generous of you to say so. Marks you as a true Christian. Especially given your purpose here in New England.”

  “Oh?”

  “By all accounts, he met his fate like a man.”

  Fate?

  Winthrop continued, “I’ve no doubt that he went to God with open hands and heart, and was so greeted in Heaven.”

  Balty cleared his throat. “That is . . . yes, the general view.”

  Winthrop fell silent. “Beastly way to go.”

  Had his father-in-law died of the plague? Been eaten by a catamount?

  Balty ventured, “No. Certainly, not the way I should choose to, uh, go.”

  “Hardly likely,” Winthrop said with a touch of asperity.

  Desperate to change the subject, Balty said, “Might you indulge me another glass of this excellent Madeira?”

  Winthrop refilled Balty’s glass.

  “It’s the ’38. Same year the New Haven Colony was founded. You’ll be meeting the Reverend Davenport. His cofounder, Mr. Eaton, has gone on to his heavenly reward. They did not remain long in the Bay Colony. My late father was governor then. They did not get along. So Davenport and Eaton went off to create a new haven for themselves, amongst the Quiripi. I fear you may find New Haven a bit grim.”

  Huncks snorted in amusement.

  Winthrop continued. “You will almost certainly find less Madeira there. If you do find some, don’t drink it on the Sabbath. They are harsh there. Even by Puritan standards. You’re not by chance Quaker?”

  “Huguenot.”

  Winthrop smiled slyly. “Pity.”

  “Why?”

  “I meant, that you are not Quaker.”

  Another amused snort from Huncks.

  “I fear I don’t understand,” Balty said. How refreshing it felt to admit, finally, that he had not understood most of what had been discussed.

  Winthrop said, “You must forgive me, Mr. St. Michel, I’m being mischievous. Your Crown commission confers immunity upon you. The New Haveners despise Quakers above all other sects. If, as Colonel Huncks says, the mission is to vex them, how better than to send a Quaker commissioner.”

  Huncks cleared his throat. From the look on Winthrop’s face, Balty inferred that he’d said something indiscreet. Balty was again plunged into confusion.

  “His majesty,” Winthrop said, “has forbidden persecution of Quakers here. But New Haveners are determined. They find ways around his edict. Charge them with other things—disturbing the peace, what have you. We in Connecticut get along very well with our Quakers. They give us no trouble. Indeed, they are splendid citizens. When they flee Endecott’s Massachusetts, we make them welcome. And they are grateful in return. I do not say that I approve of their ways. I, too, quake before God, but”—Winthrop laughed—“I manage to keep control of my limbs. I saw a woman once in the street, convulsed. I thought, must be Quaker. Turned out the poor thing had the palsy!” Winthrop laughed. “Do you know why Puritans—and New Haveners especially—despise Quakers?”

  “Theological differences, I should imagine.”

  Winthrop shook his head. “No. Because they refuse to doff their hats to the magistrates.”

  “Well,” Balty said, “I suppose it is somewhat disrespectful.”

  “Of course it’s not about hats, is it? It’s that they reject authority. They’ve no bishops, elders, even pastors. They commune directly with God. Every man, every woman, his or her own priest. Imagine! Drives the Puritans up the nearest elm. D’you know what else drives them fruity? That Quakers embrace persecution. They’re like the early Christians in Rome. The more you fed them to the lions, the hungrier they were to be fed to the lions. I’ve seen—”

  Winthrop glanced over at Huncks. He was staring morosely into the fire, a strange look on his face.

  “Well,” Winthrop said, “let us talk of other things.”

  Balty said, “You’re Puritan, aren’t you?”

  Winthrop smiled. “Well, I rather have to be, don’t I? I am Governor. Did Colonel Huncks mention that I do a bit of doctoring?”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. Yesterday, I set a broken humerus bone. What do you think of that?”

  “Humerus?”

  “Oh, very good, Mr. Balthasar! You’re a wit. You must excuse me. I don’t mean to preen, but I was a bit pleased with myself. Mind you, I’m not the town surgeon. Just a dabbler. Still. Nice feeling. As to Puritanism . . . you’ve heard of the Great Dying?”

  “Was that some war, here?”

  “No. A half century ago, all this land was ravaged by a great pestilence. Plague. Probably brought by Dutch sailors. I say that as a medical man, not because I am an enemy of the Dutch. My office obliges me to be so, just as it obliges me to be a Puritan. It devastated their population. Wiped out perhaps as many as eight out of every ten natives.”

  “We have the plague in London.”

  “Yes, but you see, it is an article of faith among the Puritans that the Great Dying was not brought by Dutch sailors. That it was the work of Divine Providence. Sent by Almighty God.”

  “Not very nice of God.”

  Winthrop smiled. “Ask yourself—why would the Almighty do such a thing? Ah, don’t you see? To clear the land for us! So that we could build our New Jerusalem here. Or as my late father put it, our ‘city upon a hill.’ What do you make of that, Mr. Balthasar?”

  “Seems a bit extreme.”

  “This was no virgin land, Mr. St. Michel,” Winthrop said gravely. “It was a widowed one.”

  He refilled their glasses. “But enough of that. I was at Court in London, you know. In ’61.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sir George mentioned it, surely?”

  “Indeed. Yes.”

  “It was very merry. His majesty and I spent hours looking through his royal tube. We observed Saturn. And Jupiter.”

  “The royal tube. Ah. Yes.”

  “He was most congenial. But I did not go there just to immerse myself in nectar. No, sir!” Winthrop smiled slyly. “My purpose was to obtain a royal charter for Connecticut. And, by George, I returned with one.”

  “Well done.”

  Winthrop’s delight was boyish.

  “You see, it puts New Haven under Connecticut rule. Imagine how warmly the Reverend Davenport and Governor Leete received that news! But they had only themselves to thank. His majesty was much displeased by the protection they gave to Generals Whalley and Goffe. Not only did they harbor them. They sent the hunters chasing after geese. They say that the whole time they were hiding in Davenport’s basement. And Leete’s.”

  “Shocking.”

  “Leete’s great mistake was panicking after the fact. Not the steadiest of temperaments, old Leetey. He did the full grovel. Wrote his majesty an apology. Can you imagine, the stupidity!

  “I saw my opportunity. Told Leete we must both
go to London to assess the situation.” Winthrop chortled. “Then snuck off and got the first ship. Left him twiddling his thumbs on the dock.

  “His majesty was altogether disposed to my argument that New Haven ought to be—shall we say—absorbed into the Connecticut Colony. Oh, it was . . . really lovely.

  “And now his majesty sends you to New Haven, in further search of his papa’s murderers. I wonder. Can they still be there? It’s been three years. Surely they’ll have fled by now. Perhaps to New Amsterdam. I would have.

  “I do not think you will have a warm reception from Davenport and Leete. You’ll find them sulky, like whipped children.” Winthrop smiled. “But you shall hear a fine sermon from the Reverend Davenport. He gives a cracking good homily. Perhaps you will hear some inspired invective on the subject of the Wickedness of Winthrop!”

  They sat quietly for a while. Huncks was still staring into the fire.

  Winthrop said, “Is it true, about Lady Castlemaine?”

  “About the latest royal bastard?”

  Winthrop chuckled. “What’s that make now, five? She is prolific. But no, I meant the rumor that she’s poped.”

  Balty said, “Well, one way or the other, she does seem to be spending a lot of time on her knees these days.”

  Winthrop clapped his hands. “So it is true! I wonder—did she do it to please his majesty?” Winthrop lowered his voice. “By all accounts, he himself has gone over to Rome.” He smiled. “Well, Mr. Balthasar, none of this will make you very welcome in New Haven. If they hate anyone more than Quakers, it’s Catholics.” He sighed. “What a lot of hating they task themselves with, Puritans. It’s a wonder they have any time left over to build the New Jerusalem.”

  “Governor, sir. Dinner is ready.”

  “At last! Thank you, Priscilla. Let us to feast. Hiram. Hiram.”

  Huncks looked up. Winthrop put a hand on Huncks’s shoulder and said gently, “Come back to us, old friend. We dine.”

  – CHAPTER 11 –

  May 23rd. To Portsmouth to review final victualing and provisioning of Col. Nicholls’s ship Guinea, thirty-six guns. N. sails on the 25th inst. at the head of a squadron of four ships of war, for Newe England, there to undertake an administrative review of the colonies.

  In London, was entrusted by my Lord Downing with conveyance of various dispatches for Nicholls.

  Prior to departing for Pmouth, made inquiries about Nicholls. By all reports, a commendable officer: age forty, devout royalist, commanded troop of horse in the Civil War. Following Restoration was made Groom of the Chamber to the Duke of York, now Lord High Admiral of England.

  The Duke being keen for war with Holland—along with Downing, every grasping merchant in London and, not least, his majesty the King—my curiosity as to Col. Nicholls’s appointment was naturally piqued.

  Found it passing curious that my Lord Downing, as Envoy to The Hague, should have urgent dispatches for a Navy squadron embarking for New England. Told D that as was going to Portsmouth myself, I volunteered to convey said dispatches to Nicholls.

  Whilst en route to Portsmouth, took the liberty of inspecting said dispatches, to ensure that the seals were unbroken and all was in good order, etc., etc.

  So doing, found several seals had come loose, owing to an accumulation of moisture, there having been copious rain and humidity of late.

  Whilst inspecting dispatches themselves for damage by moisture, discovered that the dispatches had been written in my own character, which I had priorly devised for Sir George. Thus I was able to decipher their contents.

  Found these to be extremely troubling, indeed alarming, tho’ not surprising, given the agitation “War Party” here for Conflict with Holland.

  Diligently resealed the dispatches by means of melting new wax, to which I affixed Downing’s own wax seals, namely, those loosened by moisture.

  Spent rest of the journey with my mind in a state of greatest agitation and fever.

  Arriving at Portsmouth, made my way to Col. Nicholls aboard his flagship Guinea. Duly conveyed Lord Downing’s compliments, along with the dispatch box, revealing nothing of my knowledge of their contents.

  Nicholls most cordial. Said he had heard “excellent reports” of my “fastidious labors” on behalf of the Navy, etc., which naturally I found gratifying.

  Invited me to partake of refreshment in his cabin, so sat down to a fine meal of roast pigeons, pease and pork, an eel pie, various cheeses—which he jocosely averred were “not Dutch.” Drank good quantity of Margate ale.

  Complimenting him on his assignment, I apprised him of Brother Balty’s current undertaking in New England, with respect to the regicide judges.

  To my surprise, Nicholls indicated he was already aware of Balty’s mission. Oh? said I. Yes, he said—that matter of the regicides Whalley and Goffe was included among the “various items” relevant to his “administrative review.” Oh, I said.

  Asked if he would kindly inquire after Balty whilst in Newe England. He happily consented to do so, whereupon I conveyed to him the letters for Balty, adding that my wife was most anxious as to her brother’s well-being.

  I remarked that as Clerk of the Acts, I was of course familiar with the provisioning of Col. Nicholls’s ships and exprest some curiosity as to the great quantity of Munitions, viz., cannonball, powder, musketry, pistols, mines, granados, etc., etc., amongst the stores of his four ships of war. Attempting to strike a jocose tone, I said, “With such stores, sir, you will be able to conduct a most Fearsome administrative review!”

  He replied blandly that these instruments of Mars were replenishments for the various forts in Newe England—Boston, New Port, Saybrook, etc.

  Probing further, I remarked that four ships and 450 men-at-arms was certainly a formidable array with which to undertake an “administrative review.” He replied with a blandness that now struck me as concerted, saying, “ ‘Of course the Navy must be prepared for any vicissitude.’ ”

  I agreed and further prest him as to what manner of “vicissitude” might present itself in the course of an “administrative review.”

  Whereat his cordiality diminished and he excused himself, saying that he must attend the flogging of a sailor who had beshat a midshipman’s boiled beef.

  He invited me to attend, but I begged off, saying I had already attended two hangings this week at Tyburn and was surfeited with such entertainments.

  Thanked Nicholls for his hospitality, wished him every success with his “administrative review,” and thus set about returning to London, in no small turmoil of mind.

  – CHAPTER 12 –

  Narragansetts Coming In

  Balty awoke with sticky mouth, parched tongue, and pounding head. He stared ruefully at the ceiling beams, gathering the strength to rise and vowing that never again would Madeira or any spirituous liquor pass his lips.

  He splashed his face with water, dressed, and made his way unsteadily through the house. One of the housemaids found him and, identifying his distress, led him into the kitchen. In a wooden bowl she whisked together raw eggs and various liquids and a sprinkling of dark powder from a small bottle.

  Balty drank. He winced. On reaching his bowels, the sulfurous elixir ignited a rumbling that could have been mistaken for a cannonade or erupting volcano. He clutched his stomach.

  “In God’s name, woman, why have you poisoned me? I hold the King’s . . .”

  “There, there, ducks. Give it time. It’s Governor’s own remedy. He’s also a doctor, you know. We’ve our own herb garden, and very fine it is.”

  Tsunamis contended against each other inside Balty’s bowels.

  “What . . . have you given me?” Balty moaned, holding his stomach as if it might burst open.

  “There’s eggs, juice of peppers, a tot of rum, and a pinch or two of gunpowder.”

  “Gunpowder? God’s mercy, woman! You have assassinated me!”

  “Tush. Governor says it’s the gunpowder what makes it work.”

&n
bsp; “I shall die. Here, in this godforsaken land.”

  “Godforsaken, is it? I reckon Hartford’s as God-fearing a town as any on this earth. It’s not Hartford’s fault you can’t hold your liquor. Is it?”

  It was misery enough to die such a wretched death, but to be hectored by a charwoman as his life ebbed . . . oh, cruel fortune!

  Then in the next instant, the churning gale in Balty’s bowels abated, and all was suddenly calm. Balty heard the placid cry of seagulls above now-still waters. The scrim of fog cleared from his eyes, his nostrils twitched to the pleasing aromas of breakfast, the rat-a-tat drumbeat in his skull subsided.

  “Well,” he said. “Well.”

  “Told you to give it time. Now sit and eat your breakfast.”

  Balty went at it like a trencherman. The woman told him he would find the Governor in his chambers, across the courtyard.

  Balty emerged from the house, blinking in the rebuking light of day. The sky was blue, the clouds puffy and innocently white. A breeze came in off the river. All this freshness was chastening. If he weren’t still a bit shaky, he’d have complimented New England on providing such a fine spring day.

  The guard let him inside. Balty found the Governor and Huncks examining papers laid out upon a table.

  “Ah, Lazarus is risen!” Winthrop said.

  Huncks briskly rolled up one of the papers, giving Balty an impression of furtiveness.

  “Up to traveling?” Huncks asked. “We leave within the hour. The Governor’s arranged a shallop.”

  “A what?”

  “Boat. Downriver, to Fort Saybrook. New Haven’s less than a day’s ride from there.”

  “Boat?” Balty said glumly. “Is there no road to New Haven from here?”

  “I take it you are not a sailor, sir,” Winthrop said. “Have no fear. It’s a river, not the raging Atlantic.”

  Balty comforted himself that at least there would be no encounters with catamounts, or hatchet-wielding savages and ghosts of star-crossed lovers. He decided that he must, if only for the sake of dignity, evince curiosity about the maps Winthrop and Huncks had been so intently examining, and which Huncks had been at pains to conceal from him. He pointed to an island on the map lying open on the table.