The Judge Hunter

by Christopher Buckley

It was a town of unusual design—nine squares, the one in the center the town common. The layout was meant to symbolize the encampment of the Israelites in the desert, also the Temple of Solomon, and the New Jerusalem of the book of Revelation. The design was to inspire its citizens, the self-called saints, to lead godly lives.

  Flanking the town on the west and east like a pair of matching bookends were majestic, nearly identical cliffs, rising hundreds of feet above the trees. They were striking by virtue of their bloodred color.

  “Handsome, those,” Balty said admiringly. “What are they called?”

  “The Dutch called them Rodenbergh. The Red Hills.”

  Balty considered. “Shame the Dutch got here first. They deserve better than the Red Hills.”

  “Why don’t you name them, then?”

  “I shall.” Balty pointed to the west cliff. “That shall be Whalley. And that”— he pointed at the other— “Goffe.”

  “Regicide Rocks. Why not? You should inform Governor Leete, so he can update his map.”

  “It would serve New Haven right. Harboring such men.”

  They continued on. Huncks knew his way, as he seemed to everywhere, but here he was not greeted as a friend. Everyone they passed stared with hard, unmistakable looks. Leete had sent word on ahead.

  Huncks led them to a mean-looking tavern near the town wharf friskily called Regicide’s Rest.

  Huncks left Balty in their room, saying he must go and see someone. Another of his mysteries.

  “I’m going with you. Don’t fancy staying here by myself.”

  “No. My contact will be suspicious if you’re with me.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No you’re not.”

  Huncks gave Balty the pistol. “It is loaded, so be careful. Pull the hammer back, so. Now it’s cocked. Try not to shoot yourself.”

  Balty sat on the edge of the bed, facing the door, pistol in hand. The hours passed slowly.

  * * *

  Huncks returned in late afternoon, closemouthed about his rendezvous with whoever it was. Together they set off for the house of the Reverend Davenport.

  It was one of New Haven’s finer ones, boasting thirteen fireplaces. Huncks said this bespoke bravery on the Reverend’s part.

  “Why?”

  “Puritans believe fireplaces are used by demons as passageways to the nether regions.”

  “Rot.”

  “I’m sure the Reverend will be interested in your theological insights.”

  “Nothing to do with theology. Bloody nonsense.”

  They reached Davenport’s. Huncks pointed to a large house on Elm Street, catty-corner to Davenport’s.

  “That was Eaton’s. The other founder, with Davenport. He had even bigger bullocks than Davenport.”

  “Why?”

  “Nineteen fireplaces.”

  The door was opened by a pretty young Indian girl of perhaps fifteen years, primly dressed in servant’s attire. She led them to a finely but sparsely furnished parlor, where they found an elderly man of placid mien, his head covered in a Roundhead-style black cap, turning the pages of a large Bible.

  The Reverend John Davenport greeted his visitors with a benevolent smile. His sapphire-blue eyes seemed far younger than the rest of him. This was not the grim, pursed countenance Balty had expected. He seemed devoid of malevolence, even of sternness. His features were fine, almost feminine. At a distance, he might be taken for a woman, but for the silver wisps of his neat beard.

  “Mr. St. Michel, Colonel Huncks. Welcome.”

  He addressed the servant girl: “Me-Know-God, bring ale for our guests. And tell Necessity we shall be three at dinner.”

  The girl curtseyed and glided out of the parlor on bare feet. Balty stared after her.

  “Me-Know-God is her Christian name,” Davenport explained. “Before I instructed her in the faith, she was Me-No-Know-God. Not a name to flow trippingly from the tongue. Her brother is called Repent. From his name, you may infer that his Christian instruction is, shall we say, ongoing. Myself the Quiripi call So-Big-Study-Man. I confess that I like the name. They are very dear to us, our Quiripi. But how strange all this must seem to you, Mr. St. Michel. Less so to Colonel Huncks. You are, I think, New England born?”

  “Boston.”

  “I have a great fondness for Boston. True, that Mr. Eaton and I had our differences with Governor Winthrop, yet I am grateful to him, for it was he who inspired us to leave the Bay Colony and make our own, here. What an irony that we now chafe under the rule of his son. I do not conceal that we in New Haven are not joyous that his majesty had enfolded us into the Connecticut Colony. But we are loyal subjects. We abide. But I prattle. Forgive me. It is a vice of old men. You came from London, Mr. St. Michel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I came over in ’37. Then here in ’38. Theophilus—Mr. Eaton—was our Moses, parting the waters to take us to the Promised Land. I gather you come in search of regicides. What a pity that we have none to offer you.”

  Huncks said, “Mr. de St. Michel bears a commission from the Crown to apprehend the judges Whalley and Goffe.” He produced the document and held it out for Davenport’s inspection. Davenport gave it the merest glance.

  “A brave undertaking.”

  “Brave?” Huncks said. “How so?”

  “It is no secret that some here feel a certain sympathy for the judges.”

  “I’d call that brave,” Huncks said, “considering his majesty’s resolve to bring his father’s murderers to justice.”

  Davenport smiled.

  “Murderers? What a difference just a few years make. Not so long ago, the generals Whalley and Goffe were considered very great men, saviors of their country. Now they are wretched exiles, fugitives, lost to their families and loved ones, hounded to the ends of the earth. Some here find it harsh that their miseries should endure, when so many others who played roles during that epoch have been shown mercy and forgiveness. Lord Downing among them.”

  Davenport went on: “We here had heard that his majesty was surfeited with vengeance. Yet your presence here attests to the contrary. I can only conclude that the reports of his majesty’s compassion and mercy were false rumors. But come, gentlemen, let us eat.”

  Davenport said a lengthy blessing over the food, a bland porridge and blander still dish of overboiled root vegetables. No wine was served, only watery ale.

  “Do you seek my assistance in your mission?” Davenport said. “Or is this visit by way of a courtesy? I emphasize that I am pleased to visit with you.”

  Huncks smiled. “Rest assured, Reverend. We have no expectation of assistance from you.”

  “Will you be needing to search the premises, as you did Governor Leete’s?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a search,” Balty said. “More of a—”

  “Tour?” Davenport smiled. “Well, I should be happy to give you a tour of my house.”

  “That won’t be—”

  “I’d like a tour,” Huncks said.

  “Then you shall have one, Colonel. Who knows what we may find. Hidden treasure, perhaps. The Holy Grail. But in the event we don’t find judges hiding under my bed or in my cupboard, might I suggest that you seek them in New Amsterdam?”

  “Oh?” Balty said.

  “I should not be in the least surprised if they were there. New Amsterdam is a proverbial bolt-hole for those who flee our godly land. A Sodom and Gomorrah of vice and corruption. But then, New Amsterdam is Dutch. The Dutch came to the New World for one end—commerce and self-enrichment. The English came to sanctify the land to the glory of God.”

  “And so it pleaseth God,” Huncks said, “to prepare the way of the English by sending a great plague to wipe out those who inhabited the land. Selah.”

  “You mock, Colonel Huncks. Did God not send seven plagues into Pharaoh’s land?”

  “Indeed. Frogs, blood, boils, fiery hail, locusts, darkness. I’m missing one. I wonder how God kept track of them all? So much easier
to send one plague of Dutch pox.”

  A rime of frost formed on Davenport. “You abuse my hospitality, Colonel, blaspheming at my table.”

  “Dreadful people, the Dutch,” Balty said, trying to thaw the room. “Despite their admirable cheeses. My brother-in-law—Mr. Samuel Pepys, a significant personage in the Navy Office—says we may have another war with them.”

  “We have little interest here in European scuffling, Mr. St. Michel. Though of course as loyal subjects we pray for English victories. And for the health of the King. Given what we hear about the luxuriance and pleasures of his court, his health must be sore taxed.”

  The Indian girl entered with the savory dish, a pinkish pudding that looked devoid of taste.

  “Me-Know-God. What is the Third Commandment?”

  “Not to blaspheme.”

  “Very good. And the sixth?”

  “Not to kill.”

  “Off you go, child.”

  “Most impressive,” Balty said.

  “She’s coming along nicely.”

  Huncks said, “You acquainted with Metacomet? Sachem of the Wampanoag?”

  “The one called King Philip? No. I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  “You may, someday. He’s got a saying: ‘When the white man came, he had the Bible and we had the land. Now we have the Bible, and the white man has the land.’ ”

  “Our Quiripi still have their land, and the Bible.”

  “Yes, you and Mr. Eaton were generous. You let them keep—what?—twelve hundred acres of their own land?”

  “It’s all they need. They have rights of hunting and fishing on our land.”

  Huncks smiled. “What more could they ask? Greed is one of the seven deadly sins.”

  “The Quiripi sought our protection against their enemies, the Pequot and the Mohegan. We gave it.”

  “A right tidy deal. Though since the massacre at Fort Mystick, they’ve no need to fear the Pequot.”

  “That was war, Colonel.”

  “Indeed. And sanctified by God. As Captain Underhill wrote in his pamphlet, ‘We had sufficient light from the Word of God for our proceedings.’ I wonder if he had sufficient light for his proceeding against the Siwanoy and Wappinger at Pound Ridge. Another seven hundred red souls, burned to death. Seems the Almighty didn’t quite finish clearing the land, by way of preparing the way of the English. One might call that careless.”

  “You offend, sir,” Davenport said, his face reddening.

  “Forgive me. Being New England born, I lack English manners.”

  Davenport rose. “You will excuse me, Mr. St. Michel. I must prepare my sermon for tomorrow. I hope you will attend.”

  * * *

  “Bit rough on the old boy,” Balty said. “And you telling me to tread gingerly. You were about as ginger as a battering ram.”

  “I don’t do well with certain types of pharisee.”

  “That dinner was appalling. And that endless blessing he gave over it! You’d think living in a house with thirteen fireplaces, he could afford a decent cook. Come, you’re all aboil. Let’s get a drink into you before you bubble over.”

  They drank rum and ale at the Regicide’s Rest.

  “So, the old buzzard got to you,” Balty said. “Well, well. Colonel Huncks has a chink in his armor. Hiram Huncks is human after all. Well, thank God. What say to one more, and to bed?”

  Huncks was lost in thought. “We’ll find them. By God we will find them.”

  “Who?”

  “The judges.”

  “It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “It is now,” Huncks said enigmatically.

  – CHAPTER 15 –

  Hide the Outcasts

  Next morning, a hungover Huncks announced that he had no intention of accompanying Balty to hear Davenport’s Sabbath homily; moreover, he would sooner listen to Caligula preach on virtue.

  “It is the Sabbath,” Balty said. “From the look of you, might do you a bit of good.”

  “Bugger the Sabbath.”

  “Suit yourself. But the taverns are closed. What are you going to do?”

  “Hunt.”

  “I’m certain that’s not allowed on the Sabbath. Nothing is. While you were snoring, I went downstairs to fetch some hot water for shaving. Do you know what that slattern of an innkeeper told me? You’re not allowed to shave on the Sabbath. Or go for a walk. And God help you if you’re caught running—unless it’s to church. She was quick to point out that you can’t cook, either. So no warm supper for us tonight. Oh, and no sweeping the floor or making the bed. I said to her, ‘What about dying of boredom? Is that allowed on the Sabbath?’ She scowled at me. What joy, Sundays in New Haven. What were you going to hunt?”

  “Judges.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s forbidden, and not just on the Sabbath. By the way, what did you mean last night, when I said that’s what we came here for, and you said, ‘It is now’?”

  “Don’t remember. I was drunk.”

  “I was drunk, too. And I do remember. Another of your bloody mysteries, I suppose.”

  “No profanity on the Sabbath.”

  Balty went alone to the meetinghouse on the New Haven common, drawing cold stares from passersby. People pointed at him as if he was a plague carrier. Had Leete and Davenport put up posters during the night with Balty’s and Huncks’s faces, to warn the populace? It was a fine spring day, but there was a distinct chill in the air.

  The meetinghouse was packed. Balty stood in the back by the door like a pauper who couldn’t afford a seat.

  The Reverend Davenport entered and climbed the pulpit. He carried the same Bible he’d been reading at home.

  This was Balty’s first time in a New England Puritan worship house. Having been brought up in the Huguenot faith, he was accustomed to unadorned churches. But this one he found aggressively plain, not so much as a vase of cut flowers to add a note of warmth, or to remind people that outside these drab walls, life was bursting forth from the awakening earth in joyful bloom. Were flowers also prohibited on the Sabbath? Where in the Bible was it ordained that the Sabbath should be joyless and grim? Wasn’t there something about God liking flowers? Lilies of the valley? The only warmth here would be references to hellfire.

  Davenport spotted Balty and nodded in welcome. He turned to his congregation and spoke, but not in flames or brimstone. The old boy sounded like the genial host he’d been until Huncks taunted.

  He announced that his homily today had two themes, the first from Hebrews 13:2, wherein it sayeth: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

  Pleasant surprise, Balty thought. Davenport extolled the virtues of giving hospitality, especially to those we don’t know. He urged his congregation—which seemed to consist of the entire population of New Haven—to throw open their doors and share their bounty. Nice touch, that, about how strangers might be “angels in disguise.” Here was true Christian spirit. Huncks had been a bit hard on the old boy.

  Davenport’s voice was like music, swelling and filling the meetinghouse. It no longer felt chill and stern and forbidding. The pulpit was a hearth—welcoming, a refuge from the outside world, which was filled not with blossoming flowers but evil incarnate in the person of the devil. Davenport barely glanced at his Bible. He knew it by heart. The words rose from its pages into the air like wisps of incense from a brazier, sweetening and sanctifying. Balty was very impressed.

  Davenport came to the end of his first theme and fell silent. No one stirred. He turned the pages to Isaiah 16:3, wherein it sayeth: “Take counsel, execute judgment; make thy shadow as the night in the midst of the noonday . . .”

  Balty again surrendered to the preacher’s mellifluous voice. He closed his eyes, imagining the words as musical notes from flute, viola da gamba, lute. Lute—he thought of Brother Sam and his beloved lute, how he’d take it out after dinner and . . .

  “. . . hide the outcasts; betray not him that wander
eth.”

  Balty opened his eyes. Hide the outcasts? The congregation shouted “Amen.”

  This was no homily—he was issuing instructions from the pulpit: Hide the regicides. Why, the sly old buzzard, inviting Balty to come hear him.

  His pulse quickened. Here—surely—was confirmation that Whalley and Goffe were still in New Haven. He must rush—Sabbath be damned—to tell Huncks.

  As Balty made to leave, a gasp went through the congregation. In the next instant, Balty, too, gasped. He froze.

  Could it be real or some fata morgana?

  Real or not, it was only few feet away. Everyone in the church was staring at it, mouth open in shock. Gasps became moans; moans cries. Mothers covered their children’s eyes.

  The apparition glided down the aisle toward Davenport.

  It was a young woman, naked—entirely naked. The sight of her back made Balty wince. It was crisscrossed with stripes, raw wounds. She’d been horribly whipped.

  She continued toward Davenport. No one moved. People began to shout.

  Harlot! Witch! Satan seed! Save us, Reverend!

  She reached the end of the aisle and stood, looking up at Davenport. The congregation was roaring, bellowing. Davenport raised his hands. The place instantly quieted.

  “Woman, again you profane this house of God?”

  Again? Balty thought.

  Two men wearing the uniform of the watch rushed up the aisle. Each took an arm. The girl went limp. They began to drag her out. Balty saw her face. She couldn’t be more than twenty. Her loveliness took him aback. Her expression was weirdly serene, as if she were strolling through an orchard on a summer’s day, not being dragged by two brutish men, her back flayed bloody to ribbons.

  Her glance fell on Balty as she passed. She smiled at him and was gone.

  * * *

  Balty ran back to the inn, drawing shouts of Sabbatarian rebuke from various New Haven saints.

  Huncks was still in bed. Balty had to pause to catch his breath.

  “Must have been quite a sermon,” Huncks said.

  Balty told what he’d seen. “It was the face of an angel, Huncks. I was this far from her. She looked at me as they hauled her off and smiled. Smiled!”

  Huncks said nothing.