Balty babbled on: “She must be a lunatic. Distempered in the head. But to flog such a creature. It’s monstrous. You’ve never seen such a thing.”
“She’s not lunatical,” Huncks said. “She’s a Quaker.”
“Quaker? How do you know?”
“It’s what they do.”
“What?”
“The women. It’s their way of protesting.”
“Walking into a church, starkers?”
“Or through town.”
Balty considered. “Well, I’d call it lunatical. At the very least, fruity.”
“Religions are fruity.”
“Jesus didn’t go parading about naked.”
“He went looking for trouble, didn’t he? Same with Quakers. They embrace persecution. Fulfills them.”
Balty weighed this. “Damn strange bit of business, however you slice it. The sight would have broken your heart. A constable who bellowed at me for running said she’s to be tried tomorrow. Probably because they don’t have trials on the Sabbath. What will they do to her?”
“The King’s missive forbids them to persecute Quakers. No more hangings, floggings, cutting off ears, branding. What shall they do for entertainment?”
“She’s already been flogged. His majesty’s missive seems not to have been communicated to the New Haven saints.”
“They won’t try her for being a Quaker. They’ll charge her with indecency. Profaning the Lord’s Day. Blasphemy.” Huncks considered. “What’s she protesting, I wonder.”
“We have to do something. Send word to Winthrop. He’s a decent chap. He’ll stop it.”
“It’s within their right to charge her with indecency and blasphemy. Hartford and back is a two-, three-day ride. Whatever they do to her, they’ll do tomorrow. Puritans like their justice speedy.”
“If you’d seen her, you wouldn’t be so blithe.”
“We’re here to hunt regicides. Not get embroiled in local civic matters.”
“You’re a chivalrous one.”
Balty found himself thrown against the wall, Huncks’s hand squeezing his windpipe.
“What the devil’s got into you?” Balty gasped.
Huncks released Balty. He went and stood by the window looking out onto the wharf. Balty rubbed his neck.
“Since you know nothing,” Huncks said, “I won’t ask if you know the name Dyer. Mary Dyer. Fine lady. Quaker. Friend of Anne Hutchinson.
“Endecott put her on trial with two other Quakers. Men. The men were hanged. Their executions sat ill with the people, so Endecott commuted her sentence to banishment.
“She left Massachusetts but then came back. He had her whipped. She wouldn’t recant. Endecott tried her again, this time sentenced her to hang.
“It was a fine summer morning. The whole town turned out. She had admirers, Mrs. Dyer. Even among the Puritan saints of Boston. As I say, an admirable woman.
“Endecott and the magistrates feared there’d be trouble. They ordered out the militia. Hundred strong, fully armed.
“It was quiet. You could hear the birds in the trees. Even in the elm she was to hang from. Then the drumming started and you couldn’t hear them.
“The Reverend Wilson was there. He’d been her pastor before she went over to the Quakers. An old man, all eaten up with hatred. Had given a sermon the day before saying he’d carry fire in one hand and faggots in the other, to burn all the Quakers in the world.
“She mounted the ladder, with Wilson hectoring her, demanding she repent. She showed no fear. Said she had nothing to repent of.
“The sentence was read and she was swung off the ladder. The drumming stopped. Then you could hear the birds again.”
Huncks turned away from the window, to Balty.
“I was in command of the militia. The soldiers were my men. It was my hanging, you see. Whatever claim I ever had to chivalry I forfeited that day on Boston Common. Resigned my commission the next day.”
They were silent for a while. Balty said, “My father was in charge of the guard the day Henri Quatre made a progress through the Tuileries. A Catholic fanatic leapt onto the carriage and mortally stabbed the King. Papa wasn’t held to account for it, but . . . I don’t think he’s ever got over it.”
“Is this supposed to console me?”
“Well, it’s all I have. By way of consolation.”
Huncks sighed. “Very well, Mr. St. Michel. Let us see what’s to be done about this Quaker wench of yours.”
– CHAPTER 16 –
What, Only Five Pounds?
“Let the prisoner be brought.”
The magistrate was a well-fed man named Feake, whom Governor Leete addressed as “Dependable.” Balty and Huncks were left to infer whether it was his given name or an adjective.
The room was crowded with saints come to see New Haven justice.
The prisoner entered, clothed, hands bound in front and flanked by the same guards who’d hauled her from the meetinghouse. Balty studied her face. It was, as before, composed and unafraid. She looked even younger, dressed.
“State your name.”
“My name is well known to thee.”
“It will not go well for you, Mistress, if you trifle with this court.”
“I have little expectation that it will go well, whether I trifle or not, sir.”
“Let the prisoner’s name be entered as Thankful Mott, Quaker, of New Haven, in the colony thereof. Mistress Mott, you are charged with indecency and profaning the Lord’s Day. Moreover, you are charged with repeating these offenses. How do you plead?”
“I make no plea.”
“You must.”
“How can I, when I do not recognize thy authority?”
“You shall know my authority, Mistress!”
“I hold every day to be the Lord’s Day. As to indecency, we are all made in God’s image. How, therefore, can our bodies be indecent?”
“You compound your crime with yet more blasphemy. This is no defense.”
“If I do not admit of a crime, how can I compound it?”
“Repent your sins and your sentence may be mitigated. If you do not, you shall be judged severely.”
“I have but one judge, sir, who is also judge of thee.”
“Enough. Your obstinacy convicts you. Thankful Mott, you shall be taken from here directly and tied at a cart’s tail, with your body naked downward to the waist. And from New Haven, you shall be severely whipped through every town—Milford, Fairfield, Stratford, Fivemiles, Norwalk, Stamford, and Greenwich. In addition to which, you shall pay a fine of five pounds.”
The room hushed. Came a loud, mocking laugh.
“What, only five? That’s letting her off easy.”
All eyes turned on Huncks.
Magistrate Feake glared.
“You mock these proceedings? How dare you, sir? Hold your tongue, lest you find yourself brought on charges. This is no place for jesting.”
“I agree with you there, Dependable Feake. Since I arrived in New Haven two days past, I’ve yet to hear a single jest. Even from the village idiots, who seem in abundant supply.”
“Bailiff, seize that man!”
The bailiff moved toward Huncks. Huncks drew back his cloak, revealing his short sword. The bailiff hesitated.
“You come armed into our court?” Feake said. “You profane our laws!”
“Not nearly so well as you do.”
“Seize him!”
The guards came at Huncks. He drew back the other side of his cloak to reveal the pistol tucked into his belt. The guards, unarmed, halted.
Governor Leete stood, his face florid.
“Mr. St. Michel, sir, curb your dog!”
Balty stood. “May I approach, Magistrate Feake?”
Feake stared. He looked at Leete, who looked at the Reverend Davenport. Davenport gave a nod. “Very well. Yes.”
Balty approached. He laid his commission in front of Feake.
“In the name of our Sovereign Lord, his
majesty, Charles the Second, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, and of this New England colony, I arrest this woman.”
“What?”
Balty pointed to the bottom of his commission.
“You’ll find Lord Downing’s signature here. He has a fine hand, do you not think?”
Feake, Leete, and Davenport examined the document.
“This commission gives you no power to arrest this woman,” Feake said.
“Oh, I disagree with you there, Dependable.”
“This is outrageous! You, sir, are outrageous!”
Davenport raised a silencing finger and spoke.
“Mr. St. Michel, we are all the King’s good subjects. Your commission is to apprehend the judges Whalley and Goffe. It invests no authority upon you in the present matter, which anyway has no bearing upon your charge.”
“Ah. With respect, Reverend, it does.”
Davenport leaned back in his chair.
“How, sir? What does this harlot have to do with the King’s matter?”
“I have reason to believe she has information pertaining to the whereabouts of the judges.”
The court burst out in murmurs.
“I therefore ask the court to remand her into my custody, so that I may examine her. But I thank you for warning me that she is a harlot. Colonel Huncks and I will remain vigilant, lest she try to lead us into temptation.”
Davenport leaned forward, all business. “You bluff, Mr. St. Michel. And sorely try our goodwill. I will ask you again to desist. Or face grave consequences.”
“Are you threatening an agent of the Crown, Reverend?”
“I merely point out that you are two. We are a town.”
“So, you defy a Crown agent. Dear, dear. That is grave, Reverend.”
“London is many miles from here.”
“Indeed. And wretched, watery miles, at that. But Hartford is not so far.”
“What has Hartford to do with this, sir?”
“Hartford has expressed the keenest interest in my mission. We came through Hartford on my way here. Governor Winthrop was a delightful host. He spoke warmly of his intimacy with his majesty. He spent months at court, in the course of obtaining the royal charter that gives him authority over New Haven. Indeed, it was he who seconded me Colonel Huncks, of his Connecticut militia. To assist me. In every way.”
Davenport pointed at Leete.
“New Haven’s governor is here, not in Hartford! Under the terms of the charter, Winthrop’s authority does not fully vest until—”
Balty held up his hand.
“Reverend. Magistrate Feake. Governor Leete. Here is the issue before this court. You have now openly threatened us”—Balty swept the courtroom with his hand—“in front of all these witnesses here assembled.”
The words took effect. The spectators’ faces showed hesitation, fear.
“Ask yourselves: Is this girl’s death—or mine, and Colonel Huncks’s—worth bringing down upon your saintly heads the wrath of the King? It seems to me a heavy price to pay just for the pleasure of flogging a young woman to death. Not forgetting the five-pound fine. Are there no other entertainments to be had in New Haven? Perhaps you’d enjoy such spectacles as London offers. As when traitors who defy the king’s majesty are dragged through the streets to be hanged, disemboweled, and quartered.”
Color drained from Feake’s and Leete’s faces. They turned to Davenport. He stared without expression at Balty, then, with a bare nod, gave the signal. Thankful Mott was remanded to the custody of the Crown.
Balty and Huncks led her from the court, past gelid stares of New Haveners.
Thankful whispered to Balty, “Sir, I know nothing of these judges of whom thou—”
Balty squeezed her arm. “Later, miss, please.”
The horses were saddled and ready at the stable on the far side of East Creek at the outskirts of town. Thankful rode on Balty’s horse behind him. They went north, toward the red cliff Balty had named after Goffe.
“Nicely done, Mr. St. Michel,” Huncks said.
“Did a bit of theater acting in my youth. Always got the girl parts.”
“You were no girl today.”
Balty turned to Thankful. He held out his hand, which shook in an exaggerated way. “See? I’m one of you.”
“How so?”
“I quake.”
Huncks tossed Balty a flask. Balty took a long pull and handed it over his shoulder to Thankful. She shook her head.
“Where shall we take you?” Huncks asked.
She pointed to the cliff. “My place is near there.”
“It won’t be safe for you at home. Do you have friends we can take you to?”
“I would not imperil them by asking refuge of them.”
“We can’t take you with us.”
“I do not ask thee to.”
“Look, Miss—”
“Mistress, if thou please.”
“Where’s your husband, then?”
“Dead.”
Balty said, “What were you protesting about?”
“I would not involve thee in my affairs, sir. For thy own good.”
“Bit late for that.”
“Even so.”
“Is it some Quaker thing?”
Huncks snorted. “Of course it’s some Quaker thing. Did you think she was reenacting Lady Godiva’s ride?”
“I was asking her.”
“What I did, I did for my own reasons.”
“Twice? After what they did to you the first time?”
“My cause is greater than any tribulation in their power to inflict. However many times.”
“It must be a very great cause indeed, if you’re willing to let them flog you to death.”
She asked, “Did thou really come from London?”
“Yes.”
“What is it like?”
“Well, it’s . . . very grand. His majesty’s court is the finest in all Europe.”
Huncks grunted. “Spent a lot of time there, have you?”
“Thou’ve come to arrest the judges?”
“Yes. You don’t happen to know where they are, do you?”
“If I knew, I shouldn’t tell thee.”
“There’s gratitude.”
“Pray stop. I’ll dismount here.”
Balty reined his horse. Thankful slid off.
“Where will you go?”
“I’ll make my way. I know these woods well.”
A fringe of golden hair protruded from beneath her white cap. It was a milkmaid’s face: wide, soft, fresh, rosy. She smiled at Balty. Her dimples gave a hint of impudence but for which her countenance was vestal.
“Why do thou look at me so, sir?”
“I’m trying to fathom you, Mistress Mott.”
“Goodbye, Mr. St. Michel. Goodbye, Colonel Huncks. Thou were kind to do what thou did.”
She turned and walked away. Her wounds had seeped through the muslin of her dress. The sight was discordant beside the fairy lightness of her step. Balty stared after her until she disappeared.
“Oh, God.” Huncks groaned. “Smitten.”
“Not in the least. I feel sorry for her. You will admit she’s rather fair.”
“Avoid Quaker women, Mr. St. Michel,” Huncks said. “They’re only trouble.”
“That’s a bit strong, after what you told me last night.”
Huncks turned his horse back toward New Haven.
“Hold on,” Balty said. “We’re going back? We didn’t make ourselves popular today.”
“Isn’t that your mission? To vex the New Haveners? So far, you’re succeeding admirably.”
“What do you mean, my mission?”
“I misspoke.”
“My mission—stated clearly in my commission—is to apprehend the judges.”
“So it is. Shall we go about it, then?”
“I’ll tell you what’s vexing,” Balty said hotly. “Your damned secrets.”
“Yes, I imagin
e. Coming?”
“They’ll tear us to pieces.”
“I think not. Didn’t you tell them, one snap of your fingers and Winthrop’s militia will howl down on them like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”
“I was bluffing.”
“They don’t know that. Want to find your judges or not?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“They’re still in New Haven. And we’re going to find them. But first, a drink. Thirsty work, vexing Puritans.”
– CHAPTER 17 –
Mr. Fish
They sat in a corner at a wharfside tavern called the Prickly Pig. Business was brisk. New Haven might be a godly town, but its saints were thirsty.
Huncks knew someone in Milford, next town over. Tomorrow he’d go find him.
“I’m going with you. I’m not staying here by myself. That man by the window, he’s been staring at us.”
“I saw.”
He was stout, forty or so, bushy eyebrows, cheeks florid from burst blood vessels. A drinker. Seeing Balty and Huncks return his stare, he nodded and touched the brim of his hat. He approached. His manner was deferential, obsequious.
“Greetings to thee, sirs. It would be my great honor to buy thee a drink.”
“Why not?” Huncks said.
The man went off and returned with two large mugs of ale.
“May I join thee?” He sat and spoke in a whisper. “I was present this morning at the court, when thee saved Mistress Mott. God bless thou, sirs. God bless and save thee. Thou are angels, sure, heaven-sent.”
“Well, couldn’t just sit there.” Balty shrugged.
“Simeon Fish, at thy service. A Friend of the Truth, like her whom thou saved.”
“Friend of who?” Balty said.
“Quaker. We call each other ‘friend.’ ”
“Ah. Quite.”
Huncks raised his mug. “To friendship, then.”
Fish leaned in closer. “You seek the regicides Whalley and Goffe?”
“We do.”
“It might be something. Or might not.”
“Go on.”
“My farm is just beyond the East Hill. The red cliff. Small farm. Nothing much. Corn, squash, beets. Bit of tobacco. Orchard. Apples, peaches. Last year, we had a splendid peach crop. Chickens. A few pigs. After tobacco, eggs are my most profitable—”
“Mr. Fish,” Huncks said. “Are you here to tell us about regicides or agriculture?”
The Judge Hunter Page 9
