The Judge Hunter

by Christopher Buckley

  The bowmen took aim. Balty raised his pistol and aimed at the man in front.

  “Look here, old chap, I’d rather it not come to this. Do get it into your head we didn’t come here to rummage in your tombs.”

  A voice from the woods. “Coming in. Steady, all. Steady.”

  A man and boy stepped into the torchlight. Both had muskets shouldered.

  “We heard a gunshot. That you, Repent? What are you on about?”

  The Indian with the decorated forehead replied, “Hunt.”

  “Bit late, isn’t it?”

  “Cat.”

  “Ah. Then I’ll wish you good hunting. The catamounts have been at our chickens. I’ll say good night to you.”

  Repent hesitated, then spoke to his men. The Quiripi turned and walked away, taking the light with them.

  The three white men stood in the silence, eyes adjusting to darkness.

  “What passed here?” the man asked Balty.

  “My friend . . . in the rocks, there. Wounded. Please . . .”

  Balty’s legs wobbled. He felt cold. He lowered himself to the ground and lay, looking up the cliff. It seemed beautiful now, with the stars glimmering above.

  – CHAPTER 18 –

  Pepys in a Pickle

  Pepys had little liking for the country road from London to Chelsey on any day; even less today.

  Once while traveling this way his coach was stopped by three masked highwaymen. One put a pistol to the coachman’s breast, another to Pepys’s. They relieved him of a silver ruler (value: 30 shillings), his beloved gold pencil (8 pounds), five mathematical instruments (3 pounds), a magnifying glass (20 shillings), gold and silver purse (10 shillings), and 2 guineas and 20 shillings in money. Pepys was so cooperative handing it all over that the chief thief chivalrously offered him a rebate.

  “You are a gentleman,” he said, “and so are we. If you will send to the Rummer Tavern at Charing Cross tomorrow, you shall have one of your mathematical instruments there.”

  Pepys called at the Rummer the next day; no mathematical instrument. So much for the probity of varlets. Two of the “gentlemen” were arrested and hanged at Tyburn, and good riddance.

  Today, trying to distract himself from the unpleasant errand ahead, Pepys wondered what had become of the third thief. Was he in prison somewhere? Writing a farewell letter to his doxy on the eve of his hanging—with Pepys’s much-missed gold pencil? It pleased him to think so. He’d written some saucy billets-doux with that pencil, and not to Mrs. Pepys.

  This reverie ended as his carriage drew up to his destination, lurching him harshly back into the present.

  Pepys hadn’t seen much of Edward Montagu, First Earl Sandwich, since confronting him over his scandalous ménage with Mrs. Becke. He regretted the coolness that had settled like a frost between them, for he loved Montagu.

  They were related by blood. Montagu’s father had married Pepys’s great-aunt. Montagu recognized his young cousin’s talents early and lifted Sam from what might otherwise have been a life of drab obscurity—notwithstanding the Cambridge degree Sam’s other patron, Downing, had helped him gain.

  As admiral, Montagu promoted Sam up the civilian ranks of the Navy. In 1660 he took him along on his flagship when he brought King Charles II back to England from his exile in Holland. Restored to the throne, the King rewarded Montagu for his services, creating him Baron Montagu of St. Neots, Viscount Hinchinbrooke, Earl of Sandwich, Knight of the Garter and Admiral of the Narrow Seas (otherwise known as the English Channel). Later, the King entrusted Montagu with another great mission: fetching his future queen, Catherine of Braganza, to England from Portugal.

  The King’s confidence in Edward Montagu was all the more remarkable for Montagu’s having been an ardent antiroyalist. He’d served Cromwell and the protectorate valorously. But after Cromwell died and the parliamentary cause faltered, Montagu was among the first to reach out across the Narrow Seas to the King in exile. Stalwart monarchists chafed at what they viewed as unseemly adaptability. But in time they conceded that Montagu had acted out of patriotism, not opportunism. Montagu was a hard man to dislike, harder still to hate. He was honorable, charming—a “good fellow.”

  But his dalliance with the unsuitable Mrs. Becke was a disaster! His standing at Court and in the Lords had sunk like a rock, a rock that had yet to hit bottom. People no longer expressed their contempt in whispers. Mrs. Becke was now openly referred to as “that courtesan.” Most wrenching of all to Pepys was the hurt and shame Montagu’s affair inflicted on a woman for whom his devotion verged on adoration: Montagu’s wife, Jemima, mother of their ten children.

  Pepys stood on the doorstep of the rather mean Chelsey house, summoning his strength. He took a deep breath, fortifying himself with the knowledge that he had not come to this shabby place to beg personal favor of his lordship. No. His mission was a noble one. He had come to persuade the Admiral to intercede with the King not to start a war with Holland.

  Pepys was in a pickle. He couldn’t reveal that he’d read Downing’s confidential dispatch to Nicholls. Nor could he go to his superior at the Navy—the Duke of York, Lord High Admiral, brother to the King. He was the leader of the “war party.”

  But as Clerk of the Acts, Pepys knew better than anyone else that the Navy was in no way ready to conduct the war that Nicholls’s mission would surely trigger.

  Pepys had yet another pressing reason for wanting to avoid a war between England and Holland: Brother Balty.

  If war broke out, New England would be a battleground. And somewhere wandering about New England was his feckless brother-in-law. How long would the innocent dolt survive, amidst the clash of steel and boom of gun? About ten minutes, Pepys reckoned. And what then? Pepys winced to think of it. The prospect of his wife’s wrath—unquenchable, unappeasable, unyielding, eternal. (She was, after all, half French.) She’d lay the blame for Balty’s death squarely at her husband’s feet. Recrimination and blame would be his marital portion unto the last syllable of recorded time. He could hear her lamentations, the crockery smashing against the walls of their house. Monstre! Fiend! You ’ave murdered my beloved Balty! Hell will be a paradise to you, next to the suffering I shall give you in this life!

  Balty’s demise would be the death knell of the domestic life that Pepys cherished, athwart his frequent infidelities. He might make merry with strumpets and tarts, but despite the peccant part of his anatomy, his heart remained true to the dowry-less fifteen-year-old he’d married a decade ago. Their marriage sometimes made Atlantic hurricanoes seem like balmy zephyrs, but his devotion to Elizabeth had never faltered.

  In this desperate hour, there was no one to whom Pepys could turn but his fornicating cousin, the Admiral of the Narrow Seas.

  – CHAPTER 19 –

  How Clever of God

  Balty opened his eyes and saw that he’d died. His sadness was mitigated by the loveliness of the angel ministering to him. She was of heart-stopping beauty, not that hearts stopped in Heaven. How lovely to find, after all the promises of Scripture and pulpit, that Heaven was real.

  Then he thought: How had he earned Heaven? He hadn’t led a very wicked life; but neither had he been a paragon of Christian virtue.

  He gazed at the angel’s face. She had golden hair. How clever of God to make his angels blond. She reminded him of someone. Who? Ah, the Quaker girl. Yes, the resemblance was striking.

  Balty lifted his head from the pillow. He felt a sharp stab of pain, like a nail being driven through his skull.

  Pain—in Heaven?

  The angel spoke. “Lie still. Thou’ve had a bad knock on thy noggin.”

  He blinked and looked about. Shouldn’t there be clouds? And other angels? Heaven seemed rather drab: walls of logs and wattle; beams, a small window.

  “Thou’ve lost much blood.”

  “Where . . . what is this place?”

  “Hush, now.”

  “Huncks? Is he . . . ?”

  “In the other room. Barth
olomew and his son found thee last night, by the cliff. Micah, the boy, has gone to fetch a surgeon. Bartholomew thought it best not to seek one in New Haven, so he sent him to Milford.”

  “We were . . . attacked.”

  “Don’t speak. Rest. Thou will be safe here. Bartholomew has taken measures, in case they return.”

  The door opened. It was a stout woman of commanding aspect.

  “Awake, is he? Praise God.” She addressed herself to Balty: “You’ve her prayers to thank for that. You bled through three of my best pillows.”

  Amity Cobb lifted the bandage on Balty’s head and peered beneath.

  “Clean through to the skull.”

  “I shall recompense you for your pillows, madame.”

  “Never mind my pillows. What were you up to out there? Don’t you know better than to go trespassing on Indian burial ground?”

  Balty groaned. “Why must everyone insist we were robbing graves?”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  “Hunting.”

  “Hunting? Ha! Either that hole in your head made you daft, or the truth isn’t in you.”

  “Hunting regicides.”

  “Daft. Stay with him, love,” she said. “Try to keep him awake until Micah returns with the surgeon. I’ll be with the other one.”

  Mrs. Cobb took Balty’s hand in hers and patted it.

  “What you did for her. Bless you for that.” She left.

  “Who was that termagant?”

  “Mrs. Cobb. Amity.”

  “Amity? Ha. Mistress Dragon. What are you doing here?”

  “My cabin is not far. My husband and I were employed here. When I came this morning, here thou were, with Colonel Huncks. Shall I read to thee from the Bible?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Mr. St. Michel, what a question.” Thankful smiled.

  “Call me Balty. Read to me if I start to die. Which I may at any moment, given the intense pain in my head. Why do Quakers say thou and thee?”

  “If thou knew the Bible, Mr. Balty, thou would know why.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler just to tell me?”

  “I’ll give thee a clue. ‘Thou shalt honor thy father and mother’?”

  “Ah. Sermon on the Mount.”

  “Oh, Mr. Balty. Shame.”

  “D’you really think Moses and Jesus and all that lot went about saying ‘thou’ and ‘thee’?”

  “I should not speak so impiously,” she said, “if I were gravely injured and flirting with death.”

  “I’m not flirting with death. I’m flirting with thee.”

  “What were thou doing out there last night?”

  “What his majesty sent us here to do. Which doesn’t include robbing bloody Indian tombs. How’s Huncks? Is he all right?”

  “He cannot move his legs. He has no feeling in them.”

  “Christ.”

  “I see thou are not familiar with any of the commandments, Mr. Balty.”

  “I wasn’t taking his bloody— I wasn’t taking his name in vain. I was praying.”

  “One doesn’t address our Lord as if he were in a tavern, Mr. Balty.”

  “Very well. Teach me how to address him.”

  “Don’t be impious.”

  “I’m perfectly serious. Show me.”

  “All right. Let us be silent together.”

  “Silent? That’s a dull way of praying.”

  “It is in silence that we see the inward light. And hear the Holy Spirit.”

  “Does he moan and rattle his chains, like other spirits?”

  “He spoke to me just this morning. While I was praying for thee.”

  “Oh? What’d he say?”

  “He said, ‘I shouldn’t bother praying for Mr. St. Michel. He’s thoroughly wicked and beyond redemption.’ I replied that he might be right, but that thou and Mr. Huncks had been kind to me. It took a bit of convincing. But here thou are. Alive.”

  * * *

  Toward evening, Balty got out of bed, despite Thankful’s protests. Standing made him dizzy, but he wanted to see Huncks.

  Bartholomew Cobb sat by the open door. His clothes seemed very dirty, not that this was unusual in a farmer. His musket lay across his lap. On a table nearby, Balty recognized two items: Huncks’s pistol and Balty’s own clock-watch. The watch was a going-away present from his sister. What was it doing there?

  Seeing him, Bartholomew rose and shut the door.

  “I wanted to thank you,” Balty said, “for last night.”

  “Thank Providence. You were lucky we heard the gunshot. What were you doing?”

  “Not robbing graves. Did Thankful tell you about us?”

  “Only that you’d saved her from the magistrate. And about looking for the regicide judges. What made you think they’re hiding in the cliff?”

  “This chap in a tavern said he’d lead us to them. Colonel Huncks—my companion—knew it was a trap. So we—”

  “Walked into it. May I ask, is manhunting your profession?”

  “It is at present. Colonel Huncks is the one who knows what he’s doing. I’m just . . . may I ask, why is my clock-watch on that table with the Colonel’s pistol?”

  “Might come in useful. Why’d you walk into what you knew to be a trap?”

  “It was Huncks’s idea. He’s not one to hold back. He tricked the fellow into revealing himself. But he bolted. Huncks gave chase. Then your local savages assaulted us. Rudely. I had been under the impression that the local red folk were better mannered.”

  “They’re touchy about their graves.”

  “We had no intention of . . . oh, never mind. Where’s Huncks? I must see him.”

  “In there. Keep away from the windows. And keep your voice down.”

  Huncks lay on the bed, eyes closed, arm cradled around an earthenware whisky jug.

  Balty sat on the edge of the bed. Huncks opened his eyes.

  “What, gone over to Mahomet?”

  Was he delirious, or drunk?

  “How are you feeling, old man?” Balty asked.

  “You’ll have to pray five times a day. Make a pilgrimage. Give alms.”

  “Huncks, what are you going on about?”

  “Your turban.”

  Balty felt his head. It was wrapped in bandages.

  “Oh. How do you feel?”

  “I don’t. From the waist down.”

  “The boy’s gone to fetch a surgeon. To Milford. Our host, Mr. Cobb, didn’t want to alert the saints. A New Haven surgeon would only finish us off.”

  Huncks took a pull on the jug.

  “Easy, old man,” Balty said. “You’ll be too drunk to tell the surgeon where it hurts.”

  “Wish it did hurt. Can’t feel my bollocks.”

  “Well, they say Milford surgeons are brilliant with bollocks.”

  “Balty.”

  “Yes, old man?”

  Huncks struggled to get it out. “Thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, don’t be a tit.”

  “Thankful’s praying for you. For thee. Quaking like a jelly pudding. Oughtn’t we send for your Dr. Pell?”

  Huncks stared. “How do you know about Pell?”

  “You told me about him last night. When you thought you were done for. Told me to get to Fairhaven and find Dr. Pell. To tell him some Colonel Nickel is coming. With a fleet.”

  “The fall seems to have loosened my tongue.”

  “Yes, you were quite chatty. Rather a nice change.”

  “What else did I say?”

  “It was just getting interesting when that appalling Indian, Repentance, or whatever he’s called, arrived with his cannibal entourage.”

  “They don’t eat each other. You mean Repent? Davenport’s Indian?”

  “I assume. He’s got a ghastly face with wings carved into his forehead. Frightful looking. I was trying to establish an understanding with him. I didn’t get very far. Thank God Mr. Cobb arrived when he did.”

  H
uncks mused. “Davenport . . .”

  He said he must write a message to Dr. Pell. Balty went to see about writing material. Mr. Cobb was at his vigil by the door. It was dark now.

  “I say, you wouldn’t have some paper and—”

  Cobb stood up. He whispered, “Get back. Quiet.”

  Balty retreated. Cobb stood in the doorway. Balty saw the panes in the window glow orange. Torches.

  Cobb raised a hand, cradling the musket in the crook of his arm.

  “Greetings, friends.”

  Balty couldn’t make out the response but recognized the voice. He listened and made out the word “Owanux.”

  Cobb pointed. “There. Dead. Of their wounds.”

  He leaned his musket against the doorway and picked up Huncks’s pistol and Balty’s clock-watch and stepped out of the house, disappearing from view.

  Balty listened.

  “Take these as tokens of respect, for the spirits of your dead.”

  Cobb reappeared in the doorway. The glow on the windowpanes faded. Cobb closed the door, looked at Balty, put a finger to his lips.

  “Sorry about the pistol and your watch. But they were gifts well to your advantage.”

  “What does ‘Owanux’ mean?”

  “English.”

  “What were you pointing at?”

  “Your graves.”

  “Oh. I say. Well done.”

  “The pistol’s a great prize. They’ve no reason now to come back. But keep away from the windows. Great skulkers, Quiripi.”

  Mrs. Cobb and Thankful emerged. Balty saw something unfamiliar in Thankful’s face. Fear.

  “It’s all right, girl,” Cobb said. “He’s gone.” Mrs. Cobb took Thankful with her into the kitchen.

  “I could use a nip of that whisky,” Cobb said. “Imagine you could, too.”

  “She was frightened.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but at the church and in the courtroom, she didn’t so much as blink. Serene as a swan.”

  They went into Huncks’s room and passed the jug around. Balty told Huncks what had just passed. Huncks seemed downcast hearing of the loss of his pistol.