Silence settled on the room. Old Petrus stared, opaque, unreadable. Balty felt panic rising. Was the old boy awaiting a reciprocal oration? Oh, dear, but all right . . .
Of course he understood, Balty said. Such things happen. Holland’s reputation for hospitality was well known throughout the world. How gratifying that all this was . . . a misunderstanding.
How good. How marvelous. And now that was settled. How good to . . . bask in the radiance of the gubernatorial presence. And such an august presence . . .
Huncks stifled a groan.
Balty pressed on.
How good that he could now return—he stressed the words now and return—to England and report to his majesty Charles the Second, King of England, Ireland (etc., etc.), that New Netherland was truly, indeedly, ruled by a wise and good man who . . . who desired harmony between our two great nations (etc., etc.).
Balty finished his oration with a bow and a flourish of hands so elaborate it gave the impression of a man fending off a symmetrical assault by bats.
Silence again descended. Time stopped, as in one of Mijnheer Vermeer’s paintings of light angling in through a window.
Old Petrus stared, in bewilderment or contempt; possibly both. Balty, rising from his genuflection, stared back. Did the old boy want more kowtowing? Lord. He tried to summon another torrent of verbiage, but nothing came. It was like trying to write Esther.
He cleared his throat.
“Well, jolly lovely to have met you, your excellency. We won’t take up any more of your time. Come, Huncks, we’re off.”
Huncks spoke up. “Er, beggin’ yer pardon, Marster St. Michel, but waren’t there something else you was wanting to ask his excellency?”
“There was? Ah. Yes. There was.” Balty stared blankly.
“Pertaining to our reason for being here in New Hamsterdam?”
“Ah. Yes. Forgive me, your excellency. The radiance of your gubernatorialness has quite overwhelmed me. We were by way of wondering if your excellency might be able to render some assistance to us in the matter of, well, locating a pair of fugitive regicides. That is, specifically, two of the knaves who signed the death warrant of the late King Charles. We thought perhaps they might be here. In New Amsterdam. Might I compliment your excellency on how very tidy your town is. If only our English towns were so . . . neat.”
Old Petrus put on his spectacles and peered at Balty’s commission.
“Whalley . . . Hoffe . . .”
“Goffe, yer honor,” Huncks corrected. “We pronounces our g’s hard. Like in ‘governor.’ ”
Old Petrus looked at Koontz. Koontz shrugged. Stuyvesant removed his spectacles and leaned back in his chair with a creak of old leather.
“Your rehicides, they are not here.”
“Well,” Balty said, feeling a pressing urge to be somewhere else, “then that’s that. Thank you very much, your excellency. Come, Huncks. We depart.”
Old Petrus held up a hand. “No.”
Time stopped again.
“You have come a big distance. If you must leave with hands empty, you will not leave with stomachs empty.”
“Well, a spot of breakfast would be lovely. Thank you.”
Old Petrus shook his head. “No. You shall be my hests. This evening.”
“It’s kind of your excellency. But really, if these caitiffs aren’t here, then seek them elsewhere we must. Without delay. His majesty doesn’t pay his manhunters to lollygag. Oh, no. He’s very . . . strict, his majesty.”
Huncks cleared his throat.
“But if you insist,” Balty said, “by all means.”
Stuyvesant said, “I will make interrogatings about these persons. But I am doubting they are here. I would know.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“It is no twrabble. Only courtesy. And tonight you will do to me a courtesy of partaking of the dinner. In my house, in the country. And together we will welcome your English ships when they come. It’s synchronous, no?”
“Beg pardon?”
“That you and the ships are arriving”—Old Petrus made a conjoining gesture with his fingers—“simul . . .”
“Ah,” Balty said. “Ourselves and Colonel Nicholls, you mean?”
Huncks winced.
Again, time stopped. Old Petrus put on his specs again and picked up another document, squinting.
“Nicholls . . . Yes. Here is the name. Richard Nicholls. Colonel. It’s him who will make the reviewing of your colonies. So you know of him?”
Balty’s mind went blank. Huncks leapt in.
“With yer warship’s permission, everyone knows of Colonel Nicholls. A personage of the first reputation. The finest administrative reviewer in all England. Top-drawer. And a gentleman down to his boots. Yer excellency and he will get along like peas in a pod. Not to impute any vegetal connoting, mind. Turn of phrase. As it war.”
Old Petrus said, “What a lot of English visitors we are having in these days.” He and Koontz spoke in Dutch.
“Deputy Koontz shall attend to you. I regret we cannot make you hests here, but since the unpleasantness of the last war, the West India Company have made the rule that not-Dutch people cannot reside within the fort. Unless they are awaiting execution.
“So. Have a rest. Have a wash. Assume fresh clothing and we shall make our departure from here at”—he glanced at a pendulum clock, a fine specimen from the workshop of Salomon Coster at The Hague—“five of the clock. It’s not so far, my house. Two miles only. Bouwerie Number One. As we make our progress, I will show you some small portion of Manatus. You will find it caressful to the eye. You will understand why we are so proud of our colony.”
* * *
Koontz installed them in what he said was the “most finest tavern” in New Amsterdam—De Hoorn des Overvloeds, on the street by the East River. The tavern’s name, Koontz explained, meant the Horn Plenty-Full. He added with a wink that its amenities included two of the cleanest prostitutes in all New Amsterdam—Derkje and Jutta.
“Jesus, man,” Huncks snorted when they were alone in their room. “You got your tongue so embedded up his arse you forget to mention Whalley and Hoffe. Then you go blurting Nicholls’s name. Then you tell him, ‘Ooh, look at the time! Must run! Ta-ta!’ I ought to take needle and twine and sew your yap shut.”
“Don’t you see—he’s onto us. I was trying to create an exit. Then you started blibbering in that appalling accent.”
Balty looked out the window. He could see Breuckelen on the far shore. Its farms looked so tranquil in contrast to the bustle below along the waterfront. Balty yearned to be on the Breuckelen side. Farther still—in Oyster Bay. With Thankful.
Huncks was stretched out on the bed, about to commence snoring.
“Don’t you think he’s onto us?” Balty said. “That business about synchronous.”
“Maybe.”
“What about the judges? Did you believe him that they’re not here?”
“Don’t know.”
“Maybe. Don’t know. Thank you, Erasmus of Rotterdam.”
Huncks spoke with eyes closed.
“Let’s review. One, we’re not swinging from his gallows. Two, he sprung us from his jail. Three, I’m lying on a fine goose feather bed at the best joint in town. On his guilders. Four, we’re invited to sup at his country house. On balance, I’d say no, I don’t think he’s onto us.”
“What about the judges?”
“I incline to believe a man who thinks he’s about to get et alive by wild beasts. You yourself saw Jones and Repent in Fairfield, headed this way. So I incline to think they are here. But I remind you that the regicides aren’t the mission. Nicholls is. And what’s your analysis?”
“That I never should have left England.”
“Um. And you were doing so well there.”
Balty lay down on the bed. He felt tired.
Huncks said, “I didn’t mean that.”
“No, you’re right. Ce n’est que la verité qui ble
sse.”
“Cheer up. If it goes well, you’ll end up Sir Balthasar de St. Michel.” Huncks yawned. He began to snore, leaving Balty to his thoughts.
A knighthood. Six months ago, the thought made Balty’s heart pound. But now he felt no quickening of pulse, only the dull, dutiful pump of blood. He had no thought other than for a Quaker girl with golden hair, her belly swelling with a child begot by her dead husband or the man who’d murdered him.
* * *
Balty awoke. Midday. Huncks was at the table, writing. Balty got up and looked over his shoulder: a diagram of the fort with annotations: how many cannon on this bastion and that bastion, estimates of troop strength, sentry positions, numbers of gunships in the harbor—items of interest to an invader.
“What are you going to do with that?”
Huncks went on scribbling. “Thought I’d nail it to the door of the fort. Like Luther and his theses.”
“Shouldn’t it be in cipher? It is somewhat incriminating.”
“You can’t cipher a diagram. And ciphers require keys. There wasn’t time to arrange all that with Underhill’s man here.”
Underhill had given Huncks the name of someone who could get a message to him. Huncks wouldn’t tell Balty the man’s name, in the event of capture and torture. Underhill would relay the message to Nicholls by small boat as the squadron sailed along the Long Island shore toward New Amsterdam.
Huncks finished. He pulled on his boots and threw on his jacket.
“Wait here. Won’t be long.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Best not be seen together. Back within the hour.”
“What if you’re not?”
Huncks pointed at the window. “Watch from there. You can be my guardian angel.”
Balty sniffed. “I’ve better things to do than sit by a window like some wharfside doxy drumming up business.”
Huncks left. Balty went to the window. He watched Huncks emerge below and wade into the waterfront throng.
A man stepped out from a nearby doorway and followed him. Something about him seemed familiar.
Balty rummaged in his satchel for his tube, a going-away gift from Brother Sam. It made things far off look closer. He peered. The man turned his head. Balty saw the eyebrows.
He jimmied on his boots and flew down the two flights of stairs and out the door into the crowd of sailors, merchants, butchers, fishmongers, slavers, chandlers, ropers, cartwrights, whores, pewterers, soldiers, cobblers, clockmakers, poulterers, beaver trappers, factors, masons, brewers, carpenters, flower sellers, jewelers, bakers—all sweaty humanity was abroad this warm August noon. He pushed through, drawing sharp looks and rebukes.
Reaching the water’s edge, he looked this way and that. In heaven’s name, why hadn’t Huncks told him where he was going? He conjured terrible images of Jones running Huncks through with a dagger from behind. Calm down, he told himself. Huncks is no babe in the woods.
Balty turned to make his way through the crowd back to the Horn of Plenty and found himself looking at Repent. The Indian was coming straight at him. He was dressed in white man’s clothes, a broad-rimmed hat pulled down to his eyebrows to conceal the winged face carved into his forehead.
Repent paused. He and Balty stared at each other, motionless amidst the swarm. The Indian grinned. Balty felt a surge of fury in him and lunged. Repent disappeared into the crowd.
Balty shoved his way through. A fist caught him in the face. Balty went down.
He opened his eyes and put his hand to his nose. It came away wet with blood. No one bent to extend a hand. New Amsterdam kept moving along. No Samaritans here. He stumbled to his feet and staggered to the inn.
The Horn of Plenty’s innkeeper regarded his bleeding guest with mild curiosity.
“Fighting?”
“Fell.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Too much drink.”
Balty clutched his oozing nose, gobbets of blood dripping onto his shirt. He conjured four stout English warships and commanded them to deliver a withering, synchronous broadside at De Hoorn des Overvloeds: plumes of smoke, ball, grape, and chain whistling lethally, hissingly through the air, reducing the most finest establishment in New Amsterdam to wrubble.
The innkeeper, suddenly remembering that this sanguinary Englishman was a guest of the General, gave Balty a wet cloth and asked if he would like “more hjin.” The word sounded like a summoning of phlegm.
“More what?”
“Hjin.” He produced an earthenware bottle and pulled out the cork. Balty sniffed the astringent tang of juniper. Gin.
Balty waved away the bottle and went up the stairs, cloth pressed to his face, tormented by visions of Huncks floating facedown in the river.
Sometime later he heard the recognizable clump of boots on the stairs. The door opened and in Huncks came, hand pressed to the back of his head. He saw Balty’s swollen, bloody nose, uttered a groan, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I see you took my advice and stayed in the room.”
Someone had slugged him on the back of his head. When he came to, his attacker was going through his pockets. Huncks tried to grab him, but he fled.
“Port towns. A wonder I didn’t wake up pressed inside a Dutch warship.”
“Jones.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him. Tried to warn you. Ran smack into Repent. I went for him and someone clomped me for shoving. Bloody Dutch.”
“Well, it appears our regicides are here, after all. Why else would Mr. Fish and Repent be lurking about? The question is: Are they under Stuyvesant’s protection? And what will Jones do with my fine drawing?”
“Oughtn’t we to be leaving?”
“That would be the prudent thing. But what if they aren’t here as Stuyvesant’s hests?”
Huncks sat up, rubbing the back of his head. “I must get a message to Levy.”
“Who?”
“Underhill’s man. Local butcher. Jew.”
Huncks went to the table and began making another diagram. Balty paced nervously, stopping to listen at the door for the thundering footsteps of soldiers.
“I’ve never met a Jew,” he said. “What do they look like?”
“Like Jesus.”
Huncks finished his drawing and got up from his chair. He staggered.
“You all right, old man?”
Huncks nodded. “This time listen to me. Stay here.”
“I’m coming with you. Besides, I should like to meet a Jew.”
“Wait two minutes. D’you remember the canal? Meet you there.”
Balty and Huncks were back in their room at the Horn of Plenty within the hour.
“He didn’t look at all like Jesus,” Balty said.
“How do you know what Jesus looked like?”
“You were the one said he did.”
“Balty. Please. My head’s coming off.”
“Seemed a decent chap. Strange, that kosher business. Why’s he helping us?”
“He hates Stuyvesant.”
“Why?”
“Stuyvesant hates Jews. Hates everyone. Jews, Quakers, Catholics, Lutherans. We’ll find out soon enough if he hates us as well.”
They lay in silence on the bed.
“Huncks?”
“Balty. I’m trying to rest. My head’s on fire.”
“What if this invitation to din-dins is just a way of luring us into the woods, where we’ll be quietly murdered and buried in some Dutch dunghill?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“That’s a bit rum.”
“I don’t see Old Petrus killing us and putting us in his vegetable garden. Skullduggery’s not his thing. He’s a soldier. And remember what Underhill told us—he likes the English, though God knows why.”
“You’re bleeding into the pillow.”
“Please will you let me rest?”
“How am I supposed to rest?”
“We’ve no choice but to see it through. If we flee now,
we give ourselves away. Worse, we give Nicholls away. Old Petrus will go back to a war footing and open fire on Nicholls the moment he sails in. And the blame will be ours. Think Downing will be pleased? Or his majesty?”
Balty reflected. “No. Shouldn’t think.”
“D’you see Breuckelen through the window?”
“Yes.”
“Pell’s militia are arraying themselves along the shore. And four fine English warships are on their way. Old Petrus’ll realize he’s been outfoxed by Downing, king of foxes.”
“Then what?”
“Stuyvesant’s got four hundred men to Pell’s five hundred. Nicholls has another five hundred. Stuyvesant’s got six canons. Nicholls has twenty times that. The numbers are against Old Petrus.”
“So he’ll surrender?”
“No. We shall have another war with Holland. Inevitable. But you and I will leave that to the contestants on the field of battle. And attend to our own matter.”
“The judges?”
“Regicide’s for God to judge. The murder of the Cobbs, what was done to the girl, those I do judge. Now rest. We must be good company at dinner. Make a show of being English.”
– CHAPTER 38 –
Chez Bouwerie Number One
Balty went downstairs while Huncks got dressed, to tip the innkeeper three shillings to change their blood-soaked bed linen. The prospect of sleeping in it tonight was less than appealing. Huncks descended and they made their way to the Governor’s House at the fort.
Old Petrus stumped down the steps and greeted them cordially. He evinced concern at Balty’s battered face. Balty said he’d had a tumble in the street. Best not to reveal their eventful perambulations, in the event the regicides were under his protection.
They climbed aboard the carriage. Stuyvesant took the reins. The gate of the fort gave out onto a broad way that narrowed as they proceeded north. Stuyvesant pointed out various houses of prominent citizens, as well as a vast garden and greenhouse—his own—the latter filled with medicinal herbs brought from Dutch possessions in the tropics where he’d served. Old Petrus’s pride was evident, even touching.
The urban density thinned as they continued toward the town gate, where they arrived at a wall: an impressive palisade of twelve-foot-high oak logs, tips sharpened to dragon teeth. Stuyvesant halted the carriage so his passengers could marvel at its extent. It bisected the island, stretching all the way from the North River to the East River, with seven bastions spaced at intervals. It had been there now fifteen years. He himself had contributed 150 gold guilders to its building. The contractor was an Englishman, one Baxter. Would they like to know what this Baxter now was doing? He has taken up a new career—stealing the horses of Dutch settlers on the Long Island! Stuyvesant made a reproving tuk-tuk sound with his tongue.
The Judge Hunter Page 20
