“Alas for me you’re not nicer to your men. It wasn’t very sporting of you, pulling the trigger on Huncks. You’re lucky he wasn’t more severe with you. He doesn’t take kindly to people trying to kill him.”
Koontz took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
Balty groaned. “Not another drawing. Who’s this by? Rembrandt?”
“No, no. It’s a . . . declaring.”
“What?”
“A stating of . . . schuldgevoelens . . . confessioning . . .”
“Is ‘confession’ the word you’re groping for?”
“Yes. Thank you. Concerning about the true reason for you coming to New Amsterdam.”
“Koontz, really, you’re being a bore. We’ll discuss all that with the General.”
“Mr. Balthasar. I am tired. You are tired. And you are injured. And the Heneral is going up the river. So please.”
“I’ll discuss it with your General.”
Koontz sighed. He stood and put the confession on the table.
“You must sign. When the Heneral returns, then will come the meeting with him.” He turned to leave.
“I say, Koontz?”
“Yes?”
“Since you’ve introduced the subject of confession, tell me: You and Jones, are you doing business together? That the General doesn’t know about?”
“What a question, Mr. Balthasar.”
“You Dutch do have the reputation of being rather eager when it comes to commerce.”
“I will ask for the surgeon to come. To see about your angle.”
“Too kind.”
* * *
Huncks sat wrapped in a blanket by the stove in the Breuckelen farmhouse serving as headquarters for Dr. Pell and his Westchester Trained Band of four hundred men. His swim across the East River had left him shaking from exhaustion.
Captain Underhill was present. The Cincinnatus of Long Island had finally been unable to resist the drumbeat of Mars. Mrs. Underhill had done everything in her power to bar his way: lecturing him on his obligations as a Quaker, hiding his boots, even physically barring the door. After a dialogue that would have exhausted Socrates, Underhill wore her down, swearing that he had no intention, himself, of bearing arms, or of playing any “direct role”—as he put it—in the coming engagement. His sole intention, he averred, was to be present in Breuckelen—to observe. To offer such advice as he might in order to mitigate the spillage of blood. And bring about peace as quickly as possible. What was Quakerism, if not that?
Mrs. Underhill finally capitulated to her husband’s dissembling and trundled off to her bed, muttering darkly about the all-observing eye of God. The Cincinnatus of Long Island was out the door in a shot, making for the barn—by the long way, to avoid being seen from their bedroom window. He dug out his old war chest from its hiding place and got his pistols, helmet, sword, and cuirass. Thus equipped, he mounted his horse and made his way once more onto the beach.
The old warrior’s departure was observed by another member of the household, who threw a shawl over her shoulders and quietly slipped out of the house and followed.
In Breuckelen, Underhill found himself all these years later face-to-face with his ancient nemesis, Dr. Pell. Theirs was a shaky truce. But as the atmosphere in the farmhouse grew more martial by the hour, old animosities fell away.
Winthrop was on his way from Hartford. Underhill had received a communication from him. He said they would find the Governor in “no good humor.”
After landing at Boston, Colonel Nicholls dispatched word to New England’s governors, informing them of his majesty’s intention to wrest New Netherland from the Dutch. His majesty’s further intention was a dagger between Winthrop’s shoulder blades.
In 1661, Winthrop returned from London with a royal charter giving him authority over the New Haven colony. His majesty had confided in him his future intention to seize New Netherland. Moreover, the king promised Winthrop rule of the former Dutch possessions, including all land south of the Massachusetts border, extending west all the way to—the Pacific!
For three years, Winthrop had smacked his lips in anticipation of becoming lord of such a vast tract of land. All the way to the Pacific—wherever that might be.
Now came word from Nicholls that his majesty would grant this immensity of territory not to Winthrop, but to the king’s own brother, the Duke of York.
Perfide Albion! Winthrop was left to curse and mutter. How unhappy those who entrust their faith to the promises of kings! Viewed less moralistically, it was a case of the fox being outfoxed. At any rate, there it was.
Winthrop’s fury was justified. But holding a grudge against one’s king is usually bootless and always risky. Fortunately, Winthrop’s cunning was stronger than his pride. He swallowed the latter and deployed the former, sending his compliments to Nicholls and offering his services to him and his majesty in the forthcoming action in New Amsterdam. Smart move.
All this Winthrop relayed to Underhill in his letter, which Underhill now relayed to the assembled parties in Breuckelen. Underhill strongly suggested that under the circumstances, when Winthrop arrived, japery on the theme of the empty promises of princes would be “inappropriate.”
* * *
Huncks had done his job. He had only one concern now—Balty. From the moment he staggered into the Breuckelen farmhouse, drenched, shivering, half dead, he agitated with Pell and Underhill to secure Balty’s release.
Pell and Underhill were adamant that nothing must be done that would give away the game. Any attempt to get Balty released, even a request framed diplomatically, might make Stuyvesant suspicious and put New Amsterdam back on a war footing. That could only result in greater casualties when hostilities commenced. Huncks must understand. Anyway, they told him, why would Stuyvesant hang an Englishman, a Crown agent, knowing that a squadron of English warships was approaching? If he was truly convinced Balty was a spy, he’d hold him as a surety.
“Surety?” Huncks said. “Speak plain. Hostage.”
“What would you have us do, Huncks? Start the war now? Patience, man.”
“So your position,” Huncks shot back, “is Stuyvesant won’t hang him now. He’ll wait until Nicholls arrives and then hang him.”
Pell and Underhill looked at each other. Huncks served under Winthrop. He’ll listen to him.
“Hiram. Winthrop will be here any moment. Hold fast. Let’s hear what he has to say. There’s a good fellow.”
– CHAPTER 41 –
Very Good Surgeon
Balty’s cell door opened to admit a small, weedy-looking man with a leather bag that made a metallic clank when he set it on the table. With him were two other men, stout fellows. Deputy Koontz brought up the rear.
“Here is surgeon,” he announced.
“And these other chaps?”
“Assistants.”
“For an ankle? Is that . . . necessary?”
The surgeon pulled the stool to the foot of Balty’s bed and sat and rolled up Balty’s trouser leg.
“Jolly nice of you,” Balty said.
The surgeon poked at the ankle with his finger. Balty let out a yelp. “I say! Do you mind being a bit more ginger?”
Koontz spoke to the surgeon in Dutch. The surgeon seemed oddly amused. Koontz picked up the confession he’d left on the table and examined it.
“You have not signed.”
“Of course not.”
The surgeon squeezed Balty’s ankle. Balty gasped.
“You, sir! What are you doing?” Balty said to Koontz, “I say, is this person a surgeon, or the local butcher? In the event, kindly inform him that my ankle is not a joint of mutton.”
Koontz and the surgeon spoke.
“He says your angle is very bad.”
“Well it’s certainly no better for his ministrations.”
“He says the foot must come off.”
Balty stared. “I beg your pardon?”
Koontz made a sawing motion with his hand
. “Or you will extinguish. From infecting.”
The surgeon went to his bag and opened it and took out a surgical saw.
“No, no, no,” Balty said, sitting up, drawing back his ankle. He laughed nervously. “I think there’s some mistake here. Look.” Balty wiggled his ankle. “See? Perfectly good. Just a bit sore.”
Koontz shook his head. “No mistake. He’s very good surgeon.”
The two “assistants” produced a long leather strap and, pressing down on Balty’s shoulders, cinched him tightly around the chest to the pallet bed.
“Now see here, Koontz . . .”
The Deputy seemed to find it all rather entertaining.
“Like last night, eh? When you and Mr. Uncks was tying me to the chair. Makes difficult, the breathing, no?”
The surgeon spoke to Koontz.
“He asks do you want a piece of wood for your teeth? So you are not biting off tongue.”
“No! I bloody well do not! Look here, this is no way to treat a commissioner of the King of England!”
The surgeon was now tying some other kind of strap above Balty’s ankle and cinching it tight. The assistants each held down a leg.
“How else should we treat his majesty’s commissioner, but to give him the best of medical attentioning?”
“You can’t just go sawing off people’s feet because their ankles hurt!”
Koontz shrugged. “We must do what the surgeon recommends. For your own benefiting.”
The “surgeon” finished with his tourniquet and reached into his bag and brought forth a frightful-looking implement: a long, sharp knife.
Koontz said, “First he must cut into the flesh to make . . . how do you say? . . . the flap. Then must come the—” He mimed sawing. “Do you want gin? The Heneral says they gave him gin before they amp— what’s the word?”
“ ‘Amputate’! See here, Koontz—”
Two soldiers walking the fort grounds heard the scream. They stopped, looked at each other, then as soldiers must, shrugged and walked on.
* * *
Late that afternoon, a short man with a skullcap, his face framed by neat matching ringlets of hair, arrived at the Breuckelen farmhouse. Here was Asser Levy, kosher butcher of New Amsterdam, come to relay intelligence to his patron and friend Captain Underhill: Stuyvesant was headed upriver to Fort Orange. Mohawk trouble.
This news was joyously if skeptically received. Stuyvesant’s left New Amsterdam? To go to Orange, 150 miles upriver?
Pell and Underhill and their war captains could scarcely believe it. Could it be some feint?
They decided no. The West India Company must have fallen for Downing’s deception and assured Stuyvesant that the English squadron had no belligerent intent.
Huncks pulled Levy to a corner. Did he know anything of his companion, the Englishman who’d been taken prisoner?
Levy looked away. Huncks pressed.
“Yes,” Levy said. “There was a report. Screams.”
“Can you get me back on the island?”
Levy said he had a boat, but he would have to inform Captain Underhill.
“No,” Huncks said.
Levy hesitated. Huncks took his arm. “The man they’re torturing, he’s my friend. Do you understand? He’s my friend and it’s my fault he’s there. Help me.”
Levy looked over at Underhill, deep in discussion with the others. He nodded.
Huncks gathered some things—a pistol, powder, a knife. Underhill noticed, but his attention was held by the war planning. Huncks slipped out the back door.
Two people on one horse approached, a man and woman. The rider halted. The woman slipped off. Huncks heard the word “thee.”
He ducked behind a shed. Thankful presented herself to the two sentries. Was this where Captain Underhill was? The sentries refused to say, or to let her pass. She looked exhausted and defeated. Huncks stepped out of the shadows.
She ran to him and hugged him.
He asked sternly: Why had she come? This was no place for a woman.
She was breathless with news, which she conveyed in a tone of schoolgirl amusement. She giggled, telling how Mrs. Underhill had hidden the Captain’s boots and even physically barred the door. How he’d sworn he only wanted to be an observer. A force for peace! How she’d seen him creep into the barn, looking over his shoulder, and come out the other side on his horse looking like a Spanish conquistadore off to do battle with Moctezuma.
Huncks listened impassively. Yes, but why had she come? In her condition.
She looked away. Huncks said, “I meant only—why are you here, Thankful? Don’t you see what’s going on?”
She said with an air of defiance that if there was going to be war, which there likely would, men being men and therefore fools, she would be more use here than at Killingworth, spinning wool and listening to Mrs. Underhill grumble about her pigheaded husband. She could help with the wounded. Anyway, she was here and she wasn’t leaving, and that was that.
Where’s Balty? she asked.
Huncks told her. Thankful turned away, took a few steps, and stumbled. Huncks caught her and helped her to a tree stump, where she sat. He took her hand
“I’m going to get him back.” Under no circumstances must she tell anyone, especially Underhill. He’d only try to stop him.
The back door opened. Underhill emerged.
Huncks whispered, “If you want to be useful, here’s your chance.”
He walked away. Behind him he heard, “Captain Underhill! The devil himself! But looking more like Mars!”
Underhill stammered and spluttered. He tried to reproach her for coming, but that went nowhere. The old warrior was up against superior odds. Thankful was Leonidas at Thermopylae, yielding not an inch of ground. She’d come, she said, at Mrs. Underhill’s bidding, to see that he abided by his pledge.
Underhill withered under the barrage of castigation, reduced to pouty silence.
Huncks made his way to the creek, where Levy waited with his shallop.
The tide was flooding, the current rushing north. All favorable. Huncks pointed: “That way.”
Levy, confused, pointed instead directly across the river. “But your friend is there.”
Huncks told him what he intended. Levy’s eyes went wide. He smiled. Huncks said if he wanted no part, he understood. But either way Huncks would have his boat.
Levy laughed. No, he said, by all means he wanted a part in this! Indeed, nothing would prevent him. Stuyvesant had tried again and again to evict Levy and his fellow Jews from Manhatoes. But like the Quakers of Vlissingen, they went over his head and appealed to the West India Company, which, in accordance with the Dutch practice of tolerance, ordered Stuyvesant to cease and desist. This, Levy said, would be a pleasure.
The wind, too, was favorable. They hoisted sail and eased into the current. The shallop made its way briskly north, into the gloaming.
* * *
Balty sat on his bed with his back to the wall, trying to convince himself he wasn’t a coward. Then why did he feel so like one?
Hadn’t Huncks told him to just tell them? There’s no disgrace. Everyone gives in under torture.
Why, then, did he feel ashamed?
When they start sawing off your leg, does honor require that you hold your nose and think of England?
What would Huncks have done? Good, brave Huncks. Huncks never would have let it go that far. He’d have snatched the knife from that weasel “surgeon” and sliced off his head. All their heads. There’d have been four heads on the floor, like so many skittles balls.
He asked himself: What if Huncks hadn’t got the knife away? Would he have talked? Never. He’d have gritted his teeth and told them to saw off both feet and go to hell.
At least he hadn’t capitulated immediately. How long had he lasted? He remembered the knife reaching bone. The sound it made. Then everything went black and he came to with the hideous Koontz looming over him saying, “Shall we then continue?”
�
�No,” Balty said, “we shall bloody well not continue. I’ll sign your damned confession. And damn you.”
The “surgeon” turned from Torquemada into Hippocrates, pulling out needle and thread and bandages from his Pandora’s satchel of horrors, sprinkling the wound with powder. Would Mr. Balthasar like some laudanum for pain? Yes, Mr. Balthasar would fucking well like some fucking laudanum for the fucking pain. And fuck you. Balty wished he knew how to say “fuck” in fucking Dutch.
And Koontz, duplicitous, double-dealing Koontz—what a transformation there! From Grand Inquisitor to Genie of the Lamp. He would have food sent in. And wine. Would Mr. Balthasar prefer white wine or red wine? Had he actually said that?
The laudanum had made Balty’s head fuzzy. Another nice touch, leaving the bottle of laudanum with him. Clever, Dutchers. Swine.
Balty tried to remember what it was he’d confessed to. Presumably, to being an English spy. To deflect suspicion away from Koontz, whose pockets were probably jingling with English gold, earned under the table, without Stuyvesant’s knowledge, for hiding fugitive English regicides in the Heneral’s own backyard.
Balty took another slug of laudanum. He wished Huncks were here, so he could ask him, “What now?” It made Balty smile. Huncks hated it when he asked that.
– CHAPTER 42 –
Parley
Stuyvesant rarely returned to New Amsterdam in a good mood after dealing with Mohawk trouble. There was nothing about Mohawk trouble to put anyone in a good mood.
But to return to . . . to this calamity! To discover his best beloved friend, the only creature on earth he truly loved and who truly loved him in return . . . to find Johann was gone. It was unthinkable. Old Petrus plunged into a gloom so cold that ice seemed to form on the walls around him.
Mevrouw Stuyvesant and the household servants cringed and tried to keep out of his sight as he stormed about the house looking for his bird. Imbeciles! Fools! How could they have allowed such a thing to happen? Finally he stomped out the door of Bouwerie Number One, cratering the ground with every step.
* * *
Koontz saw from a hundred paces that something was very wrong. He was accustomed to Stuyvesant’s black dog moods, but he’d never seen the General look this furious. Had the Mohawks slaughtered everyone at Fort Oranje? Strange that no word had been received here about it.
The Judge Hunter Page 23
