The Judge Hunter

by Christopher Buckley

  Balty went over to the clump of officials.

  “What burned down?”

  “Our mint,” a man said crossly.

  “Oh, dear. Bad luck.”

  The man scowled at Balty. He said, as if speaking from a church pulpit, “Bad luck? Be not deceived, sir. This was the devil’s own work.”

  His tone was not inviting of theological debate.

  “Could you direct me to the Blue Bell Tavern? I’m told it is somewhere in the vicinity of Oliver’s Wharf.”

  This seemed to inflame the man further. “You seek drink, sir, on the Sabbath day?”

  “Sabbath? Ah. I wasn’t aware. You see, I’ve just landed here in Boston. I crossed on that godforsaken ship there.” Balty pointed at the Nymph. “I do not recommend it, in case you are contemplating a passage. The captain is quite incompetent.”

  “We tolerate no blasphemy here. Mind your tongue, lest you want it bored through with a red-hot poker.”

  “Um, yes, well, I’ll leave you to your mint. What’s left of it.”

  Balty walked away, trying to think what blasphemy he’d uttered that had set the fellow to threatening him with boring a hole in his tongue with a red-hot poker. What an appalling town.

  For the first time since leaving England, he felt a growl of hunger in his belly. He got directions to the Blue Bell Tavern from a more obliging local and made his way to his rendezvous with Downing’s man, Spong.

  The tavern keeper was an enormously fat man with a rubicund face between two bushy white side whiskers.

  He greeted Balty, taking in his forlorn appearance.

  “Good day to you, friend. Are you . . . well?”

  “A bit tucked up. Just arrived. From London. Hellish voyage.”

  The tavern keeper walked to the fireplace and pulled a poker from the embers. Its tip glowed red. Balty wondered: Had he blasphemed again? What was wrong with these people?

  “Now see here,” Balty said. “I meant no offense.”

  “Sit you down.”

  The man filled a tankard from a jug and plunged the tip of the poker into it, causing a great bubble and hiss. He handed the tankard to Balty.

  “This’ll set you right.”

  Balty drank. It tasted like hot, sweetened beer, excellently spiced. His tormented insides glowed with delicious warmth.

  “Oh,” he said. “Oh, I say. This is good.”

  “Flip, it’s called.”

  The man went off and returned with a plate of cold roast fowl, pickled onions, cheese, jam, and boiled potatoes. Balty ate with relish. It was the finest meal he’d ever had.

  “I seek a Mr. Spong. A Mr. Plantagenet Spong.”

  “Ain’t seen him lately. He comes and goes. Like the tide. In, out.”

  “I have business with him. Of some significance.”

  “What about?”

  “Confidential. Crown business.”

  Some drinkers sitting nearby stared.

  “Crown business?” the tavern keeper said. “Well, well. I’ll give him a message if I see him. And you would be Mister . . . ?”

  “St. Michel. Balthasar de St. Michel.”

  The drinkers tittered.

  “You are amused?”

  “Where’d ye get a name like that?”

  “From my father. Where did you get yours?”

  “What were ’is name? Beelzebub de Saint Michelle?”

  The tavern filled with snorts and guffaws, hands thumping on tables.

  “As it happens, his name is Alexandre.”

  “Alex-andre? Alex-andre the Great. King of—what were it?—Greece or thereabouts?”

  “Since you ask, he was in service to the late Kings Henri Quatre and Louis Treize. Of France.”

  “Service? Did ’e service ’em well and proper?” The fellow made an obscene gesture, prompting a fresh convulsion of mirth.

  “His position was one of eminence,” Balty replied. “Beyond the understanding of peasants like yourselves.”

  Silence. Mugs slamming on tabletops.

  “What’d you call us?”

  “Pheasants,” said a man apparently well marinated in flip.

  Several men rose from their chairs, fists clenched.

  “Now, now,” said the tavern keeper, his right hand going below the counter. “Everyone just settle down.”

  “You ’eard what he called us.”

  “Well, John, you weren’t so cordial yourself, were you? Now sit down.”

  John held his ground. The tavern keeper drew a club from beneath the counter.

  “You all know the penalty for fighting on the Sabbath.” The tavern keeper turned to Balty. “As for you, Mr. Whatever’s your name, I’ll say a good day to you. It’s four shillings sixpence for the food and drink.”

  “I require a room,” Balty said, “while I await Mr. Spong.”

  “This is a peasant establishment. Try the King’s Arms. Henri Quatre and Louis Treize stay there when they’re in town.”

  The drinkers laughed and sat down.

  “It’s for your own good, sir,” the tavern keeper whispered to Balty. “I’ll tell Mr. Spong where to find you if he calls.”

  Balty sniffed and counted out coins. “Less than one hour have I been in this town of yours, and already I have been threatened with mutilation, and now with a beating. For taking offense at my dear father’s noble name being abused by brute inebriates. I will say good day to you, sir. My compliments to Mr. Spong.”

  Balty found the King’s Arms and collapsed onto his bed, too exhausted to undress.

  * * *

  Next day, Spong not having materialized, Balty decided to pay a call on Endecott, Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

  On being ushered into the Governor’s office, Balty started. The grim, pinched-looking man behind the desk was the same person who had threatened to hole his tongue with a poker.

  Endecott looked up from examining Balty’s Crown commission, unfolded before him on his desk. He peered with vague recognition.

  “Have we . . . met?”

  “We have, yes. Yesterday morning. At your mint.”

  Endecott frowned and went back to examining the commission with an air of searching for evidence of forgery. He sat back in his chair and scowled at his visitor with beady eyes. He had a long black goatee. His neck protruded from a square of delicate white lace against a black doublet.

  “What is it you seek from me, Mr. . . . St. Michel?”

  “I so enjoyed our first chat I thought I’d pop in and have another.”

  Endecott stared.

  “To pay my respects, as it were,” Balty added. “On behalf of his majesty.”

  “If you’ve come seeking regicides, I assure you we have none here. We are out of regicides.”

  Endecott seemed a bit nervous. Balty suddenly felt something he’d never felt before in a lifetime of being the spaniel in any situation—power. Evidently Brother Sam had spoken the truth when he told Balty that his Crown commission would entitle him to be the biggest pain in the arse in all New England. Well, well, he thought. This might be fun.

  “His majesty certainly hopes there are none in Boston. Or elsewhere in your Bay Colony, as you call it,” Balty said. “To think what dishonor that would bring. Quelle honte!”

  Endecott stared. “Are you a French person, Mr. St. Michel?”

  “Half. My pater is of the noblesse. He was in service to their majesties Henri Quatre and Louis Treize.”

  Endecott’s eyes widened. He pushed backward in his chair, as if trying to increase the distance between them.

  “You are a . . . papist?”

  “Not at all. Huguenot. Protestant. Like yourself.”

  Balty’s claim of coreligion didn’t sit well with the Governor. “We are Puritan here, sir.”

  “Yes. I noticed.”

  “We live godly lives.”

  “Doesn’t sound much fun. But to each his own. Judge not lest ye be . . . et cetera. Lovely book, the Bible. Wish I had more time for re
ading. Damned time-consuming, chasing regicides.”

  “As we have no regicides here,” Endecott said icily, “perhaps you will find the time to study Holy Scripture.”

  “We have Puritans back in England. Not as many as before, mind you. Things have rather loosened up under the new king.”

  “So we have heard.”

  “The theaters have been reopened. Bear pits, too. Very exciting. We’re back to celebrating Christmas again. I missed Christmas. I was only a lad of nine when Cromwell chopped off the King’s head and everything got so grim.” Balty laughed. “I imagine that’s not quite how the ‘godly’ folks here view it. Toleration’s not really your thing, is it?”

  “Obedience is our ‘thing,’ Mr. St. Michel. Obedience to God.” Balty stared. Endecott looked like a man straining at a difficult stool. He added, “And to the King.”

  “I’m sure his majesty will be pleased to hear it.”

  “You are at Court, then?”

  “I sort of skulk about the edges, you might say. But near enough to hear the laughter and the music. Very gay, his majesty’s court. And the ladies. Such pulchritude has not been seen since the days of . . .”

  “Sodom and Gomorrah?”

  “I was going to say ancient Rome. But his majesty’s court is very splendid. The King has set a new tone. England seems quite a bit happier now.”

  Endecott smiled. It seemed an unnatural expression on him, like a blemish in marble.

  “Then you must be in haste to conclude your mission here in New England. So that you can return to the pleasure gardens of Old England.”

  “To be perfectly honest, I am.” Balty added, “No offense to New England.”

  “None taken. How, then, may I expedite your return?” He glanced again at the commission on his desk. “These fugitive judges, Lieutenant General Whalley and Major General Goffe . . . you are doubtless aware that in 1661 I deputized two men to hunt them in New Haven.”

  “Um. After they’d spent a jolly time here in Boston. As honored guests of your Bay Colony.”

  “That is putting it strongly, sir. In any event, they fled. And alas, the hunters failed to find them. In New Haven.”

  “The New Haveners were very naughty. They did not cooperate in the least with your hunters.”

  “I am not responsible for the New Haven Colony, Mr. St. Michel. Massachusetts keeps me well enough occupied.”

  “I suppose. Lots going on. Mints burning down. I gather the devil keeps you busy.”

  Endecott stared, trying to decide if he was being taunted.

  “Your ship,” he said. “It tied up at the dock at what hour?”

  “I hardly remember. I was in a coma since leaving London.”

  Endecott sifted some papers on his desk and peered.

  “Nymph. Docked May 7th, just before midnight.” He resumed staring at Balty. “About the hour it is reckoned the fire was set.”

  Balty stared. “Oh? Well, I wouldn’t know. I was in my bunk, praying for death.”

  Endecott continued to stare. “There is some disharmony between London and here as to whether we are within our rights in minting our own coinage.”

  “Oh? Yes, I should imagine.”

  It dawned on Balty that the sour old coot was implying that he had torched his mint. Balty held a Crown commission. And he had arrived simultaneously with the burning. Hm.

  Balty shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “You are off to New Haven, then?” Endecott said. “In pursuit of your regicides?”

  “Yes. As soon as . . .”

  “As?”

  “I am to rendezvous with Lord Downing’s agent. But he has not shown up. And I can’t seem to find him.”

  “Perhaps I can help.” Endecott’s sudden friendly tone made Balty wonder if he had volunteered too much information.

  “He’s to be my guide. Keep me out of trouble.”

  “Yes. One can get into trouble in New England. What is his name? Perhaps we can help you find him.”

  “Jolly good of you to offer. But best not.”

  “Oh, come, Mr. St. Michel,” Endecott said silkily, “I am Governor here. And a loyal subject to his majesty, whatever differences of perspective we may have with regard to certain . . . principles.”

  “In that case, thank you. Let’s see, what was his name? Odd name. I wrote it down. Somewhere. I think. Must be back at the inn.”

  Endecott stroked his foxtail goatee. He wondered: Was his visitor coy, or an imbecile? He inclined to think the latter. But how had such a blithering tosspot managed to procure a Crown commission from Sir George Downing, one of the most powerful men in the realm?

  Whalley and Goffe were long gone. Governor Leete in New Haven might still be hiding them, after all this time, but was that likely?

  Endecott entertained possibilities. Had Downing dispatched this bumbler all the way across the ocean to twist his nose for dragging his feet back in ’61?

  No. Surely. He knew Downing well enough to fear him. Downing wasn’t one for games. No, there must be some other aspect here. Quite other.

  Had some fresh intelligence about Whalley and Goffe reached London? After the last hunt, Endecott had made a point of not inquiring of Leete or any of the Puritan saints of New Haven as to the whereabouts of the judges. Better not to know.

  But if there had been news, this stammering ninny before him seemed an unlikely choice for a Crown pursuivant. Downing’s agents were steely, fierce, and no fools. Perhaps this St. Michel was only playing the fool.

  “Well, lovely seeing you again,” Balty said, suddenly in a hurry to be gone from the gubernatorial presence. “Good luck with your new mint.”

  – CHAPTER 8 –

  A Whole Different Kettle of Nasty

  Where was Spong? It was intolerable. Hanging about Boston, with Endecott convinced Balty had torched his precious mint, was not appealing. Should he press on to New Haven on his own?

  The prospect held little appeal. Indeed, none. The very thought of boarding another ship made him break out in a cold sweat. He inquired at the waterfront and was told that sailing from Boston to New Haven could take a week or more, depending on the winds. New England was larger than Balty had thought.

  At a stable he asked about going by horse. The answer was also dismal. By way of something called the Connecticut Path, via a town named Hartford, this, too, could take a week, but at least he’d be on solid ground.

  The stable owner, an ostler of coarse aspect whose breath reeked of rum, told him with inappropriate jocundity that another consideration was “what type savages yer encounters.”

  “What do you mean by ‘what type’ savage? How do they differ?”

  “Well,” the ostler said, “there’s yer praying savage, as we calls ’em. Them what’s been learnt the Bible and been civilized. Then there’s yer nonpraying type. Them’s the type yer not wanting to encounter.”

  Balty stammered, “But . . . but I was informed that your savages had been . . . I was told all that had been settled.”

  The ostler spat. No one in this dreadful town was capable of completing so much as a sentence without expectorating a dozen times.

  “Well, it have been settled, and it haven’t. If yer gets my meaning.”

  “I do not.”

  “For the most part, it have been. Yer Pequots, them’s were the worst. Heathens to the bone. But Govner Endycott and Captains Underhill and Mason slartered most of ’em at Fort Mystick, back in ’38. But there’s some still left, here and there. And their temper weren’t improved any by the slartering. Can’t really blame ’em.”

  Balty drew himself up. “Look here. Are you saying that the road to New Haven is not safe to travel?”

  The ostler frowned deeply and pensively, as if being asked to rule on a point of philosophy.

  “It aren’t the roads. It’s who’s sharing the roads with yer.”

  “Yes, yes,” Balty said, exasperated. “I grasp that.”

  “Yer Nipmuck and yer Massa
chusett, by and large yer don’t have to fret about ’em. But yer Wampanoag . . .” The ostler summoned a half pint of phlegm and expelled it. “Yer Wampanoag is a whole different kettle of nasty. Yer Narragansett? That can go either way. You say yer’s going t’New Haven?”

  “As I’ve said, yes.”

  “Well, then yer’s almost certain t’encounter Mahican. The thing about yer Mahican—and yer not wantin’ to forget it, neither—is yer Mahican hates yer Pequot. Hates ’em worse than anything. So if yer encounterin’ Mahican, whatever yer do, don’t be singin’ no praise of yer Pequot.” The ostler shook his head to emphasize this essential point. “No. T’wouldn’t do. T’wouldn’t do at all.”

  Balty ruled out traveling alone to New Haven and left the stable feeling abandoned by the universe.

  In England before departing, he’d imagined being greeted in Boston by the Governor and the town elders. A dinner given in his honor. Speeches. Downing’s man Spong at Balty’s disposal, arranging every detail. A well-springed coach to carry them to New Haven, with periwigged postilions hanging on to the back to shoo away curious savages. An outrider in front, shouting as they went, “Make way for Balthasar de St. Michel, emissary of his majesty, King Charles!” New England had failed him in all these expectations. There was nothing else to do but continue to wait upon the elusive Mr. Spong, whose appearance seemed as likely as the Second Coming. And God knows what revenge the odious Endecott might be planning as punishment for having burnt his bloody mint.

  Balty endured several more bleak days, walking aimlessly from one end of Boston to the other and back again, certain he was being watched.

  One night in his room at the tavern, having nothing else to do, he decided to write Brother Sam a report.

  Of the general character of these New Englanders, I can render no good opinion. They are without exception brutish, rude, and egregiously disrespectful. And this swinish and sullen behavior directed at one carrying a Crown commission!

  Of the character of Governor Endecott I have nothing favorable to say. At our first encounter he threatened—for no good reason—to bore a hole through my Tongue with a red-hot poker. Welcome to Massachusetts.