The Judge Hunter

by Christopher Buckley

  At our second, he all but accused me of torching his Mint. He is a disagreeable personage of unredeemable grimness. He would be better—and, I dare to say, happier—employed administrating a prison or a torture chamber. (In many respects, his “Bay Colonie” resembles both.) I should not be surprised to learn that for divertissement he pulls the wings off butterflies. Or drowns cats.

  On my return, which pray God will be not be long retarded, I shall enumerate in detail these insolences I have suffered to my Lord Downing and to His Most Gracious Majesty, should He grant me audience thereof to do so.

  As for Mr. Plantagenet Spong, there has been no sight of him, nor have I expectation of ever seeing him. Perhaps he too found Boston intolerable and has departed for happier precincts. I should not blame him, tho’ it was not respectful of him to abandon me so.

  Your wretched but ever obedient and affectionate Brother, etc., I am, sir, His Majesty’s Crown Commissioner,

  B. de St. Michel

  * * *

  Balty awoke in his room at the King’s Arms uncomfortably aware of light, despite having snuffed out his candle on retiring. He peered over the edge of his blanket in the direction of his toes. In the corner of the room sat a man, reading. Balty slowly pulled himself up on his pillow, bunching the covers up to his chin as a shield.

  “What the devil . . . who are you? What do you want?”

  The intruder glanced at Balty and went back to reading the sealed letter Downing had given Balty for the elusive Mr. Plantagenet Spong.

  “I say. That’s Crown business, and none of yours.”

  The man ignored him and continued reading.

  He was a stout, well-muscled fellow, of thirty or so years. His hair and beard were jet, flecked with white. His cheeks bore smallpox scars. He looked unperturbed, yet there was something of the panther about him, coiled energy. Not a man to cross. Balty bunched his coverlet closer to his chest. What on earth?

  The man finished reading. He put Downing’s letter on the table and turned his attention to Balty.

  His gaze was hard, but there was melancholy behind it. It reminded Balty of that line in the Shakespeare play about the gloomy Dane: I have of late lost all my mirth. Whoever this chap was, he’d misplaced his mirth somewhere along the way.

  “You’re awake,” he said. “I see you are not a light sleeper.”

  “If it’s money you’re after, there’s some in that bag.”

  “If I wanted your money, sir, I would have it already. And you would be sleeping for eternity with your throat cut.”

  The man held Downing’s letter over the candle and watched it burn.

  “What are you doing?” Balty protested.

  “As you can plainly see, I am burning it.” His voice was deep, plummy, with a bit of rasp.

  “That letter was intended for someone.”

  “Indeed. For myself.”

  “Spong?”

  “At your service.”

  Relieved that he was not about to be killed, Balty replied, “You call this service? Stealing into my room in the middle of the night? Scaring me half to death? Setting fires?”

  He pushed aside the coverlet and rose from the bed. Spong held the flaming letter over the washbasin and dropped it in. It curled into ash.

  Spong poured himself a cup of wine and drained it in a gulp.

  “You made quite an impression at the Blue Bell. I take it you are new to this line of work.”

  “What line of work?”

  “Regicide hunting. That is your purpose here, is it not?”

  “It is. And since you ask, no, it has not been my life’s career. It’s not really something one makes a career of, is it? One doesn’t study regicide hunting at university.”

  Spong looked faintly amused. He poured another cup of wine and handed it to Balty.

  “What have you made a career of, might I ask?”

  “Well, a bit of this. And that.”

  “A dilettante.”

  What a malapert, Balty thought. Best establish the rules.

  “Let us have things clear, Mr. Spong, so that we may avoid misunderstanding.”

  “As you wish.”

  “As you are aware from the document that you did not burn, I carry a commission from Lord Downing.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Which carries the same force as a commission from the King himself.”

  “If you say.”

  “I do say. Your function is to serve as my guide. In this ghastly land.”

  “New England is not to your liking?”

  “It is not. I have yet to meet one accommodating or respectful person. Indeed, I have been most abominably used. Especially considering my position.”

  “You must excuse us, Mr. St. Michel. We are a new land. New people. We lack English refinement.”

  “Among other things.”

  “How was your interview with Old Nebuchadnezzar?”

  “Endecott? How’d you know about that?”

  “I have been observing you, Mr. St. Michel. Since you arrived.”

  “What? Then why the devil didn’t you identify yourself before now?”

  “Because I am not the only one who has been watching you. Look outside the door.”

  Balty got up and opened the door. A man lay facedown on the floor, unconscious.

  “Good Lord!” Balty said. “Who’s that?”

  “His name is Roote. One of Endecott’s men.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No. But he’ll have an achy head when he wakes. In consequence of which his mood will be foul. So let us be on our way.”

  “Steady on. I’m not some footpad to skulk out of town in the dark. I carry a Crown commission.”

  “So you do. Which also serves as your death warrant. Gather your things, sir. We depart.”

  “Death warrant? Are you suggesting that the Governor would dare to harm a Crown commissioner?”

  “Not suggesting. Come.”

  “I’ll have you know that in addition to carrying the King’s commission, I am intimately related to Mr. Samuel Pepys.”

  “Whoever Mr. Peeps may be, his name isn’t one to inspire fear in Boston.”

  “He is Clerk of the Acts of the Royal Navy. A highly influential personage.”

  “Like Henri Quatre and Louis Treize?”

  “Oh. You heard about . . . that.”

  “All Boston heard about that, Mr. St. Michel.”

  “I was only trying to demonstrate to the rabble at that inn that—”

  “Your connection to eminent persons is established, sir. As for Endecott, believe me, he would not hesitate to have your throat cut and your body sent out with the tide as shark meat. Boston is not royalist territory. Nor is most of New England. Endecott despises the King. And therefore despises you. That man on the floor there—I’ve seen his work. And God knows, I have seen Endecott’s.” Spong tossed Balty’s clothes at him. “Let us go.”

  The tavern was empty except for a few drunken dozers. Spong led Balty through the kitchen to a back door. Balty followed, heart thumping, head spinning.

  Spong peered out a window. A lantern outside the door cast a faint glow. Two horses were tethered to a tree. Spong motioned to Balty to remain and unbolted the door. He stepped out into the light.

  A shape leapt at Spong from the side. Spong sidestepped the man and tripped him to the ground. His assailant went down in the dirt with a thud. Spong took him by the throat with one hand and with the other beneath his cloak drew a caliver pistol. He put the muzzle to the man’s head.

  “Master Markle. What, up at this ungodly hour? Doing ungodly work, I should think.”

  “Huncks.”

  “Shh. You’ll wake Master Roote. He’s sleeping. On your feet.”

  Markle stood.

  “What’s your business?”

  Markle made no reply. Spong pressed the muzzle against his forehead and cocked the hammer.

  “Him,” Markle said, pointing at Balty. “And you.”
/>   “Me? I’m flattered. Why?”

  “For burning the mint.”

  “Dear me. Always rushing to judgment, our dear Governor. Well, we must go have a chat with him. Clear the air. Come.” Spong prodded with his pistol.

  “You won’t get away,” Markle snarled. “They’re watching the docks and the gates.”

  The streets were deserted. There was a curfew. Only the watch was abroad at this hour. They walked. Balty recognized Endecott’s house. What on earth was Spong doing? Was he going to wake the Governor?

  They entered through a gate into what seemed to be a vegetable garden, sparse at this early time of year. In the center was a well, with an overhanging pulley and bucket.

  “In you go.”

  “Damn you, Huncks.”

  “In or die. Your choice.”

  Markle sat on the rim of the well and swiveled his legs to the inside.

  “You’re a bastard.”

  “So me old mum told me. Down you go.”

  Markle gripped the rope dangling from the pulley and let himself down. Spong drew a knife from his boot and sliced the taut rope. A splash and muffled cry came from below. From the echo, it sounded like a deep well.

  “You can’t just . . . ,” Balty stammered.

  “He was sent to murder you, sir. But if you prefer, we can haul him up and allow him to complete the task.”

  They returned to the King’s Arms and mounted the waiting horses. In his agitated state, Balty immediately spurred his mount to a gallop. Spong caught up with him and took the reins, slowing it to a walk.

  “Never leave town at a gallop. Arouses curiosity.”

  “That man you put into the well, why did he call you Huncks?”

  “What’s in a name?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the one doing the talking.”

  They made their way along the High Street toward the town gate. The first faint glow of dawn showed in the east. Two watchmen were warming themselves by a brazier, muskets close at hand.

  “Say nothing.”

  They reined to a stop in front of the guards.

  “You’re a frigid-looking pair.”

  “Hand over your passes.”

  Spong reached into his jerkin and gave papers to the guard, who unfolded them and tried to read them in the faint light of the brazier.

  “Not worth ruining your eyes for. That’s the Governor’s signature. Meself, I’d rather be in my warm bed, rogering my missus. But I’ve to get this one to Punkapog. He’s the new pastor.”

  “What happened to the last one?”

  “Who knows? Maybe they et him.”

  A guard addressed Balty, “Going to learn Scripture to the savages? What in God’s name were you thinking when you volunteered for that?”

  “Ah, leave off. Don’t be putting a fright into the lad. He’s already shat himself twice.”

  The guards snorted.

  “Someone’s got to learn the savages to be Christian.”

  Spong pulled a leather flask from his saddlebag and tossed it to the guard. “This’ll warm you better than that fire there.”

  “Pass on. Don’t get yourself et up all in one gulp.”

  They rode in silence for an hour. The sun rose, making long shadows over dewy fields. Soon only the brightest stars and planets remained. They dismounted to water the horses at a stream.

  Balty was all in a fog. Rousted from a warm sleep, made accomplice to murder—unless Markle was treading water at the bottom of Endecott’s well, abducted by a brute named Spong—or Huncks. The guard’s taunt echoed in his head: What in God’s name were you thinking when you volunteered for that? What, indeed. What—in God’s name—had he been thinking when he accepted this cursed commission from Downing?

  Balty’s companion handed him a piece of jerky. “Eat. You’ll need your strength. We’ve a long ride.”

  It tasted like boot leather, which was a taste Balty knew. Once, in an extremis of poverty, Balty boiled old shoes into a disgusting bouillon.

  “What is your name, then?”

  “It was Spong. Lovely name, Plantagenet Spong. Took a while to come up with it.”

  Balty said with annoyance. “What am I to call you?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  “Then I’ll call you Beelzebub. Apt enough, as I find myself in Hell,” Balty moaned. “Why am I being punished so cruelly? Were my sins so grievous?”

  “Cheer up, man. Look.” He pointed to a cluster of purple croci pushing up from the thawing earth. “It’s a sweet spring day in New England. You won’t find such pretty flowers as that in Hell.”

  Balty stared miserably at the croci, finding no consolation in them.

  “Balthasar de St. Michel’s an out-of-town name. Papist?”

  “Huguenot. French, on my papa’s side. He . . . But you know all about him. Don’t you?”

  “Only that he keeps very refined company, what between Henri Quatre and Louis—”

  “Yes. Never mind.”

  “Just as well you’re not a papist. They hate Catholics here almost as much as they hate Quakers. Not sure what they’ll make of a Huguenot.” He put out his hand. “Huncks. Hiram Huncks. At your service.”

  “You do work for Downing, then?”

  “Why else would I be here?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. I certainly don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “Feeling sorry for yourself, it appears. When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Shakespeare. I recite it when I’m feeling low. Try it.”

  “I’m not in the mood for Shakespeare just now.”

  “Tant pis. Some other time. Best be moving on. Endecott’ll have the watch out after us. That nonsense I gave them about taking you to teach Gospel to the Punkapog won’t stick for long.”

  They mounted and set off. Huncks led the way off the path into a forest. Balty had never been in such a thick one. The morning sun, though strong, barely penetrated. Balty imagined painted savages behind trees. He kept close to Huncks.

  They rode all day and well into the night. Huncks refused to stop other than to water the horses. Balty became so tired he nearly toppled off his horse. Huncks tied him to the saddle.

  “There,” he said. “You’re Odysseus.” An owl screeched. “That’s your siren, beckoning.”

  How did a rough fellow like this know Shakespeare and tant pis and Odysseus?

  “I’ve no feeling in my legs,” Balty groaned.

  “We’ll rest at dawn.”

  “This is torture.”

  “I assure you, Mr. St. Michel, were you put to torture by those who inhabit these woods, you’d look on your present discomfort with longing.”

  “You sound like that dreadful ostler in Boston. In London I was told that the savages here had been dealt with. Was everything they told me a lie?”

  They continued through the woods. Presently, they came to a jumble of rocks by a stream. Huncks’s horse whinnied and reared. Huncks took its reins and steadied it. Balty’s horse was nervous, too.

  “Be still,” he told Balty.

  “Why?”

  “Catamount.”

  “A what?”

  “Lion.”

  “Lion? Sweet Jesus!”

  “Hush.”

  Huncks had his caliver out. Moonlight glinted on the barrel.

  The roar was close, causing panic in the horses. Balty’s reared again and tried to bolt but Huncks kept it gripped. Balty clung awkwardly to his saddle.

  Huncks fired the pistol into the air. A jet of yellow sparks spewed into the dark like a fountain of fire. Balty’s nostrils filled with the tang of gunpowder. The horses bucked frantically. Huncks soothed them with murmurs, and they pressed on to Hartford.

  – CHAPTER 9 –

  The Chelsey Trollop

  Try as he mi
ght, Pepys could not grasp why the Duke of York—Lord High Admiral of England—and Downing were so blithe about the prospect of another war with Holland. Surely they knew that England’s Navy was not ready. Again and again, to the point of becoming a nuisance, Pepys had sought to convince them of this inconvenient yet insistent truth.

  Downing was now back in London, having come from The Hague to confer with the Duke. Pepys decided that he must confront him. He felt more comfortable presenting his case to him rather than to the King’s brother. The Clerk of the Acts briskly made his way to Downing’s house in Whitehall.

  Lord Downing was not in. His secretary, Flott, told Pepys that his lordship would return shortly. Pepys and Flott were old acquaintances and enjoyed trading morsels of gossip, especially concerning court amours.

  They were both fascinated by—and not a little infatuated with—Lady Castlemaine, King Charles’s favorite mistress. She’d now borne him five bastards (some said six). Indeed, she was so fecund the King had installed nurseries for the litter of royal illegitimates at Whitehall Palace. This arrangement did not bring unbridled joy to the Queen, Catherine of Braganza. And now word had it that Lady Castlemaine had secretly become a Catholic. Pepys and Flott discussed this development with greatest relish. At least this should please the devoutly Catholic queen!

  Flott pressed Pepys to reveal what he knew about the current subject of titillation—Lord Sandwich’s flagrant delictoes with Mrs. Becke of Chelsey.

  Pepys trod carefully on this tricky ground. Sir Edward Montagu, First Earl Sandwich, Lieutenant Admiral in the Royal Navy, was Pepys’s cousin and great patron. But everyone, down to the lowest charwoman and dogsbody in London, knew about Sandwich’s carryings-on with Mrs. Becke. Pepys thought her entirely unsuitable as a mistress for a man as eminent as his cousin. He privately referred to her as “the Chelsey trollop.” He’d remonstrated with Sandwich, not only for his infidelity to his wife, Lady Jemima, whom Pepys loved, but also for risking his reputation and career in the Navy. Pepys’s concern was not entirely disinterested: if Sandwich’s ship went down in a gale of scandal, Pepys could sink with it.

  Sam could hardly claim any moral high ground. Marital fidelity was not among his virtues. After a bout of wenching, he would express remorse to his diary, swearing never again to succumb to temptation. And invariably would yield to the next temptation to come along. Expressing remorse to his diary at least provided a simulacrum of repentance. It was something, anyway.