An hour later they reached a clearing in the woods north of the town.
It was dark and moonless. Getting William Jones out of the cart was easier than putting him in. He fell to the ground and moaned.
Huncks worked quickly, spread-eagling him, driving wooden stakes into the ground, tying him hand and foot. He opened Jones’s waistcoat and shirt, exposing his cetacean belly and chest. He scooped the most putrefying of the fish into a bucket and dumped the rank contents onto Jones and removed his gag.
Jones sputtered and spat. He couldn’t make out his captors’ faces in the dark. He demanded to know the meaning of this outrage.
Balty lit a torch. Jones’s eyes went wide. Huncks squatted beside him, dangling a mackerel over his face.
“A fish, for Mr. Fish.”
Jones sputtered, “But you . . .”
“Died. So we did. We must be ghosts, then.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s not what we want. It’s what they want. The ones out there, in the dark. The creatures. Once this fine”—Huncks sniffed and made a face—“scent reaches their nostrils, oh, they’ll be hungry. There’s nothing better to water their mouths than rotten fish. Eh, Mr. Fish?”
“I’ve got money.”
“Indeed you do, sir. And a splendid house. Clever of you to marry Eaton’s daughter. How many chimneys you got? Nineteen? More than the Reverend Davenport! More than enough to keep your fat carcass warm on a winter night. But on a summer night such as this? Give me the outdoors.”
Huncks inhaled.
“What is that smell? Normally it’s nice and piney. Not tonight. Imagine all those noses out there, twitching. A smell like this is a dinner bell. Who’ll come to table first, I wonder? I’d wager on the catamounts. Though foxes and wolves are quick to a feast. Then there’s the smaller creatures. Weasels. Raccoons. Rats. Not forgetting the creatures of the air. Hawks and vultures and such. Say, Balty?”
“Yes?”
“That chap in Greek mythology who made the gods angry and got himself chained to the rock and his liver et every day by the eagle. What was his name?”
The story sounded vaguely familiar to Balty, but he couldn’t put a name to the fellow.
“Prometheus, was it?” Huncks prompted.
“That’s him,” Balty said. “Damned unpleasant business.”
“Um. Wouldn’t want my liver et every day. Nasty enough a thing to endure once, never mind every day for all eternity. But Mr. Fish here, being a mere mortal, he’ll only have to endure it once. But then, there’s lots of him to eat. Might take a while.”
“What do you want?” Jones said, struggling. “I’ll give you anything.”
“You’re accommodating tonight. Anything? Hardly know where to start. Where shall we start, Balty?”
“I should like an apology.”
“Just the thing. Me, too.”
“I apologize,” Jones said.
“Hear that, Balty? Mr. Fish says he’s sorry.”
“I heard. But is he sincere?”
“I’ll ask him. Sincere, Mr. Fish?”
“I swear!”
“Well, Balty? You heard the man.”
“Do you know, Huncks, I think I believe him.”
Huncks patted Jones’s belly. “You’re doing very well, Mr. Fish. Very well. Balty, what was the next thing we wanted to hear?”
“I forget.”
“Me, too. Why don’t we go back to town and have a nice supper. Maybe that’ll help us remember.”
“No! Don’t leave me like this!”
“Oh, I shouldn’t raise my voice like that were I you. Might attract animals.”
“Don’t leave me like this!”
“Hold on,” Balty said.“I remember now. We were going to ask Mr. Fish the whereabouts of Whalley and Goffe.”
“That’s it,” Huncks said. “Bravo, old cock.”
Huncks said, tone earnest, “They say your father was brave at the end.”
“He was.”
“Terrible way to die. Not that this is much better. Tell me what I want to know, Mr. Jones.”
“You wouldn’t do this. I hear it in your voice.”
“Then your ears do you mischief, sir. You left us to die at the hands of Quiripi. Next to that, being eaten by beasts is a mercy. Tell me what I want to know. I shan’t ask again.”
“They’ve left.”
Huncks sighed. “Don’t trifle with me, Jones.”
“Some say the Indies.”
“No, no, no. ‘Some say’ will not do.”
“Have a heart!”
“I did, once. Come, Balty. Let us wish Mr. Jones a good evening and be on our way.”
“New Amsterdam,” Jones said. “They’re in New Amsterdam. Under Stuyvesant’s protection.”
Huncks crouched again over Jones. His interrogation came rapid-fire: When? Where in New Amsterdam? Why hasn’t Stuyvesant said anything publicly? He’s never been one to shy from trumpeting about protecting English fugitives. Is there a quid pro quo? An arrangement between the Hollanders and the New Haveners? Are Whalley and Goffe advising the Dutch on military matters? Is New Haven supplying materiel to New Amsterdam? Have any ships carrying Dutch troops put in at New Haven? Bang, bang, bang, on and on it went.
Balty could barely keep up. It struck him that Huncks’s interrogatories had less to do with regicide judges than with New Haven and Dutch alliances and New Amsterdam’s defenses.
Finally, Huncks stood, satisfied with his extractions.
Balty crouched beside Jones.
“I’ve no questions for you, Mr. Jones. Only a word of caution. The Quaker girl, Thankful. In my capacity as his majesty’s agent, I place her safety in your hands. If she’s harmed—for any reason, in any way—I swear by God Almighty you’ll find yourself back here in this field watching every animal in the forest gorge on your guts.”
They untied him and put him on the cart horse.
“Ride north until dawn,” Huncks commanded. “And quickly. Cats can outrun a horse when they’re on the scent.”
Jones spurred the horse to a gallop and disappeared into the night.
Balty sniffed at his sleeve. “We reek. And these woods teem with beasts. Why’d we give Jones the bloody horse?”
“Because we have these.” Huncks patted the brace of pistols in his belt.
They walked through the woods to New Haven, keeping their thoughts to themselves.
“Think they’ll leave her alone?” Balty asked.
“Jones seemed attentive enough when you threatened him with disemboweling.”
“I care for her safety.”
“Was it her safety you were seeing to when Mrs. Cobb found you both in the kitchen?”
“I was trying to talk her out of— I’m a married man, Huncks.”
“Did you tell her about your wife?”
“I didn’t get the chance.”
Huncks snorted.
“The subject didn’t come up.”
“Something else came up.”
“Don’t be crude.”
“Crudity’s one of my talents. Smitten.”
“I am not smitten.”
“Course you are. Otherwise, you’d have told her about Ethel.”
“Esther.”
They walked on.
“Very well,” Balty said. “I do have feelings for her.”
“Where are these feelings located, exactly?”
“Huncks.”
“You’ve done all you can for her. If she’s bent on martyrdom, there’s nothing you can do. We’re not here to rescue Quaker girls. There are larger matters at stake.”
They walked on, the silence interrupted by bat-squeak and the hoot of owls.
“There’s one last thing we can do for her.”
“All right. But then we’re done here. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Balty said.
– CHAPTER 25 –
Ghosts
The door to the Reverend Davenport’s house ope
ned. The Indian servant girl Me-Know-God stared at Balty and Huncks. She gasped and put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she collapsed to the floor.
“Good Lord,” Balty said. He bent to help her up. Huncks stopped him.
“No. Don’t make it worse.”
“We can’t just . . .”
“Don’t you see? She’s Repent’s sister. He told her we’re dead. She’s just seen two ghosts. If she comes to with you cradling her in your arms, her heart’ll stop. Leave her.”
Huncks and Balty stepped over the prostrate girl and proceeded into Davenport’s house. They found him in his study.
The Reverend absorbed the shock of seeing them better than his servant had. An intake of breath, a patrician gasp.
“You . . . ?”
“In the flesh, as it were,” Balty said. “Do we intrude?”
Davenport rang a small silver bell. No one came. He rang it again more forcefully.
“I’m afraid your servant girl is indisposed.”
“What you done to her?” Davenport sniffed at their fishy smell and put a handkerchief to his nose.
“Fainted. She’s unharmed.”
Davenport stared, sapphire-blue eyes gleaming hatred.
“What do you want?”
“We’ve come to say goodbye,” Balty said. “To thank you for your hospitality. Rest assured his majesty shall hear how graciously we were treated by his loyal subjects in New Haven.”
Davenport regarded them in silence, the gifted homilist at a loss for words.
“There is one other matter. The Colonel and I have examined the Quaker girl Thankful as to the regicides Whalley and Goffe. We’re satisfied that she knows nothing of them. However, as his majesty’s commissioner, I reserve the right to reexamine her. To that end, I shall be returning to this . . . happy corner of New England. At which time I shall expect to find her as I left her. Which is to say, unharmed.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“Because, Reverend, you are New Haven’s first citizen. Its most esteemed and beloved figure. I leave her under your protection.”
“I have no authority over that woman. Nor do I want any.”
“You sell yourself cheap, Reverend. But if you truly feel you lack authority . . . may I?” Balty took paper and quill from Davenport’s desk, dipped the quill in ink, and began scribbling. He handed it to Davenport.
I, John Davenport, burgess and pastor of New Haven, in the colony thereof, hereby avouch that I undertake as my personal responsibility the safekeeping and welfare of the Quaker woman called Thankful, resident of New Haven, hereto sworn this 28th June, Year of Our Lord 1664.
Witnesseth Balthasar de St. Michel, His Majesty’s Commissioner, and Colonel Hiram Huncks, late of the Connecticut militia. Long live Charles II, King of England.
Davenport’s hand balled into a fist. He looked at Balty with contempt.
“I will not sign this,” he said, flinging the piece of paper at Balty.
“You’re sure?”
“Entirely.”
“I had hoped to avoid unpleasantness. But as you wish. Colonel, place the Reverend under arrest.”
“For what?” Davenport said.
“Contempt of the Crown.”
Davenport seemed about to erupt, then cooled. He smiled. “You overplay your hand, sir. Do you propose to march me off to jail? You wouldn’t get ten feet from my front door.”
“No, shouldn’t think so. Colonel Huncks and I would be overwhelmed by your constables and thrown into jail. Or killed.
“But what then? You don’t think we came here without telling Governor Winthrop? Should we fail to report, it will not go well for you. Or New Haven.”
Balty leaned over the desk and put his face in Davenport’s.
“Look around you, you horrid old man. The walls of your New Jerusalem are crumbling. The city will live on. But how will the history of John Davenport end? Arrested for treason? Brought back to England in irons? Take the pen. Write your own ending.”
Balty and Huncks left the house, document in hand, signed and witnessed. Me-Know-God was nowhere to be seen.
It was a still, muggy summer morning. Stepping into the street, their nostrils were assailed by the reek of spoiled fish. Jones’s horse was tethered outside his house across the street, flanks slick and foamy with sweat.
– CHAPTER 26 –
June 30th. Summoned to White Hall by my Lord Downing, and there interrogated as to my recent visit to Chelsey. Downing full of innuendo as to how a matter of such great secrecy should have “walked itself” all the way to Chelsey, etc. A most uncomfortable interview.
His majesty—may God keep and bless him with long life and health—did not ask my Lord Sandwich how he learnt of Nicholls’s mission. But my Lord Downing left me in little doubt as to his suspicions thereunto.
He bid me adieu in Dutch, causing me no small agitation of mind. I entertained no lustful thoughts for Ludgate sluts on my way home, being very fretful.
On the morrow, I examined more closely the forty pieces of gold gifted me by Mr. Warren and was surprised to find not crowns or sovereigns but ducats bearing the image of Ferdinand III.
Gold is gold whatever the specie, and am heartily glad to have them but am left puzzled as to why Mr. Warren exprest his gratitude to me in Dutch coinage rather than our own.
– CHAPTER 27 –
Vengeance Is Mine
Balty and Huncks were exhausted. They decided to stop at an inn on the King’s Highway west of New Haven, at the foot of the other red cliff. Looking up at the towering wall of rock face gave Balty a frisson. It was nearly identical to its counterpart, where they’d met with great grief.
The innkeeper wrinkled his nose.
“You don’t look like fishermen, but you stinks like fishermen.”
Huncks was too tired to cuff the fellow for insolence. They did stink, for a fact. Five shillings bought them a hot bath in tubs out back, and their clothes washed. They ate a hearty breakfast of cheese, sausage, pickled onions, bread, and ale, and fell into sepulchral sleep. They awoke to long, blue twilight shadows outside the window.
Huncks mulled whether to proceed the twenty-five miles to Fairfield now, or to wait until morning. As a rule, he preferred to travel at night, but setting off now would mean arriving at Dr. Pell’s at an indecent hour. And he and Balty were still weary, despite having slept. So it was decided to spend the night here and push on in the morning.
They sat in the tavern with mugs of ale, discussing their confrontations with Jones and Davenport. They laughed at the image of Jones lumbering in to see Davenport, furious and covered with fish slime.
What would they do?
Jones would know they were on their way to New Amsterdam. Would he send out the constables to intercept them? What would Davenport advise? If he believed Balty’s threat about Winthrop poised to descend on New Haven with his Connecticut militia, he’d likely urge caution. Why risk bringing down the thunder?
“Turn the other cheek?” Balty asked.
Huncks considered. “No. It’s gone too far for that.”
“What, then?”
“I imagine they’re discussing extrajudicial courses of action.”
“You mean . . .”
“Killing us. In such a way as not to have to explain our deaths to Governor Winthrop.”
“I’m a Crown commissioner. You can’t just kill me. Can you?”
“Who’d know? I doubt they’d publish news of our demise in their gazette. They tried once. Or have you forgotten our night on the cliff?”
“All we did was tell them hands off Thankful.”
“Yes, but Jones told us where the regicides are hiding.”
“So?”
“He and Davenport might be willing to forgo the satisfaction of killing us for cheeking them. But protecting the regicides is another matter. Jones’s father was a regicide. For Davenport, it’s a matter of faith, isn’t it? ‘Hide the outcasts. Betray not him th
at wandereth.’ ”
Balty sighed. “Where does that leave us? Marked for assassination by a fanatical minister and the deputy governor of this hellish colony. And God knows what the Indian’s up to at this point. Sharpening his hatchet, I should think.”
“Christ,” Huncks said.
“What?”
“We have to go back.”
“Back? But you just said that they’re—”
“Davenport’s servant girl—Repent’s sister. She’ll have told him she saw us. I doubt he’ll believe she saw ghosts. We must warn the Cobbs.”
* * *
It was deep night by the time they reached the edge of the farm. They stopped and looked across the field at the house. No lights. They approached silently, pistols at the ready.
Huncks opened the back door. He gestured for Balty to remain. Balty’s heart pounded as he listened to the creak of floorboards beneath Huncks’s feet.
“Bartholomew? Amity? Micah?”
They lit the oil lamps and searched the house. Huncks cast his eyes on every surface, put his hand to the ashes in the kitchen chimney. Nothing was missing. No signs of struggle—blood, overturned furniture, smashed crockery. Huncks picked up the whisky jug from which he’d drunk a hundred times, jiggled it, and felt the heavy centrifugal swirl within. He went into the Cobbs’ bedroom and emerged.
“The muskets are gone.”
“Maybe they went to visit someone,” Balty said.
“They’re farmers. Cows and goats need milking. Pigs and chickens need to be fed. Christ, how could I have been so stupid?”
“It’s not your fault, old man.”
Huncks sat on a stool by the cold fireplace and put his head in his hands.
“What will they do to them?” Balty asked.
“Kill the men. Women and children they ransom. Sometimes.”
“We’ll find them. We’ll find them and we’ll ransom them.”
Huncks stood and went to the front door. “Can’t track in the dark. First light. I’ll stand first watch.”
“We’ll both watch.”
Stars were out, revealing the outline of the cliff.
The hours passed slowly. The eastern sky turned blue. Huncks stood and began to pace back and forth in front of the house, impatient for the sun to get on with rising. The bird-chirp began. The field turned pearly with dew. The sky lightened, blotting the lesser stars one by one, until only the brightest remained. Huncks continued pacing. Balty’s gaze wandered across the field, and saw.
The Judge Hunter Page 14