Koontz shook his head. “You cannot leave. The town is shut.”
“Shut?”
“Sealed. Under orders of the Heneral. No one to enter or leaf.”
“Beggin’ yer warship’s pardon, but we just did enter. Plain as day.”
“The sealing was being accomplish when you came. Now you must remain.”
“Well,” Huncks said with an air of mild inconvenience, “I suppose, then, stay we must. And experience the delights of New Hamsterdam. Very tidy it is. Very tidy indeed.” Huncks turned to Balty. “Did I not tell ye, Mr. Balthasar, how tidy are the Dootch?”
“You must stay here, in the fort. You will be our hests.”
“Well isn’t that kind of you, sir? Bless your heart.”
The quarters into which they were shortly ushered by a four-soldier guard suggested latitude in the Dutch concept of “hests.” Or that their hosts were convinced they were spies. It wasn’t so much the sparseness of the furnishings—straw on the floor, two stools, a small table, and a slops bucket—but the bars on the windows and door. Only a determined optimist would think himself a hest here rather than prisoner.
“Intelligence,” Huncks muttered as he bunched straw to sit on. “Lack of intelligence, you mean.”
“I only meant—”
“No. Don’t talk.”
“What was that village-idiot performance of yours?”
“I was trying to make the Deputy-Heneral think we’re a pair of blundering fools, rather than intelligencers.” Huncks looked about their cell. “It appears I did not succeed.”
Balty went to the window and peered out. Troops were drilling on the fort grounds.
“What’s all this activity about?”
“Bad timing.”
“How do you mean?”
“Appears Colonel Nicholls had good weather on his way from Portsmouth. He’s here.”
“What?”
“Koontz and his aide were jib-jabbering about it before you went spouting off.”
“You speak Dutch?”
“A squadron of four ships under English flag was sighted off Block’s Island. That’s three, four days’ sail, depending on the wind. Our hosts are therefore a bit on edge. It’s why they were buttoning up the town when we so felicitously arrived. They seem to think we might have something to do with the English ships.”
“Oh, hell.”
“Certainly not heaven.”
“What now?”
Huncks looked about the cell. “Might try to catch a rat for our supper. If nothing else, it would help pass the time.”
“What about Stuyvesant? Why aren’t we seeing him?”
“There’s a lot going on. On top of the English ships, they’re having Mohawk trouble upriver at Fort Orange.”
“Where does that leave us?”
Huncks considered. “One, they hang us upside down and beat us with iron rods until we talk. Two, hang us right side up, and be done with us. Three, ship us off to the Dutch Indies to work the plantations. Not the pleasantest prospect, that.”
“God.”
“Four, keep us as hostages.” Huncks laughed. “Along with Whalley and Goffe. As Captain Underhill predicted. Ironic, don’t you think? Finally meeting them that way? Depends what happens when Nicholls gets here. And what sort of mood Old Petrus is in. Sour, I should think. Calvinists tend to be, even on good days.”
They sat in gloomy silence.
“Balty?”
“What?”
“If they put us to the torture, just tell them everything. Straight off. Don’t wait.”
“Certainly not. I wouldn’t let the side down. That’s no way to be English.”
“Trust me, old boy. You’ll talk. Everyone does. The only ones who don’t are the Indians. There’s no glory in going to the gallows minus a hand or eye. Or your bollocks.”
Balty blanched. “They wouldn’t. Surely?”
“They bloody well surely would. Be a smart fellow. Tell them everything. If it does come to that, I intend to deny them the pleasure.”
“How?”
Huncks removed his boot and twisted off the heel. Inside was a stubby razor. He drew it across his throat.
“Oh, no,” Balty said. “No. Huncks. Please. I’d feel very . . . alone here without you.”
“I could see you off first. If you like.”
Balty sighed. “I hardly know what to say. No one’s ever offered to cut my throat for me. As a favor.”
Huncks winked. “What are friends for, eh?”
They sat in silence.
“You know, Huncks. Before I embarked on this catastrophe, my life hadn’t really amounted to much.”
“Look at yourself now. What a success you’ve made.”
They began to laugh. The guards, unused to such behavior in prisoners, gathered and stared through the bars. So strange, English.
* * *
Later Huncks said, “You looked a bit rough around the edges when you said goodbye to the girl.”
“Well, it’s all rather sad. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Who’s the father? Gideon or Repent?”
“I tried to ask. I’m not sure she knows. Poor girl.”
“She will soon enough. Mrs. Underhill will look after her. But the lass hasn’t had much to be thankful for.”
“No. She hasn’t.”
“D’you tell her about Edith?”
“Esther. She already knew. I suppose you told her.”
“No. They always know, women.”
They sat with their backs against the wall, listening to the sounds of the fort preparing for war.
Presently, the door opened. Koontz and an adjutant entered. The adjutant carried a tray with paper, ink, quills, and a thick leather-bound book.
“What’s this?” Balty said.
“I bring for you paper. For which to compose your confessioning. Also a Bible. In English. For the consolating.”
“See here, Koontz,” Balty said. “We have no confessions to make. And we certainly do not require the consolation of the Word of God.”
“Suit to yourself.”
“I demand to speak to Governor Stuyvesant.”
“He is occupied. He instructs to me if you are not making confessionings, you should write farwell letters. To your luff ones in England.”
“Farewell letters?”
“Meantimes I will have to you sent food and drink. Are you wishing for person of cloth?”
“A tailor? Why on earth should we require a tailor?”
“Priest.”
“Certainly not! This is outrageous!”
Koontz shrugged apologetically. “It’s for the Heneral to decide. Perhaps he will commutate and send you to the plantations. Very hot there. I beg you a good evening.”
Shortly arrived a reputable roast capon, bread, wine, sausage, and an assortment of Dutch cheeses (naturally), including a wedge of rather decent aged Gouda. Huncks pronounced it a feast and tucked in with relish. Balty had no appetite. He inked a quill and began a letter to Esther but got only as far as “Dearest Esther.”
“Oh, hell,” he said for the one hundredth time that day.
“Eat somefing,” Huncks said through a mouthful of capon. “Don’t want to faint on the gallows. Think of King Charles on the scaffold.”
“What are you talking about?”
Huncks bit off another mouthful of capon. “It wuff cold. Late January. Fweezing. Wore an extra shirt so the crowd wouldn’t think he was shaking with fear. Rather noble.”
“Must you talk about that now?”
“Seemf apropos,” Huncks said, through bread and Gouda.
“Can’t you swallow your food before speaking?”
“If you’re going to be grumpy, maybe we should send for a man of the cloth. Meself, I’d rather have a couple of Dutch tarts than a priest. And not the kind made of jam and pastry.”
Balty stared forlornly at the blank paper. Why couldn’t he pour out his heart to Esther? Dearest Esther. What was she
doing at this moment? Missing her Balty, surely. But hard as Balty tried to think about her, all he could think about—other than his rapidly diminishing mortality, either on the gallows or the plantations—was Thankful.
“I had this Dutch girl in Hartford.”
“Huncks, I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Fine piece of pudding. Gretchen. Fetchin’ Gretchen. Sweetest titties in God’s creation. Absolutely perfect, like—”
“Huncks. I’m trying to compose a farewell letter to my wife. I don’t want to hear about some Dutch putain.”
“Gretchen was no whore. And I’ll thank you not to call her one. Her da was the Dutch man of the cloth in Hartford. Minister. There were still lots of Dutch there then. She’d sneak out of church soon as he started his sermon. He was long-winded, thank God.” Huncks chortled. “There was this bluff above the river under a great elm. We’d spread the blanket and . . .” Huncks drank some wine and sighed. “Well, it was a paradise finer than any her father limned from his pulpit, I’ll tell you.” He tore off another drumstick. “How’s your letter to whosis coming?”
“Esther. It’s not.”
“Pretend you’re writing to Thankful, then.”
“That hardly seems seem right.”
“Seems to me you’ve more to say to her than your missus. Mind you, the first person to read it will be our gracious host, the Deputy-Heneral. Write this: Mijn beste Koontz, zuig mijn lul.”
“What’s that mean?”
“My dear Koontz, suck my cock.”
“I’ll be sent to hell, for adultery.”
“What, for having Koontz blow on your flute?”
“No. Damn it, Huncks.”
Huncks sat up. “Why you sly old thing. It’s your child she’s carrying?”
“What an appalling thing to suggest! Certainly not!”
“Then how are you committing adultery?”
“It would be adultery to write Thankful and not Ethel.”
“Thought her name was Esther?”
“Esther. It’s possible to commit adultery with your heart. A priest told me.”
Huncks grunted. “Well, I’m no priest, but it’s a hell of lot more fun commiting it with a different part of the anatomy.” He bunched together more straw and stretched out.
“What are you doing?” Balty said.
“Going to sleep.”
“Sleep? Damn it, Huncks, they may hang us in the morning.”
“All the more reason. Bad form, nodding off at your own hanging. Must make a show of being English.”
“I don’t see how you can sleep.”
“Well, I shuts me eyes, so. And says me prayers, like me old mum taught me. Our Father which art in dum de dum de dum de dum amen. And before you knows it . . .”
Huncks began to snore, leaving Balty alone with his blank page and visions of Thankful.
– CHAPTER 36 –
August 15th. De Profundis clamavi. Truly now I am one with the writers of Lamentations and Psalms. Hear my cry, O Israel.
Was welcomed into captivity with fulsome politesse by the Constable of the Tower, Sir John Robinson, 1st Baronet of London, a talking, bragging bufflehead and as vile a coxcomb as any in all London, lacking brains to outwit any ordinary tradesman, and he a former member of the Worshipful Company of Clothworkers.
Greeted me smirkingly: “Mr. Pepys, what an honor to have you as our guest! ’Tis not every day we receive such illustrious—” Etc., etc.
Turning to his lieutenant, he asked, “Have we a vacancy in the Beauchamp Tower for Mr. Pepys?”
Then to me: “Or would you prefer something with a view of the River?”
I replied through gritted teeth that I was as indifferent to my accommodation as I was innocent.
“The Beauchamp Tower, then, for it hath an admirable view of Tower Green and the scaffold site. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Pepys!”
Was shewn to my “lodgings.” Walls festooned with dolorous graffitoes scratched by previous “guests,” including the five Dudley brothers. One of these, Lord Guildford Dudley, was the unfortunate husband of the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey, whose head was removed on Tower Green, below—part of my “admirable view.” His head was separated from him on Tower Hill.
Gave my gaoler Tom a half crown and sent him to Seething Lane to fetch me my lute, diary, fresh shirt, veal pies, some pickled onions, ale, and my Bible. Not wanting to alarm my wife, I instructed him to tell her I was detained at Deptford Docks owing to a problematical victualing.
Practiced “Gaze Not on Swans” on my lute, substituting “ravens” for “swans,” there being many of these hideous birds hereabouts, screeching discordantly and copiously crapulent. His majesty refuses to have them removed or killed, even though they regularly beshit his royal tubes at the astronomical observatory in the White Tower. He remains convinced by the legend that the Kingdom will not outlive the last raven killed. Nonsense, but I have more pressing things to ponder. God grant that I may again see his majesty and offer him my own insight on the subject of these satanic avians.
On the second day of captivity, I considered scratching graffitoes of my own into the walls, alongside the ones carved by those who spent decades within these walls. But thinking it might be presumptuous, resolved to wait at least one week before inscribing my own mementoes. But let it be stipulated that one day here seemeth a year, and a d——d long year at that.
– CHAPTER 37 –
Old Petrus
They awoke to the rasp of iron, the door of their cell opening. Koontz. Alone.
“Gentlemen, forgive for the disturbing. If you will be so kind to accompany with me?”
Balty and Huncks stood, bits of straw clinging to them. The sight seemed to amuse Koontz. He picked a few bits off, saying they looked like the “person-things farmers make for which to frighten birds.”
They set off across the wide fort grounds. It was still dark, with a faint glow of pinkish dawn in the east. The fort that had been so busy before was quiet now. Sentries walked the ramparts; otherwise all was still.
Balty told himself this couldn’t be a walk to the gallows. Surely there would be more people, soldiers and drumming and all the rest. Then the dreadful thought came: Was Koontz escorting them to a prisoner ship to deliver them to penal servitude? Very hot there.
But no—God be thanked—he led them into the Governor’s House, and this time by the front door, past saluting sentries.
They passed through a series of anterooms into a large, finely decorated room where behind a desk Balty and Huncks beheld the unmistakable person of Peter Stuyvesant, Director-General of New Netherland, Curaçao, Bonaire, and Aruba. Old Petrus, in the flesh. And what a lot of flesh.
Koontz extended the courtesy of introducing the visitors in their native tongue.
“Heneral. I present you the English persons.”
Old Petrus looked up from his desk. Balty was struck by the immensity of Stuyvesant’s forehead. It was like the side of a mountain. It went on forever, the summit disappearing beneath a skullcap. His nose, too, was outsized. It drooped, as if made of clay that hadn’t hardened. The eyes were small and beady, the lips sensual and unpleasantly moist. Cascades of hair descended on each side past the shoulders, giving him a spaniel aspect. He seemed to have been assembled from various materials. His chest swelled like a great bellows.
The General—as he was called by his subjects (his term for them)—was in his mid-fifties. For nine of those years he had endured agonies that would have driven lesser men to put a gun to their temple. His right leg, amputated after a Spanish cannonball reduced it to a jam of gore and splinters, never fully healed in the sweltering tropics. After nearly a decade of torment, stoically borne, Stuyvesant finally returned to Holland, to be nursed to health by his family in a more temperate clime. The ordeal of those years was visible in palimpsest beneath the bland features, a stern, Calvinist face that dared you to question its dignity or authority; there was also the unmistakable air of the isolato, the m
an apart, standing atop a parapet, directing cannon fire. Not a man you’d find at the center of jollity and camaraderie in a tavern. Balty remembered what Captain Underhill had told them: no one likes Old Petrus, even his own people.
The Governor of New Netherland addressed them in flowery but wooden English, as if his vocabulary was stored inside his leg.
They must forgive. But there was a reason that their reception in New Amsterdam had not been, shall we declare, more felicitous. The reason? Recently was viewed, in the waters surrounding Block’s Island, four English warships. What could portend this?
It was no secret that relations between Holland and England were—alas—disharmonious. In London, people shouting in the street, “War! We must have another war with Holland!”
Was one war not enough? And what did it accomplish, in the end? Now pamphlets everywhere, to inflame the populace into hating of the Dutch. Sad! Amidst this deplorableness and mutual distrusting, how else could be viewed by New Amsterdam the approach of four English ships of war?
A wry smile came over the features, a beam of sunshine on the glacier, melting ice.
But now—this very night—is arriving from Amsterdam a message. From the West India Company that administrates New Amsterdam. Welcome news! These English vessels are not intenting belligerence. For Amsterdam has received assurings from the English ambassador at The Hague, Downing, the same whose signature is on your commission. About which we shall, yes, discuss more. The English ships are making a reviewing of the New England colonies. They will come to New Amsterdam for to make a gesture of goodwill. They are important, gestures. The last war between us was commenced because our Admiral Tromp did not lower his colors to one of your ships in the Narrow Seas. And look what followed!
The sun continued to beat down on the glacier as Old Petrus went on. He was most regretful of how they had been received. Perhaps they will understand. And forgive. When two such great countries as ours make unpleasantness against each other, of necessity will frictions come, yes? But with wisdom perhaps in the end we shall see that the world is commodious enough for two great nations. Yes?
An elegant—if windy—speech. Balty was impressed. To say nothing of relieved.
The Judge Hunter Page 19