The Judge Hunter

by Christopher Buckley

“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.

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?

“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.

“Just as well you’re not a papist. They hate Catholics here almost as much as they hate Quakers.

Huncks shrugged. “Perhaps in New Haven we’ll learn that your regicides have legged it to New Amsterdam. They wouldn’t be the first Englishmen to seek refuge there. Stuyvesant loves taking in English refugees. It’s a way of sticking it to us.”

“The border between New England and New Netherland isn’t much of a border. Stuyvesant tends to be pettish about it. Feels encroached on. He’s always sending men to nail metal signs on trees: HERE BEGINS NEW NETHERLAND. BUGGER OFF, YOU TRESPASSING ENGLISH BASTARDS.

Tsunamis contended against each other inside Balty’s bowels. “What . . . have you given me?” Balty moaned, holding his stomach as if it might burst open. “There’s eggs, juice of peppers, a tot of rum, and a pinch or two of gunpowder.” “Gunpowder? God’s mercy, woman!

I went downstairs to fetch some hot water for shaving. Do you know what that slattern of an innkeeper told me? You’re not allowed to shave on the Sabbath. Or go for a walk. And God help you if you’re caught running—unless it’s to church.

I said to her, ‘What about dying of boredom? Is that allowed on the Sabbath?’ She scowled at me. What joy, Sundays in New Haven. What were you going to hunt?” “Judges.” “Oh, I’m sure that’s forbidden, and not just on the Sabbath.

“Mr. St. Michel. Pray, cease blubbering and listen. It doesn’t matter why you are here. You are here. I am here. I assure you our mission is vital to the Crown. Critically vital. If we succeed, you’ll return to England wreathed in so many laurels you’ll resemble a damned topiary. And your Brother Pepys will spend the balance of his life choking on crow and addressing you as Sir Balthasar de St. Michel. But if we’re to succeed, we must first get down off this rock. Shall we proceed?” Balty nodded miserably. “Good. Careful, now.”

“What’s that got to do with dogs lapping up blood? Chariots immersed in prostitutes’ bathwater? Charming dinner conversation.” “I gather the significance of King Ahab’s queen also eluded you. Jezebel?” “It’s a tart’s name.” “Jezebel was the original tart. The ur-tart, if you will.” “The what?” “The allegory there is to his majesty’s mistress. Lady Castlemaine.” “Daft. All of it.” “It didn’t end well for old Jez. Got chucked out the palace window.

Stuyvesant wondered—a war for what? For a people who had now openly declared against him? The consequences of firing the first shot would be dire. Horrific. An English siege against the town would succeed, inevitably. The cobbles of New Amsterdam would run red with blood. How would history judge a governor who brought about sack and carnage for . . . nothing other than his own pride?