Hulda raised a bony finger and brightened her evil eye. “The Hessian is coming! Hulda is from Hesse. Hulda knows how they kill. The Hessian is coming! The Hessian is coming! Only Hulda and Schacath keep you safe!”
The blood had wet my arm and I tore free. I screamed my denial of her and slapped the old woman across the face, spattering her cheek with blood. I ran from the hut, my heart beating wildly.
Now what would I do? I’d left my few possessions behind, but I’d kept my soul. I had the clothes on my back and my rewards in the afterlife.
I went to work at the mills.
July 9th, 1849
William Pugsley ran the mill, and he had purchased Couenhoven’s intelligence. He owed me something. But Pugsley had escaped by ship to New York, to advise the British governor. He’d abandoned the mill to his foreman, a Scotsman from the Philipse port in the West Indies, a loathsome fellow named Grenauld. It was Grenauld who heard my plea.
I had never seen the inside of the manor house. I had heard that it was decorated in sumptuous style, with all the treasures a lord could gather, but the rooms were bare. Fat Frederick had ordered the furnishings stripped and sent downriver to Yonkers for safekeeping. Bands of marauders now harried our region. The American “skinners,” who skinned farms of their winter stores and cattle—to provide for the war effort—and the British “cow-boys,” who stole our livestock and drove it down the Post Road, to feed the Tories of New York. Neither side would have treated their own brethren so badly, but they had no concern for the fate of Dutchmen left to starve. I heard whispers that the entire war was a conspiracy—a pretext for cleansing the colonies of our unwanted presence, once and for all.
The mill was idle, but Grenauld expected one last harvest before the British occupation began. Every loaf of bread was needed. I could work in the mill, if I chose. I was appalled. I had hoped to be a maid in a sumptuous manor house, not a grist-worker, shoulder to shoulder with enslaved Africans. Yet my other options were to swallow my pride and go to the Van Tassels, sell my soul to the devil, or take the refugee trail overland and escape to New York, where I might sell my back or backside to the occupying force—for, as Baltus had warned, General Howe had landed on Long Island, commanding endless ranks of brutal Hessian Jaegers, and the siege of New York had begun.
A row of black faces stared at me, incredulously, as I entered the dormitory and took my place among the slaves. I laid my head on my arm in a sleeping niche and cried myself to sleep.
July 16th, 1849
I’d never spent time with Africans and so found them strange and frightening at first. I feared their darkness as one might fear the haunted woods. But just as I’d grown accustomed to walking at night in the forest, I grew accustomed to sleeping and eating meals in the dormitories, surrounded by those dark women and the jitter of candle-flame. Some of them were whiter than I, dusted with the coarse flour they produced, a perpetual paste like war paint.
We Dutch are no slavers. I knew but one farmer in Tarrytown who kept a personal slave, and his wife was English. Perhaps I give my neighbors too much credit—perhaps they were just too poor to afford slaves—but I think the Dutch finer than the rest of the country in this regard. Still, the Philipse family owed their allegiance to the King and to British customs. The mills had always been worked by slaves. And now they had a Dutch girl, for variety.
Grenauld was brutal with the slaves. He kept a rusty chain on the wall of the grist mill, ever before the eye, as a threat. He was almost completely toothless, from scurvy in his youth. His hair was lank and oily. He was a sinister thing. He watched his workers intently, with great interest, but only the women.
What does the giant say? “Fee fi fo fum, I’ll grind your bones to make my bread”? My bones were ground at that grist mill, oh, yes. I made Grenauld’s bread and went to my niche exhausted every night. Yet fear kept me awake, staring at the moon. Not fear of the foreman, though his gaze often fell upon me, but fear of the horrors approaching from the south.
A slave named Elen was wife to Caesar, of the men’s dormitory. He spoke Dutch and worked in the house, and he brought us news of the war. At the end of August, Howe crushed Washington’s forces in Brooklyn, but Washington kept his army together by means of a clever escape. He left his campfires burning overnight and evacuated his men in little boats, paddling across the East River in perfect silence, under a Providential morning fog, so that Howe, confident he would deal a crushing blow, woke instead to find his enemy vanished, as if by magic, and entrenched on Manhattan Island.
In mid-September, Howe pursued Washington, landing his own forces in New York City, pushing the Continental Army north up the island, and engaging them on the Harlem Heights—but again, Washington’s army evaded annihilation, by crossing the King’s Bridge over the Spuyten Duyvil, the bridge built by the first Frederick Philipse, retreating northward into the lands of Philipsburg Manor.
The war was coming to us.
The Hessian is coming! The Hessian is coming! The thought bedeviled me, turning ’round and ’round in my head, ruining my sleep. ‘The Hessian is coming,” Hulda had said. I had nightmares of brutal, evil soldiers, of blood and death. I dreamt of my parents, my mother all afire and my father on a gibbet. I recited spells in my niche. Why had my magic never come? Was it all a lie? Nothing is more terrible than helplessness.
Refugees flooded into Tarrytown. Dutchmen from Brooklyn and the Harlem Heights, who had fled the cannon and musket-fire. They wore expressions of horror such as I’d never seen. The Dutch race would be scoured from the country, they said, for all the battles of New York had taken place on Dutch lands, as if by intent. They brought tales of the Hessians and their brutality. The German Jaegers from Hesse were disciplined and rapacious mercenaries hired by the British King, men bred for the waging of war. They drilled relentlessly, marched through burning grass without fear, bayonets high, faces calm and deadly. They had no remorse, no emotions. They never deserted. They finished any mission they were given, without fail. They were accomplished horsemen. The Jaegers were ten feet tall and drank human blood. They roasted Dutch farmers and feasted on the meat of Knickerbockers, for we were their favorite delicacy. They were coming, as the riders of the Apocalypse shall come, bringing Conquest, War, Famine, and Death.
Farmers cut their fields early and green. We worked the grindstone. I thought of Baltus. Perhaps he was already dead.
And then, on the night of October twenty-eighth, we smelled it, slipping the Overback. Not the aroma of orchards. Our orchards had been stripped bare. Not the aroma of rose-tobacco. Our flowers had been trampled by marching feet.
We smelled gunpowder.
July 20th, 1849
We huddled together, the slave-women and I, listening to the distant crack of cannon echoing in the east, just over the hills. Washington had led Howe to our very door. Those two Storm Kings had brought their thunderclaps and their hail of musket balls to the outskirts of Tarrytown, to battle in White Plains. I wondered how Hulda fared, off in the woods, so much closer to the carnage than the mill house was. Perhaps she had died already. Perhaps Baltus lay in the dirt, a fat meal for crows. Throughout the night, the cannon pounded in the distance, an erratic drum, played by the giants of the Highlands.
We cried and sang hymns. Even Grenauld looked terrified. He was a superstitious Scotsman, and the night of All Hallows’ grew nigh. How many corpses lay just over the ridge, bodies mingled and eyes blank? How soon would they rise to claim the living? He’d carved a turnip with the face of an ogre and hung it in the window of the manor house with a candle inside. This was an old Irish device for warding away the souls of the damned.
The African women did Grenauld one better. They brought an immense pumpkin from the fields, a lopsided menacing thing, big around as the Hokohongas tree. It was too rotted for eating, but it held its shape. As the cannon boomed from the Battle of White Plains, we carved the thing together, adding eyes and a gash of a mouth. Our tiny candles were too feeble to light its f
eatures, so I crept to the manor house and stole a lantern from the porch. The pumpkin glowed brightly once we’d slipped the lantern inside. The features shimmered, with a bright orange smile of triumph. That face hung in the dark above us as we sat cross-legged on the floor around its stool, holding hands and praying to be saved.
That monstrous, lopsided thing may have been the first Jack-of-the-lantern in all America, and it held my lantern inside. The sight of it unnerved me. I bore it for three nights, but on the last night of October, the night of All Hallows’, I lost my senses, terrified by the pumpkin-head. The sight of the thing shivered my heart, and so I fled the dormitory. Perhaps I was the evil spirit driven from the mills that Halloween night.
The wind bit my skin. I crossed the bridge atop the milldam and stood in the middle, scanning the eastern sky for any flash of cannon fire.
“Look who is out of bed.” Grenauld stood at the far end of the milldam. He carried his rusty chain. “You stealing from the manor house now?”
“It was only a lantern,” I said. “We’ll bring it back.”
“No no, you’re a-going to be paying rent on it.”
I still wore my night-things, for fear had overcome my modesty. I covered myself. I turned to flee Grenauld and encountered Miracle, his personal slave, blocking the other end of the dam. I began to tremble. The flickering turnip-jack laughed at me from the highest manor window.
“Come now,” Grenauld said, brandishing his chain with one hand and unbuttoning his collar with the other. “Just come now. Into the mill house with you.”
I knew their intent. I had nowhere to run. I put a foot on the rail. Grenauld reached for me, but I dove into the millpond and swam furiously. The men laughed as I struggled against the current, but they did not pursue.
I swam to the far shore, sputtering, for I had swallowed the pond-water. I dug my hands into the earth and tried to heave myself ashore, but I slipped in the mud and fell back into the leaf-choked mire. I panicked. I would not go down into the slough as my mother had. This would not be my end. A spell came to my lips, involuntarily, and I muttered it aloud.
I heard Grenauld gasp. He went still, staring across the water from his perch atop the milldam, and began reciting prayers. I looked up and saw the reason. I was surrounded by spirits. Wraiths of skeletal Dutchmen drifted down the hill from the Old Burying Ground, as if at my call. Grenauld and Miracle ran into the manor house. I shivered, soaked through, but I did not fear these ghosts. They were my kin, my ancestors. I whispered a little spell of command. They bowed, bent, and bore me up the bank.
What had changed? I looked over my shoulders, at the water below. This was the same water as the Gory Brook, and I had swallowed great mouthfuls of it as I swam. I could feel its potency, in my belly, in my fingers, as if all the magic of the Hollow had gathered in this spot and within me. The water of the millpond had awakened my Gift. Oh, what a precious discovery. As Ponce de Leon had searched out a Fountain of Youth, I had found a Fountain of Power.
I whispered gratitude to the spirits and stood, dripping, at the foot of the church-knoll, near the spot where Cornelia had accepted her kiss of perfect communion, where she had thrown her bouquet of orange blossoms to me, in a token of pity, as my parents bent to pick pennies from the graves.
“Witch!” Grenauld cried. He reappeared at the door of the manor. He held no lantern. He held a torch.
I turned and ran, fled to the haunted forest, for I knew the superstitious foreman would never follow me there, not on All Hallows’ Eve. Besides, he was cursed now, wasn’t he? He knew a witch. I was a witch at last. I belonged in those woods, in a hut by the Spellstone.
I ran into the deep, trailing fireflies.
And that is where my horseman found me.
July 26th, 1849
You must indulge an old woman, for this is a sacred memory to me, and my hand may grow unsteady as I record it.
My nightclothes were heavy with drink, and I was cold. I found the gully of the Gory Brook and followed it back to the river. There, where the brook and river meet, a handful of wide grey stones break the current, like the brows of submerged skulls. I climbed out, onto the largest of these islands, and undressed myself.
I had never stood naked beneath the stars before. The immodesty did not disturb me. I had passed beyond such concerns. I had lost all my possessions at last. Even the clothes on my back. Only my soul remained to me, and that soul quivered with ecstasy, for magic surged through my veins. I stood wringing my nightclothes, twisting them, enjoying the dance of the Blood-Water flecking my skin, the spray off the rock, blown against my body.
Just as the last drop had been wrung from my clothes, I heard gunfire. The shouts of men broke through the trees. I crouched, afraid to move.
The Hessian is coming, I thought.
I listened, hearing distant bayonets, more gunfire, and the cries of horses. A battle was underway, very near—up the brook, toward Mother Hulda’s hut. I felt fear and panic. I grew aware of my nakedness and my vulnerability, but I was a witch, and I would not shame myself.
Thinking to fortify my magic, I bent and cupped water from the flow of the brook, where it emptied into the Pocantico. I did not drink, but only stared at it, puzzled, for the water in my hands was black.
The brook was full of blood.
Soldiers must have waged some terrible battle upstream, if the water ran so thick with gore. I bent to wash it from my skin and wring it from my clothes, which had caught a splash. My own frightened face looked up at me from the water. Had I known how beautiful I was, before that moment?
A shape rode up behind my reflection.
I’d not heard its approach, not over the splash of blood.
Something touched my shoulder. I felt hot breath from the nostrils of some beast. I covered myself and turned. The eyes of a black horse stared into mine. It turned aside, moonlight trailing down the muscles of its sleek neck.
A rider came into view above me, very near. His own neck caught the moonlight first, and then his handsome face. I cannot say what clothes he wore, what weapons he carried, if he pointed a pistol at my head or offered me a bouquet. I only saw his face, for it was the face of a god. Dark and masculine, arrogant and cruel, with a dimple in his chin and a long braid of black hair down his shoulder. His brows shadowed his eyes, which seemed as two stars glittering above me, like the two brightest stars over the Hudson. If I were to choose from all the men of the earth, to symbolize my ideal of perfection, I would not choose Gerard Beekman. I would choose my horseman, for I loved him on sight.
I believe he loved me too.
I dropped my coverings and stood before him as God made me.
He took his cloak and threw it to me. I let it fall, smiling. I spread my hands, offering myself—as a high priestess might have done, before ascending an altar to make her sacrifices.
I sensed a mutual hunger in him. He bent to me, and my heart skipped a beat, for I knew that now, at last, I would be fulfilled. I would have my satisfaction, for this would be that perfect kiss I desired, that perfect kiss of love and devotion and tribute, a consummation and mingling of souls…
Hoofbeats thundered past, headed south.
The horseman straightened, just before our lips were to touch. He scowled, his eyes fixed upon the fleeing rider. He gave me one lingering glance, flashed an arrogant smile, and rode away.
I wailed, for the moment had passed and I had lost him. I searched out my clothes and pulled them on wet. I gathered his black cloak about me and ran after him. I followed the sound of hoofbeats. The chase grew distant, but circled back around, growing louder again. I reached a slope in view of the bridge. I pushed through strangling vines and nettles…
… and watched my horseman die.
July 27th, 1849
I saw my mother die, Dylan. I saw my father in the hanging tree. Yet the death of my horseman was harder to bear.
It was vicious, it was cruel, it was evil. He chased a colonial soldier that night. A ski
nny, ugly man, splattered head to toe from the battle. They raced each other to the bridge. The colonial reached the spot first, spun, and shot his pursuer’s horse. The steed reared, screaming, and threw its rider. My horseman fell in the brook, half on shore and half off, thrashing, attempting to rise, but his horse, in its death throes, fell and crushed its master’s legs.
My beautiful horseman cried out. It was the only time I heard his voice. I raised my hands, muttering spells, but to my shame I could not save him. I was too afraid, and still unsure of my power. I should have done something, anything. My life might have been very different if I had.
The colonial soldier descended from his horse and tied his reins to the railing of the bridge, quite casually. He took out a hatchet, bent over the fallen man, and hacked him to death. He hacked my horseman’s body, over and over, though his victim still lived, could still feel every wound. He reveled in what he did. He laughed as he did it. When he’d had his fun, he raised his hatchet for the killing blow.
I believe our eyes met, my lost lover and I, just before his beheading.
I fell to my knees, screaming silently, as it happened—as the hatchet found its mark, as the white face drifted from its neck, caught by the current. He was gone! Oh, he was gone!
But the murderer had not finished. He leapt the headless body, caught hold of the braid at the back of the severed head, and reeled it in. He held it up, that head of a god, and screamed in its face, “I have held the bridge! I have held the bridge!” He raised it high and threw it overhand into the river, where it sank into the water. I sank to the ground, weeping—grieving, not for the stranger, no matter his beauty, but for the kiss denied me, denied me forever.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 45