Bridge near the Old Dutch Church, 2009. Photo by Todd Atteberry, www.thehistorytrekker.com.
The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, circa 1842–65 oil on canvas. By George Washington Allston Jenkins, Historic Hudson Valley, Tarrytown, New York; Gift of Benjamin G. Jenkins (ss.64.538 a-b).
Headless Horseman and Ichabod at the bridge, 1876 illustration. From Harper’s Monthly, April 1876. From the collection of the Highland Studio, Inc., Cold Spring, New York.
Headless Horseman chasing Ichabod Crane, 1858 oil on canvas. By John Quidor, Smithsonian Institution Collection, Washington, D.C.
Lighthouse near Caldwell’s Landing, circa 1850 oil on canvas. By Edmund Coates. Permission of the Family of Edward A. Vrooman through the Putnam County Historical Society and Foundry School Museum, Cold Spring, New York.
Headless Horseman in Pursuit of Ichabod Crane, circa 1870 watercolor on paper. By Felix O.C. Darley, Historic Hudson Valley, Tarrytown, New York (ss.80.26).
Hesse-Cassel Corps of Field Jaegers, 2007, oil on panel. By Don Troiani, www.historicalimagebank.com.
Ichabod Crane and Katrina van Tassel, 1861 oil on canvas. By Daniel Huntington, Historic Hudson Valley, Gift of Vanderbilt Webb and William H. Osborn (PM.71.2 a-b).
The Capture of Major Andre, 1834. Unknown (after Asher B. Durand), oil on canvas. Historic Hudson Valley (ss.82.2 a-b).
Old Dutch Church from Albany Post Road, 2008. Photo by Todd Atteberry, www.thehistorytrekker.com.
Old Dutch Church at Sleepy Hollow, 1861 oil on canvas. By William Rickarby Miller, Historic Hudson Valley (P.M. 79.3).
Sunnyside. By George Inness, Historic Hudson Valley.
The Headless Hessian, Philipsburg Manor, Sleepy Hollow, 2008. Photo by Bryan Haeffele, Historic Hudson Valley.
A woman shunned in spite of her helpful herbs and heroics and buried in an unmarked grave remains a presence and power in Sleepy Hollow today. Visitors ask about Hulda the Witch, and the local historical society can provide directions to the site of her hovel. When Washington Irving wandered through in the late 1790s and early 1800s, doubtlessly he learned of the bewitchment. There’s a sense of Mother Hulda in that spell cast by the “high German witch doctor.”
The original haunting of Sleepy Hollow sprang forth from the gloom formed around the Hokohonkgus tree when intertribal war left corpses like stones unburied. The Native ghosts groaned out of their graves when turned out and trampled over by the Dutch. They gave way to the British who left for the rebelling Americans the spirits of Sleepy Hollow: “The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region. It breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infesting all the land” (TLSH, 53).
Chapter 5
WOMEN IN WHITE
Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow (TLSH, 31).
STORM SHRIEKERS
Distinguished folklorist Edgar M. Bacon in 1897 created a careful chronicle of the ghosts infusing the air about Sleepy Hollow. Sleepy Hollow High School students from Ms. Cecelia Kingston’s folklore classes continued the quest. Researching the local oral tradition in the late 1970s, they compiled a terrific anthology of stories. All historians and folklorists of the region encounter tales tangled up with the works of Washington Irving. He only gives “some mention” to the ghost crying before storms. The evanescent Woman in White, however, remains widely reported.
Reminiscent of various powerful fairies called White Ladies once spotted throughout northern Europe, the Sleepy Hollow howlers adapted to their unique surroundings. The earliest shrieks rise along Raven Rock, an isolated glacial scar on Buttermilk Hill. The jagged thirty-foot ledge first made a manitou, or spirit, of a Weckquasgeek woman eluding rape. Later a Dutch farm wife perished there in a blizzard. Bacon speaks of a “Woman of the Cliff, who flits along on the top of the rocks on a certain ledge that overlooks the village.” A female voice rising from the hill foretells of winter storms with a keening call. People today maintain there’s a presence of a woman’s spirit, “hovering near Raven Rock,” “crossing over the cemetery floating toward the river,” “appearing as firelights” and “giving unearthly moans” before bad weather. The strongest shrieks emanate from a lovelorn lady who fell in the no-man’s land of central Westchester during the American Revolution.
A scrupulous “collecting and collating of the floating facts,” along with a study of the tradition of tales concerning the storm shrieking lady, yields the next stories.
MANITOU
When the Hokohonkgus tree had scarcely grown beyond the saplings, a man ruled by desire, not love, pursued a woman not of his tribe. He did not court her with wampum belts, furs or sweet songs. So she refused to give him even a word.
Enraged, he decided that if she would not have him, then no one would have her. He demanded she come to him. She ran away from the Mahicanituck to the fields above Pocantico’s dancing waterfall. He hunted her like an animal. Passing the place of the skulls near Council Rock, she began losing ground. Near the immense rock standing off from the cliff, she prayed, “Great Manitou, help me!”
The ravens there carried her prayers to the creator spirit. The man drew an arrow from his quiver and aimed it in his bow. She clambered onto the great rock, and in full trust, she leapt off into the air.
The creator spirit sent ravens to catch up and turn her into a manitou. Her spirit, like a protective mist, inhabits the place now called Raven’s Rock.
THE SPIRIT SAINT OF RAVEN ROCK
Shortly after Hulda built a hovel near the Pocantico in the 1770s, a poor farm wife stepped into more woe in Sleepy Hollow. This woman sensed snow in the clouds hanging over the Tappan Zee. She desperately needed wood to weather the gathering storm. Still, something told her to stay inside. The air inside the cottage, however, felt brittle with cold. Sighing, she tied her thick wool shawl beneath her chin, grabbed the wood sack and stepped into the failing sun.
She noticed the Pocantico tumbling over stones as if anxious to reach the Hudson. The bell on the Dutch Church tolled a muffled note in the winds now pushing off the river. The church sexton appeared. The farm wife nodded.
“Not a-gathering wood now are you?”
“Just enough for the night,” she replied.
“Some good branches just fell near Raven Rock.”
“It’s not too far.”
The farm wife collected a fagot of chestnut just after the Hokohonkgus Tree and added some pine from near Spook Rock. She spied Mother Hulda’s cottage. Remembering the medicine bundle of willow and yarrow the witch had left a few days ago, the farm wife dropped her fagot of wood on the witch’s stoop. No need to visit; Hulda was shy about company.
Walking off toward Raven Rock, she heard the witch’s door creak open. Hulda beckoned her in for tea.
“No thank you kindly, Mother Hulda. I need to gather more wood before this blizzard catches us.”
These were the days when farmers clear cut, leaving only the great trees standing. Folks scoured the forest floor for firewood. Limbs often fell around Buttermilk Hill. Hulda admonished her visitor against going there. “No need to worry, Mother Hulda. I know these woods as well as you.”
But the snow and wind conspired against the wood gatherer. They turned the trail and trees into a shadowy maze. One hulking form of rock dared show itself through the storm. A squall of snow drove her to seek shelter there. She crouched down against the stone, hoping to wait it out. Raven Rock felt dense and stifling. Blanketing snow induced a drowsy, dangerous enchantment. She could not shake the cold from her weary bones. Sleep became intoxicating.
Once her body was laid to rest in the Dutch Church yard, the spell of Sleepy Hollow granted her one thing. Whenever the Tappan Zee conjures up snowstorms, her spirit coalesces. If the wind
stirs up enough ash, river mist and decomposing leaves, she reappears. Giving shape to the already moving airs, she keens and wails warnings to travelers. The Woman of the Cliff dislikes frightening the living, but better they flee away from storms near Raven Rock than suffer her cold fate. The locals still heed her cries.
THE WHITE LADY OF RAVEN ROCK
Wind pushing off the Tappan Zee sometimes carries an eerie voice. It ululates a harbinger of the coming storm and tells of a forlorn spirit, the White Lady of Raven Rock.
British officers, after the Battle of White Plains, sought out houses along the shores of the Hudson to serve as quarters while awaiting orders from General William Howe. Two grenadiers appeared on the stoop of a rough-hewn cottage near Sleepy Hollow. The younger, a handsome lieutenant, went to knock but his superior, a gruff major, stopped him. He ordered the younger officer to observe. The older soldier lifted the latch. The pair tromped in, mud and manure falling from their boots. The major announced: “By the power granted to us soldiers of his majesty George the Third, we your protectors from Washington and his rebel mob, give you the privilege of quartering us in this house…Come forward and be of service to your King!”
No one appeared.
The lieutenant pointed to a fire crackling in the hearth. The major ordered.
“Come forward and serve your King!”
Now, behind a flour barrel, trembled a young woman—her name may have been Gertje, but no one now tells. She hoped the officers, upon seeing her humble home, would leave. Recalling the other Westchester homes burned by the Hessians for the British army, she wisely came out from her hiding.
“Forgive me sir, I am much afeared!”
“Nothing to fear save those d——d rebels!” exclaimed the major. He asked if she was alone. She explained she lived in Sleepy Hollow with her brothers. They were off fighting. “One for our king and one for the rebels,” she carefully stated. He ordered her to be of some service by removing their boots and preparing some supper.
Gertje gripped the major’s filthy boots and pulled them off. The lieutenant noticed her delicate hands. Even covered with mud, they were beautiful. He decided to remove his own boots outside. Gertje smiled at the lieutenant and said she could only give them hasty pudding and brown bread.
The lieutenant smiled back, replying, “’Tis better than Saint Anthony’s meal!” Thus began their love.
The commander of these two Redcoat officers, General Howe, fought like a slow game of chess. He cogitated troop movements over wine, hoping Washington’s ragtag force would surrender before facing all the artillery pieces, Hessian knights and field army pawns. This gave the lieutenant time with his Sleepy Hollow Lady.
The two spent hours strolling along the shores of the Tappan Zee talking of times of peace. The lieutenant waxed on about his family’s sugar plantation on the peaceful island of Jamaica. His Dutch American sweetheart no doubt longed to be taken away from war-torn Westchester.
The major laughed at the younger officer, advising him to enjoy the colonial wench, “for soon we all will march and be fated to die!”
The neighbors did not see any joy in Gertje’s falling for a British officer.
The blacksmith, Martling, confided to the alewife in Van Tassel’s tavern. One afternoon he found the two of them behind the shop, holding hands. The alewife thought this a trifle, considering she had caught the two of them kissing by the river. They considered the couple doomed.
One day, the war beckoned. A messenger from General Howe came to the door of Gertje’s cottage, ordering the officers to report to Dobbs Ferry to pursue Washington and his rebels in New Jersey. The major advised the lieutenant to bid his colonial wench farewell, adding with a smirk, “Give her a kiss for me.”
The lieutenant dashed off to find his love, begging her to come with him. Gertje worried about her love’s urgency. He took her to Raven Rock, a craggy outcrop high above the gloom of Sleepy Hollow.
There they took in the wide Tappan Zee, with the cliffs of the Palisades stretching down to New Jersey. She wondered why they were here.
At once, the lieutenant dropped on bended knee. He took Gertje’s hand and asked, “Whilst thou marry me?” She gasped. He went on, “I shall leave the service of the King, to sail here to take thee away to Jamaica where we shall enjoy only peace.”
Gertje kissed both of her love’s cheeks and answered, “I shall marry thee. I will make a gown of white! And await you here!”
“Splendid!” cried the lieutenant. “Come in two months time when my service is done. I will sail through the Tappan Zee to Tarrytown. Look from this rock for my white topsail!”
The couple departed with a last kiss, believing in love’s enduring protection.
The lieutenant and major rejoined General Howe. How they fought against George Washington and his blue coats! Gertje, meanwhile, gathered scraps of white wool, linen and linsey-woolsey. She pieced, patched and sewed her wedding gown.
Blacksmith Martling told the lass neither of her brothers could ever accept her eloping with a British officer. He warned the lieutenant wanted only steal kisses and something more precious! Van Tassel’s alewife worried the officer would leave Gertje crying! The young woman insisted her love was true.
When exactly two months had passed, Gertje appeared in a patchwork gown of white on Raven Rocks. Peering out over the Tappan Zee, she spied not her beloved’s white sail but the first storm of winter. Steely clouds massed over the Palisades. White caps roiled on the Hudson River. Bitter winds pushed icy snow toward Raven Rock.
Gertje, hoping for her love, saw the foamy waves fluttering like a white sail. She called, “My Beloved! Is that you? Have you come for me?”
Only the stinging snows and biting winds answered. Gertje looked out again. When white caps appeared, she saw sloop sails. The freezing lass continued to call.
“My Beloved! Is that you? Have you come for me?”
Only the stinging snows and biting winds answered. Still, Gertje stayed on the cliffs near Raven Rocks. The winds pushed through her gown. The snows stung her cheeks, blistered bloody her lips and left her delicate beautiful hands raw with frostbite. Searching for her love, she cried out until her voice grew hoarse.
“My Beloved! Is that you? Have you come for me?”
Only the stinging snows and biting winds answered.
“The course of true love, never did run smooth” the wise Bard wrote, “but, either was it different in blood!”
Where was the lieutenant? Dead on a New Jersey battlefield? Some claim the major prevented the disgrace elopement of a gentleman British officer and rebellious Yankee doodle of a wench. Thus he locked up the lieutenant.
When morning came, the White Lady was gone. Had her beloved come? Or had the snow and war swept her away? Months later, when her brothers returned to Sleepy Hollow, the alewife explained their sister’s absence as a love gone wrong, forcing the lass to hide in shame in New York City.
The blacksmith agreed: “The lieutenant, he stole kisses then broke Gertje’s heart!” Spring, however, gave the answer.
Two huntsmen hoping to find rabbit at Raven Rock found instead a strange misshaped form. Shocked at a frozen form revealed under the melting snow, they dashed down from the craggy hill and burst into the Old Dutch Church.
“Dominee! We found something up at Raven Rock! Come see and bring your Good Book.”
The good man grabbed his Bible and followed the hunters. There the dominee clapped eyes on a wretched figure mingled with the snow.
Apparition of the White Lady at Raven Rock, Sleepy Hollow, New York, 2007. Courtesy of photographers Brian Haffele, Historic Hudson Valley, and Todd Atteberry, www.thehistorytrekker.com.
He recognized hands that once removed the filthy boots of a British trooper. Now, he saw those knuckles breaking through the frozen skin. He remembered those cheeks once flush like peaches. Ice had torn them off the jawbone. He recalled those lips speaking defiantly of love; he cringed at their broken blisters. Alas, thi
s once was dear Gertje who loved a British officer. Did a Yankee bullet take her love? Was it the major’s disapproval? She held her vigil at Raven Rock through a blizzard, but only grim death came for her.
Gertje’s homespun wedding gown turned into a funeral wrap. The dominee had her body laid to rest by the Old Dutch Church. Her forlorn spirit, however, remains restless. Rising before ill weather, the White Lady returns to haunt the cliffs overlooking Tarrytown. Her shrieks now mark the coming of a storm. Old-timers say the source of her power is found in the dominee’s Good Book. There in Solomon’s psalms, it states, “Love is as strong as Death; jealousy is cruel as the grave.”
The strength of the lady’s love now lifts her from the cruel grave, moving her through the mists and gloom of Sleepy Hollow. Her spirit caught in love’s spell, her voice caught in the wind, still laments “My Beloved! Have you come for me?”
WITTE JUFFERN OF SLAAPER’S HOL
The mention made in The Legend of the White Lady’s warning cries, hints of her shape shifting in the snow and pelting Ichabod Crane with “witch tokens,” indicates something deeper than ghosts at play. Our wailing woman echoes Irish lore of the “Bean Si” (Banshe) who screams before a death. Katherine Briggs, in her Encyclopedia of Fairies, notes White Ladies are a mix between fairy and ghost. Specifically, the Dutch version, known in Holland as “Wiite Juffern,” commonly dwelled in cavelike shelters near small towns. Our White Lady takes up such a residence at Raven Rock.
The presence of several melancholy protective entities near “Slaaper’s Hol” gives evidence of Dutch fairy tale traditions in Washington Irving’s Legend, and in regional lore as well. They are similar to the ship-sinking imps of the Hudson Highlands. Both are spirits of the dead acting in fairylike roles.
Legends and Lore of Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson Valley Page 7