Mother prayed to God that Hans, just eleven, would never be enlisted. Oh, we were living in dangerous times. The neighborhood grew angrily divided. Lord Philipse owed his allegiance to the British Crown, while his tenant farmers were ardent patriots, favoring insurrection and war. To make any declaration of principle was to court disaster. My parents insisted that we remain neutral before our lord and neighbors both. To give either side offense might ruin my father’s business.
The owner of the inn, Mr. Couenhoven, was a fierce loyalist. He served his King by spying on colonial militia when they boarded. He treated the militiamen to hot cider at the fireplace, gave them their privacy, and then ran upstairs to spy on their conversations. Near to the chimney, he had installed an auditory pipe, built up like the passageway of a dumbwaiter, from the side of the fireplace to the second floor. Upstairs, having removed a piece of wood that appeared a mere part of the enclosure, he would press his ear-trumpet to the opening and hear all that was said at the fireplace below, obtaining intelligence on troop movements and the condition of Washington’s Continental Army, scribbling notes on a piece of slate he kept nearby on a hook, often forgetting to erase it in his eagerness to pass his intelligence to Mr. Pugsley at the mills.
The spy-pipe was well known to me, for its listening end was in the wall of my father’s shop. I had spied there myself, collecting the ghost stories that wafted up from the world of adults, as did the odors of coffee and roasting apples. I knew my father’s heart lay with the Congress, not the king. I insisted we tell the patriots that they were being spied upon. Papa forbade me to intervene. We could not get involved. He feared that Couenhoven would evict him. So he kept silent, out of fear, hoping to keep his shop.
Perhaps it was my father’s weakness that brought our family to ruin.
Perhaps it was mine.
I was the only Van Ripper who spoke English. I foolishly took it upon myself to whisper what I knew to a passing bluecoat, telling him of the listening-pipe and the slate, but concealing my family name.
I thought I was helping the cause.
June 28th, 1849
If Couenhoven’s inn brimmed with Tory sympathies, the Van Tassel Tavern across the road perked with patriotic fervor. From its veranda, Petrus Van Tassel read out the Declaration of Independence, his voice ringing over the Hudson. I will never forget that crowd on the hill, white bonnets and squared shoulders, listening in rapture, fanning themselves in the July heat. Once finished, Van Tassel nailed the broadside to our Liberty Tree and invited the throng inside for free ale, which he would, “subtract from the taxes due King George.” The men let out a whoop and halloo. I wanted to cheer, for the Declaration had stirred my heart, but I could not do so, for Mr. Couenhoven was watching.
Baltus crossed the road and asked if I would speak with him. We had not spoken since the day he’d kissed me and I had laughed. I climbed into his taxi-wagon and he flicked the reins. We clattered down the Old Loop in silence, as the sounds of drunken revelry faded behind, split by the occasional firing of a flintlock into the air. Baltus earned a tidy income from his wagon that year. Drunken soldiers and farmhands often wandered from the tavern to congregate at the docks, pissing from the landing and making merry beneath Paulding’s windows. The merchants paid Baltus to collect the drunks, the drunks paid Baltus for sparing them the uphill climb to the tavern, and his aunt Eleanor profited by the return of her customers.
Baltus drew the wagon to a stop just above the docks. The night had cooled, and a crisp wind had slipped the Overback, bringing a scent like rose-tobacco.
“I am going away,” Baltus said.
“For how long?”
“Until the war’s won.”
I understood. “You’ve joined the regulars?”
“The Continentals have broken the siege of Boston. That’s good for Massachusetts but bad for New York. General Howe will move south. He’ll come here next. He’ll land his fleet off New York City and take our ports.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I heard he’s gathering forces up in Halifax. They say he’s bringing… Hessians.”
“What are Hessians?”
“They’re monsters. Hired killers. They cut babies from their mother’s wombs, gut men and leave them to the crows.”
I will always remember the fear and dread in Baltus’s eyes. This was no ghost story. These monsters were real.
“They’ll kill everyone we know. And soon. I have to fight. To protect my father’s farm, and the tavern, and… you.”
“But what can you do?” I said, lightly. “You’re—”
“Fat?” He pressed his lips tight. “There’s more to being a man, Agathe. Maybe I am fat. Maybe I’ll be bald someday. Maybe I’ll be as big as old Frederick and I’ll need this wagon just to reach my outhouse.” He grabbed a roll of his own belly. “This isn’t all of me.” He tapped his temple. “I believe in those words father read. With all my mind. I have principles.” He thumped his chest. “And a man’s heart.” His voice softened. “And I love you.”
I looked away, my eye caught by the tied-off sloops that swooned below, vacillating with the currents. A few men had collected near dock, whispering to each other. Strong militiamen, gaunt-cheeked and beautiful. I thought of Gerard Beekman.
“Agathe, say something.”
I turned to Baltus, to say something harsh and dismissive, but to my surprise, in the glow of that sunset he seemed just as beautiful as any of those others. He seemed lit from within, with love or patriot fervor. He was a man full of fireworks. And he was not weak. He had never been weak. He was a little ill-made, perhaps, but… I didn’t mind. I truly didn’t mind.
“I love you too,” I whispered, astonished by my own words. Not that I’d said them, but that they were true.
“I’ve always hoped,” he said. “If I survive the war, I will inherit Father’s farm. I’ll own the tavern. I will be able to give you anything.”
I could not think. I sat wringing my hands.
He put his hands hand over mine, stilling them. “Will you wait for me?”
I considered. What if Baltus didn’t survive the war? I had never experienced real loss. The idea of losing him, seeing him slain by some godless Hessian while protecting me, these thoughts filled me with despair.
“Agathe, will you wait?”
I nodded.
He reached into a pocket and withdrew a beautiful string of wampum, the rare blood-wampum of purple shell. He took my left forearm and tied the string around it, like the stripe on a barber pole. He bent impulsively and kissed my wrist.
And we were engaged.
A sudden light surprised me and I turned. The men at the dock had lit torches and were marching up the hill.
“Halloo!” Baltus called. “You going to burn King George?”
One of the men grinned. His face was covered with soot, but I recognized him as the soldier I’d whispered with on the road. “Not tonight!” He laughed. “But we’re burning his spies.”
The man waved and the line of torchbearers dwindled up the hill. Baltus returned the wave. The hay wagon lurched. Some drunkard had flopped into the back.
“Looks like I have a fare,” said Baltus. He took my hand, and with a flick of the reins, we passed the docks and started back up the southern arm of the loop. He drove slowly, letting the horse stop to nibble the summer grass. He wanted our nighttime ride to linger, while I was already imagining tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come.
What had I done? What would I tell my mother? Oh, she would be ashamed of me. She’d told me many times that this would happen. That if I remained friends with Baltus, he would “wear me down into loving him.” That’s what she’d said. But I did love Baltus, didn’t I?
The drunkard snored in the hay behind us. Baltus laughed, as a rustic farmer laughs at the antics of his pigs. I turned away, hiding my face, staring at the two brightest stars over the Hudson. What had I done?
“Look. The fireflies love you too,” Baltus sai
d.
The tiny lights winked all around us, but they were not the only light. A dim red glow appeared over the trees to the north.
“Is the inn on fire?” I gasped, pointing. Now I remembered the words of the man on the dock. Oh, Mr. Couenhoven’s spying had brought him ruin. I had brought him to ruin. The patriots had burnt the inn, and my papa’s shop with it. I hadn’t expected that, and I felt a stab of terrible guilt, praying that my father would never discover what I’d done. I urged Baltus to hurry, thinking of my poor leeches in their jar on the shelf. We reached the King’s Road and turned north, and to my surprise, the inn stood untouched. The glow emanated from even farther north, somewhere between the inn and the hanging tree.
A few militiamen stood outside the tavern, some perched on the rail of the veranda. “What’s burning?” Baltus called.
“Spy,” said a grinning boy. “They found a slate on a hook in the barber shop. He’s been listening at a pipe.”
I froze, terror taking me. “Who’s been listening? Who is the spy?”
“Who else? The bloody barber!”
I tore the reins from Baltus’s hand and slapped the back of the horse. We tore up the road so swiftly that the drunkard in the back slipped from the straw and fell into the road, cursing. I too cursed when I saw my house. I swore for the first time in my life—profanity such as a good girl would never use. For my home was on fire. Our little cabin writhed with tendrils of flame, and dark smoke poured through the sky.
Hans stood in the yard, weeping hysterically. I leapt from the cart and slapped him. “Where is Mother? Where is Papa?” He pointed at the house. Over the crackle of flames, I could hear my mother screaming. I doused myself from a bucket. Baltus caught hold of me, but I threw him off and ran for the burning door. It had been padlocked. I kicked it wide.
The heat scalded my cheeks, but I pressed into the blaze. I saw no sign of Father, alive or dead. I saw my bed burning, my doll Nana blackened like a heretic in hell. I followed my mother’s screams. She had fled to the garret to escape the flames, but the ladder had given way, leaving her trapped. Her burns were terrible and her shoulders pitched with violent coughing. I raised my arms, beckoning her to jump, but she was afraid, half-blinded by the thick smoke.
“It will be all right!” I cried. “I’m here!”
She covered her mouth and pointed at me. My skirts were afire. I felt the heat but no pain. I batted the flames away and beckoned to her again. She struggled, coughing, then bent over the edge and let herself drop. As she landed, her ankle turned. She lost balance on the steep pitch of our floor. She stumbled, trying not to fall and roll away as Hans had done. I reached for her, my hands brushing her waist, but she fell onto the spinning wheel and collapsed in a heap. I turned her over and cried out, for the spindle had pierced her chest, as it had pierced Old Willow’s.
Baltus appeared at my side, materializing through the smoke. We carried Mother outside just as the cabin broke from its foundations, crashing down the hill with a clatter of flaming boards. Hans helped us lift her into the wagon.
“They have Papa!” he whined.
I dug my fingers into his arm. “Where?”
He raised his chin, pointing up the road.
Mother’s eyes had fluttered open. They gazed up at me from the straw. “Agathe. My beautiful… girl…” I bent to kiss her but could find no unblistered skin.
“We’ll take her to the tavern,” said Baltus.
“We will not!” I screamed, pushing him away. “They did this! The militia did it! And you’re one of them!” I tore the string of wampum from my arm and threw it in his face. I didn’t care if he was innocent. I wanted to hurt someone, and he was at hand. “Take it! And may you all be damned!”
I leapt onto the wagon and whipped the horse’s rump, clattering away, leaving Baltus and Hans to gape after me. I knew where the militia had taken Papa, and I dreaded what I would find. I slowed the wagon as I neared the spot.
Two men swung from the hanging tree.
One was Mr. Couenhoven.
The other was my father.
I heard a cry not my own. My mother was awake again. She wept to see her husband’s body twisting in the tree. I tried to calm her. She babbled as the straw behind her head grew black with blood. I knew that she would die, here, now, in this wagon. I could see death grinning inside, wearing her poor burned face for a mask.
Only magic could save my mother. I’d take her to Hulda. Mother Hulda could cure this wound. She’d know some spell. Some healing herb. Yes. I’d take my first mother to see my second. I turned the cart northward, whipping the horse, though how I expected to breach the pathless woods I cannot guess. I was beyond reason: a scorched girl driving a load of bloody straw, carting her dying mother to the hut of a fairytale witch.
At the crossing of the brook, the wagon wheels caught on the corduroy road and the cart could go no farther. I panicked, climbed out, pushed the wagon and screamed at the horse. I ripped a branch from a nearby tree and whipped the animal, cursing it, ordering it to move. I beat its haunches bloody so that it reared, yanking the wheel free. The horse and wagon lurched away, abandoning the road, pitching and splashing into Wildey Swamp. I ran after, calling for my mother. The hitch broke, and the horse ran wailing into the dark marshes. The wagon crashed onto its side, flinging the bloody straw and my mother into the slough, my Slough of Despond.
I screamed and ran, flailing through the water. I fell to my mother’s side, grabbing her ’round the bosom, fighting the suction of the marsh. My feet slid in the oily mire. Her weight increased, pulling me down. The pond rose. Our aprons were lily pads. We sank together, she and I, cheek to cheek, body to body. I kept struggling, trying to lift her. Refusing to ever let her go. But my mother breathed her last and died with one final word.
She touched my mouth and said, “Witch.”
Her eyes widened. She was gone. I struggled to hold her up, as I struggled to understand. Mother had discovered my secret. Had she followed me into the woods? She’d have told Father, of course, but not Hans. And had that discovery caused this dreadful night? Hulda had explained the Great Curse. Had it claimed my parents? If so, then I was a witch, after all. I’d done no spells, I’d ridden no broom, but I’d dealt death, all the same. Cursing my parents was the first magic I had ever performed.
Fireflies circled my mother and I. They took the shapes of men, and I perceived their nature at last: they were the dead. They did not answer my calls for help. They stood above and stared. I kissed my mother’s temple and said my last goodbye. I promised I would make her proud, and marry someone strong, as she had wished for me. But I could not hold her a moment longer. Something gave way beneath her body and tore her from my arms.
“No. No. No.”
I reached and strained and wept, but my kind mother, who’d nurtured so many hopes for her good girl, fell through the black mirror, became a ghostly shape beneath the water—a shape that grew dimmer, receding, and went down, down, to sleep in the slough, forever… forever… forever…
… to sleep in the slough with my leeches.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Four”
July 1st, 1849
I wanted to burn them all. The entire Continental Army. I could see the evil of them now, despite their feeble “apologies” afterward. Petrus Van Tassel claimed to speak for them. The soldiers had not understood my father’s circumstances, they’d not known my mother had been inside the cabin. This I knew to be a lie, for the door had been chained.
“And did they question my father?”
Van Tassel knew the reason as well as I. My father had not been condemned for spy-craft. He had been condemned for speaking no English.
The Van Tassels took pity on me. They buried my father on their land. My mother, they could not find. They offered to see to my needs, to adopt me as a daughter, but I would have none of it. I had a home, in the woods with Mother Hulda. They took Hans, without indenture, to work their f
arm, which was in their self-interest, for Baltus would be going to war. Baltus and I did not speak. We said no goodbyes. I would not see him again for seven years. I kissed my Hans and left him at Wolfert’s Roost. I knew he would be safe there, but I offered the Van Tassels no thanks as I fled their doorstep.
I had no possessions other than my oyster-shell knife and the few things I’d retrieved from Papa’s shop: his bleeding bowl, his shave kit, and my mother’s copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, left on the window-sill and sun-faded.
Hulda agreed to take me in, and I thought my troubles solved. But one night at the end of August, she named her price.
“You must be witch to live here, sister. True witch.”
She seized my arm and drew me to the fireplace. She produced a knife and slashed my palm. Before I could speak, she’d brushed the cinders from the hearthstone, revealing a circle and star, sign of the Devil.
“Swear your oath. Swear to Schacath the Red.”
“Who?”
“Schacath the Red. The First Fear. Him Him Him Him! Father of all witches. Husband of all witches.”
I wept. I’d not expected this. For all my hatred, for all my desire for revenge, I was still a good girl of the Dutch Reformed Church. I would not betray my baptism and God himself. Husband of all witches? I would have God for a husband, not the Devil. The blood snaked down my forearm, circling it, as the blood-wampum had done.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 44
