Story

Stories and short fiction by Henry John Steiner…

The Ghosts of Sleepy Hollow

The evening air was turning cooler and dryer as September ended. His horse moved at a slow walk across the close-cropped field at Kingsland Point. Before him in the distance stood the lighthouse and the Tappan Zee Bridge. The noise of the bridge traffic droned from far off. He thought, "Things have changed in Sleepy Hollow."

A ghost couldn’t do proper work these days. Even twentieth century creations like the General Motors plant was closed and the buildings leveled. He recalled that his sentiments had not changed in one hundred years. “Things have changed… for the worse.” Once people walked or rode on horses; a ghost still had a chance of waylaying an unknowing traveler on the Post Road after dark. Now, even the name of the Post Road has changed, Broadway, Route 9... What a farce! How unreal!

He was old-fashioned, but, to be fair, there was much he had adjusted to. It was apparent that things had changed; there was no going back to the old days. Still, he was unhappy and embittered in a way that affected his entire outlook.

The sun was gone, vanished behind the hills on “the Nyack side” of the Hudson River. A slight breeze stirred the wide surface of the Tappan Zee. Small waves lapped against the long, riverfront retaining wall where the crest of Kidd’s Rock protruded from the concrete. “What a silly idea!” he reflected. “Captain Kidd’s Rock. If Kidd had anything to do with that rock, I would have met him by now. For 225 years—not a word from Captain Kidd. Just another slap in the face! A few years earlier, some over-zealous local historian had the Westchester County government turn the boulder a shrine. They even mounted a plaque on it, stating some legendary connection between Captain Kidd and the place. “I’ll take care of that historical fellow one night, when he’s walking home through Philipse Manor!” But no, there were too many people, too many houses illuminated like bonfires. There were so few places one could do proper work now. His horse snorted sympathetically.

As dusk settled to gloom, his thoughts turned to Rachel. “What a fine looking woman she was. Pity about her neck.” Rachel haunted Buttermilk Hill, where her father had kept a farm in the days of the Revolution. In those days, she was a lovely, staunch Patriot, who offered milk and biscuits to the American irregulars who stopped there. “Sturdy, with a healthy glow in her cheeks,” he thought, the way women were once made. The kind of woman I might have married in the old country.”

During the war Rachel was left alone to work the farm while her father was out with the militia. Rachel’s mother had been taken ill and was sent north beyond the Croton River to be nursed by relations, away from the fear and uncertainty of the “Neutral Ground.” As the conflict grew, the family farm became more and more tightly surrounded by conflict, threaten by troops and irregular fighters from both sides. Rachel’s family had been able to preserve its milk cows from the greedy hands of Delancey and his Loyalist rangers.

One day, a group of friendly Patriot scouts from Tarrytown visited the secluded farm atop Buttermilk Hill. They often resorted there for refreshment, taking advantage of the remote location of the farm. Rachel knew the Tarrytown men well; some were blood relations. She served them milk in earthen bowls and baked two-dozen biscuits in the Dutch oven that hung over the fire. They brought her up to date about events in the county and, by late afternoon, they departed to picket the Albany Post Road near Sing Sing.

Twenty minutes after their departure, Rachel heard musket fire to the northwest. She knew what it meant; her friends had encountered the enemy on their way down the hill. She could expect an unpleasant visit, if not today, then soon.

She prayed that her friends would have the greater number and the upper hand, but then she bustled about the house hiding any trace of their stay. All the while she fretted between the idea of running off to the north, or watching over the farm.

It was about one hour later that a line of twenty horsemen appeared in the narrow cart path leading up to the clearing. They fanned out, browsing around the shed and the house while their humorless leader approached the figure of Rachel standing frozen before the house. He calmly reined in his mount and hunched forward in the saddle.

“You are?” the officer asked imperiously.

“Rachel Martlings sir.”

“I am Captain Totten,” he uttered with distaste. “Are you a loyal subject of King George, or a damned rebel?”

“I don’t know anything about that sir. I just try to keep out of trouble.”

A heavy, greasy-faced man approached the captain, eyeing Rachel strangely as he walked. “Sir, all clear sir,” reported a subordinate.

“All right Carver, keep watch down that hillside. Underhill! Take a good look in the house.”

“Yes sir.”

The captain spoke again to Rachel, “Who lives here with you?”

“Just my parents and my little brother, sir. My mother has fever and she went to stay with family at Pound Ridge.”

“And your father?”

“He’s... with her.”

Captain Totten stared at her coldly for a moment.

“Get some milk for these men.”

“I’ll have to milk the cows sir.”

“Getting rather slack with your work while mother and father are away. Bring some water.”

She brought two pails of water from the cistern next to the house. Meanwhile, men loitered in the doorway of the house while others searched the interior. The men near the horses dipped their camp cups into the pails while their captain resumed his questioning.

“Did some rebels come through here a while ago?”

“No sir, no one has been here all day.”

“I thought one looked like Johnny Dean. Do you know who he is?”

“I think I’ve heard of him.”

“Yes? Indeed. Isn’t his farm on the east side of this hill? Heard of him indeed.”

“We keep to ourselves up here sir.”

A ranger stalked from the house carrying a long wooden object and handed it to his commander.

“Found this in the wood pile sir.”

It was a wooden toy sword belonging to Rachel’s little brother. Crudely inscribed on the blade were the letters L-I-B-E-R-T-Y. Totten extended the wooden blade before Rachel’s eyes as she visibly cringed.

“What’s your given name again?”

“Rachel,” she said staring at the ground.

“Rachel, are you a damned rebel?”

“No sir.”

“What do you think I would do to you if you were?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“If I thought you were a rebel, Rachel, I would have my men torch your house, slaughter your stock, and level every fruit tree on the place. And then they would tie a rope around your pretty neck and haul you up into that chestnut tree over there.” He paused for effect. “But since you assure me you are not a cursed rebel, I will have you treated like a loyal subject.”

He turned to his men saying, “Sergeant, take all the grain and two of the cows—leave her that one.” Then to Rachel he said, “And bear in mind, if you entertain so much as one traitor on this farm, I will deal with very differently.”

He rode away with his troop, and Rachel remained, her heart pounding. She felt as if she had just met the Devil himself….

[end part one]

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