Sleepy Hollow: Children of the Revolution (10 page)

“Your perambulations are dizzying me, cousin,” said Lund Washington, who managed the plantation for Washington, and had been one of his greatest confidants in the two years since the British conceded, recognized the independence of the thirteen states, and signed the Treaty of Paris. It had been a near thing, and Washington knew that victory was achieved as much due to King George III’s concerns about turbulence in France—much closer to home—as it was Washington’s own strategies.

Since resigning as commander in chief of the Continental Army after the treaty was signed, Washington had enjoyed the quiet life of a retired
general, advising the thirteen states as they worked to determine what type of nation they would be.

“It should have been over, Lund.”

“It is over, George. We were victorious. Or, at the very least, the Crown conceded.”

“It is not the Crown that concerns me,” Washington snapped. “It is the forces that allied themselves with the Crown against us.” He turned to look out the large picture window that showed him his plantation, the crops struggling through an awful drought. “They do not take defeat well.”

“There’s been no sign of any retribution from the daemonic forces, have there?” Lund asked. He had been kept informed of the second front on which Washington had been fighting the war, as much due to fear of the very reprisals that he believed were now being visited upon his family.

“Earlier this year, Martha’s brother Bartholomew died of a fever. Last month, her mother also died of a fever. Now Martha is ill with a fever, and I fear the worst.”

Lund shook his head. “People get fevers, George. It’s not—”

The physician chose that moment to exit from the bedroom, sparing Washington from whatever platitude Lund was about to utter, and Washington turned to face the short, stout, red-haired doctor.

“What news?”

Shaking his head, the doctor replied, “I cannot say, General. She burns with a fever the like of which
I’ve never seen. In truth, I’ve no idea how she clings to life with her bodily fires burning so brightly. The slaves are applying cloths wetted with cold at my direction, but I do not know what else may be done for her. I’ll return in two days—please have your slaves continue to keep her cool. I recommend leaving the windows open wide at night as well.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

After another of the slaves saw the physician out, Washington turned to his cousin. “Unnatural heat—the crops have also suffered thus.”

Lund smiled. “I know that expression, cousin. You have a thought.”

Washington let out a breath through his dentures. “Don’t be boorish, Lund. The crops have suffered this summer due to excess heat. Bartholomew and Mother Dandridge both died of a fever, and now Martha suffers one. You’ll notice, I’m sure, the common denominator in these events.”

“Besides you? Heat.”

“Yes. And there is one foe of ours, whom I thought was dispatched. A priestess named Serilda, who was granted the power of a daemon in Trenton in 1776 and took up residence in New York shortly thereafter, wreaking havoc on our cause. She destroyed settlements in Saratoga, Albany, Kingston, Peekskill, and Sleepy Hollow before she was burned at the stake. But she led a coven, and I believe that they are attempting to enact revenge.”

Even as Washington spoke the words, the sun
seemed to disappear all of a sudden, as the room grew very dark. Washington ran to the window to see that the sun had been reduced to that of a ring around a small black circle.

A female voice sounded from everywhere in the house, yet Washington could see nobody except for himself and Lund. True, it was darker, but he could still see the sitting room, albeit faded, and even some of his crops through the window.

The voice sounded cold as death, and was definitely female despite how deep and resonant it was as it echoed.

Your precious wife will not live out the week, enemy of ours! Soon everything you hold dear will be gone, gone
, gone
!

“Show yourself, cowardly woman!”

Tomorrow, when the moon is new, I will take your love from you, and you will know suffering as you have never known before!

Then the sun started to brighten once again, and the voice disappeared.

Washington moved quickly after that, assigning his male slaves to guard the plantation, even going so far as to arm some of them. He had no idea if Serilda’s minions would be affected by gunshot or bayonets, but they tended to employ human vessels, and those were vulnerable enough.

The following afternoon, however, a horseman arrived with a package. Lund met the messenger at the door prepared to turn him away—Washington
had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed—but then the retired general recalled the letter he had received the previous week from France.

“Let him in!” Washington bellowed from Martha’s bedside, and then he left her in the hands of the female slaves who continued to apply wetted cloth in a vain attempt to arrest the fever.

The rider smelled very much of horse, a stench that Washington found at once invigorating and nauseating. It reminded him far too much of the war. He wanted nothing more than to put the war behind him, to move forward with aiding in the creation of a republic.

The war, however, was apparently not quite ready to be put to rest.

“General Washington.”

“Simply ‘Mr. Washington’ will suffice,” Washington said quickly. He hadn’t bothered to correct the doctor, but this messenger traveled all across the new nation, and might bring reminders of Washington’s preference not to be referred to by a title he’d quit from two years previous.

“Very well then, Mr. Washington. The gentleman from France has finished his commission. He apologizes for the late—”

Reaching for the parcel the messenger held, Washington said, “Yes, yes, I read M’sieu Mercier’s missive that he sent ahead of the commission.”

“Of course, sir.” The messenger allowed Washington
to take the package from him. “I should also add that the gentleman emplaced the runes as you requested. He didn’t feel it prudent to mention
that
in his letter.”

“Understandable,” Washington said gravely. He unwrapped the parcel, which had sailed across the Atlantic from Paris, arriving in the Port of Baltimore several days ago, and ridden here to Mount Vernon by the messenger.

Inside were the ten crosses that had been awarded a decade ago. For a moment, Washington thought of those who had not survived the interim since the Congressional Crosses were awarded. In particular, he thought sadly about Crane and van Brunt, and how their fates were intertwined.…

But now he had more pressing concerns. Each cross was individually wrapped in sackcloth and twine, and Washington started to untie the twine on one of them. “Lund, fetch the chalk and bring it to Martha’s room.”

The messenger cleared his throat. “If that will be all?”

He looked up in surprise at the messenger, having briefly forgotten the man’s existence. “Sir, my apologies. Do you require refreshment, or—”

Holding up both hands, the messenger said, “That will not be necessary, sir, but thank you. I shall leave you to your work. I have already secured lodgings in Alexandria, and I shall proceed there once my mount has rested.”

Placing the cross back in the box, Washington reached out to shake the messenger’s hand. “Thank you, sir, for the great service you have done to these United States.”

“The honor is mine, Gen—” He smiled. “Mr. Washington. My service is as nothing compared to yours.”

After the messenger took his leave to sit with his horse until it was watered and rested enough to make the eight-mile journey to Alexandria, Washington brought the box into Martha’s room. Lund joined him a moment later.

“How is she?” Washington asked the slave tending to her.

She shook her head. “She’s doin’ mighty poorly, sir. Fever’s
still
ragin’.”

“With luck, we can cure her soon.”

Washington took the chalk from Lund, knelt down, and began drawing the sigil on the wooden floor in front of Martha’s bed, hoping that he remembered it exactly as the Reverend Mr. Knapp had shown him. Ideally, he would have the reverend himself perform the ritual, as he was far better versed in such sorceries than Washington ever would be. Knapp had always said that Washington was far too much of a rationalist to give himself over to the power of the magic, and perhaps that was still true to some degree, despite everything he’d seen. If anything, seeing how the supernatural forces of the world fed on ignorance and passivity served to
increase Washington’s belief in self-determination. A republic where rule was by the people rather than tyrants was the only way to fight those forces. There was a reason why the daemons allied with monarchs and kings, after all.

But the reverend was in Sleepy Hollow, and it would take many days for him to arrive. Too many days. Martha didn’t have that kind of time.

Washington had lost too many people who mattered to him over the years. He would not lose Martha as well.

After drawing the sigil, which resembled a star with six points, Washington looked up at his cousin as he got to his feet. “Help me unwrap the crosses, Lund. We only need six of them.”

“Then why did you commission ten?”

“Because ten men earned them,” Washington said sharply. Then he softened. “Besides, it is always prudent to have more than one needs.”

Lund started unwrapping one of the medals. “Why six?”

“The Reverend Mr. Knapp explained to me that six is a powerful number when it comes to magics associated with life and death, as these runes are. There are six stages in life, after all: birth, infancy, childhood, adulthood, old age, and death.”

Nodding, Lund unwrapped the remaining crosses with Washington in silence.

“Place each cross on one of the points of the symbol, Lund.”

Lund nodded again and did as he was told.

By the time they were done, it was almost sunset. “Night will fall, and with it will rise a new moon.”

“Does the new moon even rise?” Lund asked.

“Don’t be doltish, Lund, of course it does, we simply cannot see it. And the minions of Serilda will make their final attempt on Martha when the moon rises, and we must be ready with the counterspell.”

The wait for the moon to rise was interminable. Washington remembered many campaigns where he and his troops had to wait for day to break or for night to fall or for supplies to arrive. War was sometimes an organized bore, with the added distraction of time seeming to slow down when there was nothing to do, particularly if one was waiting for something.

But at last the moon rose and night fell, and Washington began chanting the words from the
grimoire
that Knapp had lent him, and which he had retrieved from the library shortly after they prepared the floor.

Martha moaned with her fever, crying out mournfully, breaking Washington’s heart with each utterance.

Then the deathly voice sounded again, even as a hot, fetid wind blew through the open windows of the bedroom.
You cannot stop me with your small spells!

Washington continued to chant the words from the
grimoire
.

Your wife will die and you will suffer and you will never know happiness again! You will pay for what you did to Serilda!

Finally, Washington finished the incantation. Each of the Congressional Crosses he and Lund had placed on the sigil started to glow eerily. “The spell I have cast is not intended to stop you, witch. It is intended to save my wife.”

For a moment, nothing happened. The wind continued, but the awful voice of Serilda’s minion remained quiet.

Then the voice screamed loud enough to rattle Washington’s very bones.
What have you
done
? I cannot touch her!

The slave woman who’d been caring for Martha—and who’d been crossing herself repeatedly since nightfall—said, “Sir, the fever’s goin’ down!”

Curse you, George Washington! She had the touch of death upon her, and you removed it!

“That was the notion, yes. Begone, witch! There is nothing for you here.”

I will go
, the voice said, louder this time, and the wind picked up, feeling like a hot slap across Washington’s face.
But know this, Serilda
will
rise again!

With that, the wind died down, leaving only the usual humid Virginia air that Washington expected in early August.

Although the cold, dark voice was gone, he did hear a much weaker one speak from the bed.

“G-George?”

“Martha!” A wave of relief spread over Washington as he ran to his wife’s side. She hadn’t spoken a single word in almost a week.

“I—I feel
awful
.”

Washington actually allowed himself to finally laugh. He sat on the side of the bed and embraced Martha, holding her head to his breast. “Do not fret, Martha. You’re safe now.”

The next morning, Washington arranged to have the Congressional Crosses delivered to the recipients—or, failing that, to their relations. The only one who left no family behind—at least, none to whom such an award could be given—was Crane.

Washington would have to find a place to store that one until such a time as Crane himself would be able to collect it.…