Chương Chương 6 · 第6章

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and

crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards, along the sides of the

lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so

cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below

him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with

here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under

the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking

of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was

so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this

faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing

of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some

farmhouse away among the hills--but it was like a dreaming sound in his

ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy

chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a

neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in

his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon

now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and

darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds

occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and

dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the

scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road

stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the

other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its

limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for

ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into

the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate

André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known

by the name of Major André’s tree. The common people regarded it with a

mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the

fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange

sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought

his whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through

the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw

something white, hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceased

whistling but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place

where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid

bare. Suddenly he heard a groan--his teeth chattered, and his knees

smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon

another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in

safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road,

and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of

Wiley’s Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge

over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the

wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines,

threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest

trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was

captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the

sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been

considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the

schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up,

however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the

ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of

starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and

ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the

delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the

contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but

it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of

brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and

heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward,

snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a

suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.

Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the

sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin

of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It

stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic

monster ready to spring upon the traveller.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror.

What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides,

what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which

could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a

show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, “Who are you?”

He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated

voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides

of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with

involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of

alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at

once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal,

yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He

appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black

horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability,

but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side

of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and

bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping

Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The

stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled

up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind,--the other did the

same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his

psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and

he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and

dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and

appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising

ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief

against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was

horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!--but his horror was

still more increased on observing that the head, which should have

rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his

saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and

blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion

the slip; but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they

dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at

every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as

he stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s head, in the

eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but

Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it,

made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This

road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter

of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just

beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent

advantage in the chase, but just as he had got half way through the

hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from

under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm,

but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder

round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it

trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van

Ripper’s wrath passed across his mind,--for it was his Sunday saddle;

but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his

haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain

his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and

sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone, with a

violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church

bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the

bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls

of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the

place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can

but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard

the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied

that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and

old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding

planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind

to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of

fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups,

and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to

dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium

with a tremendous crash,--he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and

Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a

whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with

the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s

gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour

came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and

strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans

Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor

Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent

investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading

to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of

horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed,

were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of

the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the

unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.