The mound, let
us explain, in passing, was something of a mystery. Van Otto, the
first settler in the Bouwlandt, had noticed and remarked it early
in 1680. He was not of an inquiring nature, however, and made no effort
to solve the mystery. Some of the other settlers were a little more
curious and they questioned the Indians living in the neighborhood
concerning the mound. None of them appeared to have any knowledge
of the history or origin of the mound, or, if they did, fear, or something
akin thereto, held them silent. Late in the seventeen seventies, a
local antiquarian, whose name is forgotten, tried to brush away the
film of the supernatural that had gathered over the silent mound.
To clear away the mound and thus tear its secret from it was a work
beyond him--antiquarians not being particularly adapted to manual
labor or any other form of useful work--so he proposed to get at its
history by a diligent inquiry among the few Mohawks still living.
Several of these expressed an utter lack of knowledge concerning the
miniature hill although some advanced the theory that the evil one
had a finger in its making. Se-che-ho-wan, a Mohawk chieftain, then
more than a hundred years old, said that the origin of the mound had
been forgotten before he was born. This left our antiquarian stranded
and he gave over the quest. The heap of earth was left alone to serve
as a playground for the children, and to gather all sorts of ghost
stories to itself. Now to return to our story.
Three workmen----their
superstitious fears having been dispelled by Mr. Van Eps, aided and
abetted by some rare old Holland Gin---were hard at work on the previously
mentioned October day, reducing the mound to the level of the surrounding
country. Occasionally the spades would strike a stone, causing cold
chills to chase one another industriously up and down the spines of
the workmen. This always meant a hurried consultation with the gin
bottle, the brief communion being productive of new courage. With
many such interruptions, the work proceeded, the mound gradually melting
away, much to the disgust of the children who had gathered to watch
the work of destruction.
Suddenly the spade
of one of the workmen went almost out of sight in the soft earth.
The man was not prepared for this lack of resistance and he pitched
headlong against the bank, causing a miniature landslide that partially
buried him. As the earth was closing on him he was conscious of a
howl of dismay from his comrades and a chorus of squeals and squeaks
from the juvenile audience. For a moment or two he did not move expecting
his comrades to come to his assistance. The helping hand not being
forthcoming, our hero began to believe that he was buried clean out
of sight. The thought was not consoling and he began to kick and wiggle.
A few kicks and a coupe of hitches and he arose gradually to his feet,
searching his mind and his vocabulary for some tender sentiments by
which he could suitably express to his fellow workmen the love he
bore them for not helping him in his hour of need. As he arose, his
back was toward the mound, his eyes were full of dirt and his mouth
was full of the finest collection of genuine Dutch cusswords imaginable.
After getting to his feet, his first care was to remove enough of
the debris from his eyes to enable him to see more clearly the effects
of the language he had been storing up. When he had partially recovered
the use of his optics, he glanced around for his two companions, and
was surprised to see them rapidly vanishing in the distance. This
rather disturbed him, as he could see no cause for their hurried departure.
Think that his mental operations would be accelerated by a sip or
two, he turned to reach for the bottle, only to see a skeleton grinning
fiendishly at him from the depths of a partially filled cave. Pausing
just long enough to grab the bottle, he made a rapid exit in the general
direction in which he had seen this terror stricken fellows disappear.
Being somewhat
of a sprinter, he soon overhauled his fleeing brothers, and a council
of war, in which the bottle figured conspicuously was held. As they
talked, Dutch courage---or mayhap it was Dutch gin---began to assert
itself, and it was unanimously voted to return to the scene of the
recent catastrophe and dare the "dark one" to do his worst.
And so back they went, these brave Dutch forebears of ours, to see
just what sort of a trap the Prince of Darkness had prepared for them.
Arriving at the mound they saw their spectre---the skeleton of some
man mighty of limb, who had lived and died long years---perhaps, even
centuries---before a white man ever set eyes on the Mohawk. The skeleton
was in a sitting position, with its face toward the east to greet
the rising sun. The fleshless arms were folded across a fleshless
chest and the skull, with its horrid resemblance to a living face,
leaned back against the earthly wall, grinning as though in mockery
of death.
For a moment a
feeling of awe held our heroes spellbound. But it was only for a moment.
Soon the fumes of the beverage they had been consuming so freely began
to make themselves felt. Awe gave place to avarice, and they began
to toss aside the earth in the mad endeavor to locate the treasure
that they supposed the dead man to be guarding. As spadeful after
spadeful was removed the skeleton gradually fell apart until a pile
of bones was the result. The frenzied effort to locate a supposed
treasure disclosed a vase of curious workmanship. A blow from a spade
shattered the vessel, but no stream of gold or silver flowed from
the pieces. Merely a little cloud of white dust arose, to be wafted
away the next moment by a breath of wind. Afterwards, in telling the
story, the workmen made this dust assume wonderful shapes until finally
it came to be believed that the soul of the dead man had been imprisoned
in the vase by some enemy, and that the ruthless blow, shattering
the vase, had also shattered the fetters that bound the shade and
started it on its delayed trip to the "Happy Hunting Grounds".
The bones were then carelessly tumbled into a hole and the work of
reducing the mound was continued.
When the day's
work was over, the workmen were invited to sit down to the table of
their employer, Mr. Van Eps, to a substantial Dutch meal. Good trenchermen
and better drinkers were these old Schenectadians, and the October
sun was miles below the horizon before they arose, on none to steady
legs, and started on their two mile tramp back to town. As they neared
the scene of the day's labors, many an uneasy glance was cast towards
the spot. Suddenly a cry of terror pierced the air and two of the
men started off on a mad race for the town "to procure assistance"
as they afterwards said. They were traveling on an express schedule
and did not have time to notice, until they were safely bestowed in
their favorite tavern, that their comrade was not with them. Then
they told their story---a story in which ghost, hob-goblins and other
uncanny things were conspicuous. Their listeners were conscious of
curious, tingling sensations in their spinal columns at times, and
many an apprehensive look was cast toward the door, as though the
advent of one of these supernatural beings was momentarily expected.
All sorts of conjectures were made and scores of explanations were
advanced to solve the mystery, but no one suggested such a thing as
a relief expedition to locate the missing man.
In the morning,
with a good sized mob at their heels, our two laborers started toward
the scene of their adventures of the previous day. Not a sign of their
missing comrade did they see until they arrived nearly opposite the
now dreaded mound. Then one of them spied a body huddled in a pitiful
heap, in the bottom of a dry ditch to the right of the road. All felt
a curious lump rise in their throats, conversation ceased, and slowly
the men walked toward the body. As they came nearer they could see
bloody marks on the face, and dark spots, presumably of the same material,
on the shirt of the victim, as well as scattered on the stones that
line the ditch. Reverently, two of the crowd bent over to lift the
corpse from the ditch when "the corpse" with a sleepy movement,
gave vent to an eighteen horse-power snore. The hands that had been
stretched out in reverence to lift the remains now roughly grasped
and shook the sleeper, until at last, with a vexed look, the man sat
up and blinked at his audience. Then came the prize ghost story of
the week, running something after this fashion:--Hans, lets us call
him since his real name is unknown, was troubled by a badly behaved
boot and had stopped to argue awhile with the offender, expecting
to overtake his companions. While engaged in softly cussing the refractory
boot, her was terror-stricken to see a skeleton of a man, at least
ten feet tall, approaching him. In its bony hand it held a club, heavy
enough to brain an ox, while its bones had a most disconcerting way
of rattling at every step. Hans could feel his blood fairly turn to
ice in his veins. He tried to cry out, but he had for the moment lost
the use of his vocal organs. Rapidly the skeleton approached until
it stood towering over the luckless Hans. The massive war club was
raised, and frantically the Dutchman began to drag a forgotten prayer
from some unused corner of his memory. Then the club started on its
downward journey towards Hans' head. He remembered the sudden return
of his vocal powers, attested by a scream, and then everything was
a blank. This was Hans' story.
Thence forward
Hans was a hero indeed. Children would run before him with gaping
mouths. The "fraus" and "burgers" pointed him
out to each other and to visitors as one of the sights of the old
Dutch town. Again and again the story was told, each telling added
a little to the stature of the ghost and to the reputation of our
hero as well. We are told that Hans lived to a ripe old age, and that
on his deathbed he solemnly assured the folks who had gathered round,
that the skeleton was fully twenty feet tall.
Scoffers will
say that Hans took too much gin to know whether he really saw the
skeleton or not, and will throw out vile insinuations about the creditability
of our hero. For people of this ilk we have nothing but scorn, and
so will not give them satisfaction of an argument. We will say, however,
that Ian Van Huysen, a farm hand, employed on the next farm beyond
Mr. Van Eps' place, had put himself on record as seeing a skull grinning
at him from among the pines just back of the place where the mysterious
mound had stood. Ian had come to town on a couple of errands and had
fallen in with a couple of cronies from Albany. The three had then
adjourned to a tavern on Frog Alley, and it was late before they had
finished telling their troubles to each other. They may have staggered
a little as they parted, Ian may have been slightly intoxicated, but
that does not prove anything, as we all know how much better we can
see some things after a session at the altar of Bacchus. And what
is more, no self-respecting, God-fearing Dutchman would think of seeing
a ghost, unless he---meaning the Dutchman, of course---had a fair
sized cargo aboard.
Nor is Ian the
only one to corroborate Hans' story. Many a stout Rotterdam farmer,
returning from a protracted "errand" in town, has seen suspicious
things in the vicinity of neighbor Van Eps' new barn, and with bated
breath has told the story to a waiting wife. The story may have acted
to prevent severe tongue lashing, but no one would think of accusing
these pious deacons of manufacturing these stories just to amuse their
wives, and to stave off a flood of flood of feminine eloquence.---Oh
my! No.
To those who still
doubt, even in the face of this mass of proof, we suggest the following
"personal" treatment:----Get a bottle of Holland gin---this
can be procured at several places in Schenectady---and, well it's
none of our business what you do with it, but just as a sort of suggestion
we might say that gin was never meant for external use. Then just
at nightfall take the road that leads along the north side of the
canal, towards the pumping station. After the last electric light
has been passed, you will notice on your left a range of low hills.
Then watch closely, for just before you arrive at the old Schermerhorn
farm you are passing over the Van Eps place and are close to location
of the mound. Take a firm grip on your courage and turning to the
left, slowly approach the hills. The wind will be whispering in the
pines, and the moonlight will be weaving most fantastic pictures on
the needle-carpeted ground and then, if you do not see the skeleton,
there was something the matter with your gin.
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