21. Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Fourteen years ago…
The chill and the river’s sharp winds settled into Willem’s bones as he dug into the cold ground.
It was warmer than most late October days, but his borrowed uniform from a dead man twice his size did nothing to protect him from the elements.
Sweat stung his eyes, and he wiped them away with grimy hands.
Men of various ages dug trenches around the camp’s perimeter under their commander's orders. Dried cornstalks were piled to create a makeshift, low barrier against the British advancing on them. Somehow, they expected the withered stalks to defend them. Willem’s heart pounded with dread.
Johannes dug next to him; the rhythm of his shovel never slowed. Every so often, he’d flash Willem a smile.
“Don’t lose heart,” Johannes said, flinging the dirt over effortlessly. “Remember what we fight for. For me, it’s my sister.”
Willem swallowed at the mention of Katrina, the girl with golden hair and bright, crystal eyes he’d watched from the window for years.
He caught glimpses of her smile and grew entranced by her infectious spirit.
One day, if he survived, he wished to meet her properly for the first time. Maybe they could become friends.
“Who do you fight for?” Johannes asked.
“My family, I suppose,” he replied.
“See? That’s a noble cause. Keep fighting for them. Fight for our natural-born rights.”
Willem couldn’t understand where Johannes summoned his energy. For a sixteen-year-old, he fought with strength and skill in battle that could compete with any seasoned soldier, but his optimism shone the brightest.
Johannes’s aim was impeccable within one hundred yards, and Willem envied how he could effortlessly reload his musket at breakneck speed in twenty seconds.
The task was always too complex for Willem, as his fingers would fumble when pouring the gunpowder into the flash pan.
While it took the average militiaman twenty-five to forty seconds per shot to reload, Willem took nearly a minute.
The other soldiers lost patience with him, especially when he needed to catch his breath because of his lingering illness. But Johannes had put his arms around his shoulders and helped him practice the motions.
“It’s all right, Willem,” Johannes would say. “You’re young. Younger than what is rightfully allowed in the army, so I admire your courage. I’ll be at your side. We men of Sleepy Hollow must stick together.”
However, Willem didn’t understand how Johannes could keep his spirits up after their skirmish in Harlem Heights.
Willem wasn’t the only one feeling discouraged from being pushed back by the Redcoats.
Yet, despite this, officers circulated among the ranks, encouraging all the men to stand firm and maintain their courage.
Most of them had regained their morale, but Willem was starting to contemplate whether this war would be worth it.
Fear struck deep in his soul. He’d nearly lost his life in previous battles and only survived by sheer luck. The creeping terror loomed over him that he’d never return home—he’d never prove himself to his father.
And if he did, he’d be changed forever. Too many men fell before his eyes. Their lifeless eyes and screams echoed in his mind. The blood, the smoke, and the deafening cannon fire haunted what little sleep he had.
Every nerve fired under his skin as he dug. They had camped on high ground, and he hoped it would be enough to slow down the British.
“Cheer up, Willem,” Johannes said, somehow able to sense his fear. “We’re holding our positions here, and soon enough, we’ll send those Redcoats back to the sea.”
Willem laughed a weak, hollow sound.
Johannes paused shoveling and approached him, putting an arm around his shoulder. “Now, no matter what happens,” Johannes said, “I’ll have your back—no need to worry. I’ll be here for you.”
The air was filled with the smoke of cannons and musket fire.
Blinded, Willem’s heart pounded out of his chest as he sought shelter behind the flimsy barrier, every part of his body frozen to the cold ground.
His musket trembled in his useless hands.
Everywhere around him, the echoes of gunshots and the acrid smell of metal overwhelmed his senses.
The British fiercely advanced upon them once, twice, and now a third time.
All around him, the men fought back just as valiantly, but he sat shivering like a lost child. Another deafening blast rang through the ranks. Willem pitched forward onto his stomach, his ears ringing. Marching footsteps counted the ticking seconds he had left of his life. The Redcoats were coming.
They were so close.
“Willem!” Johannes screamed. He darted from cover, wrestling with Willem to get him to safer ground. Together, they stumbled back, but the sight of a musket appeared over the barrier.
A crack as loud as thunder ripped through the air. Johannes jerked. Willem stared wide-eyed as his friend’s body collapsed in a heap. Smoke filled Willem’s vision, but the gunfire and screams distorted into a faint hum in the back of his mind.
Johannes groaned beside him. Willem’s sight blurred with tears as he stared wide-eyed at the red stain that bloomed beneath Johannes’s uniform.
Willem’s breath hitched. His hands flew to the wound, trying and failing to keep the blood from spilling.
“No, no, no,” he pleaded.
Bayonets sliced above, but a comrade pushed the British soldier back. Willem didn’t flinch; his attention glued to his friend.
Johannes’s lids fluttered, his voice a faint rasp. “Watch over her… Tell Katrina… I love her.”
Then, Johannes’s eyes shut. His body grew limp in Willem’s arms.
Horror seized him. His mind stuttered, his mouth parted until another musket fire blared past him. Whimpering, Willem scrambled back as a bayonet stabbed into the ground where he once lay.
Twisting around, he stumbled to his feet. Screams rose in the air. The sound of clomping hooves vibrated through the ground.
“Hessians!” a soldier yelled.
The fearsome Hesse-Cassel mercenaries charged from the right, their swords raised on horseback.
His commander called above the chaos, ordering the men to counterattack. Instead, Willem dropped his musket and sprinted. His feet carried him away from the slaughter, from the only friend he’d ever had. Terror drove him, screaming at him to survive.
A brittle cough squeezed his lungs, but he kept moving.
The air burned his throat, punishing him for his exertion.
Gunshots continued to roar, and one shot sprayed the dirt at his feet.
Willem’s breath heaved, begging him to rest. In the chaos, a riderless horse trotted ahead of him, its saddle still secure.
Without a second thought, Willem scampered toward the animal.
Tears burned his eyes as he hauled himself up.
He seized the reins and urged the horse to run from the booming gunfire and the war he could no longer face.
As the wind tore through his hair, one thought crept into his mind, echoing a truth that would haunt him forever.
Johannes was dead, and it was all his fault.