Chapter 1
A Watchful Eye
Caw! Caw! Caw! Chirped a large crow. Perched high in a birch tree was an elderly, black yard bird. The bird’s purpose appeared to be both lookout sentry and tattle tale. Its blinking watchful eyes were fixed on a well-traveled dirt road. Lining the dirt road was a thicket of spiny mulberry bushes and tall green grasses.
The year was 1789. It was a pleasant afternoon in southeastern Connecticut’s Nehantic Forest. Mild northeastern temperatures and low humidity made this particular wooded path enchantingly agreeable to even the shrewdest of business men, especially the wealthy Dutch land merchant, Stephen Van der Holland. Van der Holland was the largest tobacco grower and land owner in both the state of New York and Connecticut. In stature Van der Holland was short, round, and overly stuffed. Aged and dry-looking, the years of over-indulgence in both wine and women had aged him much beyond his actual years.
Connecticut’s late springtime terrain was blossomy and beautiful this time of year. The state’s landscape was divided into two sections, the Uplands and the Lowlands. The Uplands mainly consisted of rolling hills, rounded low mountains, and low ridges. The ridges were separated by narrow valleys. East of these grounds was an area called the Seaboard lowland. This topography became smoother and sloped softly toward the sea. Then there were the Connecticut lowlands. They were relatively flat. They extended from what is now known today as the territory of Massachusetts. Forest, mainly in the uplands, covered about two-thirds of the state. Dotted within the forests were lovely small towns with tall, white church steeples, sparkling quiet lakes, and spacious green commons.
Accommodating Van der Holland within the lowland territory were two women half his age. They sang, drank, and laughed loudly as they ventured deeper into the forest.
Caw! Caw! Caw! Chirped the crow.
“Shut up!” Van der Holland shouted to the bird.
Caw! Caw! Caw! The bird chirped once more.
“I said shut up,” Van der Holland shouted to the crow. He then picked up a stone and threw it at the bird. “Now shut up!”
Each frolic was accommodated by laughter and incitement from his two mistresses. They, too, joined in on the gaiety. The crow was undisturbed by their actions. The bird sat there as if as though it was saying, you’ll get yours. Just wait and see.
“Let’s us go on a hidden escapade,” said one of his female companions. She broke free from party. Giggly and bubbly, she disappeared in the high grass.
“Let her go on. Let’s you and I go off and have some real fun of our own,” Van der Holland said in a cunning voice to his remaining companion. Arm in arm they wondered off in the opposite direction. They settled at the northern tip of Powers Lake, a shiny, pristine lake that was fed by an extended artery of the Long Island Sound.
She laid down in the tall grass and withdrew a metal flask from her bosom.
“Jilly, you naughty girl,” Van der Holland said as he plopped down beside her. Together they drank from the metal flask. He then tossed the flask aside and climbed on top of her.
There suddenly was a scrambling within the forest. Squirrels, rabbits and large turkey birds scurried for shelter.
“What was that?” Asked Jilly, his female companion.
“What was what?” Van der Holland asked in between kisses to her neck and breast.
“Amber, is that you?” She called out. “Amber?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said in between kisses. “Amber is probably playing a prank on us. Come on. I’ve waited long enough.”
They then heard the swift galloping of an approaching horse. Accommodating the dashing sounds were the snuffling and snorting of the approaching horse.
“Who is that?” Van der Holland asked quietly. He slowly rolled off of his female companion. “Amber, is that you? Amber?”
Suddenly, the galloping stopped.
“That can’t be Amber. She doesn’t have a horse,” he said to his female friend. “We walked down here.” He carefully inspected the forest. He then called out, “Who goes there?”
A hush fell over the forest. Van der Holland slowly made it to his feet. He fastened his pants and cautiously scanned the forest around him.
“Maybe they’re gone,” Van der Holland said to Jilly. As he continued to scan the forest for visitors, he noticed the blinking crow looked down on them. Watchful as ever, their eyes locked into one another.
Caw! Caw! Caw! Chirped the crow.
“Get a life,” Van der Holland quietly said to the crow.
The galloping started up again. Van der Holland fixed his eyes on the forest directly ahead of him. Charging through the thickets, on a horse three shades darker than midnight, was an individual of mammoth portions. He, too, was dressed completely in black.
“What the hell?” Van der Holland said to himself. “Run! It’s the Pointed Stickman!” He shouted to Jilly.
She scrambled to her feet, collected her dress, and ran barefooted through the forest. Van der Holland stood petrified. Wide-eyed, scared, and unable to move, he urinated on himself. The urine flowed steadily down his pants legs and onto his boots.
As the Lancer swiftly rode upon Van der Holland, Van der Holland screamed. The Pointed Stickman held forward his lance and delivered an accurate and penetrating blow to Van der Holland’s chest. With Van der Holland’s body still attached to his lance, the Pointed Stickman celebrated his attack by revving up his horse on its hind legs.
Jilly ran into Amber. Amber covered Jilly’s mouth and said, “shhhhh.” Shaking and scared, Jilly did as Amber commanded.
The Lancer settled his horse. With Van der Holland’s body still attached his to lance, he rode off into the forest.
Before departing the crow looked down at the two women. It blinked and chirped, Caw! Caw! Caw! It then flew off behind the Lancer.
Chapter 2
The Pointed Stickman
The Connecticut riding show was an annual spring time event. It was for both recruitment and show-off entertainment. The crowded, annual event was also a celebration of the upcoming growing season. Participants came from the surrounding twelve U.S. colonies. Many of the participants were champion horse riders and farmers. Others were educated men of sport. Such was the case with Dante Cicero.
Dante Cicero was an interesting young lad. Born of privilege, mixed heritage, he was educated as a lawyer and practiced in both New York and Connecticut. His recent admittance to the Bar Association allowed him to create a gracious lifestyle for himself. But more importantly, horseback riding was his passionate sport.
“Up next, we have the young rider from Hartford, Dante Cicero,” broadcasted the stadium announcer.
Dante was a dashing young man with an athletic build. Broad shoulders, a v-shaped torso, chiseled facial features, and a smooth, flawless complexion all added to his electrifying presence and persona.
Dante mounted his beautiful, bronze-colored horse, Phoenix, and rode to the edge of the ring. He signaled his readiness to the announcer and held on tightly to Phoenix’s reigns. “Let’s go, boy. Let’s give them a true show-stopper’s performance. You know the routine,” he said to his horse.
He was given the okay from the announcer.
Dante started Phoenix into a rapid gallop. Midway in the ring Dante preformed a head-stand on Phoenix’s back. He then dazzled the audience by converting his head-stand into a hand-stand. The crowd cheered wildly. As Phoenix made his first turn in the ring, Dante twirled himself several times on Phoenix’s back. He then flipped himself from Phoenix’s back and ran swiftly alongside of the horse. He flipped himself back and forth across Phoenix’s back.
The crowd waved their handkerchiefs in a cheering delight. The judges table was overcome by a wildly cheering audience. Dante decided to give the crowd a real treat for its money. Again, he rode Phoenix into a swift gallop. To the crowd’s awe-struck amazement, he stunned them by performing several forward-moving cartwheels alongside of Phoenix. He then slid underneath Phoenix’s belly and performed the same amount of forward-moving cartwheels. As he rode closer to the judges’ stand, with great dexterity, he rhythmically dismounted from Phoenix and slid on his knees before the judges.
To his support, the crowd let go loud cheers and screams of enthusiasm. Wildly waving handkerchiefs wiggled deliriously in the air. Dante bowed before the judges and made his way to the bull-pin section. He was immediately approached by a tall, stone-like gentleman.
“Dante Cicero, you rode magnificently,” said the gentleman. “Sir, the Lord Magistrate would like to have a word with you.”
“Now?” Dante responded.
“Yes, sir.”
“It can’t wait?” He asked the gentleman.
“Sir, this is of the utmost importance.”
“Well in that case, I guess I should go and meet with him. Take me to your leader.” Dante stomped the dirt from his boots and followed the tall, lanky gentleman. He followed him to a heavily-guarded opened-face tent.
“My lord, I introduce to you young counselor Dante Cicero. Counselor Cicero, this is Chief Justice John Harris.”
“Please be seated, counselor,” announced the Lord Magistrate. “I suppose you are wondering why I have invited you?”
“Was it my riding?”
“In part, yes. You do give a very entertaining performance. Counselor, I would like for you to investigate a string of murders in one of our eastern townships.”
“Why me?” Dante asked the Lord Magistrate.
“Let’s just say, you’ve got friends in high places. I’ve been asked to appoint you as investigating prosecutor for the southern districts of New York and Connecticut. There have been a string of murders there. Furthermore, as you may or may not know, President Washington is seriously considering appointing the gentleman from New York; I believe his name is…”
“The charming and intelligent Alexander Hamilton,” answered the tall, stone-like gentleman.
“Ah yes, Alexander Hamilton as the nation’s first Secretary of the Treasury. What if we could pull it off to get you the cabinet position instead of Hamilton?”
“Hamilton is pretty popular in New York. He served as General Washington’s confidential secretary and aide during the war years. Why would President Washington pick me over Hamilton?” Asked Dante.
“There are twelve colonies. He needs to carry Connecticut for reelection purposes. You are popular with the common man. You speak his language; you understand his issues. And more importantly, you understand the laws and etiquette of the Federalist.”
“I don’t know about all of that. I just believe in treating all men equally.”
“Exactly! That is why I want to submit your name to the President.”
“Tell me more about these murders.”
“Several years back, actually 180 years ago, the English explorer, Henry Hudson, was hired by the Dutch East India Company to explore the northwest passage. In September of the same year, Hudson entered New York harbor and sailed north up the river. Unfortunately, winter had set in early that year. Heavy snow and ice fell on much of the region. He and his men made camp for the winter in one of the caves. Something of great value was discovered. Unfortunately for Hudson, some of his men decided to turn mutinous. They made maps of the valued discovery and set Hudson, his son, and a few loyal followers adrift in the icy bay. To this day, the fate of Hudson remains a mystery.”
“So what’s the connection?” Asked Dante.
“There is a rumor. One of the mutineers was a Portuguese explorer name Pablo Figarora. Unfortunately for Figarora, there was no honor among thieves. To make matters worst, the Portuguese lost its world trade monopoly and was replaced as master of Commerce between Europe and the East Indies trade. As I said, there was no honor among thieve. Supposedly, the mutineers turned against Figarora and burnt out his eyes. They then left him stranded in a cave somewhere in New York. Every spring, for the last 5 years, he has returned. The locals call him the Pointed Stickman because he rides with a pointed lance.”
“This is a joke, yes?”
“Counselor, I’m not smiling,” said the Lord Magistrate. “I want these murders to stop. The conquistador supposedly is an excellent horseman and a celebrated lancer.”
“Ooooooh. I see. You want me to go heads up with this pointed stickman?”
“We want you to catch a murderer. If this lancer, the Pointed Stickman, does exist, it’ll take someone with great riding abilities to catch him.”
“Is this lancer some kind of ghost?”
“We don’t know what the Stickman is. We don’t know if someone’s playing a sick prank or what. We just want him or it caught.”
“Well, I don’t know if I want the cabinet position but to catch the Pointed Stickman would be an interesting endeavor.”
“If he exists,” said the Lord Magistrate.
“Yes, if he exists. I’ll take the assignment. How soon do you want me to leave?”
“First thing in the morning. Good luck, Counselor. I’m sure you’re the right man for the job. The chief counselor in Yonkers will be expecting you.”
Chapter 3
A Feathered Nemesis
The quaint village of Yonkers, New York was a pleasant little township. Picturesque views of rolling hills and charming, white, diminutive, little houses dotted the surrounding landscape. Outside of the central township, cattle and dairy farms blanketed the vast countryside. Geometrically, the township itself was characterized by tall pine grooves, white-washed stone walls, and beautiful green look-offs. Yonkers, like many of the New England territories, was auctioned off during the early 1700's and settled shortly afterwards.
Dante Cicero led Phoenix down an abandoned, dark trapping trail just outside of town. They settled at a gently-rolling, deep-water brook within a tall, cathedral pine grove. Phoenix began to drink. As Dante stood next to Phoenix, he noticed an odd-looking bird perched high on a branch.
The bird blinked several times and yelled, Caw! Caw! Caw!
Dante ignored the bird.
Again the bird yelled, Caw! Caw! Caw!
Dante then heard the galloping footsteps of an approaching horse. He made his way close to Phoenix. He waited to see what was to come. The footsteps suddenly stopped. A stillness overcame the trapping grounds. Dante said nothing. He hid himself out of sight from the signifying bird.
The bird decided to reposition itself. It flew overhead and circled Phoenix. It then landed on the ground and began to walk around Phoenix. It was unable to locate young counselor Cicero. Caw! Caw! Caw! Shouted the crow. The galloping restarted. The approaching horse rushed past Phoenix and dissipated within the forest. The bird flew off with the vanishing foot steps.
Dante resurfaced from the deep-water brook. Soaking wet, he caught his breathe by resting on a fallen tree log. He then took off his boots and poured the water out onto the pine-covered surface.
Snap! He heard the quick-release of a fur trap. He immediately donned his boots and leaped onto Phoenix. “Let’s go, Phoenix!” He shouted. Behind him, the swiftly galloping horse steps had restarted.
Caw! Caw! Caw! Shouted the bird.
The chase was on. Dante rode Phoenix fast and furiously. The Stickman followed suit. Dante hurdled fallen logs, maneuvered around sharp turns, and avoided low, overhanging branches.
Swiftly riding up Dante’s rear was the Stickman. Held out before him was his long-handle, shiny lance. Its point reflected the constant, shimmering glints of the sun. It was aimed directly at Dante’s back.
Flying ahead of the Stickman, serving as both radar and lookout, was the large, black crow. It maintained speed and remained slightly behind Dante.
They were now in high-grass, open field territory. Dante realized that he would not be able to out-run the Stickman. Hearing the rapidly-approaching hooves just a few feet away, Dante jerked on Phoenix’s reigns and lie down flat on Phoenix’s back. With a petting signal to Phoenix’s neck, Dante ordered Phoenix to immediately drop his head. All in one motion, Phoenix came to a skidding stop and immediately lowered his head. As the forward momentum slid Dante down Phoenix’s neck, toward the ground surface, the Stickman’s lance raced over Dante’s sliding body.
The Stickman charged past them. So did the crow. Dante quickly leaped onto his horse and began to swiftly ride in the opposite direction. The crow and the Stickman followed suit.
Dante rode into the heavily wooded section of the forest. Again, he leaped over fallen logs, dashed up steep hills, and splashed through cold water creeks. The crow and the Pointed Stickman were once again gaining on them. Within a matter of minutes, the Stickman was directly behind them.
Caw! Caw! Caw! Shouted the crow.
As Dante rode underneath several low, overhanging branches, he reached up and held onto several branches until he and Phoenix rode by. This gave the branches a tail-whipping action in the direction of the Stickman. The Stickman avoided the tail-whipping branches by ducking rhythmically underneath. As Dante headed toward the open field, he spotted an elongated, overhanging branch from an aging pine tree. He headed for the branch.
The Stickman’s lance was now a few feet away Dante’s back. As Dante approached the aging branch, he reached up and performed a gymnastic flip. At his 180 degree mark, the Stickman’s riding position was underneath the branch. At the 270 degree mark, Dante’s feet met with the Stickman’s back. He kicked the Stickman from his horse and held onto the branch. He whistled for Phoenix to return.
The kick caused the Stickman to lose his lance and tumble from his horse. The Stickman plummeted into a thorny collection of bushes.
Dante dropped down onto Phoenix’s swiftly-moving back. Perched high up on a branch was the ever-present, black crow. Dante and his feathered nemesis made direct eye contact. “We’ll meet again,” Dante said to the crow. He and Phoenix rode off toward the township of Yonkers, New York.
Chapter 4
Ceaseless Misbehavior
The local sentry station was originally commissioned to maintain good relations with the local Indians of the region, the Mohawks. However, with the ceaseless misbehavior of the Pointed Stickman, all efforts were focused on catching this opponent of hideous misconduct.
Dante spent the night at the local lodge, The Stonecreek Inn. Stonecreek was a cozy little inn. Its exterior make-up displayed its spirit for both elegance and simplicity. Its simplicity was intended to never impose anyone or anything. Blue shutters, up against white side paneling, underneath a blue-tiled roof, represented the lodge’s homespun temperament. Its interior was equally as homey. Colonial furnishings and baked glassware were articulately arranged throughout the lodge. In the center of the lodge was its tall, bed-rock fireplace. A blazing fire burned continuously, from early autumn till late spring.
Enriched by the success of the region, many of the would-be travelers would enjoy the sharp contrast between what was old and what was new. America was a rapidly changing country, politically and otherwise. Its constant and ever-changing concepts were driven by freedom, freedom to worship, freedom to obtain wealth, freedom to be land owners, and freedom of creativity. The inherited charm of the lodge represented that freedom of creativity. Brewed beer, along with a never-ending blanket of wild flowers, made this lodge a true treat for the senses.
Fully dressed, Dante collected his warm boots from in front of the fireplace and made his way outside to his horse, Phoenix. He rode to the area’s chief counselor’s office. He exited his horse and tied it to a post. Waiting anxiously for him was a collection of elderly gentlemen.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling, rang the medal door bell as Dante entered the office.
“Hello. My name is Dante Cicero. I am looking for...”
“Counselor Dante, we’ve been expecting you. How was your journey to Yonkers?” An elderly gentleman asked as he shook Dante’s hand.
“It was interesting, to say the least. Just outside of town I was introduced to the Pointed Stickman.”
“So soon?”
“I guess he doesn’t welcome my presence.”
“Well we do,” said the elderly gentleman. “Sir, my name is Emile Duveneck. I am the chief counselor for the southeastern district. Over here is John Van Zeeland, colonial agent for the Dutch West India Company and real estate auctioning agent for the region. He controls the land rights for the commonwealth of New York and Connecticut, formally known as New Netherlands. Here we have William Luxenberger. He is the duty port, maritime agent, and tax collector for the region.”
“Good morning gentlemen,” greeted Dante.
“Counselor, please be seated,” said William Luxenberger.
“Thank you,” said Dante. He took a seat directly across from the three gentlemen. “So, how can the Connecticut magistrate’s office help you gentlemen?”
“We need your help in catching the Pointed Stickman,” answered Duveneck.
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing’s documented. It’s all rumored,” Duveneck answered. “Rumor has it he was a Portuguese explorer who turned mutineer on the Henry Hudson expedition.”
“But he wasn’t the only mutineer,” Dante said.
“No, he wasn’t. Interestingly enough, eight of the mutineers made it back to Europe, “offered Van Zeeland. “Upon their returned to England, they were spared execution by way of hanging.”
“Why?” Asked Dante.
“Because of their valued knowledge of the New World and a valuable discovery,” answered Van Zeeland.
“Which was?”
“To this day, we don’t know,” answered Duveneck.
“What about the Stickman’s most-recent victim?” Dante asked them.
“Stephen Van der Holland, a very dear man,” answered Luxenberger. “He was my newly acquired partner within the tobacco industry. He acquired the land and I provided the maritime ships to Europe. Tobacco is new to Europe and is becoming extremely profitable.”
“Here, here,” said John Van Zeeland.
“Do you gentlemen fear that you’re on the Stickman’s execution list?”
“We don’t know. The problem is, we know neither his motives nor his next place of attack,” answered Luxenberger.
“I understand,” said Dante. “What’s missing from the puzzle is, why would someone, or something from one hundred and eighty years ago, resurface now? What is he after? Also, during my encounter with the Stickman, there was an ever-present crow. Any ideas?”
“Maybe I can shed some light on that,” Duveneck rebutted. “What we do know is that when the mutineers attempted to sail down the river, some where killed by Indians and others died of exposure to the severe cold weather. The legend goes, one of the mutineers was a Portuguese conquistador named Pablo Figarora. Unfortunately, after his eyes were burnt out, he was left to die alone. While alone in the cave, he was befriended by …”
“The crow.” Dante responded.
“Yes, the crow,” answered Duveneck.
“Interesting. Well gentlemen, we most certainly have our hands full,” said Dante.
“Where did you run into the Stickman?” Asked Van Zeeland.
“Just outside of town in a pine grove.”
“The cathedral section of the forest?” Asked Luxenberger.
“I guess. Why?”
“The Stickman stalked Van der Holland in the Nehantic Forest,” answered Luxenberger. “He has expanded his territory.”
“I’ll catch him,” said Dante.
“How? What is your plan?’ Asked Duveneck.
“First we need to know what it is he’s after.”
“How do you intend to do that? Do you plan to have a conversation with the Stickman? Asked Van Zeeland.
Dante smiled and said, “No, I plan to steal his horse. Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure. From this moment forward, I request that you keep all information private and confidential on this matter.”
“Counselor, our lips are sealed,” concluded the chief counselor.
Book release date: September 25, 2004