Men sat with their shoulders hunched, mouths twisted in a scowl, drowning their aggravation in their cups of ale. They voiced their demand for more territory in Canada, making their burning desire to stomp England’s army and send her packing clear without question. The downturn in our economy since trade was blocked by the British, beginning with the Napoleonic Wars, followed by Jefferson’s Embargo, still stung. Five minutes in the tavern and it was as if I had stepped into an angry beehive. Not a place to help me ease my tension that had me strung tight, ready to snap. I itched to go back outside and fire my musket until there was nothing left to shoot.
The tavern keeper asked an older man beside me to pay his tab. The farmer shrugged. “I’ve nothing but homespun and honey in my coffers, thanks to this war. It’s no wonder people are turning to smuggling. I can give you a great big jug of honey, John.”
The innkeeper shook his head, eyes dark. “I understand why smuggling has become so prosperous so many in New York and Vermont. Maybe that is what I will need to do to get through this conflict. Honey is not enough, Samuel. What more can you give me?” Haggling continued, their argument raising in volume and in pitch until a battle threatened to break out here in the midst of the theater of war that was around us.
In all my thirty-two years, it was as if war was the only thing I knew. Singing in my veins. Humming in my ear. Blowing through my soul. I took a long swallow of my ale. Keep it going at this rate and you’ll be under the table.
A burst of light temporarily blinded me as the door swung open, the full blast of the sunset illuminating the entire tavern. Darkness was restored when it swung shut. I blinked to make the spots in my eyes go away as William, my mother’s father, stepped inside with his son, George. They brought an inner glow with them, one that had been passed on to my mother. I welcomed it to dispel my bad mood.
“How goes your day, Nephew?” George nudged me in the ribs as he pulled up a chair beside me, his mouth quirked in a wicked grin. My uncle from my grandfather’s second marriage was actually four years younger than I was and found his title to be quite humorous. My grandmother on my mother’s side had died in childbirth, leaving my grandfather and mother on their own. William did not remarry until my mother married Jacob and took up a home of her own.
“The same as always.” I drained my tankard and held it up for a refill. The tavern keeper filled it, handing off two more to the new arrivals. “How about yours?”
George shrugged, hair like sun-ripened wheat falling into eyes like my mother’s. One sip of his beer and he swiped his sleeve across his lip, but not before I saw his grimace. “The same as yesterday and the day before—and a string of days like all the others. Baking in that Hades of a smithy when I should be out joining the fight!” His tankard came down hard on the table, catching my grandfather’s attention.
William Ross was a gentle giant of a man, tall and of a sturdy build, his muscles hardened by his many years as a blacksmith. His hair had turned snowy, his face lined with wrinkles, but his golden eyes, passed on to both his children, were still untarnished by age. My grandfather rested his palm on the back of his youngest child’s head. “I know you long to join the cause, young pups, and cast yourselves into the fray, but you are needed here. Your time will come.”
Jacob tapped his tankard against my grandfather’s. “How is your Patience?”
William took a long draw of his ale and sighed in contentment. “A blessing as always and long-suffering to put up with the likes of me.”
Nothing could be further from truth regarding the latter. My grandfather was one of the kindest, most honorable men I had ever encountered. He knew the secret about my true father. He considered all of us to be gifts beyond measure in his life. My mother. His son. His wife. Jacob. Me. He made sure to tell me so, often. His love and steadfast presence had been another brick on the solid foundation formed by my parents. If I knew one thing in the midst of all the turmoil in my life, I was loved.
Small consolation when I was surrounded by a mob of men becoming drunker by the minute. Tempers were flaring higher. Let a few more hours pass, and fists would be flying. I had no stomach for it. I didn’t even finish my ale. I stood up and laid my coins on the table. “I have had enough.”
Jacob joined me. “Your mother will be waiting on us for supper and I can see that you are tired.” My stepfather’s head bowed. “As am I. I bid you all a good night. Send Patience our kind regards, William, George.”
We stepped out into darkness. Flintlock and Smoothbore, our pair of black horses, waited to carry us home. I tried to empty my mind and take pleasure in the ride, the peaceful countryside, the fact that the man I admired most in the world was by my side. It helped some to ease the aching inside me. The all-consuming need to follow in my father’s footsteps.
Jacob held his tongue as we meandered through the woods to the house he’d built for my mother shortly before my birth, lost in his own thoughts. He pulled on the reins and grew still as our homestead came into sight. “God, but she is beautiful.”
My mother sat on the steps of the porch, bathed in moonlight, her skin and hair turned to silver in its pale glow. At the sight of us, she stood slowly and walked down the steps, closing the gap. She held her head high, her shoulders and back straight, unbent by the passage of time. At fifty-four, Charlotte Elizabeth Ross was a wonder to behold. I understood why two men fell head over heels for her. We both dismounted as she joined us, stepping forward to accept our greetings.
She embraced my stepfather first, her head tilting as she took his kiss. For a moment, time stopped. I held my breath. What I wouldn’t give to have a woman touch me, feel for me the way she did for Jacob.
“How are my men?” The musical sound of her voice made my stepfather smile.
“Quite well since we have you waiting for us at home.” He bent his head and inhaled deeply. “Mmm. You have made something incredible. I can smell the scents of your kitchen in your hair and dress. You are making me hungry.” His stomach rumbled, making them both laugh softly.
I turned to take the horses to the barn when a gentle touch grazed my shoulder. My mother stepped in front of me and pressed her palms to my face. Her forehead creased as she bit down on her lip. “My son, why is your spirit so heavy? I can see it in your eyes, in the way that you hold yourself. Your spark has been missing.”
I hugged her and kissed her cheek, unwilling to let her inspect me any closer. I was convinced. My mother could see inside my soul. “I am weary, that is all, Mother. You and Father go in. I will take care of the horses.”
She nodded and was joined by my stepfather. Hand in hand, they walked into the house, speaking softly, their heads tilted toward one another. I led our stallions to the barn to wipe them down, water, and feed them. When I was done, I stepped outside and gripped the fence of the corral, letting the roughened wood dig into my hands. I closed my eyes and cast my prayer to anyone who might be listening above, unable to shake the unease that had been with me for the past two years. I am ready. Let me be what I was meant to be. Let the seed of liberty planted by my father become a mighty oak, standing tall, bearing the full brunt of the tempest in the days to come.
My mother called, “Benjamin, come in and have tea. We will eat in a little while.” I took a deep breath and did as she bade me. I was met by the homey scents of whatever was simmering over the fireplace as she laid the table, the wood crackling and hissing, filling the room with a warm, soft light.
Jacob sat in his chair close to the flames, his hands laid out on his knees as he let his head hang low, drawing in the heat even though the day was warm. The gunsmith shop was wearing on him. Up with the dawn and working steadily with little time for a rest, his hands, arms, and back ached by the time night fell, sometimes fiercely.
My mother handed me a cup of tea and set another mug of steaming brew in my stepfather’s hands. “Hold on to that. It will loosen the knots in your fingers” She stood behind him and began to knead at the tightened ropes of m
uscle standing up against his shirt. Up and down his back, to his shoulders, ending with his neck.
He sighed. “Woman, what you do to me. Do it much longer and you will embarrass our son.”
I snorted in my tea and nearly choked. “Do not let me get in your way. I can sleep in the barn.”
My mother squeezed my hand at that one and went back to the kitchen to prepare our meal. Her soft humming drifted our way, making my stepfather and me smile in spite of our worries or weariness. “Oh, Jacob, a courier stopped today with a letter from Nicholas.”
She slipped into the bedroom and returned with a paper that was ripped in places and spattered with mud, definitely showing wear and tear from the journey. Jacob took my mother’s hand and kissed it as his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “One would think this note had been through a war. Thank you, love.”
He cracked the seal and began to read eagerly, a line forming between his eyes as his mouth set in a grim line. I leaned in close, waiting for my turn. My stepfather usually shared anything sent from Nicholas Stoner, one of his oldest friends serving with the 29th Regiment in Plattsburgh since 1813. I considered the man to be the closest thing I had to an uncle.
Nicholas Stoner, or Old Nick as those who knew him best affectionately called him, was a colorful figure that had made his mark during the birth of our nation. He had fought at Saratoga and the Battle of Johnstown. He’d nearly died on the same field where Benedict Arnold was wounded, been a part of John Andre’s escort to the gallows, saw the surrender of the British in Yorktown, and witnessed their evacuation in ’eighty-three from New York Harbor alongside Colonel Marinus Willett. He bore many titles. Hunter. Outdoorsman. Guide. At the top of the list was patriot as he chose to take up the fight again when war came knocking on America’s door.
I did not like the way my stepfather’s shoulders hunched as if he was caving in on himself or how his jaw clenched until the muscles bulged as his eyes scanned the rumpled page. In one smooth movement he was out of his chair, storming out the door. My mother followed him with her gaze, fear creeping in as to what the missive might hold. Absently, she stirred the pot on the fire. I was sure Mama was more concerned about why the letter had stirred the flames of Jacob’s anger rather than what was cooking for dinner.
There was nothing for it but to face him head on. I stepped outside and found him in the barn, his head pressed to Smoothbore’s neck. His shoulders were tight. Lay another burden on his broad back, and it might snap. I cleared my throat. “What is it, Father?”
The crumpled paper was placed in my hand. I took a step closer to the oil lamp hanging in between the stalls and began to read. I could hear Nicholas’ voice in my ear. Never one to stand still for long, his tongue was always in a flurry of motion as well. This time, his words would have a bite.
***
20 June, 1814
Dear Jacob,
I write to you because I cannot trouble my Anna with my dark frame of mind. She is a strong woman, but she lost one love to war. I will not force her to contemplate the potential loss of another. It is with a heavy heart that I inform you my young brother, John, succumbed to illness at Sacket’s Harbor. Here in Plattsburgh, the rumbling of a major attack cannot be ignored. Word has it Prevost is gathering his forces to the north, like a thundercloud on the horizon, preparing to tower over us with some 15,000 soldiers, hardened from their fighting in the Napoleonic Wars. We are not ready.
General Izard has done everything within his power to whip this post into shape. When I came in with the 29th regiment, it was in shambles. The good general fortified the redoubts and the trenches, putting all of us to work to protect the town from an onslaught, but we are outnumbered by far with only 7500 or so and the secretary of war, John Armstrong, wants him to pull out, go to Sacket’s, a place I have no love for. I will stay here and face whatever comes. If Izard leaves us, we are doomed.
I am sorry that I do not have better tidings to share with you. The loss of my brother has hit hard. John weighs on my heart and mind. We need every able man that we can find to conquer the British—or we may fly the Union Jack once again. You are the closest thing I have to a brother now that John is gone. I pray you can join us, that we can hold them off. Before it is too late. Make haste, Jacob and bring any able-bodied man you can find.
Your Comrade in Arms,
Nicholas Stoner
***
I gripped my stepfather’s shoulder. “What will you do?”
For an instant, his face cracked. He pulled away, shook his head. “I cannot make that decision without talking to your mother first.”
Before my stepfather could turn away, I stepped in front of him to block his way. “You will go because you could not do otherwise—and I am going with you.”
He stared at the ground, his hands tightening into fists. Before I could say more, Jacob turned on his heel and left the barn, slamming the door behind him.
Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. Jacob barely touched his plate when he usually asked for seconds as a testament to my mother’s good cooking. His mood was contagious, spreading to all three of us. Apologetically, I pushed my plate aside, unable to meet Mama’s eye.
Frustrated, she tossed her fork down. “Tell me. What is it?”
Jacob stood and walked behind her, his hands coming down on her shoulders. Easing the blow before the fall? “Charlotte, love. It is time.”
She shot out of her chair, backing away. All the while, her gaze was locked on me. “No. No! I will not give you up, Jacob, not you too. I will not give up Benjamin!” My mother fled to the bedroom, another door slamming behind her. No matter how many doors we rammed shut, there was no escaping the inevitable.
My stepfather followed, stepping into the fray when most would retreat. That was the kind of man Jacob Cooper was, a man who had never stopped wearing the cloak of patriotism. He was sheathed in liberty when he fought for independence, continued to go boldly forward marrying my mother when my father fell in battle, knowing full well that she was with child. The spirit of freedom was tucked away beneath the homespun, ready to be pulled out again at a moment’s notice in our hour of greatest need.
“Charlotte, you knew. You knew that this would happen. We have held off fate for two years. Nicholas says circumstances to the north are dire. I must answer the call if I am to consider myself a man. A husband. A father. An American. I will not be a coward. As for Benjamin …”
His words trailed off. I strained to hear the rest even though I should have given them their privacy. My mother’s words spilled out just above a whisper. “He is his father’s child. Both of his fathers. Our legacy.” Her soft sobbing pushed me out the door.
The night was cool for early July, the relentless insects leaving me in peace for once. To soak in the quiet. To look back on my life. To contemplate the future. I knew better than most how uncertain the outcome of war could be, or life for that matter. I could not predict if I would return or if my stepfather would be by my side. The only choice I had was to hold on to this slip of time when our family was intact, together in the only home I had ever known.
The door opened and closed behind me, a heavy step echoing as it approached, heavier than it would usually be. My stepfather was dragging this evening, the burden of his decision weighing him down. He stopped at the railing and leaned his elbows on it, his chin tilting down. Too tired to even lift his head.
“How is she?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.
“Strong. Strong as the iron that your grandfather bends day after day, but your mother does not bend.” He looked over his shoulder to meet my eye. “Did she ever tell you about the day …”
“I dressed as a soldier?” My mother called out. The door creaked and clicked shut as she joined Jacob at the railing. “That is a story for another night, too long to tell right now. Just know I did it because I loved your father and grandfather. I would do it again if I thought I could make a difference.”
His hand came up to cup her cheek. �
��You always make a difference, my love. Your light is the beacon that guides me home every night and gives me hope every morning.” His voice choked, his face twisting at the battle from within. My stepfather was torn between loyalty to the cause and devotion to my mother. He gave her a swift kiss and strode off into the darkness, headed to the barn, in need of privacy.
Mama perched on the step beside me. The scent of her homemade soap, a blend of honey and wild flowers, surrounded me. I had known that scent all my life and it carried me back to my childhood. To lighter times and the joy of discovery in everything. My mother had made sure that my upbringing was a happy one, even if our lives had been marked by war and loss. She leaned forward with her chin resting on her palm, her eyes trained on the stars glittering brightly overhead. Countless beacons of light like the men heeding liberty’s call.
“What a fine night,” she murmured softly.
What a rare woman she is. I studied her in the moonlight, the fine lines of her high cheekbones, the glitter of her eyes, the proud tilt of her head. The signs of her crying were gone. She would face the future with courage, the only thing my mother knew how to do. Charlotte Ross Cooper had the strength born of an iron will. Fitting for the daughter of a blacksmith—and the American Revolution.
“It is a blessing.” I reached out and took her hand, threading her fingers with mine. To think that these hands, made rough with time and the labor of maintaining our homestead, had cradled me when I was but a babe.
“Like you.” Her thoughts must have been parallel with mine. She propped her head against my shoulder. A long, drawn-out breath escaped her. Mama’s voice was filled with an aching that pierced my heart. “I know that I should not mourn so about your leaving, that so many women have had to see their men go and much sooner than I. I have been selfish, keeping you close to me, trying to avoid the inevitable all these years. I should have let you make a home and family of your own long ago.”
Liberty's Legacy Page 3