Liberty's Legacy

by Heidi Sprouse

  I only too willingly joined them, walking in to my knees, dipping my hands in the chilly wetness, drinking my fill and more. I poured it over my hair, letting a river of water run down over my shoulders and chest. Standing there in the midday heat with the sun beating down, the coil that had replaced my stomach loosened.

  Even on a day that had to be breaking ninety degrees, the water was ice. Pure heaven. I knelt and filled my canteen. Unable to resist, I drank it until it was half gone and filled it again, only to let the refreshing blessing dribble down my neck. I contemplated stripping down to the skin God gave me to completely immerse myself like the others but did not want to waste the time. I walked in further, all the way, fully dressed. I did not care. My clothes would dry.

  “How is the water?” Jacob raised his chin, catching my eye and tossing me a mischievous grin. He was engaged in conversation with several of the men. The heat did not appear to faze him in the least. His flaming hair had curled more, dampening it with sweat that dripped down the side of his face. Otherwise, he gave no sign of distress.

  “Cold and wet.” I held up my canteen. “Care for a swig? The water is fine and will wet a throat that is parched like you have spent a day in the desert.”

  “I have plenty.” My stepfather held up a stoneware jug that he kept in his saddlebag, He tipped his head back to take a long tug before passing it to the man who stood across from him. The soldier looked oddly familiar with a build like Jacob’s and a copper head of hair that was faded and streaked with white. “My whiskey from your grandfather is a potent remedy for anything that ails you.”

  I took a few more minutes to truly appreciate the life-giving properties of water, going in up to my chin and standing there until I began shivering. Jacob called out, “There is someone I want you to meet, Benjamin. Come out before you are pickled and sit with us.” A felled tree and clump of stones made for a seating area where several of the men joined in my stepfather’s conversation.

  I stepped out of the water and dripped every step of the way. I pulled at the front of my shirt. The dampness sucked it back against my skin and my boots sloshed. Trivial matters, if they helped me to hold the oppressive heat at bay.

  My stepfather’s companion chuckled as I sat down beside them, extending his hand in greeting. “It is an honor to meet you, Benjamin. I am Colonel Isaac Cooper of Cooperstown. Your grandfather, Abraham, and my father, Silas, are brothers. Small world, is it not? Most often war tears us apart, but sometimes it has the good fortune of bringing us together. Last time I saw Cousin Jacob I was but a lad of five or six and he was a wee baby.” His face softened, and he focused on my stepfather. “Your mother, Phoebe, was a sweet, kind woman. I am sorry for your loss at such a young age, Cousin.”

  Jacob cleared his throat. “Thank you for your condolences. There are times when it seems as if she was taken away from us just yesterday.” My stepfather’s eyes darkened for a moment. It was a sore subject. Although his mother had died many years ago, he keenly felt her absence, especially now that he was a parent. War had a way of making you think about what you had to lose.

  “What news on the war front?” I asked to deflect the attention away from an ancient hurt that never completely faded away.

  Isaac grimaced. His eyes, a blue tinged with gray like a cloudy day when a storm rolled in, scanned his men. “General Izard used our muscles and backbones to fortify Plattsburgh. He damn near drained us all of our strength, but the town is ready for anything the British can throw at them. We could not wait any longer. It is almost time for the harvest and we cannot leave that burden on the women in town.” Isaac winked. “Besides, my wife will do it all by herself and make me feel completely irrelevant if I do not make it home in time.”

  We passed bits of news back and forth with a promise to stop by for a visit if either one of us were passing through. Colonel Cooper took one last swallow of William’s whiskey with an explosive gasp. “That is some of the best that I have tasted in a long time. Now I must round up this disreputable lot.” The words were said with an indulgent smile as he surveyed his militia. “I speak in jest. They are a good group of men who deserve to go home to their beds, their wives, and their families. I will not keep you from your travels, and pray you make the return journey in one piece in as short a time as possible.”

  “Is there anything we should be aware of?” My stepfather asked as his cousin accompanied us to our horses.

  “What fine animals.” Cooper patted their necks. “As for points of concern, always be on guard. We ran into an occasional skirmish on our way to Plattsburgh and since we have been picking our way home—a royal rabble of soldiers trying to stir up a hornet’s nest or make a name for themselves. Young runts!” He cursed, his face twisted in distaste. “Watch the Natives. You cannot trust them. We are close to Canada and many side with the British. Lord knows what false promises they have been given. Some are riled and have delusions of grandeur inspired by the likes of Tecumseh out west. You have about another four-day’s ride. Do you need any supplies?”

  Jacob offered his hand in parting. “No. We have plenty, Cousin. I do hope that we will meet again when the shadow of war is no longer hanging over us.”

  Isaac smiled and clapped him on the back. “As do I.” He turned and gripped me by the nape of the neck. “Again, I am pleased to have met you, young one. May your height help you to see your way clear of danger as you complete your journey. Godspeed, and God keep you until we meet again.”

  I mounted and continued, taking the lead and leaving a puddle along the way. I did not mind it one bit. I would dry off eventually. Until then, the cloud of incessant insects was bearable.

  I might arrive in Plattsburgh with some flesh on my body.

  12

  30 July 1814

  Benjamin Willson Cooper

  The light of the stars was brilliant overhead, bright enough to hurt my eyes. My head throbbed with a dull ache, enough to be a nuisance. My bowels griped. The fire cake had to be to blame. Made from flour and water, the tasteless concoction formed a lump that sat in the pit of my stomach. I rolled over on the hard, unforgiving ground and held back a groan. My body hurt. Again, my stepfather did not complain. At over twenty years my senior, I would be damned if I fussed in front of him. I kept my maladies to myself. Clearly, I was feeling the effects of several days in the saddle. With any luck, I would get a decent night’s sleep and feel refreshed in the morning.

  The fire flickered, the flames holding off the cloud of insects that never slept and whatever roamed around us in the night. Judging by the calls of the animals and birds, not to mention the occasional crackle of a branch or scurry of feet in the brush, there was an abundance lurking in the darkness. Jacob’s voice was low on the other side of the blaze. “You are sure you do not want any more? You did not eat much.” Concern made his words heavy.

  I did not want to trouble him simply because I was not accustomed to the hardships of a soldier’s life. “No. I am not hungry. My mind is too busy.” I fell silent. The quiet was too much. I could not sleep what with the stomach cramps that were getting worse and the pounding in my head getting louder. I sought a distraction. “During the Revolution, what was the hardest part of war for you?”

  My stepfather was quiet for so long I thought he drifted off to sleep until his words floated on the air. I wished he could take them back. “Watching your father die.”

  That had me coming off my bed roll and sitting up. I nearly clamped my hands on my head at the movement, folding my arm across my middle instead. Too fast. I set the world to spinning. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly though my nose. When I opened them, my eyes were drawn to Jacob, his face painted by light and shadows from the fire. Sorrow, stamped on his features, carved the lines in his face even deeper than the marks made by time.

  A river of words could not be held back any longer now that I had broken the dam with my question. “He could have returned to the fight, brought down the enemy, taken cover. Instead, Benjamin f
ocused on your mother, watching her make it safely off the field. When he fell, every bit of envy, every bit of resentment, every harsh thought I ever had came back to haunt me. Did you know that I loved your mother, long before your father fell into her life? Since I was a child.”

  My stepfather stared into the dancing flames, his hands locked so tightly together that his knuckles bulged. “Your father gave everything—everything a man could give—on that field. For your mother. For you. For all of us. For the fledgling nation that needed a chance to spread its wings and fly.” He broke off, shutting it all down, the grief, the anger, the memories.

  “What…” I stopped, clamping my jaw shut as a stabbing pain pierced my stomach and I almost became ill. I breathed through my nose and rode out the spasm. “What happened next?”

  Jacob stood up and crossed over to my side to sit beside me, his hand coming down on my knee. “Your mother … I thought she would run back and throw herself on to your father’s body, become his shield, cross over with him. If I had not pulled her into the woods and made her go…” He bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I went back—I was going to make sure your father’s body was cared for—and then a musket ball hit me in the shoulder, nearly took off my arm. I made it to your father, retrieved his coat for your mother for a keepsake while Stoner, Dodge, Talmadge Edwards, and John Little vowed to see your father off the field and properly buried. I made it to your mother’s house—and—I stand corrected. The hardest part of war? The moment I handed Charlotte your father’s coat and I shattered what was left of her heart.”

  His voice broke at that. I set aside my physical ailments and gripped my stepfather by the nape of his neck. “You listen to me, Father. You helped to put her back together again, gave us your home, your honor, your name. Because of you, we lived and kept liberty’s promise, my father’s promise. Do you hear me?”

  His eyes were wet in the firelight, a ghost of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “All of us have kept his promise—especially you. I am so proud of the man you have become, Benjamin. You honor your father and carry so much of him inside of you. Sometimes, I turn quickly to look at you and I question my senses because I see your father. You have Charlotte in you as well.”

  “And you.” I squeezed his hand, hoping he would hear the truth in my words. Jacob Cooper was a tower of a man who did not realize what an impact he had on our lives. Every day, I strove to live up to the example he set for me.

  He patted me on the back and moved back to his side of the fire. “Sleep now. You are weary. Morning will be here all too soon.”

  I stretched out in my bed roll and turned away from the fire because even the red light that formed on the inside of my eyelids made my head pound harder. I attempted to ignore the twisting in my guts—most likely the effect of such a painful story—and sought sleep. As the blessed darkness settled in around me like a blanket, my body surrendered, and I knew no more.

  13

  1 August 1814

  Benjamin Willson Cooper

  The wind kicked up, making the trees wave violently. I feared they would snap. Block our path. Fall on top of us. I wished one would hit me and knock me into oblivion. Lightning crackled across the sky and booms of thunder shook the ground. That was nothing to what raged in my body.

  I was consumed by fever accompanied by a cough. If I coughed too hard, I began to retch. Eating was out of the question. I fumbled for my canteen and tipped my head back, pouring the water down my throat until it was all gone and still my thirst nearly drove me to distraction.

  My head throbbed so hard I pressed one hand to my temple when something warm and wet ran down my face. I glanced down and stared at drops of blood as they fell on my leg, my saddle horn, my hand. I swayed and would have fallen off Flintlock if my stepfather did not catch me, his shoulder ramming against mine. The fine tremor that had been running through my frame for hours vibrated through his arm.

  He pressed a palm to my forehead, cursed. “You are burning up.” We were both sopping wet, hair dripping. Even though my body was on fire, a blazing inferno on the inside, I was freezing. My innards gave a violent twist. I moaned only to shut it down at the stricken look on my stepfather’s face.

  Jacob dismounted and led our horses to a tree that had fallen, forming a lean-to of sorts. He helped me down off Flintlock. My legs nearly caved beneath me, so weak they could barely hold. “Lie down. You need to rest.”

  A coughing fit overcame me, and I lurched outside our makeshift shelter. I hit my knees and gave in to the dry heaves. I had not eaten anything since the fire cake two nights before. When I awoke yesterday morning, I was worse. Much worse. I wanted to die.

  Once my body stopped rebelling, I pressed my forehead to the ground and prayed. Prayed that I would not embarrass myself or endanger my stepfather by holding him back. When I was sure that the attack was over, I crawled back in and laid my aching head on my bed roll. I folded my arms around me in an effort to get warm. My stepfather took off his coat and draped it over me. I forced myself to open my eyes, roused myself. “I probably have a cold from my dip in that creek. It was frigid.”

  He took a swig from his whiskey. Fortifying himself? Calming his nerves? He held it to me. I waved him off. “I already have a fire in my belly. I do not need another. Do not fret. I will be myself come morning.”

  Jacob eyed me dubiously and clamped a hand on my shoulder. “I pray that you are right. I have seen too many men felled by sickness rather than the enemy. Sleep, my son. I will keep watch.”

  With the racket the storm made around us, shaking the earth beneath us, it would seem that one would have to be dead to sleep through it. I was so exhausted by the battle going on inside of my body that even the hammering in my head and twisting in my guts could not keep me from going over the edge. I did not even take notice when my nose bled again until my stepfather’s hand wiped at my face, pulling me back up to the surface again. His touch was unspeakably gentle as he tended me, his eyes shadowed as they met mine. His hand rested on the crown of my head as it had so often when I was a boy. I could hear the low rumble of his voice repeating a prayer. A litany. I slept.

  14

  2 August 1814

  Benjamin Willson Cooper

  I had to stop again. I slipped off my horse and stumbled into the heavy growth of the woods to relieve myself. Three days had passed since I put anything in my body except water. I did not know how there could be anything left. The knots that were my stomach gave a swift tug. Instead of anything coming up, everything went in the other direction. I relieved myself again, thought for not the first time since this malady struck me that there was no relief in this dreaded process. I stood up only to drop down and relieve myself again. When the bout was finally through with me, I stood up slowly and grabbed hold of a tree. So weak. I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I glanced down at the ground where I had emptied my guts. It was green. Was I dying?

  Jacob was my shadow, hovering at a discreet distance. He lunged forward and caught my arm when I would have fallen. He saw what I left behind, and his face twisted. I would have been embarrassed if I was not so ill. “Why did you keep this from me?”

  I waved him off feebly with one hand, holding on to his shoulder with the other. “I did not want to bother you with my bodily functions, Father. You have enough to preoccupy you.”

  He sat me down by the side of the trail and handed me my canteen which he had filled when I went off to find a private area. I still had some modesty and shreds of dignity although soon I would be lucky if I could do anything for myself. I drank and my stomach rebelled, almost instantly bringing the water back up.

  Jacob cursed yet again. He had been doing that often in the past few days. He perched beside me and felt my head. “Your fever is getting worse.” He pressed his palms to my cheeks to study my face, lifted my chin and gasped. His hands shook as they ripped my shirt open. “You are covered in a rash. Is it on your stomach?”

 
I bent over and held on to my head. The clamor against my temples was louder than the night of the storm. “I do not know. I have not inspected my body lately. I have been too busy turning myself inside out.”

  He pushed me down on my back, lifted my shirt, and cursed again. “Yes, blistering spots. You are riddled with them! Damn! I had prayed this would not happen. One of my greatest fears. I can take on British soldiers. I cannot fight the traitor inside your body. I think you have the typhoid fever.”

  I could not care less. I was too occupied with keeping my head from falling off my shoulders, dreading the next bout when my innards would wring me out—one way or the other. “Please—can I just lie here for a little while? Rest—just need some rest and I can go on, I promise, Father. Please.” I tried to clamp down on my desperation. I failed.

  He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Of course. Whatever you need. You will be no good to the war effort if you are not well. I will tend the horses. They need a rest as well. We will wait here until tomorrow and move on if you are ready.”

  Ready to move on? Dying would be more welcome. I closed my eyes and cast up a prayer to anyone who might be listening up above. The sounds faded around me and the prison that was my body released me for a spell. However long it lasted, I would take it.

  15

  3 August 1814

  Benjamin Willson Cooper

  I clung to Flintlock, my legs nearly giving beneath me and pitching me to the ground. I pressed my forehead to his flank and tried to find my sense of balance. My head. Dear Lord, my head. I had to keep my eyes squinted shut, allowing only a small crack for an opening or the sunlight would pierce my brain. I rode out the wave of dizziness and stepped away, fell to my hands and knees and crawled my way to the side, off the trail. For some reason, I still had the sense to take cover. In case of enemies? My own body had become the worst foe I could ever face.