Liberty's Legacy

by Heidi Sprouse

  “Dismount! We are sitting ducks on our horses!” Jacob called out and vaulted from the saddle, Nicholas and I following suit. We held on to our steeds’ bridles and took to the woods that crowded the town, the trees creeping in so close it was as if nature wanted to take back what it had lost. Others crashed around us, a stampede of men … and all hell broke loose. The boom of cannons made the earth quake. Musket fire crackled so loudly I fought the urge to cover my ears. There were cries, grunts, moans and screams. Target practice in the field behind our gunsmith shop was a far cry from battle. Tight-lipped, with Legacy in my hands, I pushed forward, following close on the heels of Stoner and my stepfather. I would allow age and experience to precede me when meeting the unknown.

  What had been off in the distance became up close and personal in a matter of minutes. Heart beats. Gasps for what might be our final breaths. A rain of musket balls descended upon the company of regulars that surrounded us. We scattered, leaving our line formation to become more difficult targets, a strategy that had proved effective decades before during the Revolution. It was our ingenious departures from the traditional code of fighting that had helped us to outwit a much larger, more seasoned opponent. I cast up a silent prayer that our brand of warfare would prove effective again.

  One instant the path was clear in front of me. The next, a Redcoat barred my way, taking aim. I moved with a speed and agility I did not know I possessed, the breath ripped out of my body, and raised my musket to my shoulder. All those trials over the years paid off, quelling my nerves. I could load, aim, and fire with my eyes closed. The blast shook me to the core, the smoke forming a cloud that made me choke, and he toppled to the ground. My stomach churned.

  “Cooper! Behind you!” Nicholas Stoner’s voice, raw with urgency, did not give me time to mourn the British soldier. I jumped as a musket went off so close I thought it was meant for me. Someone in the melee in front of me was hit below the knee. As the swirl of smoke and sea of soldiers shifted, a torch of blazing hair lit the darkness. My stepfather staggered, his shin snapped in half, part of it dangling below a gaping wound. A fountain of blood spurted into the air as he dropped to the ground, like a mighty oak felled by a horrendous storm.

  Nicholas went berserk, dropping his musket to take up his hunting knife. He slayed men to the left and the right, homing in on the one who took down Jacob. I did not witness the Redcoat’s demise, too preoccupied with my stepfather, but I would remember the terrible sound that man made for the rest of my life.

  Oblivious to everything else around me, I knelt beside Jacob. He was hunched over, panting, his face twisted in pain. He gripped his wounded left leg with both hands, a crimson river running over them. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, desperately running through my options. The top priority? Stopping the blood before the last drop pumped out of his body.

  “Hang on, Father. You must hang on.” I pulled my blade from my boot, the hunting knife Stoner had given me as a boy, and quickly cut off a swath of my shirt. I wrapped it around my stepfather’s leg and pulled it as tight as I could. Jacob leaned to the side and became violently ill.

  I sat back on my haunches, hands on my knees as I fought to fill my lungs and remain calm. This was not the time to panic. I glanced around, looking for a suitable stick for a tourniquet. The approach of running feet broke through the muddle of my thoughts as my stepfather lunged for his musket. He brought it to his shoulder with hands that trembled uncontrollably, swaying back and forth. Any moment, he would teeter over and hit the ground.

  A man in a British uniform raised his hands in surrender, his face tortured. “Do not shoot. I have come to help. Dear Lord, Cooper, is that you?” He stared at my stepfather, his features twisted in consternation.

  “On your knees this instant.” Nicholas stood behind him, his hunting blade, dripping with blood, jabbing the stranger in the middle of the back. Our old friend was a stranger to me; his eyes were devoid of light, his face covered in soot and blood, his hair wild. The man who had been like an uncle to me had been replaced by a hardened killer.

  “It is Jonas Blair. Do you not remember me, Nicholas?” The Redcoat stuttered even as he placed his hands behind his head and hit the ground.

  Stoner moved so that he could get a clear view of Blair. My stepfather groaned, his face gone white as the snow in winter. His body wavered back and forth like tall meadow grasses in a strong breeze. I steadied him and glanced at his leg. My makeshift bandage was scarlet. If I did not find a way to stop the fountain of blood pouring from Jacob’s leg, I would lose someone else close to me.

  Nicholas’ eyebrows knit together then lifted in shock. “Blair?! I have not seen you in at least twenty years.” Stoner met my eye. “Remember, Benjamin? He lost everything to the Revolution. He went to Ontario to farm. The British offered him the promise of a better life. How is that playing out for you?” The woodsman did not wait for an answer, moving to Jacob’s side, grabbing a stick along the way. His face was a grim mask of determination, his eyes flashing.

  I studied the former Johnstown native who was wearing the wrong colors in this conflict. As Isaac Cooper had said early on when this journey began, it was a small world indeed. Here we were, staring at a familiar face, surrounded by smoke, the clash of weapons, and the confusion of war, standing on opposites ides of the fence that was cutting America to bits.

  Jonas’ voice broke as he hung his head. “All I wanted to do was live a quiet life, pick up the pieces after the British came through and took everything I had in Johnstown. They burned down my home and killed my family! I found peace for a time. I could pretend that I had escaped and was no longer under Britain’s thumb, that they did not become the hand that fed me. Life was good until Madison’s War began. The British said we must swear loyalty to the crown and fight for them.” His voice shook with fury. “Fight for the very monsters who ruined my life once before!”

  Blair brushed at his eyes and sprang forward as Jacob collapsed on the ground, writhing in pain, a pool of blood growing beneath him. “They might be able to make me wear the uniform. I will go to Hell before I fight for them.” He glanced up at us and reached out to Nicholas. “Stoner, lend me your knife.” A quick swipe of the blade and he tore off a strip of his heavy coat, wrapping it around Jacob’s leg to staunch the river of blood.

  The clamor of battle encroached. The rest of the line that I had seen snaking off into the distance would come on, breathing down our necks. Jonas jumped to his feet. “Go. I will hold them off. God speed!”

  My stepfather clamped on his wrist before he could leave us. “To you as well.” A nod and Jonas Blair turned away, throwing himself into the fray.

  We watched in horror as a man we once called friend gave himself to the enemy. The British regulars were decisive and ruthless in their retaliation. What began with Blair’s body riddled with musket fire ended with multiple stabbings from bayonets. Their angry chorus rang out, “Damn you to Hell, traitor!”

  Stoner, consumed with anger that only moments before had been directed at Jonas, quickly turned his wrath on our foes. “The bastards! They must pay! I do not care that they coerced him into wearing their uniform. Jonas Blair was one of our own!”

  He made to pull away, but my stepfather held on with a surprising amount of strength. “God keep you safe. Come back, brother, or I will never forgive you.”

  With a curt nod, the tears threatening to fall, Nicholas bared his teeth as he let out a war cry that would intimidate the Natives and keep them hiding in the forest or send them packing all the way to Tecumseh. Whether it was his intention or no, Stoner was buying us time, creating a distraction as a mad man unleashed his fury on the Redcoats. Enough time for me to half-carry my stepfather away from danger.

  I pulled an arm over my shoulders and dragged him toward the heavy cover of the wilderness. Jacob’s shoulders drooped, his face an alarming shade of white as if it was bloodless, a condition that might come to pass, judging by the scarlet trail that streaked behind u
s on the forest floor. I tried not to look at that river of blood or the leg that was barely held on by bandages. I was no doctor or surgeon, but I knew one thing for certain. My stepfather’s injury was grave.

  I glanced furtively from left to right, expecting something or someone to jump out at me at any instant. Jacob’s head drooped, and he sagged against me, becoming more difficult to carry, but there was no choice. You carry your own.

  A little farther in, desperately searching for our horses in hopes that they had not run far, my stepfather moaned, “Benjamin … please. I need to sit.”

  I found a flat rock and eased him down, extending his injured leg before him. His face went tight, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip. The blood continued to gush from his wound. It had to be stopped.

  It was only then that I realized I was still holding the stick Stoner had found earlier. I dropped to one knee, preparing to make an additional wrapping that would also function as a tourniquet. My hands trembled as I listened to Jacob’s groans. The pain had to be unbearable. Unfortunately, there was nothing for it. I could not take away his suffering. I could only take one step at a time to hold him together until we found a surgeon. I cut off another strip of my shirt and tied it around his leg, adding the stick, preparing to give it a hearty twist. I only hoped I was strong enough after my illness to hold it tight.

  “Wait, Benjamin.” Out of the smoke and confusion, Stoner staggered our way, coughing, blood streaking his face. My horror mingled with relief as I realized it was not his blood. He knelt by Jacob and examined my handiwork. With a curt nod, he placed a stick between my stepfather’s teeth. His hand traveled to the bloodied rag on his leg and took hold of his tourniquet. He gave it one more twist, receiving a grunt of agony from my stepfather.

  While Stoner wrapped the leg below the tourniquet, I pressed my forehead to Jacob’s. I did my best to put every ounce of intimidation into my entire demeanor. “Hang on. Do not dare die on me.”

  Jacob spit out the stick, his eyes darkened with pain, but he gave me an ugly grin. “Your mother would chase me all the way to the gates of hell or heaven—wherever I am going—if I did. We cannot let that happen, now can we?”

  I dashed the tears from my face and nodded in answer, bringing my stepfather back to his feet in one fluid motion. His bodied sagged as pressure was placed on his injured leg, his scream terrible. Nicholas ducked under his other shoulder to aid us in our progress. “You have made it this far, my friend. We will ensure you make it through whatever else it to come.” Our friend’s mouth formed a grim line and we pushed on. We were granted one small miracle, a spark of brightness in what had turned out to be a disastrous day. Our horses were waiting for us.

  I stepped away from the burden I carried only for an instant, long enough to bury my face in Flintlock’s mane, to collect myself. “Flintlock, I need to you to bear Jacob away from town. Be as fleet as the deer that romp in the forest, as stealthy as the fox slipping through the underbrush, as fearsome as the wolf that howls to the moon. I beg this of you because I cannot do it by myself.”

  My horse made a sound, as if in agreement, while my stepfather clung to the saddle, his face pressed against my steed’s warm body. His jaw was clamped shut, but as I stepped in closer, I could hear the low murmur of a plea for mercy that ran over and over. I could not bear to hear what he actually said. “You must get up on the horse, Father. It is the only way that Nicholas and I can get away from this evil place.”

  Jacob nodded. He proved his mettle with one deep breath before heaving himself up and over the saddle. I quickly mounted behind him, calling out to Flintlock in desperation. My faithful horse lunged forward as if understanding completely the urgency of our situation.

  Nicholas moved swiftly ahead of me on the trail. He would go first to offer us protection, but I knew revenge was his greatest motivator. I do not know how long we rode. All of us were silent, crushed under the weight of Jonas Blair’s sacrifice for us, grieving for a man who had been dealt one terrible blow after another by the British. My stomach twisted fiercely. I nearly became sick at the realization. Blair did not even get a proper burial. No one would know of his loss or mourn him—except for us.

  I shied away from the dark path my thoughts had taken and focused on the trail in front of us, determined that we would find our way to safety. Jacob was slumped over in front of me, swaying dangerously from side to side. If I did not hold him, falling from the saddle was a distinct possibility. I wrapped an arm around his waist and murmured in his ear, “Just a little bit farther. Just a little …”

  My words died as Stoner’s right hand raised up in the air, his horse coming to a stop. He swept his musket from his saddle and settled it on his shoulder. His face, his form spelled out menace to anyone who dared get in our way. He was a fearsome sight.

  Someone approached from the opposite direction. I stiffened, looking for the telltale scarlet coats of our foes. My breath came out in a rush. The man wore buckskin and his face was blessedly familiar.

  “I come in peace.” A deep voice echoed around us. Tom Sutton raised his hands in the air.

  I rode abreast of Stoner and set my hand on his arm. I might as well have tried to hold on to the mountains that rose around us, he was that cold and unyielding. “Nicholas, at ease. I know the man. He is a friend of Miss Rebekah’s.” He lowered his gun, but the tension still coursed through his body, holding him rigid and at attention. If I could take comfort in one thing, I knew that Nicholas Stoner would never let his guard down until we all were safe.

  Sutton approached, offering his hand to me in greeting, then Nicholas. He grimaced as Jacob’s dire straits became apparent, his eyes troubled. “Dear Lord, Benjamin. Your stepfather is in grave trouble.”

  He pressed one hand to Jacob’s good thigh in sympathy and camaraderie. Jacob slowly lifted his head, his eyes glazed with suffering. His face was white as bone as he leaned down to take Sutton’s hand. “Do not … go toward … Plattsburgh … not now. The fighting has begun. Find someplace … to conceal yourself.”

  Sutton nodded once, comprehension dawning in his gaze. “I will tuck myself away in a hideaway in the forest. It would not be the first time, but first I must give you something to help you on your way.” He turned quickly and swiftly moved to the small wagon behind his horse, returning with a jug of Miss Rebekah’s best. “Take this. You are going to need it.”

  Jacob could not hold the jug. I took it from his trembling hands and uncapped the bottle, holding it for my stepfather and allowing him to take great gulps of the fiery whiskey. I handed it to Stoner, who gasped with his first swallow. “That is powerful stuff. What is that concoction?” Another great swallow and he passed it off to me.

  “Kentucky bourbon. Miss Rebekah’s recipe,” I murmured before taking a tug on the bottle, lighting a fire in my gut and steeling my nerves. “Thank you, Tom.”

  He shook all our hands and turned to go when I called him to hold up. The smuggler returned to my side, peering up at me. All the while, we were on edge, listening for any signs of the battle coming our way. Only the sounds of the forest met us. It appeared we had managed to elude the madness. I, for one, was relieved I would not see how the conflict ended.

  Sutton shook me gently. “Benjamin? What is it? None of us should linger.”

  With a start, I reached into my saddle bag and pulled out the Legacy musket. “Take this. I want you to keep it for helping us in our hour of need. We are practically strangers, yet you did not hesitate, and I am grateful. That whiskey will ease my father’s pain and help him to bear the rest of our journey.”

  “Any friend of old Rufus and Rebekah is a friend of mine.” He truly focused on the musket in my hand and cursed softly. “I cannot take this. After all you men have given for this country, I will not take more from you.”

  I gripped his shoulder. “I insist. You helped save my life when you brought back medicine when I was so desperately ill. You have thought nothing of giving what you have to give no
w for Jacob. I am eternally grateful for any scrap of kindness in these dark times.”

  Tom shook his head, still reluctant to accept such a generous gift. He turned away and returned with another jug. “Take this for Jacob. He is sure to need it if you are going to make it all the way to Rebekah.” Under his breath, he spoke what was only intended for my ears. “You know the leg has to come off?”

  We had already discussed it briefly as we retreated from Plattsburgh, but Nicholas and I were not up to the task, not yet. “We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “I will find a surgeon and send him to you. Make haste and may God be with you.” Sutton leaned in to offer a swift embrace and was off, moving with unbelievable speed considering the load he carried. I closed my eyes and sent up yet another plea, that the smuggler would be safe, that he would be swift, that he would find a surgeon. I did not know if I could bear to do the dreadful deed myself.

  The next hours were a blur as darkness descended on the land. Several times, we had to stop as Jacob lost the contents of his stomach or we had to tighten the tourniquet yet again to staunch the flow of blood. Grimly, I thought his wrapping might take the leg off for us. The bourbon was passed around, but all of us remained painfully sober, my stepfather’s condition too severe to allow us to do otherwise. I held on tightly as his body sagged even more, desperately feeling for the flutter of his heart under my arm, hanging on to every breath.

  The path was pitch-black before us. Even the moon had abandoned us on this most terrible of nights. It must have been past midnight as we prepared to stop and wait it out until daybreak when I caught a glimmer of light in the distance. I nearly sobbed in relief as I called out. “Up ahead.”

  We picked our way forward, emerging in a small clearing where a cabin stood, one I knew almost as well as our home. The door opened, a warm glow illuminating the woman who waited for us. My angel. It took every bit of strength I possessed to keep myself from falling apart at her feet.