Liberty's Legacy

by Heidi Sprouse

  28

  6 September 1814

  Benjamin Willson Cooper

  Rebekah sprang forward to meet us, grabbing hold of my hand, her face crumpling when she caught sight of the damage that had been done to my stepfather. “Dear Lord! Jacob, no! Bring him in at once!” She pressed her palm to her mouth to hold back her cries, but she could not dam her tears.

  Nicholas jumped from his horse, reaching up to ease his old friend from Flintlock’s back, and sling an arm over his shoulders. Rebekah wrapped her arm around Jacob’s waist and they made painfully slow progress into the safe haven of her cabin. A low moan followed me as I led the horses to the barn, making my jaw clench so hard I thought my teeth would break. I made haste to join the others and do whatever I could for my stepfather, even if the only thing left to do was sit by his side.

  I walked in to a bloodbath. In attempting to look at Jacob’s leg, my angel had inadvertently loosened his tourniquet. A crimson fount spurted into the air with alarming intensity. How could there be that much blood left in the human body?

  “Benjamin, help me to pull this tight!” The panic in Stoner’s voice snatched my breath and pulled me across the room. Nicholas had never shown fear in front of me before. Together, we twisted the stick in the bandage, tightening it as much as possible, Jacob’s back arching in agony as we did. “Rebekah,” I called out. She was at my side in an instant. “We need more bandages to tie around the leg and hold this stick in place or the bleeding will start up again. If that happens, we will lose him.”

  The color drained from her face as she chewed on her lip at my ominous prediction, scanning the room, searching for something suitable to use. I shook my head in awe as our hostess pulled down one of her curtains and tore it into long strips.

  “Will these do?” Anxiously, Rebekah held out the fruits of her labor.

  Nicholas snagged them from her hands, answering gruffly, “Yes, Mrs. Barnes. Thank you.” He paused for a moment, considering our next move. The muscles of my arms strained against my shirt and I began to shake with the strain of grasping the stick so tightly. I focused all my energy on holding on. Sweat broke out on my forehead and I quivered, but silently vowed I would not let go.

  Jacob lay unmoving, his arm flung over his eyes, his jaw clamped shut. He was trembling with the effort to contain himself. He breathed hard through his nose and his hoarse whisper was so soft, I had to strain to hear him. “Take it off, Stoner.” My stepfather’s words rattled us all.

  Stricken, Nicholas set down the bits of curtain that had decorated Rebekah’s window only seconds before. He knelt and took Jacob’s free hand, placing his palm on my stepfather’s forehead, forcing him to uncover his eyes. Like the hottest part of the fire that turns blue, Jacob’s gaze burned with an intensity that could reduce everyone and everything in this room to ashes.

  Stoner did not look away. “Jacob, do not ask this of me. I do not know the proper way to do an amputation. I may kill you in the process.”

  “You would be doing me a mercy.” My stepfather’s voice broke and his arm settled back in place, shielding half of his face from prying eyes.

  My stomach rolled as I stared down at his leg, at the blood soaking through his bandages and on to my angel’s bed. A small voice inside of me spoke quietly, words that thundered through my body, all the way to my heart. He may be right.

  “No!” I blurted out. Every eye was drawn to me, even Jacob’s. I gave the stick in my hands a twist in defiance, my stepfather latching on to the bed, and shouted above his scream, “No! I will not make my mother a widow again. Tie the leg, Nicholas! I cannot hold on much longer!”

  A man of action, Stoner did not have to be asked twice. He carefully lifted Jacob’s leg, Rebekah propping a fur beneath it, and began to wrap the scraps of material around the thigh, working his way down below the knee, pulling each one as taut as possible, securing the stick in the process. When Nicholas was done, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath, my stepfather had at least ten rags binding his leg, blood spotting the tan fabric. We hovered over our handiwork, waiting with trepidation. The stick held, and the spots of blood did not spread any farther.

  Nicholas sagged and swept his sleeve over his drenched brow. “We can do no more right now. We will wait for the surgeon. If he does not come by morning, I will do my best.”

  All three of us dropped into a chair drawn up to the side of the bed, each of us touching my stepfather as if we could pin him down to earth. We were given a reprieve. As I leaned forward and pressed one hand to my forehead, I wondered how long we would have before amputation became inevitable. My mind raced as I ran through the scenarios of what could possibly happen during such a procedure. All ended badly. I prayed in earnest that this cup would be passed from us. A whistle sounded outside. Sutton’s bird call! I jumped to my feet as the door swung open to reveal the smuggler and another man with a large, leather bag. My plea was answered.

  Without any delays or niceties, the stranger called out, “I need hot water and rags. If you have more of that Kentucky bourbon that Sutton gave me in payment, even better. Quickly now.”

  He strode across the room and swept Rebekah’s bed stand clear, sending everything crashing to the floor, laying out his tools. I shuddered when I saw the small saw with angry teeth. How fearsome was its bite? Needles, a heavy, black thread, and scissors rounded out his supplies. Everyone rushed to do his bidding. Rebekah cut more curtains down to size and Stoner brought the iron kettle from the hearth, water sloshing over the sides and splashing his arms and legs. He did not break stride.

  At a loss, I did the only thing I could do. I held my stepfather’s hand. The stranger turned and surveyed the room, locking eyes with me. “Have you a strong stomach?” Tight-lipped, I jerked my head in agreement. “Good. I need you.”

  I bowed over Jacob and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, one palm resting on his cheek. I struggled to still my tremors. “You will make it through this. Stoner and I will not accept anything less.”

  Before I could pull away, a hand I knew well, one that had held me all my life, squeezed the nape of my neck, drawing me in. “Know that I love you and your mother more than anything on this earth. I always will, no matter what happens from this moment forward.”

  “I love you too, Father. Find the strength that you have given me over the years. This will be over soon.” A firm grasp had me by the elbow, redirecting me. I looked up.

  Deep brown eyes stared into mine, unwavering. “Lad, we are going to begin. I want you to lift your—your father, aye? —your father and fill him with as much of that blessed bourbon as he can hold. Next, you will pour it over his leg as soon as I take the wrappings off. Understand?”

  I nodded. The stoneware jug was placed in my hands, Rebekah grazing my cheek with a kiss to help me find my courage. I did as I was told, wrapping one arm around my stepfather’s shoulders to hoist him up. Knowing full well how badly he would need every drop, he drank long and deep until he gasped for breath and his head lolled to the side.

  Stoner was diligently cutting through every rag below the knee, clearing the way to allow me to drench the wound with whiskey. Jacob screamed until his throat was raw and there was no more sound as the bourbon gushed over his wound. The stranger swiftly stuck a stick between his teeth. “Clamp down on that, Jacob. The lot of you,” he gestured to Sutton, Nicholas and I. “Hold him still. Mrs. Barnes, I will have you hand me my tools. I will need the saw first.”

  His hands were slick with sweat, more dripping from his brow, making his dark hair curl with dampness. He brushed bothersome strands out of his eyes with his sleeve and brought the saw down. Instinctively, we all stepped in closer. I held on for all I was worth, pressing down on my stepfather’s good leg while Sutton held fast to his right arm.

  Nicholas took care of the left. He was closest as the saw went back and forth with swift strokes, as if cutting the branch of a tree. With a thud, the bottom half of the leg fell to the floor. My stoma
ch made its way toward my throat. I kept my eyes trained on Stoner, anything to avoid thinking about the lonely piece of my stepfather, separated from his body. The color spilled from Nicholas’ face.

  He turned to Jacob and pulled my stepfather’s face into the crook of his neck. “Lay your head here, brother. Close your eyes and think of your sweet Charlotte because you love her more than life itself. She is waiting for you, Jacob. Hold her in your mind. Let her be the torch that guides you through this treacherous night.”

  The stranger in our midst dropped the saw and grabbed a branding iron from his bag. He turned and thrust it into the fire until it was red hot. “Stand firm, all of you!” With a mighty thrust, he applied it to the mess of a stump that used to be my stepfather’s leg.

  “Look at me, Father. Look right here, at my eyes and do not let go of my hand.” I held tight as Jacob’s face became my universe.

  My stepfather spat the stick from his mouth and began to murmur, “Charlotte … dear Charlotte,” over and over. The surgeon thrust the poker at his wound once again to cauterize it. Jacob screamed, his back arching. It took all my strength to hold him down. His skin was slick with sweat.

  And the pain! Dear Lord, the pain! It emanated off his body and coiled him into knots. His eyes rolled back, and his body went limp.

  The stranger dropped the branding iron to press his ear to my stepfather’s chest, then his nose. “He has slipped into unconsciousness.” The man paused and rested his hand on Jacob’s forehead, closing his eyes and whispering something under his breath. I think he said a prayer. Visibly shaking himself, he resumed his task, sewing up any loose ends or bleeders, cleansing the stump with more whiskey, and wrapping the awful mess in a bandage. It was a small blessing that Jacob was not awake.

  Stoner, Sutton and I did our part to restore some order to the room while the surgeon rounded up his supplies. Rebekah gently wiped a cool cloth over Jacob’s brow, humming softly as she did. The lines between his eyes and around his mouth, carved deep since a musket ball nearly took off his leg, softened even as he remained mired in unconsciousness.

  Nicholas pulled up a chair next to the bed and took his friend’s hand, resting his forehead on the mattress, muttering a prayer over and over in a low rumble until his voice went hoarse. Rebekah laid a hand on his shoulder, a quiet presence instilling tranquility. She moved on to tidy up the room.

  The stranger finished his task and extended his hand to me. “All that is left to do now is wait and pray that he heals well. Keep the wound clean. Watch for infection. If it festers, continue to douse it in alcohol and hot water. Bring his fever down by dousing him in cold water. Willow bark tea may bring him some relief if you have it. Make sure he rests. I must go. I am needed by many.”

  He turned and walked toward the door, prompting me to follow him. “Wait! We don’t even know your name.”

  His face softened as he took my hand one last time. “I am a good Samaritan. Have you read your Bible? That is all you need to know. God be with you all.” With that, he stepped out into the darkness.

  “You have our undying gratitude,” I called after him. “Godspeed.” His hand raised in acknowledgement as he mounted his horse and cantered away through the forest.

  I stood on the step, inhaling the cool air, seeking what little solace it had to offer. That brief escape was enough to calm me and allow me to return to my stepfather’s bed. I placed my palm on his head, willing him to be well. I remained on my feet as long as I could until I began to sway. The weight of my body becoming an unbearable load, I struggled to drag myself to a chair by the fireplace. I stared lifelessly into the dance of light and shadows. An irrational urge washed over me to walk into the fire and let it burn me down to a cinder, creating a pile of ashes that could drift away on the breeze of early morning before daybreak.

  My eyes slammed shut. I leaned forward, head hung low, my elbows on my knees as my hands threaded through my hair. A fine tremor of exhaustion ran through me, humming in my bones. The phrase War of 1812 turned over on my tongue. It tasted bitter. We had arrived at 1814 and there was no end in sight to this senseless struggle. All because Mother England could not leave her rebellious child alone. Would it ever end? My fingers tightened, clamping down on the sides of my head. Pain throbbed and banged against my skull. I just wanted it to end. All of it.

  A cool palm pressed against my cheek. So blessedly cool that I nearly moaned. “Benjamin, you need to rest. Lay down your troubles for a few hours. Your burden will be waiting for you to take it up again come morning. Let me wipe you clean.” Rebekah’s words were a soothing river washing over me. I nodded mutely.

  Footsteps tapped back and forth on the hardwood floor. Water splashed in a basin. The scent of mint made me dizzy as my angel brushed by me. How could Rebekah continue to smell so heavenly when we had all been thrust into Hell for the past few hours? My mind grappled with that question when she approached and set a basin and pile of cloths on the floor beside me.

  Her hands rested on my shoulders, waiting. I lifted my eyes and met hers. Her fingers traveled to my top button, silently asking permission. This woman had already seen me completely naked while tending me in my time of illness when I was at death’s door. Why be modest now?

  I nodded, following the progress of her nimble hands as she fought with one button after another. My shirt crackled, covered in blood. Jacob’s blood. It turned my stomach, forcing me to cover my mouth lest I get sick at her feet. Something wet fell on my hands. Rebekah’s tears. Her face twisted in grief—for me, for my stepfather, for the sorry state that we were all in.

  Whatever had been holding my sorrow at bay snapped at that moment. Silent sobs wracked my body. Rebekah finally fought her way through the last of the buttons with hands that shook and pushed the shirt off me. With a small cry, she tossed it into the fireplace, stepped in, and pressed my head to her chest. Her fingers ran through my hair as they so often had while she nursed me to health. I gulped in one breath after another, fighting to catch the threads of my soul before they completely unraveled. I did not care what Stoner thought—or my stepfather if he was in his right mind and awake. The only thing that helped me make it through the next minute was this woman. These arms. Her breath mingling with mine, filling me with hope in a world gone completely mad.

  My angel pressed her lips to my brow and stepped away for only an instant. I swayed in my chair, a tree about to get crushed by the storms of life, until she returned, steadying me. She took up a rag, dipped it in the steaming water that was laced with her homemade soap, and wiped it over my chest. Her touch set me to shivering. She worked swiftly, doused my head, and ran the cloth over my face. She decimated me.

  Next, her hands … her gentle, oh so capable hands … took both of mine. She stilled, her head bowed as once again her tears fell. My nails were broken, caked with filth and soot. A crimson coating ran all the way to my elbows. Rebekah took her time cleansing each one until pink skin from her diligent scrubbing remained. If only she could purify my mind, wipe the slate clean of all I had seen after the most horrid of days. The day when I witnessed a good man lose his life and another, one I loved more than I could put in words, become forever changed … if he survived.

  Rebekah grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. She cleaned up again, ever the efficient one, and returned with a shirt, lifting the dead weights of my arms and slipping them in, buttoning me up. I threatened to topple out of the chair and into the flames. She caught me. “Sit a minute more. I will make you a pallet here by the fireplace.”

  Within minutes, a pad of buckskin and several blankets were stretched out, a pillow—Rebekah’s pillow—tossed on the floor. She took my hand and I went down on my knees, collapsing at last. She covered me and stroked my hair. “Rest now. Let go. Just let go, Benjamin. If you are needed, I will let you know.”

  She moved away, but I snagged her hand. “Please,” I whispered brokenly. “Please stay with me. Help me to hold off the darkness.” Inside of me.
I did not know if I would ever find the light again.

  She stretched out beside me, still in her buckskin, her hair neatly braided, somehow unrumpled after all the torture of the day. I chose to stare at her face, her clear green eyes that soothed my soul, and the rest of the world went away. Sleep came for me, my angel the last thing I saw that night and the first thing I saw in the morning.

  “Rebekah! Jacob needs your help!” Nicholas’ voice, fraught with fear, brought us both up out of sleep. Our Godsend thrust herself to her feet. I followed suit and we rushed to my stepfather’s side. His eyes were glossy, his cheeks a hectic shade of dark crimson. Sweat beaded up on his brow, wetting the hair at his temples. He was shaking so hard the covers quivered.

  I laid my hand on his brow. He was burning up with fever. One battle with his body was not yet over and another tug of war began.

  29

  7 September 1814

  Benjamin Willson Cooper

  The fever was burning Jacob down, like a candle. It would go out soon if we did not find a way to extinguish the flames that threatened to consume him. Rebekah, Tom Sutton, Nicholas and I worked in shifts, desperately waging war with the enemy inside of my stepfather. We doused him in cold water, forcing more down his throat. Rebekah plied him with the same teas that pulled me from the precipice of death. She dipped rags in boiling water and put them on the stump, along with poultices made from wild herbs used by the Natives, to try and draw out the infection. Nothing worked.

  I kept vigil beside his bed. One of us always did by unspoken agreement. If he slipped from this world, my stepfather would not be alone. I could not bear to watch as Jacob slowly dragged in one breath after another. Angry red lines made a web that travelled up his thigh on the damaged leg. The heat continued to roll off him in waves. If I took his hand, it would singe me. My elbows dug their way into the covers. I covered my eyes.