She kissed my forehead, my cheeks, and stopped with my lips, as light as a butterfly. “Happy birthday, my son. You’ve already lived eight years longer than your father. May you have many more happy years ahead of you.”
6
12 July 1814
Benjamin Willson Cooper
The days stretched on for an eternity without making a dent in my step-father’s workload. The pile of muskets seemed destined to reach the ceiling. Jacob could not leave in good conscience without taking care of our town’s needs. If my step-father had to wait, so did I. I stood outside the shop, testing my most recent repair even as a monster of a headache bloomed behind my eyes. Impatience, laced with anger, pushed me to fire again and again until my shoulder ached, and the gunpowder burned the inside of my nose. Stoner had begged my step-father to make haste. As this rate, the war would be over, and Mother England would have her way with us once more, giving us a sound thrashing that ensured we never defied her again.
Aggravated to no end, I brought the gun inside and slammed it down on my work table with a bit more force than was necessary. Jacob looked up from his work, his face tight. He reached back to knead at the muscles in his neck, the pressure of long hours day after day draining him. My step-father was just as eager to join the cause as I was.
I turned away and leaned my arms on the mantel. “I am sorry my temper is getting the best of me. The trap of these walls is closing in on me with each passing minute. If we do not go soon, I will smother.”
Footsteps approached, and a hand came down on my shoulder to squeeze insistently. “I know the sentiment well and I share it. Come sit. Rest your hands and your eyes. Breathe. Soon enough, we will go to meet our fate and you will be hard-pressed to catch your breath again.”
We both dropped into chairs and stared into the dance of the flames. The fire was burning, the heat oppressive, keeping a steady of stream of coffee brewing to ensure we were alert and on task for long days that had become longer. I glanced at the mountain of firearms in the corner; the townspeople had brought them in droves when news spread like wildfire that we would be leaving soon. They put little faith in my step-father’s youthful apprentice, Samuel Young. I could not help but notice the irony in his name.
“We will never finish.” I leaned forward, threading my fingers in my hair.
“Maybe this will fortify us.” Jacob reached down by his foot and took up a large jug of whiskey. A long swallow was followed by an explosive gasp. “My, but that does have a powerful kick.” He passed it over.
A good tug and my eyes were watering, flames burning in the pit of my stomach. “You would think you had just swallowed hot coals straight out of the fire!” I coughed so hard, my step-father pounded me on the back. A few more swallows as we passed the jug back and forth loosened my tongue. “Tell me. Tell me about my father, the soldier.”
Jacob understood exactly what I meant. He leaned forward, his elbows pressed to his knees as he stared at the fireplace. I suspected his mind had carried him through the years, peeling away the veil of time. “Your father was a true Patriot. Born in Boston, he lost both his parents at the beginning of the conflict. From that moment, he was driven to fight for liberty. Going wherever the war would take him. Saratoga. Valley Forge. Stumbling his way into a skirmish when he sided with the Tryon County Militia even though Benjamin didn’t know us from Adam. Fighting with a fury when your grandfather was wounded on the day of the Battle of Johnstown. We were fellow brothers-in-arms and that was all that mattered to him. I saw your father take a musket ball that should have killed him, would have killed a lesser man. I watched him go into the fray when others would turn tail and run. Brave does not begin to do him justice.”
A small smile turned up the corners of his mouth as Jacob turned to focus all his attention on me, leaning closer to drive his point home. “The most courageous thing I saw your father do? Go on after he was wounded. In agony, he picked himself up and pushed himself through the pain to put himself together again. To take up the fight, knowing full well what was waiting for him. More pain. Loss. The possibility that his life could be taken at any instant and he would give it. Without hesitation.” Jacob turned to me and gripped my arm. “I pray that you do not have to pay that price.” With that, he stood up and stepped out the back door, in need of some air to clear his head. Space to close the trapdoor on his memories. I heard the crack of a musket, and I knew. He was losing himself for a little while.
Restless, I escaped through the front door and began to walk with no destination in mind. At the ring of a mallet on the anvil in the smithy, I looked in on my grandfather. William and George stood side by side, hard at work, making some type of tool. Each took turns swinging, using their combined strength and muscle to make the metal take the desired shape.
My grandfather winced and stopped, rubbing at his shoulder. George took pause and leaned toward him, speaking to him under his breath. A nod, and William walked away from the forge, still favoring the offended joint. He glanced up and a smile formed upon catching sight of me. “My Blessing, how are you on this gift of a day the good Lord has given us?” I mumbled in response, unable to pull up a shred of optimism. My grandfather offered his personal well of hope for others. If I spent enough time with him, I might fall in.
He stepped out into the street to pound me on the back. A grimace passed over his features yet again with the movement. “I fear I will not be swinging a hammer much longer. My joints are showing their age.” William motioned to two chairs placed outside his blacksmith shop, under the eaves to give us some shade. We both sat, and he scooped up a ladle of water, swiping his sleeve across his lip before passing the ladle to me. I thanked him and took a few, deep gulps. The whiskey had done little to quench my thirst, and the day was a scorcher.
William pressed his hands to his knees and closed his eyes, his pain clear by the way he held himself stiffly. It nearly killed him any time he had to take a break from his life’s work. I stood and moved behind him, using the advantage of my considerable strength and youth to work the joint and muscle. My grandfather sagged and reached up to pat my hand. “Thank you, Benjamin. You have your mother’s touch.”
He took pause and turned to study my face. “Your eyes are your mother’s as well. Honey gleaming in a jar, so filled with light that we are all drawn in like bees in the field, but there is a darkness I do not like. What is troubling you?”
Too agitated to sit, I paced back and forth, kicking up dust as I did. “I am tired of waiting. I want to do my part and join the others, fulfill my duty to America as a soldier.”
William followed me with his gaze, patiently waiting until I finally had enough and dropped down beside him again. I grabbed the ladle and gulped some more water, resisting the urge to pour it over my head. My grandfather held out his hand, waiting for it in return. Another sip, and he broke the silence.
“You remind me of your father.” He shook his head. “You should have seen him, so eager to take on the Redcoats. When we ran into that ragtag bunch on the day he joined the Tryon County Militia, Benjamin fought like a banshee.” My grandfather’s characteristic smile slipped away, his voice gone hoarse with emotion. “I do not know if your mother or Jacob ever told you this. Your father nearly died for me that day. He stepped in front of a musket ball that would have taken my life without giving it a second thought. His recovery was long and hard, nearly killing him again, and yet he paced—like you—chomping at the bit to fight again. To give everything he had. First, he fell more than he walked. Then he hobbled with a cane. Finally, he walked, limping heavily at first, but nothing would stop him.”
Except a musket ball to the heart.
William sighed. “I prayed every night that this cup would be passed from you, yet somehow I knew you would have to fight. Liberty’s fire runs in your veins. How could it not with a father, step-father, and mother like yours?”
I stood and gathered my grandfather in a hug. “Do not forget, a grandfather like you. You set
the example that we all must follow. Thank you for giving me a snippet of my father. With every scrap, you piece together a quilt that I will wrap around me to keep him close. Perhaps some of his courage will rub off on me.”
William blinked hard and brushed a hand across his eyes. “It already has. God be with you every step of the way, Benjamin, and I as well. In your heart.”
I bade him farewell and told my step-father I was done for the day. I mounted Flintlock and let the rhythmic rocking beneath my legs and the warmth of his broad back ease the aching in the pit of my stomach. Delving into my father’s life, understanding him better, was painful, opening the wound of his passing. Of never having him in the first place except in stories, memories, and my reflection. The cut grew deeper until I gripped my middle and leaned forward, unbidden tears streaking down my face. When I approached the house, the sight of my mother made me sit up and swiftly scrub at my cheeks. The emotional tug of war was not through with me yet.
I delayed as long as I possibly could, brushing and rubbing down my horse, holding on to his neck and absorbing calm from his sturdy frame. When I managed to put myself back together again and made myself presentable, I stepped out into the waning light. Another sunset marked the close of another day and the clock kept ticking in my mind. Time was slipping through my fingers. There was a war to be fought, and I was trapped here.
My mother stood up from her favored perch on the porch step and I saw her wipe at her face. This journey was difficult for all of us. I took a deep breath and strode forward with determination, my shoulders set. I would not cause her any more pain. Growing up, I discovered early on that questions about my father caused Mama agony. He was her heart and soul. She had told me once that they shared a love like no other, a connection that formed instantly the moment they laid eyes on each other. When he was ripped away from her, it was as if she had been torn in two. If not for me and Jacob, I do not know that she would have survived his loss. I vowed I would not bring him up. My mother had enough to deal with as she prepared herself for our departure.
“You are home early. Are you nearly cross-eyed from your work?”
I nodded and smiled, but my heart was not in it. Mama kissed my cheek and put an arm around my waist, guiding me inside. She settled me in a chair and brought me tea.
I caught her wrist. “Join me, Mama.” I waited until she sat in the chair flanking mine, her face buried in her cup. Only then did I drink deeply and strive to remain unruffled in her appearance. I should have known better.
“You cannot fool me, Benjamin. I know you want to ask me something. You never could hide anything from me. You are a book I have been able to read since the first time I held you in my hands. Speak freely. I know there is much weighing on your mind. Let me ease your burden if I can.”
Sighing, I set down my cup. I stared into the fire, willing the words to come. They trickled at first, then poured out in a flood. “I am afraid, not of war, but that I will let my father’s memory down. I have never fought before. What if I fail?”
Mama stood at that and stepped to my side, kneeling to rest a hand on my knee. “Look at me, my son. Look at me! You were born to greatness simply because of who you are. Because you are his and mine. Because of Jacob. Every day of your life has prepared you for this moment in time. I know because I have watched you all these years as you rise to whatever challenge is laid before you, again and again. You do not need to stop and think. You just do. Like Jacob.” She closed her eyes, a ripple of pain running across her face. When she spoke, it was a whisper. “Like your father.”
My mother tilted her head, laughing softly, her voice catching. “You should have seen him. Papa brought him home, wounded, out of his mind with pain and fever, yet he did not complain. My father rushed off to a healing woman, hoping to get something for the infection that had set into his leg, leaving us alone. When I went to get him water, two Redcoats appeared in the woods and attacked, grabbing my dress, pushing their way into our house . . . and there was your father, standing at the mantel with the musket on his shoulder. He fired . . . and then he took down the other man. Benjamin helped me bury them both even though he was so ill, he could have buried himself with them. He told me, ‘When there is a will, there is a way.’ He meant an indomitable will like his own.”
Mama leaned forward and kissed my hand. “Like yours.” She laid her hand over my heart. “That beating inside of you? It is his blood, pounding with the drums of war. You are more than liberty’s promise. You are liberty’s legacy and will not let him down.”
7
24 July 1814
Benjamin Willson Cooper
My feet kicked up dust on my walk to town. I could have mounted Flintlock, but I wanted to take my time. Drink in my surroundings. I might be thirsty for the familiar for a long time. I would be leaving for Plattsburgh in the morning.
The time had finally come to join Nicholas Stoner and the others. To join the cause. The very thought filled me with a burning desire to jump on my horse and kick his flank, to fly faster than the wind, carrying me into the heart of the action far to the north. Into the unknown. Canada, a land that I had only heard about but never seen.
At the same time, a part of me wanted to linger as I said a silent farewell to everything I had ever known. I moved slowly, savoring each minute. Past fields of golden grains waving in the wind. The green grasses growing tall. The encroaching pines reaching for the heavens above. I startled a doe and her fawn by the side of the dirt path. They bounded off up a hill and at the crest, a great buck gazed down at the land below, king of the wilderness. Birds, squirrels, bears, and fox were in abundance. This land was rich, was what we were fighting and dying for, what England did not understand. For the king, it was a matter of conquest. For my fellow Americans and I, it was our very existence. I knew I would fight to keep it until my heart stopped. Like my father before me.
When Benjamin Willson gave his life, the Americans had already won their independence, six days before his death. Now that we were threatened again, the price he paid pushed me to follow in his footsteps, to do whatever I could to make sure that my father did not die for nothing.
Johnstown welcomed me with open arms as I finished my journey, crossing over the Cayadutta Creek, past the Tryon County courthouse, St. John’s Episcopal, James Burke’s Inn, and the first school in the colony of New York. My chest was tight, and it was hard to breathe, my eyes stinging as I raised a hand to familiar faces, every single one an acquaintance, many a good friend.
Hard. Leaving behind all I had ever known, not knowing if I would make it back, hurt. To the bone. My boots kicked up dirt and I had the irrational urge to catch it in my hands, pocket it, bring a piece of Sir William’s town with me. I forced myself to walk on, setting my shoulders in determination. Pushing on. Finish what you have come to do.
I stepped into the gunsmith shop, pressed my back against the door, waiting for my heart to slow. The familiar room wrapped me in its embrace and drew me in. This place, where I had learned my trade from the time I only reached my step-father’s knee, was like a second home to me. Although I had griped because I was eager to leave, I would miss it. Being a gunsmith was as much a part of me as my hair or my eyes.
Or my hands. I stared down at them and they formed fists. I only prayed that my step-father’s teachings would be enough to carry me through this conflict, back to this place where my life had meaning because of the others I helped with my craft. I scraped a palm over my eyes and concentrated on the matter at hand in our shop, taking up the gun I had designed to check it one last time.
I hefted the beauty in my hands, eying the barrel and the stock, holding her up to my shoulder. I thought of this gun as a woman. An irresistible woman. “Well, my lady. You will not let me down, will you?”
I stepped outside, loaded the musket, and fired. My breath came out in a rush as the stock hit my shoulder, reminding me of the barely controlled power I held in my hands. I gazed out at my targets I had set up days
before and nodded in quiet satisfaction. “Yes, my beauty. You will do well. Very well indeed.”
I loaded her one more time, the surge of the kick hitting me deep down in my gut. Satisfied that my gun was as ready as she would ever be, I brought her back inside and cleaned her top to bottom, inside and out. I sat down at my table with one last job to do. I took up my carving tools and painstakingly etched BWC in the stock, along with 1814, to mark this flash in time. Finally, one last word . . . .
“What are you writing on your gun?” Jacob had entered and stood quietly by the window, head turned to take in the dying day, his shoulders set in acceptance. His eyes roamed over the comforting surroundings of our gunsmith shop in a farewell of sorts. Samuel Young, up to the task or not, would take over in the morning, ensuring our town would be taken care of in our absence. My step-father could go with a clear conscience, except for the weight of my mother’s sorrow. Shaking off a melancholy that had been with him since Stoner’s letter arrived, Jacob took a step closer to me, peering closely at my musket.
Liberty's Legacy (The Liberty Series Book 3) Page 5