Liberty's Legacy (The Liberty Series Book 3) Page 4

  “Mama, staying here, with you and Father, has been my choice. Besides, I have not found the right woman yet. You have set a standard that is hard to meet.” Her smile was tremulous and would not hold. Her sobs shook me as I pulled her into my arms.

  How could I tell her that I did not believe I was fated to take a wife? If I was meant to follow in Benjamin Willson’s footsteps, I did not want to leave a broken heart and soul behind. The only reason my mother survived his loss was because of Jacob . . . and me. Now, war threatened to take us from her. And rip her to shreds.

  4

  January 5, 2016

  Charlotte

  I stepped into a wall of heat so intense it nearly shoved me back outside, a shocking contrast to the frigid blast of winter air that swept the door shut behind me. Ben’s forge was like walking on to the surface of the sun, or so I imagined. Late at night and he was hard at work, on a project of his own or for a customer, doing it old-school. Stripped down to his jeans to beat the heat, the sweat coursed down his body. No blow torch tonight. His mammoth stone and brick furnace, crafted by his own hands, blazed behind him. I never ceased to be amazed at the extent of his talents. Welding. Soldering. Brazing. Fabricating metal. Playing the part of a farrier or ornamental blacksmith. Place iron in my husband’s hands and he could work it to his will.

  Tonight, he sought solace in his shop behind the house. He hadn’t slept the night before. Our ancestor’s journal did not make for a good bedtime story. Running on adrenalin, coffee, and sheer determination, Ben had come out here to do something useful. Something to occupy his hands, if not his mind.

  He swung his hammer in a mighty arc and the sparks flew as it struck a piece of iron on the anvil, bending it to take the form of his pleasing. I had the disorienting sensation of seeing another place, another time, my forefather William hard at work as Johnstown’s blacksmith, my Benjamin standing by his side to learn his trade. The memory squeezed my heart. Made my eyes sting and my throat close. If Benjamin had survived the war, he would have been William’s apprentice.

  How ironic that generations later, my Ben chose metal work as his livelihood and his passion. The scene shifted again and only my husband stood before me. His gaze troubled. His hair damp with sweat, his muscles knotted with the strain. I knew if I looked closely, I would see burns on his hands—and more. His craft was not easy. Right now, he didn’t want or need easy.

  “You look like Hephaestus, god of blacksmiths.” I stood with my back pressed against the door, my gaze focused on him and him alone. I should’ve dressed more appropriately to create a diversion, something that would give him amnesia for a while.

  He stopped mid swing, his face twisted, smoothing only with effort and restraint. He set his work down, stepped toward me, and clamped his hands on mine. His palms nearly singed me to the bone. Like Benjamin when he was consumed with the inferno of a fever in his own body, brought to my forefather’s doorstep after being severely wounded in a skirmish during the Revolution. The first time I laid eyes on my other half, in the flesh.

  A tumble into the past was a near thing, allowing myself to be sucked in by the magnetic force that lived in my Patriot. I shook my head and kissed Ben to ground myself in the present. Reminded myself that my love was here and now in his modern-day guise. He buried his face in my neck and his body gave. “And you are my Aphrodite.” His shudders ran through me. Remain locked together much longer and we would crumble, our souls scattering to bits on the stone tile floor.

  “I don’t think the goddess of love would be caught in these flannel pajamas.” He scooped me up, carried me outside into a snow globe of a night, dusting me with snow. My breath was stolen away, floating on the air, and it had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the man at my side. Ben brought me to the edge until I thought I would shatter with the bitter chill slipping beneath my clothing only to have him bring me back into the furnace of a forge. Down to the floor. Breathing the same air. His body burning against me even as the icy contrast of the floor nearly broke my will, my capacity to think or make any kind of decision. My body answered him.

  “One thing’s for certain,” I rasped, my voice reedy. “There’s nothing hotter than being laid down by a blacksmith—in a forge—in the middle of winter. I don’t think you can cool me off ever again.” Ben’s mouth burned a trail from the delicate skin behind my ear, down my neck, to my collarbone, headed for points south. We both forgot that Benjamin Cooper was on the brink of war for a brief respite.

  When the heat was too much and we were both parched, the sweat running off our bodies, Ben stood and went to the fridge in the corner. I appreciated the perfect opportunity to admire his all too heart-stopping form in blue jeans. Worn and frayed at the hems, they hung low on his hips. With every step, my husband took me closer to vaporization.

  He returned, grinning, no doubt at the way I was overcome. Flushed, judging by the wave of heat that rolled off my skin when I pressed my palms to my cheeks. Practically panting. Hyperventilating was a distinct possibility. Instead of handing me the water bottle, Ben opened it, poured some over his head, then mine, finally holding it to my lips. What a tease. I took a long swallow and returned the favor. He drained it dry. “Quite an improvement from that barrel of water outside William’s forge, wouldn’t you say? Even though it was October, it was lukewarm the day we. . . ”

  Ben’s words came to an abrupt halt, the color washing out of his face. Alarmed, I rushed to the refrigerator and brought him another bottle which he drank slowly with his eyes closed, practically inhaling it to the last drop. I held on to his arm, trying to be his anchor. “Hey, you okay?”

  He nodded, even though shadows lurked in his eyes. “Sorry. Just one of those flashbacks from the past. I—I didn’t remember the smithy before. It kind of makes me wonder if that’s why I chose to work with metal.”

  I nodded, running my thumb in circles up and down over his skin, waiting for some of the tension to release. Strange how different our experiences with our past lives were. I had gone on a walk in the Colonial Cemetery and slipped back in time, if only in my mind, to my life in Johnstown with my ancestors at the tail end of the Revolution. Ben, on the other hand, and with no prior knowledge of Johnstown, followed his gut to move here after his parents died in a car accident. He was drawn to historic places here that had significance to his time spent on this earth as Benjamin Willson. A powerful attraction had formed between us from the instant we met, both of us feeling an immediate, yet inexplicable connection, but only snippets of the past came back to Ben. Brief flashes or impressions—until Benjamin Cooper’s journals opened the door to more. I was afraid of how his experiences in a previous life might rear their head next.

  To distract myself from my dark musings, I asked lightly, “What are you doing out here anyway? It’s late.” I’d given Jakey his nightly bath, tucked him into bed, and sang a lullaby. Ben usually kissed him goodnight. I had wandered from room to room while I waited for him, an occurrence that was happening much too often of late. The anxiety kicked it up a notch, sending me outside with the baby monitor in the pocket of my robe. Footprints in the freshly fallen snow had led me to my husband’s shop and forge.

  Ben turned over on his back and nestled me in close, his eyes pinned to the ceiling. “I just needed a break, you know? I keep waiting for the hammer to drop.” Absently, his fingers trailed through my curls as he played with my hair. I stroked his side in response. An affirmation. He was not alone. Never alone. “A part of me wants to rush through, skip to the end, read the last page to find out what happens. The other part of me wants to stretch it out, make it last, savor every word and hold it on my tongue—because this may be all that we ever have of him.”

  I pressed my palm to his cheek and looked him in the eye, striving to be his compass if he should lose his way. “We need to be grateful even if these journals are it. Be grateful we had the chance to know Benjamin Willson Cooper at all. What do you say we go in, rest a while, and pick up
where we left off?”

  His laughter, dry and without humor, drifted my way. “Rest? I’ve been having trouble doing that lately. Do you know someone who can help me figure it out?”

  “I’m your girl. I might know a thing or two.” That was enough to shut down the furnace for the night. Ben took my hand, venturing into the night in only his jeans, his chest and feet bare. By the time we stepped inside, he was shaking so hard, I could hear his teeth clacking together. I led him up to our room, stripped him down to his boxers, and buried him in a cocoon of blankets.

  He sighed in contentment. “Perfect. Now all I need is a bed warmer.” His hand snagged me and drew me into his haven. For a while, we both slept, the sounds of our son’s soft breathing carrying over the monitor on the side of the bed; our lullaby. The journal would keep until Ben was ready.

  I don’t know how much time passed when a hand trailed down my back, stopped at my hip, and applied pressure. Insistent. I glanced at the clock. It was only three. “Charlotte, I can’t wait until morning.”

  I could not tell him no. I could not deny him anything within reason. After all, he found his way back to me, across two centuries, breaking the barrier of time. What were a few sleepless nights lost in the pages of a journal if they gave him peace or answers?

  5

  4 July 1814

  Benjamin Willson Cooper

  Thirty-eight years ago, the founding fathers signed the Declaration of Independence. My family and I stood on the field where the Battle of Johnstown took place in remembrance of the significance of this day. It seemed fitting. Here, we could fully understand the price that had been paid by a smattering of colonists who boldly stood up against a much greater power in a struggle seen as a lost cause by the rest of the world.

  Decades later, our hard-won freedom was tenuous at best. Even now, the tides of fortune could be turning in Mother England’s favor. We had no way of knowing as our men faced threats to the north in Canada, to the west with the Natives, spurred on by the likes of Tecumseh’s Confederacy, and as far south as Talladega in Alabama. On land and sea. We could only stand firm in our convictions and fight tooth and nail to hold our ground. Today was a reminder of why it was every American’s duty to keep liberty’s promise, or die trying.

  A lone pine stood in the middle of the wide, green stretch of grass and wildflowers. I remembered the day my mother and step-father brought me here for the first time to plant a tiny sapling on another July Fourth when I was four or five. “We plant this to remember your father, Benjamin, to honor his sacrifice.” How I cried. They thought my tears were brought on by sorrow because I longed for my father. They had no idea I watched him die.

  As I set foot on the field once again, the present slipped away. The air was heavy with smoke. The clamor of shouting, grunting, and screaming made my head pound. A sprawl of bodies, clothed in red or blue coats and homespun, were scattered everywhere around me. Musket fire crackled loudly, making me jump. I saw my father, tall and proud, regal in the uniform of a Patriot. His hand raised in farewell to my mother and then . . . CRACK! A musket blasted close enough to be deafening. A crimson stain blossomed on his chest, growing wider, making my stomach churn. He toppled to the ground like an oak felled by a mighty wind.

  My own legs nearly folded as Jacob grabbed my arm and gave it a good squeeze. “Benjamin, are you well?”

  I nodded even though I was sickened by the lingering stench and sights of war that were all too vibrant, rather than faded by the passing years. Each time I revisited the past, the experiences became more vivid. As if I had seen it all with my own two eyes.

  My step-father gave me a little shake, reminding me of his presence, prompting me to reassure him. “Aye. It’s the heat. Do not worry yourself over me.”

  I caught my mother watching me intently and managed a smile for her. A few more steps and we all formed a circle around my father’s pine. Mama, Jacob and I formed half the circle. Grandfather William, Patience, and George rounded out the group. In what had become a tradition for the small, close unit that was our family, we each shared something personal that made us appreciate how far our young nation had come.

  William had a way with words, a gift he had passed on to my mother. It was no surprise when my grandfather spoke first, one arm around his wife, the other around his son. “On this hallowed ground, in remembrance of Independence Day, I wish to remember the fallen, all those who did not see us achieve our dream. You laid down our lives to grant us liberty. We give you thanks. We honor you and we will continue the battle for freedom until we take our last breath.”

  He bowed his head and stared at the ground, struggling to keep a leash on his emotions. With a start, I realized that most of the golden wheat in his hair, shared by my mother, had gone white. His shoulders had become more hunched with the weight of his years, his hands beginning to curl inward like Grandfather Abraham’s. Like it or not, his son George could not be spared for the war effort. Otherwise, our town would be without a blacksmith.

  Around the circle we went, each of us saying our piece. When it was my turn, the image of my father rose up again, so strong that I dropped to my knees. “I am thankful. For my father.” My words faltered as my head began to swim. I found my strength of will and forged on. “Because of his sacrifice, his strength, his bravery, I am here.”

  Jacob’s hand came down on one of my shoulders, my mother’s on the other. I reached up and grabbed hold. “I am thankful for the both of you, for your part in shaping me into the man I was meant to be.” William and his family were the only others who knew who my actual father was. They knew what it had cost my parents to create a home and family for me.

  Jacob stepped forward last, reaching for a branch. This brought him closer to my father, a man who he saw as a rival for my mother’s affections at first. My step-father would later come to hold him in the highest esteem. “I fought on this field so long ago, came close to dying on this small patch of land. Benjamin’s father made the ultimate sacrifice here. Charlotte and I saw it happen.”

  He bowed his head, fists clenched. When he could look up again, his eyes burned, wet with a sheen of barely-controlled tears. “Benjamin Willson gave us his all and in so doing, gave me a family. His family. Now the time has come for his son and me to take up the fight once again. Nicholas has sent out the call for brothers in arms. To help others to enjoy the freedoms that have been given to us. We have work to do, affairs to put in order. Within the coming weeks we will go. We will carry you with us in our hearts. I ask for your prayers that we will have victory. That we will come back to celebrate another Independence Day, one which no longer has the shadow of England darkening our horizon.”

  My mother was crying softly. Patience wrapped an arm around her in comfort while William and George offered us their support. My grandfather grabbed me in a bear hug. “You must come back to us, Benjamin. Do you understand? You are one of my greatest blessings. I lost one young man I loved like a son. Do not make me lose my grandson.” He stepped in closer and whispered in my ear. “Do not let me lose Jacob either. Charlotte needs him. She needs both of you.”

  “I will do my best, Grandfather.” I hugged him in return, holding on tight to the river of memories we shared since I was but a boy. As I took in everyone standing on the field, all the people I held most dear in the world, I realized I would do anything in my power to keep them out of harm’s way. Please God. Please watch over those I love and if it is Your will, bring me back to them.

  ***

  I sat on the step on our porch, a spot I had favored many an evening. It gave me peace, basking in the moonlight, marveling at God’s stars filling the heavens. A reminder of how small we were. Concerns such as ours were nothing to a being that knew every grain of sand, every bird in the sky, every fish in the sea. Every hair on my head.

  My breath came out in a rush. Forced out as if I had been holding it all day. I closed my eyes and simply let in the night. This place. Let time have me. My muscles went loose.
My shoulders sagged and my head drooped. Soon. I knew I would be leaving soon and the uncertainty was draining me.

  The door opened and shut behind me. I waited for a heavy footstep, my step-father come to join me. Instead, it was light. Mama again. She sank down beside me and let out a sigh. The ticking of the clock as the days flew by was even more wearing on her. She hooked her arm in mine. “I am sorry your birthday was not more of a celebration, Benjamin. I need you to know that you have always been and will always be our greatest blessing.”

  I knew she did not speak empty words. William’s favorite expression had been passed down and shared by my mother. She meant every word. I need only look at their faces. Mama’s, the woman who loved me more than anything because she gave birth to me and brought a piece of my father into this world. Jacob, the man who chose to love me when he could have walked away. Blessings upon blessings, all around.

  “I think it is I who have been blessed. My cup runneth over . . . because of you.” I took her hand and kissed it, honoring her; this incredible woman who set the standard for all other women.

  She took my palm and pressed something into it. Something smooth, small, and round. It was warm, as if Mama had been holding it for some time. My hand tightened in a fist as if with an involuntary spasm. I caught a flash of intense pain, the roar of a fireplace, heard a man’s screams. My screams. My breath caught, and I slowly uncurled my fingers to reveal a musket ball. I glanced up at her, unspoken questions in my gaze.

  “That ball brought your father to my door.” Her eyes turned to the meadow that neighbored our home. I believed she was actually watching a scene from over thirty years ago. “When he was wounded in a skirmish, Papa dug it from his leg, pocketed it for a keepsake, and brought a stranger from Boston into our home. If not for that bit of metal, I never would have met my Patriot, never would have had you.” She closed my hand and held it tight. “Your father, the first Benjamin to steal my heart, carried it with him everywhere he went, to comfort him, to draw strength and courage. He drew strength from that ball when his wound nearly killed him and again when he met his fate during the Battle of Johnstown. Let it be a source of courage and reminder of his love for you that you can carry in your pocket when you face hard times. May it lead you back to me the way that it led the man who gave you his name into my life.”