Liberty's Legacy (The Liberty Series Book 3) Page 6
“Legacy. If I do not survive and make it back, it is my hope that this musket will make my mark on this earth.” I could be brutally honest with my step-father. He knew full well the price that could be paid in war, had nearly paid it himself when he was wounded in the shoulder during the Battle of Johnstown.
His hand came up to grip my neck and press firmly, giving a little shake. “You will make it back, by the grace of God, and if I have anything to say about it. Your mother would never forgive me if I came home with only this masterpiece.”
Jacob’s voice went hoarse as he pulled me into a hug. “As for your legacy, you have made your mark on every life you have ever touched since the day you were born, before you were born. You gave your father hope for the future. Know that he went to his death with great joy in his heart that your mother carried you, a piece of him, inside of her.” He cleared his throat. “Enough. We must not keep your mother waiting. She will be alone all too often beginning on the morrow.”
I bowed my head, my hands tightening their grip on my musket. “I have one thing left to do. I will meet you at home.” A slap on the back and Jacob sent me on my way. He needed a private moment with the place that was not only his livelihood. It was his memory keeper since he was but a boy, a tradition that had been passed down to me.
The sun was hot on my neck as I trudged through town. The words of my loved ones crowded my head. That beating inside of you? It is his blood, the drums of war. I know you will answer the call. Only a matter of time. You are more than liberty’s promise. Liberty’s legacy. You will not let him down. Sorrow and anger coursed through my veins, but pride and an overwhelming love overshadowed all the emotions that centered on the man who was my father. I longed to meet him with a need that had been buried deep inside of me for as long as I could remember, yet in truth, I already had.
I need only look at my reflection in the still waters of the pond or in the window glass in our house when the light was right—and I could see him. Except for my mother’s golden eyes, she assured me that the rest was stamped from the mold that was Benjamin Willson and I knew she told me the truth. I had seen my father for myself as I watched him die. Our resemblance was made all too clear every time I set foot on that field.
My eyes stung, and my breath was labored by the time I turned in the gate of the cemetery, a sturdy unassuming gate that connected with the fencing that bordered a lonesome plot of land. The metal work had been lovingly formed by William’s hands in his smithy. His tribute. To my father and others who lost their lives in the fight for independence. Too many lives were lost or changed forever on that distant time, their echoes still heard all these years later.
The gate creaked in the wind, sending a chill down my spine that put me on edge. I glanced over my shoulder. I had the unsettling sensation that I was not alone. I pushed my misgivings aside. A few steps in and I dropped to my knees by my father’s grave, the tears running freely down my face at this point. No one else was here to see my emotional display, with the exception of the ghosts that lingered in this place.
I laid my hand on the stone. A breeze kicked up around me although the air had been deathly still, smothering even, all day. Badly sought-after peace washed over me. I bowed my head and pressed a kiss to my fingers before resting them on my father’s name. “I will do my best to make you proud, Father, to live up to your sacrifice.”
You will. The words whispered in my ear and I could swear that a hand patted me on the back. The breeze lifted my hair, made my clothes flutter—and was gone. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the stars winked above, I rose and turned to leave. God be with you, my son. The words rang out clearly in my mind, as if someone walked beside me. I turned back to look at the stone. To an outsider looking in, no one was there.
My father and I knew better.
***
The next morning, my mother stood in the doorway of the bedroom with Jacob, clinging to him tightly lest she fall, forehead to forehead. She had already lost one love. Must she lose another? What if fate was cruel and took both of us away from her? If I could tie up my step-father up and leave him behind, I would, but he would never forgive me. Regardless of what I did, there was no holding Jacob Cooper back. He would follow.
His hand stroked my mother’s hair, cupping her cheek as he stared into her eyes intently as if imprinting her on his brain. “I will leave you privacy. A parting between a mother and son is for your eyes only.” His voice gruff, Jacob kissed my mother roughly and stepped out on to the porch. Unable to bear witnessing this story through to the end.
Mama swallowed hard and lifted her chin. She crossed the room to my side, her head held high, and yet I saw the pain in her eyes. She was dying inside. She straightened my coat, the royal blue uniform of the United States militia. How she had come by such a dear and rare item I did not know. Her hands trembled as they brushed off dust and ran her fingers down the trim lines of my jacket. A nod and her breath came out between her teeth. “You look so like your father, so like him I would think I had stepped back through the years. Your father went boldly forward wearing liberty’s banner just like you. He would be so proud of the man you have become, Benjamin. As am I.”
She turned and walked away from me, bending over the chest at the foot of her bed. My mother had been wandering through her past as well. She hefted another blue coat out of the depths, casting dust motes adrift in the air, sparkling like flakes of gold. When she raised the jacket, the first rays of morning light struck rust-colored blood stains and a hole where the heart would be. A shiver ran through me. I knew without a doubt who the coat belonged to. My father.
Mama held it for an instant as if she held the man, in her arms, against her cheek. As I watched her cradling my father’s uniform, my mind carried me back to a vision of such clarity that it nearly blinded me. Of a time when she held the coat and rocked with it in the middle of the night, weeping, thinking that she was all alone. That I was asleep, and no one watched, but her sobs jerked me awake.
Time froze as she handed it to me. Sorrow was a sword that pierced my heart with a pain fierce enough to make me suck in my breath as it struck me in the chest. I breathed out hard and handed it back to her, my hand skimming along the buttons. One was missing.
Mama dipped her hand in her pocket and pulled out a button that matched the rest. The missing piece of the puzzle. “Your father tore this from his uniform as a keepsake for me on the day we parted. His button, this jacket, and you are all I have left of him. You are my heart. I love you. I ask one thing. Come back to me.”
She’d maintained her control until that moment when her voice and face broke. I held her in the same way that Mama used to hold me in a reversal of our roles. The sunlight kissed the golden wheat of her hair and I saw threads of white that had never been there before. A reminder of her mortality, those few strands pulled at my heart. I kissed her forehead, she stroked my cheek, and let me go. My mother stepped back, her arms wrapped around herself. Otherwise, I feared she would throw herself at me.
As I stepped outside, the glow of the early morning light turned Jacob’s red hair into a torch. The love on his face—for my mother, for me, was a beacon. I strode purposely to Flintlock and mounted in one smooth movement, my leg coming up over the pummel. I turned to catch sight of my mother one more time. As Mama held on to the porch post and jacket with one hand raised in farewell, I made a vow to myself. My journey would not end the same as my father’s. I would bring back both the men that she loved.
Whole.
8
February 5, 2016
Charlotte
“I THINK I’M going to be sick.” Ben made for the bathroom while I stared at the journal in a daze. No matter how many times I flipped the page, I couldn’t make any more words magically appear. The back cover stared back at me. I picked up the book and cupped it in both my hands, closing my eyes in prayer. Please! We need more. He needs more!
Nothing came to me. This was not Charlotte Ross Cooper�
��s story to tell. She would not share the memories from this point forward. Unlike the Battle of Johnstown, my ancestor had not gone after her men a second time. Whatever tale awaited us belonged to Benjamin Willson Cooper and this journal proved to be a dead end. I winced at that poor choice of words. There has to be more!
The faint sound of retching pulled me from our bed. I slipped into the bathroom to find my husband standing in front of the mirror, his hands gripping the sink as his head hung low. Defeated. It was a look I did not like to see in any man, especially the man I loved. I wrapped my arms around his waist and whispered, “It isn’t over. We haven’t come this far to quit now. Come to bed and put it away for a little while.”
A shudder ran through him, shaking me to the core. There were times that I feared that the strain would break him as he was caught in a tug of war between past and present.
Ben didn’t argue with me, which bothered me even more. He looked in on our son, grazing his forehead with a kiss before turning into bed. He stared at the wall, the barely contained tension emanating from his body. Holding on, watching him, I wanted to scream for him as he whispered, “I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like we just sent Jakey to war.”
My stomach tightened at his words. “It’s not crazy. Benjamin Cooper carries a piece of us inside him. It’s natural to grieve, but he will find his way to us. Hasn’t that been the way of it from the beginning of this scavenger hunt in time?” I turned to face him and looked him in the eye. He couldn’t resist me.
His slow smile crept up, lighting his eyes, and his hand found its way to the button around my neck, nestled against my chest. “I thank God every day that you somehow helped me to find my way back to you.”
9
February 10, 2016
Charlotte
“Is he all right?” Joan Brown, curator of the Fulton County Museum, was polished in a gray suit that complemented her silver hair, completely put together—as always. My husband was not. There were dark smudges under his eyes, his face was covered in stubble, his mouth drawn in an uncharacteristically grim line. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a month. That would be just about right.
I took his hand and received a ghost of a grin in response. At least my presence gave him some comfort. I turned my attention back to our old family friend. “Yes, just tired. He’s had to catch up with a lot of work lately and we’ve had some late nights with Jakey. Teething, you know? Our little guy is ahead of the game.”
That last part was true. Jacob had been quite restless for the last week or so. I’d usually find him with his father in the rocking chair in the middle of the night. My spirits plummeted. I couldn’t even ease the burden of this first milestone for our son; Ben insisted I go back to bed since he couldn’t sleep anyway. If he did manage to doze off, I’d find him slumped in the rocker while our son lay peacefully in his crib, no worse for the wear thanks to his father’s loving care.
Joan gave me a sympathetic hug, reaching out to pat Ben’s arm. He nodded at her absently. “I remember those days.” We continued walking down a long corridor until we reached the Colonial Room, a place I had visited many times over the years with my American history professor for a father. Ben had come with me once before in search of his past. That was the day we discovered the jacket.
It was the prize piece of the collection, recently donated by the Cooper Bradley family of Cooperstown. A blue militia jacket that would have been worn by a Patriot during the Revolution, it was all too familiar with its rust-colored stain on the chest and one missing button. Beside it on a small table was a braid of hair that matched mine with a note about liberty’s promise. A note written by none other than Charlotte Ross Cooper.
I stopped at the display case and rested my hand on the glass, my hand clasping the button around my neck, the button my Patriot tore from his coat and gave to me. My memory of the last time Benjamin Willson wore that coat was still emblazed on my mind. On the day my jaunt into Revolutionary Johnstown came to a screeching halt when my Patriot died.
“Charlotte? Did you hear me? I asked if you would like to hold the jacket. It will make chills run down your spine.” Joan squeezed my hand, forcing me to concentrate on the sound of her voice.
“Hmm, hold it? I would love that, Joan. It’s such a find. A piece of living history, right here in our midst.” I was babbling in an effort to calm my nerves. I glanced at Ben. His hands were pressed to the glass as well, his gaze focused on the piece of his heritage with a burning intensity.
The door rattled as the key squeaked in the lock and the door swung open. Joan gently lifted the faded jacket from its stand and turned to face me. My husband flanked me, his hand extended. He was as eager if not more so than I to touch this artifact after reading about it in Benjamin’s journal. I reached out and we touched the aged fabric at the same time. It was as if a punch to the gut nearly bent me in half, going right through me. Ben’s breath came out in a rush. “I—I need some fresh air.” He stumbled out of the room.
Reluctantly, I pulled my hand away. I didn’t ever want to let go. Joan followed my husband’s retreating figure with her gaze. “He’s—he’s all right. Just really taking this research personally. We’ve discovered that Ben might be related to Benjamin Willson. Thanks for showing me this, Joan. I’m going to go check on him.”
I found my husband sitting outside on the top step in the bitter cold. Ben was bent over, his head in his hands. When I sat beside him and laid my hand on his, he pulled away with a gasp. “I . . . I felt his pain! A razor-sharp knife, stabbing me in the heart, driving in, twisting until I didn’t know where the agony stopped and I began. I don’t think I can take much more of this, Charlotte. I need amnesia.”
I simply held on. What else could I do? We sat in the jagged chill of a late winter day, both of us trembling. I tried to share some of my body heat, but feared my husband was suffering from a torment that went much deeper than the arctic blast of air that has slipped in from Canada overnight, bringing a light powder-coating of snow that continued to fall even now. Sit here long enough and we would be ice sculptures covered in a blanket of white.
Footsteps sounded behind us. Joan, wrapped in her coat, hat, and scarf so that only her wire-framed glasses were revealed on the bridge of her nose. She held a piece of paper in her hand. “You say that Ben may have ties to that coat in there? Here’s the name and number of the woman who sent it to the museum. You never know. She might have something more that can help you. Her name is Elizabeth Cooper Bradley.”
Ben snatched it from her hand. As if awoken from a spell, he jumped to his feet and tugged her into a hug. He kissed the top of her head. “Thanks, Joan. You’re an angel.” He started for his truck, remembered himself and turned back. One giant step forward and he scooped me up in his arms. “Come on. We’ve got a phone call to make.”
***
I woke shivering in my bed, buried in the dark of a frigid morning. There was no hint of the coming dawn. I had the irrational fear we would be trapped in an endless night with no call from the Bradley family and no shred of hope. There was frost on the window and my bed was empty. Again. The floor was cold beneath my feet when I went searching for Ben. I only needed to walk a few steps. He’d attempted to find sanctuary in our son’s room.
Jake was in his arms, sound asleep as my husband rocked back and forth. Ben’s gaze was trained on the pine out in the middle of the field as he stared out the window, his eyes dry and burning. Pinned to that torch that lit up the field, its light did nothing to dispel the shadows in his eyes.
“I remember. I remember all of it.” He spoke in a ragged whisper so as not to disturb our baby. More so to keep himself from shattering.
The hairs on the back of my neck rose up. “Remember what?” I knew all too well but didn’t want to believe it.
His hand reached out, trembling, to rest on my head. “Our last day together. Our final minutes. The second your lips touched mine and I touched your stomach, knowing our baby was inside of yo
u. The instant a musket ball struck my heart and my world exploded. When my vision went black and I could no longer see your beautiful face.”
The tears streaked from his eyes. I took his hand in mine. It was like ice. A fine quiver ran through him. “I can’t shake the terror that coursed through me, not for myself. Not fear of the war, but that something terrible might happen to you.”
“Hush now. You’re all right and so am I. That was over long ago. You’re here now and neither of us is going anywhere.” I ran my hand up and down his arm, hoping to bring him comfort. That’s when I noticed that Ben held something in his hand while our son nestled in the crook of his arm. A musket ball rolled back and forth across his palm. The same ball that led my Benjamin to my doorstep in the past when my forefather dug it from his leg and brought home the wounded Patriot to be tended by my former self, Charlotte Elizabeth Ross the First. By some strange twist of fate, Ben found it on the battlefield below soon after he moved into what would become our home. One more piece of the puzzle. Falling into place. Bringing us together.
His hand pulled away from mine to stroke my hair as he let go of a long sigh. His fingers trailed to my chin and tilted my head, allowing me to focus on him. “There is one thing I am glad I remember, something that I want you to know. My joy in knowing you carried my child burned bright inside of me, a candle in that utterly dark moment. I was already in heaven here on earth when you told me about the baby. Don’t doubt that for a moment. I died with gratitude in my heart that you were mine even for all too brief of an instant. Your gift of hope was the divine spark that carried me as I passed over. You must believe me.”
The moonlight caught the button around my neck and Ben kissed it, igniting my smile, even if it was shaky. The button, torn from Benjamin’s uniform as a keepsake, was a symbol of his love and promise to find me. It led him back to me through the ages. The same button that somehow crossed the barrier of time when I returned from my trip into a bygone era. Artifacts of our past had bound us together. I could only hope that another would help us to complete the journey.