Liberty's Legacy, page 1
part #3 of Liberty Series Series
Copyright © 2018 Heidi Sprouse
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address Salt Run Publishing.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 13: 978-1-62390-079-3
E-ISBN: 978-1-62390-080-9
Published July 4, 2018 by Salt Run Publishing
Cover design by Salt Run Publishing
Interior design by Salt Run Publishing
For information, address:
Salt Run Publishing
1202 Old Agateville Road
Hillsboro GA 31038
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1 | January 2, 2016 | Charlotte
2 | January 3, 2016 | Charlotte
3 | 1 July 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
4 | January 5, 2016 | Charlotte
5 | 4 July 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
6 | 12 July 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
7 | 24 July 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
8 | February 5, 2016 | Charlotte
9 | February 10, 2016 | Charlotte
10 | February 14, 2016 | Charlotte
11 | 28 July 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
12 | 30 July 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
13 | 1 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
14 | 2 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
15 | 3 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
16 | 3 August 1814 – Evening | Benjamin Willson Cooper
17 | 4 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
18 | February 28, 2016 | Charlotte
19 | 5 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
20 | 12 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
21 | 15 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
22 | March 15, 2016 | Charlotte
23 | 20 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
24 | 27 August 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
25 | 1 September 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
26 | 2 September 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
27 | 5 September 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
28 | 6 September 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
29 | 7 September 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
30 | 17 September 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
31 | 20 September 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
32 | 1 October 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
33 | 8 October 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
34 | May 30, 2016 | Charlotte
35 | 15 October 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
36 | 25 October 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
37 | 24 December 1814 | Benjamin Willson Cooper
38 | July 4, 2016 | Charlotte
Afterword
Further Reading: Liberty’s Promise
About the Author
Dedication
To those who fought with all their hearts. With their very souls. Down to the last drop. At the birth of a nation. Raising the cry …
Liberty and justice for all.
“I will love you with the dust of who I was, with the skin that I am now, and with the bones that will one day decorate my tomb.”
—Christopher Poindexter
1
January 2, 2016
Charlotte
I awoke alone in my bed, inexplicably shaken. My heart racing. Drenched in a cold sweat. Breathe, Charlotte. Just calm down. The wind rattled the house, a tree limb tapping at my window on yet another stormy night. Old Man Winter had been a grizzly so far, roaring in a fury of snow, the jaws of its bitter cold sinking in deep since early December. I glanced at the clock and shivered. It was just past midnight.
I was unsettled without Ben beside me. I couldn’t sleep well if my husband wasn’t wrapped around me, sheltering me with his strong arms. Holding off the nightmares and memories of our past lives that didn’t end so happily. When he was torn away from me over two hundred thirty-three years ago, during the Battle of Johnstown. Til death do us part.
That turn of thought had me scrambling out of bed and pulling on my robe. I stepped into my slippers and grabbed the monitor by the bed. There was no sound of stirrings from Jacob’s room. I still peeked in on our son in hopes his father would be there. Sometimes I would find Ben standing over our little one’s crib, just watching him. Other times, he’d be sitting in the rocker with the small bundle of our little-over-a-month-old baby in his arms, humming softly. More times than not, Ben had a haunted look in his eyes, pale from a nightmare or a shred of memory from our distant, shared past. Rocking Jakey would calm him, make the dreams fade away. Stop the silver tracks of tears that glistened in the moonlight.
I glanced in the nursery. My little boy slept soundly. Tiptoeing in to keep from disturbing his rest, I ran my hand over Jakey’s cap of fine dark hair. I stood watching him a moment, rubbing my palms up and down my arms as a chill ran through me. Our baby didn’t even stir, but his mouth curled up in a smile, warming my heart. He bolstered my courage enough to keep searching. There was no sign of Ben anywhere in the house. At half past midnight.
Heart thudding painfully, I went out on the porch and scanned the surroundings. Snow spat in my face as the frigid air slipped down my robe. I wrapped the thin material around myself more tightly and peered through the darkness. My eyes were drawn to the lone pine in the meadow below, illuminated with tiny white lights all year round in memory of those who fought and died there on that fateful day, October 25, 1781. The day our Patriots fought one of the last battles of the Revolution. In memory of Benjamin Willson, who would defy time and death itself to come back to me as Ben Wilson. Reincarnation had brought us back to each other, righting the wrong of our dreadful separation, shaking us with brushes from the past. It had not been an easy journey, the road particularly rough for my husband.
With a start, I spotted a shadowy figure staggering across the field, weaving back and forth, until he reached the tree. One hand grabbed hold of a branch even as his other palm pressed against his chest.
I didn’t stop to think or grab my coat and boots. Patting the monitor in my pocket, I ran, in only my robe and slippers, oblivious to the icy wind tearing at my hair or the snow covering my feet and chilling me to the bone. Down the long, sloping driveway. Out through the tall grass hidden under a blanket of white, the snow whipping past me, some getting tangled in my wild curls. I reached Ben and grabbed his arm. He made a terrible moan and his legs gave out, pitching him to the ground.
I went down with him, cupped his face in my hands. “Ben! Ben, wake up! You’re dreaming again. You’re dreaming. Ben, wake up!” Ever since we found the journal of Benjamin Willson Cooper, the son of Benjamin and Charlotte, the origins of our reincarnated souls all those years ago, my husband had been tormented with dreams and slips of visions that could overcome him at any time without notice. Since the journal entries ran out on Christmas Eve, they’d gotten worse.
He awoke with a gasp and stared up at me with uncomprehending eyes. His face crumpled. “Make it stop. Please, God. Make the dreams stop. I—I don’t want to remember any more. I don’t want to see any more!”
I took him in my arms and began to rock him. “We’ll find out what happened to Benjamin Cooper. We’ll find out and you will be at peace. I promise.” Liberty’s promise, that’s what our son from a past life had carried inside him, a torch burning bright. Nothing could extinguish a fire that blazed so hot. I had to believe I was telling the truth—to Ben and to myself. After all, my husband had been a beacon, drawing me to him after a separation of over two centuries.
Discovering Benjamin Cooper was headed to the War of 1812 at the close of his journal was a hard burden to bear for both of us, but Ben had been hit the hardest. Before he was reincarnated, Benjamin Willson had been a Patriot from Boston. He fought at Breed’s Hill. Oriskany. Saratoga. Gave his life at the obscure Battle of Johnstown. He knew the price that could be paid in any war. Ben carried the bitter taste of that knowledge with him in the present. I prayed that Benjamin Willson Cooper would not carry on the family tradition of sacrifice as well.
I stroked my husband’s hair and set my lips on his. If only I could make him forget. When I first met Ben, I had desperately wanted him to remember our past life since the memories had recently been awakened in me on a late October night in the Colonial Cemetery. Now, I’d do anything to wipe the slate clean if it would spare him pain. His gaze locked with mine and he gave me a hint of a smile.
“Come on.” I pressed my palm to his cheek. It was cold as death and sent a chill down my spine. “Come back to bed and I’ll see what I can do to take your mind off your worries.” Ben nodded and slowly gained his feet, wrapping an arm around me. We made our way back inside, the both of us quaking hard enough to make our teeth chatter. He slid into bed and I wrapped myself around him, giving him everything I had. To lock us in the here. Right now. Yesterday and tomorrow would have to wait.
***
“Damn! There’s nothing here! It’s like trying to pick out one grain of sand on the beach. How do you two do this all the time?” Ben’s fist came down hard on the table, rattling our coffee cups, making our
Our old family friend Maynard Hughes loved any opportunity to dig into anything related to my family tree or Johnstown’s past. He’d been my American history professor and my father’s sidekick for years, and gleefully joined me on my own quest for knowledge as a major history buff. When I asked if he’d help us to try and find any trace of one of my ancestors after my husband’s scare in the wee hours of the morning, the doors of the Johnstown historical society had been opened wide in welcome for us.
Wherever I’ve knocked a door has opened. The Alice Walker quote seemed fitting. Pulling myself away from meandering thoughts, I squeezed Ben’s shoulder even as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Sleepless nights were catching up to him. A headache had plagued him all day. “Where is he?”
I kissed the top of his head, striving to be his anchor, and forced myself to speak lightly for Maynard’s sake. “My enthusiasm about the Ross family’s lineage must be contagious. Ever since we read that journal you gave Ben, he’s been consumed with the need to find out where Benjamin Willson Cooper turned up next. At the end of his entries, the War of 1812 had just begun. Do you think you could find out if he enlisted, perhaps in genealogy records or listings of each regiment?”
The historian rubbed his palms together, a broad grin making his eyes twinkle. “I’ll comb through our files and put out my feelers. I’m really excited that you are looking into Charlotte Ross Cooper’s line. Your father was always more interested in William Ross since he could trace his way back to your forefather’s arrival in the colonies back in 1760.” Martin Ross had devoted a great deal of his life delving into Colonial America. It was no surprise that my father’s curiosity had been instilled in me.
Ben continued to shuffle through books and papers, his face tight, his agitation clear as his foot tapped under the table. His patience was wearing thin.
Maynard stood and stepped up behind us, resting a hand on our shoulders. “Do not fear, young ones. Dig deeply, dust off enough papers and books. We’re sure to unearth gems of knowledge.” With his snowy hair, wire-framed glasses, and button-up sweater, the grandfatherly figure managed to instill a sense of calm. Ben’s body loosened beside me and he let out a long, slow breath. Time to trust in age and wisdom. “Enough now, the both of you. Go home and get some rest. I’ll let you know as soon as I find something.”
“Thank you, Maynard. Have a good night,” Ben told him as he stood and took my hand. Our elderly friend murmured under his breath, forehead creased as he scanned piles of papers scattered across the table. He was already lost in the hunt. As we walked out to the truck, I inspected my husband closely, winced at the pallor of his skin, the dullness in his eyes. I prayed tonight the dreams would not take him away from me. Hoped my goodnight kiss would place him under a spell until daylight tapped on our windows.
2
January 3, 2016
Charlotte
I propped myself against the counter and sipped at my first cup of tea with my eyes closed, trying to scatter the cobwebs of sleep from my mind. Strong hands wrapped around my waist and gently turned me around. I gazed up to find my husband standing in front of me and looped my arms around his neck. Up close and personal. My mouth turned down in a frown. “Oh baby, you do not look well. Another rough night?”
Ben’s lip quirked up at the corner. “Well how’s that for a fine hello?” He reeled me in and nuzzled my neck. His Old Spice made me dizzy, the scrape of his stubble against my skin setting my blood to thrumming in my veins. My knees went weak as his hands ran up and down my sides. “I don’t care about my night. All that matters is this morning. You put the good in it. Want to make it better?” His tone was playful, light, hiding any lingering unease.
A fretful wailing drifted down from upstairs. I stood on tiptoe and grazed his firm jaw with a kiss. “Can we take a rain check? Someone’s hungry. Be right back.”
When I returned with Jake tucked in my arms, a warmed bottle sat on the counter. Ben stood with one hip against the door jamb, nursing a cup of coffee, waiting for us. I stopped as soon as I hit the kitchen, unable to move at the sight of the tall, dark and handsome who filled the room—and my heart. Over six feet tall in jeans, dark green flannel, and work boots, he was the picture of rugged. Add the chestnut hair falling over deep chocolate eyes and I was a goner. Every time. Two hundred thirty-four years ago. Flash forward to now.
Laughing under his breath, he stepped in and scooped up Jakey, setting the bottle to his mouth. Our son latched on with tenacity. You’d think he was starving. “You all right there, Charlotte?”
I leaned against his shoulder, filling my senses with his warmth, his scent, the solid wall of his body. “I just can’t get enough of you.” I watched our baby drain the bottle and couldn’t hold back a giggle when the formula dribbled down his chin. “Let me burp him. What’s your plan for today?” I rocked Jakey back and forth as I tapped his back with what had quickly become an expert touch. One good belch and we both burst out laughing.
Ben leaned down to kiss the soft strands of his hair. “Going to do metal work at the church on Main Street. That will clear my head—and freeze my butt off. What are you up to?”
“Taking Jakey to the bookstore for a while. I’ve got some odds and ends to do. “I wasn’t being completely honest. I planned on doing some research of my own, hoping against hope to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. Any kind of lead to where Benjamin Willson Cooper turned up during, or God willing after, the War of 1812. A war that dragged on longer than our involvement in WWI. Finding one man at a time when record keeping was patchy at best? Daunting, but I would not give up.
Ben set his coffee cup in the sink and snagged me around the waist. His palm wandered to the nape of my neck to cradle my head. Hard to believe such strong, capable hands could be so gentle. “Let’s have lunch together. Come and get me when you’re ready.” His lips found their way home, the only place they belonged. If we stood there much longer, neither of us would be going anywhere.
I leaned my head against his chest and licked my lips. My mouth had suddenly gone dry. “See you then. Love you,” I whispered faintly.
“Love you more.” With one more kiss that would leave me wanting him all day and a peck on the cheek for our son, Ben walked out the door. I waved to him at the window until his truck drove out of sight, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. I might need another shower before I went to work. This time, it would be a cold one.
***
Absently, I rocked Jacob’s bassinet with my foot while I scanned the computer. The words blurred, and I bowed my head, rubbing fiercely at my eyes. I’d been at it for the past two hours, the baby good as gold, sleeping the whole time. I’d plugged in anything I could think of, from General George Izard to Richard Dodge and the 29th regiment of New York. Traces of information popped up about Nicholas Stoner, a prominent figure in Johnstown’s colorful past. Nothing about Benjamin Willson Cooper. As if he didn’t even exist. I set my forehead on the table and fought the urge to cry.
My girls, Trish and Erin, were running my bookstore. They knew the Colonial Book Nook inside and out. Leaving the helm in their competent hands allowed me the freedom to continue to work diligently behind the scenes. Small consolation when I kept hitting walls. I’d scrounged through a stack of books from the library on the War of 1812 and everything in my shop, weighty tomes if ever I saw any. My family tree, so painstakingly created by my father, was another dead end. Benjamin Willson Cooper’s death, or any specifics, was a question mark. The name, Willson Cooper—son, was listed beneath his name with another question mark. A smattering of Coopers followed until any other records went up in smoke, forever lost in a fire, at the close of the Civil War in 1865. My head ached as my family’s entanglement in yet another war became all too clear. What a mess.
Where are you, Benjamin Willson Cooper? What if the records were destroyed by the ravages of time? What if my ancestor simply volunteered without officially signing up anywhere, leaving no documentation of his death? He could have died in battle. An unknown. Buried in an unmarked grave or worse, burned on a pyre with a pile of others without a name. I covered my mouth as bile threatened to choke me, closed my eyes tightly, and breathed hard through my nose. I would not accept a dead end.
