Ready to move on? Dying would be more welcome. I closed my eyes and cast up a prayer to anyone who might be listening up above. The sounds faded around me and the prison that was my body released me for a spell. However long it lasted, I would take it.
15
3 August 1814
Benjamin Willson Cooper
I clung to Flintlock, my legs nearly giving beneath me and pitching me to the ground. I pressed my forehead to his flank and tried to find my sense of balance. My head. Dear Lord, my head. I had to keep my eyes squinted shut, allowing only a small crack for an opening or the sunlight would pierce my brain. I rode out the wave of dizziness and stepped away, fell to my hands and knees and crawled my way to the side, off the trail. For some reason, I still had the sense to take cover. In case of enemies? My own body had become the worst foe I could ever face.
My stomach tightened like a fist and I heaved. Heaved again. Stared at a red splash on the ground. Gasped. Pushed myself up. I sat back on my heels. Blood dripped from my nose, splattering on the ground in front of me. Numbly, I swiped at it with the back of my hand. I stared at it in confusion. When was I hurt? What was wrong with me?
“Benjamin!” Pounding footsteps came my way and Jacob caught me before I toppled over. My head thrummed with every beat of my heart. He lay his hand on my forehead. “You are an inferno.” He took his canteen and poured it over my head to bring down my temperature, then held it to my lips. I tried to push it away, knowing full well what would happen. He made me drink—and I was sick. Again.
“Dear God, . . . no.” I pulled away, crawled into the woods, pulled down my pants, and emptied my bowels. How could there be anything left inside me? This time, the green was blended with rust.
Jacob’s breath came out in a rush. “We need to get you help.” His voice dropped low, nearly a whisper.
He helped me back to Flintlock, grunting with the strain of boosting me up into the saddle. My hands gripped the saddle horn. Thoughts circled in my head, trying to penetrate the fog of my mind. Where was I supposed to go? Plattsburgh. That was it. To meet—to meet Stoner. To—fight—for the cause. To fight—for my life.
“How far . . . how far to Plattsburgh?” I asked slowly, tripping over my tongue. My head began to spin, my vision getting fuzzy. Darkness hovered at the edge of my eyes. I welcomed it.
“Two days at least. You will not make it that far.” Jacob busied himself packing up our camp. We had stopped when I was so sick the day before. He could not move me.
My stomach rebelled against me yet again, making its presence known with a pain like I had never known in my life. A musket ball would be more merciful. I nearly tumbled out of the saddle and started to heave. More blood. In front of me. Running down my face. Making me dizzy. I collapsed in a pile of skin and bones. My step-father was at my side yet again, as he had been all my life. “Leave me here,” I croaked. “Send someone for me. Do not let me stop you from doing your duty. I have slowed us down too much already.”
“I am not going anywhere without you and I am not abandoning you in the forest. Your mother would never forgive me. As soon as we cross paths with another traveler, I will find you the help you need.” Yet again, Jacob hoisted me back on Flintlock.
My head hung low and I fell forward. I held on to my horse’s neck. God love the gentle giant. He followed my step-father without hesitation as if the animal sensed how dire our situation was. When my stomach revolted yet again, making my throat so raw I wanted to cry in pain, I simply turned my head. Too tired to get down. Too tired to stop. Too tired for anything. Praying for my journey or life to end. All I wanted to do was lie down on a soft bed and go to sleep. Forever.
As we plodded through the heavily wooded trails of the Adirondacks, the forest appeared to be closing ranks around me, pressing in even closer, swaying and reaching out to grab me on this journey into my personal hell. I clamped my eyes shut. Otherwise, I would be a sniveling coward. Every movement of my horse, every bump in the trail, every jab of sunlight plunged me into misery. In the afternoon, my fever spiked as it had each day, making my skin tight. I burned, so much so that I would gladly strip myself of all my clothing.
As for my stomach, it continued to empty itself with alarming intensity. One way or the other. I was not sure which was worse. I lost all sense of time, slumped over Flintlock’s neck, my face buried in his mane. My body swayed from side to side with my horse’s progress. I would not be able to hold on much longer. My step-father would need to tie me to the saddle. More swaying as our horses picked up the pace and I likened my condition to that of being seasick. I dropped over the side of my mount, landing in a heap. The dry heaves shook me to the core. Nothing. Nothing was left and somehow the shuddering that rattled my bones was worse than actually getting sick. My head sank to the ground. I could not have lifted it to save my life.
The chill of cool fingers gripped my neck. “Benjamin, we cannot go on like this. You will soon be nothing but a cinder. The raging fever inside you will reduce you to ash. We have to get something in you to cool you down. Try drinking this. Perhaps it will help.”
He handed me his jug of whiskey. I had serious doubts that anything as fiery as that liquid would stay down. It could be the death of me. What frightened me most? That I did not care if it was. Warily, I drank small sips at first, only to take in great gulps until the spirits ran down the front of my shirt. Lord, but I was thirsty! I knew without a doubt I would regret my actions. A powerful reaction would not be long in coming.
Jacob eyed me closely, kneeling beside me, poised to sprint, to do something for me. The only thing he could do? Hold me as the heaves turned me inside out again. Nothing would stay down. Go on this way much longer and there would be nothing left of me. How long could a man survive without food and water? The thought hounded me not for the first time then slipped away as I shook.
My step-father glanced up at the sky and spat out a curse. The sun had quietly slipped below the horizon unbeknownst to us, too caught up in the war with my body. “We have got to find a place to stay for the night. There must be someplace. We have not passed anyone for days. Where are the people?”
I did not have the strength to argue with him, to say all sensible souls were steering clear of this bloody conflict and going on with living their lives. My thoughts were scattered. I could barely put two words together at this point, my head in such a heavy fog that I could not make much sense of anything. I was trapped inside a vicious cycle, completely at the mercy of my body. Everything else had ceased to matter except for the thunder banging against the insides of my skull and the twisting and churning of my guts.
My horse stopped moving. Vaguely, I became aware of the fact that I did not hear any sounds of movement. “What?” Finding more than a word at a time was a challenge. The fever haze was taking over. My brain sizzled.
Jacob pressed a wet cloth to my head. “There is a cabin in the clearing up ahead. I am going to ask for help there.” I peered through the slight opening of a small slit in one eyelid. A light gleamed in the window. The place looked like something out of the fairytales that my mother used to tell me as a child. It was probably a figment of my fevered brain.
Thoughts of Mama, her caring ways and soft touch, made me want to weep. I pictured sitting on her lap when I was ill as a youngster, how she would rock and rock. I would lay my head on her chest and she would stroke my hair, singing softly until I drifted off to sleep. I wanted to be a child again, in her arms, at home, more than anything I had ever wanted in my life. To let go of this broken adult shell of a body. A low humming rose up in my mind. Mama? I could see her, standing in the doorway, her arms open, welcoming me home.
“Benjamin!” My step-father barked, shaking me hard. He had led our horses to the front of the small house and tied them to a post. He took my hand and eased me to the ground. He practically had to carry me to the door. “Just a few more steps. Only a few more.” His voice broke and I was ashamed that I had put him through such grief o
n this journey.
A loud pounding made me jerk. My eyes snapped open. We stood before a heavy door that had been carved from trees and notched together. Jacob’s arm was around my waist, holding me up or I would fall. My body was so weak that I had become like a newborn child, completely dependent on others as my illness had its way with me. I had no control over my fate. I swayed, nearly doubling over. My step-father hoisted me up and pounded again as the heat rolled off me in waves.
The door swung open, a musket thrust in our faces. A woman stood on the other end of the firearm and leveled us with a blistering green stare more intense than any I had ever seen before, if I could trust my senses. The closest thing that came to mind was a fish of a brilliant hue I once pulled from the Cayadutta Creek one long ago day in Johnstown when I was but a boy. My mind began to wander yet again until the lady of the house cleared her throat, drawing my attention back to her. Her gaze and her expression were so severe she did not need the musket to conquer her enemies.
She was clothed in buckskin, like Nicholas Stoner when he was at home. We had seen many woodsmen in similar dress in our travels, but never a woman. A heavy rope of dark, braided hair dangled down her back, all the way to her waist. She took a step forward, menace in her demeanor. “If you think you have arrived at a house of plenty, you have come to the wrong place. Leave now.”
My legs gave at that unfortunate moment. I pitched forward, slipping from Jacob’s grasp. The woman stepped closer, dropping her gun to catch me. I never expected the Angel of Death to be so strong or so beautiful. My world went dark.
16
3 August 1814 – Evening
Benjamin Willson Cooper
My angel and my step-father, a guardian angel in disguise, muscled me to a bed, the only bed, and lay me down on top of heavy deerskin blankets. I made a poor attempt at protest. “No, no. I will not—take your bed. Lay me on the floor—by the hearth.” I had started to tremble, a chill settling in my bones on a day that must have been at least eighty degrees or more. I longed for the heat of the fire with such a desperate need that I moaned. “Please. The hearth. It will be warm—by the fire.” In the fire. Put me in the flames. Roast me. Burn the sickness out of me. Strange thoughts writhed their way through the maze that was my brain.
Our hostess snorted. “I will do no such thing. Let no one say that Rebekah Barnes forced a man in such a dire state of illness to sleep on nothing but her cold, hard floor.” Her hand was surprisingly soft as she pressed my forehead. Her breath came out in a rush, kissing my skin. The scent of fresh mint washed over me, and it soothed me. “Aye. Very ill in deed. He is burning with fever. How long has he been in such a state?”
My step-father spoke gruffly as he peered over her shoulder. “At least four days, perhaps five. I have lost track myself.” His hand reached out to hold on to the table beside her bed, his eyes closed as he wavered. He was exhausted. I tried to rouse myself but could barely lift my head off my pillow.
My angel. What was her name? Rebekah. Nothing sounded sweeter. My angel pushed me back down with both hands. “Lie still. Do not stir or your head will hurt more and then your stomach will start talking to you. It has been doing that, has it not?” I swallowed hard and nodded. Even that slight movement set my world to spinning. I closed my eyes and a low moan rose up before I realized it and bit down on my tongue to stop it. I would not embarrass myself further.
Her hand stroked my cheek a moment. So cool, so blessedly cool, and then her deft fingers traveled to the buttons of my shirt. My chest was exposed, and I heard her curse, a whisper. “He has the typhoid. I know the signs well. My husband took ill with it on his way back from Canada last year.”
My cough chose to rear its ugly head, rattling deep in my chest, the hammering in my head growing in intensity. I covered my eyes with one arm, unable to bear the slightest hint of light. A warm wetness traveled from my nose, down my chin. A heartbeat later, a soft, damp cloth was wiping my face clean.
“Your husband? What became of him?” Jacob asked cautiously.
“He died of it.” How candid. I could not help myself. I uncovered one eye to see the woman who had become my nurse staring my step-father in the eye. “Not many survive it. I am sure that you know that. You are a soldier.”
My step-father was tight-lipped as he sank down on the mattress and took my hand. He had told me of the men who died of typhoid during the Revolution. A good many, mounting to epidemic proportions. “My son is cut from a different cloth and I will not let him die.”
He roused himself, setting his shoulders, his chin tilting up. I had seen that expression many times before and even in my desperate state, I took heart. Jacob would always rise to the challenge if it meant going to the gates of hell and back to face the Devil himself.
Rebekah’s eyes filled with tears, proving there was a softness beneath that gruff exterior. She leaned in and kissed Jacob’s cheek. “I dare say you will not. I wish you had been here when I tried to snatch my Rufus from Death’s jaws. Neither of us were strong enough, but I do believe that you are.” With that, she squeezed my hand. “That goes for you as well, young man. That reminds me, what are your names?”
She bent over, her ear almost to my lips. “Benjamin.” I swallowed and pushed out the rest. “Benjamin Willson Cooper.”
I received a fleeting kiss on my brow and then her hands were on my step-father’s shoulders, pressing insistently for his response. “Jacob Cooper, at your service, Madam.”
“It is I who will serve you. You look so worn I fear I will need a bed for you next. Rest. I will make you tea and something hot to eat while you watch over him. Your son is not going anywhere, not right now. Trust me.” My step-father wilted, sagging forward, his head propped on his fist as he sat by my side. Jacob had held himself and me together with everything he had since I took ill. Now, he was hanging by a thread, his nerves frayed, his strength depleted. For this brief instant in time, the burden had been lifted from his shoulders and he could unravel.
I closed my eyes, my lids too heavy to hold open. I too could set down the boulder that had nearly crushed me. My illness had been the hardest thing I had ever faced, slamming me into a wall that I could not climb. Right now, I did not have to climb it. I did not have to go anywhere. No more riding. No more fighting. I had a respite. More importantly, Jacob had a respite. For that, I was eternally grateful.
Light footsteps traveled from my bedside and there was a rummaging in Rebekah’s kitchen. A snap and pop sounded, as if someone was poking the fire. Liquid sloshed in something. A strong scent, earthy and sweet, filled the small, enclosed space. Footsteps returned to my side and a firm hold had me around the shoulders. “I need you to sit so I can pour some of this herbal tea down your throat. It is supposed to bring down your fever.”
I opened my eyes to become lost in Rebekah. I would have to be dead to be oblivious to her charms. The flash of her teeth, giving me a light in this darkness. The warm haven of her touch. The glow of her eyes, drawing me in. All the tension spilled out of my body. Her mere presence had a way of doing that to me. She took pause and her gaze met mine. “That is right. Concentrate on me and not what ails you.”
As she shifted me into a sitting position, Jacob started to rise. She motioned to him to sit back down. “Stay put. Drink your tea on the table. You need to keep your strength, Jacob. One man stricken with illness is more than enough right now.” He gave her a weary smile and picked up a steaming cup. His hand trembled. I prayed I did not give him any more cause for worry.
She propped a pillow behind me and gave me the gift of her smile. Enough. Spending time with this woman would be medicine enough. I might not be cured, but I would experience a slice of heaven on earth before I went to meet my maker. A cup was set in my hands, her fingers wrapping around mine as the brew sloshed over the side. “Why not try and get this inside of you instead of all over you?”
I managed one sip, closing my eyes and clamping my mouth shut. I would not get sick again, not
here, not in her bed. Not all over this fine woman who had taken us into her home. She did not ask to share our troubles. An encouraging smile beamed on me and she tipped the cup again, intending for me to drink more. My stomach clenched. I knew what was coming. I opened my mouth to tell her no, to please take it away, take everything away when a whistle sounded outside, bringing to mind the call of a bird.
Rebekah set the cup down and went to the door, taking up her musket once again. She did not raise it this time but kept it in her hand as she swung the door open wide. Jacob gained his feet, his body gone rigid, prepared to meet any threat head on. I pulled myself to a sitting position. I did not know what I would do if danger darkened her home, but I would not take it lying down.
A man stood on her step, dressed in buckskin, just like our hostess. He was short and small of stature, unable to reach Jacob’s eye. His hair was the color of sand, his eyes the darkest brown I had ever seen. A scruffy beard covered the bottom portion of his face. He removed his coonskin cap as he stepped inside. One glance at the strangers in the room and his face went white. He ducked his head. “I apologize, Miss Rebekah. I did not realize that you had company.”
Before he could back away, Rebekah snagged his arm and drew him inside. “You need not go. It is business as usual, Tom. These men needed a place to rest and they will soon be on their way. Just like you.”
A pointed look passed between them. She leaned in close and spoke in hushed tones. As soon as they were done, she handed over a jug and a parcel of food. “How many?” He questioned as he made to go.
“Ten are at the ready.” She accompanied him. At the last moment, she pulled out some money that had been tucked inside her deerskin shirt. Rebekah glanced at me, jutting her chin my way. “On your way through, stop and see the Native healer. The young one is in serious trouble with the typhoid.”
Liberty's Legacy (The Liberty Series Book 3) Page 10
