18
February 28, 2016
Charlotte
The journal sat on the table by Ben’s side of the bed for a week, untouched. Like a snake that could bite, he avoided it. Did not even look at it, not ready to continue. Too fearful of what would come next. Blank pages? A final note from Rebekah in remembrance?
I dusted around it and considered mailing it back to Elizabeth. I was just as wary of its contents and the secrets it held as Ben. I picked up the journal and held it to my heart, closed my eyes. Whispered a prayer. Please, God keep him in the palm of Your hand.
Odd, that such a small book could hold such power over us, that I could feel so strongly over someone who lived and died two centuries ago. By reading Benjamin Willson Cooper’s words, it brought him to life. Made him seem real, as if he was here with us now.
As I clutched the journal to my chest, one hand trailed to my stomach and cupped the roundness that lingered after Jakey’s birth. My memories of bringing our son into this world were still fresh in my mind. From the first butterfly flutters that danced inside of me to the hearty kicks that made his presence known until the long-awaited day arrived when he burrowed his way out of my body. Peel back the layers of the passing years and I could remember the instant I realized I carried Benjamin’s child in the past. In the midst of the Revolution. As we moved forward with the militia to meet the approaching British. My breath caught, my heart raw from the flash of images that washed over me in a dream I had shortly after I returned from my time travel stint. When I was Charlotte Elizabeth the First giving birth to Benjamin Willson Cooper. For a blink, his warm, little body was pressed to my chest and love welled up to drown out the pain.
“Let’s go for a drive.” I started, quickly swiping at my cheeks. Ben stood in the doorway, Jacob in his arms. I didn’t notice when the sound of his soft singing stopped while he was in the nursery with our son. One look at the shadows in his eyes and I didn’t question him. As the engine started, he turned to me and leaned over to kiss my neck, my jaw, taking pause and lingering on my lips. Ben threw off my balance, making me as tipsy as if I had indulged in a drink or two. “You share some of Rebekah’s finer qualities. You’re like a warrior woman. I’d love to see you in buckskin.”
I laughed. Charlotte Elizabeth Ross the First was tough as nails too. “Remind me when this is all over. We’ll go shopping. Some buckskin will be in order when we’re all done with this.” A slip of a smile and then it faded, his eyes dimmed by whatever was gnawing at him. Would our past ever stop eating away at him, let him have some peace?
The car turned toward town. As we drove, Ben muttered, “He’s so sick. He’s just so sick.” My husband acted as if we were there in the past, personally experiencing Benjamin’s illness. I had to admit that our encounters with the journal had thrust me back in time once again, caught in the web of Benjamin Cooper’s words.
I held my tongue. What was there to say? I’d resisted the urge to read ahead, to get it over with although the tiny volume stopped me in my tracks many times in the past week. It would pull me to the bed stand time and again as I longed to know the truth about what happened, making another small piece of the puzzle of our past lives fall into place.
It would figure that our son of our previous lives would have to be an example of a textbook case of what happened to so many men in that troublesome time when conditions were terrible, medical care sorely lacking. Damn my need to research, to Google it, to dig deeper! My findings weren’t pretty. No sugar-coating whatsoever. Worst of all, I did not believe they were exaggerating. Every bit I read summed up typhoid fever and illness for the soldiers of the Revolutionary period in the same way. Desperate and dire. The last site I read online flashed in my mind.
***
What Killed the American Soldier in the War of 1812?
Cannonballs, muskets, and bayonets certainly shortened the lifespan of the American soldier, but the most common cause of death? Illness. Germs ran rampant, taking out three quarters of a death toll of approximately 20,000 men. Dysentery and typhoid were at the top of the list, as well as “lake fever,” smallpox, the measles, malaria, and pneumonia. Around every corner lurked a highly infectious disease that raged like a wildfire in close quarters that were unsanitary with medical care that did not follow the conventions of today. For many a soldier, their lives were cut short and it wasn’t from a wound. In Buffalo in November 1812, a surgeon for the U.S. army saw three out of four of the soldiers on his watch die. The wounds were terrible, but illness was worse...and God help the man who had both. He didn’t stand a chance.
***
Not a chance? More like hopeless, the men emptying anything they put in their system by unpleasant, painful means that gradually dehydrated them, caused their insides to rupture and bleed, taking their lives in a slow, excruciating death. Benjamin Willson may have been blessed when his life was cut short swiftly and most definitely on the battlefield of Johnstown.
Ben broke into my musings. “I must be a glutton for punishment. I did some research to try and figure out what was wrong with Benjamin, to understand what typhoid was all about. I knew it wasn’t just a nasty stomach bug, more like a hopped-up parasite or bacteria on steroids. I found one ray of sunshine after another.” He clamped his mouth shut, as if remaining silent would make the situation any more bearable. In the back seat, Jakey was making the cheerful music that only a baby could make, bringing out our smiles. My husband caught my hand. Held on tight.
I shared a brief summary of my findings, cutting out the gory details. “What did you find?”
His forehead came together in an angry ‘v.’ “Hmm. Maggots were breeding in the wounds of the soldiers being tended.” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “I guess Benjamin was lucky he didn’t have an open wound. They didn’t have enough coffins in the makeshift hospitals, so the dead slept next to the living. There was no medicine. Most men came for brief tours of only a handful of days, fully intending to return home to their families and normal life. Three out of the four died, never to see their loved ones again.” He banged his hand on the steering wheel. “What if Benjamin was one of the unlucky three? What if his life was cut short, unfinished business, and that is part of why we have not been given peace since we found each other? I thought...Damn it, Charlotte, the day I married you all the trouble was supposed to stop.”
I slid closer and leaned my head on his shoulder, offering him the reassurance of my presence. My solid warmth. The fact that I was real, not a memory or the words etched on a page. “No matter what, Benjamin Cooper lived thirty-two years, nearly a decade longer than his father. Before going off to war, he had a good life. He was well-grounded, honest, and true. Benjamin knew he was loved, where he belonged. Even on death’s door, he fell in love. Wasn’t that obvious, the strong current of emotions that ran between him and Rebekah? He had a much fuller life than many are ever given, especially when you consider those uncertain times.” I kept fishing for something to say. I did not truly believe my words, but I would say anything if it would take away the haunted look that had been with my husband ever since we unburied the past in the form of our ancestor’s words. “He heeded the call to serve and never regretted it.”
We pulled into the Colonial Cemetery. I stared at the stone wall and iron gate situated beside the Drumm House, my heart drumming loudly in my chest, my body going tight. Once one of my favorite haunts—an ironic choice in words—I avoided this place ever since it carried me to the Revolution and back again one cold October night.
Many notables slept in this cemetery. Washington Irving’s sister, Ann Sarah. James Livingston, who foiled the plans of John Andre and in so doing, revealed Benedict Arnold’s treachery. Richard Dodge, notable soldier in the Revolution and War of 1812, also holding the title of Johnstown’s first postmaster. Talmadge Edwards, the man responsible for bringing the glove industry to America. Benjamin Willson.
It was the last stone that drew me like a magnet. I had not been back to see it or t
ouch it since I woke up lying beside it after my trek into the past. The site of that pale pillar of stone struck fear in my heart. I stamped down on it, reminded myself that I had never really gone anywhere. It was all in my mind. I had to remember that this lonely grave held one blessing for us. It led Ben to me, reuniting two souls that had been cast adrift when death parted us on the battlefield.
“Why are we here?” I asked quietly, watching the branches sway in the wind as the snow swirled across the uneven surface of the ground. A few flags poked up out of the mounds of white from here to here. No ghostly visitors made an appearance today. The ghosts that mattered most were inside of us.
“I have to do something!” Ben stepped out of the car, closed the door, and moved forward through about a foot of snow. There was no need to tend a path in the Colonial Cemetery during the winter months. All the occupants of this graveyard were long gone, and no one came to visit except for the curious or history buffs like my father and me. Or those like my husband, sucked back into the past, kicking and screaming all the way.
I unhooked my belt, got out of the car, and opened the back door to get Jakey. Bless him, but he giggled and smiled at me. I kissed his nose. “You are such a good baby. I’m sorry that you’ve been dragged along on this craziness. It will be over soon.”
Fear, its blade cold and jagged, made me freeze. What if it wasn’t ever over? What if history was to repeat itself and Benjamin Cooper found his way home in our baby? I brushed the thought away like an annoying cobweb sticking to my face as I cleaned out the dust and clutter of the attic. If only this whole mess were as easy to banish.
I tucked Jakey in close against my chest, protecting him from the bitter wind that cut through my skin and caught up with Ben. He stood with his feet planted about a hundred feet from the gravestone, his face tight, eyes pinned to the writing on the grave. Benjamin Willson’s name stood out, refusing to be ignored.
I rested my hand on my husband’s arm. “Benjamin Willson is here. In you. Now. How can he at his grave too? Isn’t this pointless?”
Ben closed his eyes and bowed his head. He shuddered beneath my touch. I stepped in closer, my arm taking hold around his waist in an effort to lend him my body heat. I feared his chill was something I could not touch, no matter how hard I tried to give him what he needed. He shook himself and kissed the side of my head. “He had to die first—and several times over to find his way to me, to you. Each time, a part of him must have gone with him. I don’t even pretend to understand it. I just know that I must honor him and pay tribute. For a love so strong brought us together.”
He turned to face me then, his fingers trailing along my jaw. They were like ice, sending a ripple of shivers down to the bone. “I want to talk to him—to ask him to watch over his son—all these years later. There must be some slip of him in heaven that can hear me, right?”
I didn’t know. We hadn’t been given a Reincarnation Handbook. Ben was making my head ache, going over this riddle again and again. Best just to humor him like he had humored me. Besides, he was in such pain and I would do anything to ease that gaping hole inside of him. If that meant visiting ancient graves and casting up a few more prayers, I would fulfill his request.
Ben swallowed hard. “I do not know if I am strong enough to complete this journey, Charlotte, if I want to know any more.”
“You can do this. Just put one step in front of the other. I’m right here.” I put my hand in his and pressed firmly. He locked his gaze with mine, nodded, and closed the gap until he stood beside the tall white stone that the Cooper Bradley family erected when Benjamin’s old stone was worn away by time. Ben fell to hands and knees, bowing his head. When I touched his back, he was shaking. I knelt beside him and put his son in the crook of his arm. Ben nestled him in under his chin and grazed his tiny head with a kiss.
Ben’s hand tightened on mine. We both had the irrational fear we’d be swept away, even though there was no reason to be paranoid. We were together. At last. As long as we held tight and never let go. My husband whispered the words on the stone. I tightened my grasp, willed myself to be what he needed. A chain to the present. To my love. To my heart.
When he spoke, his voice was broken. “I’ve honored her, always. I kept our promise. Please, if you can, help your son. See him through this crisis. Lend him your strength to make him well.” The air shifted around us and a pocket of warmth washed over me. I glanced up in awe at Ben, saw his eyes widened in surprise as well, a rush of color rising in his cheeks. Maybe Benjamin Willson could be in two places at once, fragments of him resting in the earth at our feet, more snippets beating in my husband’s heart.
Ben turned to me and I gathered him in as he silently sobbed. “Let’s go home.” I helped him stand and lent him a shoulder to lean on as we returned to the car. By unspoken agreement, he sat in the passenger side, wrung out. I settled Jakey in his car seat, kissed the top of his head, and got the endearing smile I needed to push aside the sadness that had clung to me since we set foot on this holy ground.
I slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. Ben’s hand found mine and he brought my fingers to his lips. “I’m ready now. Let’s get this over with.” He didn’t need to say more. Time to take the plunge and immerse ourselves in the past once again. I prayed the entire way home that we would find the words that would give us comfort. Please don’t let the journal end with rest in peace.
19
5 August 1814
Benjamin Willson Cooper
Strong. Rebekah was so strong. Helping me to the privy. From the bed to the chair while she changed the bedding. Lifting me up to clean me when I lost whatever she tried to give me. I was too ill to care about the mess, embarrassing myself, or anything. The iron bands of her muscles beneath her buckskin tightened around my waist as Rebekah set me back on her bed. The cool mint of her breath kissed my skin and a small part of me longed to see her fine lines in a dress. Then my gut rebelled and pushed away all other thoughts.
The cramping twisted me in half. The pain! I had never known such torment, a fire burning in my bowels, in my gut, scorching hot. I wanted to scream but feared once I started I would never stop. I had not managed to keep anything down, not even a swallow since Jacob left. Now, my body was consuming itself, the fever turning me into a human torch.
Evening fell, and my angel was exhausted. After plying me with willow bark tea, for the fever, and broth, she carted in pitcher after pitcher of cold water. First to clean me when her efforts made a violent reappearance, then to bring down the sizzle on the surface of my skin.
Through the swollen slits that used to be my eyelids, I stared in a daze at Rebekah. She stood at a table she pulled up to the bed, her nightgown rumpled, her hair pulled into a hasty knot at the back of her head. I could barely make out her distracted mumbling as she ran her hands over the packets Tom Sutton brought on his latest run. She picked them up one by one, shaking them, as if hoping to jar their secrets loose.
With each one, panic made her voice rise. “Wild ginger for indigestion? Indigestion does not begin to describe it. Wintergreen to ease the pounding in his head and the fire in his bones? Slippery elm, for that blasted cough? Something hot might heal whatever ails his innards.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides and she spun around to look at me. “None of it will work, none of it, if I cannot get anything to stay inside of you! What do I do? Lord, tell me what to do.”
She turned back to her table and picked up another packet. “Mashed squaw vine. Yes, this has to work! It will flush out his system, washing out whatever beast is tearing the poor man apart. If I add the blood root and black cherry, I should be able to stop the diarrhea. These wild plums will heal the ulcers that have set him to bleeding inside. Finish it with elderberry and I will finally smother the coals of his fever. Yes—yes, this will work. Lord, help me.”
Frantic, Rebekah tried all her remedies. None of them stayed down, coming back with a vengeance. I ran like a river. With each herb she gave m
e, with each wrench of my guts, a pit gaped inside of me, gaping wider, eating away at me. To the bone.
I could barely drop down off the bed and make it to the chamber pot to be ill—from either end. I dreaded the next thing she would try to give me. I was in such pain. Blood coming up in my mouth. Blood coming out when I went to the bathroom. The torture curling me into a ball. I did not know where it stopped and I began. She held another cup to my lips and I clamped my jaw shut, forcing my words through gritted teeth. “Please. No more, Rebekah, I beg you. No. More.” I fell to the floor.
20
12 August 1814
Benjamin Willson Cooper
With each passing day, I was slipping further away. The tenuous threads that bound my soul to this earth were ready to snap. I wanted them to. I was far removed from the fever that continued at a low burn for what seemed like an endless stretch or the pain that wracked my boy. My angel had not left my side. At first, she slept on a pallet beside the bed, moving next to me to share the warmth of her body when the chills consumed me. If she did not hold my hand, it would be all too easy to let go of the ties that bind a body to the land of the living.
During the last bout with my stomach, I realized I was fighting a war inside my own body. I had feared the British might kill me. The enemy in my gut was a much greater threat that I could not conquer. I was so worn from emptying my system from the last remedy Rebekah concocted that I only wanted it to end. She did her best to ease me, covering my body in damp, cool rags, hoping to keep the fever at bay. I lay on my back, burning one instant only to be shivering the next. I stared at the ceiling, my eyes half-closed. Waiting. For the white flag of surrender to be raised. To cross over.
There was a slight movement beside me and a soft sigh. I could barely move my head. My angel lay beside me, her dark hair strewn across my pillow. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hand rested on my arm. I struggled to lift my hand, so heavy I could barely move it. I marveled at how much I had wasted away, the bones of my skeleton barely cloaked by skin. It should be light. I laid my palm on her cheek.
Liberty's Legacy (The Liberty Series Book 3) Page 12
