Taking a seat at her small escritoire in the family room, she read the return address on the envelope.This must be from his family.Carefully, she opened it and looked for a name, checking it against the name he had given her. Taking a clean sheet of paper, she dipped her pen in the ink and wrote.
8 January 1815
Mr. Romney.
I write to you to let you know I came across your son, Colonel Matthew Romney, after the battle this morning in New Orleans. Your son was badly injured, but my dog and I brought him off the field to my home before they buried the dead. I was afraid he would not have lived otherwise. It was a gruesome battle.
I removed a musket ball and sewed him up. He also complains of not being able to see. I hope it is temporary. Matthew told me how important you were to him and asked me to write you. I will do my best to care for him. If he survives this injury, I will try to help him find his way back to England. I do not know what kind of communication you might receive from the battle, but I thought it important to let you know he was not killed.
No one knows we are caring for your son. It could cause trouble if they knew, but we were more concerned you knew your son was all right.
Respectfully,
Bethany Phillips
New Orleans, Louisiana
After sanding the letter and securing the ink, Bethany folded and sealed it. In her best handwriting, she carefully addressed it, using what appeared to be his father’s address on the back of the paper. Somehow this would work out for both of them.I will have to be careful not to let anyone know I am caring for him alone. She looked up and prayed Grandmère would return soon. People on both sides of the ocean felt strongly about propriety, and she had just flaunted it, even though she was only helping him heal.
She would take the letter to town tomorrow and... then what? It was not like she could just walk him up to a British man of war and say, “Found your man here. Fixed him up. Here’s his address.” She sniggered.
Good grief! What had she done?She was just trying to save a life, not thinking beyond his survival. No matter. There had to be a way. She would think of something. Perhaps one of Papa’s old contacts. Worrying would solve nothing.
As if on cue, a loud moan drew her attention back to her bedroom. She walked in and found Matthew curled up in pain, still asleep. Sweat beaded his forehead and soaked his clothes. From what Grandmère had told her, his body was fighting off a fever and infection.Best give it time to do its job, her grandmother would say. Bethany stood next to her bed, pulled the covers back up, and silently sent up a prayer asking that he pull through. While she loved her dog, she relished talking to another human being.
A yawn overtook her. Any further worries would have to wait for tomorrow. Gathering up her spare blanket and pillow, she fashioned a pallet in front of the fireplace for herself and Dandie. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she fell asleep.
Chapter Three
Ten days later
Matthew woke witha headache. He tried to look around, however, all he could see was darkness.Where am I?He gave his eyes time to adjust and still, nothing. Reaching out, he touched softness that felt much like a quilt. Abruptly, he recalled a voice, her voice. It had been soft, young, and enchanting. When he recalled a high-pitched bark, memories of the battle and what must have been his rescue flooded him. Then, it hit him.He was blind.He had never considered the world through blackness, yet he had been thrust into it.
He smelled the salty scent of the marsh, heard crickets and frogs, whose noise rose above the quiet, and he could differentiate the smells of a nearby kitchen—herbs, pork, cooked fish, and the smell of apple pie. He felt the warmth and heard the crackle and pop of the fireplace across the room. But lost to him was the light of the morning and the sights of nature.I will never see the faces of my family and friends again. I will never see colors or appreciate the sight of the seasons changing. My parents, my sister, my brother—no one ever again.
He reached for his eyes, making certain they could not open. This had to be a dream.I cannot be awake. And if this is a dream, it is a nightmare—just like the ones I had of the battles.He took the heels of his hands and rubbed his eyes slowly for a minute. Opening them again he faced the source of heat across the room. And saw nothing.My eyes are useless.
He laid there thinking back to previous battles—recalling another soldier in his ranks that had been blinded by injury. It had been temporary, even though the surgeon had predicted that the head injury caused by a blow to the head would probably see him blinded for life. Others had lost an eye, but his own hands felt his eyes and they seemed intact.
Scenes of battles haunted him in the darkness. He relived the death of the messenger, who had just arrived with a message for Pakenham. It felt like he had relived them many times over since yesterday’s battle.
Matthew struggled against a surge of panic that threatened to consume him and forced himself to think. Pushing his hand through his greasy hair, he was reminded of a bath he most certainly needed.
He recalled the woman that had rescued him and wished he could see her face. She had been selfless and kind. Her voice was sweet and almost melodic. It made him think of warm summer days in a field of daisies and green grass—things he might never see again.
As if summoned from his thoughts, a small wet nose nudged his arm followed by a whimper. Gingerly, he lifted his arm and reached for the source of the cry. That he could feel and hear confirmed he lived. Where was he, though? The last clear memory he had was readying his men for the attack.
Afterward, he remembered only snippets of conversation and pain.
“Bonjour!”
A bright, cheerful voice startled him from his musings.It was her voice. Was his rescuer French? Perhaps Creole?
“Can you sit up, Colonel Romney?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “I confess it is not much, but I found some of my grandmother’s jam, some bread, and some tea.” The sound of a small table scraping across the floor toward him was followed by the soft jangle of ceramic dishes settling next to his bedside.
He heard himself groan as he pulled himself into a sitting position. “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf,” he rasped, trying to clear his voice.
“Supplies being what they are lately, I must apologize for not offering a decent tea. I have some leaves and am endeavoring to make you a pot. It is the second time I have used the leaves, so they should be fine. But first, I need you to drinkthistea. It has been very helpful with the fever.”
