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Love's Kindling

By Elaine Marie Cooper

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C H A P T E R 1
FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT - 1779
That voice again, yet no one appeared before him.
Could he be dreaming?
“Sir? How do you fare? Where is your pain?” Now he knew he
heard the voice. Yet he saw nothing—and no one.
The back of his head throbbed sufficiently to keep time with a
drummer boy.
Zadok’s arm seared with each attempted movement. Yet the fact
his eyes would not reveal the face of the woman speaking caused his
greatest distress.
“Sir?”
He rubbed his eyes with the hand that moved easily.
“What?” His own voice, yet unfamiliar. Strained. “Where am I?”
Reaching to touch his eyes once again to be certain they were
indeed open, Zadok fought the panic that jerked his heart rate to a
gallop. Such a sudden change in pace—almost as fast as the kick he’d
inflicted to the gelding’s side during his frantic mission to deliver the
letter.
“Sir, you have fallen from your horse. My name is Miss Whitney.
You are not twenty rods from my home in Fairfield.”
Her voice soothed him. Yet, why couldn’t he see her?
His mouth dried so quickly, he reasoned it must be filled with dirt.
“I … I cannot see you.” His breathing raced. “I cannot see anything.
Am I dreaming … or having a nightmare?”
A gentle yet unexpected touch on his arm caused him to flinch.
“I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to alarm you. Can you get up?” Her
voice brought a measure of calm like rain on a hot summer’s eve. Yet
the darkness enveloped him so completely he thought he must be
dead. Yet if so, why was he still breathing? He was more than aware
that his chest was rising far too quickly while dizziness encompassed
him like a whirlwind in his head.
He pushed himself to a sitting position with his left hand. The pain
in his head and his right arm brought him to the point of nausea. He
inhaled deeply, fighting back the sensation.
“Please, help me.” His moistened palm groped for her hand.
Finding it, he gripped her fingers as firmly as one holds onto a cliff
from which they might tumble to their demise. “I do not understand
why … why I cannot see?”
He recalled his grandfather describing a darkening of the sun in
London some years before. Halley’s Eclipse, he’d called it. For three
whole minutes, darkness enveloped the city, and many thought it was
the end of the world.
“An eclipse. That is what is occurring. Grandfather said he could
not even see his hand in front of his eyes.” He took momentary
comfort in the thought and then realized the woman hadn’t
mentioned any darkness. “Miss Whitney, can you see anything?”
There was a pause before she replied. “Come. You are too weak to
ride. I’ll guide you to our home and tend your horse. I’ll send for our
physician.”
“Wait. Can you?” He knew her answer before she spoke it.
“Aye, sir. I can see.”

AURINDA GRIPPED the stranger’s unhurt arm as she guided him to the
barn. The muscles in his limb tensed so tightly, she could feel the fear
in his sinews. She wished she could comfort him in this terrifying
turn of events, yet words escaped her. What might alleviate her own
terror if she suddenly discovered she no longer could see? Words
seemed insufficient at such a moment. She
prayed Dr. Northrup might bring encouraging news to this man.
She also hoped the good physician might bring medicinals for relief of
the pain that elicited moans from this patient as he clenched his right
arm and held it close to his chest.
“Please sit here in this bed of straw, Mr …”
“Wooding. Zadok Wooding.”
He bent his knees and slowly descended onto the straw. As he
thudded onto the thick, crunchy pile, she winced to see the pained
expression on his face. “I shall fetch the doctor forthwith, Mr. Wooding.
May I first bring you some water from the rain barrel?”
“Aye.” It was said with such distress, it sounded more like a cry
than a word.
She nearly ran to the barrel just outside the barn door, grabbed the
ladle, and brought a generous portion to the sweat-soaked man. She
held it to his lips. Despite her efforts to keep it from spilling, it seemed
as if half of the liquid ended up on his chin and shirt. “I am sorry, Mr.
Wooding.”
“Thank you.” His breathing came so rapidly, she feared for him.
Would he go into a stupor? Would his heart give out? She had heard of
such things following a severe injury or shock.
“Let me help you lie down, sir. You must rest.” She gently pulled
his shoulder back onto a thick pile of animal bedding. ‘Twas hardly a
feather bed yet would have to do. She had heard the soldiers often had
little more than the hard ground on which to sleep. “I shall return as
soon as I find the doctor.”
Aurinda nearly tripped as she hurried out the barn door. She
thought about stopping at the cabin to tell her father about the injured
man in the barn but decided against it. No reason to complicate the
situation. He might even refuse offering assistance to the patient, and
she would not take that chance. She would address the situation later
—after Mr. Wooding had been tended.
She hoped Dr. Northrup would be easy to find in the small
community of Fairfield, but one never knew if there might be another
urgent need. He seemed to be busier than usual these days, especially
with so many gone to war. Elderly parents who would normally be
looked after by grown sons were often suffering from one health
concern or another.
Even today, Aurinda had taken time from her weaving to bring
soup to old Mrs. Hawthorne, who suffered from apoplexy. Dr.
Northrup frequently made her aware of such needs in Fairfield.
Aurinda was used to these interruptions in her already burdensome
routine, and she did not mind.
Her heart warmed at the gratitude expressed by the lonely widow
when she delivered the victuals. ‘Twas the least Aurinda could do for
the patriot cause to free her country from the rule of England. She
could not carry a musket to battle, but she could transport a warm
meal to a soldier’s mother in need.
That unexpected interruption to her routine this day imparted
another realization: Had she not been on that back road to the
center of Fairfield, she would not have found the injured Mr.
Wooding.
DR. NORTHRUP EXAMINED the man who Aurinda now knew to be a
blacksmith from New Haven. The physician’s healing hands quieted
Mr. Wooding as the doctor lifted the patient’s eyelids and peered into
them with a candle held closely. He blew out the burning wick. She
was relieved, lest a fire begin in the dry hay. The doctor moved his
fingers carefully toward the back of Zadok’s skull. He stopped when
the patient winced.
“So, you remember the horse stumbling and then you awoke on
the ground?” The doctor pulled out a bottle from his leather
saddlebag.
“Aye.” Zadok’s face paled as he slowly rubbed the back of his
own head.
Dr. Northrup measured out a small portion of a liquid into a cup.
“Before I set the arm, take this laudanum. ‘Twill take the edge off
the pain.”
Aurinda stiffened at the thought of Mr. Wooding in misery.
Although her father frequently complained of one ailment or another,
she’d become accustomed to his incessant grumblings, which rarely
seemed serious but often prompted a visit to fetch the doctor. Dr.
Northrup, whose friendship with her father extended back to the
French War, seemed as pleased with these visits as her parent. The
two veterans shared tales of battle with one another and occasionally,
the physician offered medicinals. Probably to justify his presence.
But this was different. Zadok’s arm lay in a peculiar position and it
would likely cause him very real distress when set right to heal.
“What can I do to help, Dr. Northrup?” She surprised herself with
her boldness. Normally she stayed in the background during the
physician’s ministrations, but this time she had a desire to help. The
patient was in obvious distress, and the fact he could not see added to
her sympathy. What would it be like to suddenly be blind? She shivered.
Dr. Northrup raised his eyebrows at her offer. “An extra pair of
hands would be quite useful. You can start by holding his upper arm
while I straighten it out.”
Closing her eyes tight, Aurinda lurched at the cracking of the bone
and the heartrending cry from Zadok. Why did I offer to do this? She
swallowed the bile infusing the back of her throat.
Without thinking, she touched his other arm with reassurance. “It
should heal well now, Mr. Wooding.”
“Thank you.” His voice edged on agony, but he seemed intent on
maintaining a brave front.
“You bore that with some courage, young man.” Dr. Northrop
closed his saddlebag. Turning toward Aurinda, he handed her the
laudanum. “He may need this for a day or two while the healing
begins. But not too much, mind you. Supplies are low with the
war on.”
“I understand.”
The doctor wrapped the splinted arm and exhaled a deep sigh as
he stood. “The good news, Mr. Wooding, is your arm should heal well.
The uncertain news concerns your sight.” He paused as if measuring
the weight of the words he was about to speak. “The fact is, I have
seen this before—an abrupt injury to the back of the skull leading to
blindness. Occasionally, with time, the sight returns. Other times…”
His voice trailed off and he looked toward the open door of the barn.
“Sometimes it does not?” Zadok’s unseeing eyes widened.
“Aye, Mr. Wooding. I wish I could assure you ‘twill return. But I
cannot. Only the good Lord knows the answer.” He pushed his
tricorne hat firmly onto his head. “I’ll stop in on the morrow to see
how the patient is faring.”
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Northrup. Will you see my father
before you leave?”
For the first time this visit, the physician grinned. “Aye, I shall.”
While the doctor limped toward the door, Aurinda turned toward
the patient on the bed of hay. Tenderness gripped her heart. If ever
despair could be reflected on a countenance, it was clearly visible on
Zadok Wooding’s face. His high cheekbones, smeared with dirt from
the fall, accentuated the depth of his warm eyes and the terror they
reflected. She noticed his mouth tightening as he seemed to struggle
to keep his lips from trembling.
“Try not to fear, Mr. Wooding. Dr. Northrup has given you hope.
We must pray your sight will return.”
“We must pray? Do you believe such a prayer can be answered?”
“I … I believe it can be answered, aye. But the answering is in the
hands of the Healer. I suppose He will decide.”
“So then, do our prayers matter, since God has the final choice?” His
words brimmed with bitterness and his cheeks darkened to a ruddy hue.
“I know sometimes our prayers are not answered the way we
would desire.”
“Then why bother at all?”
She could not answer. Weren’t her own prayers unheeded by God
when she was a lass of five? When she begged God to allow her to stay
with Aunt Primrose instead of being torn from her aunt’s comforting
arms and into the cold embrace of her father?
“I cannot say. The Good Book tells us so. Yet…” She stumbled for a
reply. “Yet, I will pray for your eyes to see again, Mr. Wooding.” She
turned her attention to his horse in the stall. “I need to tend
your mount.”
“My mount. The papers! Miss, please bring me the haversack on
the saddle.”
What sort of papers would take his focus so completely from his
blindness? Aurinda did what he asked, but she wondered at the
urgency.
He grabbed at the sack with a flailing arm and caught the strap.
“Can you help me, miss? At the bottom of the sack are some carefully
folded papers. Please tell me if they are still there.”
With searching fingers, she finally felt the edges of paper below a
tin cup, razor, and tinderbox. “I feel them.”
He exhaled with relief. “Please, miss. This is most imperative. I am
forced to rely upon your goodwill and your allegiance. I need to know
if I can trust you.”
Holding her breath longer than she intended, she finally let it out.
“I am a patriot by allegiance, sir. But my father’s favor rests with the
king’s army. He does not know my feelings on the matter. So, if you
would be so kind—since you now owe me a debt for saving your life—
please do not inform my father of my patriot leanings lest he turn me
away from our home.” There, ‘twas said in the open, far from the ears
of her Loyalist father.
“I’m so relieved, Miss Whitney. I must entreat you, ‘tis of the
utmost importance I deliver this letter.”
She fingered the papers, tempted to pull them out. “You? Deliver
this? And how, pray tell, might that be accomplished when you are so
badly injured?” Not to mention his lack of eyesight.
He sat without speaking.
“Might I look at it, Mr. Wooding?”
“You will not be able to read it. There is no message you will be
able to discern.”
“Well then, how can it be of such import?”
“Go ahead and look at it.” He nodded in the direction of her voice.
She dug into the sack and carefully extracted two folded pages.
Opening them, she shook her head as she doubted the man’s sanity.
“There is no message here, sir, save a receipt for cornbread pudding.
How can this be of such importance?”
He fumbled for her hands with his own and gripped her fingers.
“Miss Whitney, there is most certainly a message here, done with
invisible ink. ‘Tis written between the lines of the receipt.”
She scoffed. “Invisible ink! I’ve never heard of such.” She withdrew
her hand from his clutches and folded up the papers.
He sought her hand again and squeezed her fingers more firmly.
“You must believe me. I assure you this is an important missive on its
way to the Continental Army.”
“And why exactly would an invisible message be needed?” She
laughed.
“’Tis not truly invisible. It merely needs a special application of
something called a ‘reagent’ to be read. And the recipient of this
message is none other than General Washington.”
She paused at the name. “General Washington. And how exactly
did you come by this missive?”
“’Tis a long story to be certain.”
“Well, I’m awaiting the tale.” The fingers in her right hand gripped
the folded letter while her other hand clutched a fistful of straw.
“’Tis no tale, miss, but true enough. I run the smithy in New
Haven. The original courier of these papers arrived with a horse
needing shod. The lad all but fell off his mount—this gelding here—as
the rider was afflicted with fever. My mother took him to the cabin to
tend his illness. He was near out of his senses, but he gripped my arm
and shared his urgent business with me in private. He explained about
the invisible message and most urgently encouraged me to get this
letter delivered at a certain location to a major in the Continental
forces.” He stopped for a moment. “I cannot tell if you believe I have
lost my senses with such a story. I cannot see your expression and you
speak not.”
His words started to fade into the recesses of her thoughts as a
deeply embedded dread, born of living for so long under threat from
the king’s army, began to extend roots of fear. This anxiety first
sprouted in her heart years ago. It twisted tentacles of terror in her
mind, despite her efforts to control it. The pounding in her chest
testified to the constancy of danger, ready to leap into her life at the
smallest reminder that America was at war and her world could
change in a moment.
“Miss Whitney?” He squeezed her arm.
She forced her thoughts back to Mr. Wooding’s question. “On …
on the contrary, sir, I am quite shocked by this. But I do believe you.”
She stood on unsteady legs and walked toward the open door of the
barn. Laughter echoed from the house several rods away. Her father
and Dr. Northrup must have shared something quite amusing. How
absurd to hear mirthful chatter when her world was on the edge of
annihilation. Her mind raced with the news Zadok Wooding had
shared.
What should she do? To deliver so important a message herself
seemed impossible, not to mention highly dangerous. And yet, was
there another way? This letter to an American major must be
extremely important, or else why would it be written in ink that most
readers could not see? The whole idea seemed absurd, yet brilliant, at
the same time.
Thinking about her own safety, Aurinda quickly dismissed the
panic, inhaling deep breaths to calm her thoughts. What did it matter
if she lost her life for her country? She had no one who would care,
save father, and his need for her seemed to be as his housekeeper and
cook. His affection for his only child was strained, blaming her for the
death of his wife in childbirth twenty-one years before. It was a long
time to carry a grudge against a helpless infant. Yet her father would
never forgive her for being born.
Her resolve was set. She would deliver the letter to the major. Now
she had to create a plan.

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