Daring Pioneers Tame the Frontier

The cool March breeze signaled another spring shower was blowing in fast from the Mediterranean. Jean-Baptiste gazed toward the sea longing for his father. “If he were here he would understand,” he thought to himself. April 13, 1778, echoed in his mind as he struggled for the right words to tell his mother. “What will she say when she learns I am leaving in three weeks with the French fleet for America?” Madeline’s reactions were as anticipated. “Son, both sides always lose during war. Have you seriously considered the consequences if England triumphs? General Washington and his officers will be hung as tyrants, or imprisoned for life. Yet, if the war is won, the effects will be difficult and far-reaching. After all the glory is spread around, snapping flags are quiet, and brightly colored uniforms are stored away, the dreadful aftermath of war becomes a reality. It arrives in the middle of the night uninvited and refuses to leave. Your heart will become heavy with every life you could not save, and the onslaught of pain-filled groans from suffering men become your unmerciful companion. Jean-Baptiste, you are a skilled surgeon, but oftentimes that will not suffice. In the heat of battle when you lack supplies, the call from suffering soldiers begging for mercy and death will cut through you like a sharp knife. Those sights and sounds will replay in your mind until you are an old man and your memory becomes blurred and faded. For many years, their cries for mercy will awaken you from a deep sleep, and force you from your bed. During these lonely hours while the world sleeps, you will question your performance and wonder if you could have done more. Sitting alone in the dark, you will beg God for peace of mind and pray for the dawning of a new day to come quickly. “We all understand General Washington is in dire need of manpower, supplies, and money. The general desperately needs France as an ally, but I am not willing to give him my only son. Jean-Baptiste, I ask you in the name of your father lost at sea, please consider all these options before you leave your family and homeland. Son — will you do that for me? Will you?” 1781. The first week in October sent the Siege of Yorktown into full swing. In the heat of battle, doctors and surgeon-mates rushed about treating the fallen struck by cannon balls and fragments, or bleeding to death from severed arms and legs. While Dr. Burel helped one man, another youngster nearby begged for his mother as he clinched a detached arm that was not his own. Calming and comforting the dying, his stomach churned from the stench of gunpowder, smoke, and hot blood as it mingled with excretions of death filling his head and lungs. As the days and nights of the siege continued, life flowed profusely from the mortally wounded, and the ground underfoot slushed with bloody mud. Dr. Burel watched the death toll rise and wondered if beleaguered comrades would bury their fallen quickly in unmarked shallow graves. Or sadly, would many of them be left where they fell for Mother Nature to reclaim them in good time deep into her bosom. Cursing the treacherous war in his native language, he hastily bandaged another severely wounded young American soldier from a nearby farm. Suddenly, Burel felt something grasp his right ankle. Startled, he looked down and heard a slave begging for relief. Within the moment the strong black hand released its last lifeline of hope, and the soldier slumped upon an already fallen young Frenchman in a bright new uniform. Burel took a mental picture of the three men lying together from different worlds: one from a small farm in Virginia, one from some nearby plantation, and one from faraway France. Making the crucifix over his heavy heart, he thought of his mother on the other side of the world. Reverently, he whispered, “My good men, you are now free from your pain and worldly woes. God bless you, and may your souls rest in peace.”