Prologue
Bordeaux, France, 1668Dr. Louis Pecton eased himself into the comfortable chair before the crackling fire. His wife had gone to bed; he would follow after he'd relaxed a bit. He raised the polished snifter and swirled it, watching amber liquid catch and reflect light given off by the flames. Heavy rain pattered off the tiled roof and window panes. He took a sip of cognac, relishing its warmth as it slid down his throat and settled comfortably in his belly. He allowed his eyelids to slide shut.
Furious pounding on the front door shocked the surgeon to wakefulness. What immediate emergency presented itself now? He heaved himself up and crossed the room to the sound of continuous hammering. He slid back the iron bolt, stepping backward to open the heavy door. A tall figure in black shoved his way in and, raising a gloved finger to the thin line of his dark mustache, quickly shut the door.
“There's no time. The dogs are upon my heels.” Water puddled on the wooden floor at his feet, dripping from his cape and the long scabbard that hung at his side.
“Who are you?”
The stranger removed his plumed hat, shiny from the rain, and pushed black hair away from his forehead, revealing a scar in the shape of a jagged star. “Yes! You recognize your work and see a man already in your debt, but I must impose upon you further.”
“To hide—”
“Never from those swine. They shall taste my steel and may have my hide yet, but not that of my motherless son!” The man reached into his cloak and withdrew a hefty pouch which he tossed onto a nearby table. It landed with a dull thud and several gold coins spilled out.
Dr. Pecton's eyes grew wide. The stranger gestured toward the table. “A pittance. A thousand times as much would not reflect my gratitude. His wet-nurse will bring him round tonight. Take him in and educate him well. Teach him to love and trust in God, follow the Church of Rome, honor his king, and glorify France. Teach him your noble craft. He's been baptized Francis. Give him your own good name and if he never knows another it will be just as well for him. Now! I must be off and trust God to truly compensate you on my behalf. I go now to face my enemies!”
With that he was gone, the only proof of his existence the mute puddle and muddy prints from his boots, the pouch filled with coins, and a small gold cross on a ribbon of red.
I
Bordeaux, France, 1693The front door slammed open and a young man bounded into the large house where cathedral ceilings echoed the sound of his shouting. “Father! I've just purchased a share in a new ship! L'Aigle sails on the morrow under Captain Croisic. Father! Where are you?” He took the carpeted stairs two at a time, hollering all the while. “I'm to be her surgeon!” He halted abruptly at the entrance to his father's chamber.
Dr. Pecton lay under soaking wet sheets, breathing laboriously. He raised a thin, crooked hand to acknowledge the boy, then let it fall limply by his side. Francis went to him, knelt on one knee and held the frail hand between his own. “Father.”
The dying man shook his head, causing perspiration to trickle down his temple. “I must tell you—” A coughing fit interrupted his raspy words. Momentarily he caught his breath. “My wife, God rest her soul, and I took you in as an infant.”
“What?” A curious expression crossed the young face.
“I never told you. I feared the knowledge would consume you; or a thirst for vengeance would lead to your undoing. But now—” Another series of coughs wracked the sickly surgeon. “I have loved you as a son and been truly blessed by you. You are a good man, but I must tell you: noble blood runs in your veins. You should have been a baron, inherited your father's title and estate. Instead, that cross you wear is all you have of his.”
The young man removed the cross from around his neck and studied it closely. Small and simple, it boasted no engraving, indeed nothing to indicate it had once belonged to a nobleman. Francis' dark eyes returned to those of the dying doctor. “You are the only father I have ever known. And the only one I need.”
The surgeon shook his head again. “No. Do not be angry with him. His lands were stolen from him. They robbed him of his title and even his life, but not you, he did not let them get you. And he did not abandon you in order to make good his escape, no. He faced his enemies fearlessly. When you sail tomorrow, go forth the same way and do so in his memory.”
“But I cannot go; not with you like this.”
“There is nothing you can do for me now, I am near my end. I want you to go. Go and practice your calling, serve all who have need—rich or poor, friend or foe—and do that in my memory. And always remember, titled or not, you are a baron.”
II
Aboard L'Aigle, near Buzzard's Bay, New England, 1694“Surgeon!”
“Here! Bring him here!”
Two sweaty sailors dumped their companion on the wooden table, already slick with blood, and without another word, returned topside where the battle raged. Francis handed the wounded man a compress. “Hold this right there. I've got to tie this off above the knee, the shin bone is shattered and you'll bleed to death if I don't.”
A tremendous crash rocked the ship violently and nearly tossed the bleeding man onto the deck. The surgeon struggled to keep his balance. Salt water rushed up over the top of his shoes. A muffled voice above the hatchway said, “We're hit bad.” A figure descended half-way down the stairwell. “We're taking on water!” Footsteps thundered back up the stairs.
Francis continued working. “That leg's got to come off.” He held a tin cup of rum to the patient's quivering lips. “Quickly, drink this. Then bite down on this.” He shoved a folded towel into the injured man's mouth. With leather straps, he lashed him to the heavy table. The sailor's eyes popped at the sight of the hacksaw. He closed them tight and bit down on the dirty cloth. The surgeon began sawing the smashed leg. The patient writhed and clamped his jaws, teeth saved by the towel. Icy water swirled around the surgeon's ankles as he worked.
The thunder of battle continued above. Another shadow appeared at the hatchway. “Beware the main mast! She's going by the board!” Francis heard a loud crack followed by another crash as the spar, the size of a tree, slammed upon the decks above. A sailor hurried down and stopped at the landing. “Doctor LeBaron, abandon ship!”
“I'm not done! I cannot leave this man!”
“Blast him! We've lost the main, we're afire and sinkin'. There! Ye can rightly see for your own self!” Steadily rising water lapped against the doctor's knees.
The patient opened eyes filled with tears of pain. Wrinkles on his forehead betrayed his fear of being left to die. Francis called back, “Ha! The water will put out the fire! Meantime, I'll be working on this man.” He continued cutting away. The wounded sailor finally fainted.
“Blast you for a fool then! The Devil awaits on the bottom, and welcome to ya!” The man moved up the stairway quicker than he'd come down.
In water up to his waist, the surgeon finished removing the sailor's smashed leg and dressed the wound. No sooner had he completed this task than the table began floating. Francis positioned the makeshift life raft so it would be lifted up through the hatchway and positioned himself so as to keep it from tipping. In this manner the two were carried, the last to leave the dying ship. The doctor's spirits lifted when he saw they were not far from shore. Up ahead, boats from L'Aigle were just reaching the beach where a crowd of residents had gathered. Across the expanse of ocean, Francis heard some of them shouting.
“They're bloody French!”
“Bloody pirates is what they are!”
“String the devils up!”
Feeling much safer floating among the wreckage, Francis decided to await nightfall rather than hurry for shore. He scanned the darkening sky, thankful he wouldn't have to wait long. Atop the bobbing table, his wounded companion never stirred.
III
Plymouth, Massachusetts, 1694Eventually the tide took them in and Francis struggled ashore with the crippled sailor, who remained unconscious. The surgeon checked the patient's pulse. Nothing.
“There!”
Francis looked up to see a group of torch-wielders, one of whom had spotted him. He cursed the moonlight and, with a prayer for his dead companion on his lips, proceeded to run. He managed to elude his pursuers long enough to reach a dwelling. His ragged appearance at the door brought a scream from the young woman inside. He stood with torn clothing soaking wet and clinging to him, black hair hanging straggily about his shoulders and wild eyes darting around the room. Perceiving the woman alone, he held up hands still covered with sand. “Please, Mademoiselle, I mean you no harm. I am Francis LeBaron of Bordeaux, surgeon aboard L'Aigle which went down in the harbor. I am hunted by those who would kill me for a pirate, though I am not one, I assure you. Indeed I am a doctor.”
Mary Wilder still trembled, but regained some of her composure. “There are hot-tempered men about who use not their heads. I know not whether you are a pirate, but do believe you've a right to fair trial. Therefore, I shall protect you from those who would harm you unjustly.”
“Merci; I thank you. And I assure you I am no pirate.”
She ushered him inside and lifted a hatch in the floor. The opening led to a small root cellar. “Hide, for surely they will come around to look for you.” He climbed in and she closed the door over him. She removed her lawn cap and mussed up her long brown hair. With a pillow and blanket she lay down atop the hatch.
Presently the hunting party reached the house and entered to find the woman lying on the floor. “Mary, there's a killer about.”
She moaned, then cried out hoarsely, “Pox! Stay away! The killer is pox!” She lapsed into a coughing fit and many of the men covered their mouths and backed away.
The leader of the party, a man by the name of Bartlett, stood his ground. “Search the house.” Men scattered throughout the rooms. “Mary, how long have you lain there?” She answered only with a drawn-out moan. “Mary, why aren't you abed?” Another moan.
The search did not take long and the men reassembled. One said, “The bed's made up.”
Bartlett's eyes narrowed. “You're not sick, Mary Wilder. Up with you. Now, or we'll drag you to your feet by your hair.”
Mary's eyes burned with fire. “You touch me and my brothers will have you for breakfast.”
Beneath her, Francis heard the entire exchange. In the darkness he fingered the golden cross, which he still wore. A memory forced its way into his thoughts. He faced his enemies fearlessly. Upon hearing the threats made to the woman who would save him, he hammered on the hatch and proclaimed in a clear, loud voice, “It's all right, Mademoiselle Wilder. I am not a mouse to hide in a hole. I wish to come out.”
Mary gathered herself up and stepped away from the trap door, still looking daggers at Bartlett. Francis pushed it open and crawled out.
One man gasped. “The villain!”
“Pirate,” said another.
Francis eyed them calmly. Bartlett pointed an accusatory finger. “You were on that ship. You are one of those French pirates.”
The Frenchman nodded. “I was on it, yes. I was her surgeon. We were not pirates, we engaged only the ships of William and Mary. I may be a prisoner of war, but am no pirate.”
A man pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “Excuse me, did you say you were a surgeon?”
“Yes. I am Doctor Francis LeBaron of Bordeaux.”
“Could you possibly tend to my sick wife? She and I run the inn. My name is Hunter. She's had pain in her stomach for two days now, she won't eat, she can't sleep, she's feverish, and I'm afeared for her life.”
A voice in the crowd asked, “Are you daft? Would you trust him?”
Hunter replied, “I don't have a choice. There's no other doctor within miles. Will you help, Mister?”
An echo drifted through Francis' mind. Serve all who have need—rich or poor, friend or foe—and do that in my memory. “Take me to her. I will do all I can.”
The crowd led Francis through the narrow streets to the inn where the woman lay delirious in an upstairs room. Francis knelt on one knee beside the bed. “Can you tell me where it hurts?” She made a circular motion over her abdomen. Frances put a hand on her forehead. Burning. He lifted her gown slightly and pushed his fingers around different parts of her stomach. When he pressed near her pelvis she cried out and jerked in visible pain. Francis looked at her husband. “I'm going to need a knife. Also wet sheets and twine.”
Hunter rushed to the kitchen and returned with several knives of varying sizes along with the other requested items. Francis explained to the curious onlookers. “She's got an inflamed appendix. It's got to come out or she will surely die. I only hope we're in time.”
Hands awash in blood, the surgeon worked with all possible speed. He kept Hunter busy gathering the necessary articles, a depository bucket for the damaged organ, cotton and alcohol for cleaning the wound, needle and thread for sutures, and clean bandages to dress it. The operation was quick, but effective, the patient lived.
Bartlett stroked his considerable beard. “It would be a shame to send a skilled physician such as yourself prisoner to Boston, thereby depriving ourselves of that which we have need. Perhaps an arrangement could be made whereby, if you'd agree to take up residence and serve the town we'd forget all about that French ship.”
“That would be agreeable to me.”
Bartlett rubbed his hands together. “Splendid! I'll meet with the selectmen and we'll draw up a petition to the Lieutenant Governor asking that you be allowed to stay. Everybody in town will sign it, believe me, once they've heard what you've done for Goodwife Hunter. Oh, I'll also see to it that you're paid out of the town funds for this, your first service to the people of Plymouth.”
“If I am allowed to remain, I should do so much more readily if I were to have an assistant, perhaps one who could help me train future generations.”
Bartlett raised bushy eyebrows. “An assistant?”
“Yes, an assistant. More of a partner, really. Well, a wife, actually.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, that is, if she will have me. Would you mind escorting me back to the home of Mademoiselle Wilder, that I may ask her?”
Epilogue
Francis was paid the sum of five pounds for services rendered to Goodwife Hunter. He and Mary Wilder were married September 6, 1695. The following year she bore a son, James. She gave him two more boys before Francis died August 8, 1704, aged only 36. By the time of Mary's death in 1737, the middle son, Lazarus, had followed in his father's footsteps and become a physician in town. Two of his boys, Lazarus and Bartlett, would likewise practice the noble craft there. Francis LeBaron, the orphan of Bordeaux, through his bloodline, did indeed supply the town of Plymouth with future generations of physicians.
References
Stockwell, Mary LeBaron. Descendants of Francis LeBaron of Plymouth - Massachusetts. T.R. Marvin & Sons, Boston, 1904.
Anglade, Gérard. website: http://www.lebaron.free.fr/htmus/index.html