Chapter Four: From Bondage to Burgos

Roselyn remained further South with Flower. She stood by her side as she battled through illnesses and fatigue resulting from her arrow wound. There was in the town, however, a French man by the name of Louis Jaques Pierre. He was an immensely skilled hunter, and would make sketches of the animals he shot or trapped. Mostly he was interested in their anatomical structure.

When her sister was asleep or simply recovering in bed, Roselyn would find herself drawn to Pierre's sketches more and more. She had an interest in anatomy, she really did, and she was already witnessing some of the practices and treatments being used on her sister in addition to the works of this man. As she watched him in his work, the two grew closer and closer together. As it turned out, Pierre was a skilled physician who studied anatomy in animals in America for leisure, but he belonged to a wealthy family - one that lived in Paris, France.

He was not merely skilled at anatomy, but he was handsome, as well, with flat black hair and a perfectly-symmetrical face with brown eyes. He taught Roselyn much of his trade - how to dress wounds, and how to make and grind certain medicines - and it took her a few weeks to realize that he was essentially flirting with her. He gave the impression of a kind, clever young man…Roselyn felt suddenly selfish for being with him.

As soon as she realized that Flower was soon to recover, she left her with the remainder of their money, and left with Pierre, who was on his way to New York to sell some of his sketches (she would have liked to leave much later, and with her sister, but he claimed to be on a tight schedule). After all, Diana was supposed to be working with something in journalism (or that was what she claimed once) in New York by then.

“I am returning to Paris, my Rosie,” Pierre smiled and embraced her as they stood inside their rented room in a building in New York. “You should come with me: you’ll love Europe!”

“I’m not so sure…” Roselyn began. “My sister, Flower, still has not come up to New York - we only write to each other, and I still have to locate Diana, whom I have not heard a word from. I wish to see them both again.”

“We’ll simply visit Europe, then come back,” Pierre encouraged, and the two bantered back and fourth for a while, but ultimately, Roselyn was already carried away by the prospect of visiting a foreign continent. “Believe me,” Pierre encouraged, smartly flapping the ends of his sharp black coat. “You’ll have a wonderful time!”

A shrill whistle pierced the air, and a cracking explosion occurred a few seconds later, sending a few troops flying onto their backs. Roselyn kept her head down and ran, trying to avoid death. The day was cloudy, and the smell of smoke and gunpowder fouled the air. She passed a soldier who was squatting on the ground, clutching his wounded stomach. Roselyn actually thought of helping him, but she had to find the commander. Finally, she spotted the officers huddled under a large tree, seemingly out of place amid the carnage.

“Where is the commander?” She demanded as she ran up, skipping all formalities. Another explosion rang out in the distance, and the loud shouts of a company in combat sounded from somewhere else nearby, followed by the little popping sounds of multiple rifles firing at once.

“I don’t know,” another officer shouted nervously, throwing down the papers he held and looking up at Roselyn. He was young, short, and clean-shaven; well-dressed in a blue uniform, and seemingly inexperienced. “He’s not here, or he’s dead, I think. I mean…Hey, you are a woman? Are you a nurse? I demand to see a soldier! Where is a messenger?”

“He died,” she exclaimed. “Killed by a stray shot. He was to be my escort away from the front line. I have to carry on the message now.”

“I will not listen to a woman at such an urgent time,” the officer exclaimed with, rudely, apparent disgust.

“Never mind,” Roselyn shouted. “Where is the leading commander here?”

“I am that man,” a general (also dressed in a fine blue uniform) stated confidently as he stepped forward. He had a fat, clean-shaven face and lamb-chop sideburns, but at least he seemed competent, conversely to the other officer that Roselyn had spoken to. “Vicente Genaro de Quesada,” he introduced himself firmly. “And I am not dead,” he added harshly to the other officer.

“General, we are hopelessly outnumbered,” Roselyn rushed to explain, wiping ash and dirt from her face. “The adjutant of Belveder ordered the soldier that I was traveling with to inform you that it is advisable to abandon Burgos.”

“Were these direct orders,” the general questioned suspiciously, his heavily-wrinkled face taking on more signs of age as he raised his eyebrows.

“No, Sir, I don’t think so, but the adjutant has view of the whole field,” Roselyn rushed to explain, still out of breath from her parlous run.

“We can’t abandon Burgos!” This was spoken by another, even more stern officer who had been overhearing the conversation. Just then, a cannon shell landed nearby and exploded. They all crouched down as small chunks of dirt fell over all of them. They stood back up.

“She’s right, we have to abandon Burgos,” the young, incompetent officer cried desperately, suddenly on Roselyn’s side (more likely for fear of his own life rather than out of strategy). Roselyn glanced behind her, at the columns of soldiers engaging in rifle combat of the salvo as dirt and debris rained from the sky under constant cannon shell explosions.

“General, Sir, Belveder’s forces were completely crushed,” Roselyn exclaimed urgently. “I am the only nurse that escaped capture. We must abandon Burgos!” The general looked out over the war-torn, rolling and dust-covered fields outside the city of Burgos, with eyes that seemed to realize the severity of the situation, he sighed and turned back to Roselyn.

“Ride to Villalbilla,” he stated. “Inform the command there that Vicente Genaro de Quesada was unable to hold the French forces of Napoleon…But tell them that he was either captured or died trying.” The man actually smiled slightly. “Go to safety. Captain Alfonso will escort you,” he gestured to the rude, incompetent officer, who seemed relieved to be sent away from the raging battle.

“I will, Sir. God be with you!” And with that, she took off at a sprint for an officer’s horse that had been brought for her. They rode away, over the dust-covered hills with patches of grass upon them, racing away from Burgos. The French would take the city, that much was certain, and from there they would likely advance upon Castile. Roselyn and her escort made it to Villalbilla, and Roselyn left after having delivered the message. She spent most of the journey from the city in thought, largely about the bloodshed she had witnessed.

But that was one of the reasons why she had persisted in her short nursing career: she wanted to help people. She had saved the lives of several men who were placed before her on the table, and dressed their wounds, and even assisted more-professional doctors in several surgeries. But she knew that she could not remain at a combat site any longer. With the clopping sound of her galloping horse, Roselyn left the bloody Napoleonic campaign behind her, hopefully forever…

November 14, 1808

Dear Flower,

I’m sorry that it has been so long since I’ve written to you. I know that I am an adult, but I feel as if now my childhood has truly ended. I have seen so many horrible things! I already wrote to you that the scoundrel Pierre left me for that Spanish woman as soon as we crossed into Spain, practically! I am so sorry that my selfishness brought me to him, and pulled me away from you. I should have been by your side as you recovered; instead, that scoundrel dumped me here with little money, and I still have trouble with the language!

Oh, but there was no work; except, of course, as a nurse. Napoleon’s forces are on the move, and the Spanish were eager to induct me into the service, and my medical knowledge proved useful. But I have witnessed horrible atrocities! At least the pay was fair. But, sister, I delivered a message to a general! The Spanish lost at Burgos, but I hope that at least my message gave them time to prepare for what was coming, and deal a greater blow to to those bloody French! I am sorry, I am ranting…

The point is, I have learned a lot of practical knowledge, and am a lot smarter about the world, now. I am sorry I have been so selfish and left you - I am coming back to America. But some day, I do want to take you back to Europe, or maybe even Asia (I met a man here who has been to India, and he speaks highly of it). I really do believe that you would love it here, after the war is over, of course. But as for me, I plan to book passage on a ship bound for New York, and from there (unless something goes wrong), I shall travel back to you. I hope this letter reaches you, and that you are still living in the same place. I read your last letter, and I am glad to hear that you have been feeling well, lately. I am sending other letters to the other members of the family. Much love,

-Your sister, Rosie

Flower was still down South, now in a small town just below the border of Tennessee. She had recovered from her arrow wound within a year, but an overarching sickness persisted. Sometimes, it was nothing more than a headache, but other times, it was so intense that she felt as if she might die from the pain. This she battled all through the years of 1805 to 1806. Thankfully, a nearby physician, William Beaumont, was very skilled, and even once had to perform surgery on Flower, but he saved her life on numerous occasions.

He claimed to have been a military surgeon in the United States Army, and his skill was evident. Still, though, Flower disliked him. In fact, she disliked all biologists in general ever since Louis Jaques Pierre swept her sister up and carried her away.

Though even before 1807, Flower was well enough to write letters, and through that, she found a love of poetry that she had never encountered before. She managed to write home often, which allowed her family to know of the small town where she was, and she occasionally received letters (and, less often, money) from her parents, and once heard from Chadwick. He was apparently on some massive expedition a ways to the West. That was fine with Flower: ironically, she was not as in tune with nature as Chadwick and Roselyn seemed to be. The only family member she had not heard from was Diana. In fact, Roselyn even wrote that she could not find their sister in New York, which was somewhat troubling.

Flower was beloved by the local community. She was pretty, and all the men liked her. She was smart and a clever poet, and always impressed with her writing talent. She worked, however, as a seamstress, as that was all she could really do when she was ill. She was welcomed and cherished by the small town, and everyone there was very kind, but she still felt empty.

On a few occasions, and especially after receiving Roselyn’s latest letter, she had to admit to herself that she was at least a little bit jealous. Her father had traveled from across the sea to America, and had established a suitable trade and encountered several notable individuals. Flower’s brother, Chadwick, had gone on an expedition, and a very ambitious one by the sounds of it. Flower’s own sister, even, who was only twenty years old (and no older than her), already had a failed relationship and a nursing job during a war behind her, not to mention having visited Spain and Portugal, and would now presumably be crossing the Atlantic a second time. And what was this talk of going back to Europe, or maybe even India?

Flower did not like to believe that she felt jealous - she wished to be above that - but compared to the other members in her family, she felt under-accomplished. For all she knew, Diana could be working for the most successful newspaper in New York. What was Flower’s legacy?…An arrow to the leg that took years to really recover from. How she longed to truly prove herself to the world….And all the while, the people of her small town thought higher of her than of anyone else in the vicinity.