Savannah, Georgia
September 1779

 The roars of cannons in the distance were muffled by a light but bitter fall wind. Henri counted the cannon fires…Un – One. Deux – Two; and so on, while Jean-Baptiste listened and corrected his pronunciation every now and then. The corrections came in the form of both French and English. Henri was learning the language after recently being thrust into the world of the French from his prior home on St. Christophe—an English colony in the Caribbean. Henri was turning twelve in a few days but had already seen so much for one so young.

Henri was a good boy, Jean-Baptiste thought. How he got here was a story all its own. Yet they were now in a land, fighting for the freedom of a colony to which neither had any loyalty. “America” it was called—was owned by the British, though those living here were now fighting to govern themselves. Jean-Baptiste was a French army, Captain. Henri was originally enlisted as a slave drummer boy, but after being wounded in a valiant battle was assigned to him for all things that he could assist with. Though sometimes more trouble than help, Jean-Baptiste could honestly say Henri always tried his best.

He’d grown accustomed to the boy's company, like that of a little brother in need of nurturing, protection, discipline—and much more. But here, in the middle of a war, it was a task easier said than done; during the previous day’s battle, he’d found himself ignoring his own well-being while constantly making sure Henri remained in sight as bullets and cannonballs rained down upon them.

Alas, Henri had already tasted the worst of battle. Drummer Boy was no easy task. They acted as the communication chain from officers to troops. Charge, retreat, flank, and a host of other practiced maneuvers were well-orchestrated and synchronized as part of the war machine. Thus drummer boys were a prime enemy target, who sought to kill them and paralyze the infantry. Cannons and guns continuously rained peril on the young drummer boy soldiers.

Henri gained his reputation and promotion from just such an encounter.

During their third attempt to overtake Savannah, a combined force of 3,000 troops marched on the city. The British attempted to disrupt signals to the troops by way of heavy cannon fire. Of the six drummers, three were killed, one was wounded and another ran away in absolute terror. Only Henri remained, banging his drum louder than ever to compensate for the loss of his comrades. 

Throughout the day, Henri sounded continuous rolls for the infantry’s full-on attack; beat signals for a flank attack by the cavalry; and more rolls to signal to the artillery when and how far to hurl their cannonballs. After hours of toiling work, he was ordered to sound the retreat from the bloody skirmish as men from both sides were exhausted. His day’s mission finally complete, Henri collapsed. As soldiers hurried to his side, they discovered his torso had been ravaged by shrapnel. Henri was soon rendered unconscious from the loss of blood. He was picked up and rushed to the field infirmary. 

Admiral Charles Henri Hector, Comte d’Estaing himself, owner of the slave drummer boy, came to Henri’s bedside to commend him and pronounce his elevation to Captain Jean-Baptiste Bayard’s young assistant—an honor to be admired by all. He chose Jean-Baptiste knowing that he too was a father, and had been personally convinced by the Admiral to join this expedition to the British colonies. Jean would have the patience to guide the boy through the hostilities. He felt that something about this boy was special—but just what it was, he had no clue. Only the future would reveal his instincts true.

Henri was fast asleep when the Admiral arrived, so he procured a stool and sat beside the bed, observing the calm on the boy’s face as he slept. He clearly remembered the day the boy entered his life six months ago, as he stood on the deck with Captain Henri-Louis de Boulainvilliers de Croy aboard the powerful Languedoc, an 80-gun French Navy ship of the line, and the flagship of the fleet Admiral d’Estaing commanded. 

At the time, d’Estaing was in the West Indies following France’s 1778 entry into the American War of Independence as an ally to the colonies. He commanded a fleet of 12 ships of the line and a number of smaller vessels. A fleet under British Admiral John Byron began engaging in a series of skirmishes with the French forces, culminating in the British capturing the French-held island of St. Lucia in early 1779. In return, d’Estaing seized the British isle of Saint Vincent in June, followed by Grenada in July. 

During the summer of 1779, both fleets received reinforcements. Admiral Byron’s fleet now consisted of 22 ships to d’Estaing’s 25. The French Comte set a brilliant trap for the British in Grenada by weighing anchor when the British fleet was first spotted at 4 am one morning. He ordered his ships to form a line of battle in order of speed and head northward. This masked the true strength of the French fleet as it left the anchorage. Believing his force superior, Byron gave the order for a general chase, approaching the cluster from the northeast.

When Byron finally realized the ploy, he desperately attempted to reform a battle line, but the British attack was now disordered and confused. The British ships Fame, Lion, and two others were separated from the main body and badly mauled by the French. D’Estaing lost no ships and was quickly recognized as a brilliant Admiral.

The fleet stopped briefly in August to take on fresh water in St. Christophe. Most ships were at sea, leaving the island generally unguarded. It was the beginning of their voyage to Martinique and d’Estaing and his captain was counting their blessings for having not sustained any trouble from the British when leaving the port.

Suddenly, a commotion disrupted their calm musings. A sailor was chasing what appeared as an animal of some sort—darting here and there across the ship’s deck. Closer observation revealed the quarry to be a scared young boy; one who nearly avoided capture before finding himself surrounded by three sailors and at last surrendering. One of the hunting parties grabbed the boy and marched him before the Captain and Admiral. 

“We are still not far from land Captain. If I throw him overboard, he can maybe swim and make it back to shore?” the sailor offered. 

Capitan de Croy turned to the boy and inquired “Qui es-tu garçon (Who are you boy)? Comment es-tu monté à bord (How did you get aboard)?”

The boy looked dumbfounded as the Captain repeated the question, this time forcefully as a command, not a request. Hearing nothing from the boy, the Captain retorted  “Jetez-le par-dessus bord (Throw him overboard).”

Without hesitation, the largest sailor hoisted the boy over his head and stalked toward the ship’s edge to hurl him overboard.

 “Non, Attendez!”

The sudden command emanated from the Admiral. The sailor instantly obeyed. After all, Charles Henri Hector, Comte d’Estaing was the Admiral of the fleet and supreme commander of the expedition. On top of that, the Comte was a Nobleman, a member of the privileged French social class which ranked him just below royalty. Nobility granted d’Estaing increased power and wealth over the average citizen and was well respected in the military. In this instance, his word was law.

“Bring him here! '' d’Estaing commanded. The Captain provided an unnecessary nod to the passing sailor simply out of habit. He respected the Admiral greatly and would unquestioningly follow him into battle out of respect not only for his achievements but his capable leadership.

“Qui es-tu garçon? (Who are you boy?)” asked the Admiral.

This was once again met with a look of puzzlement from his captive.

“I don’t think he speaks French” suggested another sailor. “As he was running, he was babbling in another language. It resembled a sort of broken English” he continued.

“What is your name boy?” inquired the Admiral, this time in French-accented English. The boy looked no older than ten or eleven.

“Slave.” came the trembling reply. 

“No boy. Not what you are, what is your name? Do you understand me? Your name. How are you called?”  

“Me Slave. No name. Just Slave” the boy mumbled.

“Your name is Slave?”

“No, I am Slave”

“You have no name? What did your Master call you?”

“Slave”

“Just Slave?”

The boy’s words came more quickly now, though his head bowed and a heavy tear dropped from his eyes.

“Uh huh, just Slave. My master said I didn’t deserve a name. I am just a Slave.”

“I will not call you Slave,” d’Estaing stated in a softer tone. “What would you like your name to be?”

“I do not know. My Master said I was not worthy of such things as a name, as I am worthless.”

“Sailors. Come here. What would you name this boy?”

This is what endeared the men to the Admiral. Simple things like a pat on the back after a good performance, eye contact, and a slight smile of appreciation, or in this case, inclusion and input on a decision as important as a name—even one for what they deemed a worthless slave. The three looked at each other and the largest sailor offered “I think Christophe since he stowed away from the island of St. Christophe. This will make him remember that place forever.” 

“Christophe…quite clever. That will be his surname.” The Admiral then addressed the sailor: “That is good thinking.” This put a smile not only on the burly sailor’s face but on those of the other two, even though they’d provided no input.  

“As for his first name, that shall be Henri, after me, so he can remember who saved his life on this day. So, this boy’s name is now Henri Christophe, and you, sailor, are to spread the word to all on board that he is my property, and any harm that comes to him shall be addressed forthwith by me.” Looking once more toward the large sailor and changing his tone to one of business, the Admiral asked “Do you understand me?” 

The sailor shook his head, answering “Oui, Admiral.”

D’Estaing walked toward the slave boy and placed his hand under Henri’s chin. Raising it, he said in English “Let the world know that from here on out, you shall be named Henri Christophe, and claimed as a slave by Admiral Charles Henri Hector, Comte d’Estaing, who now appoints you a boy soldier for the Army of France under my command!”

He then turned and loudly repeated the announcement in French for anyone in range of his voice. He turned back to the boy. “What is your training Henri? What craft has been bestowed upon you?”

“Mason, my Master. I work with bricks, stone, and rocks,” Henri responded.

“We have no work for a Mason on board a ship Henri. But to earn your food and keep, you must have a trade. From now on, you will serve in the military under my command as a boy drummer. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will go with these men and immediately begin training.” He turned to the sailors and commanded “Take Henri Christophe to the drummer corps to begin training immediately in both the French language and drum communication signals.” 

“Yes Sir!” they saluted, before turning and leaving with the small boy in pursuit.

Yes, the Admiral remembered that day well, though it now seemed long ago. Since then, Henri had rapidly learned to communicate in French and excelled in his understanding and application of drum roll signals. 

A strained moan from Henri brought d’Estaing back from his reminiscing. Henri was beginning to stir. As he attempted to rise, the Admiral could clearly determine his immense pain. 

“Down Henri. You’ve sustained some injuries, but thank God, nothing too serious. I want you to rest and regain your strength.”

“What happened to me, Master? Did I fail you and our great army?” Henri asked.

“Quite the contrary, my boy. You were valiant and indispensable in battle.” replied d’Estaing.

“Is the battle over? Should I go back and join?” gasped Henri.

“No, Henri. You must rest. That battle has been over for three days.” countered the Admiral.

“Three days! I have been in this bed for three whole days Master?” cried Henri.

“Yes, my boy. A well-deserved and much-needed rest. Your wounds will heal quickly as they are superficial and you are young. You collapsed from a loss of blood, so I want you to eat well over the next few days.” ordered the Admiral.

“When can I join the drummer corps again Master? I know some of them were hit by cannon. Have they survived?” Henri pressed.

“Three did not make it, Henri,” d’Estaing grimly reported. “The fourth was injured but will survive his wounds. The youngest ran like a jackrabbit in fear. When we found him he had pissed in his pants, was crying hysterically, and cowering under a bush. He has been mumbling words of terror and sobbing ever since then. I fear the poor soul may never regain his sanity.”   

“Please be merciful Master as it can be quite scary in battle—and he is younger even than I.” pleaded Henri. 

“Do not fret boy. No harm or discipline shall come to him. He is not yet a man and I understand what you say about fear; even worse in such a young soul.” responded the Admiral before continuing.

“But never avoid fear, Henri. Fear is a good thing. It keeps you attentive in situations that you must take seriously. As for you, I am here to inform you that you will no longer be a member of the drummer corps. I have a new mission for you,”

“Am I no longer worthy of being a drummer, or even of my new uniform in the army of France, Master?” asked Henri in a sheepish voice.

“That is not it at all. I am proud, no, very proud of you Henri. You have proven yourself worthy and I now want you to learn from an experienced officer.” stated the Admiral.

“Who will you have me serve, Master?”

“A young officer who I have grown to respect in a very short period of time. His name is Captain Jean-Baptiste Bayard” informed the Admiral. “You will rest for two more days, eat, and gain back your strength. I will inform Captain Bayard of your location and he shall come for you then.”

Henri could feel something begin to well up in his stomach.

“Now, get some rest as I have rounds to conduct.” finished the Admiral. 

“Thank you, Master” Henri mustered as tears burst forth from his eyes. 

“What is wrong Henri? Are you in pain? Should I summon the Doctor?” asked the Admiral with genuine concern.

“No, Master. I am not in pain. I do not know why I cry when you have given me the most valuable of gifts. No one has ever been kind to me, and though it should make me laugh, instead I cry. Not a bad cry, but a cry of which I know not why. I do not understand it, Master. Is there something wrong with me? Something more serious than my wounds to bring water to my eyes like this?” implored Henri.

“Henri, this is called emotion. It pleases me that you have not been so broken by your bondage as to have lost that. Emotion is healthy, and will serve you well should you ever be placed in command of men yourself.”

d’Estaing stood.

“Aux revoir, Henri. Captain Bayard will come for you in a few days.  Now rest.”

With that, the Admiral turned and left the tent.

Captain Jean-Baptiste Hippolyte Bayard enlisted in the French army in 1772 at the age of 22. He’d graduated near the top of his class at Louis-le-Grand University in Paris the year prior. He’d have been number one, but the French had no stomach for a colonist like himself achieving the top spot. After all, he was a Gens de Couleur – a man of color. Neither White nor Black, but a fair-skinned Mulatto with African blood in his ancestry. He was considered inferior to the Whites yet superior to the Blacks; a race between races in the French caste system. His Grandmother was also Mulatto, while his Grandfather a Frenchman of the Petit Blanc category—a White man without wealth and property. This was all well and good by Jean, as he eschewed the pride to care anyway, and loved them both for their differing cultures—one a West Indian, the other European. 

Jean was born free, and thus distinct from a freed slave, or Affranchis; those born into slavery or enslaved during their lives. This distinction between Affranchi and Gens de Couleur allowed the latter a higher social and political stature in the French West Indies according to the 1685 French Code Noir. By law, Gens de Couleur enjoyed the same rights and privileges as the White colonial population, though in practice strong discrimination by White colonial residents impeded the Gens de Couleur from fully exercising them.   

Jean never thought he would one day join the army. After all, he was from a rich planter-class family. His father and mother owned and cultivated a successful plantation of coffee and indigo; though not one of the larger coffee or sugar plantations, it was well-run and productive enough to establish the Bayard’s as one of the more wealthy families in the town of Jérémie, located on the coast along the lovely southwest peninsula of St. Domingue. Plantation income had provided Jean with a superior education from not only the finest schools in the colony but France as well.

On August 12, 1779, Jean met Comte D’Estaing in Cap-Français. He’d been charged with securing volunteers for the American expedition when the Admiral arrived at the port.

Jean found himself summoned to dinner on the night of the Languedoc’s anchor in the Cap-Français harbor, along with three other ships of the French navy.

“Ah, Captain Jean-Baptiste Hippolyte Bayard. Your reputation precedes you,” greeted the Admiral upon meeting Jean at the gangway. He continued to address the young Captain with all the honor and respect expected for a fellow officer of the Army of France.

“I understand you have done marvelously well in the recruitment of soldiers for our expedition on behalf of the King and his new American allies.”

“It is my pleasure to serve His Majesty,” replied Jean, “And in turn serve your cause, Admiral” he added, as he marveled at the beauty and power of the Languedoc’s 80 cannons.

He had never seen such a vessel and quickly recognized the Admiral’s significant stance in commanding such a stately and impressive warship.

He also couldn’t help but notice the upgraded uniforms, polished armor, and seemingly higher stature of the French sailors who busied themselves with their duties around them. “I commend you on this ship, Admiral. She seems an incredible fighting machine.”

“That she surely is, Captain. Allow me to introduce her Captain to you.” replied the Admiral.

On cue, Captain de Croy appeared in full gallantry—his starched dress uniform a stark background to the gleaming medals on his chest. He bowed his head and clicked his heels in respect for a fellow officer, albeit one from the Army. “Naval Captain Henri-Louis de Boulainvilliers de Croy at your service, Captain,” stated Captain de Croy with all the regal protocol learned over his years of service. “It is an honor to welcome you aboard the Languedoc.”

“Then gentlemen, let us sit and indulge ourselves for my first feast in this lovely island paradise,” invited the Admiral.

The three walked into what Jean considered the most elegant dining room he had ever set foot in of any sailing vessel. A table was set in a formal style with two military servers clad in their best dress uniforms at the ready. 

“Let us sit, my two Captains.” d’Estaing gestured with both hands toward the chairs. “Tonight, we plan the next course of our American expedition and discuss how France shall play a most vital role in the new American republic,” he continued.

“They say that the leader of the revolution is a planter himself, General George Washington,” stated Captain de Croy. “It is also said his fighters are a ragged bunch of farmers, laborers, and common folk who arrive with picks and axes as weapons and can be extremely undisciplined,” he concluded.

“What they lack in experience and skill I am told they make up in courage and grit,” rebuked the Admiral. “The British are a battle-tested army with a superior advantage…but never underestimate a fighting force on their own turf and committed to their country’s freedom” he wisely explained.

“Is it a truth or myth that this General Washington attacked in the middle of a violent storm on Christmas night after crossing the Delaware River?” inquired Jean.

“Yes,” answered d’Estaing. “He and his party landed north of Trenton, New Jersey, where Washington led the main body of the Continental Army against Hessian auxiliaries. After a brief battle, nearly two-thirds of the Hessian force was captured, with negligible American losses.”

“Those Hessian soldiers from Germany have no heart in that war.” proclaimed Captain de Croy. “Their government loans them out to the highest bidder. They’re mercenaries who fight for money. It is not without reason the Americans were able to defeat them.”

The Captain paused to consider his company. “I would even venture to say most were drunk during the Christmas holidays?” he finished with humor.

“Nevertheless, a victory secured by General Washington.” d’Estaing responded.

“But not after that British General Howe kicked them out of New York and chased them into New Jersey!” countered Captain de Croy.

“True, my Captain. That is why we are here at this table tonight.”

The statement hung in the air as the Admiral sipped the remaining spoonful of his French onion soup before the server replaced the bowl with a dish of raw, finely chopped conch in a light lemon vinaigrette and garlic butter-spiced sauce.

“Ever since I tasted conch during my first visit to Guadeloupe, it has remained one of my favorites” the Admiral decreed. “The flavor is unique and cannot be duplicated.”

This was met with curt nods by both Captains.

“Now, where were we? For Captain Bayard’s sake, let’s start from the beginning.”

The Admiral related to Jean the story of how France found itself involved in the revolution. At the start of the war, France had aided the Continental Army with supplies such as gunpowder, cannons, clothing, and shoes—before eventually expanding to weapons, military leaders, and soldiers. 

Great Britain was the major power in Europe and throughout the rest of the world. Countries such as France and Spain saw the British as their enemy, especially as both had lost the Seven Years' War against Great Britain in 1763. By aiding the Americans, they were also hurting this enemy. Both countries wanted revenge as well as to regain their lost international prestige. 

A free colony of America meant a recapture of territories lost during that war, as well as the development of a new trading partner. France was more focused than Spain on the latter opportunity and in becoming the colonies’ primary ally. 

The Admiral explained that the new American Ambassador to France, Benjamin Franklin, exercised expert diplomatic skills and had successfully petitioned the King for assistance. Through the Treaty of Alliance and the Royal Ordinance issued by King Louis XVI in March of this year, France became an official ally of the fledgling country. This also marked the start of direct involvement and led to fighting the British along the American coast. 

“One of our key assets with the Continental Army is General Marquis de Lafayette. It was his idea to recruit men from our own colonies to bolster our armed forces.’'

The server removed the empty dishes of conch and replaced them with a lavish plate of broiled Capon in a wine and mushroom sauce and roasted potatoes in a light butter sauce garnished with a local root called Malanga—a favorite of Captain de Croy and one Jean knew well. The Capon, a castrated rooster that fattened as a result, was a feast indeed. In Jean’s estimation, this meal was as delicious as any found in the best restaurants of Cap-Français.

“Unfortunately, our recruitment in Guadeloupe and Martinique have only yielded 40 men, a small number of my ship's capacities,” the Admiral stated flatly before turning to Jean. “I understand you are doing better here in St. Domingue?” 

“Yes, Admiral. This is a great recruiting ground for men; mostly Affranchis that are ex-slaves who went into debt to loan sharks when buying their freedom or paying the manumission taxes. They relish the thought of guaranteed compensation and an advance to pay those debts.” Jean responded.

“We also have a good amount of Gens de Couleur libres in the ranks, who are more experienced in the matters of armament.”

“So, how many in all Captain?” asked d’Estaing.

“I currently have 800 organized into a regiment called the Chasseurs-Volontaires de Saint-Domingue. They are in training now and I expect that by month's end when we are ready to sail, they will be an elite fighting force—enough to fill two or three of your frigates when combined with your contingent of 40 from Guadeloupe and Martinique.” Jean concluded. 

“That is perfect!” shouted the Admiral in true excitement. “With your Chasseurs, as you call them, and the additional 3,000 French regulars aboard the other ships, we will make for a substantial fighting force.”

“Captain Bayard, I want to transfer the soldiers from Guadeloupe and Martinique under your command to conclude their training and be part of your Chasseurs—a name I like very much by the way.  It depicts action, the hunting, and the chasing of the enemy. Good choice! I want you to lead these men into battle in America.”

Jean was stunned. He knew his next words would require tact.

“But Admiral, my orders were only to assemble and train the Chasseurs, not lead them. I was under the impression that another officer would assume command?”

“Nonsense! You have recruited, trained, and led this regiment since the beginning. It is your creation and the men follow you” retorted d’Estaing.

“With all due respect Admiral, how could you possibly possess such confidence in me, having just arrived in St. Domingue?” queried Jean. “You’ve not any knowledge of my military capabilities to bestow upon me such a heavy responsibility.” he continued, carefully.

“Captain Bayard, do you honestly think me that reckless as to assign you to lead this regiment without knowing your abilities? Could I be Admiral of this expedition by being that careless? Do you not think that I had you thoroughly watched and analyzed for the past few weeks by persons whom I implicitly trust?”

He picked up the leg of his Capon and loudly sucked the remaining meat from the bones. “Forgive me officers for being so informal, but this fowl is so succulent that none of it should be wasted. Feel free to do the same.” he offered.

Jean was shocked by this revelation which he had never once suspected. He looked over to Captain de Croy, who simply shrugged his shoulders, picked a wing off his plate, and smiled as he enjoyed its taste.

Jean remained frozen at the thought that he’d been spied on, and quickly searched his memory for any missteps he may have committed. Noting his alarm, d’Estaing chimed in once again.

“Let me tell you what I have learned Captain Bayard: You are firm in your discipline but extremely fair. Your men follow you because they trust you and know you will not act outside of their best interests. You meticulously manage your regiment so provisions are plentiful, and your charges eat well and are well-equipped. Most of all, you lead from the front so your men know who to follow.”

Another brief pause to indulge in the delicacies on his plate.

“I could go on about your virtues, but I prefer not to swell your head too much!” he laughed.

“You are too kind, Admiral, and I appreciate your compliments. However, there is another reason I must decline your kind offer.” ventured Jean.

“My commission ends in two months and I am in the preparations of expanding a new business enterprise here in St. Domingue.” 

“Is that so?” inquired d’Estaing. “I thought you to be in the French military as a career officer?”

“No, Admiral. I am not a military man for life. My father wished for me to run our family plantation in Jérémie, but as much as I like to drink coffee, the planter’s life is a little slow-paced for me. I have moved my family here to Cap-Français to expand our import and export business with my wife Marie.”

 “Tell me more about this enterprise Captain.” the Admiral commanded.

Jean explained how he and his wife had arranged for the accumulation of coffee, sugar, and indigo stocks from farming cooperatives throughout the island; how they would transport them overland to the ports, navigate them to their warehouses at Cap-Français for loading onto freight carriers, and finally ship the goods to France. Then, the return importation of essential and French luxury goods for the island secured better round-trip rates. 

The Captain smartly neglected to include his contraband trading with other countries—especially the American colonies—as this was illegal under the French system called the Exclusif—which required St. Domingue to sell 100% of her exports exclusively to France, while purchasing 100% of her imports from the country as well.

The Exclusif meant prices for imports and exports were extraordinarily favorable to the crown and French merchants, and in no way competitive with international markets.

“A-ha!” exclaimed the Admiral, banging the table and causing the dishes to clang in a way he would never dare back in France. “This is why it must be you! Your skills in procurement cannot be duplicated, and this is what we need when fighting a war in a foreign land.” 

“Respectfully, Admiral…” began Jean.

“The matter is settled, Captain. You are being short-sighted. When the war is over with the British and the Americans are our trading partners, you will benefit greatly from this expedition. This is a once-in-a-lifetime, albeit temporarily inconvenient, opportunity for you Captain Bayard!”

Capitan De Croy was nodding his head in agreement with the Admiral when Jean once more looked to him for support.

“Do not give me your answer tonight,” d’Estaing went on. “You will contemplate your future and provide me with your response in three days’ time. What does our chef have for dessert after such a magnificent meal?”

The servers smiled and hastily left the room to fetch more delightful treats.

Jean was taken with the excitement of a military venture such as this, and leading hundreds of his men into battle. However, he was torn by equal excitement for business plans in St. Domingue, and the prospect of enjoying life with Marie and their 4-year-old son Jean Junior in their new home in the bustling community of Cap-Français.

What was he to do? It was all good, but all converging at once!

It was a Thursday evening and the next morning would bring him home. While he slept at the barracks during the week, every Friday he’d spend the weekend with Marie and Junior. He’d always confided in Marie and sought counsel from her. She was his rock and business and life partner since they’d met 8 years prior. Despite the Admiral’s directive, he would make no decision until seeking her input.