Midwife of the Blue Ridge (11 page)

into the skin of her mother’s left shoulder. “Mam would run

away,” she explained matter-of-factly. “This’s what the master

does when yer caught out.”

Whipping and branding a human being like an animal—

Maggie shivered, unable to wrap her mind around it. “She must

have had a verra cruel master—a dev il.”

Winnie shrugged. “Mam says most masters are cruel.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, Maggie was suddenly grateful

her own contract had found its way into the hands of these sim-

ple folk who understood the ignominy of bondage, and deter-

mined she must succeed in helping her new American family in

any way she could.

“Winnie, is there a fresh shift fer yer mam to wear?”

“One to wear and one to wash—” the girl singsonged as she

fished a clean garment from the cedar chest at the foot of the bed.

Together, they dressed Naomi and spread a lightweight coverlet

over her.

Disturbed by the sight of Naomi’s scarred back, Maggie asked,

“How old was yer mam when she came to America?”

“Oh, my mam was born here. She’s a true Virginian.”

“A Virginian? Then why was she held in bondage?”

“Her mother was a bondwoman. Mam was but a little gal

when her mother died. The master kept Mam t’ work off the debt

in his tobacco fi elds.”

“But what of her da? Could he no work the fi elds?”

“Mam was a come- by-chance child. She’s not lucky like me.

She has no da.”

Jack came through the door, lugging the basket he’d been sent

to fetch. The stringy muscles on his arms strained, struggling to

heft the big basket onto the tabletop crowded with dirty tren-

chers, bowls, and wooden mugs. Maggie rushed to help the boy

and avoid having her things strewn across the fl oor.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
73

Where Winnie was a miniature version of her mother, ten-

year-old Jack was the spit and image of his da. Jack’s sun-

streaked brown hair looked as though it had been clipped with a

pair of dull sheep shears. His grimy tanned arms and neck were

festooned with an impressive array of scratches, welts, and insect

bites. A tentative crooked smile crept onto his face, reminding

Maggie of the first day on the trail with Seth.

“I need a knife,” Maggie declared. Jack produced a sharp

knife from his belt, and in no time the onions were peeled, quar-

tered, and stewing in the pot.

Jack and Winnie crowded around as Maggie inventoried the

contents of her basket. She sorted through mysterious paper-

wrapped parcels, packets, and soft muslin bags. Bottle after bottle

and many small clay pots—all corked and sealed with wax—were

set down on the table in orderly rows. A brick of beeswax and a

stone mortar were the last things pulled from the basket. The chil-

dren could not help but toy with the intriguing items.

“Keep yer mitts t’ yerselves, aye?” Maggie snatched a precious

bottle of sweet oil from Jack. Winnie sneaked the packet of rose

petals she’d been sniffing back onto the pile. When little Battler

dragged a chair over to the table to begin some hands-on inspec-

tion of his own, Maggie swung the sturdy toddler up into her

arms to avoid certain mayhem. She laughed at the surprised look

on the three-year-old’s face. “And this busy laddie must be Bat-

tler, na? That’s quite an odd name, young sir.”

“His given name is Brian,” Jack volunteered. “But we’ve been

callin’ him Battler since the day he blackened Mammy’s eye with

his fi st.”

“He din’t mean to,” Winnie added.

“I must admit, the name suits.” Maggie set the toddler on his

feet. “Jack, I need ye t’ mind yer wee brother. Take him out to

play.” Jack rolled his eyes, sighed big, but took Battler by the

hand and did as he was told.

74 Christine

Blevins

Seth came in, setting two full buckets inside the doorway. He

crossed the room and sat down at his wife’s side. “She seems t’ be

sleeping easier now.”

“Aye,” Maggie agreed. Using a pothook, she hoisted the steam-

ing pot of onions from the lugpole and carried it over to the

crowded table. She wrapped the cooked onions in a double thick-

ness of flannel and set the poultice at Naomi’s feet. “Onions

draw out th’ ill humors and force a good sweat—that’ll help to

keep her cool.”

“What sort of remedy will you give her for the fever?”

Maggie sat down next to Seth and pressed a cool compress to

Naomi’s forehead. “Truth is, all the remedies I have to break a

fever would be harmful to the unborn bairn. The best I can do

here is keep yer woman cool, and fortify her with nourishment

when she wakes.”

Seth frowned. “What d’ye mean, the best ye can do ‘here’?”

“Well, I ken healing plants back home—how they work, where

to find ’em—but here it’s altogether different.” Maggie sighed.

“In my seven days crossing America, I have yet to spy a single

thistle or bunch of heather. There are so many plants I dinna

recognize at all . . . I’m a stranger in a strange land, Seth.”

“I ken what yer sayin’, but believe me, much is the same. Tell

me this, Maggie, if we were back home, what could ye do t’ help

my Naomi?”

“Well . . .” Maggie rested her hands in her lap and closed her

eyes, recalling her faraway glen. “I’d run down to the burn and

gather a great apronful of gowke-meat. Then I’d crush the fresh

leaves with heather honey and make a cool drink that would

break the fever and not harm the babe in her belly.”

“Gowke-meat?” Seth grew excited. “I havna heard it called so

in years—wood sorrel is what Naomi calls it. Aye, there are great

patches of the stuff down by our stream. I’m certain it’s the

same. Winnie, take Maggie down to the branch near the step-

stone bridge.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
75

Maggie jumped to her feet. “I’ll need honey . . .”

“Naw, we’ve no honey . . . but in Richmond, I traded for some

muscovado sugar.”

“Is it sweet?”

“Aye.”

“Then it will do.” Maggie took Winnie by the hand and they

ran out the door.

H

It was candlelight time when Seth trudged in from the fi elds. He

stopped to hang rifle, pouch, and powder on pegs mounted next

to the door and gazed about the room. In the time he’d been out

seeing to his chores, Maggie Duncan had wrought a miracle.

The puncheon wood fl oor was swept clean. Bundles of freshly

cut sedge grass propped in the corners of the room sweetened the

air. The table, cleared of all clutter, was decorated with a bou-

quet of elder blossoms.

Winnie and Jack sat at the table—hands, faces, and clothes all

clean. They barely greeted their father, so focused were they on

their bowls brimming with chunks of stewed chicken and corn-

meal dumplings. Battler lay sprawled at the foot of the bed sound

asleep, a horn spoon gripped in his chubby fist. Maggie sat at

Naomi’s side, feeding her small spoonfuls of clear broth.

Cheered by the sight of his woman alert and upright in their bed,

Seth crossed the room in three quick steps and planted a kiss on his

wife’s forehead. They smiled into each other’s eyes as he cradled

Naomi’s alabaster cheek in his work- worn hand. “Fever’s broke?”

“Aye, yer woman’s on the mend.” Maggie handed him the

bowl and spoon. “She’s eating fer two, so mind that she fi nishes

the lot. I’ll go and dish up yer dinner.”

Seth settled onto the bedstead, soup and spoon in hand. A

Scotsman bred true to the bone, he leaned forward and whis-

pered into his wife’s ear, “It’s certain I got the best of that bar-

gain, na? This one day alone is well worth twenty-three pound.”

7

A Good Clipe on the Head

A rooster crowed. She gasped and jerked awake, desperate to

blink away the dark specter floating over her bed. The brooding

fi gure spoke. “Maggie . . . wake up . . .”

Another voice lurked in the shadows. “It’s day bust, Maggie . . .

time t’ wake.”

“Och, Jackie . . . Winnie.” Maggie elbowed up with a grunt.

“Must yiz always give me such a start?”

The tin lantern Jack hung from the roof beam did little to il-

luminate the loft they shared, and in the dim light, Maggie could

only sense their indifference. She resisted the lure of her pillow

and scrubbed the sandy bits from her eyes in mute stupor. Win-

nie and Jack struggled into their clothes, and one after the other,

the children disappeared down the hole in the loft fl oor. Three

weeks on the Martin homeplace, and Maggie still required a mo-

ment each morning to reconcile her new place in the world.

Contending with a forest of snarls in her face sent Maggie

searching through the bedding for the piece of string that must

have slipped from her braid during the night. Annoyed, she aban-

doned the futile search, flung her clothes over one shoulder, and

crawled on all fours to the center of the loft—the only spot where

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
77

the sloping roofline allowed her to stand upright to dress. Mag-

gie hop-stepped into her skirt and pulled it over the shift that

doubled as her nightdress. She poked her arms through the

sleeves of her bodice, gave the laces a halfhearted tug, grabbed

the lantern, and shimmied down the hole, careful negotiating the

ladder of stout pegs embedded into the wall.

Firelight mixed with the soft daylight just beginning to creep

into the cabin through the open shutters. On his haunches, Seth

fed fuel to the fl ame he’d coaxed from the embers. Naomi sat on

the bedstead plaiting her hair into a single copper braid. Wide-

awake, bare- bottomed Battler was busy “sweepin’” with the big

birch broom.

“G’ day, all.” Maggie tried hard to put some cheer in her

voice.

“Good morning,” Naomi answered with a smile.

“Good . . . OW!” Seth yelped. Battler had thonked him

soundly upside the head with the broom handle. Seth snatched

the broom away and laid it out of reach, across the mantel shelf.

After a moment’s silent astonishment, Battler let loose a shriek-

ing howl in protest.

“Th’ wee lad’s a menace,” Seth said, rubbing his noggin.

Naomi agreed with a nod. “Takes after his da.”

Seth took his rifle, planted a quick kiss on his wife’s brow, and

left to tend to morning chores.

“The lad’s a menace with a bibblie-nebbit.” Maggie swooped

in and swiped Battler’s snotty nose with the hem of her skirt. She

swung him onto the bed and plopped down alongside, tickling

his chubby feet as he scrambled to his mother for comfort. The

little boy was immediately distracted from his troubles by his

mam’s hog-bristle brush, which Battler snatched up with enthusi-

asm and put to use on Maggie’s tangled mane. She endured sev-

eral minutes of Battler’s “brushin’” before escaping out the door

to see to her chores.

H

78 Christine

Blevins

The sun had only just cleared the horizon and the morning was al-

ready sweltering. Maggie trudged from the stable, a wooden pail

three- quarters full of milk gripped in each hand. Sweat-drenched

frizzles of hair stuck to her face while rogue strands tickled her nose

and hung in her eyes. Her waist-length hair was a hot and heavy

bother, and if she’d had a pair of shears handy at that moment, she

would not have hesitated to lop it all off. The rope handles on the

buckets bit ridges into her hands. She hurried ahead, anxious to get

on the shaded path leading down to the springhouse.

Adjusting to life in the Blue Ridge Mountains had proved

more difficult than she’d anticipated. Almost every morning

Maggie longed for the perfumed smoke of a peat fire and the

cool, misty glens of Scotland. Besides being unaccustomed to the

hot, humid climate, Maggie found since she’d been raised in a

household that bartered a learned skill for necessities, she lacked

many practical skills required for frontier living.

Seth was surprised when he needed to teach her the mechanics

of milking a cow. The children showed Maggie how to work the

hominy block and pound dry kernels of maize into meal. Naomi

taught her to mix the cornmeal with sour milk and salt and bake

it in the iron kettle for bread.

Maggie was eager to contribute to her new household. She liked

her life with the Martins and was happy helping Naomi regain her

health. But treating the symptoms of fever and pregnancy were

simple tasks compared to the daunting task of lifting Naomi’s spir-

its. A wounded soul is a troublesome thing, and hard to heal.

Maggie kept Naomi occupied with small tasks—carding wool,

mending, shelling beans—not allowing her to wallow in despair

and dwell on the baby she’d lost, or fret over the new baby on the

way. She fed Naomi raspberry-leaf tea to strengthen her birthing

muscle and dosed her with syrup of valerian root to ease her

nerves. After several weeks of close companionship and reassur-

ance, combined with steady nourishment and ample rest from

the heavy household chores, it seemed her patient was truly on