Midwife of the Blue Ridge (22 page)

he explained, prying Maggie’s fingers from his wrist. “I’ll come

right back . . . I promise.”

A shot rang out, followed by deep wing thumping as a pair of

turkeys flapped cackling over the treetops. “Get in there.” Tom

shoved Maggie to her knees and went to disguise their trail.

She threw herself on her belly, snake-crawling through loose

loam and over rotting berry pulp, tugging Tom’s rifl e along.

Prickles and thorns tore at her hair, caught on her clothes, and

gouged the flesh on her arms as she wriggled deep into the dim

leafy innards of the Berry Hell.

“Hurry.” Tom’s gruff whisper accompanied by a two-handed

shove to her behind gave Maggie cause for relief. She shifted

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
149

over. He shimmied in alongside her, pulling bramble down to

disguise the entry to their hiding place.

Tom fl ipped over to lie flat on his back. Maggie nestled against

him, her head on his shoulder. She draped her free arm over his

belly, fitting her fingers into the spaces between his ribs. Tom

squeezed her tight, caught her eye, and pressed a finger to his lips.

Distinct voices drew close and closer, speaking throaty, com-

plicated words, reminding Maggie of the Welsh tinkers that trav-

eled through Glen Spean. Soft- soled moccasins scrunched the

earth accompanied by a rhythmic, silvery jangle—sounding like

the tinker’s cart bumping along a rough road.

Maggie dug her fingers into Tom’s flesh. She turned to breathe

in the comfort of his strong body. The smell of him blending with

the sweet scent of ripening fruit helped to quell the hysterical

scream rising up into her throat.

The grove seemed thick with savages talking and, surprisingly,

laughing with one another. Through a thinning in the bramble

she spied tawny buckskin—a hank of Irish-red hair curled along

one fringed legging. She squeezed her eyes tight, heart thumping,

the brambles quivering as the Indian gathered handfuls of berries

before running off to catch up with his comrades.

The war party continued to move past, unaware of the man

and woman entangled in the tangle beneath their very noses.

Voices and footfalls moved into the distance, fading . . . fading . . .

gone. Maggie opened her eyes and her breath escaped in a soft

whoosh
. Tom pressed his lips to her forehead and whispered,

“Hush now . . . there may be stragglers.”

Overhead, clusters of ripe berries dangled beneath furry

green-gray leaves. Tom plucked a particularly large beauty.

Maggie opened her mouth like a hatchling in the nest and he

dropped the juicy morsel in. They lay there quiet, feeding each

other berries for some time.

“I think we’re safe,” Maggie ventured.

150 Christine

Blevins

“Safe for now,” Tom said as he rolled to lie atop her, bread-

and-butter fashion, propped on his elbows. “But you won’t be

truly safe until I get you inside the station.” He smiled into her

eyes, then kissed her handsomely on the mouth.

Maggie moaned and, wriggling her hips, arched up against

him. Tom shifted to the side.

“I’d better shuckle on out this squirrel hole afore you get a no-

tion t’ plant a knee t’ my parts.” He took his gun and scrambled

backward. Maggie crawled out after him, a knee to his bollocks

the furthest thing from her mind.

She fished the tree root from the stream and concluded she

could get by with just the thick end. Maggie called to Tom, who

accommodated her request, whacking off a goodly chunk with

three well-placed blows.

“Arm yourself.” He handed her the two-foot cherry- root club

and the hatchet. She slipped the hatchet handle into her skirt,

hanging the blade end on the waistband. Maggie trailed on Tom’s

heels as he wandered around the bramble, studying the jumble of

tracks in the dirt.

“Thick as dog hair.” Tom whistled and shook his head. “At

least fifty warriors . . . we sure don’t want to run into these fellas

again.”

Maggie wagged her head in vigorous agreement.

“I think we’d best climb up over the saddle of Humpback

Ridge.” Tom pointed to the steep hill sloping up beyond the

Berry Hell. “Then we’ll double back, skirt Tuggle Mountain, and

come upon Roundabout from the rear. All right?”

Maggie nodded. This man did not hesitate to put his life at

risk for hers—a solid man of action he was. Save for Tom Rob-

erts, her black hair would now be a bloody prize dangling from

the belt of a Shawnee brave. She rubbed the top of her head and

settled down on a stone to watch Tom make ready for the trail.

Before shouldering his weapon, he checked it thoroughly. He

adjusted himself within his breechclout and tightened the knee

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
151

garters on his leggings and laces on his moccasins. He fooled

with his felt hat, shaping the crown and bending the brim until it

rested just so on his head.

“Ye are a winnin’ lad. What I mean is . . . yer a brave man,

Tom. And I thank ye for saving my hide.”

Tom grinned. “Well, I seem to fi nd myself partial to that hide

of yours.” He headed toward the trackless slope with long strides,

raising his eyes to study the dark clouds massing in the eastern

sky. “Better get a move on. Looks like it’s going to weather soon.

Are you comin’ or no?”

“Aye . . . I’m comin’!” Cradling her cherry root like a new-

born in one arm, she hiked her skirts and ran to catch up.

Tom took the fi rst difficult steps up the steep slope. “It’s a

hard go. A tough trail lies ahead . . .”

“Tell me what to do, Tom Roberts, and I’ll do it. Just show me

the path, an’ I’ll follow ye straight down intae th’ middle pits o’

hell.”

Tom held a hand out, a wry smile crinkling the corners of his

eyes. “For now, Maggie, just give me less with your jaw, and

more with your feet.”

She put her hand in his.

Pa rt Two

H

My brothers! My friends! My children! Hear me now:

We must now, from this time forward, cast out of us the anger for

what ever ill has risen up between us in the past. We must cast it

away from us and we must let ourselves become one people, whose

common purpose it must be to drive from among us the English dogs

who seek to destroy us and take our lands!

pontiac, ottawa chief,

addressing the council

gathered on the river

ecorces, april 27, 1763

Could it not be contrived to send the Small Pox among those

disaffected tribes of Indians? We must on this occasion use every

stratagem in our power to reduce them.

postscript in a letter to

col o nel bouquet,

signed, sir jeffrey amherst,

governor general,

british north america, 1763

In 1763, the tribes unite to commence the deadliest and most successful

of all Native American uprisings.

12

Forting Up

Maggie flipped from back to belly, and then she fl ipped from

belly to back. Shifting hip bones and shoulder blades, she laced

fingers to rest her hands on her stomach as she pondered the ceil-

ing above. Dusty gloaming light—the tail end of a long summer

day—seeped quiet through the chinks between the roof shingles.

A pair of yellow flies buzzed in tight circles, dangerously close to

a huge web spanning two roof timbers.

The straw-stuffed palliasse, diligently shaken, aired, and beaten

with a stout stick that morning, was pressed thin as a fl apjack by

her turbulence. Maggie bent her knees and scrubbed the callused

soles of her dirty feet against the osnaburg canvas. She could feel

the fabric, rougher than a cow’s tongue, prickling her skin right

through her sweaty shift. Maggie heaved a sigh, wistful for her

goose-down tick left behind at the Martin homeplace.

Upon the alarm to fort up ten days ago, over one hundred

souls crowded through the gates with what they could carry,

seeking refuge behind the station’s sturdy walls. The ten cabins

lining the long palisade wall were reserved for women and chil-

dren, each cabin crowded with bodies, bedding, and personal

belongings.

158 Christine

Blevins

Maggie turned to her right side and leaned up on one elbow.

Battler, deep asleep, lay sprawled between herself and Naomi.

She pressed the back of her hand to his sweaty, flushed face. Smil-

ing, she rested her head on one bent arm. Battler’s fever, broken

three days before, had not returned.

The cabin was thick with eve ning damp and the hot breath of

the others sharing the dirt floor. Even with an open doorway, the

rank miasma of a dozen unwashed bodies combined with a half-

filled night soil bucket and the odor of sour baby spittle to hover

over them like a dense swarm of no-see-ums. Across the room, a

cabinmate broke wind.

Maggie’s eyes popped open. Rivulets of sweat tickled along

her hairline. She squirmed on her spartan bed, struggling for air,

feeling as if she were drowning. “Bloody hell!’ She scrambled to

her feet and plucked her skirt and bodice hanging from a peg

jammed between two logs.

Naomi blinked and bolted upright. “What? What is it?

Injuns . . .”

“Nooo . . . no Indians. Dinna fash, lass.” Maggie stopped

tightening the laces on her bodice to lay a hand on Naomi’s

shoulder. “I’ve got a bad case of the allover fidgets. I’m off for a

breath of air.” Naomi sank back into her pillow. Maggie didn’t

bother to pin up her hair, leaving it to swing in one heavy plait.

She tugged on her skirt and picked a path between prone bodies

and out the door.

Maggie dipped her kerchief in the water barrel strategically

placed to catch the runoff from the roofline and wiped her face.

Water collected from the stream once a day by an armed bucket

brigade was strictly rationed for cooking and drinking use only.

One never kens the worth of water till the well goes dry
, she

mused, tying the damp kerchief about her neck.

Mid-June, true nightfall was long in coming. Only a handful

of bright stars showed scattered across the slate-blue sky as she

headed to join the small group maintaining sentry at the block-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
159

house. Maggie stopped dead in her tracks when she spied Bess

Hawkins sitting among them.

By mutual unspoken agreement, Maggie and Bess avoided

each other’s company—no mean feat when confi ned within

stockade walls. Just as Maggie was about to turn and head back

to her cabin, she spied Ada Buchanan leaving the cookhearth,

juggling a cloth-covered basket and a heavy jug.

Ada called out, “Maggie! Can ye carry this jug for me? A treat

for the lads on watch.”

Scant twenty men had stayed behind to defend the fort—the

men and boys who were too old or too young to join Round-

about’s able-bodied. Tom and Seth were counted among the forty

who mustered as militia to drive off the marauding Shawnee.

The militiamen marched out the gate nine days before and had

not been heard from since.

The half-dozen souls gathered around a small fire cheered and

broke into applause when Ada and Maggie joined them, armed

with fresh-baked raisin scones and the jug of sweet metheglin.

Alistair scooted over on his log to make room for the newcom-

ers. “Have a seat, lass.”

“I only came t’ give Ada a helping hand,” Maggie said, hand-

ing Alistair the jug.

“Och, sit a spell.” Alistair patted the seat beside him. “Ada’s

metheglin is akin to the nectar of the gods—not to be missed—

and John’s getting ready t’ play us a tune.”

The recollection of her sweltering bed and the promise of

honey wine overshadowed her distaste for Bess’s company. Mag-

gie settled next to Alistair.

John Springer sat across the way with his fiddle on his lap, re-

placing a broken sheep-gut string. Like a king’s consort, Bess sat

in a semi- recline on the stump beside John’s. With her auburn

hair glinting copper in the firelight, she cooled herself, waving a

painted parchment folding fan.

Smoking a clay pipe, Bess’s father- in-law, old Henry Hawkins,

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Blevins

shared the neighboring log with young Jacob Mulberry and Will

Falconer. Captain Duncan Moon, a grizzled old veteran of the

French Indian wars, hobbled about on his peg leg, igniting torches

and lights. He handed Will Falconer a bright lantern. Young Will

slung an ancient musket over his shoulder and scrambled up the

ladder to the blockhouse roof to take his turn on lookout.

“Keep those eyes peeled, lad,” Duncan admonished.

Ada Buchanan orbited the circle with her basket. She served

lanky Jacob Mulberry three scones. “Eat up, lad. Ye need put

some meat on those sharp bones.”

“That’s true, boy,” Bess Hawkins piped in. “You’ll never get a

woman in your bed looking like a death’s head mounted to a

mop stick.”

Jacob accepted the advice with good humor, and falling to his