Midwife of the Blue Ridge (29 page)

“Gggrrrraauuughhh!”

With one hand Maggie supported the tiny neck and shoulders

as they popped free of the birth canal. Ready, and with expert

ease, she caught the baby as it slipped out in a sloppy rush of

membranes, blood, and birth water. “A son!”

Naomi went limp; exhausted, she was lowered to sit.

Working with quick deliberation, Maggie laid the newborn

belly down onto the sheet and carefully unwound the knobby

gray cord tangled about his torso and limbs.

Ada and Eileen hugged and petted the new mother, but Naomi

shrugged them off and leaned forward, suddenly stiff with anxi-

ety. “He’s not breathing . . .” Her whimper

rose to a panic.

“Maggie, he’s not breathing!”

Too busy to do aught but glance up with an assuring smile,

Maggie said, “He’s just fine . . .”

Eileen pointed to the pulsating umbilical cord trailing out from

between Naomi’s legs and still attached to the newborn. “Re-

member, thee harbors his life whilst the navel string is uncut.”

Relieved, Naomi watched Maggie slip her pinkie finger into the

baby’s tiny mouth to scoop out a globule of mucus. She fl ipped

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him onto his back and the boy sucked his first breath. Pixie chest

heaved and he allover blossomed in an instant, turning from

sickly lavender gray to healthy pink. Sputtering, minuscule fea-

tures screwed into an angry scowl, he screamed with annoyance,

flailing wee arms and fists, extended limbs taut and trembling.

Naomi laughed, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, but isn’t

he the spit of his da!”

Cupping the squalling baby by the head and behind, Maggie

hefted the boy, judging his weight. “A great chunk of a boy. I

wager he’s at least half a stone, if not more.”

Susannah said, “He’s got a strong pair of lungs, God bless him.”

Naomi smiled at her friend across the aisle. “He does, doesn’t

he?”

Maggie’s heart lurched at the sound of Susannah’s voice.
How

difficult this must be for her
. She glanced over her shoulder and

could see that Susannah wore a bittersweet smile, and her eyes

glistened with sad tears.

“Eileen, ready water for the bath.” Maggie reached into her

pocket and drew out three items, laying them side by side to her

right—a sharp paring knife, a twist of twine, and a slender,

green glass bottle. She unraveled the twine and snipped off two

foot-long pieces. “I’d like to tie off and cut the cord now,” she

told Naomi. “It’s barely throbbing.”

Maggie wound the string very tight, a knuckle length away

from the baby’s navel, tying it firmly in place. She repeated the

task, tying the second string two inches from the first. Taking up

the knife, she sliced through the umbilicus between the two

knots, leaving a two-inch protruding stump tied off.

“Here’s clean swaddling.” Eileen set a folded blanket and a tin

basin at Maggie’s left.

Maggie moved the baby into the basin, rinsing away blood

and the layer of cheesy coating that protected delicate skin in the

womb. The warm water calmed Baby Martin, and he found his

thumb and dozed off.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
205

“Mind,” Ada warned. “Keep the lad’s palms dry—ye dinna

want to wash away his good fortune.”

“Dinna fash. I’ve bathed many a bairn and have yet to rinse a

fortune away.” As always, Maggie had been careful to keep the

newborn’s hands from touching water, rubbing them clean with

a dry towel. She laid him with his head positioned at the corner

of the clean receiving blanket and dabbed him dry. “Ada.” Mag-

gie uncorked the green bottle and drizzled a few drops onto the

cut end of the umbilical cord. “Hand me that roll of bandage

there and the penny.”

Eileen sat down next to Maggie. Three months pregnant her-

self, she had a vested interest in evaluating the new midwife’s

method. “What did thee drip onto the lad?”

“Oil of cloves. It helps the stump t’ dry and fall off quick.”

Maggie placed the penny near the baby’s navel and wound a soft

band of fl annel firmly about his middle, tucking the loose end in.

“Makes for a nice neat belly button.” The midwife fl ipped the

blanket up and crossed over both sides. She gathered the swad-

dled baby and handed him up into his mother’s eager arms.

“Here ye go, Mammy. Give yer bairnie a lick and a nuzzle.”

“He’s lovely!” Naomi shrugged off the shoulder of her shift to

expose her breast. She stroked the sleeping baby lips with the tip

of her nipple pinched between two fingers. Eyes still shut, her

baby snuffled, rooted, and latched on. The women broke into ap-

plause.

Naomi toyed with the fluff of red hair on her baby’s head,

“He’s ginger . . .”

“He’s the loveliest baby boy . . .” Eileen said.

“And so quick to the breast . . .” Susannah observed.

“Dinna forespeak th’ bairn, ladies,” Ada admonished. “Praise

will only draw the attention of the faeries.”

Naomi bit her tongue, but practical Eileen Wallen laughed at

the notion. “Faeries! Ada, thee does not hold truck with all that

old-country nonsense?”

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“’Tis no nonsense,” Ada insisted. “Faeries are known t’ steal a

newborn and leave a changeling in its place. It’s best to take steps

and keep the faeries at a distance. Maggie kens. Aye. Did ye no

see her slip the penny intae the bairn’s belly band?”

H

Brilliant orange light keeked between the chinks and drizzled

over the top of the stockade wall. A scrawny leghorn rooster

flapped up onto the trestle table and crowed in the new day.

Tom shooed the rude bird off the tabletop with a swipe of one

arm, and continued to transfer crisp slices of fried salt pork from

the griddle to the platter.

Armed with a wooden paddle, Alistair sat crouched on his

haunches beside the cookfire, tending a skillet of scrambled eggs.

A cauldron of cornmeal mush hanging from a tripod over the

flames bubbled and popped. Seth sat

droopy-headed opposite

Alistair. Using the long wooden spoon meant for stirring the por-

ridge, he aimlessly poked at the embers, arranging the glowing

coals into meaningless patterns.

Alistair said, “Here comes Maggie . . .”

Maggie trudged across the fortyard, the tin pail she carried

glinting rose in the morning light. Seth scrambled to his feet,

absentmindedly tossing the wooden spoon to burn in the fi re. He

skirted the cooking pit in three long strides and met Maggie just

as she reached the dining table under the tarp, his bloodshot eyes

rimmed with worry.

“Naomi’s safe delivered . . .”—Maggie plunked her pail onto

the tabletop—“and yiv a son! A fine, banging boy!” Seth whooped

and swept Maggie into a big bear hug.

Tom and Alistair huddled around and the three men met in a

manly exchange of shoulder slaps, handshakes, and cheers of

“Well done!”

“I’m fair puggled.” Maggie laughed, hands on hips. “Would

ye look who’s cock of the walk? Why, it must have been Seth who

labored through the night.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
207

Seth sobered. “But ye swear Naomi’s well, Maggie?”

“Aye. Though she canna abide straddling a mule just yet, she’s

cleverly tucked into fresh linen wi’ yer son at her breast . . .”

Maggie gave Seth a two-handed shove. “Away wi’ ye, now.

G’won. Off to yer woman . . .”

Seth stumbled a few steps, turned, flashed a grin, and took off

in full gallop toward the block house.

Maggie linked fingers, stretched her arms over her head, and

yawned. “I’m off as well.”

“Off?” Tom asked. “You haven’t had your breakfast yet.”

“I’ve one task left me.” She tipped the tin pail slightly to show

him the umbilical cord coiled like a bumpy snake atop a veiny,

liver-red mass squashed at the bottom. “This afterbirth willna

bury itself.” She gripped the wire bale handle in her fi st and

swung the pail from the table.

“Aye, bury it straightaway, lass.” Alistair grimaced with a

shake of his shaggy white head. “We dinna want the wee bairnie

cursed with ill luck.”

Tom tried to prize the pail away from Maggie. “Let me take

care of this for you. It’s plain to me that thee is worn thin.”

“No, Tom.” Maggie maintained firm hold on her responsibili-

ties. “This is a midwife’s duty. But dinna fash, I intend to fi nd my

pillow with speed.”

“Well, at least take a moment and have a bite to eat . . .” Tom

and Alistair both turned to face the cookfire. Black smoke spi-

raled up from eggs burned and crusted in the bottom of the skil-

let. Glops of porridge boiled over the pot’s brim, landing plop

and hiss in the fi re below.

Maggie giggled and snicked a crisp piece of bacon from the

platter to munch as she headed toward the open gates.

H

Hugging her pillow tight, Maggie woke, blinking at the dark.

She lay quiet, listening to John Springer tune his fi ddle, pro-

ducing random notes sounding like smooth, round stones

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dropped one by one into still water.
Plunk
. . .
plunk
. . .
plunk-

plunk
.

The odd music was cushioned by soft voices and laughter

gathered around a crackling fire. Maggie sat up, mildly amazed

she’d slept the day away. As her eyes adjusted to the night, she

was glad to see the Martin children had managed to fi nd their

beds without her urging. Winnie lay on her back, sapling straight

between her two brothers, curled at either side. She tiptoed a

path around the sleeping children.

The smell of venison roasted over hickory coals teased in the

moonlight. The rumble in Maggie’s belly put a spring in her step.

Making her way to the cookfire, she crossed her fi ngers and

prayed for leftovers.

Roundabout’s regulars and a few lingerers sat within the

bounds of bonfire light in loose clusters of twos and threes. As

Maggie drew nearer, she was able to discern faces fl ickering in

the glow. Eileen Wallen sat on the hard-packed earth, leaning

back to rest against her husband, Fletcher. Next to the Wallens,

Janet Wheeler sat holding hands with Young Willie, and Janet’s

father kept an eagle eye on the courting couple from across the

fire, where he shared a log seat with Bess and old Henry. Like a

row of roosting chickens, Seth, Alistair, and Duncan Moon were

perched side by side on a log at the opposite end of the fi re pit,

passing a bottle between them. Lanky John Springer stood off to

the side with one foot propped on an upended log, fussing with

his instrument.

Maggie greeted everyone as she wound her way around to the

dining table where Ada Buchanan pulled a frothy pint of ale

from a tapped keg. She pressed a full cup into Maggie’s hand.

“Did ye have a good rest, dearie?”

“Can ye believe I snored the day away? I’m starved. Is there

anything left t’ eat?”

“I put a bit by for ye, fi gurin’ ye were bound t’ wake hungry.”

Ada produced a trencher groaning with hefty hunks of buttered

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
209

cornbread, slices of cold roast, half a garlic pickle, and a triangle

of yellow cheese.

“Maggie!” Seth called to her with a wave. She settled next to

him, juggling her meal in her lap. He eyed the pile of food on her

plate. “Hungry, eh?”

“Hollow. My backbone’s rubbin’ up against my belly.” Mag-

gie chewed a bite of pickle. “I dinna see Tom anywhere . . .”

“He left earlier—on a hunt, I s’pose.”

“Oh.” Disappointed, Maggie centered a piece of venison on a

slice of bread. “Naomi and the bairnie are doin’ well?”

“Aye.” Seth smiled proud. “He’s a lively lad.”

She tore a bite off and chewed on her bread and meat for a

while before asking, “Have yiz settled on a name?”

“Alexander—after my da.”

“Now, there’s a fine Scots name—Alexander Martin—a name

a lad can grow into. As soon as I finish my dinner, I’ll go and see

t’ yer wife and son.”

Maggie headed to the sickroom, feeling much the better for

the supper in her belly. She stepped into the lantern-lit block-

house and found Susannah Bledsoe sitting Indian style on her

bed, nursing Naomi’s newborn.

“Och, Susannah!”

“Shhh.” Susannah touched the tip of her finger to her lips then

gestured to Naomi asleep in her bed across the aisle. “The poor

girl didn’t get a wink of sleep the whole day. She’s only just now

slipped into her dreams.”

Maggie moved to the bedside, disapproval firm on her face.

Susannah held up her palm. “Don’t fret so.” Her whisper was

oddly forceful. “Naomi asked me to feed him.”

“Why? Is she ill?”

“Naw, just tuckered out after suffering the day with a head-

ache and a fussy baby.”

Maggie glanced over her shoulder to Naomi sleeping soundly.

“A headache?”

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Susannah nodded. “And you know how she worries. Poor

Naomi has but little for him, yet this fella squalls so . . . she was at