Midwife of the Blue Ridge (43 page)

brush and her last sliver of lavender soap. Maggie benefi ted from

the long soak in steamy water enriched with a sprinkling of aro-

matic herbs from Tempie’s satchel and she scoured away every bit

of Cavendish detritus—real or imagined—that might be clinging to

her skin.

Maggie stood and wandered to the doorway. She looked out

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
305

onto the fortyard. Amber light from the setting sun was shining

through the row of gun ports in the stockade wall.

Gloamin’ time.
Her favorite time. The time when the sky

changed with every blink of the eye—shades of gold and pink

blending into purple—when the stars began to show their faces,

one by one. She scanned the fortyard.

The line of fieldhands dressed in their loose hempen shirts and

trousers moved forward step- by-step to where Tempie doled out

the evening fare. Each man took his portion of beans, salt pork,

and cornbread, then retreated to find a tree stump where he

could rest from the day’s toil and eat his dinner in peace.

The door to the blockhouse hung open, framing a yellow rect-

angle of candle glow, and Maggie could see red-jacketed Castor

and Pollux bustling within. The viscount was nowhere in sight.

Maggie hadn’t laid eyes on the man since she passed through

that same door the day he raped her, and if her luck held, Seth

would send word soon and she would never have to see Caven-

dish again. She leaned against the door frame, chewing her thumb

where fl esh met nail.
But how will Seth send word?

Armed guards stood sentry atop the blockhouse, and the

stockade gates

were bolted shut every evening as a matter of

course. To further discourage slaves from escaping into the wil-

derness, horsemen patrolled outside the gates, and Connor over-

saw the prominent installation of a whipping post, centered in

the fortyard.

Castor had come to their cabin the day before, soon after night-

fall. “Massa sends for Aurelia,” he said, with eyes downcast.

Aurelia set her mending aside. In an instant her beautiful face

had turned grim, her lovely green eyes, hard as glass. Without a

word, she followed the bobbing feather on Castor’s turban out the

door. Tempie acted as though nothing untoward had occurred,

and Maggie sat dumbstruck by her new friend’s meek obedience.

It wasn’t long before Aurelia came skipping back into the

room. She lifted her skirts to show her ankles and danced a jig,

306 Christine

Blevins

singsonging, “Massa cain’t git his pecker up. Massa cain’t git his

pecker up.”

Maggie flashed a smile, recalling Aurelia’s happy dance.
If

only he were so afflicted for the rest of his days.
She never wished

so hard for anything in her life. The mere thought of having to

answer a similar call set her heart to pounding a wild tattoo in

her chest, and she stepped back into the cloister of the cabin to

catch her breath, startling the spider to scurry on silken threads

and hide in the smidgen space between shingle and rafter.

If I dinna hear from Seth in ten days’ time, I must run on my

own.

“Run!” Maggie snorted aloud. She couldn’t even muster the

courage to step out the cabin door. She settled back on her stool.

I have to contrive a way . . .

Tempie came bustling into the cabin. She set a laden trencher

in Maggie’s lap and thrust a spoon into her good hand. “I made

this hoppin’ john special for you, chile, and I ’spect you t’ fi nish

every bit of it.” She glanced at the cold hearth and sighed. “I’ll

fetch some coals—you eat up!”

Awkwardly wielding the spoon with her left hand, Maggie

forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls before falling into the habit

of separating the beans from the grains of rice on her plate. Tem-

pie soon returned with the coals to mend the fire. She frowned,

seeing Maggie nudging the black-eyed peas into a precise pile in

the center of her trencher. Tempie set the bucket down, took the

whisk broom from its hook, and swept the ashes into the corner

of the fi replace.

Maggie blurted, “I tell ye true, Tempie, if that monster calls

for me . . . I swear, I will
kill
him! I will kill th’ man afore he ever

lays hands on me again—it’ll be the end of him, tha’s certain!”

“Keep on with that kind of foolish talk and more’n likely it’ll

be the end o’
you
.” Tempie spilled the coals onto the hearth.

“You ain’t the first woman ever ill-used by a man, and you sho’

won’t be th’ last.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
307

Maggie set her plate aside. “But how can Aurelia just go to

him, Tempie?”

“Aurelia know she’d be the first strapped to that new whippin’

post if she refuse Massa’s call.” Tempie sat on the edge of the

hearthstone and delicately arranged sticks of fat pine kindling

over the glowing embers. “Pretty slave girl like Aurelia learnt

long ago how to bend so’s she don’t break.” The tiny woman

stood and used her skirt to fan the coals into flames. “And that’s

what you need to learn. In this you ought take heart—that what

don’t break you, serves t’ make you strong.”

“Maggie!”
Aurelia popped her head in the doorway. “Castor

and Pollux say Marse Cavendish passed out—dead drunk! Won’t

you come on out now? It’s a fine soft evenin’—Justice is comin’ t’

call, and Achilles is bringing his
banjar
!”

“C’mon, girl.” Tempie offered a hand. “Fresh air will do you

good—blow the cobwebs from your head.” Maggie took Tem-

pie’s tiny hand and followed her out the door.

Although this was Maggie’s first foray into the fortyard after

nightfall, she understood the station’s new population main-

tained a strict hierarchy. The white men—Connor, Moffat, Figg,

and the like—occupied the cookhearth in the evenings, sitting

around the fire passing a bottle from one to another, as men

will.

Servants and skilled slaves, like the smith, cook, and laun-

dress, gathered in front of Tempie’s cabin to sing songs and tell

stories. Field slaves were wont to seek their beds after a hard

day’s toil, but this night a dozen or so huddled around a small

fire at the farthest end of the fortyard, roasting ears of green corn

on the coals.

Maggie sat with Tempie on a wide stump not too far from the

cabin door. Aurelia and Justice sat together on a tree stump op-

posite. Castor and Pollux, off duty and dressed comfortably in

slave-standard loose shirts and trousers, sat together on a length

of log arranged to form a rough triangle with the tree stumps. As

308 Christine

Blevins

promised, Achilles joined them, his
banjar
in hand. To Maggie’s

surprise, Simon Peavey, dressed in a long belted shirt and breeches,

came up swinging a lantern. “Room for another?” he asked.

Maggie scooted to her right and patted the space. Simon set

the lantern at her feet and sat down. His big green eyes were

filled with concern. “How you been?”

Maggie glanced at her arm in its sling. “Tempie has me on the

mend.”

Achilles propped one foot on the log and began tuning his in-

strument.

“So that’s the famous
banjar
,” Maggie said. “Like a mandolin

of sorts, na?”

“Achilles made that
banjar
himself,” Justice boasted, proud of

his talented apprentice.

“See them scars on th’ boy’s cheeks?” Tempie pointed out the

vertical lines embossed beneath Achilles’ eyes. “Those be his

tribe marks. He the only one of us true Africa-born.”

Justice nodded. “The boy didn’t speak much English when my

ol’ massa brought him to me, back in Williamsburg. One day I

found him tackin’ a coonskin over a calabash gourd he’d cut in

two and hollowed out.” The smith leaned back on his muscular

arms. “At first I figured he was makin’ a small drum and I tried

to warn him—Marse James didn’t allow us no drums. The boy

paid me no mind. He fit the gourd with that wooden neck and

strung it with four catgut strings. I ain’t ever seen such a thing,

but it shore does make pretty music.”

Instrument in tune, Achilles began plucking a pleasant mel-

ody. Aurelia hummed along in a rich contralto. Justice joined in,

improvising a harmony with his deep baritone.

“I worried for you, Maggie. I’m real happy t’ see you about.”

Simon reached into his pouch, pulled out a pair of moccasins,

and set them on her lap. “I made these special for you.”

“Och, but aren’t they lovely things!” Maggie admired the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
309

moccasins, showing the shoes first to Tempie then Aurelia.

Much more elaborate than the utilitarian pair Seth had made

for her on the trail, the elkskin slippers Simon had fashioned

were double-soled, lined with rabbit fur, and decorated with

fringe around the ankles and a pattern of colorful beads on the

toes.

“I had to guess at the size,” Simon said. “Try ’em—see how

they fi t.”

Maggie slipped the mocassins on, squishing her toes in the

soft fur. “They’re perfect. Thank you.” She squeezed him with

her good arm around his shoulders and planted a peck on his

forehead. He seemed very pleased.

“I’ll sing a tune,” Aurelia proposed, “and Achilles, you try an’

follow along.” Achilles nodded, and Aurelia began to sing a slow

ballad.

“
The blackest crow that ever flew will surely turn to white,

If ever I prove false to you, bright day will turn to night.

Bright day will turn to night my love, the elements will mourn,

If ever I prove false to you, the seas will rage and burn.

Oh, don’t you see that lonesome dove, he flies from pine to pine.

He’s mourning for his own true love just like I mourn for mine.

Just like I mourn for mine, my love, believe me when I say,

You are the only one I’ll love until my dying day.”

Maggie’s throat ached, and she fought to choke back pesky

tears as she listened to Aurelia sing the haunting melody accom-

panied by the melancholy strumming of the
banjar
.

“I wish my heart were made of glass, wherein you might behold,

That there your name is written, dear, in letters made of gold.

In letters made of gold my dear, believe me when I say,

You are the only one for me, until my dying day.”

310 Christine

Blevins

“That was beautiful.” Maggie swiped her eyes on the back of

her hand. “Where d’ye ever learn such a song?”

“The granny woman at my ol’ place, she taught it to me.” Au-

relia snuggled close to Justice and he didn’t appear to mind.

“‘Lover’s Lament,’ she called it.”

“Sad old songs. I don’t like ’em.” Simon picked up a stone and

tossed it hard against the cabin wall.

“That song
was
too sad,” Castor complained, and Pollux

added, “It made Maggie cry.”

“I’m not crying. I’m all right—g’won an’ sing another.”

“Naw . . .” Castor protested. “How ’bout you tell us a tale

instead, Auntie?”

“A tale ’bout Brother Rabbit,” Pollux specifi ed.
“Please!”

Evenings past, Maggie had lain on her pallet inside the cabin,

listening to the many adventures Tempie spun to entertain them

all. The root doctor called upon an endless store of tales based

on a variety of animal characters like Brother Rabbit and Brother

Fox.

Tempie acquiesced to the beseeching twins, closed her eyes,

thought for a moment, then began her tale as she always did.

“Once upon a time, was a very good time . . .”

Castor and Pollux scooted closer to sit at Tempie’s feet, and

she continued: “Yep, once upon a time was a very good time, and

Brer Rabbit had a nice fat trout hooked on his line.”

“Huzzah!” Castor exclaimed, and Pollux added, “Brer Rabbit

is my favorite fo’ sho’.”

Tempie leaned back in her seat. “Now mind, our friend Brer

Rabbit was so pleased with the fi ne fish he’d just landed, he didn’t

notice ol’ Brer Wolf hidin’ in the bresh.”

“Uh-oh,” Pollux worried.

“Brer Wolf, he don’t waste no time. In nary a blink of the eye

he cotched Brer Rabbit up by the collar. ‘I’se got you now,’ says

Brer Wolf, his teeth all shiny white an’ sharp.”

Tempie cast a spell over her audience, changing the timbre of

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
311

her voice from low and gruff when speaking for the wolf to spry

and youthful when speaking for the rabbit.

“Brer Rabbit, he wriggled and squirmed and kicked up a fuss

with his big ol’ feet, but Brer Wolf hung tight and carried his prey

off. Brer Rabbit began to blubberin’, ‘Where you takin’ me?’

“‘Why, I’se takin’ you to my cabin up yonder.’

“‘What for?’

“‘Cuz that’s where I keeps my stew pot,’ says Brer Wolf, lickin’

his chops. ‘I ain’t et in two days and I am sore, sore hungry.’”

“Ooooo-ooooh,” Aurelia piped in. “Brer Rabbit done fo’

sure . . .”