Midwife of the Blue Ridge (48 page)

whipcord clean with a scrap of leather—drops of blood and bits

of fl esh plopped into the dust. Maggie doubled over and emptied

her stomach to splash on Connor’s boots. The somber crowd

burst into laughter.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” Connor swore, shoving Maggie aside. He

plucked the never-used kerchief from Figg’s pocket, wiped his

boots clean of puke, and handed it back. Figg stuffed the stink-

ing thing back into his pocket, then threaded Maggie’s lead

through the ring at the top of the post.

Like the sound of a bagpiper gone mad, a screeching hum

droned in her ears as her arms were pulled taut above her head.

Panic choked her vomit-stung throat upon hearing the fi endish

zing of Connor’s blade drawn from its sheath.

Moffat stayed the Irishman’s hand. “White women are fl ogged

clothed.”

“Himself said ‘peeled and scourged.’” Connor jerked away.

“White or no, the lass will be stripped.” His pinched face screwed

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
339

into an angry twist. With eyes bulging and Adam’s apple bob-

bing, he cut and ripped Maggie’s clothing to ribbons, exposing

every inch above her waist to the whip.

Hot with humiliation, she shivered, the eve ning breeze carry-

ing a chill to her sweaty, bare skin. In a struggle to maintain

composure, she focused on the moist, dark circle staining the

beam—the spot where Aurelia had leaned her forehead.

Maggie squeezed her eyes tight and pressed the length of her

body into the whipping post—trying to become one with it—

stout, strong, and lifeless. The rough wood grain bit into her

breasts. Her heart pounded in her ears.

The first crack of the whip, sharp as a pistol shot, snapped

Maggie back into the moment. Moffat rained five strokes in

quick succession. Searing lines crisscrossed her back from shoul-

der to shoulder. The smell of fear and blood drifted in and out

her nose, the copper taste of it in her mouth where she chewed a

hole in her cheek to keep from crying out.

Her knees weakened, but she forced herself to maintain her

stance, grateful for the post propping her. The strain on her in-

jured shoulder added to the pain she bore. Blood oozing from the

lacerations drizzled down her back and itched like the devil.

A shower of ruby droplets scattered through the air with each

resounding thwack of Moffat’s whip. By the tenth stroke Maggie

no longer cared about courage. Nor did she care who saw her

writhing naked—or heard her scream and beg for mercy. Life con-

tinued to rush through the chambers of her heart, pumping a steady

stream of torment straight to the very marrow of her bones.

After the twentieth stroke her eyes fluttered. She gazed up to

the North Star, visible in the darkening sky, and gasped a fervent

prayer, “Kill me now.”

Stepping back, Moffat tossed the whip to land in a sinister

wriggle at Maggie’s feet. “That’s enough,” he said.

Connor sputtered, “Thirty lashes have been ordered . . .”

“I don’t care. I’m done. Twenty’s more’n plenty.”

340 Christine

Blevins

The crowd joined in. “Aye, Brady’s right.”

“More than enough . . .”

The viscount’s malevolent voice cut through the maelstrom of

pain in Maggie’s head.

“Take up the whip, Mr. Moffat, and apply the punishment

with precision,” Cavendish ordered—terse—almost shrill.

The wounds on her back began to cool on the breeze. Maggie

turned her head, pressing cheek to post, blinking hard to clear

her eyes of tears. The viscount stood waiting on Brady’s response,

a cut-crystal goblet of claret glistening like a precious gem in his

hand.

“Apply them yourself, if you’re so eager,” Moffat replied, kick-

ing the handle of the whip toward him. One of the bystanders

handed Brady his rifl e.

Cavendish bristled. “I will not abide blatant insubordination.”

Many of the rifl es formerly on shoulders now rested in crooks

of elbows, faces glaring, Moffat’s among them. Connor sidled up

to the viscount.

“Think twice, m’lord,” the Irishman hissed. “Some of these

men are dispossessed by yer hand. They are discontent and

armed. Yer better off forgivin’ the lass a few tickles o’ the lash

than risk fomenting mutiny amongst ’em.”

Cavendish shrugged Connor off and heaved his goblet at the

post. Cut crystal exploded into diamond shards; a stream of fi ne

red wine ran a rivulet down the post and puddled under Maggie’s

toes.

“I will not bend to the will of this rabble.” The viscount

snatched up the whip, whirled it over his head, and released it to

strike.

Figg flailed out one immense arm and caught the sting of the

blow, the leather cord whipping around his thick forearm. In an

almost elegant motion, the giant jerked the whip from the vis-

count’s hand and sent the thing sailing over the stockade wall.

Moffat stepped up to cut Maggie down.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
341

“LEAVE HER!” Cavendish shouted. He and Moffat locked

eyes. “You overstep your bounds, Mr. Moffat.
My
bondwoman

stays as she is until I order otherwise. Move along and be about

earning the generous wage I pay you.”

Brady Moffat hitched the gun on his shoulder and took a step

back; mumbling “I-I need a drink,” he turned and marched to

the cookhearth.

Cavendish faced the griping assembly still suffering the throes

of witnessing the whipping gone awry. “Drinks all around!” he

announced. “Double ration of grog for all who apply at the cook-

hearth.”

Appeased and diverted by the lure of rum, the sedate mob

shuffled and grumbled away. Smiling, Cavendish tipped his hand

in mock salute as the crowd disbanded. “Gentlemen! I commend

you on the pliability of your conscience!”

He turned to Connor. “Send two bottles of the Canary and

Brady Moffat to me.”

Connor nodded, but before he could scurry off, the viscount

grabbed the Irishman by his stringy arm. “Best have a chat with

your brother—Figg forgets his place.”

Maggie moaned and closed her eyes.

Footfalls crunching—dwindling—dwindled away.

Time passed with the tick of her blood dripping drop by drop

into the dirt. A gravelly caw and ominous wing thumping caused

Maggie to roll her head back and glimpse a row of greasy black

crows collected to perch along the top of the stockade wall. The

hated whipping post now Maggie’s only friend, she leaned into

its embrace and whispered one last prayer.

“Death—come with speed . . .”

22

Angels and Demons

A whisper.

“Catch her . . .”

Her arms dropped weighty to her sides.

Caught in strong arms and laid onto a sheet, wrapped tight.

My shroud.

Lifted at legs and shoulders and carried away.

Maggie watched the black sky move above her—watched the

sliver of the waning moon dip into the grasp of a six-fi ngered

cloud. Her ragged breathing caught the solid night

smell—

earthworms and fresh-turned soil. The trek to the other side

proved endless and she bounced along pondering the shadowy

shapes carrying her to her grave.

Angels or demons?

Completely numb, save for her arms crawling with ants, she

tried to speak. Her tongue, fat and dry as if coated with cotton

lint, kept her questions caked in her throat. The sky, the clouds,

and the moon soon disappeared into inky, total darkness.

They came to a place fraught with horse sweat on leather—

beasts snorting and stamping in anticipation of a journey. God’s

low whisper prepared her. “You’re going t’ ride now.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
343

“T’ h-heaven?” Maggie croaked.

No one answered.

Lifted by many hands onto horseback. A dark angel clasped

her in warm arms—kept her steady in the saddle. He fl icked the

reins and all moved

forward—creaking saddles and jangling

tack—many hooves muffl ed in thick, damp humus.

Cool fingers pressed her cheek and forehead. “She’s burnin’

up . . .”

“Gib her de drink,” another voice suggested.

Maggie’s angel rider held a bottle to her lips, and very thirsty,

she drank deeply, then gagged, spitting and sputtering—the hell-

ish water bitter and brack.

“Keep her quiet till we reach the river,” God warned.

“I’ve nae gold . . .” Maggie worried, agitating, trying to free

her arms trapped in the winding sheet. “I need coin . . .”

“Keep her still!”
God’s whisper grew harsh.

“I hav’ nae coin . . .”

Her angel’s rough hand covered her mouth, stifling her moans.

His voice cooed in her ear, “Don’t worry. I have a whole bagful

of gold . . .”

Maggie relaxed in Simon’s arms, her head fl opped forward.

He shifted her weight to rest against his chest, muttering, “Why’s

she fussin’ so fer gold?”

Coming to ride alongside, mounted on a stolen gelding, Justice

rasped, “She thinks she’s passed on.”

In the lead, Achilles turned in his saddle, whispering, “An’ she

need gold to pay de ferrymon . . . to cross over de riber of

death . . . to dat place beyond . . .”

“All of you—
pipe down!
” Moffat admonished from the rear.

Maggie began to thrash again, mumbling about coins and salt.

“Swallow yer medicine,” Simon whispered in her ear, and held

the bottle to her lips. The astringent smell of the boneset tonic

revived her to thrashing. Simon struggled to keep her from pitch-

ing out of the saddle and implored, “Aurelia, can y’ talk to her?”

344 Christine

Blevins

“Aurelia’s in heaven,” Maggie moaned, “an’ I’m goin’ t’

hell . . .”

“We ain’t dead yet—” Aurelia’s weary voice sounded like a

clear bell pealing in the dark. “And we ain’t goin’ t’ hell, crazy

girl—we’s just runnin’ away.” H

Tom hit the trail before dawn and kept to it hours after dusk,

traversing the many overmountain miles from the hunting camp

to the Martin homeplace in a scant seven days. Upon seeing

Seth’s cornfield open bright at the end of the forested trail, he put

a kick in his gallop and ran the last few yards.

Not a breath of smoke rose from the chimney of the familiar

cabin perched on its rise. Tom lost the spring in his step passing

through the dusty gleaned field, infested with crows cawing and

flapping. He wound down to stand in a dooryard void of dogs,

children, and chickens, listening to the open door and window

shutters creak a lonesome song on the eve ning breeze.

Too late . . .

Tom wandered the dooryard, got down on his hunkers, and

traced fi ngertips over the hard-packed dirt, trying to make sense

of the dim jumble of tracks. Rain had obliterated most of the

sign.
They’re gone some days now—hard to tell where to.

He’d thought for sure he’d catch them before they left. Tom

leaned in on his long rifle, caught off guard by the depth of his

disappointment. Unused to the business of love and still a bit be-

wildered by the notion of being so tethered to a woman, he

stared at the forlorn cabin and a tremor of unease whiffl ed down

his spine. The prospect of sharing the rest of his life with Maggie

brought him peace. But the counter—the possibility of spending

life without this partic u lar woman—cast a dark shroud over his

heart near to suffocating.

Someone at the station’s bound t’ know something . . .
Tom

turned on his heel and made for the ridge trail to Roundabout.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
345

Seth had teased him once—he said Maggie had caught him in

her snare—and Tom recollected how he had scoffed, offended by

the mere notion.

Seth sure had the right of it.
Tom had marked Maggie in his

sights aboard the
Good Intent
, and the first moment her deep

brown eyes met his, like flint to steel, a spark flew between them.

He marched along the ridge trail at the quickstep. The sooner he

found Maggie, the sooner he could gather her into his arms.

And under that perfect sky, I will bury my face in her hair and

beg forgiveness for all my rank foolishness.

Bounding down the final set of switchbacks that led to the val-

ley, Tom stopped cold in his tracks at the base of the trail. A pil-

low of turned dirt was mounded in the shade of a young chestnut

tree, evidence of the sad news Duncan had relayed.

NAOMI MARTIN

1735–1763

Crude block letters incised upon a jagged slab of limestone

marked her resting place. A tin lantern and three withered bou-

quets tied with precious bits of red ribbon were propped around

the base of the tombstone.

Heart-wrenched, Tom fell to one knee at the graveside, pictur-

ing Winnie and Jack with Battler in hand, gathering only the

prettiest flowers for their mam. He wondered at the spent lantern

perched there, imagining poor Seth grieving into the dark of

night. Tom pressed the flat of his hand to the grave and whis-