Midwife of the Blue Ridge (49 page)

pered, “A fi ne woman—and well loved. The good thee did will

live on in the lives of those thee loved.”

He turned from Naomi’s grave to the fort. The gates were

closed. A lone sentry paced the roof of the blockhouse. When

Tom’d left, a little more than a month before, the fi eld surround-

ing the station had been speckled with tree stumps and riddled

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with stones. Now he found it cleared, plowed, and lined with

row upon row of precisely formed hummocks. A dozen Negro

slaves worked the rows, preparing tobacco beds.

The clang of iron on iron sounded from beyond the stockade

wall, calling in the fieldhands for their eve ning meal. They shoul-

dered mattock and hoe and fell into ragged file. The gates swung

open and slaves trudged forward. Tom jogged to the head of the

column and passed through the open gates.

Changes wrought during his absence came immediate to his

eye; most blatant—the blood-bespattered whipping post centered

on the fortyard.

Bright, fearful eyes shone from the many dark faces tracking

his movements. Tom pushed his hat back on his head and hiked

his rifle onto his shoulder. The station he and the others had

built as a haven for settlers had become a cruel prison for these

poor people, condemned to a life of backbreaking labor in order

to enrich a rich man’s coffers. The sight and smell of slavery

never set well within Tom’s Quaker soul. Resisting an urge to

take his leave, Tom searched beyond the many black faces for

one familiar, determined to gather information and be quick on

his way.

Weary slaves shuffl ed step- by-step to the cookhearth, where a

tiny Negress wearing a red headscarf dished beans from a huge

kettle. The little woman stopped

mid-ladle when she spotted

Tom. To his surprise, she gave him a bold once-over and beck-

oned to him with a crook of her finger. At the same time, the

sentryman atop the blockhouse called down.

“Be that you, Tom Roberts?”

“Hamish!” Glad for a familiar face at last, Tom went to stand

in the shadow of the block house. “What in all hell you doin’ up

there, Macauley?”

“Och.” The big Scotsman shook his shaggy head in disgust. “I

find meself in dire need of ready silver.” Hamish shrugged and

sat down, deerskin-encased legs dangling over the edge of the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
347

rooftop. “Overcharged my rifle—drunken bollocks that I am—

blew out the barrel.”

“Bad luck.”

“Aye, for I was verra partial t’ tha’ weapon, na? How went yer

hunt, Tom?”

“Not much luck either, I’m afraid . . .”

“Well, if’n yer lookin’ t’ earn, this English bugger is lookin’ to

hire . . .”

“Not me, brother—thanks all the same.” Tom squinted into

the red-orange sun ball setting beyond Hamish’s broad shoul-

ders. “Tell me, did you hear where Seth headed?”

“Seth? Naw . . .” Hamish scratched inside his shirtfront. “I

didna hear a word.”

The blockhouse door crashed open and the Englishman, bran-

dishing a crystal goblet of red wine, stepped out in stocking

feet.

Cavendish
. . . Tom recognized him. The selfsame bastard

who had dogged Maggie aboard the
Good Intent.

Identical-twin black boys dressed in the silliest costumes Tom

had ever seen followed after the man. One boy carried a pair of

polished black boots. The other, a bottle. The pasty nobleman

glanced at Tom, then snapped at Hamish, “What say you, sen-

try? Allowing access to my demesne to armed strangers?”

Hamish scrambled to stand. “Th’ man’s no stranger to the sta-

tion. This here’s Tom Roberts—one of the finest hunters and

trackers west of the fall line.”

The viscount eyed Tom with interest. “The finest, you say?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Tom winced at Hamish’s use of the title.

Cavendish swaggered forward, sipping from his cup. “You

seek hire, sir?”

“Hire?” Tom snorted. The nobleman was not at all as he re-

called seeing him last—all silk and lace, bewigged, powdered,

and primping. “M’lord” reeked worse than a dockside whore

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Blevins

three days after a ship of the line’d made port—a noisome com-

pound of lavender water, puke, and piss that forced Tom to take

a step back. Greasy strands of unkempt hair hung to the man’s

shoulders. His disheveled shirt, though stitched of fi nest linen,

was thoroughly stained with gravy, wine, and Lord knew what

all. Tom would be willing to wager more food and drink had

splashed onto the man than into him.

Cavendish snapped his fingers. The bottle boy refi lled his

glass. “I offer bounties . . .”

“Bounties?”

“. . . and as I am anxious to recover stolen properties, these

bounties are more than generous.”

Tom shook his head. “I’m no slave catcher . . .”

“I require your services. My men have been scouring the coun-

tryside these five days to no result.” Cavendish sat down on a tree

stump and the boot boy fell at his feet. “You’d be seeking slaves

and horses among thieves and whores—my sentryman will fur-

nish you with complete descriptions. Twenty pounds offered for

each slave or horse recovered. Thirty each for the thieves Moffat

and Peavey. Fifty for the bondwoman.”

“Bondwoman?” Tom slipped the bedroll from his shoulder to

land at his feet. He dropped his shot pouch atop it and gripped

his rifl e in both hands. “A white woman?”

Cavendish stood and stomped feet firmly into footwear. The

viscount hiccuped and wavered a bit. “Indeed. I place a high

value upon my precious bit of white quim.” He held his glass up

to catch a ray of light and admire the claret’s glow as he spoke.

“Though she proved most unwilling at the moment of amorous

congress—bent over my writing table, the midwife nonetheless

provided a suitably tight ride—”

The butt end of Tom’s rifle smashed across the viscount’s face,

sending him flying onto his back with legs and arms unfurled. In

a blink, Tom was upon him with the barrel end pressed to the

man’s gulping throat.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
349

Cavendish lay perfectly still. A purple welt inflamed his right

cheek. Wide eyes glued to the angry finger on the trigger.

Hamish leaped from the rooftop. Landing in a dusty thump,

he called, “Put by yer weapon, Tom!”

With eyes narrowed to mere slits and mouth a grim line in his

stubbly face, Tom’s lips barely moved when he spoke. “I fi nd the

bastard’s done some harm to Maggie, Hamish—”

“Ye do yer lass no favors swingin’ from the gibbet, Tom. This

man has means.”

Tom considered a moment, then shouldered his rifl e.

Cavendish sighed in relief and began to sit up.

Tom planted a moccasined foot on the man’s chest and pinned

him down like a june bug in the dirt. His skinning knife zinged

from its sheath. As Cavendish thrashed and flailed, Tom bent over

with his full weight bearing down upon the man’s breastbone. He

gripped a topknot of hair in one fist, immobilizing the viscount’s

head.

“Madman!”
Cavendish gasped, pleading,
“Sentry!”

Tom put the honed edge of his blade to the man’s forehead,

and there he carved the letter
R
. “I mark you a Ravisher of

Women—”

“Tom, tha’s

enough—
Tom!
” Hamish grabbed Tom by the

arm, but he shrugged free and inserted the sharp tip of his blade

inside the viscount’s left nostril.

“I expect, sir, one day soon, something fatal will befall you—”

And with a flick of his wrist, Tom slit the nobleman’s nose and

stepped back.

“I’m cut!” Cavendish bounced upright. Blood spurtled from

the nose wound and drizzled from his forehead, pooling in a

cupped palm held beneath his chin. “Sentry—
I’m cut!
”

“Aye,” Hamish agreed. “An’ yer lucky tha’—ye may well have

been shot.”

Cavendish reached up and gingerly fingered the torn nostril.

Eyelids fl uttered. He fell back, unconscious.

350 Christine

Blevins

“G’won, best git.” Hamish pulled Tom away. “Th’ bastard’s

henchmen are due back.”

The twins shoved gun and gear into his arms. Hamish pushed

Tom past the curious slaves congregated to view the commotion.

Tom stopped short and delved into his pouch. He handed Hamish

a handful of Spanish dollars.

“For the repair on your rifle . . . take it,” he said with a wry

smile, “for I fear I’ve cost thee employment.”

Hamish grinned, and pocketed the coins. “But a wee loan,

lad. Much appreciated.” They shook hands.

As Tom passed through the gates, the tiny Negress rushed up,

waving Tom’s black felt hat and shouting, “Mister!
Mister!
” Tom

reached to take his hat, but she held tight to it. “You Maggie’s

man?” she asked.

“You know Maggie?”

“Mm-hmm . . . she pines for you—d’you aim to git her

back?”

“If I can fi nd her.”

“That renegade fella, Simon. He done took ’em.” The woman

cast a suspicious glance back to Hamish. Her voice dropped to a

whisper. “Took ’em to his folk—his Injun folk. You unnerstand

what I’m tellin’ you?”

“Yep. I know where t’ go—thank you, ma’am.” Tom dropped

his bedroll at the slave woman’s feet. “A hindrance to me—keep

it.” Flattening his hat, he stuffed it under his belt and arranged

the strap of his rifle so the gun lay diagonal across his back. Tom

loped out into the field, looked to the setting sun, veered left, and

took off, full speed.

H

The weary group of horsemen trotted through the fi eld toward

the station. Well past the dinner bell, Connor leaned toward the

man riding alongside him. “I hope Tempie put a bit by for us. I

swear t’ Christ, I’m so hungry, I could eat a nun’s arse through

the convent fence.” The laughing group slowed to a standstill

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
351

before the closed gates. The Scotsman whom Connor had en-

gaged to keep sentry was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuckin’ Scots,” Connor cursed. After spending five days with

arse bones grinding the saddle, he longed for a hot meal and a

good smoke, followed by a noggin of rum and his head to his pil-

low. He urged his fi re-shy mount to the head of the torch-wielding,

ragtag slew of rascals he traveled with, and shouted into the

dark, “Macauley! Figg!”

No doubt Figg slept snug in his bed, belly full of grog and

beans, snoring off a good drunk. Unmonitored, his large brother

tended to idle drunkenness. “Fuckin’ Figg. Thick as shite an’ half

as useful.”

When the viscount had ordered him to accompany the track-

ers, Connor hated leaving Figg behind, but he understood the

bounty- hungry Virginians would not tarry on this trek. Hard-

ened to the trail, they moved fast and relentless. Figg would’ve

proved a huge burden, to the horses in partic u lar. Connor had

hired Hamish Macauley, admonishing him to mind Figg and the

fort.

“Hoy, the station!” Connor shouted. “For Christ’s sake, will

someone open the fuckin’ gates!”

At last the big latch klunked open. The gate wailed on its

hinge and scraped a slow half arc in the dirt. Connor was sur-

prised to see the viscount’s twin body servants with their shoul-

ders to the gate.

The party clipped-clopped into the fortyard. The few slaves

who were still awake ran up to grab reins and see to the horses.

Tired and hungry, the trackers headed straight for the cook-

hearth. Connor dismounted and questioned the twins. “Where’s

Figg? Where’s the sentry?”

“Figg, he in his bed,” Castor offered.

Pollux added, “The sentryman, he took off.”

“Took off?”

The twins nodded with vigor.

352 Christine

Blevins

“Fuckin’ worthless Scots,” Connor muttered under his

breath.

“Marse Cavendish want t’ see you.” Castor jerked his head to

the block house.

Pollux added, “Toot sweet, he say.”

Given not a moment’s respite from the saddle before having to

face his employer’s certain displeasure, Connor sighed and

ground the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

Th’ Scots bitch must be a devilish good piece.
Very keen on

recovering his white woman, the viscount had spared no expense

in the hunt. The trackers diligently roved the frontier for fi ve

days, hoping to claim the bounties offered. But aided by expert

huntsmen like Moffat and the renegade Peavey, the horses, slaves,

and bondwoman had seemingly vanished into thin air. Connor

grumbled, “Fuckin’ Scots. Fuckin’ niggers. Fuckin’

Injuns—

fuckin’ Scots!
”

Castor tugged at his sleeve. “Would you ask him, Mr.

Connor—ask him if we can cut Aunt Tempie down—”

“Cut her down?”

“She been whipped, and left at the post.”

“Whipped?!”
Connor spun and squinted at the dark. In the

light of the waning moon, he could make out a shadow huddled

close to the whipping post. “Who whipped her?”