Midwife of the Blue Ridge (51 page)

tall fl owers. “Mag-kie!” she called out. Dropping to her knees,

she began to dig.

“Faerie candles!” Maggie said aloud the name she made up for

this partic u lar American fl ower. She’d always been partial to the

droopy white plumes with their odd, haylike aroma. She crouched

beside the healer in excitement. “Ye ken—them being so bonnie,

I always fi gured they must be good for somethin’.”

Noolektokie prized free a stout section of root, dark and

gnarly on the outside, creamy white on the inside.
“Mkatee co-

hosh,”
she said. Brushing off clumps of dirt, she handed the root

to Maggie.

“Aye . . .
mmm- ka- tee co-hosh
,” Maggie repeated, with brow

furrowed.
Now for the diffi cult bit
. . . “But what d’ye use it for?

Eh . . .
cohosh
. . .” She searched through her scant Shawnee

vocabulary. “
. . . wee-thenie
? To eat?” She pretended to bite into

the root.

“No, Mag-kie . . .
chobeka
.” Noolektokie

rose up on her

knees. With graceful movements, she indicated a large belly, then

mimicked rocking a baby, then again indicated a large belly.

“Chobeka ho-tohcoo kweewa . . .”

“
Kweewa
? Woman? Pregnant woman?” Maggie indicated a

large belly, then mimicked pushing and straining like a woman

in labor. “
Chobeka
—medicine—for
kweewa
in labor?”

“Aye!” Noolektokie used one of her few English words, nod-

ding and smiling wide.

Maggie babbled on as they harvested the black cohosh root.

“I’ll take yer heathen word for it, lass, for though ye may lack

English, ye surely ken yer remedies—aye?”

“Aye!” Noo agreed.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
361

Shots rang out—coming from the river—followed by the Shaw-

nee halloo—
“Chi-chi-lo-a! Chi- chi-lo-a!”
—and more shots.

Noolektokie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Waythea!” She gasped

her husband’s name, jumped to her feet, and pulled Maggie to

stand. The two gathered their baskets.

In an effort to maintain control over their shrinking homelands,

the Shawnee had joined forces with the Ottawa chief Pontiac and

many other tribes laying siege to forts and terrorizing settlers up

and down the frontier. Kispoko’s war party had returned, hope-

fully with Noolektokie’s husband unscathed among them.

They ran to the ridge and could see four large canoes fi lled

with bare-chested warriors paddling toward the village. Noo

hugged her basket to her chest; eyes twinkling with tears, she

bounced on the balls of her feet and pointed to the last canoe.

Exclaiming “Waythea!” she took off, scrambling down the es-

carpment, dribbling a trail of pawpaws behind her.

Maggie lost sight of Noo in the stream of villagers spilling

forth from
wegiwas
and swarming toward the returned warriors

like bees toppled from their hive. Maggie hurried down the es-

tablished path leading back to the village.

Wives, mothers, and children embraced husbands, sons, and

fathers. Young men who had remained

behind—Simon and

Achilles among them—splashed into the water to help beach the

canoes. Old men emerged in regalia, and gathered in a dignifi ed

group at the doorway of the council house to offi cially welcome

the victorious men home.

Waythea is back
—Maggie wandered through the bustling

throng hiding behind her basket, her bottom lip caught on her

teeth.
We’ll need new lodgings, Aurelia and me . . .

The returned warriors began to disengage from their families

and head toward the council house, many with freshly shorn

scalps swinging from their belts—hanks of bloody hair attached

to tattered skin with globs of fat and bits of blood vessels still

clinging to the unscraped fl esh.

362 Christine

Blevins

Maggie hugged her basket and scooted into the shade of the

closest
wegiwa
. Leaning a shoulder to a stout lodge pole, she

spotted Noolektokie and her husband strolling arm in arm. Two

scalps dangled from Waythea’s belt, one curly brown, the other,

golden blond.

Pawpaws tumbled onto the soft loam as Maggie retched sour

bile. Bent over the puddle of yellow spittle, blinking teary-eyed,

she glanced around hoping no one had noticed her weakness. A

group of five warriors came her way. She toed sandy soil over the

sick and plastered her back to the rough bark of the
wegiwa
, giv-

ing over a wide path as they passed.

The warriors’ dusky muscled bodies exuded confi dence and

pride in victory, but the scarlet circles and lines painted around

their eyes lent them a devilish countenance. It would be daunting

to face these men in battle.

Maggie knelt to gather the spilled fruit and noticed the villagers

at the shoreline forming into four files, one leading from each ca-

noe. Hand to hand, they passed the spoils plundered from settle-

ments along the frontier. A group of white captives were herded to

stand near the growing pile of pots, clothing, weapons, and sacks

of meal. Maggie abandoned the pawpaws and edged forward.

Two small white boys, a young girl, and a British infantryman

clustered together near the prow of the lead canoe. The boys

were very young—brothers by the look of them. Maggie gauged

the bigger lad to be about five years old, and the smaller, no older

than three. The girl was taller than Winnie, with dark brown

hair pulled back and plaited in a single, thick braid. She held

each boy by the hand and her heavy brows drew into a fi erce V

whenever any Shawnee ventured too near.

Th’ lass’s fearless. Tha’s how she’s survived . . .
The Shawnee

admired such bravery.

The big, burly soldier stood with wrists bound before him,

sweat stains patching his red waist jacket. Her countryman wore

the bedraggled remnants of his uniform proudly. Maggie recog-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
363

nized the distinctive dark tartan of his regimental kilt as that of

the Royal Highlanders—the Black Watch.

He looked like a wild man—handsome face covered with

golden-red stubble and mottled

bruises—long auburn hair all

a-tangle. His boots must have been stolen from him—his feet

and muscular calves encased in naught but red-checked hose. He

stood tall and defi ant nonetheless.

Maggie skirted around the jabbering audience formed in a

solid phalanx around the captives and the pile of booty. The old

woman, the very one who had rapped Maggie on the head with a

spoon, ordered the captives to sit on the ground, poking and

prodding them with a staff tied with a fluff of red feathers. The

crone harkened to the crowd; waving her feathered stick, she

shouted,
“Choyoch-ki, pethe-ta-waloo!”

The crowd quieted instantly. Pleased, the woman smiled a

toothless grin, set staff aside, and pulled forth from the pile a

military-issue musket. The harpy held it in her spindly claws,

speaking at length until a grinning young man stepped forward.

The crowd murmured approval when she placed the gun into his

hands. So it went with each item—every kettle, ax, and blanket.

Maggie waved to Simon at the opposite end of the crowd. He

caught her eye at the same moment, smiled, and wound around

to join her.

In Kispoko, Simon cast aside all reference to his white heri-

tage. He dressed in breechclout and leggings. Drawn over one

shoulder and belted at his waist, he wore a red-and-black-striped

blanket. He’d plucked his lovely chestnut hair, leaving one thick

lock, stiffened with bear grease to stand upright, like a bristly

brush mounted to the crown of his head. His scalp lock was

dressed with red, yellow, and green feathers, and matching feath-

ers attached to a leather strap were tied around the biceps of his

right arm. Silver hoops decorated his ears and a silver bead orna-

ment dangled from a piercing on his nose. Simon took her hand.

“You look beautiful, Mag-kie.
Wil-li-thie
. Beautiful.”

364 Christine

Blevins

Maggie jerked her hand away. “When are ye goin’ t’ take me

back like ye promised?”

Simon ignored her question. “There’s going to be a big feast

to night.”

“And what’s to become o’ them?” Maggie pointed to the hud-

dled captives.

Simon nodded at the old woman. “Payakootha—she’s the

Peace Chief. She decides. The little ones and the girl will most

likely be adopted. The soldier . . .” He shrugged.

Payakootha prodded the girl to stand front and center. The boys

leaped up as well, ferociously clinging to her skirts. The Peace Chief

rasped out an order and two men came up to pry the boys away.

The girl drew her shoulders square, held her head erect, and

clasped hands beneath budding breasts. She kept her eyes straight.

Her chin began to tremble as Payakootha rambled on and on.

Heads nodded in approval when a middle-aged couple stepped

forward and took the girl away with them.

Simon leaned in and said, “Their only child—a daughter—

died from a bad fever.”

The crowd also agreed with the appropriateness of the Peace

Chief’s decision when the brothers were given to a childless couple.

Two warriors grabbed the Scots soldier and pushed him to

stand. The Shawnee fell silent and everyone inched forward.

Payakootha bent down to pick up a small wooden bowl. She

hobbled over to the soldier, dipped her hand into the bowl, and

smeared black paste all over his face.

The villagers burst forth in a raucous cheer that sent a chill

down Maggie’s spine. Women held open palms to the sky, ululat-

ing high-pitched screams. Children yipped, yawped, and danced.

Men threw their heads back, howling in triumph, and fi red shots

into the air.

“What’s going on?” She clung to Simon in the midst of the

tumult, tugging on his arm. “Why’d she black his face?”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
365

Simon met her gaze, his green eyes brilliant with excitement.

“The soldier’s to be burned!” H

A fire crackled in the circular fire pit centered in Justice’s
wegiwa
.

The blacksmith sat with massive shoulders hunched and he poked

at the fire. Aurelia spooned stiff cornmeal mush onto a hot stone.

Maggie sat between the two of them, crouched in a brown blan-

ket, staring blankly at a steaming kettle nestled in a mound of

glowing embers.

Justice’s deep rumble broke their silence. “The Injuns seem t’

have calmed considerable since th’ dawn light.” He leaned back,

grabbed a stick of wood, and tossed it onto the blaze. A swirl of

sparks and smoke billowed to fly up and out the roof hole. “But I

swan, I will hear that poor man’s pitiful moaning ringing in my

ears fo’ many a day t’ come.”

“That had t’ be the most terriblest thing I ever heard . . .” Au-

relia shuddered and swiped back the tears sprung to her eyes. She

took up a flat of birchbark and used it to flip the johnnycakes one

by one.

“I hope he’s dead. He must be dead.” Maggie clinched her

blanket beneath her chin and stared into the flames. She dared

not shut her eyes for more than an instant, for when she lingered

in the darkness, she saw it all again.

They’d stripped him naked and painted him all over with a

gritty black stain made from charcoal mashed in water. The vil-

lagers armed themselves and formed two parallel lines from the

shoreline to the council house. The soldier was made to run this

gauntlet, all the while fiercely beaten with sticks and pelted with

stones. Simon broke away from Maggie and joined in, baying

like a wolf when he dealt a fearsome blow to the man’s head with

the pipe end of his tomahawk.

The Shawnee gathered in the clear area in front of the council

house, where a tall stake had been pounded into the ground.

366 Christine

Blevins

Firewood was piled off to the side. The soldier’s wrists were

bound and his neck was secured with a long cord and tied to the

stake, leaving him enough slack to wander around it like a

tethered dog.

To the man’s credit, he bore every bit of this treatment with

great patience and stoic dignity. Seven or eight yards off to the

side, a handful of women kindled a large fi re. As the fl ames rose,

Payakootha and the other elders laid the ends of their staffs into

the fl ames.

As if on signal, two warriors leaped forward with hideous

cries. One held the struggling Scotsman firm by the shoulders;

the other sliced off both of the soldier’s ears.

They tossed the bloody ears into the dirt. The crowd cele-

brated, whooping and leaping about. A gang of young boys made

a game of kicking the severed appendages back and forth.

Blood pulsed from the gaping wounds and ran down the sol-

dier’s neck, but throughout the awful ordeal, he did not cry out, not

once. To the crowd’s delight, he stomped around the post, glaring,