Midwife of the Blue Ridge (55 page)

his mouth as he spoke. “Tom’s mad for the lass, ye ken? Why, he

paid thirty silver dollars for her lunch basket at the gather-all.”

“Thirty dollars!” Crab whistled. “Tom must love th’ gal.”

“Tom Roberts shall pay dearly for the damage he has wrought

unto me.” Cavendish drew his knife, leaned in, and sliced a

chunk of meat from the bone.

Hamish swiped grease from his chin on his sleeve. “So yer af-

ter him now, eh?” The big Scotsman waved the half-eaten drum-

stick at Cavendish’s face. “Revenge on him for carvin’ on yer

pretty face, na?”

Cavendish smiled and toasted with his bottle. “To quote the

Bard, ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’ ”

Connor shook his head in disbelief. Crab tossed a custard apple

into his lap. Figg tore off the remaining turkey leg and bit into it.

Hamish gnawed on the knob end of the turkey bone. “Did yiz

happen hear how Bouquet routed the Indians at Fort Pitt? The

heathens took an awful drubbing at the hands of the Black

Watch.”

“Huzzah the Crown!” Cavendish toasted with mock enthusi-

asm.

“Aye, well, Bouquet’s victory has served t’ stir the hornet’s

nest,” Hamish continued. “War parties—Seneca, Mingo, Shaw-

nee, and more—are raidin’ up and down this frontier.”

“War parties!” Connor yelped.

“Aye. Best turn tail and head back t’ Roundabout. Fort up.

Yiz dinna want t’ risk being captured.” Hamish bit into a cus-

tard apple.

“Being captured by them devils is the worst,” Crab joined in.

“You know, boys, the Catawba had me once, but I escaped afore

they had a chance to black my face.”

“Black yer face!” Connor squeaked.

Hamish shook his head. “Och, yer no long for this world once

th’ buggers paint ye black . . .”

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“They torture them what’s painted black in the most heinous

fashion,” Crab said. “Remember Joe Sweeney?”

“Poor Joe!” Hamish tsked.

“What happened to him?” Connor asked.

“He was captured by the Shawnee . . .”

“Na, ’twere Cherokee,” Hamish argued. “After stripping him

naked, they cut th’ lad—just a wee slit in his side—fished out one

end of his small gut and nailed it to a tree.” Hamish shifted posi-

tion, the flames shining in his blue eyes. “Then the squaws took

over . . .”

“Them she-devils are worse than the men. Vicious.”

“Aye. They pecked away at poor Joe’s bits with sharp sticks—

poked and prodding him with burning brands to walk ’round

and ’round that tree for hours, winding and unwinding his en-

trails until at last they tired of it all, and set him afl ame.”

“M-m’lord, did ye hear?” Connor stuttered. “I-I think we

ought turn back—”

“Pay no heed to the Scotsman, Mr. Connor.” Cavendish leaned

back and crossed one booted leg to dangle over the other.

“Clearly, Macauley is in league with Roberts, and has sought us

out to dissuade us from our mission. Clever ploy.”

Hamish raised his hand open-palmed. “I

swear—my every

word’s the truth.”

Connor pleaded, “But if he
is
tellin’ the truth, then—”

Cavendish interrupted. “I had thought better of you, Mr. Con-

nor. Indians on the warpath indeed.” He sneered. “Consider the

Scotsman’s tale naught but a ghost story for the campfi re.”

“Them Injuns ain’t no ghost story,” Crab added. “Ye have

Mac’s word on it.”

“Pish- posh,” Cavendish scoffed with a dismissive wave of his

hand.

“Well, no one can say I didna try t’ warn yiz.” Hamish sucked

the last bits of gristle from the leg bone, flipped it into the fl ames,

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
389

and rose to his feet. “’Tis no skin off’n my arse one way or t’

other. I thank ye fer sharin’ fire, supper, and spirits wi’ me.”

“Where ye headin’, Mac?” Crab rose to his feet.

Hamish shouldered his bedroll, pouch, and weapon. “South—

as quick as m’ legs can get me there.” The two frontiersmen

shook hands. “Keep a weather eye open, Obediah, and fare

well.”

H

Connor woke at the peep of day. He sat upright, stretched limbs

stiff with the morning damp, and clutched the warm woolen

blanket around his shoulders. To his right, Figg hunkered over

the fire ring with a stick, stirring the smoky ashes in search of

live coals. To his left, the spot where Crab had curled up for the

night lay empty.

“Crab gone hunting?”

Figg shook his head. “Crab’s gone.”

“Hunting?”

“Just gone.”

Connor blinked, then scrambled to his feet. “Don’t tell me th’

bugger’s took off—”

“Aye . . .” Figg carefully tented the handful of live coals he’d

raked up with an arrangement of small twigs and cattail fuzz.

“Too fond of his hair, sez he, t’ have it swing from some Injun

lodge pole.”

Connor groaned, and fell to his knees.

Figg puckered thick lips and blew the coals to fl ame.

26

A Melodious Duel

Ee-o-lay!

Tom jerked awake and sat up. He pawed the dim shadows to

his right until he laid his hand upon his tomahawk, the blade

half buried and haft jutting up at an angle within easy reach.

Ee-o-lay! Ee-o-lay-o!

A wood thrush—its liquid call trilled from the treetops. Tom

heaved a sigh and dropped the tomahawk. He turned and traced

his fingertips over the dark mound to his left. Maggie lay warm

beside him, curled like a fiddlehead fern, with knees hunched to

her chest. He rolled onto his side and slid an arm around her.

Shifting hip and shoulder, Tom drew his woman close and they

sank deep into the pile of duff they slept upon—a bed of soft

loam and decaying debris scraped up from the forest fl oor.

“Wake up, darling girl,” he whispered, wrapping tight to her

form, the curve of her spine pressing against his stomach and

chest.

“Mmm—yer warm . . .” Maggie sighed, and pressed back.

Tom grunted and shoved at the hard edge poking painful un-

der his shoulder blade—the rifle he’d tucked up against his back

the night before. Not the most comfortable way to spend the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
391

night, but body heat helped to keep the powder charge dry. He

rested his hand in the dip at Maggie’s waist and gave her a little

shake. “Time t’ wake,

laze-a-bed.” Frizzy hairs escaping her

sleep-tousled braids tickled his lips.

“Mm-hmm . . .” Maggie agreed, but she didn’t budge.

He twirled a finger around her ear.

She swatted at his hand. “I’m so tired . . .”

Tom believed she was tired. While poling their raft down the

gentle Scioto the day before, Maggie had recounted all that’d

happened since that day he’d left—Naomi’s illness and death,

Seth’s deal with the viscount, rape, bone

setting—ending her

horrific narrative by lifting the hem of her blouse to show him

the scabby raw stripes crisscrossing her back.

They had traversed over fifty river miles on the Scioto, and

reached the confluence at the Ohio by noon. Tom dismantled the

raft and sent the bits and pieces down the river. They hiked due

south till well past dusk. Maggie endured without complaint, but

she was much weakened by her latest bout with fever. Tom

slowed the pace, stopping often to let her rest, and they did not

advance with the speed he’d expected.

Once the moon had reached its zenith, he led Maggie a hard

turn off the Warrior’s Path. They climbed up to a ridge running

parallel to the trail and Tom found a cozy level spot between a

large boulder and a stout log. Maggie raked up their bedding and

Tom spanned the narrow space with pine boughs to form a small

cave of sorts. They crawled in cold and exhausted, falling asleep

nestled like two squirrels in a tree hole.

Ee-o-lay! Ee-o-lay-o!

The wood thrush continued to urge them to rise. Tom cupped

Maggie’s shoulder, and could feel the whip scars through the

thin calico of her blouse. His head suddenly buzzed with a com-

bination of severe guilt and pure hatred for Julian Cavendish.

Tom had promised Maggie he would let no harm come to her,

and then he turned his back on that promise. If he had heeded

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Maggie’s wish, and purchased her indenture from Seth, she

would never have suffered under the viscount’s lash. He dipped

his nose to Maggie’s hair, breathing deep to allay the confl agra-

tion ignited in his chest. Maggie may have forgiven him, but Tom

would never forgive himself.

“C’mon, Maggie.” He gave her a gentle nudge. “We’ve got to

get goin’.”

“Just a few winks more . . .” Maggie begged, drawing his

hand back around her waist.

“No. We have t’ get up
now
.” Peeling away, he severed the

bond of shared body heat and crawled out, dragging his gun

with him. Maggie whimpered like a puppy and rolled into the

warm depression he’d abandoned.

Tom stretched his limbs, rolled his neck, and scrubbed the

sleep from his eyes. The waxing moon hung low in the west and

the faintest blush of rising sun colored the east. The treetops pre-

sented a mottled silhouette against a sky saturated in teal blue. A

second thrush joined the first and the pair of songbirds rustled

through hemlock leaves, leaping from branch to branch, engaged

in a pleasant, melodious duel.

Fog swirled between the trees, leaving the woodland coated in

a twinkling of dew. Tom leaned his rifle against the boulder,

marched a dozen steps, and loosened the front flap on his breech-

clout. He took a wide stance at the ridge edge, pushed the fabric

aside, took aim, and arched his stream out over the cliff. A thin-

ning mist clung in patches to the treetops, hugging the valley be-

low, but the sky was clear and it looked to be a fair-weather day.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, shaking off the last few

drops before tucking back and readjusting his clout.

On hands and knees at the opening of their bower, Tom re-

trieved his gear. “C’mon, Maggie.” He pinched the toe of her

moccasined foot. “You have t’ wake up.”

Maggie sat up, yawning. “Seems as if I only just shut my

eyes . . .”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
393

Tom sat on the ground. He shoved his tomahawk into his belt

and secured his knife to his calf. Maggie scooted out on her rear

end from under the pine boughs to sit next to him. She dug into

the parfl eche. “Hungry?”

Tom shook his head and pulled his rifle onto his lap. “I’ll eat

on the trail. We need to get a good piece under us today. No

tellin’ how long afore Simon’s trackin’ our steps.” He untied

the soft leather cuff protecting the lock and trigger mecha-

nism, fl ipped open the frizzen, and wiped the prime out of the

pan.

Maggie nibbled on an apple ring. “Yer aye fiddlin’ with yer

gun.”

“Damp can creep in and cause plenty of trouble.” Tom dug

into his pouch for a tin of tallow. He coated the pan with a thin

layer of grease, laying in a thick bead of fat along the edge. He

tapped the correct ration of black powder into the pan and

snapped it shut. “And we’re campin’ without fire to boot—I don’t

want to chance my powder being wet.”

“It’s truly a hardship—no fire.” Maggie shivered and moved

closer. “Right now I’d trade my soul to Ol’ Scratch for a cup of

hot tea and one of Ada’s raisin scones.” She pulled her legs under

her skirt and nuzzled up against his back. “So nice an’ warm ye

are—cast off heat like a Dutch stove, ye do.”

Tom examined the flint caught tight in the jaws. A dull fl int

would not strike a reliable spark. He ran his thumbnail across its

edge, shaving off a curl of fingernail in the process, satisfi ed with

the sharpness.

Maggie pointed to a little red feather jutting out from the side

of the lock. “What’s that pretty there? A good- luck charm?”

“Naw—that’s my plug for the touchhole to keep the damp

from seepin’ into the barrel.” He removed the feather and slipped

it inside his moccasin.

“This damp surely seeps into th’ bones, na?” Maggie rose to

her feet with arms crossed over her chest and rubbed her arms

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Blevins

briskly, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m goin’ t’ fi nd a

bush. I’ll be back in a tic, aye?”

“Tend to your business and then we’re off.”

Tom found a rag inside his pouch and wiped the barrel and

stock. Paying special attention to the intricacies of the lock, he

checked for rust. His biggest concern was for that which he could

not see—the condition of the powder charge packed down the

barrel. He’d gone two days without firing his weapon, and with

every passing day, the chances of misfire increased tenfold. Tom

looked up at the brightening sky.

Later today, after we get a few miles under us
. . . With better

light, he would take the time to dismount the barrel from the

breech, push out the charge, and reload with fresh powder.

Maggie scurried back. “Tom!” she whispered loud. “Hoy,