Midwife of the Blue Ridge (57 page)

Maggie fussed at Tom’s bloody shirtsleeve. “Och, this wound

needs cleanin’ and dressin’ . . .”

Tom shrugged her off. “No time now—find that gun.”

“Here ’tis, mister.” Figg came up with the loaded pistol pinched

between thumb and forefinger. He held the gun at arm’s length,

as if it were a spitting snake. Tom added the pistol to his belt and

marched to stand before the viscount. Figg and Maggie scurried

to follow.

Cavendish sat gasping in his chair. “Think twice on how you

mean to handle this situation,” he threatened as the threesome

approached. “Do not forget, I am a peer of the realm.”

“Yer the devil’s get,” Maggie snapped, “and if ye had a pair,

I’d saw yer bollocks off with a dull blade and leave ye t’ drip

dead.”

The viscount looked beyond Maggie and pulled a perfumed

kerchief from his sleeve, pressing it to his nose. “Harness your

hedge-whore, Roberts, for she fouls the very air I breathe.”

In the blink of an eye, Maggie plucked the knife from Tom’s

calf. “And that’ll be th’ last breath ye ever take, ye shit-sack . . .”

Tom lunged and caught Maggie around the waist.

Cavendish shrank back. “A peer of the realm, sir! It will not

go well for any of you if I am killed . . .”

“Ah, lordship, it’s plain you don’t quite understand.” Smiling,

Tom grasped Maggie’s fist still clutching the knife and peeled it

open, finger by finger. “It’s not a matter of ‘if’—it’s but a matter

of
how
.”

Maggie released the knife with a sigh.

A musket shot resounded in the distance, casting up a fl urry of

squawking birds.

Tom slipped his knife into its sheath. He gave Maggie a nudge,

signaled Figg with a wave, and the three of them took off jogging

toward the trees.

402 Christine

Blevins

Cavendish sputtered, “Come back here! You cannot mean to

leave me behind!”

Maggie tugged Tom by the shirttail. “Yer just goin’ t’ leave

him?”

“He gives off an ill-savour—a coward in a red coat—the Shaw-

nee will not be able to resist such a prize.” Tom urged her along

with a shove to her shoulder. “Get goin’—
go!
Into the trees.”

Tom and Maggie spurted ahead. Figg gallumped behind.

“Roberts, please!” the viscount screamed. “I will pay you!

Dutch silver . . .” Shrill war cries sounded from the opposite end

of the field. Shoulders heaving, Cavendish sobbed, “You cannot

leave me here! Figg!
Maggiiee!
”

At the sound of her name, Maggie slowed and glanced over

her shoulder.

Cavendish gripped the arms of the chair.
“Mercy! I beg,

MERCY!”

Tom jerked Maggie by the arm and pushed her forward.

“Come on. The longer they tarry with him, the better for us.

Now run—
RUN!
”

H

The Shawnee war party burst into the clearing. Encountering no

resistance, they raced across the field, yipping, screaming, and

discharging weapons.

Several warriors tore past Cavendish in his chair to dive into

the canvas tent, tossing its contents. Others rifled through the

camp boxes, finding tobacco, lead, gunpowder, and other valu-

able accoutrements. They exulted over the portmanteau packed

full of clothing. A pair of swift-footed braves chased after the

loose horse. Several Indians sounded a celebratory halloo and

hoisted two brandy kegs into the air for all to see.

While his boisterous fellows plundered the campsite, Simon

Peavey hung back, reconnoitering the field. Following the tram-

pled buffalo grass leading to the campsite, he halted and hun-

kered to examine a spray of crimson droplets dotting the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
403

dew-soaked ground. Three paces beyond, half-hidden in tall

grass, he found a spent rifle. Simon rubbed a thumb over the dis-

tinctive silver heart inlaid in the polished stock. He pressed the

tip of his nose to the lock.

Warm.

He rushed to join Waythea.

The war party leader hovered over the cringing captive, who

sat clutching the arms of the same kind of chair the British gener-

als carried with them when they went to war. Waythea issued an

order and two braves none too gently hoisted the wailing En-

glishman to his feet. Simon raised a brow—the man was none

other than the Viscount Julian Cavendish, dressed, for some rea-

son like a military offi cer.

Waythea closed in to inspect the squirming viscount’s red

coat, fingering the adorning gold braid. He eyed the slit nostril

and traced a disdainful finger over the odd scabby mark on the

white man’s forehead.

“I’m a peer of the realm, sir.” Cavendish recoiled with a gri-

mace, crinkling his nose. “My father, the
duke
, will pay a goodly

sum for my safe return.”

“Anglais.”
Waythea spat out the word.

Cavendish brightened.
“Mais oui! Je suis Anglais. Mon

père—”

Waythea slapped him hard across the face.

Simon stepped forward to show Waythea the rifl e. “Look,

brother—Ghizhibatoo’s weapon—still warm. He was just here—

him and Mag-kie.”

Cavendish squinted, whimpering, “
Mr. Peavey?
Is that you,

Peavey?”

Waythea laughed and hefted the rifl e. “
O-ho!
You have found

a very fi ne rifle.” He gazed down the sights. “A hunter with a gun

such as this would seldom come home empty-handed.” He

handed it back.

“You were hoping for a new gun, brother.” Simon offered the

404 Christine

Blevins

rifle with both arms extended. “Take this one and relay the order

to move onward. Let us go, Waythea, while Ghizhibatoo’s track

is still warm.”

“It
is
you, Mr. Peavey!” Cavendish heaved a great sigh of re-

lief. “How fortuitous! I almost did not recognize you so outland-

ishly native, babbling the heathen tongue with such dexterity.”

He jerked a chin to Waythea. “Inform this rather pungent

savage—tell him—as a token of my enduring friendship,
et cet-

era
,
et cetera
, he is to take freely of anything he desires. Quickly

now—tell him.”

Both Simon and Waythea ignored the interruption. Waythea

smiled and slipped the rifle strap over his shoulder. “I do need a

new gun and I thank you, Penagashea, but the only order I will

issue is one to head homeward. There is more than plenty here. I

see no need to range any further.” He belted the viscount’s scab-

bard around his waist. Grinning, he displayed the sword before

slipping it into its sheath. “Fine goods, brandy,
and
an English

soldier. What luck! One day out and we return to the village in

good stead—not one of us injured or killed—and all of us with

ample time to ready for winter.”

“But, brother—Ghizhibatoo’s trail grows cold.”

Waythea shrugged. “Your fight with Ghizhibatoo is your fi ght.

We are fi nished here, Penagashea. You are free to do as you wish,

but the rest of us go home to sleep with our wives.”

The war party leader bent to examine Cavendish’s wounded

leg. “This one will not run,” he said to the two braves who held

the viscount upright. Waythea marched on to organize the trans-

port of booty for the trip home. The braves dropped Cavendish

into the chair and followed after.

Wincing and gasping, Cavendish looked to Simon and sput-

tered, “Did you let it be known I am a man of means? What is it

these heathens desire? Guns? Brandy? It is to our advantage you

speak this peculiar gibberish. Make whatever promises neces-

sary and then get me back to Roundabout.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
405

Simon lashed out and cracked the viscount across the face

with the back of his hand. “Which way?” he demanded.

Stunned and confused, Cavendish rubbed his cheek, bloodied

spittle dribbling down his chin. “W-way? T-to Roundabout?

Y-you know these paths better than I . . . it will be well worth

your while to represent my cause . . . well worth your while. I

hold letters of credit in Richmond. I can offer you—”

Simon silenced the incessant blather by slipping the tip of his

knife into the viscount’s nose. “You’re wasting time—which way

did they head? Roberts and Mag-kie?”

Cavendish’s neck stiffened and his eyes crossed to sight the

bright blade penetrating his intact nostril. Gasping staccato

gulps, he raised a quaking hand and pointed south.

With a jerk of his wrist, Simon slit the viscount’s nose.

27

Changing Feathers

Tom’s heart thumped a rapid tattoo in his chest. With every jar-

ring footfall, agonizing hot spikes darted from his left shoulder

down to his fingertips. The pain sapped his strength, turning his

legs into leaden weights. He struggled to keep the pace, but Figg

and Maggie quickly outdistanced him. They ran hard and fast,

dodging through the dense woodland as Shawnee yips, yells, and

musket fire faded beneath the pounding of their feet on the forest

fl oor.

Maggie cast a worried glance over her shoulder. She snatched

Figg by the shirttail. The big man skittered to a stop and they

waited for Tom to catch up.

Tom lurched forward, urging them on. “Run.
Run!
”

Maggie shook her head. “Look at him—bloodier than a

butcher boy . . .”

“Pale as the tinker’s arse, he is,” Figg huffed in agreement.

Maggie ripped and tore a six-inch band of calico from the hem

of her blouse. “I’m goin’ t’ bind that wound.”

“No time for that.” Tom waved her off. “Not with Peavey on

our trail.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
407

“Ye’ll bleed t’ death afore he finds ye. Stop—catch yer wind

and I’ll bandage yer arm.”

“Awright.” Tom pulled up gasping, falling back against a huge

buckeye tree. “Be quick about it.”

Maggie wrapped his upper arm tight, tying the calico off in a

neat square knot directly over the wound. “There, I wager yer

arm feels better already, na?”

A sharp crack, like close-by lightning, echoed through the

trees. Tom shouted,
“Take cover!”

The three of them ducked to hunker in a huddle at the base

of the buckeye just as a lead ball whirred past and thunked into

an elm behind them, scattering a spray of woodchips. Tom

pulled the pistols free from his belt and tossed them onto the

ground at his feet. He dumped the content of his pouch and

jerked his chin toward the elm. “Rifl e shot—it’s got to be

Peavey.” He set the one loaded pistol aside. Holding the spent

pistol in a trembling left hand, fingers stiff with pain, he un-

stoppered his horn and managed to pour a sloppy measure of

gunpowder down the barrel.

Maggie tugged at Tom’s shirtsleeve. “Oughtn’t we run?”

“Can’t seem t’ lay a hand to my shot bag . . .” Tom raked

through the scattered pile. “Never mind.” He snatched up a

small drawstring sack. “Here ’tis. Find my patch box.”

Maggie rooted through the odds and ends and handed him a

small wooden box. “Let’s head to the creek—confuse the sign

like ye said afore.”

Tom peeled off a greased patch. “Too late for that. He has me

in his sights and will dog my tracks to kingdom come. I have to

make a stand

here and

now—and, Maggie . . .” Tom paused,

looking her deep in the eye. “Thee must do exactly as I say.

Promise?”

“I promise.” Maggie nodded. “D’ye hear tha’, Figg? Ye must

promise t’ do exactly as Tom says.”

408 Christine

Blevins

Figg huddled closer, wagging his giant head. “Aye, Maggie. I

promise.”

Tom wrapped a patch around a lead ball and thumbed it into

the muzzle. “Blast!” He dumped the load from the barrel. “My

rifle shot’s too small for this pistol.” He dropped the pistol,

pulled his knife from its sheath, and cut a small square from

Maggie’s buckskin skirt.

“Listen close, Maggie. I want you and Figg to take off—keep

to the trees and head south—I’ll catch up when I fi nish here.”

“Are ye mad?” Dumbfounded, she gestured to his left arm,

soaked in blood.

“There’s short range to these pistols. I have to draw him in

close and I can’t be bothered with the two of you about.” Tom

rammed a new load down the barrel, the thicker buckskin patch

taking up the difference in caliber. He glanced up and forced a

smile. “I’ll catch up, Maggie. You’ll see. Now get going. G’won.

I’ll catch up.”

“I willna. Ye must be daft t’ think I would.”

Another shot cracked and whirred through the trees. The

three of them flinched into a tighter crouch. This time the ball

plowed through a limb directly overhead, raining bits of debris

onto their heads.

“He’s close.” Tom stood and stuffed the pistols into his belt.

“Maggie, you and Figg must leave now, while Peavey reloads.”

Maggie leaped to her feet and clutched at his arm. “I willna

leave ye, lad.”

Tom shoved her away. “Go! I don’t want you here.
GO!
”

She stumbled back, knuckled the tears from her eyes, folded