Midwife of the Blue Ridge (13 page)

with a crash to the fl oor.

The Martins and Maggie rushed around the table. Battler sat

up, wailing like a banshee, but Tom lay perfectly still, knocked

out cold. Maggie fell to her knees. Seth helped her to flip the man

onto his back.

“Would ye look at the knot on his forehead?” Maggie said.

“He banged his noggin but good on that table edge. Jackie! Fetch

my basket.”

8

A Wee Thump to the Head

Onions sizzling in pork fat wafted up through the fl oorboards.

He nestled his head into the sack of barley that served as his

headrest and turned the page . . .

In a little time I began to speak to him; and teach him to speak

to me: and first, I let him know his name should be Friday,

which was the day I saved his life: I called him so for the

memory of the time . . .

His stomach growled—it must be close to supper time. Read-

ing up in the loft always made him so hungry. The smoked hams

and sausages dangling from the rafters were hard to resist, so he

arranged his secret reading place far from temptation, among

the sacks of grain and sweet-smelling bouquets of lavender.

“Tom!”

Mother called. He marked his place with a piece of straw, and

scrambled to hide the forbidden novel behind the barrel of pick-

led beef . . .

“Tom . . .”

Tom blinked and looked up into Maggie’s quiet, dark eyes, his

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
87

head nestled on her lap as she massaged lavender oil on the space

between his lip and nose. He tried to elbow up, but she pressed a

hand firm to his chest. “Stay put, lad. Yiv taken quite a blow to

the head . . .”

“What blether. Take my word, Maggie, th’ lad’s survived far

worse.” Seth bent over. Tom grabbed hold of Seth’s forearm and

rose up to his feet.

“A bite t’ eat is what ye need,” Seth suggested. “I could hear

yer empty belly roilin’ from across the room.”

Disoriented and a bit wobbly, Tom plunked down on a bench

facing away from the table, his backbone rubbing uncomfortable

against the thickness of the table edge. The ringing hum in his

head dimmed the bickering of the Martin children helping them-

selves to the breakfast laid out on the table. He fingered the large

knot swelled near his left temple.

Maggie stood before him and took his face between her hands

to study the bump. “I’ve arnica for that.” She dipped into her

basket, pulled out a slender blue glass bottle, and saturated a pad

of raw wool with the tincture. She moved in to stand between his

knees, one warm palm cradling his cheek as she dabbed the pad

to the swelling, standing so close, the wool of her skirt tickled

the bare skin of his inner thighs.

Maggie’s fingers on his cheek triggered an unexpected and not

unpleasant tug to his groin. Tom drew a breath—woman-musk

mingled with the alcohol in the tincture she administered. He

found his eyes level with golden flesh mounding up beyond the

gathered neckline of her blouse, his hand reaching up. He quick

collected his wits, restrained the impetuous urge to caress her

breast, and settled his roving hand on the curve of her hip.

Maggie glanced down at his hand resting on her hip. “Are ye

dizzy?”

“Dizzy? No—” Tom squirmed like a red worm tossed on hot

ashes. His hand slipped down and plopped into his lap. Jack

giggled.

88 Christine

Blevins

“Leave the man be, Maggie.” Seth seemed annoyed. “It’s

naught but a wee thump to the head.”

“You just save your breath to cool your spoonbread, Seth

Martin,” Naomi scolded. “Maggie knows what she’s about.”

“I only meant the poor man’s no doubt dizzy fer want of his

breakfast.” Seth glared into the mountain of food on his plate.

“Seth’s got the right of it, Tom. Breakfast in yer belly will do

ye some good. If yer head still aches after, I’ll fix ye a cup of wil-

low bark tea.” Maggie tucked her things back into her basket

and sidled onto the bench next to him. Tom turned around and

focused on the food ladled onto his trencher.

After a moment Seth said, “Here’s a thought—Maggie might

have some luck sellin’ her remedies and treating folk’s aches and

pains at the station down in Roundabout. Quite a crowd comes

in to trade on Saturdays.”

Naomi clapped her hands. “There’s a fine idea! A peddler may

be there with yardage for trade. We can make you some new

clothes.” Naomi turned to Maggie. “You can meet some of the

other women as well. Many are a-childing and’ll soon have need

of a midwife.”

“Hannah and I earned a good living catchin’ babies,” Maggie

offered as added incentive.

“Aye . . .” Seth pondered the opportunity. “It would be good for

Maggie to meet some of the other women, don’t ye think, Tom?”

Tom searched through the contents of his pouch. “Can’t seem

to lay hand to my spoon . . . oh, never mind,

here ’tis.” He

hunched over his food and put the horn spoon to use—shoveling

up great mouthfuls of fried onion, scrambled egg, and

spoonbread—pausing only to wash it down with great gulping

swallows of milk.

“Can I go with, Da—to Roundabout?” Jack asked.

“Aye, lad . . . we’ll all go.”

“What about it, Tom?” Naomi said. “Stay on till Saturday

and come along with us . . .”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
89

“No!” Seth almost shouted. “Tom’s a busy man, woman. He’s

but passin’ through.”

Tom eyed Seth while chewing a piece of crisp bacon. “That’s

true, I shouldn’t linger. I’m goin’ on a market hunt with De-

Montforte overmountain. Quartermasters are paying good silver

for wild beef tenders and tallow.” He smiled at Maggie, leaned

over, and helped himself to additional helpings of everything.

“This all eats good, Maggie . . . sure hits the empty spot.”

“You were away awful long, Tom. Did you have a good hunt?”

Winnie asked.

“I’d say so. Came out with five hundred deer hides, three hun-

dred beaver . . . sold the lot for over a thousand pound.”

Jack whistled. “You’re rich, Tom!”

“I might have killed three times as many if I had the means to

bring it all out. I aim to head back there come fall—”

“Ah now, Tommy,” Seth interrupted. “Shawnee and Cherokee

willna take too kindly to trespass on their hunting ground. Yer

like t’ get yer hair lifted.”

“They have to catch me afore they can skelp me.” Tom

shrugged. “Naw . . . there’s nothin’ that’ll stop me from heading

back to
Kenta-ke
.”

“Tell, Tom . . . tell Maggie ’bout
Kenta-ke
,” Winnie begged.

“Kenta- ke,”
Maggie repeated. “Such an odd word.”

“Shawnee word.” Tom poured himself another mug full of

buttermilk. “Means ‘land of great meadows,’ and I’m here to tell

I’ve never been to a more beautiful place in my life.”

Maggie leaned an elbow on the tabletop and rested her chin in

her palm, enthralled.

“Tom has no time fer tales.” Seth glared across the table at

Tom. “He needs t’ finish his breakfast and get back on the

trail.”

Tom ignored Seth. “In my mind
Kenta-ke
is akin to the Garden

of Eden, a green place, full of life. Clear rivers—forests tall with

chestnut, oak, and maple . . . and deer! Deer a-bounding—more

90 Christine

Blevins

beaver and turkey than I had lead t’ shoot ’em with. I saw vast

herds of wild beef and—”

“Seein’ as how yer of a mind fer tellin’ tales, lad,” Seth inter-

rupted, “why don’t ye tell Maggie one o’ those from the time

when ye lived among the savages, ken?”

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Tom picked

up his spoon and began eating again.

“Na . . . ye didna live among heathen Red Indians, did ye?”

Maggie asked.

Tom nodded, and continued chewing.

Winnie piped in. “C’mon, Tom! Tell Maggie all ’bout how you

were adopted . . .”

“Ye were
adopted
by Red Indians?” Maggie’s eyes were wide.

“Tell about runnin’ the gauntlet.” Jack bounced in his seat.

“Hush your mouthing!” Naomi shot her husband a chilling

look. “Can’t y’all see Tom don’t want t’ be talkin’ about all

that . . .”

“Naw. I don’t mind.” Tom scraped up the last bits, spooned

them into his mouth, and pushed back his plate. “Nothin’ better

than a tale, bold and true—right, Seth?”

“Aye. Nothin’ better than the truth,” Seth agreed.

Tom produced a small block of birchwood and a folding knife

from his pouch. He took his time, whittled off a toothpick, in-

stalled it at one end of his smile, and began his story.

“Back in ’55, unlike most of my Quaker brethren and much to

the dismay of my father, I was more than eager to join the fi ght

with the French. So, I ran off. Up and left my father’s farm on the

Susquehanna and signed on with Braddock’s colonial militia. My

oh my”—Tom smiled in recollection—“I was only just seventeen

years, a foolish, pindling boy . . . not much bigger than Seth

here.” Everyone laughed.

“We set out with purpose. That old jackass Braddock didn’t

make much of us colonials as soldiers. He put most of us to work

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
91

cutting a wagon road westward through the forest, from Fort

Cumberland all the way to Fort Duquesne. I worked with an ad-

vance party of axmen—about a dozen of us—felling trees pretty

far ahead of the regulars and artillery.”

Tom slapped his hand down on the tabletop. “And that

sudden-quick, a band of painted Indians sprang out of the brush,

screamin’ and shootin’, and here we were with naught but one

decrepit musket for defense. I dropped my ax and lit out. Yep, I

did—I cut mud—runnin’ with a fury back to the main column.

One big, bull-strong Indian gave good chase and knocked me

down. He dragged me back.” Tom’s face fell grim. “A grisly sight,

that. All my comrades, save one young fella named Colby, kilt

and skelpt. And poor Colby, standin’ there a-shivering, so scared,

he’d pissed himself.”

Jack said. “But you weren’t ascairt, were you, Tom?”

“I tell you what, Jack, I was never more scared than I was on

that day. I had to work awful hard to put on a brave face, and

made ready to part with my topknot. But a strange thing

happened . . . you recall the big Indian fella what knocked me

down?”

Maggie bobbed her head up and down along with Winnie and

Jack.

“Why, he grinned at me and sheathed his tomahawk. He

spoke a great lot of gibberish, all the while lashing my wrists to-

gether with a length of tug. He held tight the tug end and the

whole band moved out at a smart rate to the northwest.”

“An’ the other lad?” Maggie wondered.

“Colby? He was taken prisoner by one of the others. We didn’t

stop till after dark and camped without fire. It was then I took

heart—when I saw how they divided the rations—for Colby and

I were given equal share of their provisions, and this I took for a

fair sign.”

“Why’s that?” Maggie wondered.

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Blevins

“’Cause if they meant to torture and kill them, they wouldn’t

bother to feed them,” Jack explained, impatient for the rest of

Tom’s story.

“So, we marched and camped four days and nights,” Tom

continued. “On the fi fth day—”

“Why not run off when the Indians fell t’ sleep?” Maggie in-

terrupted. “That’s what I’d do.”

Tom shook his head. “Naw . . . there was no escape. At

sleepin’ time, Colby and I were bound tight with many lengths of

buffalo tug and laid down with Indians on either side. At that

point, I was of a hopeful mind that we were to be ransomed any-

way.” Tom removed the toothpick from his mouth and fl icked it

to smolder on the coals lingering from the breakfast fi re.

“On the fi fth day, we were marched into their village. My gut

tangled into a knot. Coming into the village did not bode well for

our survival, for if we were to be ransomed, they’d have brought

us to a French post.”

“Tell Maggie about the village,” Winnie said.

“Not much to tell.” Tom shrugged. “’Twere a small village,

fi ve timber longhouses, a council house, and some cleared acreage

for growing sister crops—corn, beans, and squash. I recall the

war party’s homecoming was greeted with much hallooing and

gunfire. The bloody scalps of my comrades dangled from their

belts as the warriors marched in proud. Us being there, Colby and

me, sure caused quite a stir. There was much merriment and the

air of a frolic, which of course I did not share.” Tom glanced into

his empty cup. Maggie leaned over and filled it with milk.

“Then, without any prompting that I could see,” Tom contin-

ued, “the people began to stretch themselves into two long lines

from one end of the village to the other—’bout thirty yards in all.

They faced each other with maybe a

fi ve- yard span atwixt

them.”