Midwife of the Blue Ridge (23 page)

knees, he tugged at Ada’s skirt. “A woman in my bed! Please,

missus, stuff me with scones.” Everyone laughed.

Maggie sipped a cup of honey wine. “Hellish hot in those cab-

ins. I’m bone tired and canna fi nd sleep.”

“Can’t sleep?” John Springer hoisted his fiddle to his chin.

“Here, I’ll play you a lullaby.”

“And I’ll rock you,” young Jacob Mulberry teased with a

freckle-faced grin. He tucked a greasy strand of hair behind one

protruding ear, held his skinny arms wide, and moved in on

Maggie. On cue, John Springer began sawing a soft, sweet mel-

ody.

“Bugger off!” Maggie giggled and pushed Jacob away. “I’d

sooner sleep out in the pasture and pick corn from horse drop-

pings than share a bed with any o’ you lot.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Bess Hawkins said, fanning her

face with a languid motion.

Ada said, “Now, Bess, slander is equal to murder in the eyes of

the Lord.”

Bess’s fan fluttered. “It’s only truth I speak, Ada. You don’t

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
161

really think a man like Tom Roberts paid thirty dollars for

chicken supper and a chat, do you?”

“Yid best mind that vile tongue, Bess Hawkins, for I’ve a

truth or two to tell as well,” Maggie warned. “I’m no gossip, but

ye sorely tempt my good nature.”

Bess sat upright, snapped her fan shut, and smacked it to the

palm of her hand. “I don’t take kindly to threats from indentured

trash.”

“How would ye take to yon fan shoved down yer throat?”

“Whore!”

“BITCH!” Maggie jumped to her feet.

“Ladies . . .” Alistair grabbed Maggie by the shoulders.

Henry Hawkins shook a finger at Bess. “There is strife abun-

dant, without the two of you going at it like a pair of polecats.”

“Aye, well . . .” Maggie sat down, clenched fists on her knees.

She took a deep breath. “That one tries my patience with her

lies.”

“Aye, well,” Bess mocked. “That one’s still a whore . . .”

“Enough, Bess!” Henry barked. “Shet yer trap or I’ll shet it

for ye.”

Bess settled back into a relaxed pose, pleased to have gotten in

the last word. She slowly passed the closed fan through her half

fist. Unfurling it with a practiced flick, she opened her fan and

glared at Maggie over the arched edge with spitting eyes.

Alistair handed Maggie the jug and she poured herself a gen-

erous scoof, trying very hard to ignore Bess Hawkins. John

Springer began to saw a soft, mournful version of Maggie’s fa-

vorite, “Barbara Allen.” With fellow musicians out hunting the

Shawnee, John’s fiddling seemed especially woebegone this eve-

ning, missing the heartbeat of Brian Malloy’s bodhran and the

trill of Phil Smillie’s fl ute.

The music did much to calm her ire and brought Maggie back

to the cherry grove. Only ten days had passed since her arduous

162 Christine

Blevins

flight to the fort with Tom, but it all seemed so long ago. She

certainly did not relish her present lot, safely penned in, cheek by

jowl, carefully measuring out dwindling stores of salt meat, dried

beans, and meal—waiting, waiting, and then waiting some more.

John Springer ended the tune on a sweet, warbling note.

Maggie sighed. “I wonder how they fare . . . our lads . . .”

“Aye, we’ve been overlong without word.” Alistair shook his

shaggy head. “I confess, I’m uneasy for our friends. Let us hope

that they are only in danger.”

“Only!”
The whimper tumbled from Maggie’s lips. “What d’

ye mean, Mr. Buchanan?” The panic that she daily plucked and

discarded like a weed in the corn patch began to sprout anew, its

tendrils twining tightly up the stalk of her spine. “D’ye suppose

them . . . dead?”

“Ye auld goat! D’ ye even ken how t’ keep that potato hole of

yers shet?” Mrs. Buchanan snatched the bottle of metheglin from

her husband and handed it to Duncan.

“Tell me true.” Maggie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Can

they be murdered?”

“Of course they can be murdered,” Bess said, matter-of-fact.

“The Shawnee can steal up in the dark of night and cut their

throats—every one. Or most likely, the savages will ambush

them on the trail—mow ’em down without a warning . . .”

“Ah now—I’m sure the fellas are fine.” Henry tugged on his

pipe. “No point in scarin’ the girl.”

“She should be scared,” Bess countered. “She better learn—

being scared is a woman’s lot on the frontier. I’m scared every

night I lay my head on my pillow without my Bert beside me.

Marry a hunter and you marry uncertainty.”

Ada clucked in true sympathy. “Aye, that must be trying, lass,

never knowing for months on end whether yer man’s alive or

dead.”

Bess sniffed and shrugged. “Every time Bert goes overmoun-

tain I worry and worry till the worry wears me down so’s I don’t

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
163

feel much of anything anymore.” There was a lonesome quality

in her voice, like that of a morning dove calling to her mate.

Maggie almost felt sorry for her.

“Ah, you always figure Bert for dead,” Henry said. “And my

boy always comes home, his horses heavy with pelts—enough t’

keep ye busked nicely in Frenchy fans and fancy beebaws. It

wouldn’t hurt you none to have a little faith in yer man.”

Bess folded her fan and sat up. “What would you know of a

woman’s plight, old man?”

“Woman’s plight!” Henry spit into the fire. “If ye had a baby

or two pullin’ at yer apron strings, ye wouldn’t have so much

time to complain about a good man.”

“You might become a grandsire one day if your boy would

linger long enough to plant a baby in my belly.” Bess glanced

briefl y Maggie’s way.

Duncan Moon sank down next to Maggie. Propping his peg

leg on his knee, he broke the awkward silence. “Common sense

tells us our boys have not been massacred. If they had been, the

Shawnee would have come knockin’ at our door by now. Never

fear.” He gave Maggie a little pat on the back. “The militia is

busy keepin’ that war party far from us.”

“Captain Moon’s got the right of it, Maggie,” Henry said,

with a slap to his knee. “Our boys have them Injuns on the

run . . . chasin’ ’em all the way back to the Ohio country. Lord,

don’t I wish I were with ’em!”

Alistair was contrite for having opened a Pandora’s box with

his misgivings. “Aye . . . worry tends to give a wee thing a big

shadow. We need to be patient and hold fast.”

Bess fluttered her fan. “Sam Bledsoe couldn’t be bothered to

wallow here in the station. He labeled you all a pack of fright-

ened fools for stayin’ put.”

“The poltroon!” John Springer set his instrument aside to join

in the conversation. “You’ll notice Bledsoe also couldn’t be both-

ered to join the militia. Truth is, he’s a rank coward.”

164 Christine

Blevins

Three days earlier, Sam Bledsoe, itching to return to his hold-

ing and the six cows he’d recently driven up from Richmond, de-

clared the Shawnee scare over. Against all advice and entreaties to

the contrary, Sam packed up his very pregnant wife and their fi ve

children and left the station. Maggie had to admit, she envied

Susannah Bledsoe that day as she passed through the gates.

Alistair harrumphed. “Samuel Bledsoe is a malingerer and a

tightfist. It beggars belief that the man’s concern for corn and

cattle would cause him to be so reckless with the lives of his wife

and weans.”

“I s’pose Bledsoe’s right in his thinking, though. It’s nigh on

ten days since those Shawnee meandered through our valley.”

Henry Hawkins passed the jug to young Jacob. “On the other

hand, it wouldn’t have hurt Sam nor his cattle none to take the

advice of those who’ve lived through Indian scare. Always best to

wait on solid word from the militia.”

“Ye ken what they say, Henry,” Ada offered. “Givin’ advice to

a fool is much like givin’ cherries to a pig—a waste.”

“Cap’n Moon!”
Will Falconer shouted down from his post on

top of the blockhouse. “I think maybe . . . yep, maybe I see some-

thin’ out there . . .”

Duncan rose up and limped closer to the ladder. “What is it?”

“Not sure . . . maybe it’s just fi reflies.” Will shuttered his lan-

tern and studied the western horizon.

Henry gave Jacob a shove to the shoulder. “Sclim up the lad-

der and put another pair of eyes on it.”

They all waited quiet while Jacob clambered up to join Will.

“I’d say they’re torchlights for certain.” Maggie winced at the

squeaky hitch in Jacob’s almost-man voice. “And they’re moving

quick, down the switchback trail.”

“You two, keep your look out. Torches—awful brazen, even for

Shawnee . . .” Duncan pondered a moment. “Henry—sound the

alarm. Have the men ready weapons and gather ammunition.”

Maggie turned to Ada. “It might be our militia come home . . .”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
165

“Aye . . . and it might not.” Ada’s apple-cheek grin had crum-

pled into a glum crease in her fl eshy face. Bess sat stone-still, her

face gone very pale and wan.

Henry Hawkins wandered the fortyard, banging a hammer to an

iron bar. The defenders bounded up from their bedrolls, tugging on

footwear, strapping on belts, snatching up guns, powder, and shot,

shouting direction, and running to take position at the gun ports.

Women and children roused by the clatter filtered out the

cabin doors like pale wraiths in the moonlight. Battler on her

hip, and Winnie and Jack close behind, Naomi joined the grow-

ing crowd murmuring beneath the blockhouse.

“The lights have broken free of the forest!” And just as Will

finished this proclamation, the crack of musket fire rang across

the valley. The rooftop lookouts plopped down on their bellies

and the settlers were further jolted by a steady tattoo beaten on a

skin drum.

“Children into the cabins!” Alistair boomed.

In a sudden screaming hubbub, alarmed mothers ran, snatch-

ing up toddlers, slapping, scolding, and herding children.

Will shouted, “They’re moving through the clearing now!”

Every infant seemed at that moment squalling. Every dog bark-

ing, howling, and tearing about in mad circles. Maggie grabbed

Battler from Naomi. Winnie and Jack linked hands with their

mother, all of them caught in the current of the screaming melee.

“At the ready, boys!”
Duncan shouted.

Sounding like fistfuls of pebbles cast hard at an iron cauldron,

the hammers of twenty-odd muskets clacked back in staccato

response.

“Roundabout!
Roundabout!
Hold your fire!” shouted a voice

from afar.

And within, the forted population stopped, shocked into still-

ness, listening.

“Halloo the station!”
The call was accompanied by another

spat of drum thrumming.

166 Christine

Blevins

“That’s my Brian!” Sally Malloy announced with a laugh.

“Malloy and his bodhran!” John Springer shouted.

A relieved huzzah rose up. Mothers hugged their children and

wiped their tears. Men and boys relaxed their posts, uncocking

weapons and slapping shoulders. Will Falconer, still atop the

blockhouse, opened his lantern and waved it over his head, while

Jacob Mulberry leaped whooping wildly at his side, “Open the

gates! Open the gates!”

It took four boys to lift the timber latch and push them open.

The heavy doors rode in smiling grooves swung deep in the hard-

packed earth. Soon, militiamen spilled into the station yard. The

fort-bound settlers crowded close, straining to see, searching

faces illuminated by scattered pools of sputtering torchlight.

“I see Seth!” Maggie pointed.

And Seth saw them. The Martin family ran and collided in a

clutch of hugs and kisses. Maggie joined to give Seth a fervent

welcome.

“Are there many wounded?” she asked, eyeing a bloody tear

on his shirtsleeve.

“We’ve all a scratch here and scrape there, but we’re all come

home.”

“Tom?”

“Bringing up the rear.” Seth took Battler from her arms.

“There . . . see him? Comin’ through the gate along with the lit-

ter bearers . . .”

Dodging around and through groups of friends and families

welcoming loved ones home, Maggie ran shouting,
“Tom!”
He

caught her in his arms, swinging her high to fly feet up from the

ground. “I’m so glad t’ see ye back safe,” she sobbed into his

chest.

“I have to admit”—Tom wrapped his arms tight about her and

nuzzled his nose in her hair—“it’s awful nice to have someone to

come back to.”

“Welcome back, Tom.” Bess was beside them, looking lonely

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
167

in the happy confusion of families re united. “It is good t’ see you

safe returned.”

Tom broke his embrace from Maggie to greet Bess with a

happy handshake. “Yep. It’s good to be back.”

“Hoy, Tom!” Hamish Macauley bellowed. He and his fellow