Midwife of the Blue Ridge (25 page)

“No need to whisper.” Maggie waved Mrs. Buchanan in.

“They’re dosed and deep asleep.” Shaking stiff limbs to life, she

walked to and fro between the beds on either side of the room.

Maggie could not have patients so severely wounded lying on

the floor. Right off, she enlisted Hamish and Tom to rig raised

platforms using thick planks laid across kegs of salt pork. Mat-

tressed with ticks stuffed with raw wool, the two bedsteads were

tucked into opposite corners of the square, windowless room.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
175

Tom used the same slapdash method to set up a table between

the makeshift beds. The tools of Maggie’s trade were laid out on

this work surface. Ordered like soldiers on parade, bottled tinc-

tures, oils, and potted unguents were arranged in neat formation

at one end; a tin basin of rusty water and a hummock of blood-

besmirched towels occupied the other. Linen strips, rolled tight

as tickled potato bugs, were stacked in a pyramid next to a mus-

lin sack bursting with a cloud of cotton lint. The big stone mor-

tar was anchored at center in a scatter of paper packets and

belladonna sprigs. The rest of Maggie’s collection, more packets

and bundles of herbs, roots, and barks, was stuffed in jumbled

disarray inside her big basket under the table.

Ada Buchanan strode into the sickroom. She swept a space

clear and squeezed her bowl onto the counter. From the copious

pocket dangling over her apron, she produced a

snow-white

towel, a stiff-bristled brush, and an ivory oblong of soap.

“I’ll just tidy a bit.” Bending to grip the handle of the brim-

ming chamber pot, Ada poured its content to the left of the

threshold. At the quickstep, she returned for the water basin and

let the bloody water fly in a sheet to land splash in the fortyard.

A pair of hounds ran up to lap at the puddle. Ada made a quick

about-face, marched back to the counter, and plopped the pile of

soggy linens into the empty basin. “We’re boilin’ the wash today,

so give up yer duds,” she ordered, her arm curled around the bowl

of dirty towels. “A soak in stale piss and a good salt rub will have

yer blouse as good as new.”

Maggie stood blinking, still not quite awake. Her blouse was

smeared and daubed ocher red—her wool skirt dark with stiff

patches of Bledsoe blood. “I must look a fright, na? But I’ve no

other . . .”

“Sweet Jesus, Maggie, ye look like Saint Perpetua after she’d

been mauled by wild beasts; hand over yer duds.” Ada extended

an arm. “Bide a wee, and I’ll find ye something to wear for the

meantime.”

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Blevins

Maggie pulled her blouse over her head and stepped from her

skirt, handing the garments over with a smirk. “Yid best hurry

back. I’m awful hungry. I’m liable to go and breakfast in naught

but my shift.”

“G’won. I dare ye. Stroll about in yer shift, and young Mul-

berry, among others, will be certain to grow the third leg. Tom’s

having his breakfast. I’m certain he’d enjoy a peek at your pretty

make.” Brows waggling, Ada added, “I’ll be back in a tic.” Leav-

ing Maggie giggling.

The mention of Tom made Maggie anxious for a wash. She

slipped arms through sleeve holes to let her muslinet shift pool in

a soft puddle at her feet.

Maggie soaked the towel and lathered it with Ada’s soap, the

source of its fragrance eluding her for a moment.
Linden fl ower
,

she finally decided with a self-satisfied smile. She started with her

face, moving down quickly to wash the rest, and wriggled back

into her shift.

She studied her hands for a moment.
I’ve the hands of a

butcher boy . . .

Maggie took up the brush to scour away the coagulated clots

caught under her fingernails and crusted around her cuticles, then

sank onto her stool. The single braid hanging over her shoulder

looked like a length of badly frayed rope. Tugging free the lace,

she fi nger-combed snarls from the braid-crimped tresses.
Almost

human again.

A tap on the door, and Ada Buchanan reentered, breathing

heavy and brandishing a dark blue skirt. “On loan from Janet

Wheeler.” Grinning, she draped a

creamy-silk blouse across

Maggie’s lap. “A gift from Eileen Wallen. Yers to keep.”

“Och, na! She must be daft.”

“Eileen’s grateful t’ ye for stitchin’ the gash in her husband’s

arm.”

“Aye, well.” Maggie fingered the dense weave and admired the

splash of Irish lace at the neckline. “This is much too fine for the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
177

likes of me. I’ll wear it for the now, but only till my own things

dry.”

As Maggie dressed, Ada went to adjust and smooth Susan-

nah’s bed linen. “At least the poor thing is resting peaceful . . . yer

a rock, Maggie—a solid rock. I couldna bear it last night—had

to stop my ears with my fingers—the way she screamed and

clutched, beggin’ ye to put an end t’ her with a fatal dose.”

“Aye, good thing Duncan had the laudanum.” Maggie pulled

the blouse over her head. “Even at that, it took near a fatal dose

to get her to quiet.” She joined Ada at the bedside. Curled on her

right, Susannah faced away, huddled up to the timber wall.

Ada tsked. “Poor, poor mother . . . it’s no wonder she has no

will to live. She’s lost them all, she has.”

“Not all, Ada—there’s still Mary.” Maggie turned to the other

bed.

Mary Bledsoe lay fl at on her belly, a tiny snore bussing in and

out her nostrils. Her head, completely bandaged in linen strips,

rested on a goose-down pillow.

“Does she no resemble a wee papist nun, swaddled in wind-

ing, waiting for the veil?” Ada took Maggie by the hand. “Take

my advice, dearie. Dinna pin any hope on her survival. The

Good Lord slipped our bones intae a hide for good reason, and a

piece of Mary’s hide has gone missing.”

Maggie knew Ada had the right of it. Mary’s ghastly wound

could not be stitched or cauterized. In time, the naked bone

would mortify, rot away in blackened patches, and expose the

delicate brains within Mary’s skull to every element. By not deal-

ing a mortal blow, the Indian who so haphazardly scalped Mary

guaranteed her slow, painful, and certain death. Maggie turned

to hide the tears sprung to her eyes, and she fumbled trying to tie

her hair into a tail at the nape of her neck.

Ada rattled on. “Aye, the poor wee lassie would have been bet-

ter off if she had gone the way of her brothers—”

“Ada!”

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“I say so out of good pity. Susannah kens. When you tolt her

how her daughter survived—I saw it in her eye. She’s no fool. She

kens well what lies ahead, aye? Insufferable pain and yet another

wee grave to tend.”

Maggie cast her eyes down into her basket on the floor. It held

no cure for this mother and child. At best, she could keep the girl

comfortable with painkilling decoctions and develop the forti-

tude to do for little Mary what she’d done for her own Hannah,

and ease her along with a fatal dose. She kicked the basket,

smacking it into the wall, spilling its content over the fl oor.

“Come now, lass. Yiv done yer best. The rest is up to the Al-

mighty.” With a chubby arm hugging Maggie’s shoulders, Ada

steered her out the door. “Mrs. Mulberry has a pot of black Bo-

hea a-brewin’. Can you imagine? Real tea! G’won now—I’ll stay

on here till ye return.”

Maggie stepped through the sickroom door, filled her lungs

with a gulp of fresh air, and let it out with a breathy sigh. Stom-

ach clamoring, she wandered through the fortyard tracking the

smell of fried bacon.

Since the militia returned, Roundabout Station buzzed with

industry. A column of smoke churned up from the smithy chim-

ney, and Maggie waved, happy to see old Willie back stoking his

forge. A gaggle of girls hovered nearby to gape at bare-chested

young Willie working the bellows with sweaty, muscle-bound

fury.

For the first time in many days, the gates stood wide open, the

ominous timber wall interrupted by a view of fresh green fi eld,

trees, and hills. Women bustled in and out of the cabins, packing

goods into panniers and packs, readying for the trip back to their

homesteads. Maggie strolled along, dodging a gang of boys racing

between tree stumps who were fighting a mock battle with stick

guns.

It was late in the morning, and few congregated near the

plume of smoke screwing upward from the communal cook-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
179

hearth where Rachel Mulberry stood duty, spoon in hand, serv-

ing all comers.

Ada spoke true. There, bright as a beacon on a stormy night,

resting precariously on an upended hogshead—a porcelain teapot

decorated with a delicate spray of blue posies. Equally miracu-

lous, on a square of indigo paper alongside the elegant pot sat

a cone of white shop sugar.

“In celebration,” Rachel explained as she poured Maggie a

mugful.

“Of course!” Maggie smiled. Mired in Bledsoe misery, she’d

almost forgotten—beloved husbands, fathers, and sons had all

returned safe to their families—just cause for celebration.

She used Rachel’s sugar shears to pinch a chunk from the brittle

cone, and stirred it into the Bohea with a splash of cream. Maggie

held the cup to her nose, drawing Chinese luxury into her head.

Rachel handed her a bowl of mush sweetened with molasses and a

plop of clotted cream. “There’s a platter of bacon on the table.”

Flanked by split-log benches, a trestle dining table sat tented

beneath a tarp of oiled sailcloth. Tom, Seth, Alistair, and Dun-

can sat together at one end of the otherwise empty table. Tom

waved Maggie over. She slipped in to sit beside him and Seth,

across from Alistair and Duncan.

Seth took note of Maggie’s new wardrobe. “Yer busked out

fine this morn, lass . . . tha’s a fancy piece of goods yer wearing.”

“On loan from Eileen Wallen. My own things needed a wash.”

She took a sip from her cup and moaned with pleasure. “Mmmm . . .

I canna even rub up a memory of the last time I drank a cup of

proper tea with real sugar! Rachel Mulberry is an angel to share

with us.”

“And yer our bonnie angel, Maggie, gracing our table with yer

beauty.” Old Alistair waxed poetic. “Fine silk and lace become ye.”

“Thank ye, kind sir.” Maggie smiled and fingered the lace

tickling her collarbone. “But truly, after th’ night I had last, I’m

feeling more like a mushy turd decorated with primroses.”

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Seth snickered. “Our angel has a mouth like a Billingsgate

fi shwife.”

“Rough night?” Tom laid his hand on Maggie’s back and mas-

saged the space between her shoulder blades.

“Aye.” Maggie looked up at Tom with weary eyes. “Rough

and still rougher ahead.”

Alistair edged forward. “Will Susannah live, at least?”

“She will, and I figure that’s the worst of it.” Maggie set her

spoon down. “Her stab wound bled freely—good, clean blood—

nae bile there. No damage to her guts. I’m certain the knife didna

pierce a lung, her breathing is clear and steady. I put in some

stitches dressed with honey to quell any festering. With proper

care, that wound will heal . . .”—Maggie picked up her spoon

and scraped furrows into the glop congealing at the bottom of

her bowl—“but I’ve no such confidence or cure for the deep rents

to Susannah’s soul. It took twenty drops of laudanum to get her

to quiet.”

Duncan whistled. “Twenty drops!”

“And Mary?” Seth almost whispered.

“Wee Mary’s wound is beyond my ken. She will linger, but she

canna survive.” Maggie sighed and pushed her bowl away. “Su-

sannah will lose her last child and most likely her mind as well.

Megstie me! D’yiz ken th’ woman gave birth only yesterday

morning? And what has she today? Och! The whole sad story

gives me a spoilt spleen.”

Tom said, “Mary doesn’t have to die, Maggie. I remember

once—”

“No, Tom.” Maggie shook her head. “Bare bone is bound t’

rot . . .”

“Listen to me, Maggie—I know this French trader who’d been

caught filching game from a Huron trapline—”

“Pierre Labiche!” Duncan interrupted.

“Um- hmm. You know what I’m talking about, Duncan. Well,

I was there, at Fort Le Boeuf when they drug Labiche in. He’d

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
181

been whole-head scalped—nape to brow, ear to ear—a bloody

mess, but he was breathing. The Frenchy surgeon, he fi xed Pierre’s

skull and the scalp grew back. He’s as bald as a turnip, but Labi-

che traps and trades to this very day.”

“Fixed it?” Maggie snorted. “How’d he fi x it?”

“I must admit, I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen it. To

my mind, it made no sense. But I did see it, and it worked.” Tom

held up an index finger. “First, the surgeon drilled Pierre’s skull

full of bitty holes with a fine pegging awl. Matter oozed up