Midwife of the Blue Ridge (28 page)

Tom held up the basket filled with lady’s mantle. “I’ve seen this

flower growing along streambeds my whole life long and never

knew its name till today. I’d say you know more’n most folk.”

“Aye, what I know best is I’ve still much to learn.”

“I can show you some—” Tom stopped short and veered off

the trail, pulling Maggie by the hand to stand at the base of a tall

tree. “I learned this from my time with the Ojibwe. They called it

a medicine tree—
ozhaashigob
.”

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“Ohh-gaa-shkee-bob . . .” Maggie giggled.

“O-zhaa-shi-gob
. White folk call it slippery elm.”

Maggie reached out and touched the tree. “It’s no verra

slippery . . .”

Tom tugged the tomahawk from his belt, carved off a gritty,

gray strip of bark, and turned it over to show Maggie the pale,

viscous inner bark. “See—it’s slick on the inside. You peel the

smooth part free from the rough and grind it to a flour. I always

try to keep a sackful in my kit. Comes in handy.”

Maggie took the bark from Tom and sniffed. “Smells like cel-

ery, na? What’s it good for?”

Tom continued to work the tomahawk, effi ciently stripping

the trunk clean. “I mix the flour with a few drops of water.

Slippery-elm plaster heals sores and wounds better than any-

thing. See this?” He showed Maggie a shiny scar the size of a

Spanish dollar located midthigh, just above his leather legging.

“Stopped a Mohawk musket ball. Pried it out, packed the hole

with slippery elm . . .” Tom slapped his leg. “Good as new.”

“Mohawk? A Red Indian shot ye?”

“Um- hmm. Ambushed hunting their ground with the Ojibwe.”

Tom hunkered down and began peeling curls of inner bark from

the pile he’d harvested. “Mohawk and Ojibwe are sworn ene-

mies.”

Maggie knelt to help, repeating the odd word. “Oh- jib-way.”

“Um- hmm. Ojibwe women fi x slippery-elm tea for a fl ux in

the belly or gut . . .”

Ojibwe women!
Maggie’s heart jerked and danced a jealous

jig in her chest.
Aye . . . where else would he have learned those

things . . .

A flush rushed to her cheeks and a shiver coursed her spine,

recalling the past hours spent in his arms. Tom Roberts had

proved to be more than ably skilled in the art of love. Maggie

could only guess at the countless women he’d pleasured in ac-

quiring those skills, and she cringed a bit, recalling her own

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
197

awkwardness. Maggie kept her hands busy peeling bark, covert

eyes watching Tom. She could never hope to compare to the likes

of pretty Bess Hawkins or wild Indian maidens.

“You can eat slippery elm,” he rambled on. “Cooked, it tastes

kind of like walnuts. Ojibwe women use the flour to make a

wholesome gruel for weaning babies or to feed the infi rm. It’s

good food . . .”

Aye . . . I’ll wager he’s lain atop many a wanton Indess . . .

Maggie shook her head to banish the image from her mind.

“. . . I swear it’s the truth, Maggie. When game was scarce and

corn run out, our whole clan ate it. Many a time we had naught

but
ozhaashigob
porridge to hold pinching hunger at bay.” Tom

stood. “We have enough here. We’d better get going.”

Basket in one hand, he hoisted Maggie up to her feet. Gather-

ing her in a one-armed embrace, he pressed a sweet kiss to her

lips, saying simply, “I am that happy.” Taking Maggie by the

hand, Tom led her back onto the trail.

Maggie’s mind slipped back to their time in the meadow.
Live

and die for thee.
That’s what he whispered in her ear the moment

they had joined flesh. As she walked alongside Tom, his seed

mingling with virgin blood seeped sticky between her legs; she

gripped his hand tight, and tried hard to shove her doubts aside.

Tom Roberts was her man now and she was determined to know

him well. “How long did ye live among Red Indians?”

“Oh, a little more’n three years.”

“Three years! It must’ve been awful for ye, livin’ among the

fearsome brutes . . .”

Tom stiffened and squared his shoulders. They walked for a

stretch in uneasy silence.

As suddenly contrite as she was jealous, Maggie blurted, “I

didna mean to pry—it’s no wonder ye never speak on it . . .”

“Naw—it ain’t that. I guess I spend so much time on the trail

alone, I’ve just grown accustomed to keeping things close to my

own heart.” He met her eyes smiling and squeezed her hand

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slightly. “Truth is, it weren’t awful. As a matter of fact, I found

the Ojibwe people lived a more Christian life than most whites

who profess the faith.”

“What yer sayin’ runs contrary to everything tolt t’ me about

Indians.”

“Yep. I speak hard truths, and when I returned, I didn’t hesi-

tate to tell others what I thought. But I learned quick—it’s much

easier for white folk to believe all Indians are devils. Makes it

easy to push them aside. Easy to take advantage. Tends to rub the

conscience less when you steal from a heathen.”

“But they
are
heathens—savages.”

“All men are savages when at war. The Ojibwe are fi erce war-

riors, but they are also kind, generous, and honorable people. From

the moment they washed the white out of me, I was always treated

with fairness and respect, an equal to any true son of the clan.”

“Washed the white out of ye?”

Tom laughed. “You remember how I was captured and ran the

gauntlet?”

Maggie nodded.

“After that I was traded off to a band of Ojibwe. I left with my

new captors, thinking I’d gain an opportunity to make good an

escape. But we traveled to the north country by canoe, and it was

days and days afore they discarded my bindings. By that time

there were hundreds of miles between me and Braddock’s army. I

began to despair of ever getting back.”

“Could ye no sneak off into the night?”

“A green boy, just seventeen, unarmed in hostile territory with

winter comin’ on?” Tom shook his head. “It would have been the

end of me for sure. Winter up north is harsh, like nothin’ you’ve

ever seen.

“When we arrived at the village I was lickety-split stripped of

my clothes. They dressed me Indian fashion—a buckskin shirt

and leggings heavy with bead and quillwork. My ears were bored

and hung with silver ornaments—”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
199

“No!” Maggie looked close. Sure enough, though unadorned,

Tom’s ears were pierced.

“And an old woman pulled almost every hair from my head—

plucked me like a Christmas goose—bald but for a greased and

befeathered topknot. I must have been quite a sight to see.

“They brought me to the river where the multitude had gath-

ered. I began to fidget a bit, feeling more and more like that

Christmas goose. I figured they’d trussed me up for some grand

entertainment—like being roasted on a spit.

“Then a very old man—the chief—stood and spoke a great lot

of what at the time was gibberish to me. When he finished, I was

seized by a gaggle of young women. They pushed and pulled me

to the water. I was sure they meant to drown me, so you can

imagine, I kicked up quite a fuss. I struggled, hollerin’ loud,

swinging elbows and fists until I heard one woman say, ‘No hurt

you.’ I stopped struggling then. The women took me into the

river and scrubbed every inch of me.” Tom winked at Maggie.

“It weren’t so bad after all.”

Imagining the scene, Maggie suppressed another wave of sick-

ening self-doubt from overcoming her reason. She would have to

grow a thick skin if she really meant to become a true friend to

this man. “And the Indians,” she asked, “they truly believed they

washed the white from you?”

“A baptism of sorts I s’pose. After that, I was considered one

of them.”

“But ye aren’t one of them. Ye shouldered yer rifle and marched

off with the militia eager to kill Redmen. Ye saw fi rsthand what

the devils did to the Bledsoes . . . to wee Mary . . .”

“And I’ve also seen many terrible things white men have done to

Indian women and children as well. It’s a

quandary—I know

they’re heathen people and have seen with mine own eyes that

they’re quite capable of the worst savagery, but still, I find much to

admire in them.”

“Admire!”

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“They’re the best hunters, Maggie.” There was a curious spar-

kle in his eye as he spoke. “They live close to the land. Almost

everything I know about tracking, trapping, and woodcraft, I

learned in the three years spent with the Bear Clan.”

“Hmmph! If it were all so grand, why’d ye ever leave?”

Tom stopped and faced Maggie. “I left because I came to

know that thee can never wash the white out. It don’t work that

way—not for me anyhow.”

“Maaaggieeee!”

The two turned in tandem to see Jack Martin, kicking up a

whirlwind tearing along the trail toward them. He skidded to a

cataclysmic stop and leaned one scrawny arm against the trunk

of a honey-locust tree, his cheeks painted bright with exertion,

gulping air.

“Da sent me t’ fetch y’ back . . . Mam’s havin’ the baby!”

15

Old Clothes and Comfort

“Ada . . .” Maggie shook the dozing woman by the shoulder.

“Ada, wake. The head’s crowning.”

Ada Buchanan stirred from her stool in the corner, rubbing

sandy eyes with fists and stretching to stand upright. Maggie

opened the blockhouse door, drinking in a quick breath of al-

most dawn before striding with purpose to her worktable.

Squinting in the dim light, Ada surveyed the room. “Where’s

Eileen?”

“She’s gone to fetch more water.” Maggie looked up from pin-

ning a bib-style apron to her bodice and laughed. “Yer cap’s all

cockeyed . . .”

Ada straightened the mobcap awry on her head, rolled sleeves

up over fleshy forearms, and glanced out the open door. “Not

quite daybreak—we need more light.”

“Aye.” Maggie dropped several items into the large pocket on

her hip. “There’s another lantern outside the door.”

The sleepy, windowless room was now alive with activity. Ada

hung the lantern from the center ceiling rafter, bathing the crowded

sickroom in bright, swinging light. Sharing the bed opposite the

birthing bed with her daughter Mary, Susannah Bledsoe woke and

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rose up on one elbow. Eileen trounced in and set a brass kettle

under the table, its plume of steam adding to the swelter of close

quarters. Maggie unfurled a frayed bedsheet and snapped it out to

cover the narrow floor space between the two beds.

Naomi moaned, her thin face pinched in pain. She pushed up

to sit and swung her legs over the bedside, her toes barely grazing

the floorboards. Panting, sweating, gripping the edge of the

makeshift bed, Naomi struggled to stand. “This baby’s a-comin’

Maggie . . . this baby’s comin’ NOW!”

Ada and Eileen scurried around. Flanking the laboring woman

like stalwart sentry soldiers, each looped a strong arm about

Naomi’s waist and helped hoist her to her feet. Maggie knelt

down, centered and facing the linked trio of women.

“Hike up her shift . . .” Maggie ordered. The women obeyed,

each yanking a fistful of sweat-soaked muslin, hip-high. “Now

bear down, Naomi . . .”

Tossing her head like a mare shy of the halter, Naomi moaned,

“I’m so tired.”

“Bear down!”

“I can’t do it . . . I can’t.”

Maggie locked eyes with Naomi. “Dinna give up now. Yiv

endured hours of grinding pains. These are the forcing pains,

lass. Take a good breath and bear down.”

Naomi nodded. Drawing in a deep breath, she swiped away

the tears and strands of auburn hair plastered to her ruddy

cheeks. Bracing herself between the two solid columns of women,

she crouched down into a semisquat, scrunched her eyes tight,

and pushed.

“
Uuurrrrgghh!
”

Maggie reached up between the laboring woman’s straining

thighs, cradling the murky little head as it squeezed its way into

the world.

“This babe’s wearing its caul!” Maggie grinned, peeling off a

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
203

piece of thin, translucent membrane that clung to the knob of the

newborn’s skull like a sailor’s cap.

“Save the caul for a charm, Maggie,” Ada advised.

“A good sign.” Eileen spoke soft into Naomi’s ear. “Thee’s

birthing a lucky one, dearie.”

Gasping for breath as she slumped between the two women,

Naomi could only nod. She planted her feet to make ready as

muscles bunched and a wave of pain rode over her distended ab-

domen, crashing full force at the nexus between her legs.

“Hold fast, Naomi,” Maggie encouraged. “Bear down . . .”

Fingers digging ridges into Ada and Eileen’s steady shoulders,

Naomi crouched down once more, growling like a wounded she-

bear.