Midwife of the Blue Ridge (5 page)

Relentless, the prodder persisted in poking a stick between her

ribs. “Get below, you filthy guttersnipe! Your kind is not allowed

to pollute this deck after hours . . .”

“Sod off, y’ drunken skulk . . .” Maggie pushed the stick aside,

irritated at being so rudely wakened from the first deep sleep she’d

had in days. The knob end of the stick caught up under her chin,

30 Christine

Blevins

and the man forced Maggie to rise unsteady to her feet. Though

she had never before laid eyes upon him, she recognized her tor-

mentor at once.

A queued, beribboned powdered wig sat askew on his head,

exposing a patch of close-clipped dark hair. He moved close, his

pallid face inches from hers. “Filthy Scots vermin! Infesting the

deck by day—by God, I will not allow you to haunt it by night!”

“I beg pardon, yer grace,” she croaked, stretching up on tiptoes

to alleviate the discomfort of the cane lodged against her throat.

“I misspoke . . . I mistook ye fer one of the watchmen . . .”

He lowered the silver- tipped cane. His misbuttoned shirt was

trimmed with fine lace and stained with the luxuries of claret

and beef gravy. His sour breath stank of wine and garlic. The

man stood only a wee bit taller than herself, and his clever blue

eyes observed her closely as well. “I am most definitely not the

watch, but I shall call for it . . .”

“No! Dinna call the watch! I swear, it willna occur again, yer

grace . . .”

“It most assuredly will not.” His words were harsh, but the

voice behind them mellowed.

“Aye, yer grace.” Considering herself dismissed, Maggie bent

to gather her bedding. The man continued to stand over her, his

ominous proximity making her anxious for the squalid safety of

the tween deck.

The nobleman suddenly tossed his cane aside. Maggie’s eyes

followed the polished black walking stick spinning and skittering

across the deck planking. He grabbed her from behind and forced

her forward several strides, trapping her hard against the rail.

Certain the madman meant to toss her overboard like so much

rubbish, Maggie squealed, squirmed, and struggled to break free.

It almost came as a relief when he began grinding his hips against

her rear end and groping for her breasts. Maggie stopped strug-

gling immediately.

Mistaking complacency for acceptance, the nobleman relaxed

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
31

his grip. “Good girl—that’s the way . . .” Panting heavy in her

ear, he struggled to shove her skirts up with one hand and fum-

bled with the buttons on his breeches with the other.

In a swift, practiced movement Maggie whirled around with a

clenched fist, striking her molester square in the face with all the

force she could muster. He staggered back. She shouldered past,

hitched her skirts, and ran to the nearest stairway.

The man turned in time to see Maggie escape down the hatch

to join the denizens of the tween deck. Dazed and more than a

little drunk, he plopped down onto a pile of canvas and rubbed

his aching face.

H

“Nimbly, boys, or we’ll be meat for the fi shes!”
Stark shouted

over the wind. He marched two crewmen onto the foredeck,

barking out orders to remove the sails from the bowsprit and

foremast. Cables squealed through pulleys as men battled time,

preparing their vessel to face the oncoming storm.

Mr. Stark was surprised to find the ship’s phantom passenger

sprawled out on a stack of canvas, for Viscount Julian Cavendish

never left the sanctuary of his cabin, choosing instead to weather

his crossing in a semicomatose state of inebriation.

It was unusual for Captain Carlyle to transport members of the

peerage, as the
Good Intent
was not fit out with much in the way of

accommodations. But in a desperate effort to extricate his youngest

son from some nefarious tangle, the Duke of Portland himself had

discreetly arranged the young viscount’s passage at the eleventh

hour. Stark recalled the duke being much more concerned with the

speed of their departure than with the suitability of accommoda-

tions. Canny Carlyle negotiated an extra-generous compensation

for the inconvenience of having to give over his captain’s cabin.

“Beg pard’n, sir.” Joshua picked up the walking stick rolling

around the deck and handed it to the nobleman. “We’re coming

into some foul weather.”

Julian took the cane and used it to propel himself to his feet.

32 Christine

Blevins

“Mr. Stark—are you aware a young woman has made her bed

here among the sails?”

Stark’s eyes darted over to Maggie’s deserted pallet. “You’re

mistaken, sir. Passengers other than yourself are not allowed the

freedom of the deck during the watch. You but stumbled across

one of the ordinary seamen catchin’ a bit of shut-eye.”

“Oh no, Stark—I am quite certain
she
was no ordinary sea-

man.” Cavendish winced and touched two fingers to the purple

swelling beneath his right eye. “One of the indented creatures—a

lovely, wild thing—black hair, dark eyes, luscious round arse—

do you know of whom I speak?”

“No.” Joshua’s mouth formed a hard line in his face, his hands

balled into fists, and he struggled to maintain a level tone.

“There’s no one aboard who answers your description.”

“Indeed, Mr. Stark . . . no one?”

“There’s a bad storm

coming—I must insist,

sir—your

quarters . . .”

“When this foul weather clears, I think I will join the rabble

on deck. Yes . . . good business to fully peruse Carlyle’s mer-

chandise in advance of the auction, don’t you think, Stark?”

Cavendish staggered with the pitch and roll toward his cabin.

“After all, I’ll soon be in the market for a serving girl.”

H

Maggie wended her way through the maelstrom of the tween

deck. The ship’s lurching after six days of calm disturbed every-

body’s sleep. Boots thumping across the upper deck and the

muffled shouts of the crew added to the passengers’ distress.

Those prone to seasickness groaned. Those prone to fear mum-

bled prayers. The pragmatic struggled in the dark to secure their

belongings.

Supported by wooden uprights, platforms mea suring six foot

by six foot lined both sides of the tween deck. The platforms

were stacked one over the other, with little more than two feet

separating bottom bunk from top bunk, and top bunk from the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
33

ceiling above. Four passengers shared each platform with feet

pressed against the bulkhead and heads facing the aisle to catch

what little air there was.

One after the other, the hatches slammed shut. Unidentifi able

objects slid and rolled up and down the narrow aisle, banging

into Maggie’s shins and ankles. After tripping and feeling her

way to the end of the row, she found her assigned space on the

lower platform occupied. Moira Bean, a young woman of gener-

ous proportions, took advantage of Maggie’s absence and lay

comfortably curled on her side. The space allotted each passen-

ger did not allow for anything as exotic as sleeping on your side.

Maggie gave Moira a shove. “Roll over, dearie . . .”

“Ummghh,” Moira moaned loud, and swatted at the air.

“C’mon, Moira! Make room!” Maggie tried to squirm into

the little space left her. Moira’s body twitched and contracted

into a tight ball, forcing Maggie back into the aisle.

“Och, Moira! What’s gotten into ye?”

“We’ve not had as much as a wink of sleep for all her moanin’

and groanin’,” one voice complained from across the aisle. Oth-

ers grunted in agreement.

Maggie pressed hands to Moira’s forehead and round cheeks.

The woman felt clammy, but she was not feverish. Moira was not

one to suffer with seasickness, but she might well have eaten

spoiled food. “Moira, are ye ailin’, lass?”

“Leave me be.”

The sea grew more turbulent. One after another, booming

waves slammed against the bulkhead, pounding the ship without

letup. “God Almighty!” the occupant of the upper bunk cried

out in a panic. “There’s naught between us and certain death but

the thickness of that planking!”

Moira lashed out at the platform above her and banged it hard

with an angry fi st.
“Stiek yer gab, ye bletherin’ gobshite!”

The outburst did not deter Maggie. “Dinna fash. Most likely

something ye ate, Moira. Have ye pain in yer belly? The beef

34 Christine

Blevins

Cook served up today was hard enough to take a good polish . . .”

She pushed and cajoled the hefty woman to lie flat on her back in

order to poke and prod her generous, soft abdomen properly.

Moira’s big belly was not soft at all—it’s hard roundness tight-

ened and bunched beneath her palms. Maggie leaned forward

and whispered into her friend’s ear.

“Why Moira Bean . . . yer birthing a baby!”

H

“Hold her steady into the wind!”
Captain Carlyle shouted at the

helmsman. Sheets of rain whipped across the decks and veins of

lightning cracked the sky directly above as the
Good Intent

churned through the roiling waves. Carlyle smelled sulfur in the

air, fully confident he’d once again bested the sea by having

weathered the worst of this storm.

A burst of wind howled through the rigging. The topmost spar

snapped and tore away from the mainmast, thudding into the

pigpen in a tangle of canvas, rope, blocks, and tackle. Squealing

pigs scrambled over the fallen spar and out of the pen. The dis-

oriented pigs staggered drunkenly with the pitch and roll, silly in

their attempt to make good their escape.

Joshua and the boatswain cleared away the debris as the other

crewmen scurried to capture the pigs. Just as the last squealer

was deposited back into the pen, Mr. Stark noticed a rhythmic

pounding and shouting coming from a nearby hatch. He pulled

back tarred canvas, unbolted and opened the hatch a few inches.

The Duffy brothers’ cherubic faces peered out.

“No worries, boys,” Stark said. “Pass the word. Naught but a

busted spar . . .”

“Mr. Stark! We need a light!”

“Can’t you see

we’ve a storm

here? None of your jaw

now . . . get below, both of you . . .”

Jim Duffy shot his scrawny arm through the opening as Joshua

began to lower the hatch. “Maggie sent us!” they both squawked.

“Maggie needs light . . . Moira Bean’s birthing a baby!”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
35

“What?”
Stark pulled open the hatch and the two brothers

scrambled out onto the deck, shouting in turn.

“Moira Bean’s birthing a baby . . .”

“Maggie needs a light . . .”

“Aye, and yer no t’ worry . . .”

“. . . there’ll be no fire . . .”

“. . . we’ll mind the light.”

The fair-haired twins waited as Stark digested the message.

“But Captain Carlyle does not allow pregnant women aboard his

ship,” he shouted back.

“Moira’s birthin’ a baby nonetheless,” the twins replied in

unison.

“Here . . .” Joshua grabbed a lantern and shoved it at Tim.

“One thing more . . .” Tim grinned. “Maggie sez yer t’
‘stop

the bloody ship from bloody rockin’
.” The two boys returned to

the tween and the mate went up to the quarterdeck to break the

news to Captain Carlyle.

“Have a look, Joshua.” Carlyle handed him a spyglass and

pointed at the clear band of pale dawn on the western horizon.

They would soon sail free of the squall.

Stark handed back the glass. “Maggie sent the Duffys up for a

light. It seems one of the women is having a baby.”

Carlyle snapped the glass shut. “Come with me, Mr. Stark.”

Joshua followed the captain into his quarters, waiting pa-

tiently as Carlyle hung his dripping sea cape from a hook and

then searched through a cupboard for his bottle of whiskey. The

captain swallowed a mouthful and offered the bottle to his mate.

“Tell me, Joshua, how did a pregnant woman manage to stow

away all this time?”

“She’s no stowaway, Cap’n. It’s Moira Bean—the big girl who

sings.”

“Damnation! Hampton knows very well I do not contract

with pregnant women!”

“She’s a large woman, Cap’n, and in all fairness, I doubt

36 Christine

Blevins

Ethan knew Moira was carryin’ when he signed her on. After all,

she’s been aboard for weeks, and neither of us had a clue. There’s

naught to do ’bout it now; she’s squeezin’ the mite out as we

speak.”

“They never survive, you know.” The strain of the storm had

caught up with Will Carlyle and he sank down onto his berth.

“I’ve seen it so many times before. The sailor’s end for

them . . . mother and child sewed into a piece of old canvas with

a load of iron shot to weigh them down . . .”

“Buck up, Cap’n! Moira’s a stout heart and Maggie knows a

thing or two. She’ll do what can be done to help Moira and the

babe survive.”