Midwife of the Blue Ridge (6 page)

“If the baby survives, then I’ve a dilemma of another sort.”

The captain rolled to lie on his side. “The storm’s abating . . . go

find some sleep, Joshua.”

Stark woke several hours later to fi nd the ship in full sail, rid-

ing a strong, steady breeze on gentle swells. To his surprise, he

found Moira Bean up on deck, perched upon a feather bed, nurs-

ing a very pink baby boy. He congratulated the proud mother

and ran up the stairs to meet the captain on the quarterdeck.

“Everyone seems to be faring well, Captain.”

“Aye, Moira’s a strong woman and Maggie pulled them

through.” Captain Carlyle seemed pleased. “I’ve decided on the

solution to my dilemma.”

“Dilemma?”

“Aye—the baby.” Carlyle waved his hand toward Moira. “If I

auction Moira’s contract, it’s doubtful the buyer will accept the

child as well. And though there are those who would not hesi-

tate, I will not separate a mother from her child. If I do fi nd a

buyer accepting mother and child, the law binds the poor baby

into servitude till the age of twenty-one. Dealing with men and

women who enter into an agreement of their own free will is one

thing, but condemning an innocent to decades of slavery weighs

too heavy on my conscience. I’ve decided to have Moira repay

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
37

her debt of passage as a domestic in my home. With our girls

married off, Lord knows my Sarah can use the company.”

Joshua spotted Maggie coming up the hatchway stair. She

looked up to the quarterdeck, smiled, and waved before going to

sit with Moira. Stark and Carlyle both waved back.

The door of the captain’s cabin slammed open and Julian Cav-

endish emerged, attired in the same disheveled clothing he’d worn

the night before.

“Good day to you, sir,” Carlyle greeted him. “It cheers me to

see you leave your cloister and join us on this glorious morning.”

“Yes, yes . . . good morning.” Cavendish yawned, bleary-eyed

and hungover, the purple bruise vivid on his pale complexion. He

stood for a moment, scanning the main deck, closely examining

the crowd. “Aha!” He pointed to Maggie with his walking stick.

“That one, Carlyle. The raven- haired girl. Name your price and

have her sent to my quarters.”

At first struck speechless by the audacious demand, Carlyle

recovered quickly. “I—I’m sorry, sir, but my partners frown upon

the practice of advance sales.”

“Name your price, Captain, for I’ve no patience haggling with

merchants. I’m quite certain your partners will have no com-

plaint with our transaction.”

“Again, I apologize, sir, but I must abide by the rules and de-

cline your generous offer. I’m afraid you will have to attend the

auction and enter the bidding with all buyers.”

“It is most unfortunate, Captain, that we cannot come to

terms.” Clearly unaccustomed to having a request so rebuffed, he

turned on his heel and descended the stairs to the main deck.

“What partners?” Joshua asked. Carlyle grinned.

Will and Josh chuckled, watching Julian Cavendish, so alien

to the environment of the ship, pick his way through the crowd

with much effete distaste. Maggie noticed the viscount heading

her way. She muttered something to Moira, and slipped down

the hatchway.

38 Christine

Blevins

“Why, that pompous powdered Bob . . .” Carlyle shook his

head in amazement. “He’s cast his eye on Maggie, and means to

have her.”

“Well, I’ve got my eye on him. If he bothers Maggie, I’ll trim

his fancy jacket and give him a good rubdown with an oaken

towel, I will!”

“Steady now, son.” Carlyle calmed his mate. “Just warn the

girl. Tell her to steer clear . . .”

“But, Cap’n, she’ll not be able to steer clear if he purchases her

contract at auction . . .”

“Don’t worry, Joshua, I’ll see to it. Duke’s son or no, Maggie

Duncan is too good for the likes of that drunken scoundrel.”

4

Just A rrived

SCOTTISH SERVANTS

Just Arrived

in the ship the
Good Intent

A Number of healthy Indented Men and Women Servants

among the former are a Variety of Tradesmen,

with some good Farmers and stout Labourers

Indentures will be disposed of

on reasonable Terms for Cash by

Captain William Carlyle of Richmond, Virginia

April 4, 1763

“Yer certain there’ll be women for sale?”

The elderly gentleman tapped the stem end of his claybowl

pipe to the broadside tacked onto the notice board. “Well, it says

right here—‘men and women’ . . .”

“Aye . . . and would ye happen to ken today’s date, sir?”

The pipe smoker took a moment to reevaluate this Scotsman,

who had so politely introduced himself with a request to have the

auction notice read aloud. The young man’s patched and grimy

frock shirt was tied at the waist with a rough-cut strap of leather.

40 Christine

Blevins

He wore deerskin breeches and his feet were encased in soft moc-

casins. Slight and wiry, Seth Martin stood only a mite taller than

the long rifl e he casually leaned upon.

“I don’t suppose you’ve much call to mind the calendar back-

country, eh, son?”

“Na . . .” Seth shrugged. “. . . one day’s much like the one afore.”

The older man chuckled, having a certain regard for the life-

style led by the frontiersman. “If you aim to buy yourself a

woman at that auction, best make your way riverside, for today

is the fourth and most auctions tend to get under way about

midday.”

Seth Martin glanced up at the sun shining directly above. He

thanked the man and hurried down to the waterfront.

H

“
There’s one!
Look there! A Red Indian man!”

The immigrants rushed the portside, where Jim Duffy stood

shouting and pointing like a madman. It’d been two weeks since

the
Good Intent
snaked its way up the James River to the fall line

at Richmond, and the newcomers had yet to sight a single savage.

Maggie wriggled through the crowd and leaned out over the

rail.

“Where? Where d’ye see a Red Indian man?”

“Look there, ye gowk.” Jim Duffy pointed to a tall man com-

ing down the pier leading two laden packhorses.

“He’s no a verra red Red Indian, is he?” Maggie noted.

“Do Indian fellas often wear beards that-a-way?” someone

else asked.

“He’s no a Red Indian at all . . .” twin brother Tim challenged.

“Christ! O’ course he’s a Red Indian,” Jim insisted. “Have

look at the clothes he’s wearin’.”

The first mate bullied his way to the front of the crowd. “Why,

you silly pack of greenhorns! That’s no Indian.” Stark cupped his

hands to his mouth. “
Ahoy, Tom!
Ahoy, Tom Roberts!”

The man leading the horses stopped and squinted into the sun-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
41

light. He whisked off and waved his battered felt hat, exposing

telltale fair hair. “Ahoy, Josh!”

“Fry me brown, Tom, I never thought to see you alive! They

said you were crow’s meat by now.”

“Whosoever told you that is a point-blank tale-teller. I’ve been

on a long hunt, Josh—overmountain—beyond the ridge in
Kenta-

ke
! I’ve a year’s worth of stories to tell and peltry to sell—”

“Hold there, Tom. We’re buying goods for the outbound

voyage . . . I’m coming down.” The first mate impatiently pushed

people aside, making his way over to the gangway. “G’won now!

Get on back to where the bidders can give you a good going-

over.” He shooed the crowd away from the rail before running

down to greet his old friend.

Freshly bathed and laundered, with their contracts pinned to

their backs, the immigrants shuffled back to stand about as buyers

wandered the decks previewing Carlyle’s human cargo in anticipa-

tion of the auction. Indentured men who arrived armed with a

trade such as carpentry or smithing were in high demand and gar-

nered premium prices. Strong young men suited for work in the

fields would also fetch a high price. A lucky woman would have

her contract purchased by a well-to-do colonial in need of a do-

mestic servant, for during planting season, there were those who

did not hesitate to purchase females for backbreaking labor in the

fi elds.

The captain warned them all to be on their best behavior dur-

ing the preview, for no one would bid on a surly servant. To en-

courage their cooperation, Carlyle made it plain any contracts

unsold at auction’s end would be handed over to a broker known

as a soul driver. Not known for their kindness or for the quality

of their clientele, soul drivers herded their human merchandise

through the countryside in search of buyers. Many an unfortu-

nate lass wound up working the terms of her contract fl at on her

back in a brothel—an all-too-typical sale for a soul driver.

As much as Maggie wanted to impress buyers, she had a hard

42 Christine

Blevins

time behaving well under their rude scrutiny. A man came up

and ordered her to open her mouth so he could “have a gander,”

and Maggie struggled to keep from spitting in his eye. The pro-

spective buyer moved on in search of a “good-natured girl” and

she wandered back to the rail.

The indented passengers had not been allowed to debark, and

for two weeks, Maggie leaned out over the same rail, longing for

the day when she could set foot on dry land. Now that auction day

had arrived, the precarious uncertainty of fate lay heavy on her

heart and she struggled to quell the anxiety cramping in the pit of

her stomach.

“Och, bloody hell!”

Silver- tipped walking stick in hand, Julian Cavendish strolled

down the pier. Maggie spent the better part of the voyage hiding

belowdecks to avoid the viscount’s dogged pursuit, and she be-

gan the day hanging on to the slim hope that perhaps he would

not attend. Captain Carlyle promised Maggie her contract would

not be sold to Cavendish, but she worried nonetheless. Men of

rank have the means and the habit of acquiring whatever they

want.

H

Joshua Stark was helping his friend off-load the heavy bales of

hides and furs when Tom Roberts suddenly burst out laughing.

Josh looked up to see the young viscount, coiffed in an elaborate

powdered wig and attired in silk and lace finery, strut past on

high-heeled shoes. Josh thought it a good idea to run up and

warn Maggie, when a barge loaded with a dozen hogsheads of

cured tobacco pulled up alongside the
Good Intent
.

“Blood and thunder!” he cursed. “I’ll have to deal with this

lot. Tom, go on up and settle accounts with the boatswain—do

me a favor—tell him to find Maggie and warn her that Caven-

dish is aboard.”

“Maggie, you say?” Tom gave Josh a friendly shove. “Who’s

Maggie?”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
43

Josh grinned and shoved him back. “Pass the message. I’ll ex-

plain later.”

“All right, I’ll meet up with you at lamp- liftin’ time—the

King’s Arms. As I recollect, you owe me a pint.”

H

It was easy for Maggie to spot the tall man in the ever-growing

crowd of buyers, sellers, and servants. At six feet two inches solid

and strong built, Tom Roberts stood a good head taller than

most of the men aboard. A large, ginger-colored dog accompa-

nied him as he moved through the tumult of the auction-day

throng with a smooth hunter’s grace. He and his canine compan-

ion wove their way to the table near the quarterdeck stair where

Mr. Pebley kept an accounting of the day’s business. Maggie

inched through the crowd, avoiding the viscount and moving

close to where she could get a good look at the exotic colonial.

His rough hands rested large on the barrel end of the longest

gun Maggie’d ever seen. He waited patiently while Mr. Pebley

finished dickering with another man over the price of milled tim-

ber. At his turn the hunter stepped forward.

“How do, Mr. Pebley. I’ve five hundred half-dressed deerskins

and three hundred winter beaver pelts . . . all

top-notch. Josh

tells me you’ll be wanting the lot.” His rich voice made Maggie

wish she could hear him tell one of the tales from his hunt “be-

yond the ridge in
Kenta-ke.
” He leaned in on the long gun that

seemed almost a part of him and proceeded to bargain for fair

price with the boatswain. His unusual attire sparked Maggie’s

curiosity, and it seemed she was not alone when the Duffy twins

and MacGregor, the schoolmaster, sidled next to her.

“He may not be a savage, but he certainly dresses like one,”

fastidious MacGregor sniffed.

Tim Duffy asked, “Ye think mebbe he’s one of those who lives

among the savages?”

“Aye, most likely captured as a lad,” Jim agreed. “I heard tell

of such . . . ‘renegade,’ Ol’ Pete calls ’em.”

44 Christine

Blevins

The hunter’s long shirt of faded blue linsey was cinched at his

trim waist with a wide leather belt. Among the many oddments