hanging from his belt and shoulder, Maggie recognized a sheathed
knife and a powder horn. The horn was a beautiful thing in
itself—skillfully etched with a scene of mountains and words
Maggie could not read. She pointed and whispered to MacGregor,
“What’s that say?”
“It says ‘Tom Roberts, His Horn, 1755.’”
“See that there—” Tim pointed to the small axlike weapon
hanging from the man’s belt. “That’d be his ‘tommy- hawk.’ Aye,
that’s what he uses when he goes t’ lop off yer scalp.”
Maggie noticed all of the man’s possessions were decorated in
some unique fashion. A pattern of leaves curled up the carved
handles of his tomahawk and knife. His belt and the leather
sheath protecting his knife were tooled with intricate geometric
designs. A cluster of brilliant colored feathers dangled from the
polished dark stock of his gun, which was incised with fancy
scrollwork and inlaid with a silver heart. Even his dog wore a
collar woven with a zigzag of bright, tiny beads.
The hunter and the boatswain must have reached an agree-
ment, for Pebley opened the strongbox and began counting out a
stack of notes. “There’s ten . . . twenty . . .”
“Silver.”
Harried Mr. Pebley glanced up at the hunter. “What’s that?”
“Silver.” Tom Roberts pushed the notes aside. “This paper is
worthless where I’m headin’. Them Spanish dollars you have in
the box will suit me fi ne.”
Pebley sighed, returned the notes to the strongbox, and pro-
ceeded to count out the agreed- upon amount in Spanish pieces of
eight. The immigrants were agog at the amount the hunter re-
ceived for his goods. Back home, hunting was a sport reserved for
the peerage and the notion of hunting for profi t was unheard of.
“
My Lord!
It’s indecent!” James MacGregor whispered. “The
man’s wearing naught but a breechclout!”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
45
Instead of breeches, the hunter wore a red woolen breechclout.
Soft leather leggings came up to midthigh, just where the fringed
hem of his long shirt began. His leggings were secured below the
knee with red wool garters and tucked into the cuffed tops of
laced leather slippers.
“He’s dressed more decent than the soldiers in Glasgow,”
Maggie countered. “Those lads wear naught beneath their regi-
mental kilts but what God gave them upon their birth.”
Tom Roberts leaned over the table to gather the proceeds, allow-
ing Maggie a better vantage from which to ponder the mechanics of
the breechclout. He deposited handfuls of coins into a rectangular
leather pouch, hanging by a beaded strap across his chest. Roberts
turned and caught Maggie in the act of admiring his muscular up-
per thighs. He slung his gun over his shoulder and headed straight
for her, a wry smile peeking through his dark beard.
“You’re staring, miss. Do we know one another?”
Tongue-tied, Maggie shook her head no, and without know-
ing what else to do, she knelt down to stroke his dog.
“No harm intended, sir.” Mr. MacGregor stepped forward.
“Excuse the lass . . . she was but curious. We’ve never seen a
body dressed in such a fashion, ye ken?”
“You her husband?” Roberts asked.
The Duffy twins guffawed and MacGregor turned beet red.
“Husband? Och, no!”
“We’re newcomers—from Scotland,” Tim offered.
Jim said, “Maggie fancies yer dog.”
The hunter laughed loud. “So
you’re
Maggie!”
She leaped to her feet and tried to push past, but Tom Roberts
grabbed her by the arm before she could get away. His hat had
slipped from his head and his eyes shone ever blue in the bright
sunlight. His provocative smile was quite unnerving. Maggie—
who rarely found herself at a loss for words—found herself struck
dumb by this man.
“
Maggie Duncan! Duffys! MacGregor!
The lot of you—go
46 Christine
Blevins
line up with the others,” Pebley ordered. “The auction’s about to
begin.”
The hunter’s blue eyes clouded over. The playful smile up-
ended into a frown. Still having hold of her arm, he spun Maggie
around to see the contract pinned to her back.
“Hmmph! Servants!” He released her arm, picked up his hat,
and strode away, his dog padding after him.
Maggie stood astounded by this swift shift in attitude. “That
was quite odd.”
“Odd indeed!” MacGregor agreed. “Colonials . . . verra bra-
zen, if ye ask me.”
“Some men just don’t cotton to the notion of folk selling them-
selves into slavery,” Pebley said. “Rubs ’em the wrong way.”
“We’re no slaves!” Maggie argued. “Slavery is a lifetime.
We’ve but contracted four years.”
“It’s all the same to a man like Tom Roberts. Those backcoun-
try men walk the earth beholden to no one and no thing. Why,
most of them don’t even consider themselves Englishmen.” The
boatswain waved them along. “Get a move on now and join the
others. The bidding’s about to begin.”
H
A richly attired and very fat woman proclaimed her delight at
acquiring a perfect matched pair of footmen for a mere seventy
pounds after winning the bid on the Duffy brothers. MacGregor
did not fare as well. A man building a crew to labor in his to-
bacco fi elds purchased the scholar’s contract for a lowly twenty
pounds. Maggie’s heart ached as bewildered MacGregor tripped
past, following his new master down to the pier. She waited her
turn on the block, wringing her hands, choking back tears, ut-
terly regretting the day she signed her indenture.
“Stop fretting,” Josh Stark said. “How many times do I have
to tell you? It’s all arranged. The captain has a plan. Cavendish
will not win your contract.”
“Aye, but soon we’ll ken who my master will be.” She mo-
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
47
tioned with a wave toward the quarterdeck and burst into
tears.
“Stanch them tears! No one will bid on your contract if you
blubber and then Cavendish will certainly win.” Joshua pulled
Maggie from the queue and gave the next man a shove up the steps
in her stead.
“They’re gone—the Duffy lads, MacGregor—an’ I didna have
a chance to wish any of them a proper farewell.”
“Don’t cry . . . you can’t cry, not now.” Josh untied the ker-
chief from his neck and used it to swab the tears from Maggie’s
cheeks. “Chances are you will see them again one day.”
“You think so?” Maggie sniffed.
“Sure . . . why, just today I met up with an old friend I haven’t
seen in years.”
Maggie flushed with renewed embarrassment, and gave an
angry swipe to her nose with a handful of skirt. “And how is it
yer friends with that brute?”
“Tom? Ah, don’t let his gruff looks frighten you. Tom Roberts
is all wool and a yard wide. We were boys together—grew up at
Penn’s Settlement.”
“Quakers!” Maggie couldn’t help but grin at the notion.
“Well . . .” Josh smiled. “We were raised Quakers, Tom and
me, but the elders claimed we were more suited to raise hell.
The plain life held no appeal for either of us. As soon as we
could, we bolted—Tom for the high timber, and me for the high
seas.”
Maggie winced as the auctioneer’s gavel banged out a fi nal
bid. “I wish I could bolt right now.”
“Everything’ll be fine, you’ll see. You’ll get a position with a
nice family and I promise to call on you whenever I’m in port.
Now get ready, Maggie. You’re up next.”
H
The auction had been under way for some time when Seth Mar-
tin pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He counted only
48 Christine
Blevins
five women left standing in the queue of twenty waiting their
turn up the steps.
They all seemed strong, clean, and well fed. These immigrants
had weathered their crossing well compared to the sad lot he’d
sailed in with sixteen years before. His heart sank when the fi rst
two contracts he bid upon went for more than the sum he had to
spend. These
were quality laborers, and as such they fetched
quality prices.
Seth had sold four kegs of his best dram whiskey and one
stubborn mule to earn the twenty-three pound notes clenched in
his fi st.
Not enough . . . not near enough.
“Margaret
Duncan—twenty-two years of age,” the rotund
auctioneer announced as the next young woman mounted the
steps to the quarterdeck. Seth’s heart sank farther. He didn’t
stand a chance of winning the bid on this girl—she was too
pretty by far.
Her hair was plaited in one glossy black braid coiled at the
base of her neck. Her faded yellow blouse accentuated the tone of
her olive skin, coated with a sheen of perspiration, and the tight-
laced bodice she wore emphasized the dip and curve of a very
womanly fi gure.
“. . . unmarried and childless, this girl is suited for service . . .”
“Yep! She can service me anytime!”
A pimple- faced young man drew a loud guffaw from the
mostly masculine crowd with his play on words. The girl on the
stair colored red and looked near tears. Seth pitied the lass, rec-
ollecting the helplessness he felt the day he had stood on the
block.
“As I was saying,” the auctioneer continued, “this girl is well
suited for
domestic
service and has been taught additional skills
that would benefi t any estate—”
“I bet I can teach her a few skills!”
The crowd howled. Seth observed the girl struggle to maintain
her composure, but hands flew to hips and angry eyes fl ashed.
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
49
Much to the crowd’s delight, she stepped forward and addressed
the rude young man.
“Ho there! Laddie! Aye, you . . .” She pointed. “You wi’ the
face like a tinker’s spotty arse. Here’s a sound bit of advice—best
make friends wi’ yer fist”—the girl punctuated her verbal assault
with an explicit hand gesture—“for it’s bound to be yer one true
love.” The crowd roared its approval and the heckler slunk
away.
Seth liked this girl.
“Please . . . your attention, please!” The auctioneer banged
the gavel. “Captain Carlyle himself attests to this young woman’s
extensive knowledge of medicines and remedies. Though young,
she’s served many years as apprentice midwife . . .”
Seth could not believe his ears. Providence had to have sent
this lass in answer to his desperate prayers.
“. . . and so we seek an opening bid of eight pounds . . . do I
hear eight pounds? Aha, yes—I have eight pounds from the vis-
count. And nine? Do I hear nine? Nine pounds? Yes, there’s
nine . . . do I hear . . . I have ten from the viscount. Thank you,
sir. Do I hear eleven?”
“TWENTY-THREE POUNDS!” Seth shouted out.
The crowd stuttered into silence.
“SOLD!” The gavel slammed down. “Sold for- twenty-three-
pounds- to-the- small-man-with-the-big-gun!” The red-faced auc-
tioneer shoved Maggie aside and scurried down the stairs, loudly
proclaiming a dire need to “answer nature’s call.” The stunned
crowd began to stir.
“What?”
“She’s sold?”
“That can’t be . . .”
“Well, when nature calls . . .” Someone laughed.
“Go on and get her, son.” A man slapped Seth on the back.
“Looks like that pretty gal’s yourn.”
When Seth saw some of the other bidders grumbling about the
50 Christine
Blevins
turn of events, he did not waste any more time pondering his
good fortune. He marched over and tossed the fistful of notes on
the boatswain’s table. “Where do I sign?”
Seth scratched his mark several times, anxious to secure the
girl’s contract before any protest could be lodged. The boatswain
blotted the ink, dusted the parchment with a sprinkling of sand,
and handed him a copy of the document.
“Quite a bargain, young
fella—I’d say today’s your lucky
day.”
“That’s so . . .” Seth grinned from ear to ear and tucked the
paper into the front of his shirt.
“My, my . . . it cannot even write its own name!”
Seth turned to the voice. The fancy Englishman—the viscount
who had placed the initial bid on the girl—was standing right
behind.
“I’ll have that girl. Name your price.”
“Not interested.” Seth slipped the rifle from his shoulder to
rest in the crook of his arm.
“Don’t be a fool.” The smiling Englishman reached into his
breast pocket. “I’ll pay . . . forty pounds. I’d say that’s more than
enough to purchase one of these other trollops to tend your hovel
and whelp your brats and leave you with a few pounds to shove
in your pocket as well.”
“Aye—an’ I say, ye can shove that forty pound right up yer
own arse—I’m not sellin’.” Seth smirked. Many of the onlookers
were laughing at the viscount’s expense.
“
Lout!
I’ll teach you how to address your betters,” the En-
glishman sputtered, and raised his cane to strike, but was stopped
by the barrel end of Seth’s rifle pressed cool beneath his right
ear.