Midwife of the Blue Ridge

Midwife

of the

Blue Ridge

Christine Blevins

Midwife

of the

Blue Ridge

Midwife

of the

Blue Ridge

Christine Blevins

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

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Copyright © 2008 by Christine Blevins.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Blevins, Christine.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge / Christine Blevins.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN: 1-4362-4183-9

1. Midwives—Fiction. 2. Women pioneers—Fiction. 3. Scots—United States—

Fiction. 4. Blue Ridge Mountains Region—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.L478M53 2008

813'.6—dc22

2008004475

For Brian

my life, my love, my heart

ac k n ow l e d g m e n t s

It is best to begin at the beginning. I would have never begun or com-

pleted this novel without the loving support and excited encouragement

of my wonderful family.

I will be forever grateful to my sister, Natalie Frank, for a lifetime of

sharing stories and books, and for bringing about the dinner at the Three

Chimneys Restaurant on the inspirational Isle of Skye that sparked a

storytelling session and my first desire to write. A special thanks to my

brother- in-law, Peter Morris, for the simple but all-important suggestion

of “just get a notebook and write it down . . .”

For giving me guilt-free time to research and write, and for taking

their mom’s ambition to finish and publish a novel seriously, I thank my

four fantastic kids: Jason, Natalie, Bob, and Grace.

For sharing insight, critique, and expertise, I would like to give

thanks to all of the writers who attended the eve ning Writers Group at

the College of DuPage with me, especially my core brothers and sisters

of the pen: Tom McElligott, Jo-El Grossman, Farheen Dogar, Holly

Stoj, Gerry Ryan, Chris King, and instructor Kristine Miller.

I want to extend heartfelt appreciation to my fantastic literary agent,

Nancy Coffey, for loving this story, and to my wonderful editor, Jackie

Cantor, for championing this book to publication. I also offer thanks

and admiration to talented artist James Griffi n for capturing the spirit

of Maggie Duncan so beautifully for the cover illustration.

Most of all, I want to thank my best friend and the source of all

things good in my life—Brian Blevins—for always being right there to

squash my self-doubt and push me forward in everything I do.

Midwife

of the

Blue Ridge

Pa rt O n e

H

Lochiel, Lochiel! Beware of the day

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!

For the field of the dead rushes red on my sight,

And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.

They rally, they bleed, for their country and crown;

Woe, woe, to the rider that tramples them down!

Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,

And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.

campbell

In 1746, the last battle ever fought on British soil was fought on the

Culloden Moor in Scotland.

The Scottish Highlands

The Village of Black Corries

April 1746

“It’s a rare thing for a child to be delivered at my convenience . . .”

Hannah launched herself from the warm cocoon of her bed-

covers. A midwife is never surprised by a knock on the door in

the middle of the night, but Hannah Cameron was indeed sur-

prised when she opened the door and found a strange, bedraggled

mite of a girl on her stair step.

“Hurry, mistress . . . he needs yer help.” The agitated girl

bounded from the step and disappeared around the corner of the

cottage. Hannah tossed her plaide about her shoulders, snatched

up her basket of supplies always kept at the ready, and rushed out

the door.

Rounding the corner, the midwife could make out two fi gures

huddled near her stable. The little girl crouched next to a scruffy

man, gripping him by the hand as he sat propped against the

stone byre—his familiar eyes glimmering with the light of a wax-

ing moon.

Hannah stopped cold and blinked hard, certain her own eyes

were playing mean tricks in the dark. The basket slipped from

her fingers and tumbled down the slope as she ran to his side.

6 Christine

Blevins

She didn’t need to see the wound festering on her husband’s

body. In the cool damp of the moonlit night, the reek of poisoned

flesh was overpowering. In that spare moment, Hannah knew

her Alan was a dead man.

“Darlin’ lad! Ye shouldna be lyin’ here—c’mon, up—up on

yer feet—”

Hannah struggled to hoist her husband to a stand. With ef-

fort, Alan Cameron placed his left arm around his wife’s sturdy

shoulders. They stumble-stepped into the cottage, Alan’s right

arm dangling erratic, like a tool on the tinker’s cart as it banged

along a rutted road.

“Och, aye . . .” Alan Cameron sighed and nestled into the

comfort of his own bed. “Home at last.”

Hannah tossed peat clods on the embers and touched a fl ame

to the oily wicks in the cruisie lamps. For a moment the midwife

became lost in a frantic search for her elusive scissors, at last fi nd-

ing them in the tangle of her mending basket. Clutching tight the

shears in one fist, Hannah pinched the bridge of her nose between

thumb and forefi nger to silence the clamor in her head. She drew

a deep breath, forced a smile, and stepped back to the bedside.

“Well, love, let’s see the sort of mischief yiv been up to.” She

snipped away the remnants of what had been Alan’s best shirt,

exposing a filthy, bloodstained bandage bound above the elbow

of his right arm.

Alan said, “It’s but a wee saber slash . . . hardly more than a

scratch . . .”

“Scratch or cut, ye should’ve cleaned it proper, like I taught ye.”

“At the time, I was a bit concerned with savin’ the rest of my

hide.”

Hannah kept her eyes on task. “Ye

were there, then?

Culloden?”

“Aye, Culloden . . .”

“Right in the thick of it, too, I’ll wager . . .”

“In the thick of it, aye, that I was, lass.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
7

Hannah gulped back the angry retort sprung to her lips, just

as she had nine months before when Alan’d answered the call to

arms. The time for scolding had long since past.

Mouth pursed, she snipped at the bandage—the sweet-rot odor

more distinct as each layer of crusty linen peeled away. Hannah

pressed a warm, wet compress over the last fragment of cloth that

had bonded to his skin with a stubborn glue of dry pus and blood.

She kept her eyes averted from the blue poison trails racing across

his chest toward his heart.

Hannah peeled away the last of the bandage and her hand fl ew

to cover her mouth. She fought to choke back bitter bile rushing

up her throat.

It was by far the worst case she’d ever seen—dead, black skin

surrounded by rust-brown, oozing blisters. The surgeon’s saw

would not save her man. The gangrene was far too advanced.

Alan grasped Hannah’s hand with his left. “We never stood a

chance—Cumberland’s artillery cut us to ribbons before we could

even begin our charge.” His grip tightened. “All for naught, Han-

nah. The courage . . . those brave, brave lads . . . all for naught . . .”

Hannah wrenched her hand away. “I—I need to clean and

bind yer wound.” She ripped a discarded petticoat into long strips,

the words
all for naught
tolling like a church bell in her head.

Tiny hands appeared and draped a cool wet cloth across Alan’s

fevered brow.

“That’s verra helpful, lass.” Hannah had forgotten about the

little girl. Glad for the distraction, she asked, “And what are ye

called?”

“Maggie,” the girl offered with a smile and a bob of the knee.

“Maggie Duncan.”

Hannah picked at a twig stuck in the snarl of the girl’s black

hair. It struck her odd—the strange lass had not turned or retched

from the horror and smell of the gangrenous wound.

“Alan, where’d ye find this wee slip?”

“In truth, she found me.”

8 Christine

Blevins

“And where would that have been?”

“Och!” Alan winced as Hannah began swabbing his wound

with a wash of marigold petals steeped in warm water. “The En-

glish are steadfast in hunting those who escaped the field of bat-

tle.” With a soldier’s discipline he concentrated, refocusing from

pain to the past. “I’ve been hiding by day and moving only under

cover of dark. Made my way to Bailebeg—knew the people there

held strong for our

cause—hoped they’d give me aid.” Alan

paused, glancing at the little girl who stood at his side. “But the

English—they’d got there afore me.” He tensed and shivered as if

to shake the memory away. “They’d massacred them all. Every

blessed soul. Old folk, women . . . children . . .”

“Women and children! But why . . . ?”

“Cumberland.” Alan spat out the name and settled back in the

bedding. “Th’ butcher ordered no quarter given to supporters of

the rightful king. I was daft with fever, and so tired, I lay down

there—just to bide a wee and rest a moment. When I woke, I found

Maggie beside me.” He reached out and stroked the girl’s head.

“She brought water and shared what bits of food she’d scav-

enged.”

Maggie left them to freshen her cloth with water from the

pail.

“The lass escaped the massacre?” Hannah whispered.

“She willna speak on it, but I figure her folk are counted

among the murdered. There was no leavin’ her behind, Hannah—

not there. Ye ken I could never . . . never have left her there . . .”

“Ah, now, darlin’ . . . dinna fash. O’ course ye couldna leave

the wee lass behind.”

“No—and in the end, ’twere Maggie who brought me home.”

“Aye, she did . . .” With loving fingers Hannah smoothed and

erased the worry from his brow. “Maggie brought you home to

me.”

Alan smiled and closed his eyes, never seeing the tears track-

ing quiet trails down Hannah’s cheeks.

1

The Village of Black Corries

Spring 1760

An obedient girl, Maggie Duncan usually heeded Hannah’s ad-

monitions to keep her eyes downcast so as to not ruffl e anybody’s