Midwife of the Blue Ridge (17 page)

The two of them were clipping the bindings to further inspect

the pelts when Elder Willie marched from behind the forge, cir-

cling a hammer inside a triangle of iron. Everyone set aside their

doings and moved toward Willie, who’d climbed onto a tree

stump, clanging away.

About fifty men, half as many women, and again as many chil-

dren assembled in the center of the fortyard. The women settled

down on tree stumps, organizing small children to sit quiet at

their feet. Men and adolescent boys stood on the periphery in

loose cadres, leaning on rifles and muskets. Maggie and Naomi

found a place beside Susannah Bledsoe. Both Tom and Seth stood

not too far behind Willie. When it seemed the smith had drawn

everyone’s attention, he ceased his clanging and spoke.

“Our
gut
friend Tom Roberts brings
mit
him some news.”

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Tom seemed startled by the brief introduction. He paused to lay

his rifle on the ground, then mounted the speaking stump and

cleared his throat. “Out on the trail, I met up with a hunter. Some of

you may know him—Guy DeMontforte—Frenchman from the Il-

linois. He told news of some consequence and I felt obliged to

turkey-tail back and pass it along.” Tom slipped his hat off and

shifted his weight, uncomfortable without his rifle in hand. “I fi gure

you’ve all heard talk of Pontiac, the Ottawa chief up north . . .”

Maggie glanced from side to side. Heads bobbed and a low

murmur floated through the crowd. Naomi clutched her hand.

Susannah’s squabbling twins were shushed with a sharp smack

to the back of each head.

“Well, it seems the talk has merit. Pontiac’s been moving

among the northern tribes, stirring up hell with a long spoon.

He’s managed to form an alliance—Ottawa, Wyandot, Chip-

pewa, Miamis, Sauk, Seneca, Delaware, Mingo, Potawatomi—

all banded together.”

The string of odd words didn’t mean much to Maggie, but the

settlers grew stone-still as each exotic name tumbled from Tom’s

lips. Women leaned in, eyes wide, their mouths taut, thin lines.

The men all stood ramrod stiff, white-knuckled fi sts gripping

weapons tight.

“I’d as lief not be the bearer of bad tidings, but Pontiac has

sounded the war cry. His message to his brethren is this—‘lift the

hatchet against the English and wipe them from the face of the

earth.’” Tom’s upraised palm quelled a wave of outraged mutter-

ing. “Listen up! Forts Detroit and Pitt are both under siege . . .”

Tom paused. “Fort Sandusky on Lake Erie, Fort St. Joseph on

Lake Huron, Fort Miamis, Forts Ouitenon, Michilimackinac,

Venango, Presque Isle, Le Boeuf, Fort Edward—every British

post along the Ohio and Great Lakes is taken.”

A feminine moan rose up in harmony with a masculine groan,

self- restraint broke, and everyone began speaking at once, ren-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
115

dering them all incoherent. Tom waited for the concert of voices

to dim. Willie banged iron and attention was restored.

“There is some good news—this mayhem is confined to the

garrisons up in the old French territory, and hopefully, it will go

no further. Commander Henry Bouquet and a division of Regu-

lars are dispatched to regain order. That’s all I know.” Tom

stepped down.

Seth leaped up onto the stump. “I say we are verra lucky—

lucky indeed to have a friend like Tom Roberts. We thank ye,

Tom.” A scattering of applause and a few feeble huzzahs pierced

the tension left in the wake of Tom’s announcement.

“I say . . .” Seth shouted louder to be heard above the agitated

crowd. “I say this: forewarned is forearmed.” He pointed toward

the unfinished stockade wall. “Our task is clear. We need to fell

at least twenty trees. A show of hands—who can stay on during

the week as axmen?”

The Willies raised their hands, along with six of the younger

men not burdened with families to care for. Willie the Elder

joined Seth on the stump. “Ve must purchase stores—meat, meal,

gunpowder, lead . . .”

“Aye,” Seth agreed. “Let us hope for the best, but prepare for

the worst. We will come thegither to finish the station and collect

funds to prepare for siege. Spread the word—a gather-all, four

days hence.”

10

The Gather- All

“It’s time, lassies,” Seth announced. “Set yer baskets here and

line up along the wall.”

Maggie placed her basket with five others. She squinted up at

the sun ball scorching a hole low in the early eve ning sky and

found a shady spot near the new section of stockade wall.

The men had labored since sunup to enclose the station sturdy

and safe. Roundabout women contributed a fair share, cooking

meals and preparing foodstuffs to store for a possible siege. The

setting sun signaled the time to relax and enjoy the camaraderie of

good friends, food, and music—just reward for a hard day’s work.

Maggie tugged at her stays.
That minikin Naomi had the

strength of ten men when she tightened these laces.
The stiff

corset ribbed with baleen drilled a painful hole beneath each

armpit. She cursed her vanity, sorely regretting the three bits

squandered on the stays. But that had been the only bad bargain

she’d made, trading her silver and pelts for enough fabric and

thread to outfit herself with a new wardrobe. Maggie had stitched

like a demon into the wee hours to have new togs ready to wear

to the gather-all.

She smoothed the pale gray-and-blue-striped dimity skirt with

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
117

pleasure, never having owned anything so fine. Her blouse and

petticoat were cut from an ell-wide length of crisp linen shirting,

and she fashioned a bodice from a remnant of indigo twill the

peddler man let her have for a song. Maggie pinned her hair into

a sleek coil with two new silver hairpins, and Naomi gave her a

pair of white cotton hose and garters to wear.

“Gather ’round! Gather ’round for the supper- basket auction!”

Seth clanged a cowbell and hopped up onto a large tree stump in

front of the row of young women. Maggie’s fellow basketeers

squealed and exchanged whispers in anticipation.

“Bachelors to the fore!” Seth encouraged a scrum of young

men to congregate in a heap nearer his rostrum. Sitting and

standing in a loose band around the core of single men were

those too old, too married, or too young to partake in the auc-

tion, but still eager to enjoy the spectacle.

Maggie pulled a square of muslinet from her pocket and

dabbed the puddle of sweat collected at the apex of her cleavage.

She looked up to find at least two dozen pairs of man-eyes plas-

tered on her bosom. Shaking her head, she sighed.

“Gentlemen, let the bidding begin.” Seth held aloft a small

basket tied with a bow of yellow ribbon that matched exactly the

ribbon adorning petite Sally Anderson’s soft brown hair. “Have I

two bits?”

“For that puny meal I’ll bid two cents.” Charlie Pritchard drew

a masculine laugh and a feminine scowl with his rude remark.

“Piggy-eyed, pimple-snout Pritchard, so concerned for the size

of his meal,” whispered Janet Wheeler, the girl to Maggie’s left.

“Him with a belly like a rain barrel.”

Maggie snickered.

“Included with each supper basket, the pleasure of sharing a

meal
in private
with one of the bonnie lassies ye see here.” Seth

waved his arm toward the girls with a courtly flourish. He glanced

over his shoulder at tiny Sally Anderson. “They say good things

come in small packages.”

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Blevins

Sally blushed pretty, which compelled Billy Barlowe to bleat

out a bid of two bits and the auction began in earnest. With only

six baskets for sale, the competition grew fi erce.

“. . . SOLD to Hamish Macauley for three and a half dollars!”

Seth rang the cowbell with vigor and handed the tiny basket to

the fi ery-haired Macaulay. Maggie stifled a giggle when the huge,

thumping frontiersman encased Sally’s hand in his paw and

strolled gallantly out the gate.

The gang of single men watched the mismatched pair leave

and collectively glanced back to the baskets sitting at the base of

Seth’s tree stump—but five left. Hamish’s conquest seemed to

steel the lads with new determination.

Maggie had been disappointed to learn Tom’d left Round-

about days before, off on his summer hunt, she supposed. She

perused the faces in the crowd of potential dinner mates and

could put a name to only a few of them. Willie Wagner the

younger stood at the edge of the crowd, gawking at the line of

ladies, his moist mouth agape.

Maggie nudged Janet. “That Willie—carries his brains in his

bollocks, na?”

Janet giggled into her hand. “But he has a good trade. Pa says

he’s plump in the pocket.”

“What am I bid?” Seth held up a basket trimmed with a spray

of laurel blossoms, and Alice Springer tilted her head for all to

notice the matching pink flower tucked Spanish- lady style behind

her right ear.

“Mr. Raeburn,” Seth called. “What say ye? Two bits.”

Jamie Raeburn obliged, opening the bidding with a shout of

“Two bits.”

Janet nudged Maggie and whispered, “The way I heard it,

Alice let Jamie open her bid at the corn shucking.”

Maggie absorbed this tidbit of gossip, eyeing Jamie Raeburn

standing among the bidders, slender as lath with archangel good

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
119

looks. “That one seems overaware of himself,” she observed.

“All vine and no potatoes.”

“A-yep—thinks he hung the moon,” Janet agreed. “I, for one,

wouldn’t have him if his hair were strung with gold.”

Jamie Raeburn remained silent after his initial bid, and

shadow-shy Will Russell won Miss Springer’s basket for the sum

of three dollars. Too timid to take his lady by the hand, Will

traipsed after Alice like a lost sheep. As they passed through the

gates, Maggie saw the renegade lad, Simon Peavey, coming into

the station to join the auction crowd.

Simon had decked himself out British Regular–style for the

gather-all, brass buttons glinting on his red wool coat. His bulky

braids were tucked under his singed, cockeyed wig and he carried a

large bale of hides lashed like a pack to his back. Maggie was happy

to see the powder burns on his face looked to be healing well.

Simon created a bit of a stir, shoving and pushing his way to

the front. He struggled free of the straps and dropped the bale on

his back to rest at the base of Seth’s tree stump. He glanced up

and caught Maggie’s eye with a look of such fierce intensity, she

lost her smile and stumbled back a step. Janet pinched Maggie on

the arm. “It’s your turn.”

Seth hefted Maggie’s big basket, conspicuous by its lack of

decoration. “Aye . . . plenty to eat in here, lads.” Everyone

laughed when Seth set the basket down, rubbing his arm as if to

sooth sore muscles. “Who will open the bidding?”

“Two bits.” Jamie Raeburn flashed Maggie a gorgeous smile.

“Four bits.”

“Five bits!”

The bids came fast and furious. The price for her basket rose

swiftly, and when the price grew too dear, many of the bidders—

Jamie Raeburn included—dropped away.

“Four dollars!” Willie Wagner topped the last bid.

“Four dollars once . . .” Seth intoned. “Four dollars twice . . .”

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Blevins

“Five bucks!” Simon Peavey shouted.

Whistles and low-toned mutterings filtered through the crowd.

“Seth,” Jamie Raeburn complained. “I don’t see why we need

allow this greasy Indian . . .”

Simon shifted his stance, and quick-slipping the rifle from his

shoulder, he cocked the lock. Through gritted teeth he said, “I’m

as white as any of you.”

“No argument, lad.” Seth kept a calm voice. “But I’ll have ye

lay that weapon aside, afore I continue with the auction.”

Simon backed off glaring; the muscle at his jaw taut and

twitching, he laid his rifle at Seth’s feet. Seth heaved a sigh.

“Peavey has the bid at fi ve . . .”

“Five and half,” Willie countered, agitated pink splotching his

fair cheeks. “Silver.”

Maggie was none too keen on having her basket acquired by

either Simon or Willie, and she shot Seth a look that would have

curdled a pail of milk.

“Five and a half dollars once . . .” Seth began.

“Eight.” Grim-faced, Peavey crossed his arms over his chest.

“Eight bucks.”

With Maggie’s sharp eyes boring two holes in the back of his

head, poor Seth was desperate for another bidder. “Come now,

lads,” he pleaded. “A good cause, this—Young Willie, are ye bid

nine?”

Shuffling backward, Willie shook his head and stove his hands

into his pockets.

“Waugh!”
Simon Peavey yelled, and tossed his wig into the

air. He threw his head back and ululated a heathen yip that

pierced eardrums and sent a cold stream down Maggie’s spine.