Midwife of the Blue Ridge (35 page)

gulp from the fl ask.

Maggie set the cleaver aside and elbowed her way in for a

good close look. Joe’s torso was riddled with injuries. His left

side—from armpit to hip—was a mass of sickening purple-blue

bruises overlayered with a curious pattern of small circular welts.

Maggie crouched to study the worst of it, tracing fi ngertips over

the welts. “Hobnail boots?”

Joe nodded. She scooped up a cup of the water the comfrey

was steeping in and added a generous pinch of willow bark pow-

der to it and gave it to Joe. “Drink this down.” Maggie handed

Rachel a small clay pot. “Rub this salve onto the scrapes and

bruises across his back and on his face.”

Seth propped one foot up on the bench and leaned in. “Tell us

what happened, Joe.”

“Ambushed,” Rachel answered as she smoothed the ointment

onto her husband’s wounds. “Stepped out the door to see to his

chores and they ambushed him.”

Joe fingered the bandage on his head. “Walloped me acrost

the pate . . .”

“. . . with a spade,” Rachel finished. “I heard a commotion

and stepped out to find a red- haired giant of a man standing over

him, spade in his hand. There were others in the dooryard with

guns trained on Joe.”

“How many, all together?” Fletcher asked.

“Four,” Joe answered.

“Five,” Rachel corrected, “if you count Portland, prancing

and curveting about on his fancy steed. Never dismounted, that

one—had his henchmen do his dirty work while he sat gloating

in the saddle.”

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“That drunken Brady Moffat,” Jacob squeaked. “He was one

of ’em.”

“Brady Moffat,” Duncan snorted. “Can’t say as I’m surprised.

He’s as rotten as a turd and not worth a fart—so desperate for

the drink he’d hog-tie his own mother for a ha’penny.”

“That renegade Simon Peavey was there as well . . .” Joe

clutched his ribs.
“Ooahh!”

Maggie came around the table. “Ye havna drunk yer tea,

Joe.”

He cast a dubious glance at the still-full cup sitting beside him

on the table. “That seems a vile ooze, Maggie . . .”

“’Tis vile, but ’twill ease yer pain—now drink!” She held the

cup to his lips. He drew in a mea sured breath and took a swal-

low. She handed him the cup and stood there with a baleful glare

until he finished the dose.

“What about the other two?” Seth continued. “Did ye recog-

nize either o’ them?”

Joe breathed deep and slow. “There was Moffat, Peavey, the

redheaded giant, and a withy little Irishman . . .”

“Scrawnier than a plucked chicken,” Jacob chimed in.

“‘Connor’ they called him—he’s the one did the talking,” Ra-

chel expounded. “A face like a bag of nails on that one.”

“The giant man was called ‘Figg,’” Jacob recalled.

Rachel shook her head. “I’ve never seen a man as big—but

even with a head the size of a muskmelon, he must have been

standing behind the door the day they passed out the brains.

’Twere clear he’s a simpleminded fella.”

“I’ve seen wiser eatin’ grass . . .” Joe wheezed.

“Figg was the only one unarmed.” Jacob noted.

Maggie unrolled half a yard of flannel onto the tabletop. She

scooped the blanched greens from the kettle and plopped the ge-

latinous goo onto the rag. Using a wooden paddle, she spread it

in an even, steaming layer over the cloth.

“Did ye offer to pay a quitrent on the land?” Seth asked.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
247

Joe nodded. “I asked to parlay—” He stopped, closed his eyes,

and drew in a deep breath.

“Take it easy, Joe.” Rachel wiped her hands on her apron.

“Portland refused to speak with us. Connor said proper surveys

had been filed on the land grant from the king—”

“He showed us a writ from the governor in Williamsburg or-

dering us dispossessed,” Joe continued. “Connor said Portland

meant to plant tobacco and we must abide by the writ.”

“Hmmph.” Fletcher tightened his grip on the barrel of the rifl e

he leaned upon. “
Must
is a king’s word.”

“I read the order with guns trained on me,” Rachel pointed

out. “We had no recourse or means to resist.”

“It’s no wonder ye were the first they preyed upon, Mulberry.”

Alistair tugged on his whiskers. “Yiv the best access to the

river . . . necessary for a tobacco plantation.”

Maggie pressed her palm into the comfrey on the cloth. Satis-

fied it had cooled sufficiently, she peeled the poulticed rag from

the tabletop. “Raise yer arm as high as ye can.” She applied the

flannel, mushy side against his battered skin, plastering the worst

of his bruises with the warm remedy.

“Ahhh . . .” Heat and comfrey brought instant relief. The lines

etched in Joe’s

sweat-slicked forehead disappeared. Maggie

wrapped lengths of linen stripping around and around his torso

to secure the poultice in place. “What on earth did ye do, Joe, to

cause them t’ beat ye this bad?”

“I-it

wasn’t Joe’s fault, Maggie,” Rachel stuttered. “It was

me . . .”

“Now, darlin’ . . .” Joe took his wife by the hand.

“You know it was all my fault, Ma,” Jacob insisted.

Rachel wound an arm about her son’s shoulders. “We’ve been

on pins and needles since we heard about our surveys bein’ bad.”

She sighed. “Seeing the court

order—ink on

paper—it almost

came as a relief. Just as I set my mind to packing, everything went

awry . . .”

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Joe nodded. “Our Jacob here bust out from the cabin swingin’

my rifl e . . .”

“I got off a hurried shot.” Jacob punched a fist to his palm.

“Missed the duke fella by but an inch or two. Sent his mount on

hind legs.”

“Lucky that, ye wee fool.” Alistair shook a finger at Jacob.

“Yer mother doesna need t’ see ye dangling by the neck, branded

murderer.”

“Moffat drew a bead on Jacob. I lunged and knocked his gun

aside so’s his shot flew wide.” Rachel touched fingertips to the

welt marring her face. “Then he struck me . . .”

“I leaped on Moffat,” Joe added, “and Figg fell on me.”

“Figg took Joe down with fists and kept him down with

boots—kicking and stomping.” Rachel’s eyes welled up in recol-

lection. “I pleaded and screamed for him to stop—fi nally Con-

nor called the brute off.”

“Portland then barred us from taking much more than the

clothes on our backs.” Joe gripped his wife’s hand and smiled.

“But my Rachel managed to come away with her teapot and my

rifl e.”

“Thank the Lord the boys were able to find most of our stock

foraging in the forest.” Rachel pushed her hair back from her

face. “We’re hoping to trade the cows and goats for enough pro-

visions to get us back to my folks up in New York.”

Duncan said, “Whatever you need, Rachel—we’re all sorry

for your trouble.”

“I didn’t think he’d be so swift to evict,” Fletcher said, brood-

ing. “Thought at least we’d be able to buy time to harvest our

crops and winter over . . . the Duke of Portland’s surely a cold-

hearted, cruel bastard.”

“This man yiz call Portland—” Maggie spoke up. “I know

him, and he’s no the duke.”

Seth shot Maggie a look. “Ye know him?”

“We sailed on the same ship.” She pulled at her apron strings

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
249

to loose the bow. “Viscount Julian Cavendish, th’ youngest son

to the Duke of Portland. Ye must have seen him at the auction,

Seth—all silk and lace and walking stick—he had one o’ those

black spotties pasted onto his cheek.
Feich!
” She bundled her

apron into a ball.

Seth pinched the bridge of his nose between his fi ngers. “Not

the periwigged fop what bid against me on yer contract?”

“Aye, one and the same.” Maggie sponged the sweat from her

face and neck with her wadded apron. “Och, he made the voyage

a living hell for me. Drunken sot dogged my steps so, I had to

hide in the tween to keep safe from him.” She shimmied up to sit

on the tabletop. “I surely never fancied layin’ eyes on him

again . . .”

“Neither did I.” Seth shouldered his weapon. “Pack yer things,

Maggie. We need to get home.”

Pa rt Th r e e

H

My Answer is, that I Wish there was not an Indian Settlement

within a Thousand Miles of our Country; for they are only fit to

Live with the Inhabitants of the Woods, being more nearly Allied

to the Brute than the Human Creation.

sir jeffrey amherst,

governor general, british

north america

. . . you can well see that they are seeking our ruin. Therefore, my

brothers, we must all swear their destruction and wait no longer.

Nothing prevents us; they are few in numbers, and we can accom-

plish it. All the nations who are our brothers attack them—why

should we not attack? Are we not men like them?

pontiac,

ottawa chief

18

A Dreadful Wind

Seth loosed the knot on the kerchief about his neck and used it to

swab dusty, gummy sweat from his face. He was grateful for the

shade provided by the broad brim of his hat, for it was the only

bit to be had out in the middle of the cornfield. Snapping an ear

of corn from its stalk, he peeled back the husk and cut into a

kernel with his thumbnail. A pearl of milky starch oozed up.

Too green.

This early in the harvest season the pickings were slim. Seth

sought hard, ripe corn ready to shell for grinding and most of his

corn was still in the silk. He dropped the green ear over his

shoulder into the collecting basket strapped on his back and

picked a dozen more to roast for supper.

Without much tending at all, his corn had grown tall—horse-

high and higher—the result of a fine growing season, a perfect

balance of sun and rain. Riddled with stones and stumps, Seth’s

fi elds were unplowable and he was obliged to forgo straight, old-

world style furrows and plant his crops Indian style. Mounding

the rich soil into small hills, he had planted each hummock with

three varieties—corn, beans, and squash.
Three sister crops.

The Indian method was ingenious. Corn grew sturdy and tall

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enough to support a bean vine twining up its stalk. The bean

vines anchored the cornstalks to the ground and prevented ero-

sion. The squash plant’s broad leaves hunkered at the base of ev-

ery cornstalk, retaining moisture in the soil, hindering weeds

from fl ourishing.

Seth trod between the mounds and tree stumps, suddenly

proud to think he’d chopped down every tree and planted each

seed with his own hands.
Did it once, and I can do it again.

He stopped for a moment to slip the carry strap of his rifl e

from right shoulder to left. He was resigned to the fact that

they’d be soon moving on, but he could not afford to be caught

unprepared, like Joe Mulberry. For unlike the Mulberrys, the

Martins had no family to turn to. It was up to Seth alone to pro-

vide for the seven souls that depended on him, and as a result,

from before daybreak to past nightfall he worried and planned,

worked and worried.

He stepped up onto a tree stump, arms akimbo, and looked

out over tassel tops waving on the breeze to survey this holding.

Two years toiling—breaking our backs—all for naught.

If the Irish surveyor he’d hired had filed the claims proper,

they would have found out right off they had no right to claim

this land. He hopped from the stump.

Drunken bastard!
Seth kicked a clod of dirt into smithereens.

Never pays to truck with the Irish.

The Bledsoe holding was lost to Portland’s grant as well, but

Seth was still bound to provide for Susannah and her daughter

for as long as Alexander required a wet nurse. They’d traveled to

her farm the day before to recover valuables, but the place had

been ransacked—tools, weapons, livestock—all gone. Susannah

came away with a bit of clothing and a few odds and ends. Seth

gleaned her fi elds for ripe ears with small return on the effort.

At the very least, I have t’ figure on one bushel a month each for

Maggie, Susannah, and meself
. . . Seth ciphered in his head as he

worked the fi eld.
Three-quarter rations for Winnie and Jack. Half

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
257

rations for Mary and Battler.
He tapped out calculations on his

thigh, fingers ticking off an allotment of provender for each person

in the household.
That comes t’ five and a half bushels a

month—November through April . . .
Fingers tapping . . .
Thirty-

three bushels!
To survive the winter, they’d need to harvest, shuck,

and shell thirty-three bushels of grain before Cavendish came along

with his writ and his henchmen to boot them from the land.

Seth added and multiplied the figures once again, hoping for