Midwife of the Blue Ridge (36 page)

some miracle in miscalculation that would make this impossible

task seem manageable. But the numbers did not lie. Thirty-three

bushels—subsistence rations needed to ward off starvation.

I’ve but days, when what I need is weeks.

Finding a ripe ear here and a ripe ear there, he moved from

cornstalk to cornstalk, stepping in time to a late-afternoon ci-

cada chorus echoing through the fi eld. Z
hing-zhing-zhing-

zhing
—the surrounding woods sounded as if filled with men

shaking pocketfuls of coin.

A whole pocket full of silver . . . wouldna tha’ be fi ne?
Seth’s

mind leaped easy from worry to wish and then to remorse. And

for the first time, a twinge of regret for the money spent on

Maggie’s contract twisted in his chest. It was the most coin he’d

ever had in his pocket at one time—earned it selling four kegs of

his corn whiskey and his best mule.

I meant to save Naomi, but Death came determined and

spared no questions.

A wave of nausea staggered Seth, his stomach suddenly soured

as if he’d swallowed a cup of turned milk. He headed back to the

cabin. Basket dragging heavy on his back, he could see Susannah

in the distance, sitting alone in the shade of the tulip tree, shell-

ing corn.

The drop edge of the world
. . . That’s what Naomi called it

the first time she saw the piece of land he’d claimed. He should

have known right then it was all too much for her.

Swallowed her whole. Such a wee slip was never meant for

258 Christine

Blevins

this harsh life. If only she were stronger . . . if only I hadna

brung her here
. . . With a shake of his head, he said aloud, “No

time to waste pondering ifs and mights.”

More time. That’s what he needed—or something of value to

trade for corn. He hashed over the situation once again as he

broke clear of the cornfi eld.

Seth passed Ol’ Mule munching the goosefoot weed sprouting

on the manure pile.
There’s value in that mule, but a man canna

hope t’ clear a field or build a cabin without a mule.
Trading the

mule was not an option. Seth skirted past the hog snuffling in a

makeshift pen near the smokehouse.
Have to keep the hog.

Corn alone would not get them through the winter. A body

depended on fat to survive. Seth might get lucky and track a bear

this winter, but in truth he’d have little time to spare for hunting.

The hog was a sure thing and he planned to spend the next day

building a makeshift pen in the woods to cache the beast beyond

Cavendish’s reach.

Seth wanted to leave as soon as they were supplied.
Hug the

Blue Ridge and head south—careful to steer clear of Cherokee

country.
It would be warmer longer down south, give him time

to find a place to settle. Over winter he’d work the ax and clear

acreage for planting . . .

Seedcorn!

Seth stopped in his tracks.
At least two bushels
. He had to

plant a crop in the spring, or they’d face an even grimmer winter

next season.
Thirty-FIVE bushels of corn . . .

He glanced over his shoulder at the sun scratching the rim of

purple hills on the western horizon. Seth drew a deep breath, ad-

justed the basket so the burden lay square between his shoulders,

and shuffl ed forward.
No . . . not near enough hours in a day . . .

The solitary tulip tree in the clearing cast a long shadow

across the dooryard. Susannah had dragged a bench from the

cabin and sat in the shade. She wore a triangular shawl looped

with the narrow points knotted at one shoulder. Alexander slept

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
259

sound in the pocket of this sling she’d positioned diagonally

across her back.

She took an ear from the pile of shucked corn sitting to her

right, leaned forward, knees spread, and rubbed an old corncob

against the ripe ear, forcing the kernels to drop
tat-a-lat-a-lat

into the willow-withy basket between her feet. When every ker-

nel had been rubbed free, she flipped the spent cob into a grow-

ing pile to her left and took another ear.

Seth propped his weapon against the tree, slipped free the bas-

ket on his back, and spilled the ears he’d just picked onto the

ground to create a third pile—corn that needed to be shucked.

“There’s little out there what’s ripe.” He looked around. “Where’s

Maggie—the children? They ought t’ be helpin’ out . . .”

“Found ’em underfoot.”
Tat-a-lat-a-lat.
“Battler’s a hellion

and Maggie’s not much of a hand at shellin’ . . .”

“Aye that. The lass’s an able midwife, but when it comes to

farm chores, she’s as—”

Susannah cut Seth short. “Maggie saved my Mary and I’d be

happy to shuck and shell her corn from now till forever.”
Tat-

a-lat-a-lat. Tat-a-lat-a-lat.
“I sent ’em all into the field for beans.

Figured it wouldn’t hurt us none to come away with a sack or

two.”

Seth nodded, chastised. “Aye, wouldna hurt.” He glanced into

Susannah’s basket.

“Almost a bushel here,” she said. “I’ve four full bushels in-

side.”

“Well, make room—I’ll lend a hand.”

Susannah wriggled over; Seth sat beside her and began peeling

and twisting husks from the corn. Working together in silence,

intent on their tasks, they both heard it before they felt it—a

dreadful wind, droning like the monotone skirl of a bagpipe,

louder and louder as it scoured the field, cornstalks rattling in its

wake. It swooped in and washed over them, raising the hairs on

the back of Seth’s neck.

260 Christine

Blevins

He clapped a hand to his hat to keep it from flying off and

walked to where he could see thunderheads massing on the eastern

horizon. Another fierce gust rushed in to sweep through the pile of

discarded cornhusks, launching them up to rustle in the sky.

Seth rubbed the back of his neck. “Eastlin’ wind . . . boding

wind.”

Susannah came to stand beside Seth. Her skirts slapped her

legs and she tussled with her apron flapping about her face. “I

figured it were set to rain hard when I spied those

horsetail

clouds in the sky this morn.”

Little Black and Patch darted in from the field and tore

around the dooryard in mad circles, barking and leaping after

the cornhusks caught in the whirlwind. Seth crushed his hat be-

tween his hands, stuffed it under his belt, and cupped his mouth.

“Maaggggiieee!”

Bursting out of the cornfield, Maggie raced into the dooryard

bumping a single-wheeled barrow. Little Mary and Battler sat

inside laughing, screeching, and holding tight to the sides. Jack

and Winnie trotted after, each lugging a canvas sack fi lled with

just-picked beans. Maggie skittered to a raucous stop at the

bench, breathless. “There’s an evil storm a-brewin’ . . .”

Seth barked orders as he swung Mary and Battler from the

barrow onto their feet. “Jack—you go and stable Ol’ Mule.

Winnie—get th’ wee ones intae the cabin . . .”

Susannah undid the knot on her shawl. “Take the baby in as

well . . .”

Winnie dropped her sack and gathered Alexander into her

arms. Little Mary took Battler by the hand and the children did

as they were told.

Seth gazed skyward. A gray slurry of clouds churned above

the hills. “Comin’ straight at us—best get the corn inside afore

this landlash lets loose.”

The wind grew wild and continued to incite the dogs to bark

incessantly. Seth, Maggie, and Susannah scrambled, tossing arm-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
261

fuls of corn into the barrow. Seth pushed the first load through the

cabin door and was busy dumping it into the corner when the room

was suddenly thrown into darkness. Winnie cried out,
“Da!”

“Dinna fash, just the wind blown the door shut . . .” Seth ma-

neuvered the barrow around in dim light and turned to fi nd a

great, huge man filling almost every square inch of the open

doorway, obscuring all light.

Battler yelped and scuttled across the room. Seth caught him

up and the boy buried his face in his father’s neck.

The enormous pair of shoulders bowed, torso bent at thick

waist, and a prodigious head covered in wiry, carrot-red hair

cleared the lintel piece. Hobnail boots clacked on the fl oorboards

as the giant man clomped into the cabin. Seth’s eyes moved help-

less to the empty rifle pegs near the door, the image of his gun

leaning against the tulip tree flashing through his mind.

In order to avoid banging his head on the ceiling rafters, the

giant was forced to stand awkward, with knees slightly bent and

head tilted. He gripped a stout oaken cudgel in one hamlike fi st

and slapped it to a palm the size of a two-egg skillet.

“Aw’ out, sez I,” he bellowed, his voice thick and creamy with

phlegm.

“Ooohhhh, Da!”
Winnie whimpered.

Never taking his eyes off the giant, Seth slowly sidestepped

around the table. “I’m coming for yiz, lass.”

Winnie didn’t wait. With Alexander asleep in the crook of her

arm, she took Mary by the hand and scurried to her father’s

side.

“FIGG!” a man’s voice hollered from outside.

The giant seemed to swell and he boomed, “Out, sez I! Out, or

I be crackin’ heads!”

Battler squeaked and clung tight. Seth placed his free hand on

Winnie’s shoulder. “We’re goin’ to do just as the man says, lass,

so hang on to Alexander and take hold of wee Mary . . .” He

could feel Winnie beneath his hand, trembling like a leaf on an

262 Christine

Blevins

aspen, but he moved forward, steering the group past the large

man, through the door, and into the yard.

Beneath an angry sky fl ashing lightning in the distance, Mag-

gie and Susannah sat stiffly on the bench. Brady Moffat stood a

scant ten yards away with his rifle trained on the twosome. Patch

and Little Black—bristling and barking bundles of fury—stood

between the women and the armed man. Weapon cocked, fi nger

on the trigger, Moffat spat a brown stream of tobacco juice that

arced through the air, lifting on the wind. “Call off your dogs,

Martin, or I will shoot ’em dead.”

Seth whistled and slapped his leg. The dogs stopped barking

and ran to sit at his side. Jack was not in the dooryard. Seth hoped

the lad had hidden himself somewhere safe. He lowered Battler to

stand on his own. The toddler hugged his father’s legs.

“I’ve nae quarrel wi’ ye, Brady Moffat.” Seth raised his arms,

palms open. “Ye can see I am unarmed. Put by yer weapon and

let us settle this thing like thinkin’ men.”

Moffat smiled a friendly smile and kept his gun trained on the

women. The wad of tobacco shifted from his left cheek and he

spat the chaw splat into the dirt. “You need t’ talk t’ that fella

there . . .” Brady jerked his curly brown head toward the cabin,

his grin sardonic. “That there’s our thinkin’ man.”

Seth hadn’t noticed, but a little man leaned against the cabin

wall with one booted foot propped up on the water trough. His

rawboned, sinewy frame banged around in shirt and breeches so

loose, the fabric snapped and buckled in the wind. The brace of

pistols stuck in the man’s belt in combination with Seth’s rifl e

weighing heavy on his bony shoulder seemed to be the only

things keeping him from being whisked away like a cornhusk on

the breeze.

“Ye have my weapon, sir,” Seth noted.

An Adam’s apple the size of a baby’s fist bobbed on the stalk

of the little man’s neck. Brushing windblown strands of raggedly

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
263

cropped ginger hair from his face, he shouted in a thick Irish

brogue, “Jaysus, would ye stand down, Moffat?”

“Aye aye, Cap’n Connor.” Moffat dropped his weapon to cra-

dle in the crook of his arm and offered a mock salute. Slumping

against the tulip tree, he fished in his pocket, came up with a

pigtail of tobacco, and pinched off a bite to tuck under his lip.

Bane of my existence
. . . Seth ran his hand through his hair

and muttered under his breath, “Drunks and the fuckin’ Irish.”

Encumbered by the weight and length of the rifle strapped to

his shoulder, Connor swaggered over to where Seth stood with

the girls. The skin of his face was scathed with pockmarks and

clung tight to his skull. Blue eyes bulged buglike from dark cir-

cles. “That bollocks Moffat has the right of it. I’m the man t’

talk to.”

“G’won now,” Seth told the girls as he disengaged Battler

from his leg. “Take yer brother and go to the women.” Battler

ran to crawl onto Maggie’s lap. Susannah took the baby. Mary

and Winnie sat on the ground at her feet. Just then, Simon Peavey

came around the cabin dragging angry Jack by the arm.

“Let go!” Jack struggled, swinging and kicking air. “Poxy In-

jun bugger—let go!” Peavey released the boy and Jack tumbled