Midwife of the Blue Ridge (41 page)

understand, Maggie Duncan?”

292 Christine

Blevins

Maggie hadn’t noticed Tempie say anything, but if she did say

that, she was spot-on. The longer the muscles were left infl amed

and stretched with bones out of joint, the harder the injury would

be to repair. Maggie slid her good hand up to her shoulder to feel

the odd mushy place left where hard bone should be. Putting a

shoulder right was a tricky business, requiring know-how and

considerable strength. Maggie shot a look at the diminutive root

doctor and sucked air between her teeth. “An’ this wee Tempie

can set a bone?”

“Don’t you fret none.” Tempie spoke for the first time, her

melodic voice sweet and tiny as her body. “I’ve coaxed many a

ball joint back into they sockets. Help her set upright, Aurelia

honey. I’se a draught for dis chile t’ drink.” Aurelia slipped her

arm around Maggie’s shoulders and levered her up. Tempie held

the cup to Maggie’s lips.

Wincing, Maggie sniffed the offering. Alcohol.

Rum—and

something

else—something unfamiliar, sharp and peppery.

“What’s in tha’?”

Aurelia said, “Never you mind, you just drink up. Tempie’s

been doctorin’ folk since afore you an’ I was borned—do as she

say, and you be awright.”

Maggie turned her face away from the cup. “I willna drink it,

lest I ken what’s in it.”

“Lawsy, Massa sho didn’t beat th’ stubborn from you, did

he?” Aurelia shook her head. “That Simon feller tolt us you’s

some kind of a healer-woman. That so?”

Maggie nodded. “Midwife.”

Tempie scooched in closer. “Seein’ as how we’s sisters in medi-

cine, I can share my recipe with you.” Her voice dropped to a

whisper. “Two good-size chunks of black haw bark, ground to a

fine dust and mixed wi’ a measure of Jamaica rum.” She dipped

an index finger into the inky brew and stirred. “Black haw serves

t’ loosen th’ muscles, but I also added a tiddy bit o’ jimsonweed

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
293

for pain.” Tempie scrinched her pixie face, wide, flat nose crin-

kling at the bridge. “But don’t you go foolin’ with jimsonweed

now—powerful stuff that—like t’ kill a body if’n you don’t know

how t’ use it proper.”

Maggie’d never heard of “black haw” or “jimsonweed,” but

the woman had chosen herbs with properties Maggie would have

sought herself—something to relax the muscles in her shoulder

and something very, very strong to ease the excruciating pain of

having a bone relocated. She gulped down the entire dose, the

rum immediately washing over her like a warm rising tide in her

belly. Tempie spread a small wool blanket across the pallet, and

Aurelia carefully lowered Maggie to lie across it.

“We have t’ wait for th’ medicine t’ take,” Tempie said to Au-

relia. “Bring me my sack o’ simples, then go an’ fetch Justice. I’ll

be needin’ him soon.”

Aurelia popped to her feet, set a sturdy canvas satchel at

Tempie’s side, and skipped out the door.

“See that gal run?” Tempie giggled, glass bottles clinking as

she searched through her sack. “Aurelia sho’ is sweet on that

man, mmmm-hmm . . .”

“Swee’ on wha’ mon?” Maggie words slurred, her brogue sud-

denly thicker.

“She sweet on Justice—that new smith come from Williams-

burg. Aurelia fancies him. Caught ’em spoonin’ in the shadows

last night. Mm-hmm, she is sweet on him—an’ no wonder—big

and pretty as he is.” The root doctor moistened a handful of cot-

ton lint with liquid from a blue glass bottle and dabbed gently at

the bruising around Maggie’s eye. “I be thinkin’ Justice be a

good match for Aurelia. Strong man. Man with a trade.”

Maggie sniffed the air. “Arnica?”

“Naw . . . this here’s mountain daisy.” Tempie applied the

tincture to the inflamed, battered skin along Maggie’s jaw.

“When you ain’t so poorly, I can teach you some.”

294 Christine

Blevins

“Aye . . . teach me . . .” Maggie’s legs felt heavy. Her mouth,

parched. Without asking, Tempie leaned forward and moistened

Maggie’s lips with a wet cloth.

“That

jimsonweed—dry you up drier than an ol’ woman’s

cooch.”

Maggie half laughed and squinted, her eyes suddenly sensitive

to the minimal light coming through the open door. The scream-

ing pain in her shoulder was dulling to a faint echo of what it had

been, as if it were being muffled under layers and layers of cotton

batting. Tempie tucked two pillows under Maggie’s injured arm,

positioning the limb to angle away from her body.

“Miz Tempie? Aurelia says you need my help.” The big voice

sounded skeptical.

“You c’mon in here, Justice.” Tempie’s small voice a sweet

contrast to the deep baritone that rolled through the room when

Justice spoke.

“Yes’m.” The man ducked his head to clear the lintel piece and

came to loom over Maggie. Muscular and imposing, the black-

smith seemed to have been forged of solid iron.

“I want you t’ kneel on th’ gal’s left.” Tempie flipped the ex-

cess portion of the blanket Maggie lay atop over her, encasing

her torso in a loop of wool. “Aurelia, you set beside Justice,

nearer to this gal’s shoulder.” The helpers jostled into their posi-

tions.

Of the few Negroes Maggie’d ever seen in her lifetime, Justice

was by far the darkest, his skin the deep blue black of a moonless

night. He crouched down at Maggie’s side. Rolling the sleeves of

his chambray shirt to expose his massive forearms, Justice fl ashed

her a charming smile.

Maggie sighed. “He
is
preddy, Tem-pie! Big an’ preddy.”

Aurelia sputtered a giggle into her hand. Justice demurred, his

eyes downcast.

“Why, Justice.” Tempie laughed. “I believe that’s the closest

you’ll get to blushin’.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
295

“Tha’ draught ye giv’ me, Tempie . . .” Maggie waved her

good hand erratically through the air. “Black haw an’

weed-

some- jim . . . I thing it’s made me a wee bit dipsy.” She turned to

Justice. “D’ye ken, Justice?
D’ye ken?
” Her voice rose. “Root

doctor! Yer med-cine has took. Let’s have at it, aye?”

“That’s fine, chile. Jest fine . . .” Tempie grew serious. “Jus-

tice, you grab an’ hold that blanket tight. When I say
ready
, I’se

goin’ to pull on her arm one way, you keep her body in place by

pullin’ the other way—understand?”

“Mm-hmm, I can do that.” Justice gathered the edges of the

blanket in big fists and pulled it taut. Maggie smiled, snug and

happy like a baby in a sling.

“Aurelia—you mind her head and left shoulder. She’s apt t’

draw up. You keep her down, hear?” Then Tempie fi xed her

grasp—right hand on Maggie’s forearm, left on Maggie’s upper

arm.

“Ready!”
she announced, and began to pull.

Rum, black haw, and jimsonweed notwithstanding, Maggie’s

whole body twitched in a massive spasm of pain, her breath

caught on a scream clogged in her throat.

Tempie did not relent. Ignoring Maggie’s strangled moan, she

continued to pull, slow, steady, and controlled. Her thin arms

strained with the effort, the spare muscles in her forearms tight-

ened to ropes as she held firm. Justice hung on to the blanket,

leaning back to provide the opposing traction Tempie required.

Aurelia kept Maggie down, cooing soft into her ear, “Not too

long now, sugar . . . almost there . . . almost there . . .”

After pulling the arm straight out, Tempie maneuvered it up.

Dark patches of sweat stained her blouse, her brow beetled and

dripped with exertion—then there it was—the gritty creak and

grind of bone against bone as the ball joint seated back into its

socket, where it belonged.

Maggie coughed a gasp and passed out.

H

296 Christine

Blevins

Stars began to gather in a sky not quite dark enough to mask the

twin plumes of smoke rising from Guy DeMontforte’s camp.

The aroma of roast beef carried up on a breeze. Tom stood at

the ridgetop with his stomach grumbling like a bear rousted

from its winter den. Spurred by three days living on jerky and

parched corn, he and Friday clambered down the steep incline,

more than ready to consume an entire buffalo, hoof to horn.

The hunting camp nestled in a bald spot at the foot of a craggy

limestone cliff. Two stone-circle hearths were centered on the

clearing—one for cooking, the other for smoking meat and ren-

dering tallow. In the shadow of the limestone wall, an open- faced

framework draped with buffalo skins provided shelter and dry

storage for supplies. Opposite the shelter, a large log stripped of

its bark was propped with one end up on a boulder—the perfect

angle and smooth work surface for fl eshing and beaming hides.

Acknowledging his hunting partner with a nod and a desultory

wave, Tom trudged back into camp empty-handed yet again.

Guy DeMontforte was busy at the far hearth, setting a green-

wood rack over slow- burning coals. Shaking his head of shaggy

black hair, Guy threw his arms in the air and sighed. “So it goes,

mon ami
. . .”

Dressed more like a pirate than a hunter, the Frenchman wore

a ruffled red silk shirt with deerskin breeches and moccasins.

Along with tomahawk and knife, he kept a fancy pearl-handled

pistol tucked into the satin sash tied about his waist. Blue- black

stubble ever present on his face cast a sinister shadow on hand-

some Gallic features. Gold rings on his fingers and dangling

from one ear flashed the embers’ gleam while he laid strips of

buffalo meat in ordered rows across the rack. Friday darted in

and snicked a piece of meat, at once gobbling it down and dodg-

ing the stone DeMontforte whipped his way.
“Sacré chien!”

Tom slipped his gear; laying pouch, bedroll, and rifle to the

side, he sank down to sit on a log situated near the cooking

hearth. “I had a fi ve-point buck in my sights this morning, but

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
297

afore I could get a shot off he caught wind of me and took off—

and that was the
best
part of my day.” He leaned forward, el-

bows on knees, dropping chin onto fists. Friday circled three

times and settled in a huff at Tom’s feet.

“No worries,
mon frère.
Tonight we feast like kings!” The

Frenchman waved a blousy-sleeved arm. “
Les boeufs sauvages.

Two fat cows crossed my path,” he said with a smile missing one

front tooth.

Guy paused and sniffed the air.
“Merde!”
He scampered to the

hearth where Tom sat. Using his knife, he poked and rolled two

scorched buffalo tongues out from the flames. With a deft hand,

he peeled away the blackened skin, then skewered the tongues on

sassafras sticks, impaling the twig ends into the ground so the

seared tongues leaned forward, gently licked by fl ames.

“I’ll fix a batch of dodgers.” Tom pushed a skillet atop a pile of

embers. In no time he combined cornmeal, bear oil, and maple

sugar into a thick paste and plopped goodly size dollops of dough

onto the hot pan. He watched the dodgers sizzle and snap, wonder-

ing for perhaps the hundredth time that day what Maggie might be

doing. Wondering if she missed him as much as he missed her.

When Tom had hustled out of Roundabout three weeks before,

cursing all women and the trouble they wrought, he never con-

sidered that he might miss Maggie. Never figured he’d wake ev-

ery morning wishing for the weight of her leg thrown over him.

Never figured he’d crave the smell of the nape of her neck like a

Chinaman craved opium smoke.

I should have made things right with her afore takin’ off.

Longing—it had fallen on him sudden, like a tree limb in a

windstorm, and he was crushed under the weight of it. Tom tramped

the woodlands distracted by the raw ache in his heart, unable to

focus, unable to react quick enough. His despair had become a

cumbersome burden, like dragging a loaded sledge through thick

brambles, the tumpline cutting taut across his chest.

Good riddance, she said.

298 Christine

Blevins

At night he tossed and turned, desolate under his blanket. He

longed for her fingers clutching his shoulders, her wild moan in his

ear, and the utter and complete contentment found slipping out

from between her legs to fold himself around her warm, soft body.

I should not have left her like that.

The Frenchman came to squat at the fire and he gave marrow-

bones roasting on the coals a quarter turn. “I wish I knew,
mon

ami
, what causes ze sadness in your face.”

Tom shrugged. Suddenly Friday scrabbled up to his feet, bark-

ing like mad. DeMontforte pulled his pistol. Tom grabbed his

rifl e.

“Halloo, Tom Roberts! Halloo, ye outlandish French bas-

tard!”

Shoulders eased, but weapons were kept at the ready until they