Midwife of the Blue Ridge (47 page)

Blevins

“’Tis true . . . for our tea on the morrow.” Taking him by the

elbow, Maggie aimed him toward the cookhearth. “Remember,

berry tarts, aye?”

“Amen t’ that. Amen t’ berry tarts, sez I.”

Maggie sent Figg off with a little shove and a gay wave. “Till

tomorrow.” Arms crossed over her chest, Aurelia came to stand

beside her. Maggie hugged the jug. They watched Figg as he am-

bled off in his odd way with arms swinging to and fro, to join

Connor under the tarp.

“D’ you think he heard?”

Maggie shrugged. “He’s a dunderhead.” She tapped a fi nger to

her temple. “A clouty dumplin’ for a brain. His only concern is

for his tea.”

Connor glared daggers from across the yard. Aurelia fl ustered.

“I’d best get back to my chores. I don’t want him comin’ over

here, nosin’ around.”

“And I promised his lordship a tonic.” Maggie turned in to the

cabin, feeling Connor’s nasty bug eyes drilling a hole in the back

of her head. She shut the door, found her basket, and set it on the

small table where Tempie prepared her simples. As Maggie dug

down to the bottom, salvaging the sorrel leaves squashed under

the rope, she went over Seth’s instructions again.
Set the water

barrel near the chimney . . . wait for the dark of the
—

A muffled commotion erupted outside. The door flew open and

Brady Moffat stormed into the cabin. His eyes swept the room

and settled on the basket. Maggie lunged for it. He caught her by

the arm and scattered the leaves in the basket to reveal the rope.

“You little fool.” Grabbing the basket, Moffat dragged her out

into the fortyard.

Maggie stumbled over tree roots and stones, struggling to keep

up with Moffat’s long stride as he jerked her along. Their tussle

caught the attention of henchmen and slaves, who began to wander

toward the blockhouse like strings of ants drawn to spilled honey.

Moffat pushed Maggie to sit on a tree stump next to Aurelia and

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
333

went inside the blockhouse with the basket. The laundress sat with

head bowed, the palms of her hands pressed together and trapped

between her knees. Tearful eyes met Maggie’s. “Figg told ’em,” she

hiccuped. “And then I had t’ tell ’em . . . tell ’em
everything
.”

Maggie put her arm around Aurelia’s slim shoulders. “Dinna

fash. Ye had no choice.”

Figg came through the door, oblivious to their presence. He

leaned against the frame, happily munching on a large piece of

shortbread.

Maggie laid into him. “Ye huge telltale! Ran straight to Con-

nor, did ye?”

The giant shook his shaggy head; shifting his weight from one

foot to the other, he stuttered, “O-over th’ wall, ye sed . . .” His

squinty eyes were glued to the bulbous toes of his hobnail boots.

“There go my berry tarts, sez I . . .”

“Fuckin’ eidgit!” Maggie bent, grabbed a stone, and flung it at

him. “Great bag o’ guts! More guts than brains if ye think I’m

goin’ t’ fix any tarts for ye now.” She pitched another stone at

him, hitting him square on the forehead.

Figg cowered against the wall, whimpering, “Th’ end of the

sweeties, I s’pose . . .”

“Amen t’ that.” Maggie snatched up another stone. Aurelia

grabbed her by the wrist.

“Leave him be. He’s a simple fella—concerned for his tea, just

like you said.”

Maggie heaved a sigh. The stone tumbled from her unclenched

fist. “I am a fool undone by a fool.”

A crowd gathered—more than a dozen backwoodsmen lean-

ing on their rifles, some puffing on queer long pipes. Slaves called

in from the field formed a second, larger group, hovering loosely

nearby. Maggie could see Justice and Achilles had come around

to stand vigil in front of the forge. Sweat-drenched, the smith

stood with muscular arms folded over his bare chest, shining in

the setting sun like a piece of polished ebony.

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The blockhouse door creaked open—wraithlike Connor the

first to slink out followed by grim-faced Moffat. Figg pulled up-

right, snuffling and swiping his snot onto his sleeve. Castor and

Pollux scurried out to take up positions at either side of the door-

way. Aurelia grabbed hold of Maggie’s hand. The muttering

crowd quieted and inched forward when Cavendish emerged.

No longer dressed in an invalid’s nightshirt and robe, he had

donned a crisp shirt with lace cravat. A sober black waistcoat

topped buff breeches—fit to his leg without a

wrinkle—and

gleaming oiled boots. He stood with his back to the two women,

riding crop in hand, and addressed the crowd.

“Escape,” Cavendish announced, officious and clipped. “A

most serious offense.” He tapped the crop to his boot.
Tot. Tot.

Tot.

“It is compulsory for all to witness the miscreants peeled and

scourged at the post. Mr. Moffat shall lay thirty lashes on the

bondwoman for intent to escape and incite insurrection.” The

crowd began to buzz. Cavendish raised his voice. “And fi fteen

lashes on the mulatto laundress for her complicity.”

Maggie shot to her feet, aghast. “Aurelia’s innocent! ’Twas my

doing.
Mine alone!
”

The viscount turned on his heel and marched inside. The

twins hurried after, closing the door behind. Moffat stepped up

with a length of leather cord and bound Aurelia’s wrists, handing

the dangling lead to Figg.

“Brady, please!” Maggie beseeched as he bound her wrists in

like fashion. “Ye canna mean to whip Aurelia . . .”

He wouldn’t answer—would not even meet her eye.

Figg and Moffat pulled Aurelia and Maggie by their leads like

a pair of sheep being led to the shearing. Rifles shouldered, the

crowd shifted to shuffle along. Maggie cast around in despera-

tion; searching faces in the crowd, she spotted Simon Peavey or-

biting the periphery and called out to him,
“Simon!”
Their eyes

met for a moment—and in that brief moment, despair doused the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
335

tiniest hope flickering in her breast as Peavey shook his head,

turned, and disappeared from her fi eld of vision.

Thirty lashes . . . fifteen for poor Aurelia . . .
The sentence the

viscount levied rang in her head like a cacophony of church bells

clanging on Christmas morning.
Thirty lashes . . .

One of the seamen aboard the
Good Intent
had taken twenty

lashes for stealing rum and Maggie had treated his wounds. A big,

burly lad, and he couldn’t walk for days after.
Thirty lashes . . .

Brady tugged on her lead, pulled her to the center of the fort-

yard where the whipping post loomed. A single iron ring pro-

truded from the top of the stout oaken beam—raw wood, a foot

and a half square by seven foot tall—planted upright in the dirt.

Aurelia looked over her shoulder, eyes wide, her lower lip caught

on her teeth. The crowd fell into a half circle facing the post.

“We’ll start with the nigger lass,” Connor announced. Figg

led Aurelia to stand to the right of the post. Aurelia raised her

face to the crowd and changed before their eyes. Like bright liq-

uid lead hardening to dull gray, her features lost their life light.

She stood stoic and stiff, emotionless and blank.

Aye . . .
Maggie thought.
Aurelia kens well what happens

here
. . .

Connor stepped forward, drawing a large knife from the

sheath on his belt. Maggie gasped, but Aurelia did not even suf-

fer a flinch—did not struggle or protest when the Irishman sliced

through the laces on her bodice. She stood still as a stone statue

while Connor ripped and tugged her clothing, rendering her na-

ked from neck to waist.

Maggie’s stomach lurched. She craned her neck to look be-

yond the forest of rifl e barrels and the wall of white men surging

forward. The black slaves who had gathered to hear the judg-

ment floated along the fringe with fearful eyes. She could see

Tempie, sitting with her hands clenched in her lap on the bench

outside their cabin door. Justice, Achilles, and Simon stood in a

row before the forge.
What could they do? Nothing.

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With hands bound, Maggie turned and clutched Brady’s sleeve

in both fists. “’Twas my doing . . . lay Aurelia’s lashes on my

back . . . let me stand in her stead . . .”

“You’re mad.” Brady pried off her grasping fingers. “Your own

thirty will be hard to take. Forty-fi ve would kill you certain.”

“Ye would do me a service, Brady, for I’d be dead and happy

for it.”

Figg tied Aurelia’s lead to the ring at the top of the post,

stretching her arms over her head, pulling the skin on her back

tight to receive the bite of the lash.

Aurelia drilled the balls of her bare feet into the loose soil,

planting them firmly. She leaned in and pressed her forehead into

the post.

Connor took control of Maggie’s lead and handed Brady a

coiled whip. The crowd stilled. Moffat stepped to stand beside

Aurelia. He loosed the coil of braided cowhide to unwind and

slither at his feet.

“Brady,
please believe me
!” Maggie threw herself forward,

falling to her knees with supplicant bound hands. “Aurelia did

naught to earn a single lash from yer whip . . .”

Connor grabbed Maggie by the arm and dragged her back.

“Please . . . Brady . . .”

“It’s not for me to say.” The words burst angry from Moffat.

“I but follow the orders of the man who puts silver in my pocket—

in all our pockets,” he added, drawing assenting grunts from the

crowd.

“And what sort of man does that make you, Brady Moffat?”

she spat back at him.

Connor gave her a shove that sent her sprawling. “Shut yer

gob!”

“What does that make any of ye?” she snarled at the crowd,

rising to her feet. “All of ye—supposed freemen doin’ the

bidding—th’ dirty

work—for the likes of that tyrant.
Arse-

lickers! Th’ lot of ye!
”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
337

Connor grabbed Maggie up by the shoulders and shook her

like a rag doll. “I said shut yer gob or be gagged!”

Palpable unease wafted through the restless crowd. Men shuf-

fled their feet. Eyes cast downward, Maggie tore away from Con-

nor.

“I hoped it would be different,” Maggie declared. “Hoped th’

New World proved better than th’ old I left behind . . .” Connor

chased after her as she skirted along, appealing to the turbulent

crowd. “Are we doomed t’ bow and scrape t’ them what are called

our betters? Doomed to accept injustice piled atop injustice?”

“No!” Gruff voices joined in her dissent.

Connor slapped Maggie across the face and seized her by the

arm.

“We are all his slaves when we do naught to stanch the tyrant’s

hand,” Maggie screamed as Connor tugged her away. “Th’ whole

lot of us! Black
and
white . . .
SLAVES!
”

Connor shouted at Moffat. “DO IT!”

Moffat threw his arm. The whipcord whistled and hissed,

landing with a hard crack across Aurelia’s golden shoulders. Fol-

lowed by another . . . and another. Her toes dug into the ground;

spine twisting, she flinched in anticipation of every blow, taking

her punishment without uttering a whimper.

The crowd fell quiet, spellbound by the spectacle. Maggie

fought the urge to look away, wincing at the purple welts raised

with every stroke.

“Apply the whip with force, Moffat,” Connor warned.

Brady grit his teeth and glared at the scrawny Irishman. The

next stroke buckled Aurelia’s knees and plowed a bloody furrow

into her flesh. Aurelia began to tremble. The remnants of her

blouse and shift bunched red about her waist, soaked with blood

flowing down the channel of her spine. Her glorious curls tinged

as if dipped in crimson paint. Writhing in absolute agony, Aure-

lia loosed a scream at the tenth stroke.

Maggie turned away to see Simon and Achilles struggling to

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hold Justice at bay. She closed her eyes, but could not close her

ears to the whip’s malevolent hiss, or to Aurelia’s pitiful

screams.

Crack.

Crack.

Moffat delivered the final two strokes and cut the thong bind-

ing Aurelia to the post. She slumped into a bloody pile at its base.

Maggie made to go to her, but Connor held her back.

Tempie pushed through the crowd. She draped a sheet over

Aurelia. Scarlet blossoms bloomed where the linen clung wet to

the wounds. The root doctor whispered into Aurelia’s ear and

got her to stand on her feet. Justice broke through, and as Aure-

lia struggled to take her first faltering step, he scooped her into

his arms and carried her away. Tempie followed close behind.

Connor pulled Maggie to the post.

Maggie tried hard to be as brave as Aurelia, tried to move her

mind away from the chaos of leering faces. Moffat wiped the