Midwife of the Blue Ridge (52 page)

pounding his chest with bound fists, shouting, “
’S mise Lachlan

Maclean ’s ann á Ardnacross á tha mi!
D’ye hear tha’? I’m Lachlan

Maclean of Ardnacross on the Isle of Mull, and I fear only God!”

Maclean’s brave declarations boldly delivered in Maggie’s native

tongue tore at her heart. She could no longer bear witness to his

torture. She pushed through the crowd to where Simon stood at the

forefront and latched onto his arm. “Put an end to this madness!”

Six warriors marched forward, each taking hold of one of the

long staffs burning in the fire. Armed with the fl aming brands,

they circled the stake, and no matter which way Maclean turned,

he could find no respite from the heated tips pressing into his

naked flesh. Women ran to scoop up bucketsful of coals and spill

them around the stake so’s the Scotsman’s limited path was

strewn with hot embers. Maclean stumbled and fell onto the

smoldering coals. The smell of burned hair and scorched, bub-

bling fl esh seared Maggie’s nostrils.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
367

An old man ran in shouting. He pressed his foot to the prone

man’s neck and lopped off a chunk of scalp, holding the bloody

thing over his head for all to see.

Almost every square inch of Maclean’s flesh was either burned,

blistered, or bleeding, but the Scotsman pushed himself to stand

on wobbly legs and continued to rant. “Th’ Macleans, ye fuckin’

heathens! We were there at Stirling . . . at Sherrifmuir . . . at

Culloden . . .” Inured to pain, he shambled back and forth,

around and around the stake. “An’ as sure as there’s a hole in yer

arse, ye willna hear me beg mercy . . .
never! NEVER!
”

Payakootha took a brand from the fire and scraped the glow-

ing end to the raw bone on Maclean’s head, generating a spray of

sparks that had her cackling with glee.

Maggie tugged on Simon’s arm; with tears streaming down

her face, she pleaded, “Make them stop!”

“Are you mad?” Simon jerked away and waved his arm to the

crowd shrieking with bloodlust. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t

be able to stop them now.”

“I’m Lachlan Maclean, grenadier with the Royal Highlanders

Forty-second Regiment of Foote!” the Scotsman cried out as he

shuffled like a drunk through hot ashes. “And I curse yiz all, ye

red-devil whoresons!”

Two big warriors grabbed Maclean by the arms. A third

stepped up with knife upraised. Maggie thought for sure this

would be the merciful end.

So did Maclean. He threw out his chest, closed his eyes, and

raised his face to heaven.

The warrior with the knife jammed his thumb into the Scots-

man’s mouth, and pried it open. When he turned back to face the

audience, he displayed Maclean’s severed tongue skewered on the

tip of his knife. He flicked the bloody thing to sizzle on the coals.

Maclean dropped to his knees, gagging, spitting blood.

Maggie could bear no more. “Kill him, Simon—shoot him.”

“Shoot him?”

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Blevins

“I beg ye,” she sobbed, clinging. “Shoot the poor man.”

“No!” Simon pulled away. “We need this vengeance—ven-

geance for all that is lost to us.”

Maggie tore at the rifle slung over his shoulder, shrieking,

“Give me yer gun, then, ye fuckin’ heathen. Give it to me an’ I’ll

do it. I’ll shoot him, ye coward . . .”

It was then Simon slapped her. Slapped her across the face

hard enough to knock her down. He hauled her away—dragged

her kicking and screaming into Justice’s
wegiwa
.

“Keep her in here,” he said, “for she’s apt t’ get herself

killed.”

Maggie stayed the awful night with Justice and Aurelia. The

three of them trying with all their might to close their ears to the

suffering wails and insane shrieking . . .

Aurelia broke Maggie’s reverie, setting a johnnycake and a tin

cup of hot tea beside her. “You should try an’ put somethin’ in

your belly.”

Maggie shook her head no.

“Then you should lie down and rest . . . ain’t none of us got a

wink o’ sleep last night.”

“That’s a good idea,” Justice agreed. “It’s quiet now.” He lay

flat back with his arms folded under his head. A shrill yipping

pierced the silence. Justice bolted upright.

“She-mano- se! She-mano- se!”
More shouts. Hurried footfalls

beat a path around their
wegiwa
.

“Y’all wait here,” Justice ordered, taking up a stout club of

firewood, his eyes very wide and white in his face. “I’m goin’ t’

see what’s goin’ on.”

Maggie and Aurelia followed him out the door. Morning fog

and smoke clung to the bark-covered domes. They stayed near

the doorway wondering at the commotion—dogs barking, Indi-

ans tumbling barefoot and bare-chested from their snug lodges,

scurrying toward the village center. Justice sprinted back, dodg-

ing through the moving tide like a salmon swimming upstream.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
369

“White man—come out of the trees—” he gasped.

Maggie grabbed his arm. “Soldiers?”

Justice wagged his head back and forth. “No. One of them

they call
She-mano- se
—a long knife man.”

“A slave catcher?” Aurelia half slunk back into the doorway.

“Might be . . . best lay low.” Justice took a deep breath. “He

must be crazy for sure—white man comin’ in here by his lone-

some.”

Maggie went back into the lodge and snatched up her blan-

ket.

“You best stay put, woman,” Justice warned.

Maggie threw the blanket around her shoulders. Aurelia

grabbed her by the wrist. “That man may well be a slave catcher.

Remember, they’s huntin’ you, too.”

“He might be a French trader, and may well be my only chance

to get away from here.” Maggie pulled free and draped the blan-

ket over her head. “I’ll be careful.” She ran to join the Indians

gathering at the council house, where the bones of Lachlan

Maclean lay smoldering on the coals.

The shouting died down—replaced by an uneasy mutter and

shifting of shoulders. Maggie pulled at the blanket edges; ensur-

ing that her face was well shadowed within, she wended her way

to the front of the crowd.

It was as if someone pounded the wind from her lungs. Her

knees buckled. The blanket slipped to her shoulders and she

clutched both hands to her heart, unable to believe her eyes.

Tom Roberts faced the Shawnee unarmed, dressed in naught

but breechclout and the beaded strap of his shot pouch diagonal

across his bare chest.

He looked like a ghost—a phantom risen from the swirling

eddies of mist and smoke. His long, loose hair lifted on the

breeze, crow’s-feet gathered at the corners of his shining blue

eyes, and he smiled serene. In his arms he cradled a pure white

fawn.

24

The White Fawn

Tom knew for certain he was a man in love in that moment.

When he saw Maggie, his heart overflowed with joy, and try as

he might, he could not help but smile.

In the blink of an eye, he watched Maggie’s shock mingle with

relief and happiness. She made as if to run to him and Tom had

to warn her off with a brusque shake of his head. Her shoulders

stiffened and her smile coalesced into a wary pucker, as suddenly

she was aware of their precarious situation.

Indian clothes become her . . .
But she looked much thinner

than when he’d seen her last. Deep shadows rimmed her eyes and

a fading bruise colored the left side of her gaunt face.

Cavendish . . .
Tom breathed deep to quell the lurch in his

chest.
I should have killed the bastard . . .
He gave his head a

shake to dispel his vengeful thoughts.
Not now . . . keep your

wits about you . . .

Tom waited with his back to the council- house door. To his left,

an ominous, blackened stake stood sentinel with him—the charred

bones of some poor devil scattered in the smoking ashes. He eyed

the crowd assembling. Several hundred Shawnee gathered around

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
371

the clearing, a score or more of able-bodied warriors among them.

No one made a move to rebuke him or question his presence.

“You’ve confounded them,” Tom whispered into the fawn’s

twitching, oversize ears. He hugged the baby deer tight and its

sharp, puny bones and bristly hairs bit into his bare chest. The

fawn trembled; pink nose quivering, it studied the scene with

eerie pink eyes.

Tom could not believe his good fortune when he’d found the

oddling curled in the dew-soaked shade of a laurel tree the day

before. He had once seen the hide of a white beaver—and once

thought he saw a white squirrel darting among the trees, but he

had never ever seen a white deer. Pure-white animals, especially

larger species like deer and buffalo, were so extraordinarily rare,

Indians considered them magical beings come direct from the

spirit world.

At last, the elders came forward in slow procession, their

stooped frames swathed in striped wool blankets. A grizzled old

woman bearing a red-feathered staff led five old men to stand in

a row, shoulder to shoulder, before Tom.

Tom squeezed the fawn, threw shoulders back, and addressed

his audience in Ojibwe, the trade language common to all Algon-

quian tribes. “Grandfathers! Grandmothers! Brothers and sis-

ters! I greet you in peace on this fine morning! I am Ghizhibatoo,

son of the Deer Clan of the Anishnaabe.”

“O-ho! Anishnaabe!” The crowd buzzed, very surprised that

an English white man—a Long Knife at that—could claim kin-

ship to the original people, the Ojibwe from the north. Maggie’s

lips parted in amusement. She gave her head a little shake.

Tom took a step forward and offered the white fawn with out-

stretched arms. “I, Ghizhibatoo of the Deer Clan, give this deer

to the Shawano—a token of good wishes from my totem.” He

counted on his Ojibwe name, “Swift- footed,” and his ties to the

Deer Clan to enhance his gift’s significance and value.

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Blevins

The old man standing directly opposite stepped up and, with

great reverence, took the baby deer into his withered arms. The

chief communed with the fawn for a moment, staring into its

blinking pink eyes, stroking the soft white velvet between them

with a gnarled fi nger.

A pretty woman—a medicine woman, by the otter skin bag

she carried on her hip—came forward and pulled a length of

cordage from her pouch. She fashioned a lead and slipped it over

the animal’s head. The old man set the fawn on its feet. The

medicine woman took the lead and walked with it, skirting the

edge of the crowd, displaying the gift for all to see.

The sight of the delicate being capering on spindly legs, with

tiny pink hooves dancing on the hard-packed dirt, acted like a

stone tossed into still water, sending a ripple of happy wonder-

ment radiating through the crowd. Such a beautiful thing could

only bring good luck. The villagers jostled for position and a

crop of hands darted out to touch and stroke the fawn’s ethereal

whiteness as the medicine woman passed by.

Shrouded in their blankets like bats wrapped in their wings,

the elders kept aloof from this hubbub. Tom dug into his pouch

for the tobacco Duncan had given him back at the camp.

“Wise ones!” The cured tobacco looked like a black snake

curled in a figure eight, resting on his open palms. “Share this

tobacco when you consider great things and smoke from the

same pipe.”

The old woman snatched the leathery twist and put it to her

nose. She gummed a grin, and the tobacco disappeared inside the

folds of her blanket. The elders drew together, nodding and

whispering. Tom looked over at Maggie and winked. His gifts

had been well received. Everything was going well.

The chief who had accepted the fawn stepped front and center

to speak. Tom found it difficult to gauge his age. The elder’s sil-

ver hair was undressed and flowed in wisps to shoulders hunched

with rheumatism. His brown face, like the shell of a walnut, was

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
373

fissured with deep wrinkles, but his voice carried strong and his

eyes shone bright with intelligence.

“I am called Skootekitehi,” he announced with much pride. By

his name, “Fire Heart,” Tom figured the old man must once have

been a fierce and determined warrior. “We welcome you, Ghizhi-

batoo. You honor our village with fine gifts. We are grateful, but

we wonder—what can the Shawano offer the son of the Deer

Clan?”

This was his moment. Tom drew a deep breath and threw his

arms wide. “Grandfathers and grandmothers! Brothers and sis-

ters!” His voice boomed. “You see before you a man chasing a

dream.”

“A dream, o-ho!” The open space of the clearing shrank as the

throng closed in to hear his words. Heads wagged. Maggie

shifted forward with the jabbering crowd. The reaction pleased