Midwife of the Blue Ridge (7 page)

hanging from his belt and shoulder, Maggie recognized a sheathed

knife and a powder horn. The horn was a beautiful thing in

itself—skillfully etched with a scene of mountains and words

Maggie could not read. She pointed and whispered to MacGregor,

“What’s that say?”

“It says ‘Tom Roberts, His Horn, 1755.’”

“See that there—” Tim pointed to the small axlike weapon

hanging from the man’s belt. “That’d be his ‘tommy- hawk.’ Aye,

that’s what he uses when he goes t’ lop off yer scalp.”

Maggie noticed all of the man’s possessions were decorated in

some unique fashion. A pattern of leaves curled up the carved

handles of his tomahawk and knife. His belt and the leather

sheath protecting his knife were tooled with intricate geometric

designs. A cluster of brilliant colored feathers dangled from the

polished dark stock of his gun, which was incised with fancy

scrollwork and inlaid with a silver heart. Even his dog wore a

collar woven with a zigzag of bright, tiny beads.

The hunter and the boatswain must have reached an agree-

ment, for Pebley opened the strongbox and began counting out a

stack of notes. “There’s ten . . . twenty . . .”

“Silver.”

Harried Mr. Pebley glanced up at the hunter. “What’s that?”

“Silver.” Tom Roberts pushed the notes aside. “This paper is

worthless where I’m headin’. Them Spanish dollars you have in

the box will suit me fi ne.”

Pebley sighed, returned the notes to the strongbox, and pro-

ceeded to count out the agreed- upon amount in Spanish pieces of

eight. The immigrants were agog at the amount the hunter re-

ceived for his goods. Back home, hunting was a sport reserved for

the peerage and the notion of hunting for profi t was unheard of.

“
My Lord!
It’s indecent!” James MacGregor whispered. “The

man’s wearing naught but a breechclout!”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
45

Instead of breeches, the hunter wore a red woolen breechclout.

Soft leather leggings came up to midthigh, just where the fringed

hem of his long shirt began. His leggings were secured below the

knee with red wool garters and tucked into the cuffed tops of

laced leather slippers.

“He’s dressed more decent than the soldiers in Glasgow,”

Maggie countered. “Those lads wear naught beneath their regi-

mental kilts but what God gave them upon their birth.”

Tom Roberts leaned over the table to gather the proceeds, allow-

ing Maggie a better vantage from which to ponder the mechanics of

the breechclout. He deposited handfuls of coins into a rectangular

leather pouch, hanging by a beaded strap across his chest. Roberts

turned and caught Maggie in the act of admiring his muscular up-

per thighs. He slung his gun over his shoulder and headed straight

for her, a wry smile peeking through his dark beard.

“You’re staring, miss. Do we know one another?”

Tongue-tied, Maggie shook her head no, and without know-

ing what else to do, she knelt down to stroke his dog.

“No harm intended, sir.” Mr. MacGregor stepped forward.

“Excuse the lass . . . she was but curious. We’ve never seen a

body dressed in such a fashion, ye ken?”

“You her husband?” Roberts asked.

The Duffy twins guffawed and MacGregor turned beet red.

“Husband? Och, no!”

“We’re newcomers—from Scotland,” Tim offered.

Jim said, “Maggie fancies yer dog.”

The hunter laughed loud. “So
you’re
Maggie!”

She leaped to her feet and tried to push past, but Tom Roberts

grabbed her by the arm before she could get away. His hat had

slipped from his head and his eyes shone ever blue in the bright

sunlight. His provocative smile was quite unnerving. Maggie—

who rarely found herself at a loss for words—found herself struck

dumb by this man.

“
Maggie Duncan! Duffys! MacGregor!
The lot of you—go

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line up with the others,” Pebley ordered. “The auction’s about to

begin.”

The hunter’s blue eyes clouded over. The playful smile up-

ended into a frown. Still having hold of her arm, he spun Maggie

around to see the contract pinned to her back.

“Hmmph! Servants!” He released her arm, picked up his hat,

and strode away, his dog padding after him.

Maggie stood astounded by this swift shift in attitude. “That

was quite odd.”

“Odd indeed!” MacGregor agreed. “Colonials . . . verra bra-

zen, if ye ask me.”

“Some men just don’t cotton to the notion of folk selling them-

selves into slavery,” Pebley said. “Rubs ’em the wrong way.”

“We’re no slaves!” Maggie argued. “Slavery is a lifetime.

We’ve but contracted four years.”

“It’s all the same to a man like Tom Roberts. Those backcoun-

try men walk the earth beholden to no one and no thing. Why,

most of them don’t even consider themselves Englishmen.” The

boatswain waved them along. “Get a move on now and join the

others. The bidding’s about to begin.”

H

A richly attired and very fat woman proclaimed her delight at

acquiring a perfect matched pair of footmen for a mere seventy

pounds after winning the bid on the Duffy brothers. MacGregor

did not fare as well. A man building a crew to labor in his to-

bacco fi elds purchased the scholar’s contract for a lowly twenty

pounds. Maggie’s heart ached as bewildered MacGregor tripped

past, following his new master down to the pier. She waited her

turn on the block, wringing her hands, choking back tears, ut-

terly regretting the day she signed her indenture.

“Stop fretting,” Josh Stark said. “How many times do I have

to tell you? It’s all arranged. The captain has a plan. Cavendish

will not win your contract.”

“Aye, but soon we’ll ken who my master will be.” She mo-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
47

tioned with a wave toward the quarterdeck and burst into

tears.

“Stanch them tears! No one will bid on your contract if you

blubber and then Cavendish will certainly win.” Joshua pulled

Maggie from the queue and gave the next man a shove up the steps

in her stead.

“They’re gone—the Duffy lads, MacGregor—an’ I didna have

a chance to wish any of them a proper farewell.”

“Don’t cry . . . you can’t cry, not now.” Josh untied the ker-

chief from his neck and used it to swab the tears from Maggie’s

cheeks. “Chances are you will see them again one day.”

“You think so?” Maggie sniffed.

“Sure . . . why, just today I met up with an old friend I haven’t

seen in years.”

Maggie flushed with renewed embarrassment, and gave an

angry swipe to her nose with a handful of skirt. “And how is it

yer friends with that brute?”

“Tom? Ah, don’t let his gruff looks frighten you. Tom Roberts

is all wool and a yard wide. We were boys together—grew up at

Penn’s Settlement.”

“Quakers!” Maggie couldn’t help but grin at the notion.

“Well . . .” Josh smiled. “We were raised Quakers, Tom and

me, but the elders claimed we were more suited to raise hell.

The plain life held no appeal for either of us. As soon as we

could, we bolted—Tom for the high timber, and me for the high

seas.”

Maggie winced as the auctioneer’s gavel banged out a fi nal

bid. “I wish I could bolt right now.”

“Everything’ll be fine, you’ll see. You’ll get a position with a

nice family and I promise to call on you whenever I’m in port.

Now get ready, Maggie. You’re up next.”

H

The auction had been under way for some time when Seth Mar-

tin pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He counted only

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five women left standing in the queue of twenty waiting their

turn up the steps.

They all seemed strong, clean, and well fed. These immigrants

had weathered their crossing well compared to the sad lot he’d

sailed in with sixteen years before. His heart sank when the fi rst

two contracts he bid upon went for more than the sum he had to

spend. These

were quality laborers, and as such they fetched

quality prices.

Seth had sold four kegs of his best dram whiskey and one

stubborn mule to earn the twenty-three pound notes clenched in

his fi st.
Not enough . . . not near enough.

“Margaret

Duncan—twenty-two years of age,” the rotund

auctioneer announced as the next young woman mounted the

steps to the quarterdeck. Seth’s heart sank farther. He didn’t

stand a chance of winning the bid on this girl—she was too

pretty by far.

Her hair was plaited in one glossy black braid coiled at the

base of her neck. Her faded yellow blouse accentuated the tone of

her olive skin, coated with a sheen of perspiration, and the tight-

laced bodice she wore emphasized the dip and curve of a very

womanly fi gure.

“. . . unmarried and childless, this girl is suited for service . . .”

“Yep! She can service me anytime!”

A pimple- faced young man drew a loud guffaw from the

mostly masculine crowd with his play on words. The girl on the

stair colored red and looked near tears. Seth pitied the lass, rec-

ollecting the helplessness he felt the day he had stood on the

block.

“As I was saying,” the auctioneer continued, “this girl is well

suited for
domestic
service and has been taught additional skills

that would benefi t any estate—”

“I bet I can teach her a few skills!”

The crowd howled. Seth observed the girl struggle to maintain

her composure, but hands flew to hips and angry eyes fl ashed.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
49

Much to the crowd’s delight, she stepped forward and addressed

the rude young man.

“Ho there! Laddie! Aye, you . . .” She pointed. “You wi’ the

face like a tinker’s spotty arse. Here’s a sound bit of advice—best

make friends wi’ yer fist”—the girl punctuated her verbal assault

with an explicit hand gesture—“for it’s bound to be yer one true

love.” The crowd roared its approval and the heckler slunk

away.

Seth liked this girl.

“Please . . . your attention, please!” The auctioneer banged

the gavel. “Captain Carlyle himself attests to this young woman’s

extensive knowledge of medicines and remedies. Though young,

she’s served many years as apprentice midwife . . .”

Seth could not believe his ears. Providence had to have sent

this lass in answer to his desperate prayers.

“. . . and so we seek an opening bid of eight pounds . . . do I

hear eight pounds? Aha, yes—I have eight pounds from the vis-

count. And nine? Do I hear nine? Nine pounds? Yes, there’s

nine . . . do I hear . . . I have ten from the viscount. Thank you,

sir. Do I hear eleven?”

“TWENTY-THREE POUNDS!” Seth shouted out.

The crowd stuttered into silence.

“SOLD!” The gavel slammed down. “Sold for- twenty-three-

pounds- to-the- small-man-with-the-big-gun!” The red-faced auc-

tioneer shoved Maggie aside and scurried down the stairs, loudly

proclaiming a dire need to “answer nature’s call.” The stunned

crowd began to stir.

“What?”

“She’s sold?”

“That can’t be . . .”

“Well, when nature calls . . .” Someone laughed.

“Go on and get her, son.” A man slapped Seth on the back.

“Looks like that pretty gal’s yourn.”

When Seth saw some of the other bidders grumbling about the

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turn of events, he did not waste any more time pondering his

good fortune. He marched over and tossed the fistful of notes on

the boatswain’s table. “Where do I sign?”

Seth scratched his mark several times, anxious to secure the

girl’s contract before any protest could be lodged. The boatswain

blotted the ink, dusted the parchment with a sprinkling of sand,

and handed him a copy of the document.

“Quite a bargain, young

fella—I’d say today’s your lucky

day.”

“That’s so . . .” Seth grinned from ear to ear and tucked the

paper into the front of his shirt.

“My, my . . . it cannot even write its own name!”

Seth turned to the voice. The fancy Englishman—the viscount

who had placed the initial bid on the girl—was standing right

behind.

“I’ll have that girl. Name your price.”

“Not interested.” Seth slipped the rifle from his shoulder to

rest in the crook of his arm.

“Don’t be a fool.” The smiling Englishman reached into his

breast pocket. “I’ll pay . . . forty pounds. I’d say that’s more than

enough to purchase one of these other trollops to tend your hovel

and whelp your brats and leave you with a few pounds to shove

in your pocket as well.”

“Aye—an’ I say, ye can shove that forty pound right up yer

own arse—I’m not sellin’.” Seth smirked. Many of the onlookers

were laughing at the viscount’s expense.

“
Lout!
I’ll teach you how to address your betters,” the En-

glishman sputtered, and raised his cane to strike, but was stopped

by the barrel end of Seth’s rifle pressed cool beneath his right

ear.