Midwife of the Blue Ridge (8 page)

“Ye might take notice yer in Virginia, sir . . .” The hammer on

the flintlock clacked back. “. . . and a lout like me can sink a ball

in yer brain from a hundred yards with one of these. Take heed

and leave me be if ye mean to stay out of my sights.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
51

The threat drew a smattering of applause and a few “hear,

hears!” from those who witnessed the scene. Seth pushed past

the stunned viscount and skirted around the crowd of bidders.

He spotted his girl waiting near the gangway, a large covered

basket at her feet and a tall sailor planted at her side.

“Och, but pretty lassies are such a bother,” he muttered. After

the encounter with the Englishman, Seth was in no mood for

another confrontation or tearful good-byes.

“. . . but that
was
the plan, Maggie,” Seth overheard the sailor

say. “The auctioneer was told to accept the first bid over twenty

from anyone other than the viscount . . .”

“Aye, Joshua, dinna fash . . . it’s done now, isn’t it?”

“Believe me, Maggie, no one figured a backwoodsman

would—”

“This yers?” Seth interrupted, pointing to the basket.

“Aye,” the girl answered.

“We’re off, then.” Seth picked up the basket and turned to

leave.

Joshua laid a restraining hand on Seth’s shoulder. “Hold on

there, fella . . .”

Seth dropped the basket and spun around, his rifle still cocked.

“This lass goes with me. I’ve paid twenty-three pound and have

paper t’ prove it!” He motioned for the girl to pick up her basket

and precede him down the gangway. He glanced over his shoul-

der several times as he hurried after the girl, happy to be on the

road leading home.

5

In- Country

One foot afore the other . . .

Maggie focused on fi nding her land legs. Solid ground proved

difficult after more than two months aboard ship.

Set one foot afore the other . . .

The hard-packed surface of Richmond’s dusty main street led

to a

wheel- rutted trail, which disappeared into a rough foot-

path.

One foot afore the other . . .

Maggie trudged alongside the pack mule, each step taking her

deep into the strange wilderness, not knowing where she was

heading or even the name of the man she headed there with. Grit

and bits of gravel weaseled into her clogs, abrading the skin on her

feet raw. The kerchief she’d tied about her head gave scant protec-

tion from the hot sun. She swiped the sweat tickling a trail down

the back of her neck, silently willing the man to stop for a rest.

But the man continued to march forward with grim determi-

nation to put much country between himself and Richmond-

town. He held his weapon in a nervous grip, checking the back

trail over his shoulder often. On occasion, her new master slowed

the pace to wordlessly offer her a swallow of warm water from

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
53

the tin bottle he carried on a string around his neck. Maggie

moved forward without complaint. She did not want to stir the

volatile emotions of this “small man with the big gun.”

The toe of her clog struck a gnarled root snaking across the

path. She stumbled, lost one shoe and her footing, and pitched

forward into the dirt. Maggie scrambled back onto her feet.

“Are ye all right, lass?” He seemed concerned.

“Aye, just the wind knocked from me is all.” Maggie brushed

debris from her skirt and searched for her shoe, finding her mas-

ter held the errant clog in his hand. To her surprise, he fell to one

knee and jerked the other clog from her still-shod foot. The mule

brayed and escaped into the brush.

“Bloody hell!”
The man stuffed the clogs into his pouch and

ran after his animal.

“My shoes?” Maggie asked, when he returned tugging the

mule up onto the trail.

He shook his head. “Yer better off barefoot. Clogs will do

naught but cripple ye, especially down the line where the trail

gets rough.”

Maggie stared in dismay at her sore feet, not even able to

imagine a trail rougher than the one they’d been following.

“Dinna fash so, lass. Tell ye what—tonight, I’ll fashion ye a

pair of moccasins.”

“Moccasins?”

“Aye, see?” He held up his left foot in example, showing her

his cuffed leather slippers, similar to those worn by the hunter on

the ship. “Red Indian brogues!”

“Are ye a shoemaker by trade?”

“Aye.” He chuckled. “That’s me—shoemaker, farmer, carpen-

ter, hunter, tanner, blacksmith. Jack of all

trades—master of

none.” He slapped the mule forward. Maggie fell in beside the

man, a bit more at ease having exchanged a few words.

“How long till we get there?” she asked.

“Well . . . we set off wi’ a late start—lost most of the day, aye?

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If we press hard we might get home in six—na . . .”—he squinted

at the sun, low on the horizon—“more likely seven days’ time.”

Maggie blinked. “
Seven days?
Seven days away? A body could

walk across the whole of Scotland in seven days.”

“Aye, tha’s the truth. But my homeplace is upland.” He pointed.

“Near those mountains there—the Blue Ridge.”

Maggie eyed the faraway indigo smudge along the horizon

Seth pointed to and swallowed hard to squelch the tears.
Get a

grip, lass. What canna be cured must be endured.
She took a

deep breath, squared her shoulders, and extended a hand.

“My name is Maggie—Maggie Duncan.”

“I recall.” He grinned, and they exchanged a handshake.

Maggie sighed loud and blurted, “’Twould ease my mind, sir, to

ken the name of the man who owns four years of my labor . . .”

“Och, did I no give ye m’ name?” Without breaking stride, he

pumped Maggie’s hand a second time. “Seth Martin.” He smiled.

“From where in the old country do ye hale from, lass?”

“A wee village in Glen Spean called Black Corries. D’ye know

it?”

“Ah no, can’t say as I do. I’m an islander myself—from Raasay in

the Hebrides—the only time I ever ventured from our bonnie isle

was when I boarded the leaky bucket that brought me to Virginia.”

“And when did ye cross the water?”

“Soon after Culloden. English burned us out and shipped us

off. ‘Threat to the Crown,’ they said.” Seth snorted. “Can ye

imagine? Me, a skinny-malinkie half-starved lad of fourteen a

‘threat to the Crown’—as if I even cared which horse’s arse sat

upon their throne.” Seth’s crooked smile vanished. “’Twere a

rough crossing. The flux killed my mam and my wee sister. The

sailors just tossed their bodies over the rail . . .” He kicked a

stone from the path.

“Culloden.” Maggie shuddered. “Bloody English butchers

killed my mam as well.”

“An’ yer da?”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
55

“Joined the Jacobites at the call to arms and I havna seen him

since. Dead, I s’pose.”

“Yer da may have been captured and transported. There were

a few Jacobite prisoners aboard our ship. My ol’ da never sea-

soned to this climate—he fevered and died soon after landing.

‘Virginia bug,’ they called it.” Seth sighed. “Aye, sixteen long

years ago, Maggie, I stood the block just as ye did this day. Puts

a twist in yer belly when they start the bidding, don’t it?”

“Ye were indentured?”

“Four years,” Seth answered. “I earned my Freedom Dues and

vowed never to labor for another man. I bought traps and earned

good silver workin’ the peltry trade. Two years ago I claimed a

piece of land by cabin right.”

“What’s that—cabin right?”

“Free white men can claim up to four hundred acres. Ye must

build a cabin and plant at least one acre of corn to hold the

claim.”

Maggie hopped on one foot, trying to dislodge a stone wedged

between her toes. “Could ye no claim a piece a bit closer by?”

Seth grinned. “There’s little land open for claim along the

coast. I had to range out to find a good piece. That’s why we

settled yonder, on the edge of the frontier.” He waved his arm

toward the mountains. “It’s rough goin’, but I’ve no quitrent to

pay and no laird to answer to. I’m my own master.”

And mine,
thought Maggie.

The mule became agitated as they approached a shallow, swift-

running stream. “This ol’ mule gets skittish ’round water. I need

to coax him across.” Seth handed his rifle and hat to Maggie and

grabbed hold of the halter with a double-fisted grip. “Step careful

as ye cross and keep that weapon dry. We’ll make camp on the

other side.”

Maggie shouldered the heavy rifle, hiked her skirts, and

stepped into the ankle-deep water. Midway she stopped to mas-

sage the soles of her aching feet on the smooth stones of the creek

56 Christine

Blevins

bed. Icy water rushed between her toes and she watched Seth

cajole the stubborn animal across. She sensed they’d passed some

invisible boundary, for Seth’s face missed the pinched worry it’d

worn most of the way from Richmond. He pulled the ornery

mule up onto the bank and waved her over. “Move along smartly!

We need to hurry and make camp afore nightfall!”

He doesna seem a bad sort,
Maggie thought as she maneu-

vered the rest of the way across the stream.
But he certainly

doesna seem the sort to have two pennies to rub together, much

less twenty- three pounds.
She took a good, hard look at Seth

Martin.

His shirt was torn and stained. It seemed he never bothered to

pull a comb through his ill- shorn hair and his stubbly chin could

stand the attention of a sharp razor.

Aye, but he does seem the sort to trade twenty- three pound

for a woman to warm his bed.

Seth scraped up a pile of tinder and started a fire with fl int and

steel. He unloaded his gear, hobbled the mule, and disappeared

with his rifl e.

Maggie gathered dry wood. Not much time passed before the

mule’s ears twitched at the report of rifl e fire in the distance. She

heartened to see dinner was on her master’s mind when Seth ap-

peared clutching his hat filled with strawberries and a brace of

pigeons slung over one shoulder. “Clean the birds,” he directed.

“I’ll fetch a good stone.”

Maggie stripped feathers and watched Seth search along the

shore. He levered up a smooth, flat stone, lugged it to the fi re,

and set it atop a pile of embers raked to the side. He covered the

stone with more hot coals. “I’m hankering after a few corn dodg-

ers,” he said.

Maggie nodded, pretending she understood what he meant.

After gutting and rinsing the plucked birds, she skewered them

on greenwood sticks over the flame. Seth filled a battered brass

kettle with water and set it to boil. He dug through the pack bas-

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
57

kets and extracted two small sacks and a pale sausage. Into the

simmering kettle, he added a pinch of salt from one sack and

sifted in several handfuls of pale meal from the other. Maggie

watched him nip the end off the odd sausage and squeeze its

gooey contents into the pot.

“What is that?” she asked.

“This? Bear butter.”

“Bear butter!” Maggie wrinkled her nose.

“Aye, rendered bear fat—very tasty.” Seth smacked his lips

and used a stick to stir the concoction into a thick yellow paste.

“We’ll let that set a bit while I see to yer moccasins.”

He unrolled a half hide of tanned skin. Maggie stood on the

hide and Seth used a piece of charcoal to trace the outline of her

right foot. “I’ll cut the leather while there’s still light. You mind

th’ birds and cook the dodgers.” He nodded toward the batter

thickening in the kettle. “Dust the ashes away and bake the

dough on the hot stone just as ye would a Hogmanay bannock.”

Maggie flattened dollops of dough onto the makeshift griddle.

The corn dodgers sizzled nicely. The bear fat sputtering on the

hot stone reminded her of smoked bacon. Using Seth’s broad

blade knife, she turned the dodgers to crisp the other side. Mag-

gie washed out the kettle, refilled it with water, and set it to boil.

She delved into her own supplies, tossing a handful of chamomile

fl owers and rose hips in to steep for their tea.

After Seth cut two matching shapes from the hide, he in-

spected the birds and declared them fit to eat. Maggie slipped the

dodgers onto a piece of birch bark peeled from a nearby trunk,

and they sat together to enjoy the fireside feast. As soon as Seth

gobbled his meal, he removed his damp moccasins and stockings

and set them near the fire to dry. He stitched Maggie’s moccasins

while toasting his bare feet on the fl ames.

Maggie sucked every bit of tender pigeon meat from the bone

before tossing it onto the fire and she licked the grease from her

fingers. She relished each sweet berry, perfect and ripe, but the

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corn dodgers were her favorite. A familiar preparation of unfa-