into the skin of her mother’s left shoulder. “Mam would run
away,” she explained matter-of-factly. “This’s what the master
does when yer caught out.”
Whipping and branding a human being like an animal—
Maggie shivered, unable to wrap her mind around it. “She must
have had a verra cruel master—a dev il.”
Winnie shrugged. “Mam says most masters are cruel.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Maggie was suddenly grateful
her own contract had found its way into the hands of these sim-
ple folk who understood the ignominy of bondage, and deter-
mined she must succeed in helping her new American family in
any way she could.
“Winnie, is there a fresh shift fer yer mam to wear?”
“One to wear and one to wash—” the girl singsonged as she
fished a clean garment from the cedar chest at the foot of the bed.
Together, they dressed Naomi and spread a lightweight coverlet
over her.
Disturbed by the sight of Naomi’s scarred back, Maggie asked,
“How old was yer mam when she came to America?”
“Oh, my mam was born here. She’s a true Virginian.”
“A Virginian? Then why was she held in bondage?”
“Her mother was a bondwoman. Mam was but a little gal
when her mother died. The master kept Mam t’ work off the debt
in his tobacco fi elds.”
“But what of her da? Could he no work the fi elds?”
“Mam was a come- by-chance child. She’s not lucky like me.
She has no da.”
Jack came through the door, lugging the basket he’d been sent
to fetch. The stringy muscles on his arms strained, struggling to
heft the big basket onto the tabletop crowded with dirty tren-
chers, bowls, and wooden mugs. Maggie rushed to help the boy
and avoid having her things strewn across the fl oor.
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
73
Where Winnie was a miniature version of her mother, ten-
year-old Jack was the spit and image of his da. Jack’s sun-
streaked brown hair looked as though it had been clipped with a
pair of dull sheep shears. His grimy tanned arms and neck were
festooned with an impressive array of scratches, welts, and insect
bites. A tentative crooked smile crept onto his face, reminding
Maggie of the first day on the trail with Seth.
“I need a knife,” Maggie declared. Jack produced a sharp
knife from his belt, and in no time the onions were peeled, quar-
tered, and stewing in the pot.
Jack and Winnie crowded around as Maggie inventoried the
contents of her basket. She sorted through mysterious paper-
wrapped parcels, packets, and soft muslin bags. Bottle after bottle
and many small clay pots—all corked and sealed with wax—were
set down on the table in orderly rows. A brick of beeswax and a
stone mortar were the last things pulled from the basket. The chil-
dren could not help but toy with the intriguing items.
“Keep yer mitts t’ yerselves, aye?” Maggie snatched a precious
bottle of sweet oil from Jack. Winnie sneaked the packet of rose
petals she’d been sniffing back onto the pile. When little Battler
dragged a chair over to the table to begin some hands-on inspec-
tion of his own, Maggie swung the sturdy toddler up into her
arms to avoid certain mayhem. She laughed at the surprised look
on the three-year-old’s face. “And this busy laddie must be Bat-
tler, na? That’s quite an odd name, young sir.”
“His given name is Brian,” Jack volunteered. “But we’ve been
callin’ him Battler since the day he blackened Mammy’s eye with
his fi st.”
“He din’t mean to,” Winnie added.
“I must admit, the name suits.” Maggie set the toddler on his
feet. “Jack, I need ye t’ mind yer wee brother. Take him out to
play.” Jack rolled his eyes, sighed big, but took Battler by the
hand and did as he was told.
74 Christine
Blevins
Seth came in, setting two full buckets inside the doorway. He
crossed the room and sat down at his wife’s side. “She seems t’ be
sleeping easier now.”
“Aye,” Maggie agreed. Using a pothook, she hoisted the steam-
ing pot of onions from the lugpole and carried it over to the
crowded table. She wrapped the cooked onions in a double thick-
ness of flannel and set the poultice at Naomi’s feet. “Onions
draw out th’ ill humors and force a good sweat—that’ll help to
keep her cool.”
“What sort of remedy will you give her for the fever?”
Maggie sat down next to Seth and pressed a cool compress to
Naomi’s forehead. “Truth is, all the remedies I have to break a
fever would be harmful to the unborn bairn. The best I can do
here is keep yer woman cool, and fortify her with nourishment
when she wakes.”
Seth frowned. “What d’ye mean, the best ye can do ‘here’?”
“Well, I ken healing plants back home—how they work, where
to find ’em—but here it’s altogether different.” Maggie sighed.
“In my seven days crossing America, I have yet to spy a single
thistle or bunch of heather. There are so many plants I dinna
recognize at all . . . I’m a stranger in a strange land, Seth.”
“I ken what yer sayin’, but believe me, much is the same. Tell
me this, Maggie, if we were back home, what could ye do t’ help
my Naomi?”
“Well . . .” Maggie rested her hands in her lap and closed her
eyes, recalling her faraway glen. “I’d run down to the burn and
gather a great apronful of gowke-meat. Then I’d crush the fresh
leaves with heather honey and make a cool drink that would
break the fever and not harm the babe in her belly.”
“Gowke-meat?” Seth grew excited. “I havna heard it called so
in years—wood sorrel is what Naomi calls it. Aye, there are great
patches of the stuff down by our stream. I’m certain it’s the
same. Winnie, take Maggie down to the branch near the step-
stone bridge.”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
75
Maggie jumped to her feet. “I’ll need honey . . .”
“Naw, we’ve no honey . . . but in Richmond, I traded for some
muscovado sugar.”
“Is it sweet?”
“Aye.”
“Then it will do.” Maggie took Winnie by the hand and they
ran out the door.
H
It was candlelight time when Seth trudged in from the fi elds. He
stopped to hang rifle, pouch, and powder on pegs mounted next
to the door and gazed about the room. In the time he’d been out
seeing to his chores, Maggie Duncan had wrought a miracle.
The puncheon wood fl oor was swept clean. Bundles of freshly
cut sedge grass propped in the corners of the room sweetened the
air. The table, cleared of all clutter, was decorated with a bou-
quet of elder blossoms.
Winnie and Jack sat at the table—hands, faces, and clothes all
clean. They barely greeted their father, so focused were they on
their bowls brimming with chunks of stewed chicken and corn-
meal dumplings. Battler lay sprawled at the foot of the bed sound
asleep, a horn spoon gripped in his chubby fist. Maggie sat at
Naomi’s side, feeding her small spoonfuls of clear broth.
Cheered by the sight of his woman alert and upright in their bed,
Seth crossed the room in three quick steps and planted a kiss on his
wife’s forehead. They smiled into each other’s eyes as he cradled
Naomi’s alabaster cheek in his work- worn hand. “Fever’s broke?”
“Aye, yer woman’s on the mend.” Maggie handed him the
bowl and spoon. “She’s eating fer two, so mind that she fi nishes
the lot. I’ll go and dish up yer dinner.”
Seth settled onto the bedstead, soup and spoon in hand. A
Scotsman bred true to the bone, he leaned forward and whis-
pered into his wife’s ear, “It’s certain I got the best of that bar-
gain, na? This one day alone is well worth twenty-three pound.”
7
A Good Clipe on the Head
A rooster crowed. She gasped and jerked awake, desperate to
blink away the dark specter floating over her bed. The brooding
fi gure spoke. “Maggie . . . wake up . . .”
Another voice lurked in the shadows. “It’s day bust, Maggie . . .
time t’ wake.”
“Och, Jackie . . . Winnie.” Maggie elbowed up with a grunt.
“Must yiz always give me such a start?”
The tin lantern Jack hung from the roof beam did little to il-
luminate the loft they shared, and in the dim light, Maggie could
only sense their indifference. She resisted the lure of her pillow
and scrubbed the sandy bits from her eyes in mute stupor. Win-
nie and Jack struggled into their clothes, and one after the other,
the children disappeared down the hole in the loft fl oor. Three
weeks on the Martin homeplace, and Maggie still required a mo-
ment each morning to reconcile her new place in the world.
Contending with a forest of snarls in her face sent Maggie
searching through the bedding for the piece of string that must
have slipped from her braid during the night. Annoyed, she aban-
doned the futile search, flung her clothes over one shoulder, and
crawled on all fours to the center of the loft—the only spot where
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
77
the sloping roofline allowed her to stand upright to dress. Mag-
gie hop-stepped into her skirt and pulled it over the shift that
doubled as her nightdress. She poked her arms through the
sleeves of her bodice, gave the laces a halfhearted tug, grabbed
the lantern, and shimmied down the hole, careful negotiating the
ladder of stout pegs embedded into the wall.
Firelight mixed with the soft daylight just beginning to creep
into the cabin through the open shutters. On his haunches, Seth
fed fuel to the fl ame he’d coaxed from the embers. Naomi sat on
the bedstead plaiting her hair into a single copper braid. Wide-
awake, bare- bottomed Battler was busy “sweepin’” with the big
birch broom.
“G’ day, all.” Maggie tried hard to put some cheer in her
voice.
“Good morning,” Naomi answered with a smile.
“Good . . . OW!” Seth yelped. Battler had thonked him
soundly upside the head with the broom handle. Seth snatched
the broom away and laid it out of reach, across the mantel shelf.
After a moment’s silent astonishment, Battler let loose a shriek-
ing howl in protest.
“Th’ wee lad’s a menace,” Seth said, rubbing his noggin.
Naomi agreed with a nod. “Takes after his da.”
Seth took his rifle, planted a quick kiss on his wife’s brow, and
left to tend to morning chores.
“The lad’s a menace with a bibblie-nebbit.” Maggie swooped
in and swiped Battler’s snotty nose with the hem of her skirt. She
swung him onto the bed and plopped down alongside, tickling
his chubby feet as he scrambled to his mother for comfort. The
little boy was immediately distracted from his troubles by his
mam’s hog-bristle brush, which Battler snatched up with enthusi-
asm and put to use on Maggie’s tangled mane. She endured sev-
eral minutes of Battler’s “brushin’” before escaping out the door
to see to her chores.
H
78 Christine
Blevins
The sun had only just cleared the horizon and the morning was al-
ready sweltering. Maggie trudged from the stable, a wooden pail
three- quarters full of milk gripped in each hand. Sweat-drenched
frizzles of hair stuck to her face while rogue strands tickled her nose
and hung in her eyes. Her waist-length hair was a hot and heavy
bother, and if she’d had a pair of shears handy at that moment, she
would not have hesitated to lop it all off. The rope handles on the
buckets bit ridges into her hands. She hurried ahead, anxious to get
on the shaded path leading down to the springhouse.
Adjusting to life in the Blue Ridge Mountains had proved
more difficult than she’d anticipated. Almost every morning
Maggie longed for the perfumed smoke of a peat fire and the
cool, misty glens of Scotland. Besides being unaccustomed to the
hot, humid climate, Maggie found since she’d been raised in a
household that bartered a learned skill for necessities, she lacked
many practical skills required for frontier living.
Seth was surprised when he needed to teach her the mechanics
of milking a cow. The children showed Maggie how to work the
hominy block and pound dry kernels of maize into meal. Naomi
taught her to mix the cornmeal with sour milk and salt and bake
it in the iron kettle for bread.
Maggie was eager to contribute to her new household. She liked
her life with the Martins and was happy helping Naomi regain her
health. But treating the symptoms of fever and pregnancy were
simple tasks compared to the daunting task of lifting Naomi’s spir-
its. A wounded soul is a troublesome thing, and hard to heal.
Maggie kept Naomi occupied with small tasks—carding wool,
mending, shelling beans—not allowing her to wallow in despair
and dwell on the baby she’d lost, or fret over the new baby on the
way. She fed Naomi raspberry-leaf tea to strengthen her birthing
muscle and dosed her with syrup of valerian root to ease her
nerves. After several weeks of close companionship and reassur-
ance, combined with steady nourishment and ample rest from
the heavy household chores, it seemed her patient was truly on