The two of them were clipping the bindings to further inspect
the pelts when Elder Willie marched from behind the forge, cir-
cling a hammer inside a triangle of iron. Everyone set aside their
doings and moved toward Willie, who’d climbed onto a tree
stump, clanging away.
About fifty men, half as many women, and again as many chil-
dren assembled in the center of the fortyard. The women settled
down on tree stumps, organizing small children to sit quiet at
their feet. Men and adolescent boys stood on the periphery in
loose cadres, leaning on rifles and muskets. Maggie and Naomi
found a place beside Susannah Bledsoe. Both Tom and Seth stood
not too far behind Willie. When it seemed the smith had drawn
everyone’s attention, he ceased his clanging and spoke.
“Our
gut
friend Tom Roberts brings
mit
him some news.”
114 Christine
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Tom seemed startled by the brief introduction. He paused to lay
his rifle on the ground, then mounted the speaking stump and
cleared his throat. “Out on the trail, I met up with a hunter. Some of
you may know him—Guy DeMontforte—Frenchman from the Il-
linois. He told news of some consequence and I felt obliged to
turkey-tail back and pass it along.” Tom slipped his hat off and
shifted his weight, uncomfortable without his rifle in hand. “I fi gure
you’ve all heard talk of Pontiac, the Ottawa chief up north . . .”
Maggie glanced from side to side. Heads bobbed and a low
murmur floated through the crowd. Naomi clutched her hand.
Susannah’s squabbling twins were shushed with a sharp smack
to the back of each head.
“Well, it seems the talk has merit. Pontiac’s been moving
among the northern tribes, stirring up hell with a long spoon.
He’s managed to form an alliance—Ottawa, Wyandot, Chip-
pewa, Miamis, Sauk, Seneca, Delaware, Mingo, Potawatomi—
all banded together.”
The string of odd words didn’t mean much to Maggie, but the
settlers grew stone-still as each exotic name tumbled from Tom’s
lips. Women leaned in, eyes wide, their mouths taut, thin lines.
The men all stood ramrod stiff, white-knuckled fi sts gripping
weapons tight.
“I’d as lief not be the bearer of bad tidings, but Pontiac has
sounded the war cry. His message to his brethren is this—‘lift the
hatchet against the English and wipe them from the face of the
earth.’” Tom’s upraised palm quelled a wave of outraged mutter-
ing. “Listen up! Forts Detroit and Pitt are both under siege . . .”
Tom paused. “Fort Sandusky on Lake Erie, Fort St. Joseph on
Lake Huron, Fort Miamis, Forts Ouitenon, Michilimackinac,
Venango, Presque Isle, Le Boeuf, Fort Edward—every British
post along the Ohio and Great Lakes is taken.”
A feminine moan rose up in harmony with a masculine groan,
self- restraint broke, and everyone began speaking at once, ren-
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
115
dering them all incoherent. Tom waited for the concert of voices
to dim. Willie banged iron and attention was restored.
“There is some good news—this mayhem is confined to the
garrisons up in the old French territory, and hopefully, it will go
no further. Commander Henry Bouquet and a division of Regu-
lars are dispatched to regain order. That’s all I know.” Tom
stepped down.
Seth leaped up onto the stump. “I say we are verra lucky—
lucky indeed to have a friend like Tom Roberts. We thank ye,
Tom.” A scattering of applause and a few feeble huzzahs pierced
the tension left in the wake of Tom’s announcement.
“I say . . .” Seth shouted louder to be heard above the agitated
crowd. “I say this: forewarned is forearmed.” He pointed toward
the unfinished stockade wall. “Our task is clear. We need to fell
at least twenty trees. A show of hands—who can stay on during
the week as axmen?”
The Willies raised their hands, along with six of the younger
men not burdened with families to care for. Willie the Elder
joined Seth on the stump. “Ve must purchase stores—meat, meal,
gunpowder, lead . . .”
“Aye,” Seth agreed. “Let us hope for the best, but prepare for
the worst. We will come thegither to finish the station and collect
funds to prepare for siege. Spread the word—a gather-all, four
days hence.”
10
The Gather- All
“It’s time, lassies,” Seth announced. “Set yer baskets here and
line up along the wall.”
Maggie placed her basket with five others. She squinted up at
the sun ball scorching a hole low in the early eve ning sky and
found a shady spot near the new section of stockade wall.
The men had labored since sunup to enclose the station sturdy
and safe. Roundabout women contributed a fair share, cooking
meals and preparing foodstuffs to store for a possible siege. The
setting sun signaled the time to relax and enjoy the camaraderie of
good friends, food, and music—just reward for a hard day’s work.
Maggie tugged at her stays.
That minikin Naomi had the
strength of ten men when she tightened these laces.
The stiff
corset ribbed with baleen drilled a painful hole beneath each
armpit. She cursed her vanity, sorely regretting the three bits
squandered on the stays. But that had been the only bad bargain
she’d made, trading her silver and pelts for enough fabric and
thread to outfit herself with a new wardrobe. Maggie had stitched
like a demon into the wee hours to have new togs ready to wear
to the gather-all.
She smoothed the pale gray-and-blue-striped dimity skirt with
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
117
pleasure, never having owned anything so fine. Her blouse and
petticoat were cut from an ell-wide length of crisp linen shirting,
and she fashioned a bodice from a remnant of indigo twill the
peddler man let her have for a song. Maggie pinned her hair into
a sleek coil with two new silver hairpins, and Naomi gave her a
pair of white cotton hose and garters to wear.
“Gather ’round! Gather ’round for the supper- basket auction!”
Seth clanged a cowbell and hopped up onto a large tree stump in
front of the row of young women. Maggie’s fellow basketeers
squealed and exchanged whispers in anticipation.
“Bachelors to the fore!” Seth encouraged a scrum of young
men to congregate in a heap nearer his rostrum. Sitting and
standing in a loose band around the core of single men were
those too old, too married, or too young to partake in the auc-
tion, but still eager to enjoy the spectacle.
Maggie pulled a square of muslinet from her pocket and
dabbed the puddle of sweat collected at the apex of her cleavage.
She looked up to find at least two dozen pairs of man-eyes plas-
tered on her bosom. Shaking her head, she sighed.
“Gentlemen, let the bidding begin.” Seth held aloft a small
basket tied with a bow of yellow ribbon that matched exactly the
ribbon adorning petite Sally Anderson’s soft brown hair. “Have I
two bits?”
“For that puny meal I’ll bid two cents.” Charlie Pritchard drew
a masculine laugh and a feminine scowl with his rude remark.
“Piggy-eyed, pimple-snout Pritchard, so concerned for the size
of his meal,” whispered Janet Wheeler, the girl to Maggie’s left.
“Him with a belly like a rain barrel.”
Maggie snickered.
“Included with each supper basket, the pleasure of sharing a
meal
in private
with one of the bonnie lassies ye see here.” Seth
waved his arm toward the girls with a courtly flourish. He glanced
over his shoulder at tiny Sally Anderson. “They say good things
come in small packages.”
118 Christine
Blevins
Sally blushed pretty, which compelled Billy Barlowe to bleat
out a bid of two bits and the auction began in earnest. With only
six baskets for sale, the competition grew fi erce.
“. . . SOLD to Hamish Macauley for three and a half dollars!”
Seth rang the cowbell with vigor and handed the tiny basket to
the fi ery-haired Macaulay. Maggie stifled a giggle when the huge,
thumping frontiersman encased Sally’s hand in his paw and
strolled gallantly out the gate.
The gang of single men watched the mismatched pair leave
and collectively glanced back to the baskets sitting at the base of
Seth’s tree stump—but five left. Hamish’s conquest seemed to
steel the lads with new determination.
Maggie had been disappointed to learn Tom’d left Round-
about days before, off on his summer hunt, she supposed. She
perused the faces in the crowd of potential dinner mates and
could put a name to only a few of them. Willie Wagner the
younger stood at the edge of the crowd, gawking at the line of
ladies, his moist mouth agape.
Maggie nudged Janet. “That Willie—carries his brains in his
bollocks, na?”
Janet giggled into her hand. “But he has a good trade. Pa says
he’s plump in the pocket.”
“What am I bid?” Seth held up a basket trimmed with a spray
of laurel blossoms, and Alice Springer tilted her head for all to
notice the matching pink flower tucked Spanish- lady style behind
her right ear.
“Mr. Raeburn,” Seth called. “What say ye? Two bits.”
Jamie Raeburn obliged, opening the bidding with a shout of
“Two bits.”
Janet nudged Maggie and whispered, “The way I heard it,
Alice let Jamie open her bid at the corn shucking.”
Maggie absorbed this tidbit of gossip, eyeing Jamie Raeburn
standing among the bidders, slender as lath with archangel good
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
119
looks. “That one seems overaware of himself,” she observed.
“All vine and no potatoes.”
“A-yep—thinks he hung the moon,” Janet agreed. “I, for one,
wouldn’t have him if his hair were strung with gold.”
Jamie Raeburn remained silent after his initial bid, and
shadow-shy Will Russell won Miss Springer’s basket for the sum
of three dollars. Too timid to take his lady by the hand, Will
traipsed after Alice like a lost sheep. As they passed through the
gates, Maggie saw the renegade lad, Simon Peavey, coming into
the station to join the auction crowd.
Simon had decked himself out British Regular–style for the
gather-all, brass buttons glinting on his red wool coat. His bulky
braids were tucked under his singed, cockeyed wig and he carried a
large bale of hides lashed like a pack to his back. Maggie was happy
to see the powder burns on his face looked to be healing well.
Simon created a bit of a stir, shoving and pushing his way to
the front. He struggled free of the straps and dropped the bale on
his back to rest at the base of Seth’s tree stump. He glanced up
and caught Maggie’s eye with a look of such fierce intensity, she
lost her smile and stumbled back a step. Janet pinched Maggie on
the arm. “It’s your turn.”
Seth hefted Maggie’s big basket, conspicuous by its lack of
decoration. “Aye . . . plenty to eat in here, lads.” Everyone
laughed when Seth set the basket down, rubbing his arm as if to
sooth sore muscles. “Who will open the bidding?”
“Two bits.” Jamie Raeburn flashed Maggie a gorgeous smile.
“Four bits.”
“Five bits!”
The bids came fast and furious. The price for her basket rose
swiftly, and when the price grew too dear, many of the bidders—
Jamie Raeburn included—dropped away.
“Four dollars!” Willie Wagner topped the last bid.
“Four dollars once . . .” Seth intoned. “Four dollars twice . . .”
120 Christine
Blevins
“Five bucks!” Simon Peavey shouted.
Whistles and low-toned mutterings filtered through the crowd.
“Seth,” Jamie Raeburn complained. “I don’t see why we need
allow this greasy Indian . . .”
Simon shifted his stance, and quick-slipping the rifle from his
shoulder, he cocked the lock. Through gritted teeth he said, “I’m
as white as any of you.”
“No argument, lad.” Seth kept a calm voice. “But I’ll have ye
lay that weapon aside, afore I continue with the auction.”
Simon backed off glaring; the muscle at his jaw taut and
twitching, he laid his rifle at Seth’s feet. Seth heaved a sigh.
“Peavey has the bid at fi ve . . .”
“Five and half,” Willie countered, agitated pink splotching his
fair cheeks. “Silver.”
Maggie was none too keen on having her basket acquired by
either Simon or Willie, and she shot Seth a look that would have
curdled a pail of milk.
“Five and a half dollars once . . .” Seth began.
“Eight.” Grim-faced, Peavey crossed his arms over his chest.
“Eight bucks.”
With Maggie’s sharp eyes boring two holes in the back of his
head, poor Seth was desperate for another bidder. “Come now,
lads,” he pleaded. “A good cause, this—Young Willie, are ye bid
nine?”
Shuffling backward, Willie shook his head and stove his hands
into his pockets.
“Waugh!”
Simon Peavey yelled, and tossed his wig into the
air. He threw his head back and ululated a heathen yip that
pierced eardrums and sent a cold stream down Maggie’s spine.