Tom held up the basket filled with lady’s mantle. “I’ve seen this
flower growing along streambeds my whole life long and never
knew its name till today. I’d say you know more’n most folk.”
“Aye, what I know best is I’ve still much to learn.”
“I can show you some—” Tom stopped short and veered off
the trail, pulling Maggie by the hand to stand at the base of a tall
tree. “I learned this from my time with the Ojibwe. They called it
a medicine tree—
ozhaashigob
.”
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“Ohh-gaa-shkee-bob . . .” Maggie giggled.
“O-zhaa-shi-gob
. White folk call it slippery elm.”
Maggie reached out and touched the tree. “It’s no verra
slippery . . .”
Tom tugged the tomahawk from his belt, carved off a gritty,
gray strip of bark, and turned it over to show Maggie the pale,
viscous inner bark. “See—it’s slick on the inside. You peel the
smooth part free from the rough and grind it to a flour. I always
try to keep a sackful in my kit. Comes in handy.”
Maggie took the bark from Tom and sniffed. “Smells like cel-
ery, na? What’s it good for?”
Tom continued to work the tomahawk, effi ciently stripping
the trunk clean. “I mix the flour with a few drops of water.
Slippery-elm plaster heals sores and wounds better than any-
thing. See this?” He showed Maggie a shiny scar the size of a
Spanish dollar located midthigh, just above his leather legging.
“Stopped a Mohawk musket ball. Pried it out, packed the hole
with slippery elm . . .” Tom slapped his leg. “Good as new.”
“Mohawk? A Red Indian shot ye?”
“Um- hmm. Ambushed hunting their ground with the Ojibwe.”
Tom hunkered down and began peeling curls of inner bark from
the pile he’d harvested. “Mohawk and Ojibwe are sworn ene-
mies.”
Maggie knelt to help, repeating the odd word. “Oh- jib-way.”
“Um- hmm. Ojibwe women fi x slippery-elm tea for a fl ux in
the belly or gut . . .”
Ojibwe women!
Maggie’s heart jerked and danced a jealous
jig in her chest.
Aye . . . where else would he have learned those
things . . .
A flush rushed to her cheeks and a shiver coursed her spine,
recalling the past hours spent in his arms. Tom Roberts had
proved to be more than ably skilled in the art of love. Maggie
could only guess at the countless women he’d pleasured in ac-
quiring those skills, and she cringed a bit, recalling her own
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
197
awkwardness. Maggie kept her hands busy peeling bark, covert
eyes watching Tom. She could never hope to compare to the likes
of pretty Bess Hawkins or wild Indian maidens.
“You can eat slippery elm,” he rambled on. “Cooked, it tastes
kind of like walnuts. Ojibwe women use the flour to make a
wholesome gruel for weaning babies or to feed the infi rm. It’s
good food . . .”
Aye . . . I’ll wager he’s lain atop many a wanton Indess . . .
Maggie shook her head to banish the image from her mind.
“. . . I swear it’s the truth, Maggie. When game was scarce and
corn run out, our whole clan ate it. Many a time we had naught
but
ozhaashigob
porridge to hold pinching hunger at bay.” Tom
stood. “We have enough here. We’d better get going.”
Basket in one hand, he hoisted Maggie up to her feet. Gather-
ing her in a one-armed embrace, he pressed a sweet kiss to her
lips, saying simply, “I am that happy.” Taking Maggie by the
hand, Tom led her back onto the trail.
Maggie’s mind slipped back to their time in the meadow.
Live
and die for thee.
That’s what he whispered in her ear the moment
they had joined flesh. As she walked alongside Tom, his seed
mingling with virgin blood seeped sticky between her legs; she
gripped his hand tight, and tried hard to shove her doubts aside.
Tom Roberts was her man now and she was determined to know
him well. “How long did ye live among Red Indians?”
“Oh, a little more’n three years.”
“Three years! It must’ve been awful for ye, livin’ among the
fearsome brutes . . .”
Tom stiffened and squared his shoulders. They walked for a
stretch in uneasy silence.
As suddenly contrite as she was jealous, Maggie blurted, “I
didna mean to pry—it’s no wonder ye never speak on it . . .”
“Naw—it ain’t that. I guess I spend so much time on the trail
alone, I’ve just grown accustomed to keeping things close to my
own heart.” He met her eyes smiling and squeezed her hand
198 Christine
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slightly. “Truth is, it weren’t awful. As a matter of fact, I found
the Ojibwe people lived a more Christian life than most whites
who profess the faith.”
“What yer sayin’ runs contrary to everything tolt t’ me about
Indians.”
“Yep. I speak hard truths, and when I returned, I didn’t hesi-
tate to tell others what I thought. But I learned quick—it’s much
easier for white folk to believe all Indians are devils. Makes it
easy to push them aside. Easy to take advantage. Tends to rub the
conscience less when you steal from a heathen.”
“But they
are
heathens—savages.”
“All men are savages when at war. The Ojibwe are fi erce war-
riors, but they are also kind, generous, and honorable people. From
the moment they washed the white out of me, I was always treated
with fairness and respect, an equal to any true son of the clan.”
“Washed the white out of ye?”
Tom laughed. “You remember how I was captured and ran the
gauntlet?”
Maggie nodded.
“After that I was traded off to a band of Ojibwe. I left with my
new captors, thinking I’d gain an opportunity to make good an
escape. But we traveled to the north country by canoe, and it was
days and days afore they discarded my bindings. By that time
there were hundreds of miles between me and Braddock’s army. I
began to despair of ever getting back.”
“Could ye no sneak off into the night?”
“A green boy, just seventeen, unarmed in hostile territory with
winter comin’ on?” Tom shook his head. “It would have been the
end of me for sure. Winter up north is harsh, like nothin’ you’ve
ever seen.
“When we arrived at the village I was lickety-split stripped of
my clothes. They dressed me Indian fashion—a buckskin shirt
and leggings heavy with bead and quillwork. My ears were bored
and hung with silver ornaments—”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
199
“No!” Maggie looked close. Sure enough, though unadorned,
Tom’s ears were pierced.
“And an old woman pulled almost every hair from my head—
plucked me like a Christmas goose—bald but for a greased and
befeathered topknot. I must have been quite a sight to see.
“They brought me to the river where the multitude had gath-
ered. I began to fidget a bit, feeling more and more like that
Christmas goose. I figured they’d trussed me up for some grand
entertainment—like being roasted on a spit.
“Then a very old man—the chief—stood and spoke a great lot
of what at the time was gibberish to me. When he finished, I was
seized by a gaggle of young women. They pushed and pulled me
to the water. I was sure they meant to drown me, so you can
imagine, I kicked up quite a fuss. I struggled, hollerin’ loud,
swinging elbows and fists until I heard one woman say, ‘No hurt
you.’ I stopped struggling then. The women took me into the
river and scrubbed every inch of me.” Tom winked at Maggie.
“It weren’t so bad after all.”
Imagining the scene, Maggie suppressed another wave of sick-
ening self-doubt from overcoming her reason. She would have to
grow a thick skin if she really meant to become a true friend to
this man. “And the Indians,” she asked, “they truly believed they
washed the white from you?”
“A baptism of sorts I s’pose. After that, I was considered one
of them.”
“But ye aren’t one of them. Ye shouldered yer rifle and marched
off with the militia eager to kill Redmen. Ye saw fi rsthand what
the devils did to the Bledsoes . . . to wee Mary . . .”
“And I’ve also seen many terrible things white men have done to
Indian women and children as well. It’s a
quandary—I know
they’re heathen people and have seen with mine own eyes that
they’re quite capable of the worst savagery, but still, I find much to
admire in them.”
“Admire!”
200 Christine
Blevins
“They’re the best hunters, Maggie.” There was a curious spar-
kle in his eye as he spoke. “They live close to the land. Almost
everything I know about tracking, trapping, and woodcraft, I
learned in the three years spent with the Bear Clan.”
“Hmmph! If it were all so grand, why’d ye ever leave?”
Tom stopped and faced Maggie. “I left because I came to
know that thee can never wash the white out. It don’t work that
way—not for me anyhow.”
“Maaaggieeee!”
The two turned in tandem to see Jack Martin, kicking up a
whirlwind tearing along the trail toward them. He skidded to a
cataclysmic stop and leaned one scrawny arm against the trunk
of a honey-locust tree, his cheeks painted bright with exertion,
gulping air.
“Da sent me t’ fetch y’ back . . . Mam’s havin’ the baby!”
15
Old Clothes and Comfort
“Ada . . .” Maggie shook the dozing woman by the shoulder.
“Ada, wake. The head’s crowning.”
Ada Buchanan stirred from her stool in the corner, rubbing
sandy eyes with fists and stretching to stand upright. Maggie
opened the blockhouse door, drinking in a quick breath of al-
most dawn before striding with purpose to her worktable.
Squinting in the dim light, Ada surveyed the room. “Where’s
Eileen?”
“She’s gone to fetch more water.” Maggie looked up from pin-
ning a bib-style apron to her bodice and laughed. “Yer cap’s all
cockeyed . . .”
Ada straightened the mobcap awry on her head, rolled sleeves
up over fleshy forearms, and glanced out the open door. “Not
quite daybreak—we need more light.”
“Aye.” Maggie dropped several items into the large pocket on
her hip. “There’s another lantern outside the door.”
The sleepy, windowless room was now alive with activity. Ada
hung the lantern from the center ceiling rafter, bathing the crowded
sickroom in bright, swinging light. Sharing the bed opposite the
birthing bed with her daughter Mary, Susannah Bledsoe woke and
202 Christine
Blevins
rose up on one elbow. Eileen trounced in and set a brass kettle
under the table, its plume of steam adding to the swelter of close
quarters. Maggie unfurled a frayed bedsheet and snapped it out to
cover the narrow floor space between the two beds.
Naomi moaned, her thin face pinched in pain. She pushed up
to sit and swung her legs over the bedside, her toes barely grazing
the floorboards. Panting, sweating, gripping the edge of the
makeshift bed, Naomi struggled to stand. “This baby’s a-comin’
Maggie . . . this baby’s comin’ NOW!”
Ada and Eileen scurried around. Flanking the laboring woman
like stalwart sentry soldiers, each looped a strong arm about
Naomi’s waist and helped hoist her to her feet. Maggie knelt
down, centered and facing the linked trio of women.
“Hike up her shift . . .” Maggie ordered. The women obeyed,
each yanking a fistful of sweat-soaked muslin, hip-high. “Now
bear down, Naomi . . .”
Tossing her head like a mare shy of the halter, Naomi moaned,
“I’m so tired.”
“Bear down!”
“I can’t do it . . . I can’t.”
Maggie locked eyes with Naomi. “Dinna give up now. Yiv
endured hours of grinding pains. These are the forcing pains,
lass. Take a good breath and bear down.”
Naomi nodded. Drawing in a deep breath, she swiped away
the tears and strands of auburn hair plastered to her ruddy
cheeks. Bracing herself between the two solid columns of women,
she crouched down into a semisquat, scrunched her eyes tight,
and pushed.
“
Uuurrrrgghh!
”
Maggie reached up between the laboring woman’s straining
thighs, cradling the murky little head as it squeezed its way into
the world.
“This babe’s wearing its caul!” Maggie grinned, peeling off a
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
203
piece of thin, translucent membrane that clung to the knob of the
newborn’s skull like a sailor’s cap.
“Save the caul for a charm, Maggie,” Ada advised.
“A good sign.” Eileen spoke soft into Naomi’s ear. “Thee’s
birthing a lucky one, dearie.”
Gasping for breath as she slumped between the two women,
Naomi could only nod. She planted her feet to make ready as
muscles bunched and a wave of pain rode over her distended ab-
domen, crashing full force at the nexus between her legs.
“Hold fast, Naomi,” Maggie encouraged. “Bear down . . .”
Fingers digging ridges into Ada and Eileen’s steady shoulders,
Naomi crouched down once more, growling like a wounded she-
bear.