some miracle in miscalculation that would make this impossible
task seem manageable. But the numbers did not lie. Thirty-three
bushels—subsistence rations needed to ward off starvation.
I’ve but days, when what I need is weeks.
Finding a ripe ear here and a ripe ear there, he moved from
cornstalk to cornstalk, stepping in time to a late-afternoon ci-
cada chorus echoing through the fi eld. Z
hing-zhing-zhing-
zhing
—the surrounding woods sounded as if filled with men
shaking pocketfuls of coin.
A whole pocket full of silver . . . wouldna tha’ be fi ne?
Seth’s
mind leaped easy from worry to wish and then to remorse. And
for the first time, a twinge of regret for the money spent on
Maggie’s contract twisted in his chest. It was the most coin he’d
ever had in his pocket at one time—earned it selling four kegs of
his corn whiskey and his best mule.
I meant to save Naomi, but Death came determined and
spared no questions.
A wave of nausea staggered Seth, his stomach suddenly soured
as if he’d swallowed a cup of turned milk. He headed back to the
cabin. Basket dragging heavy on his back, he could see Susannah
in the distance, sitting alone in the shade of the tulip tree, shell-
ing corn.
The drop edge of the world
. . . That’s what Naomi called it
the first time she saw the piece of land he’d claimed. He should
have known right then it was all too much for her.
Swallowed her whole. Such a wee slip was never meant for
258 Christine
Blevins
this harsh life. If only she were stronger . . . if only I hadna
brung her here
. . . With a shake of his head, he said aloud, “No
time to waste pondering ifs and mights.”
More time. That’s what he needed—or something of value to
trade for corn. He hashed over the situation once again as he
broke clear of the cornfi eld.
Seth passed Ol’ Mule munching the goosefoot weed sprouting
on the manure pile.
There’s value in that mule, but a man canna
hope t’ clear a field or build a cabin without a mule.
Trading the
mule was not an option. Seth skirted past the hog snuffling in a
makeshift pen near the smokehouse.
Have to keep the hog.
Corn alone would not get them through the winter. A body
depended on fat to survive. Seth might get lucky and track a bear
this winter, but in truth he’d have little time to spare for hunting.
The hog was a sure thing and he planned to spend the next day
building a makeshift pen in the woods to cache the beast beyond
Cavendish’s reach.
Seth wanted to leave as soon as they were supplied.
Hug the
Blue Ridge and head south—careful to steer clear of Cherokee
country.
It would be warmer longer down south, give him time
to find a place to settle. Over winter he’d work the ax and clear
acreage for planting . . .
Seedcorn!
Seth stopped in his tracks.
At least two bushels
. He had to
plant a crop in the spring, or they’d face an even grimmer winter
next season.
Thirty-FIVE bushels of corn . . .
He glanced over his shoulder at the sun scratching the rim of
purple hills on the western horizon. Seth drew a deep breath, ad-
justed the basket so the burden lay square between his shoulders,
and shuffl ed forward.
No . . . not near enough hours in a day . . .
The solitary tulip tree in the clearing cast a long shadow
across the dooryard. Susannah had dragged a bench from the
cabin and sat in the shade. She wore a triangular shawl looped
with the narrow points knotted at one shoulder. Alexander slept
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
259
sound in the pocket of this sling she’d positioned diagonally
across her back.
She took an ear from the pile of shucked corn sitting to her
right, leaned forward, knees spread, and rubbed an old corncob
against the ripe ear, forcing the kernels to drop
tat-a-lat-a-lat
into the willow-withy basket between her feet. When every ker-
nel had been rubbed free, she flipped the spent cob into a grow-
ing pile to her left and took another ear.
Seth propped his weapon against the tree, slipped free the bas-
ket on his back, and spilled the ears he’d just picked onto the
ground to create a third pile—corn that needed to be shucked.
“There’s little out there what’s ripe.” He looked around. “Where’s
Maggie—the children? They ought t’ be helpin’ out . . .”
“Found ’em underfoot.”
Tat-a-lat-a-lat.
“Battler’s a hellion
and Maggie’s not much of a hand at shellin’ . . .”
“Aye that. The lass’s an able midwife, but when it comes to
farm chores, she’s as—”
Susannah cut Seth short. “Maggie saved my Mary and I’d be
happy to shuck and shell her corn from now till forever.”
Tat-
a-lat-a-lat. Tat-a-lat-a-lat.
“I sent ’em all into the field for beans.
Figured it wouldn’t hurt us none to come away with a sack or
two.”
Seth nodded, chastised. “Aye, wouldna hurt.” He glanced into
Susannah’s basket.
“Almost a bushel here,” she said. “I’ve four full bushels in-
side.”
“Well, make room—I’ll lend a hand.”
Susannah wriggled over; Seth sat beside her and began peeling
and twisting husks from the corn. Working together in silence,
intent on their tasks, they both heard it before they felt it—a
dreadful wind, droning like the monotone skirl of a bagpipe,
louder and louder as it scoured the field, cornstalks rattling in its
wake. It swooped in and washed over them, raising the hairs on
the back of Seth’s neck.
260 Christine
Blevins
He clapped a hand to his hat to keep it from flying off and
walked to where he could see thunderheads massing on the eastern
horizon. Another fierce gust rushed in to sweep through the pile of
discarded cornhusks, launching them up to rustle in the sky.
Seth rubbed the back of his neck. “Eastlin’ wind . . . boding
wind.”
Susannah came to stand beside Seth. Her skirts slapped her
legs and she tussled with her apron flapping about her face. “I
figured it were set to rain hard when I spied those
horsetail
clouds in the sky this morn.”
Little Black and Patch darted in from the field and tore
around the dooryard in mad circles, barking and leaping after
the cornhusks caught in the whirlwind. Seth crushed his hat be-
tween his hands, stuffed it under his belt, and cupped his mouth.
“Maaggggiieee!”
Bursting out of the cornfield, Maggie raced into the dooryard
bumping a single-wheeled barrow. Little Mary and Battler sat
inside laughing, screeching, and holding tight to the sides. Jack
and Winnie trotted after, each lugging a canvas sack fi lled with
just-picked beans. Maggie skittered to a raucous stop at the
bench, breathless. “There’s an evil storm a-brewin’ . . .”
Seth barked orders as he swung Mary and Battler from the
barrow onto their feet. “Jack—you go and stable Ol’ Mule.
Winnie—get th’ wee ones intae the cabin . . .”
Susannah undid the knot on her shawl. “Take the baby in as
well . . .”
Winnie dropped her sack and gathered Alexander into her
arms. Little Mary took Battler by the hand and the children did
as they were told.
Seth gazed skyward. A gray slurry of clouds churned above
the hills. “Comin’ straight at us—best get the corn inside afore
this landlash lets loose.”
The wind grew wild and continued to incite the dogs to bark
incessantly. Seth, Maggie, and Susannah scrambled, tossing arm-
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
261
fuls of corn into the barrow. Seth pushed the first load through the
cabin door and was busy dumping it into the corner when the room
was suddenly thrown into darkness. Winnie cried out,
“Da!”
“Dinna fash, just the wind blown the door shut . . .” Seth ma-
neuvered the barrow around in dim light and turned to fi nd a
great, huge man filling almost every square inch of the open
doorway, obscuring all light.
Battler yelped and scuttled across the room. Seth caught him
up and the boy buried his face in his father’s neck.
The enormous pair of shoulders bowed, torso bent at thick
waist, and a prodigious head covered in wiry, carrot-red hair
cleared the lintel piece. Hobnail boots clacked on the fl oorboards
as the giant man clomped into the cabin. Seth’s eyes moved help-
less to the empty rifle pegs near the door, the image of his gun
leaning against the tulip tree flashing through his mind.
In order to avoid banging his head on the ceiling rafters, the
giant was forced to stand awkward, with knees slightly bent and
head tilted. He gripped a stout oaken cudgel in one hamlike fi st
and slapped it to a palm the size of a two-egg skillet.
“Aw’ out, sez I,” he bellowed, his voice thick and creamy with
phlegm.
“Ooohhhh, Da!”
Winnie whimpered.
Never taking his eyes off the giant, Seth slowly sidestepped
around the table. “I’m coming for yiz, lass.”
Winnie didn’t wait. With Alexander asleep in the crook of her
arm, she took Mary by the hand and scurried to her father’s
side.
“FIGG!” a man’s voice hollered from outside.
The giant seemed to swell and he boomed, “Out, sez I! Out, or
I be crackin’ heads!”
Battler squeaked and clung tight. Seth placed his free hand on
Winnie’s shoulder. “We’re goin’ to do just as the man says, lass,
so hang on to Alexander and take hold of wee Mary . . .” He
could feel Winnie beneath his hand, trembling like a leaf on an
262 Christine
Blevins
aspen, but he moved forward, steering the group past the large
man, through the door, and into the yard.
Beneath an angry sky fl ashing lightning in the distance, Mag-
gie and Susannah sat stiffly on the bench. Brady Moffat stood a
scant ten yards away with his rifle trained on the twosome. Patch
and Little Black—bristling and barking bundles of fury—stood
between the women and the armed man. Weapon cocked, fi nger
on the trigger, Moffat spat a brown stream of tobacco juice that
arced through the air, lifting on the wind. “Call off your dogs,
Martin, or I will shoot ’em dead.”
Seth whistled and slapped his leg. The dogs stopped barking
and ran to sit at his side. Jack was not in the dooryard. Seth hoped
the lad had hidden himself somewhere safe. He lowered Battler to
stand on his own. The toddler hugged his father’s legs.
“I’ve nae quarrel wi’ ye, Brady Moffat.” Seth raised his arms,
palms open. “Ye can see I am unarmed. Put by yer weapon and
let us settle this thing like thinkin’ men.”
Moffat smiled a friendly smile and kept his gun trained on the
women. The wad of tobacco shifted from his left cheek and he
spat the chaw splat into the dirt. “You need t’ talk t’ that fella
there . . .” Brady jerked his curly brown head toward the cabin,
his grin sardonic. “That there’s our thinkin’ man.”
Seth hadn’t noticed, but a little man leaned against the cabin
wall with one booted foot propped up on the water trough. His
rawboned, sinewy frame banged around in shirt and breeches so
loose, the fabric snapped and buckled in the wind. The brace of
pistols stuck in the man’s belt in combination with Seth’s rifl e
weighing heavy on his bony shoulder seemed to be the only
things keeping him from being whisked away like a cornhusk on
the breeze.
“Ye have my weapon, sir,” Seth noted.
An Adam’s apple the size of a baby’s fist bobbed on the stalk
of the little man’s neck. Brushing windblown strands of raggedly
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
263
cropped ginger hair from his face, he shouted in a thick Irish
brogue, “Jaysus, would ye stand down, Moffat?”
“Aye aye, Cap’n Connor.” Moffat dropped his weapon to cra-
dle in the crook of his arm and offered a mock salute. Slumping
against the tulip tree, he fished in his pocket, came up with a
pigtail of tobacco, and pinched off a bite to tuck under his lip.
Bane of my existence
. . . Seth ran his hand through his hair
and muttered under his breath, “Drunks and the fuckin’ Irish.”
Encumbered by the weight and length of the rifle strapped to
his shoulder, Connor swaggered over to where Seth stood with
the girls. The skin of his face was scathed with pockmarks and
clung tight to his skull. Blue eyes bulged buglike from dark cir-
cles. “That bollocks Moffat has the right of it. I’m the man t’
talk to.”
“G’won now,” Seth told the girls as he disengaged Battler
from his leg. “Take yer brother and go to the women.” Battler
ran to crawl onto Maggie’s lap. Susannah took the baby. Mary
and Winnie sat on the ground at her feet. Just then, Simon Peavey
came around the cabin dragging angry Jack by the arm.
“Let go!” Jack struggled, swinging and kicking air. “Poxy In-
jun bugger—let go!” Peavey released the boy and Jack tumbled