brush and her last sliver of lavender soap. Maggie benefi ted from
the long soak in steamy water enriched with a sprinkling of aro-
matic herbs from Tempie’s satchel and she scoured away every bit
of Cavendish detritus—real or imagined—that might be clinging to
her skin.
Maggie stood and wandered to the doorway. She looked out
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
305
onto the fortyard. Amber light from the setting sun was shining
through the row of gun ports in the stockade wall.
Gloamin’ time.
Her favorite time. The time when the sky
changed with every blink of the eye—shades of gold and pink
blending into purple—when the stars began to show their faces,
one by one. She scanned the fortyard.
The line of fieldhands dressed in their loose hempen shirts and
trousers moved forward step- by-step to where Tempie doled out
the evening fare. Each man took his portion of beans, salt pork,
and cornbread, then retreated to find a tree stump where he
could rest from the day’s toil and eat his dinner in peace.
The door to the blockhouse hung open, framing a yellow rect-
angle of candle glow, and Maggie could see red-jacketed Castor
and Pollux bustling within. The viscount was nowhere in sight.
Maggie hadn’t laid eyes on the man since she passed through
that same door the day he raped her, and if her luck held, Seth
would send word soon and she would never have to see Caven-
dish again. She leaned against the door frame, chewing her thumb
where fl esh met nail.
But how will Seth send word?
Armed guards stood sentry atop the blockhouse, and the
stockade gates
were bolted shut every evening as a matter of
course. To further discourage slaves from escaping into the wil-
derness, horsemen patrolled outside the gates, and Connor over-
saw the prominent installation of a whipping post, centered in
the fortyard.
Castor had come to their cabin the day before, soon after night-
fall. “Massa sends for Aurelia,” he said, with eyes downcast.
Aurelia set her mending aside. In an instant her beautiful face
had turned grim, her lovely green eyes, hard as glass. Without a
word, she followed the bobbing feather on Castor’s turban out the
door. Tempie acted as though nothing untoward had occurred,
and Maggie sat dumbstruck by her new friend’s meek obedience.
It wasn’t long before Aurelia came skipping back into the
room. She lifted her skirts to show her ankles and danced a jig,
306 Christine
Blevins
singsonging, “Massa cain’t git his pecker up. Massa cain’t git his
pecker up.”
Maggie flashed a smile, recalling Aurelia’s happy dance.
If
only he were so afflicted for the rest of his days.
She never wished
so hard for anything in her life. The mere thought of having to
answer a similar call set her heart to pounding a wild tattoo in
her chest, and she stepped back into the cloister of the cabin to
catch her breath, startling the spider to scurry on silken threads
and hide in the smidgen space between shingle and rafter.
If I dinna hear from Seth in ten days’ time, I must run on my
own.
“Run!” Maggie snorted aloud. She couldn’t even muster the
courage to step out the cabin door. She settled back on her stool.
I have to contrive a way . . .
Tempie came bustling into the cabin. She set a laden trencher
in Maggie’s lap and thrust a spoon into her good hand. “I made
this hoppin’ john special for you, chile, and I ’spect you t’ fi nish
every bit of it.” She glanced at the cold hearth and sighed. “I’ll
fetch some coals—you eat up!”
Awkwardly wielding the spoon with her left hand, Maggie
forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls before falling into the habit
of separating the beans from the grains of rice on her plate. Tem-
pie soon returned with the coals to mend the fire. She frowned,
seeing Maggie nudging the black-eyed peas into a precise pile in
the center of her trencher. Tempie set the bucket down, took the
whisk broom from its hook, and swept the ashes into the corner
of the fi replace.
Maggie blurted, “I tell ye true, Tempie, if that monster calls
for me . . . I swear, I will
kill
him! I will kill th’ man afore he ever
lays hands on me again—it’ll be the end of him, tha’s certain!”
“Keep on with that kind of foolish talk and more’n likely it’ll
be the end o’
you
.” Tempie spilled the coals onto the hearth.
“You ain’t the first woman ever ill-used by a man, and you sho’
won’t be th’ last.”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
307
Maggie set her plate aside. “But how can Aurelia just go to
him, Tempie?”
“Aurelia know she’d be the first strapped to that new whippin’
post if she refuse Massa’s call.” Tempie sat on the edge of the
hearthstone and delicately arranged sticks of fat pine kindling
over the glowing embers. “Pretty slave girl like Aurelia learnt
long ago how to bend so’s she don’t break.” The tiny woman
stood and used her skirt to fan the coals into flames. “And that’s
what you need to learn. In this you ought take heart—that what
don’t break you, serves t’ make you strong.”
“Maggie!”
Aurelia popped her head in the doorway. “Castor
and Pollux say Marse Cavendish passed out—dead drunk! Won’t
you come on out now? It’s a fine soft evenin’—Justice is comin’ t’
call, and Achilles is bringing his
banjar
!”
“C’mon, girl.” Tempie offered a hand. “Fresh air will do you
good—blow the cobwebs from your head.” Maggie took Tem-
pie’s tiny hand and followed her out the door.
Although this was Maggie’s first foray into the fortyard after
nightfall, she understood the station’s new population main-
tained a strict hierarchy. The white men—Connor, Moffat, Figg,
and the like—occupied the cookhearth in the evenings, sitting
around the fire passing a bottle from one to another, as men
will.
Servants and skilled slaves, like the smith, cook, and laun-
dress, gathered in front of Tempie’s cabin to sing songs and tell
stories. Field slaves were wont to seek their beds after a hard
day’s toil, but this night a dozen or so huddled around a small
fire at the farthest end of the fortyard, roasting ears of green corn
on the coals.
Maggie sat with Tempie on a wide stump not too far from the
cabin door. Aurelia and Justice sat together on a tree stump op-
posite. Castor and Pollux, off duty and dressed comfortably in
slave-standard loose shirts and trousers, sat together on a length
of log arranged to form a rough triangle with the tree stumps. As
308 Christine
Blevins
promised, Achilles joined them, his
banjar
in hand. To Maggie’s
surprise, Simon Peavey, dressed in a long belted shirt and breeches,
came up swinging a lantern. “Room for another?” he asked.
Maggie scooted to her right and patted the space. Simon set
the lantern at her feet and sat down. His big green eyes were
filled with concern. “How you been?”
Maggie glanced at her arm in its sling. “Tempie has me on the
mend.”
Achilles propped one foot on the log and began tuning his in-
strument.
“So that’s the famous
banjar
,” Maggie said. “Like a mandolin
of sorts, na?”
“Achilles made that
banjar
himself,” Justice boasted, proud of
his talented apprentice.
“See them scars on th’ boy’s cheeks?” Tempie pointed out the
vertical lines embossed beneath Achilles’ eyes. “Those be his
tribe marks. He the only one of us true Africa-born.”
Justice nodded. “The boy didn’t speak much English when my
ol’ massa brought him to me, back in Williamsburg. One day I
found him tackin’ a coonskin over a calabash gourd he’d cut in
two and hollowed out.” The smith leaned back on his muscular
arms. “At first I figured he was makin’ a small drum and I tried
to warn him—Marse James didn’t allow us no drums. The boy
paid me no mind. He fit the gourd with that wooden neck and
strung it with four catgut strings. I ain’t ever seen such a thing,
but it shore does make pretty music.”
Instrument in tune, Achilles began plucking a pleasant mel-
ody. Aurelia hummed along in a rich contralto. Justice joined in,
improvising a harmony with his deep baritone.
“I worried for you, Maggie. I’m real happy t’ see you about.”
Simon reached into his pouch, pulled out a pair of moccasins,
and set them on her lap. “I made these special for you.”
“Och, but aren’t they lovely things!” Maggie admired the
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
309
moccasins, showing the shoes first to Tempie then Aurelia.
Much more elaborate than the utilitarian pair Seth had made
for her on the trail, the elkskin slippers Simon had fashioned
were double-soled, lined with rabbit fur, and decorated with
fringe around the ankles and a pattern of colorful beads on the
toes.
“I had to guess at the size,” Simon said. “Try ’em—see how
they fi t.”
Maggie slipped the mocassins on, squishing her toes in the
soft fur. “They’re perfect. Thank you.” She squeezed him with
her good arm around his shoulders and planted a peck on his
forehead. He seemed very pleased.
“I’ll sing a tune,” Aurelia proposed, “and Achilles, you try an’
follow along.” Achilles nodded, and Aurelia began to sing a slow
ballad.
“
The blackest crow that ever flew will surely turn to white,
If ever I prove false to you, bright day will turn to night.
Bright day will turn to night my love, the elements will mourn,
If ever I prove false to you, the seas will rage and burn.
Oh, don’t you see that lonesome dove, he flies from pine to pine.
He’s mourning for his own true love just like I mourn for mine.
Just like I mourn for mine, my love, believe me when I say,
You are the only one I’ll love until my dying day.”
Maggie’s throat ached, and she fought to choke back pesky
tears as she listened to Aurelia sing the haunting melody accom-
panied by the melancholy strumming of the
banjar
.
“I wish my heart were made of glass, wherein you might behold,
That there your name is written, dear, in letters made of gold.
In letters made of gold my dear, believe me when I say,
You are the only one for me, until my dying day.”
310 Christine
Blevins
“That was beautiful.” Maggie swiped her eyes on the back of
her hand. “Where d’ye ever learn such a song?”
“The granny woman at my ol’ place, she taught it to me.” Au-
relia snuggled close to Justice and he didn’t appear to mind.
“‘Lover’s Lament,’ she called it.”
“Sad old songs. I don’t like ’em.” Simon picked up a stone and
tossed it hard against the cabin wall.
“That song
was
too sad,” Castor complained, and Pollux
added, “It made Maggie cry.”
“I’m not crying. I’m all right—g’won an’ sing another.”
“Naw . . .” Castor protested. “How ’bout you tell us a tale
instead, Auntie?”
“A tale ’bout Brother Rabbit,” Pollux specifi ed.
“Please!”
Evenings past, Maggie had lain on her pallet inside the cabin,
listening to the many adventures Tempie spun to entertain them
all. The root doctor called upon an endless store of tales based
on a variety of animal characters like Brother Rabbit and Brother
Fox.
Tempie acquiesced to the beseeching twins, closed her eyes,
thought for a moment, then began her tale as she always did.
“Once upon a time, was a very good time . . .”
Castor and Pollux scooted closer to sit at Tempie’s feet, and
she continued: “Yep, once upon a time was a very good time, and
Brer Rabbit had a nice fat trout hooked on his line.”
“Huzzah!” Castor exclaimed, and Pollux added, “Brer Rabbit
is my favorite fo’ sho’.”
Tempie leaned back in her seat. “Now mind, our friend Brer
Rabbit was so pleased with the fi ne fish he’d just landed, he didn’t
notice ol’ Brer Wolf hidin’ in the bresh.”
“Uh-oh,” Pollux worried.
“Brer Wolf, he don’t waste no time. In nary a blink of the eye
he cotched Brer Rabbit up by the collar. ‘I’se got you now,’ says
Brer Wolf, his teeth all shiny white an’ sharp.”
Tempie cast a spell over her audience, changing the timbre of
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
311
her voice from low and gruff when speaking for the wolf to spry
and youthful when speaking for the rabbit.
“Brer Rabbit, he wriggled and squirmed and kicked up a fuss
with his big ol’ feet, but Brer Wolf hung tight and carried his prey
off. Brer Rabbit began to blubberin’, ‘Where you takin’ me?’
“‘Why, I’se takin’ you to my cabin up yonder.’
“‘What for?’
“‘Cuz that’s where I keeps my stew pot,’ says Brer Wolf, lickin’
his chops. ‘I ain’t et in two days and I am sore, sore hungry.’”
“Ooooo-ooooh,” Aurelia piped in. “Brer Rabbit done fo’
sure . . .”