pered, “A fi ne woman—and well loved. The good thee did will
live on in the lives of those thee loved.”
He turned from Naomi’s grave to the fort. The gates were
closed. A lone sentry paced the roof of the blockhouse. When
Tom’d left, a little more than a month before, the fi eld surround-
ing the station had been speckled with tree stumps and riddled
346 Christine
Blevins
with stones. Now he found it cleared, plowed, and lined with
row upon row of precisely formed hummocks. A dozen Negro
slaves worked the rows, preparing tobacco beds.
The clang of iron on iron sounded from beyond the stockade
wall, calling in the fieldhands for their eve ning meal. They shoul-
dered mattock and hoe and fell into ragged file. The gates swung
open and slaves trudged forward. Tom jogged to the head of the
column and passed through the open gates.
Changes wrought during his absence came immediate to his
eye; most blatant—the blood-bespattered whipping post centered
on the fortyard.
Bright, fearful eyes shone from the many dark faces tracking
his movements. Tom pushed his hat back on his head and hiked
his rifle onto his shoulder. The station he and the others had
built as a haven for settlers had become a cruel prison for these
poor people, condemned to a life of backbreaking labor in order
to enrich a rich man’s coffers. The sight and smell of slavery
never set well within Tom’s Quaker soul. Resisting an urge to
take his leave, Tom searched beyond the many black faces for
one familiar, determined to gather information and be quick on
his way.
Weary slaves shuffl ed step- by-step to the cookhearth, where a
tiny Negress wearing a red headscarf dished beans from a huge
kettle. The little woman stopped
mid-ladle when she spotted
Tom. To his surprise, she gave him a bold once-over and beck-
oned to him with a crook of her finger. At the same time, the
sentryman atop the blockhouse called down.
“Be that you, Tom Roberts?”
“Hamish!” Glad for a familiar face at last, Tom went to stand
in the shadow of the block house. “What in all hell you doin’ up
there, Macauley?”
“Och.” The big Scotsman shook his shaggy head in disgust. “I
find meself in dire need of ready silver.” Hamish shrugged and
sat down, deerskin-encased legs dangling over the edge of the
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
347
rooftop. “Overcharged my rifle—drunken bollocks that I am—
blew out the barrel.”
“Bad luck.”
“Aye, for I was verra partial t’ tha’ weapon, na? How went yer
hunt, Tom?”
“Not much luck either, I’m afraid . . .”
“Well, if’n yer lookin’ t’ earn, this English bugger is lookin’ to
hire . . .”
“Not me, brother—thanks all the same.” Tom squinted into
the red-orange sun ball setting beyond Hamish’s broad shoul-
ders. “Tell me, did you hear where Seth headed?”
“Seth? Naw . . .” Hamish scratched inside his shirtfront. “I
didna hear a word.”
The blockhouse door crashed open and the Englishman, bran-
dishing a crystal goblet of red wine, stepped out in stocking
feet.
Cavendish
. . . Tom recognized him. The selfsame bastard
who had dogged Maggie aboard the
Good Intent.
Identical-twin black boys dressed in the silliest costumes Tom
had ever seen followed after the man. One boy carried a pair of
polished black boots. The other, a bottle. The pasty nobleman
glanced at Tom, then snapped at Hamish, “What say you, sen-
try? Allowing access to my demesne to armed strangers?”
Hamish scrambled to stand. “Th’ man’s no stranger to the sta-
tion. This here’s Tom Roberts—one of the finest hunters and
trackers west of the fall line.”
The viscount eyed Tom with interest. “The finest, you say?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Tom winced at Hamish’s use of the title.
Cavendish swaggered forward, sipping from his cup. “You
seek hire, sir?”
“Hire?” Tom snorted. The nobleman was not at all as he re-
called seeing him last—all silk and lace, bewigged, powdered,
and primping. “M’lord” reeked worse than a dockside whore
348 Christine
Blevins
three days after a ship of the line’d made port—a noisome com-
pound of lavender water, puke, and piss that forced Tom to take
a step back. Greasy strands of unkempt hair hung to the man’s
shoulders. His disheveled shirt, though stitched of fi nest linen,
was thoroughly stained with gravy, wine, and Lord knew what
all. Tom would be willing to wager more food and drink had
splashed onto the man than into him.
Cavendish snapped his fingers. The bottle boy refi lled his
glass. “I offer bounties . . .”
“Bounties?”
“. . . and as I am anxious to recover stolen properties, these
bounties are more than generous.”
Tom shook his head. “I’m no slave catcher . . .”
“I require your services. My men have been scouring the coun-
tryside these five days to no result.” Cavendish sat down on a tree
stump and the boot boy fell at his feet. “You’d be seeking slaves
and horses among thieves and whores—my sentryman will fur-
nish you with complete descriptions. Twenty pounds offered for
each slave or horse recovered. Thirty each for the thieves Moffat
and Peavey. Fifty for the bondwoman.”
“Bondwoman?” Tom slipped the bedroll from his shoulder to
land at his feet. He dropped his shot pouch atop it and gripped
his rifl e in both hands. “A white woman?”
Cavendish stood and stomped feet firmly into footwear. The
viscount hiccuped and wavered a bit. “Indeed. I place a high
value upon my precious bit of white quim.” He held his glass up
to catch a ray of light and admire the claret’s glow as he spoke.
“Though she proved most unwilling at the moment of amorous
congress—bent over my writing table, the midwife nonetheless
provided a suitably tight ride—”
The butt end of Tom’s rifle smashed across the viscount’s face,
sending him flying onto his back with legs and arms unfurled. In
a blink, Tom was upon him with the barrel end pressed to the
man’s gulping throat.
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
349
Cavendish lay perfectly still. A purple welt inflamed his right
cheek. Wide eyes glued to the angry finger on the trigger.
Hamish leaped from the rooftop. Landing in a dusty thump,
he called, “Put by yer weapon, Tom!”
With eyes narrowed to mere slits and mouth a grim line in his
stubbly face, Tom’s lips barely moved when he spoke. “I fi nd the
bastard’s done some harm to Maggie, Hamish—”
“Ye do yer lass no favors swingin’ from the gibbet, Tom. This
man has means.”
Tom considered a moment, then shouldered his rifl e.
Cavendish sighed in relief and began to sit up.
Tom planted a moccasined foot on the man’s chest and pinned
him down like a june bug in the dirt. His skinning knife zinged
from its sheath. As Cavendish thrashed and flailed, Tom bent over
with his full weight bearing down upon the man’s breastbone. He
gripped a topknot of hair in one fist, immobilizing the viscount’s
head.
“Madman!”
Cavendish gasped, pleading,
“Sentry!”
Tom put the honed edge of his blade to the man’s forehead,
and there he carved the letter
R
. “I mark you a Ravisher of
Women—”
“Tom, tha’s
enough—
Tom!
” Hamish grabbed Tom by the
arm, but he shrugged free and inserted the sharp tip of his blade
inside the viscount’s left nostril.
“I expect, sir, one day soon, something fatal will befall you—”
And with a flick of his wrist, Tom slit the nobleman’s nose and
stepped back.
“I’m cut!” Cavendish bounced upright. Blood spurtled from
the nose wound and drizzled from his forehead, pooling in a
cupped palm held beneath his chin. “Sentry—
I’m cut!
”
“Aye,” Hamish agreed. “An’ yer lucky tha’—ye may well have
been shot.”
Cavendish reached up and gingerly fingered the torn nostril.
Eyelids fl uttered. He fell back, unconscious.
350 Christine
Blevins
“G’won, best git.” Hamish pulled Tom away. “Th’ bastard’s
henchmen are due back.”
The twins shoved gun and gear into his arms. Hamish pushed
Tom past the curious slaves congregated to view the commotion.
Tom stopped short and delved into his pouch. He handed Hamish
a handful of Spanish dollars.
“For the repair on your rifle . . . take it,” he said with a wry
smile, “for I fear I’ve cost thee employment.”
Hamish grinned, and pocketed the coins. “But a wee loan,
lad. Much appreciated.” They shook hands.
As Tom passed through the gates, the tiny Negress rushed up,
waving Tom’s black felt hat and shouting, “Mister!
Mister!
” Tom
reached to take his hat, but she held tight to it. “You Maggie’s
man?” she asked.
“You know Maggie?”
“Mm-hmm . . . she pines for you—d’you aim to git her
back?”
“If I can fi nd her.”
“That renegade fella, Simon. He done took ’em.” The woman
cast a suspicious glance back to Hamish. Her voice dropped to a
whisper. “Took ’em to his folk—his Injun folk. You unnerstand
what I’m tellin’ you?”
“Yep. I know where t’ go—thank you, ma’am.” Tom dropped
his bedroll at the slave woman’s feet. “A hindrance to me—keep
it.” Flattening his hat, he stuffed it under his belt and arranged
the strap of his rifle so the gun lay diagonal across his back. Tom
loped out into the field, looked to the setting sun, veered left, and
took off, full speed.
H
The weary group of horsemen trotted through the fi eld toward
the station. Well past the dinner bell, Connor leaned toward the
man riding alongside him. “I hope Tempie put a bit by for us. I
swear t’ Christ, I’m so hungry, I could eat a nun’s arse through
the convent fence.” The laughing group slowed to a standstill
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
351
before the closed gates. The Scotsman whom Connor had en-
gaged to keep sentry was nowhere to be seen.
“Fuckin’ Scots,” Connor cursed. After spending five days with
arse bones grinding the saddle, he longed for a hot meal and a
good smoke, followed by a noggin of rum and his head to his pil-
low. He urged his fi re-shy mount to the head of the torch-wielding,
ragtag slew of rascals he traveled with, and shouted into the
dark, “Macauley! Figg!”
No doubt Figg slept snug in his bed, belly full of grog and
beans, snoring off a good drunk. Unmonitored, his large brother
tended to idle drunkenness. “Fuckin’ Figg. Thick as shite an’ half
as useful.”
When the viscount had ordered him to accompany the track-
ers, Connor hated leaving Figg behind, but he understood the
bounty- hungry Virginians would not tarry on this trek. Hard-
ened to the trail, they moved fast and relentless. Figg would’ve
proved a huge burden, to the horses in partic u lar. Connor had
hired Hamish Macauley, admonishing him to mind Figg and the
fort.
“Hoy, the station!” Connor shouted. “For Christ’s sake, will
someone open the fuckin’ gates!”
At last the big latch klunked open. The gate wailed on its
hinge and scraped a slow half arc in the dirt. Connor was sur-
prised to see the viscount’s twin body servants with their shoul-
ders to the gate.
The party clipped-clopped into the fortyard. The few slaves
who were still awake ran up to grab reins and see to the horses.
Tired and hungry, the trackers headed straight for the cook-
hearth. Connor dismounted and questioned the twins. “Where’s
Figg? Where’s the sentry?”
“Figg, he in his bed,” Castor offered.
Pollux added, “The sentryman, he took off.”
“Took off?”
The twins nodded with vigor.
352 Christine
Blevins
“Fuckin’ worthless Scots,” Connor muttered under his
breath.
“Marse Cavendish want t’ see you.” Castor jerked his head to
the block house.
Pollux added, “Toot sweet, he say.”
Given not a moment’s respite from the saddle before having to
face his employer’s certain displeasure, Connor sighed and
ground the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.
Th’ Scots bitch must be a devilish good piece.
Very keen on
recovering his white woman, the viscount had spared no expense
in the hunt. The trackers diligently roved the frontier for fi ve
days, hoping to claim the bounties offered. But aided by expert
huntsmen like Moffat and the renegade Peavey, the horses, slaves,
and bondwoman had seemingly vanished into thin air. Connor
grumbled, “Fuckin’ Scots. Fuckin’ niggers. Fuckin’
Injuns—
fuckin’ Scots!
”
Castor tugged at his sleeve. “Would you ask him, Mr.
Connor—ask him if we can cut Aunt Tempie down—”
“Cut her down?”
“She been whipped, and left at the post.”
“Whipped?!”
Connor spun and squinted at the dark. In the
light of the waning moon, he could make out a shadow huddled
close to the whipping post. “Who whipped her?”