Relentless, the prodder persisted in poking a stick between her
ribs. “Get below, you filthy guttersnipe! Your kind is not allowed
to pollute this deck after hours . . .”
“Sod off, y’ drunken skulk . . .” Maggie pushed the stick aside,
irritated at being so rudely wakened from the first deep sleep she’d
had in days. The knob end of the stick caught up under her chin,
30 Christine
Blevins
and the man forced Maggie to rise unsteady to her feet. Though
she had never before laid eyes upon him, she recognized her tor-
mentor at once.
A queued, beribboned powdered wig sat askew on his head,
exposing a patch of close-clipped dark hair. He moved close, his
pallid face inches from hers. “Filthy Scots vermin! Infesting the
deck by day—by God, I will not allow you to haunt it by night!”
“I beg pardon, yer grace,” she croaked, stretching up on tiptoes
to alleviate the discomfort of the cane lodged against her throat.
“I misspoke . . . I mistook ye fer one of the watchmen . . .”
He lowered the silver- tipped cane. His misbuttoned shirt was
trimmed with fine lace and stained with the luxuries of claret
and beef gravy. His sour breath stank of wine and garlic. The
man stood only a wee bit taller than herself, and his clever blue
eyes observed her closely as well. “I am most definitely not the
watch, but I shall call for it . . .”
“No! Dinna call the watch! I swear, it willna occur again, yer
grace . . .”
“It most assuredly will not.” His words were harsh, but the
voice behind them mellowed.
“Aye, yer grace.” Considering herself dismissed, Maggie bent
to gather her bedding. The man continued to stand over her, his
ominous proximity making her anxious for the squalid safety of
the tween deck.
The nobleman suddenly tossed his cane aside. Maggie’s eyes
followed the polished black walking stick spinning and skittering
across the deck planking. He grabbed her from behind and forced
her forward several strides, trapping her hard against the rail.
Certain the madman meant to toss her overboard like so much
rubbish, Maggie squealed, squirmed, and struggled to break free.
It almost came as a relief when he began grinding his hips against
her rear end and groping for her breasts. Maggie stopped strug-
gling immediately.
Mistaking complacency for acceptance, the nobleman relaxed
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
31
his grip. “Good girl—that’s the way . . .” Panting heavy in her
ear, he struggled to shove her skirts up with one hand and fum-
bled with the buttons on his breeches with the other.
In a swift, practiced movement Maggie whirled around with a
clenched fist, striking her molester square in the face with all the
force she could muster. He staggered back. She shouldered past,
hitched her skirts, and ran to the nearest stairway.
The man turned in time to see Maggie escape down the hatch
to join the denizens of the tween deck. Dazed and more than a
little drunk, he plopped down onto a pile of canvas and rubbed
his aching face.
H
“Nimbly, boys, or we’ll be meat for the fi shes!”
Stark shouted
over the wind. He marched two crewmen onto the foredeck,
barking out orders to remove the sails from the bowsprit and
foremast. Cables squealed through pulleys as men battled time,
preparing their vessel to face the oncoming storm.
Mr. Stark was surprised to find the ship’s phantom passenger
sprawled out on a stack of canvas, for Viscount Julian Cavendish
never left the sanctuary of his cabin, choosing instead to weather
his crossing in a semicomatose state of inebriation.
It was unusual for Captain Carlyle to transport members of the
peerage, as the
Good Intent
was not fit out with much in the way of
accommodations. But in a desperate effort to extricate his youngest
son from some nefarious tangle, the Duke of Portland himself had
discreetly arranged the young viscount’s passage at the eleventh
hour. Stark recalled the duke being much more concerned with the
speed of their departure than with the suitability of accommoda-
tions. Canny Carlyle negotiated an extra-generous compensation
for the inconvenience of having to give over his captain’s cabin.
“Beg pard’n, sir.” Joshua picked up the walking stick rolling
around the deck and handed it to the nobleman. “We’re coming
into some foul weather.”
Julian took the cane and used it to propel himself to his feet.
32 Christine
Blevins
“Mr. Stark—are you aware a young woman has made her bed
here among the sails?”
Stark’s eyes darted over to Maggie’s deserted pallet. “You’re
mistaken, sir. Passengers other than yourself are not allowed the
freedom of the deck during the watch. You but stumbled across
one of the ordinary seamen catchin’ a bit of shut-eye.”
“Oh no, Stark—I am quite certain
she
was no ordinary sea-
man.” Cavendish winced and touched two fingers to the purple
swelling beneath his right eye. “One of the indented creatures—a
lovely, wild thing—black hair, dark eyes, luscious round arse—
do you know of whom I speak?”
“No.” Joshua’s mouth formed a hard line in his face, his hands
balled into fists, and he struggled to maintain a level tone.
“There’s no one aboard who answers your description.”
“Indeed, Mr. Stark . . . no one?”
“There’s a bad storm
coming—I must insist,
sir—your
quarters . . .”
“When this foul weather clears, I think I will join the rabble
on deck. Yes . . . good business to fully peruse Carlyle’s mer-
chandise in advance of the auction, don’t you think, Stark?”
Cavendish staggered with the pitch and roll toward his cabin.
“After all, I’ll soon be in the market for a serving girl.”
H
Maggie wended her way through the maelstrom of the tween
deck. The ship’s lurching after six days of calm disturbed every-
body’s sleep. Boots thumping across the upper deck and the
muffled shouts of the crew added to the passengers’ distress.
Those prone to seasickness groaned. Those prone to fear mum-
bled prayers. The pragmatic struggled in the dark to secure their
belongings.
Supported by wooden uprights, platforms mea suring six foot
by six foot lined both sides of the tween deck. The platforms
were stacked one over the other, with little more than two feet
separating bottom bunk from top bunk, and top bunk from the
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
33
ceiling above. Four passengers shared each platform with feet
pressed against the bulkhead and heads facing the aisle to catch
what little air there was.
One after the other, the hatches slammed shut. Unidentifi able
objects slid and rolled up and down the narrow aisle, banging
into Maggie’s shins and ankles. After tripping and feeling her
way to the end of the row, she found her assigned space on the
lower platform occupied. Moira Bean, a young woman of gener-
ous proportions, took advantage of Maggie’s absence and lay
comfortably curled on her side. The space allotted each passen-
ger did not allow for anything as exotic as sleeping on your side.
Maggie gave Moira a shove. “Roll over, dearie . . .”
“Ummghh,” Moira moaned loud, and swatted at the air.
“C’mon, Moira! Make room!” Maggie tried to squirm into
the little space left her. Moira’s body twitched and contracted
into a tight ball, forcing Maggie back into the aisle.
“Och, Moira! What’s gotten into ye?”
“We’ve not had as much as a wink of sleep for all her moanin’
and groanin’,” one voice complained from across the aisle. Oth-
ers grunted in agreement.
Maggie pressed hands to Moira’s forehead and round cheeks.
The woman felt clammy, but she was not feverish. Moira was not
one to suffer with seasickness, but she might well have eaten
spoiled food. “Moira, are ye ailin’, lass?”
“Leave me be.”
The sea grew more turbulent. One after another, booming
waves slammed against the bulkhead, pounding the ship without
letup. “God Almighty!” the occupant of the upper bunk cried
out in a panic. “There’s naught between us and certain death but
the thickness of that planking!”
Moira lashed out at the platform above her and banged it hard
with an angry fi st.
“Stiek yer gab, ye bletherin’ gobshite!”
The outburst did not deter Maggie. “Dinna fash. Most likely
something ye ate, Moira. Have ye pain in yer belly? The beef
34 Christine
Blevins
Cook served up today was hard enough to take a good polish . . .”
She pushed and cajoled the hefty woman to lie flat on her back in
order to poke and prod her generous, soft abdomen properly.
Moira’s big belly was not soft at all—it’s hard roundness tight-
ened and bunched beneath her palms. Maggie leaned forward
and whispered into her friend’s ear.
“Why Moira Bean . . . yer birthing a baby!”
H
“Hold her steady into the wind!”
Captain Carlyle shouted at the
helmsman. Sheets of rain whipped across the decks and veins of
lightning cracked the sky directly above as the
Good Intent
churned through the roiling waves. Carlyle smelled sulfur in the
air, fully confident he’d once again bested the sea by having
weathered the worst of this storm.
A burst of wind howled through the rigging. The topmost spar
snapped and tore away from the mainmast, thudding into the
pigpen in a tangle of canvas, rope, blocks, and tackle. Squealing
pigs scrambled over the fallen spar and out of the pen. The dis-
oriented pigs staggered drunkenly with the pitch and roll, silly in
their attempt to make good their escape.
Joshua and the boatswain cleared away the debris as the other
crewmen scurried to capture the pigs. Just as the last squealer
was deposited back into the pen, Mr. Stark noticed a rhythmic
pounding and shouting coming from a nearby hatch. He pulled
back tarred canvas, unbolted and opened the hatch a few inches.
The Duffy brothers’ cherubic faces peered out.
“No worries, boys,” Stark said. “Pass the word. Naught but a
busted spar . . .”
“Mr. Stark! We need a light!”
“Can’t you see
we’ve a storm
here? None of your jaw
now . . . get below, both of you . . .”
Jim Duffy shot his scrawny arm through the opening as Joshua
began to lower the hatch. “Maggie sent us!” they both squawked.
“Maggie needs light . . . Moira Bean’s birthing a baby!”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
35
“What?”
Stark pulled open the hatch and the two brothers
scrambled out onto the deck, shouting in turn.
“Moira Bean’s birthing a baby . . .”
“Maggie needs a light . . .”
“Aye, and yer no t’ worry . . .”
“. . . there’ll be no fire . . .”
“. . . we’ll mind the light.”
The fair-haired twins waited as Stark digested the message.
“But Captain Carlyle does not allow pregnant women aboard his
ship,” he shouted back.
“Moira’s birthin’ a baby nonetheless,” the twins replied in
unison.
“Here . . .” Joshua grabbed a lantern and shoved it at Tim.
“One thing more . . .” Tim grinned. “Maggie sez yer t’
‘stop
the bloody ship from bloody rockin’
.” The two boys returned to
the tween and the mate went up to the quarterdeck to break the
news to Captain Carlyle.
“Have a look, Joshua.” Carlyle handed him a spyglass and
pointed at the clear band of pale dawn on the western horizon.
They would soon sail free of the squall.
Stark handed back the glass. “Maggie sent the Duffys up for a
light. It seems one of the women is having a baby.”
Carlyle snapped the glass shut. “Come with me, Mr. Stark.”
Joshua followed the captain into his quarters, waiting pa-
tiently as Carlyle hung his dripping sea cape from a hook and
then searched through a cupboard for his bottle of whiskey. The
captain swallowed a mouthful and offered the bottle to his mate.
“Tell me, Joshua, how did a pregnant woman manage to stow
away all this time?”
“She’s no stowaway, Cap’n. It’s Moira Bean—the big girl who
sings.”
“Damnation! Hampton knows very well I do not contract
with pregnant women!”
“She’s a large woman, Cap’n, and in all fairness, I doubt
36 Christine
Blevins
Ethan knew Moira was carryin’ when he signed her on. After all,
she’s been aboard for weeks, and neither of us had a clue. There’s
naught to do ’bout it now; she’s squeezin’ the mite out as we
speak.”
“They never survive, you know.” The strain of the storm had
caught up with Will Carlyle and he sank down onto his berth.
“I’ve seen it so many times before. The sailor’s end for
them . . . mother and child sewed into a piece of old canvas with
a load of iron shot to weigh them down . . .”
“Buck up, Cap’n! Moira’s a stout heart and Maggie knows a
thing or two. She’ll do what can be done to help Moira and the
babe survive.”