tall fl owers. “Mag-kie!” she called out. Dropping to her knees,
she began to dig.
“Faerie candles!” Maggie said aloud the name she made up for
this partic u lar American fl ower. She’d always been partial to the
droopy white plumes with their odd, haylike aroma. She crouched
beside the healer in excitement. “Ye ken—them being so bonnie,
I always fi gured they must be good for somethin’.”
Noolektokie prized free a stout section of root, dark and
gnarly on the outside, creamy white on the inside.
“Mkatee co-
hosh,”
she said. Brushing off clumps of dirt, she handed the root
to Maggie.
“Aye . . .
mmm- ka- tee co-hosh
,” Maggie repeated, with brow
furrowed.
Now for the diffi cult bit
. . . “But what d’ye use it for?
Eh . . .
cohosh
. . .” She searched through her scant Shawnee
vocabulary. “
. . . wee-thenie
? To eat?” She pretended to bite into
the root.
“No, Mag-kie . . .
chobeka
.” Noolektokie
rose up on her
knees. With graceful movements, she indicated a large belly, then
mimicked rocking a baby, then again indicated a large belly.
“Chobeka ho-tohcoo kweewa . . .”
“
Kweewa
? Woman? Pregnant woman?” Maggie indicated a
large belly, then mimicked pushing and straining like a woman
in labor. “
Chobeka
—medicine—for
kweewa
in labor?”
“Aye!” Noolektokie used one of her few English words, nod-
ding and smiling wide.
Maggie babbled on as they harvested the black cohosh root.
“I’ll take yer heathen word for it, lass, for though ye may lack
English, ye surely ken yer remedies—aye?”
“Aye!” Noo agreed.
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
361
Shots rang out—coming from the river—followed by the Shaw-
nee halloo—
“Chi-chi-lo-a! Chi- chi-lo-a!”
—and more shots.
Noolektokie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Waythea!” She gasped
her husband’s name, jumped to her feet, and pulled Maggie to
stand. The two gathered their baskets.
In an effort to maintain control over their shrinking homelands,
the Shawnee had joined forces with the Ottawa chief Pontiac and
many other tribes laying siege to forts and terrorizing settlers up
and down the frontier. Kispoko’s war party had returned, hope-
fully with Noolektokie’s husband unscathed among them.
They ran to the ridge and could see four large canoes fi lled
with bare-chested warriors paddling toward the village. Noo
hugged her basket to her chest; eyes twinkling with tears, she
bounced on the balls of her feet and pointed to the last canoe.
Exclaiming “Waythea!” she took off, scrambling down the es-
carpment, dribbling a trail of pawpaws behind her.
Maggie lost sight of Noo in the stream of villagers spilling
forth from
wegiwas
and swarming toward the returned warriors
like bees toppled from their hive. Maggie hurried down the es-
tablished path leading back to the village.
Wives, mothers, and children embraced husbands, sons, and
fathers. Young men who had remained
behind—Simon and
Achilles among them—splashed into the water to help beach the
canoes. Old men emerged in regalia, and gathered in a dignifi ed
group at the doorway of the council house to offi cially welcome
the victorious men home.
Waythea is back
—Maggie wandered through the bustling
throng hiding behind her basket, her bottom lip caught on her
teeth.
We’ll need new lodgings, Aurelia and me . . .
The returned warriors began to disengage from their families
and head toward the council house, many with freshly shorn
scalps swinging from their belts—hanks of bloody hair attached
to tattered skin with globs of fat and bits of blood vessels still
clinging to the unscraped fl esh.
362 Christine
Blevins
Maggie hugged her basket and scooted into the shade of the
closest
wegiwa
. Leaning a shoulder to a stout lodge pole, she
spotted Noolektokie and her husband strolling arm in arm. Two
scalps dangled from Waythea’s belt, one curly brown, the other,
golden blond.
Pawpaws tumbled onto the soft loam as Maggie retched sour
bile. Bent over the puddle of yellow spittle, blinking teary-eyed,
she glanced around hoping no one had noticed her weakness. A
group of five warriors came her way. She toed sandy soil over the
sick and plastered her back to the rough bark of the
wegiwa
, giv-
ing over a wide path as they passed.
The warriors’ dusky muscled bodies exuded confi dence and
pride in victory, but the scarlet circles and lines painted around
their eyes lent them a devilish countenance. It would be daunting
to face these men in battle.
Maggie knelt to gather the spilled fruit and noticed the villagers
at the shoreline forming into four files, one leading from each ca-
noe. Hand to hand, they passed the spoils plundered from settle-
ments along the frontier. A group of white captives were herded to
stand near the growing pile of pots, clothing, weapons, and sacks
of meal. Maggie abandoned the pawpaws and edged forward.
Two small white boys, a young girl, and a British infantryman
clustered together near the prow of the lead canoe. The boys
were very young—brothers by the look of them. Maggie gauged
the bigger lad to be about five years old, and the smaller, no older
than three. The girl was taller than Winnie, with dark brown
hair pulled back and plaited in a single, thick braid. She held
each boy by the hand and her heavy brows drew into a fi erce V
whenever any Shawnee ventured too near.
Th’ lass’s fearless. Tha’s how she’s survived . . .
The Shawnee
admired such bravery.
The big, burly soldier stood with wrists bound before him,
sweat stains patching his red waist jacket. Her countryman wore
the bedraggled remnants of his uniform proudly. Maggie recog-
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
363
nized the distinctive dark tartan of his regimental kilt as that of
the Royal Highlanders—the Black Watch.
He looked like a wild man—handsome face covered with
golden-red stubble and mottled
bruises—long auburn hair all
a-tangle. His boots must have been stolen from him—his feet
and muscular calves encased in naught but red-checked hose. He
stood tall and defi ant nonetheless.
Maggie skirted around the jabbering audience formed in a
solid phalanx around the captives and the pile of booty. The old
woman, the very one who had rapped Maggie on the head with a
spoon, ordered the captives to sit on the ground, poking and
prodding them with a staff tied with a fluff of red feathers. The
crone harkened to the crowd; waving her feathered stick, she
shouted,
“Choyoch-ki, pethe-ta-waloo!”
The crowd quieted instantly. Pleased, the woman smiled a
toothless grin, set staff aside, and pulled forth from the pile a
military-issue musket. The harpy held it in her spindly claws,
speaking at length until a grinning young man stepped forward.
The crowd murmured approval when she placed the gun into his
hands. So it went with each item—every kettle, ax, and blanket.
Maggie waved to Simon at the opposite end of the crowd. He
caught her eye at the same moment, smiled, and wound around
to join her.
In Kispoko, Simon cast aside all reference to his white heri-
tage. He dressed in breechclout and leggings. Drawn over one
shoulder and belted at his waist, he wore a red-and-black-striped
blanket. He’d plucked his lovely chestnut hair, leaving one thick
lock, stiffened with bear grease to stand upright, like a bristly
brush mounted to the crown of his head. His scalp lock was
dressed with red, yellow, and green feathers, and matching feath-
ers attached to a leather strap were tied around the biceps of his
right arm. Silver hoops decorated his ears and a silver bead orna-
ment dangled from a piercing on his nose. Simon took her hand.
“You look beautiful, Mag-kie.
Wil-li-thie
. Beautiful.”
364 Christine
Blevins
Maggie jerked her hand away. “When are ye goin’ t’ take me
back like ye promised?”
Simon ignored her question. “There’s going to be a big feast
to night.”
“And what’s to become o’ them?” Maggie pointed to the hud-
dled captives.
Simon nodded at the old woman. “Payakootha—she’s the
Peace Chief. She decides. The little ones and the girl will most
likely be adopted. The soldier . . .” He shrugged.
Payakootha prodded the girl to stand front and center. The boys
leaped up as well, ferociously clinging to her skirts. The Peace Chief
rasped out an order and two men came up to pry the boys away.
The girl drew her shoulders square, held her head erect, and
clasped hands beneath budding breasts. She kept her eyes straight.
Her chin began to tremble as Payakootha rambled on and on.
Heads nodded in approval when a middle-aged couple stepped
forward and took the girl away with them.
Simon leaned in and said, “Their only child—a daughter—
died from a bad fever.”
The crowd also agreed with the appropriateness of the Peace
Chief’s decision when the brothers were given to a childless couple.
Two warriors grabbed the Scots soldier and pushed him to
stand. The Shawnee fell silent and everyone inched forward.
Payakootha bent down to pick up a small wooden bowl. She
hobbled over to the soldier, dipped her hand into the bowl, and
smeared black paste all over his face.
The villagers burst forth in a raucous cheer that sent a chill
down Maggie’s spine. Women held open palms to the sky, ululat-
ing high-pitched screams. Children yipped, yawped, and danced.
Men threw their heads back, howling in triumph, and fi red shots
into the air.
“What’s going on?” She clung to Simon in the midst of the
tumult, tugging on his arm. “Why’d she black his face?”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
365
Simon met her gaze, his green eyes brilliant with excitement.
“The soldier’s to be burned!” H
A fire crackled in the circular fire pit centered in Justice’s
wegiwa
.
The blacksmith sat with massive shoulders hunched and he poked
at the fire. Aurelia spooned stiff cornmeal mush onto a hot stone.
Maggie sat between the two of them, crouched in a brown blan-
ket, staring blankly at a steaming kettle nestled in a mound of
glowing embers.
Justice’s deep rumble broke their silence. “The Injuns seem t’
have calmed considerable since th’ dawn light.” He leaned back,
grabbed a stick of wood, and tossed it onto the blaze. A swirl of
sparks and smoke billowed to fly up and out the roof hole. “But I
swan, I will hear that poor man’s pitiful moaning ringing in my
ears fo’ many a day t’ come.”
“That had t’ be the most terriblest thing I ever heard . . .” Au-
relia shuddered and swiped back the tears sprung to her eyes. She
took up a flat of birchbark and used it to flip the johnnycakes one
by one.
“I hope he’s dead. He must be dead.” Maggie clinched her
blanket beneath her chin and stared into the flames. She dared
not shut her eyes for more than an instant, for when she lingered
in the darkness, she saw it all again.
They’d stripped him naked and painted him all over with a
gritty black stain made from charcoal mashed in water. The vil-
lagers armed themselves and formed two parallel lines from the
shoreline to the council house. The soldier was made to run this
gauntlet, all the while fiercely beaten with sticks and pelted with
stones. Simon broke away from Maggie and joined in, baying
like a wolf when he dealt a fearsome blow to the man’s head with
the pipe end of his tomahawk.
The Shawnee gathered in the clear area in front of the council
house, where a tall stake had been pounded into the ground.
366 Christine
Blevins
Firewood was piled off to the side. The soldier’s wrists were
bound and his neck was secured with a long cord and tied to the
stake, leaving him enough slack to wander around it like a
tethered dog.
To the man’s credit, he bore every bit of this treatment with
great patience and stoic dignity. Seven or eight yards off to the
side, a handful of women kindled a large fi re. As the fl ames rose,
Payakootha and the other elders laid the ends of their staffs into
the fl ames.
As if on signal, two warriors leaped forward with hideous
cries. One held the struggling Scotsman firm by the shoulders;
the other sliced off both of the soldier’s ears.
They tossed the bloody ears into the dirt. The crowd cele-
brated, whooping and leaping about. A gang of young boys made
a game of kicking the severed appendages back and forth.
Blood pulsed from the gaping wounds and ran down the sol-
dier’s neck, but throughout the awful ordeal, he did not cry out, not
once. To the crowd’s delight, he stomped around the post, glaring,