“If the baby survives, then I’ve a dilemma of another sort.”
The captain rolled to lie on his side. “The storm’s abating . . . go
find some sleep, Joshua.”
Stark woke several hours later to fi nd the ship in full sail, rid-
ing a strong, steady breeze on gentle swells. To his surprise, he
found Moira Bean up on deck, perched upon a feather bed, nurs-
ing a very pink baby boy. He congratulated the proud mother
and ran up the stairs to meet the captain on the quarterdeck.
“Everyone seems to be faring well, Captain.”
“Aye, Moira’s a strong woman and Maggie pulled them
through.” Captain Carlyle seemed pleased. “I’ve decided on the
solution to my dilemma.”
“Dilemma?”
“Aye—the baby.” Carlyle waved his hand toward Moira. “If I
auction Moira’s contract, it’s doubtful the buyer will accept the
child as well. And though there are those who would not hesi-
tate, I will not separate a mother from her child. If I do fi nd a
buyer accepting mother and child, the law binds the poor baby
into servitude till the age of twenty-one. Dealing with men and
women who enter into an agreement of their own free will is one
thing, but condemning an innocent to decades of slavery weighs
too heavy on my conscience. I’ve decided to have Moira repay
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
37
her debt of passage as a domestic in my home. With our girls
married off, Lord knows my Sarah can use the company.”
Joshua spotted Maggie coming up the hatchway stair. She
looked up to the quarterdeck, smiled, and waved before going to
sit with Moira. Stark and Carlyle both waved back.
The door of the captain’s cabin slammed open and Julian Cav-
endish emerged, attired in the same disheveled clothing he’d worn
the night before.
“Good day to you, sir,” Carlyle greeted him. “It cheers me to
see you leave your cloister and join us on this glorious morning.”
“Yes, yes . . . good morning.” Cavendish yawned, bleary-eyed
and hungover, the purple bruise vivid on his pale complexion. He
stood for a moment, scanning the main deck, closely examining
the crowd. “Aha!” He pointed to Maggie with his walking stick.
“That one, Carlyle. The raven- haired girl. Name your price and
have her sent to my quarters.”
At first struck speechless by the audacious demand, Carlyle
recovered quickly. “I—I’m sorry, sir, but my partners frown upon
the practice of advance sales.”
“Name your price, Captain, for I’ve no patience haggling with
merchants. I’m quite certain your partners will have no com-
plaint with our transaction.”
“Again, I apologize, sir, but I must abide by the rules and de-
cline your generous offer. I’m afraid you will have to attend the
auction and enter the bidding with all buyers.”
“It is most unfortunate, Captain, that we cannot come to
terms.” Clearly unaccustomed to having a request so rebuffed, he
turned on his heel and descended the stairs to the main deck.
“What partners?” Joshua asked. Carlyle grinned.
Will and Josh chuckled, watching Julian Cavendish, so alien
to the environment of the ship, pick his way through the crowd
with much effete distaste. Maggie noticed the viscount heading
her way. She muttered something to Moira, and slipped down
the hatchway.
38 Christine
Blevins
“Why, that pompous powdered Bob . . .” Carlyle shook his
head in amazement. “He’s cast his eye on Maggie, and means to
have her.”
“Well, I’ve got my eye on him. If he bothers Maggie, I’ll trim
his fancy jacket and give him a good rubdown with an oaken
towel, I will!”
“Steady now, son.” Carlyle calmed his mate. “Just warn the
girl. Tell her to steer clear . . .”
“But, Cap’n, she’ll not be able to steer clear if he purchases her
contract at auction . . .”
“Don’t worry, Joshua, I’ll see to it. Duke’s son or no, Maggie
Duncan is too good for the likes of that drunken scoundrel.”
4
Just A rrived
SCOTTISH SERVANTS
Just Arrived
in the ship the
Good Intent
A Number of healthy Indented Men and Women Servants
among the former are a Variety of Tradesmen,
with some good Farmers and stout Labourers
Indentures will be disposed of
on reasonable Terms for Cash by
Captain William Carlyle of Richmond, Virginia
April 4, 1763
“Yer certain there’ll be women for sale?”
The elderly gentleman tapped the stem end of his claybowl
pipe to the broadside tacked onto the notice board. “Well, it says
right here—‘men and women’ . . .”
“Aye . . . and would ye happen to ken today’s date, sir?”
The pipe smoker took a moment to reevaluate this Scotsman,
who had so politely introduced himself with a request to have the
auction notice read aloud. The young man’s patched and grimy
frock shirt was tied at the waist with a rough-cut strap of leather.
40 Christine
Blevins
He wore deerskin breeches and his feet were encased in soft moc-
casins. Slight and wiry, Seth Martin stood only a mite taller than
the long rifl e he casually leaned upon.
“I don’t suppose you’ve much call to mind the calendar back-
country, eh, son?”
“Na . . .” Seth shrugged. “. . . one day’s much like the one afore.”
The older man chuckled, having a certain regard for the life-
style led by the frontiersman. “If you aim to buy yourself a
woman at that auction, best make your way riverside, for today
is the fourth and most auctions tend to get under way about
midday.”
Seth Martin glanced up at the sun shining directly above. He
thanked the man and hurried down to the waterfront.
H
“
There’s one!
Look there! A Red Indian man!”
The immigrants rushed the portside, where Jim Duffy stood
shouting and pointing like a madman. It’d been two weeks since
the
Good Intent
snaked its way up the James River to the fall line
at Richmond, and the newcomers had yet to sight a single savage.
Maggie wriggled through the crowd and leaned out over the
rail.
“Where? Where d’ye see a Red Indian man?”
“Look there, ye gowk.” Jim Duffy pointed to a tall man com-
ing down the pier leading two laden packhorses.
“He’s no a verra red Red Indian, is he?” Maggie noted.
“Do Indian fellas often wear beards that-a-way?” someone
else asked.
“He’s no a Red Indian at all . . .” twin brother Tim challenged.
“Christ! O’ course he’s a Red Indian,” Jim insisted. “Have
look at the clothes he’s wearin’.”
The first mate bullied his way to the front of the crowd. “Why,
you silly pack of greenhorns! That’s no Indian.” Stark cupped his
hands to his mouth. “
Ahoy, Tom!
Ahoy, Tom Roberts!”
The man leading the horses stopped and squinted into the sun-
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
41
light. He whisked off and waved his battered felt hat, exposing
telltale fair hair. “Ahoy, Josh!”
“Fry me brown, Tom, I never thought to see you alive! They
said you were crow’s meat by now.”
“Whosoever told you that is a point-blank tale-teller. I’ve been
on a long hunt, Josh—overmountain—beyond the ridge in
Kenta-
ke
! I’ve a year’s worth of stories to tell and peltry to sell—”
“Hold there, Tom. We’re buying goods for the outbound
voyage . . . I’m coming down.” The first mate impatiently pushed
people aside, making his way over to the gangway. “G’won now!
Get on back to where the bidders can give you a good going-
over.” He shooed the crowd away from the rail before running
down to greet his old friend.
Freshly bathed and laundered, with their contracts pinned to
their backs, the immigrants shuffled back to stand about as buyers
wandered the decks previewing Carlyle’s human cargo in anticipa-
tion of the auction. Indentured men who arrived armed with a
trade such as carpentry or smithing were in high demand and gar-
nered premium prices. Strong young men suited for work in the
fields would also fetch a high price. A lucky woman would have
her contract purchased by a well-to-do colonial in need of a do-
mestic servant, for during planting season, there were those who
did not hesitate to purchase females for backbreaking labor in the
fi elds.
The captain warned them all to be on their best behavior dur-
ing the preview, for no one would bid on a surly servant. To en-
courage their cooperation, Carlyle made it plain any contracts
unsold at auction’s end would be handed over to a broker known
as a soul driver. Not known for their kindness or for the quality
of their clientele, soul drivers herded their human merchandise
through the countryside in search of buyers. Many an unfortu-
nate lass wound up working the terms of her contract fl at on her
back in a brothel—an all-too-typical sale for a soul driver.
As much as Maggie wanted to impress buyers, she had a hard
42 Christine
Blevins
time behaving well under their rude scrutiny. A man came up
and ordered her to open her mouth so he could “have a gander,”
and Maggie struggled to keep from spitting in his eye. The pro-
spective buyer moved on in search of a “good-natured girl” and
she wandered back to the rail.
The indented passengers had not been allowed to debark, and
for two weeks, Maggie leaned out over the same rail, longing for
the day when she could set foot on dry land. Now that auction day
had arrived, the precarious uncertainty of fate lay heavy on her
heart and she struggled to quell the anxiety cramping in the pit of
her stomach.
“Och, bloody hell!”
Silver- tipped walking stick in hand, Julian Cavendish strolled
down the pier. Maggie spent the better part of the voyage hiding
belowdecks to avoid the viscount’s dogged pursuit, and she be-
gan the day hanging on to the slim hope that perhaps he would
not attend. Captain Carlyle promised Maggie her contract would
not be sold to Cavendish, but she worried nonetheless. Men of
rank have the means and the habit of acquiring whatever they
want.
H
Joshua Stark was helping his friend off-load the heavy bales of
hides and furs when Tom Roberts suddenly burst out laughing.
Josh looked up to see the young viscount, coiffed in an elaborate
powdered wig and attired in silk and lace finery, strut past on
high-heeled shoes. Josh thought it a good idea to run up and
warn Maggie, when a barge loaded with a dozen hogsheads of
cured tobacco pulled up alongside the
Good Intent
.
“Blood and thunder!” he cursed. “I’ll have to deal with this
lot. Tom, go on up and settle accounts with the boatswain—do
me a favor—tell him to find Maggie and warn her that Caven-
dish is aboard.”
“Maggie, you say?” Tom gave Josh a friendly shove. “Who’s
Maggie?”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
43
Josh grinned and shoved him back. “Pass the message. I’ll ex-
plain later.”
“All right, I’ll meet up with you at lamp- liftin’ time—the
King’s Arms. As I recollect, you owe me a pint.”
H
It was easy for Maggie to spot the tall man in the ever-growing
crowd of buyers, sellers, and servants. At six feet two inches solid
and strong built, Tom Roberts stood a good head taller than
most of the men aboard. A large, ginger-colored dog accompa-
nied him as he moved through the tumult of the auction-day
throng with a smooth hunter’s grace. He and his canine compan-
ion wove their way to the table near the quarterdeck stair where
Mr. Pebley kept an accounting of the day’s business. Maggie
inched through the crowd, avoiding the viscount and moving
close to where she could get a good look at the exotic colonial.
His rough hands rested large on the barrel end of the longest
gun Maggie’d ever seen. He waited patiently while Mr. Pebley
finished dickering with another man over the price of milled tim-
ber. At his turn the hunter stepped forward.
“How do, Mr. Pebley. I’ve five hundred half-dressed deerskins
and three hundred winter beaver pelts . . . all
top-notch. Josh
tells me you’ll be wanting the lot.” His rich voice made Maggie
wish she could hear him tell one of the tales from his hunt “be-
yond the ridge in
Kenta-ke.
” He leaned in on the long gun that
seemed almost a part of him and proceeded to bargain for fair
price with the boatswain. His unusual attire sparked Maggie’s
curiosity, and it seemed she was not alone when the Duffy twins
and MacGregor, the schoolmaster, sidled next to her.
“He may not be a savage, but he certainly dresses like one,”
fastidious MacGregor sniffed.
Tim Duffy asked, “Ye think mebbe he’s one of those who lives
among the savages?”
“Aye, most likely captured as a lad,” Jim agreed. “I heard tell
of such . . . ‘renegade,’ Ol’ Pete calls ’em.”
44 Christine
Blevins
The hunter’s long shirt of faded blue linsey was cinched at his
trim waist with a wide leather belt. Among the many oddments