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Authors: Christine Blevins
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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willing the man to stop for a rest.
But the man continued to march forward with grim determi-
nation to put much country between himself and Richmond-
town. He held his weapon in a nervous grip, checking the back
trail over his shoulder often. On occasion, her new master slowed
the pace to wordlessly offer her a swallow of warm water from
Midwife of the Blue Ridge 53
the tin bottle he carried on a string around his neck. Maggie
moved forward without complaint. She did not want to stir the
volatile emotions of this “small man with the big gun.”
The toe of her clog struck a gnarled root snaking across the
path. She stumbled, lost one shoe and her footing, and pitched
forward into the dirt. Maggie scrambled back onto her feet.
“Are ye all right, lass?” He seemed concerned.
“Aye, just the wind knocked from me is all.” Maggie brushed
debris from her skirt and searched for her shoe, finding her mas-
ter held the errant clog in his hand. To her surprise, he fell to one
knee and jerked the other clog from her still-shod foot. The mule
brayed and escaped into the brush.
“Bloody hell!” The man stuffed the clogs into his pouch and
ran after his animal.
“My shoes?” Maggie asked, when he returned tugging the
mule up onto the trail.
He shook his head. “Yer better off barefoot. Clogs will do
naught but cripple ye, especially down the line where the trail
gets rough.”
Maggie stared in dismay at her sore feet, not even able to
imagine a trail rougher than the one they’d been following.
“Dinna fash so, lass. Tell ye what—tonight, I’ll fashion ye a
pair of moccasins.”
“Moccasins?”
“Aye, see?” He held up his left foot in example, showing her
his cuffed leather slippers, similar to those worn by the hunter on
the ship. “Red Indian brogues!”
“Are ye a shoemaker by trade?”
“Aye.” He chuckled. “That’s me—shoemaker, farmer, carpen-
ter, hunter, tanner, blacksmith. Jack of all
trades—master of
none.” He slapped the mule forward. Maggie fell in beside the
man, a bit more at ease having exchanged a few words.
“How long till we get there?” she asked.
“Well . . . we set off wi’ a late start—lost most of the day, aye?
54 Christine
Blevins
If we press hard we might get home in six—na . . .”—he squinted
at the sun, low on the horizon—“more likely seven days’ time.”
Maggie blinked. “ Seven days? Seven days away? A body could
walk across the whole of Scotland in seven days.”
“Aye, tha’s the truth. But my homeplace is upland.” He pointed.
“Near those mountains there—the Blue Ridge.”
Maggie eyed the faraway indigo smudge along the horizon
Seth pointed to and swallowed hard to squelch the tears. Get a
grip, lass. What canna be cured must be endured. She took a
deep breath, squared her shoulders, and extended a hand.
“My name is Maggie—Maggie Duncan.”
“I recall.” He grinned, and they exchanged a handshake.
Maggie sighed loud and blurted, “’Twould ease my mind, sir, to
ken the name of the man who owns four years of my labor . . .”
“Och, did I no give ye m’ name?” Without breaking stride, he
pumped Maggie’s hand a second time. “Seth Martin.” He smiled.
“From where in the old country do ye hale from, lass?”
“A wee village in Glen Spean called Black Corries. D’ye know
it?”
“Ah no, can’t say as I do. I’m an islander myself—from Raasay in
the Hebrides—the only time I ever ventured from our bonnie isle
was when I boarded the leaky bucket that brought me to Virginia.”
“And when did ye cross the water?”
“Soon after Culloden. English burned us out and shipped us
off. ‘Threat to the Crown,’ they said.” Seth snorted. “Can ye
imagine? Me, a skinny-malinkie half-starved lad of fourteen a
‘threat to the Crown’—as if I even cared which horse’s arse sat
upon their throne.” Seth’s crooked smile vanished. “’Twere a
rough crossing.
But the man continued to march forward with grim determi-
nation to put much country between himself and Richmond-
town. He held his weapon in a nervous grip, checking the back
trail over his shoulder often. On occasion, her new master slowed
the pace to wordlessly offer her a swallow of warm water from
Midwife of the Blue Ridge 53
the tin bottle he carried on a string around his neck. Maggie
moved forward without complaint. She did not want to stir the
volatile emotions of this “small man with the big gun.”
The toe of her clog struck a gnarled root snaking across the
path. She stumbled, lost one shoe and her footing, and pitched
forward into the dirt. Maggie scrambled back onto her feet.
“Are ye all right, lass?” He seemed concerned.
“Aye, just the wind knocked from me is all.” Maggie brushed
debris from her skirt and searched for her shoe, finding her mas-
ter held the errant clog in his hand. To her surprise, he fell to one
knee and jerked the other clog from her still-shod foot. The mule
brayed and escaped into the brush.
“Bloody hell!” The man stuffed the clogs into his pouch and
ran after his animal.
“My shoes?” Maggie asked, when he returned tugging the
mule up onto the trail.
He shook his head. “Yer better off barefoot. Clogs will do
naught but cripple ye, especially down the line where the trail
gets rough.”
Maggie stared in dismay at her sore feet, not even able to
imagine a trail rougher than the one they’d been following.
“Dinna fash so, lass. Tell ye what—tonight, I’ll fashion ye a
pair of moccasins.”
“Moccasins?”
“Aye, see?” He held up his left foot in example, showing her
his cuffed leather slippers, similar to those worn by the hunter on
the ship. “Red Indian brogues!”
“Are ye a shoemaker by trade?”
“Aye.” He chuckled. “That’s me—shoemaker, farmer, carpen-
ter, hunter, tanner, blacksmith. Jack of all
trades—master of
none.” He slapped the mule forward. Maggie fell in beside the
man, a bit more at ease having exchanged a few words.
“How long till we get there?” she asked.
“Well . . . we set off wi’ a late start—lost most of the day, aye?
54 Christine
Blevins
If we press hard we might get home in six—na . . .”—he squinted
at the sun, low on the horizon—“more likely seven days’ time.”
Maggie blinked. “ Seven days? Seven days away? A body could
walk across the whole of Scotland in seven days.”
“Aye, tha’s the truth. But my homeplace is upland.” He pointed.
“Near those mountains there—the Blue Ridge.”
Maggie eyed the faraway indigo smudge along the horizon
Seth pointed to and swallowed hard to squelch the tears. Get a
grip, lass. What canna be cured must be endured. She took a
deep breath, squared her shoulders, and extended a hand.
“My name is Maggie—Maggie Duncan.”
“I recall.” He grinned, and they exchanged a handshake.
Maggie sighed loud and blurted, “’Twould ease my mind, sir, to
ken the name of the man who owns four years of my labor . . .”
“Och, did I no give ye m’ name?” Without breaking stride, he
pumped Maggie’s hand a second time. “Seth Martin.” He smiled.
“From where in the old country do ye hale from, lass?”
“A wee village in Glen Spean called Black Corries. D’ye know
it?”
“Ah no, can’t say as I do. I’m an islander myself—from Raasay in
the Hebrides—the only time I ever ventured from our bonnie isle
was when I boarded the leaky bucket that brought me to Virginia.”
“And when did ye cross the water?”
“Soon after Culloden. English burned us out and shipped us
off. ‘Threat to the Crown,’ they said.” Seth snorted. “Can ye
imagine? Me, a skinny-malinkie half-starved lad of fourteen a
‘threat to the Crown’—as if I even cared which horse’s arse sat
upon their throne.” Seth’s crooked smile vanished. “’Twere a
rough crossing.
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