“Forget the strawberries and get on with it,” Catherine said.
“Right. Well, there we were in the strawberries and Martha puts her hand to her forehead like she was feeling faint, and I get set to try to catch her, but then she just sits down right on a bunch of ripe berries. When she stood up it looked like she had been bleeding.”
“Yes,” Catherine said.
“Well, while she was there sitting in the berries, wiping her hand across her brow, she said something I remember. What she said is she could not know how she was going to take care of another child, where she would get the strength, and where they would get the money. She said she was just too tired.”
“I sometimes feel that way,” Addy said.
“So do we all,” Lucinda agreed, “and more and more with each new babe. But there was something more. Martha said Henry sent Ned to sea, but where was she going to send Henry? I thought you should know.”
“I thank you,” Catherine replied. Just then a groan came from the back room, and Catherine stood up.
“I will be needing you both before long,” she said.
“We will wait here as long as we need to and as long as the beer holds out,” Lucinda said.
Catherine found Mercy lying tensed on her bed, her head resting on Phyllis’ lap, the perspiration beading her forehead, and her hands clenched. Phyllis stroked her cheek with one hand and gently squeezed her shoulder with the other.
“Now, now,” Phyllis said. “You have done this afore and you will do it now.”
Catherine motioned for Phyllis to get up.
“Go get the butter, now,” she said.
She sat on the edge of the bed. She reached under Mercy’s shift, and ran her knowing fingers over her belly. She waited for the contraction, and when it came she pressed her palm down against it to measure its intensity. Her nose told her when Phyllis returned.
“Where did you leave that butter?” she asked.
“On the table.”
“In the heat of the sun, no doubt,” she said. “Give it here.”
Phyllis handed the napkin to Catherine. The grease had oozed completely through the cloth, and the rancid smell caused Catherine to jerk her nose away. Still, she opened the napkin and dipped the fingers of her right hand into the butter, which was near liquid.
“At least I won’t have a problem getting it on my hands,” she said. With her left hand, she raised Mercy’s shift over her knees and bunched it around her hips. Mercy opened her thighs, and Catherine probed with the grease covered fingers of her right hand into the opening. She felt the babe’s head, and she smiled. It was positioned correctly for a smooth descent. Catherine ran her fingers over Mercy’s perineum, coating it thickly with the butter. Another contraction elicited a moan from Mercy.
“Are you comfortable?” Catherine asked.
Mercy shook her head, and looked toward the birthing stool that sat next to the bed.
“Call the others in,” Catherine said to Phyllis.
“I fear it has stopped moving,” Mercy said. “I no longer feel it moving.”
“That is natural,” Catherine said, although she did not think it so. “Take my arm.” She helped Mercy roll onto the floor, so that she was kneeling in front of the stool. Lucinda and Addy came into the room. Lucinda took Mercy beneath her right arm, and Addy the other. Catherine took Mercy’s hands, and then all three lifted. Mercy groaned but settled into a squatting position with her buttocks on the u-shaped seat of the birthing stool. Lucinda and Addy remained on her side, and as the contractions came, now closer and closer together, they squeezed the laboring woman, as though the pressure and the warmth of their bodies could lessen the pain.
Catherine felt for the top of the head until her fingers found it about to push through. She rubbed the stretched skin of Mercy’s perineum. A contraction came and Catherine felt the skin tear, just a little, beneath her fingers. She looked down to see if there was much blood, but saw only a couple of drops. Then a tuft of curly, black hair appeared.
“Almost there, love,” Catherine said. “I can see a little hair.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Mercy said between clenched teeth. “I was afeard it might be bald, and you know that is bad luck.”
“It is indeed,” a voice said from the doorway.
Catherine turned to stare at Goody Hawkins, who unannounced and unbidden, had come to the birthing. Mercy’s eyes were closed against the pain of yet another contraction, and Catherine placed her body in front of her to shield her from the visitor. Phyllis was standing next to Goody Hawkins by the doorway, her eyes large with fear. She seemed both to want to throw the old woman out, and at the same time anxious to flee her presence. Catherine motioned with her head for Phyllis to remove Goody Hawkins. Phyllis began to shake her head, and then she nodded.
“This way,” Phyllis said to Goody Hawkins.
But instead of leaving, Goody Hawkins approached the bed and looked over Catherine’s shoulder.
“Aye, a tuft of hair it is, just like the bristle’s in a hog’s nose,” she said, her voice breaking into a cackle. “A hog’s nose on a babe,” she said again. And then she turned sharply to leave the room. She paused besides Phyllis and jabbed her forefingers at her.
“Just like a hog, didn’t I say so?” she demanded. And then she was gone.
“Who was that?” Mercy asked, her eyes now open and looking toward the door.
“It was just me,” Phyllis said. “I thought I saw a hog rooting about your garden.”
“Silly girl,” Mercy said, “at a time like this.” Her mouth tightened again.
“Push, now,” Catherine said.
For answer, Mercy groaned and leaned forward so hard that both Lucinda and Addy staggered. They regained their balance and held Mercy as she strained. Her thighs tensed and she leaned forward until her knees touched the floor. The head of the babe crowned.
“Again,” Catherine said.
Mercy’s face was red. She breathed deep and pushed. The babe dropped into Catherine’s hands, but it did not come all the way out. Instead, it stopped halfway, with both its shoulders out, but it would come no further. Its umbilical cord was wrapped around its neck. It was blue, and it was not breathing.
Catherine cupped the babe’s head with her palms and pulled gently. It dropped another couple of inches but stopped. She tried to force her hand between the cord and the neck to relieve the pressure, but the cord was wrapped too tightly. Mercy rolled her eyes back into her head and gasped.
“Oh, sweet Lord, it hurts,” she said. “Pull it out. Anyway you can, or I will die.”
Catherine slid her hand over the babe’s shoulder and into the birth canal. Her fingers found the cord inside Mercy and pulled. The babe inched out, but it turned as the cord acted as a tether on which the body rotated. One shoulder now presented itself in the front while the other caught in the back. Another contraction came, and as Mercy pushed, and Catherine tugged, the rear shoulder tore the flesh and blood spouted. Catherine reached to that rear shoulder, and tried to turn it. But as she turned the umbilical cord tightened more around the babe’s neck, so she had to let it revert to its previous position. She took a deep breath.
“Close your eyes and open your mouth in prayer,” she said to Mercy. “I am going to take the babe.”
Mercy nodded.
“Please. Do it now, or I die.”
“When I pull,” Catherine said to Lucinda and Addy, “you hold her tight.” She wiped the butter on her hand off on her gown, and then steadied both hands on the babe’s shoulders and started to pull. The babe slid five or six inches further out and no more. Catherine knew that if she forced the issue, she might rip the placenta and cause a massive hemorrhage.
Mercy bit down hard on her lip until the blood flowed freely down her chin, and then unable to keep the howl building within her contained, she opened her mouth and screamed her agony.
“Hold on,” Catherine said. “Just a little longer.”
S
he reached again for the rear shoulder that blocked the babe’s movement.
“I must needs do this,” she said, and the women nodded.
She pulled hard on the tiny shoulder until the scapula cracked with a discernible snap. Catherine placed her hands on either side of the babe’s head and forced it back into Mercy’s womb. It slid up, its passage now cleared by the collapsed shoulder. Sweat beaded on Catherine’s forehead, and Phyllis leaned over with a rag to wipe it away.
“Never mind that,” Catherine said. Mercy’s moans had settled into a continuous, low wail. Catherine’s hands around the babe’s head and in Mercy’s womb, rotated the head. She felt an ear now parallel to each of Mercy’s legs.
“Now push,” she said. “For you life.”
Addy and Lucinda braced themselves and Mercy pushed until she seemed about to rise off the stool. Catherine felt the babe’s head start downward and she guided it gently. She pulled her hands out and the head followed. The babe now slid out, and as it did Catherine unwrapped the cord from about its neck. Catherine kept her eyes on the babe, searching for breath, which she did not see. Mercy collapsed into Lucinda’s arms.
Catherine squeezed the babe’s nostrils and opened its mouth with two fingers. She slapped its back softly, once, and nothing happened, but again, and then the babe’s mouth snapped open and it howled.
“It breathes,” Catherine said.
Mercy looked up from Lucinda’s embrace, and opened her blood streaked lips in a grin.
“That is good,” she said.
Catherine sensed somebody looking in, and she turned about to command Goody Hawkins, again, to be gone. But at the door was little Sarah, who stood with her hand in front of her mouth, staring at her mother. Catherine followed the child’s eyes to where her glance rested on the puddle of blood on the floor in front of the birth stool.
“She needs to rest,” Catherine said, “that is all.”
* * * *
Mercy lay asleep. She had lost more blood expelling the afterbirth. Her breathing was labored, and Catherine feared for her. She took the swaddled babe to Addy.
“It will be some time before she wakes, poor thing. The babe will be hungry before then. Can you give it suck for a bit?”
Addy nodded and unbuttoned her gown. The babe opened its eyes and cried. Addy held it to her breast, and the babe fastened on her nipple. Addy let it drink for five minutes, and then switched it to the other breast. When she pulled the babe away, it cried for a moment and then shut its eyes in sleep.
“Mine own is very hungry,” Addy said.
Catherine took the babe from her.
“You have done enough. Mercy has never had trouble with her milk.”
Catherine walked into the front room of the little house. Josiah Plover and Sarah sat at the table. Two smaller children, a boy and a girl, played beneath the table.
“Well, then?” Josiah said.
“Mercy sleeps. It was not easy, but your baby girl is alive.”
Catherine saw the quick expression of disappointment on Josiah’s face, but he said nothing. He extended his arms and took the babe from Catherine. He lifted the swaddling to examine his child. Beneath the swaddling, the babe was wrapped in a cloth that held its left arm tight to its side. Josiah placed his large, callused forefinger on the bound arm and lifted his eyes to Catherine.
“I said it was not easy. The shoulder will heal.”
Josiah nodded.
“I saw that evil woman here where she was not wanted.”
Catherine shook her head.
“Goody Hawkins is what she is, but she had nothing to do with this babe, or its difficulties in being born.”
Josiah shrugged.
“That be what you say,” he said.
“It is,” Catherine replied.
Josiah handed the babe back to Catherine.
“I’ll be getting back to work, then” he said, and stood up. Without another glance at his child, he walked to the door. There he paused long enough to motion to Sarah.
“Come along,” he said to his oldest daughter.
“Shouldn’t I stay to help mother?” Sarah asked.
He motioned more emphatically with his arm.
“There’s other grown women here to do that,” he said. “And I have need of you.”
Sarah looked at Catherine.
“Go with your father,” she said. “We will tend to your mother.”
“There was so much of her blood on the floor,” the girl said.
“Yes. But that is what happens sometimes. Now go along with you.”
The girl left with her father, and Catherine sat down for a moment alone at the table. She had done all that she could, and now the matter was in God’s hands. Addy sat down next to her.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Catherine shrugged.
“I am hopeful,” she said.
Lucinda came in.
“They are asleep, mother and babe. Phyllis said she would sit by them.”
Addy brought her hands up to her breasts.
“The babe is strong. I can vouch for that.”
“Strong, do you say,” Lucinda said. She reached for the pitcher of beer and shook it. “Still a little left.” She poured herself a mug and took a drink. “Strong. And so was the Jameson babe, I warrant.”
“It was,” Catherine said.
Lucinda’s face turned red and she brought her hand to her mouth just as her breath exploded in a beer laden belch.
“Look to that lad, Ned, I say. And remember what Martha said in the strawberries about her husband. There you will find something, I dare say.”
Addy put her arm around Lucinda.
“Come, then,” she said, “it is time to go home.” She looked at Catherine.
“That it is, for you two,” Catherine said. “I will bide here.”
* * * *
Mercy stirred and Catherine roused herself from the stool where she had been sitting for the past several hours after Lucinda and Addy had gone home. Phyllis was sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes closed.
“She wakes,” Catherine said, and Phyllis opened her eyes.
“Why her face is as white as her bedclothes,” she said.
“Lift her shift,” Catherine said.
The cloth between Mercy’s legs was dark red, with only a couple of splotches of bright, fresh blood. Catherine removed it, and replaced it with another cloth soaked in comfrey that she had prepared. Mercy’s eyes opened for a moment and then shut again.
“I’ve sent for Master Davis,” Josiah said from the doorway. “You can go home, now, as soon as I pay you. You have done what you can.” He spoke in a tired monotone, but Catherine heard the suspicion that edged his tone.
“I can stay,” she said. “She may start to bleed again.”
“Master Davis is coming. We will pray.” He handed her a couple of coins, which Catherine put into her pocket without looking. “Thank you,” he said.
CHAPTER SIX
Catherine could not permit herself to sleep that night. She had convinced herself that as long as she could hear herself breathing, Mercy Plover would also be drawing breath. She reviewed the birth again and again but could not think of anything she might have done otherwise. So, she lay still in bed watching the sunrise. Not long after, she saw Magistrate Woolsey walking up the path toward the house. She roused herself and pulled on her gown, expecting any minute to hear a knock on the door, but the only sound that came to her window was the piercing, high call of a cedar waxwing, reaching her from the wild cherry tree just beyond her garden where it was breakfasting on over ripe fruit. She looked out and saw that the magistrate had stopped abreast of Massaquoit’s wigwam, and stood standing there as if trying to come to some conclusion about the structure. Then he resumed his measured pace toward the house.
She knew that Woolsey would announce his presence as he usually did with three sharp raps, evenly spaced with pauses of a second between each, of the knob of his cane on
the door. By the time the first knock came, she was already on the stairs. She had her hand on the latch as the door shook for the third time. She swung the door open and there was the magistrate standing with his cane still raised and his eyes full of surprise.
“I saw you coming up the walk,” Catherine said.
“But...” he began.
“I could not sleep,” she said.
Understanding registered slowly on his face, first smoothing the furrows in his brow and then sliding down to widen his lips into a knowing smile.
“I hear Goody Plover was delivered of a girl child yesterday, with your usual excellent assistance,” he said.
“Yes, but Mercy is in my prayers. I am about to go back there to see how she is.”
“I need to talk with you, then, for just a moment. I can walk with you, if you like.”
“Yes. I must go to her right away.”
“Is Mercy not well, then?”? He asked as he struggled to accelerate from his accustomed, stately gait to match Catherine’s hurried stride.
“I know not if she survived the night. Perhaps I should have stayed by her, but Josiah insisted I go home. He said he and his children could tend to his wife.”
“And the babe?
“Fine. Now what is that brought you so early to my house.”
“Something concerning the Jamesons.”
“Yes?”
“They have charged the servant girl with killing their babe. There is to be a hearing tomorrow. Before me and Governor Peters.”
“I must be there, then” Catherine said.
“But Mercy?”
“If she lives, I must be with her as well.”
“But you can’t be there and here at the same time.”
Catherine stopped and looked hard at the magistrate.
“You should know Joseph that I can always do what must be done.”
Minister Davis was standing in front of the Plovers’ house as they arrived, and Catherine felt her heart tighten. Woolsey took her arm.
The Dumb Shall Sing Page 8