Milk of Human Kindness

The baby in his sling was heavy against her. The smell of him hung in the air around and between them. Lingering and following like another companion. Thick with sleep, slightly sour with milk. It clung to her shawl, to her skin, just as much as the dust that rose with every step. It mixed with sweat, and body-smell, and campfire smoke.

Now, the infant slept against Maggie's heart. Soothed, no doubt, by the constant travel.

Aching and weary, she glanced at the long lashes resting peacefully on his smooth, plump cheeks. To be so unaware! To be carried. In comfort. Encircled by stout arms, and a soft breast.

"It's alright for some," she muttered.

How many miles had it been? Four hundred, by now. At least.

She was grateful for the caravan, the noise of it clattering around her, like a reassuring cloak. Would she have survived this far without it? Probably not. Her charge certainly wouldn't have. She shoved these thoughts away, set her jaw, and concentrated on the next step. He had no idea how lucky he was. Completely innocent of his good fortune.

Motherless he might be, but such babes usually perished quick, and look! He was still here. Growing fat and happy, no less. Better fed than many of the travellers, if Maggie was any judge.

The signal came to make camp.

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Just as she'd done the night before, and every night before that, Maggie kept a watchful eye on the neighbouring tents and wagons. Noting which were only men (she always avoided those) and which had families.

Canvas flapped and groaned. Saddles squeaked, horses snorted. The familiar sounds rippled around her. Twilight was punctuated by little fires. Pots hissed. Cooking smells thickened the evening air.

As if on cue, he stirred, fists balled and lips pursed.

It's time.

The woman headed towards a nearby wagon, and a woman leaning over the cooking pot.

"Ma'am?" The woman turned, and Maggie met her with a smile, and a deferential dip of her head. "Your little one," she said, "Does he take your milk, still? Only..." Maggie unwrapped the front of her shawl to present that soft face, turning and looking, looking... "He has no mother, you see. And I have no milk."

"Give the little lad over, then," the woman said, giving the contents of the pot another prod and then putting down the spoon. "Come on, little one, if you're hungry." She took him into her arms with that practised air of one used to handling babies, and he went to her just as readily, already rooting and snuffling.

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Each night was the same. Different women, of course. The lullabies were in different languages sometimes, but there were always lullabies.

Some women were wary or snappish when she approached. Most were busy, after all, and weariness a universal feature. Every last one softened when they reached for him, though, and he took the warm reception as nothing less than his due.

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Thank you for reading

Inspired by a quote:

I carried a little motherless babe five hundred miles, whose mother had died, and when we would camp I would go from camp to camp in search of some good, kind motherly women to let it nurse, and no one ever refused. - Margaret Inman, 1852

Five hundred miles, five hundred words.