Eben would not have to part with his family’s possessions. He himself would carry them to Canada.
Next to him, Mercy Carter’s stepmother could not even carry her own baby. Terrified beyond thought or action, she skittered aimlessly in the snow, mewling like the infant she held. Eben tried to take the baby for her, but so quickly that she could not have known what was happening, she and her baby were disposed of. Eben even understood why it was done. She would not have made it over the first mountain.
So these were the border wars, where the French sent their tame Indians to slaughter English settlers. The taking of so many children would strike horror into the heart of every frontier mother and father. Farms and villages would be abandoned. The settlements would return to wilderness. The New World would be French, and not English.
But in spite of shock and fear, Eben Nims rejoiced. He had saved his three little sisters: twins Molly and Mary, age five, hair of gold and eyes of blue, and Hittie, the picky, feisty seven-year-old Eben loved best.
By the time Eben had been awakened by gunfire, already the sleepers downstairs were trying to find and load weapons and trying to hold the heavy front door against the Indians, who were smashing the lock with their hatchets and throwing their weight against the hinges. Eben tore his little sisters from their bed, carrying all three in his arms and leaping down the steep stairs. He yanked up the trapdoor to the shallow cellar where food was stored and lowered the girls into the dark. “Are you coming too, Eben?” begged Molly, who was afraid of spiders.
“I’ll be up here fighting. Stay quiet. Soon the attack will be over and I’ll get you out.” Eben slammed the trapdoor down and their terrified eyes vanished from his sight. He kicked bedrolls over the telltale cracks in the floorboards and the Indians smashed through the front door and were inside the house.
Eben prepared to fight to the death. Help would come too late for him, but his little sisters would be found. The settlers had experience; they knew to check cellars.
Eben had no weapon but a frying pan, which he used as violently as the Indians used their tomahawks.
Frenchmen poured into the house. Eben was so astonished to see the French that the pan slipped from his grasp. The French did not do their own fighting. The whole point of Indian allies was to be sure that the Indians took all the risk.
Before he could launch his fists, an Indian thrust a knife into his chest. Eben gave his soul to the Lord, but when the blade had penetrated half an inch, the Indian used it to prod Eben out of the house. Eben willed Molly and Mary and Hittie to stay silent until the men of neighboring towns spotted fire in the northern sky and came to the rescue.
Running two fingers through his own dark red greasepaint, the Indian marked Eben’s forehead.
Why was Eben alive?
Had it been so crowded in the house that they did not know Eben had killed one of them? Or did they know well, and did this mark him out for torture later?
MERCY PULLED HER SISTER along while she carried Daniel, and then she carried Marah and hauled Daniel. Jemima did not help. Ruth, whose lungs got worse in cold weather, was wheezing.
Mercy knew the hill they were climbing; it was the view from her bedroom window. Long since stripped of trees, because the settlers needed so much wood for building and for fires, the hills around Deerfield had no covering now but grass. To get trees big enough to repair the stockade, the men had to venture three or four miles from the village. In wartime, it was too dangerous. The very trees they needed to cut down in order to build safety were the trees behind which the Indians lurked.
Mother had loved this hill. She used to run up, shooing the boys ahead of her, holding Mercy’s hand, saying, “In a moment, Mercy, we’ll see the Lord’s land, the land He gave us, waiting for an English ax and an English hand.”
Mother would throw back her head and laugh delightedly at the sight of wilderness stretching north ready to be tamed and used as the Lord meant it to be, instead of wasted on Indians.
“Look!” cried Jemima. “Mercy, turn around! The men of Hadley are coming! We’ll be saved!”
Mercy did not want to slow down. The Indians were letting prisoners rest once they reached the top. But she did fling one glance over her shoulder, and sure enough, the flames in the sky must have alerted the watch in Hadley. From the south came men on horseback, dozens of them.
Jemima was laughing and hugging herself. “They’ll kill those Indians,” she said smugly. “They’ll slaughter those French.”
But Mercy knew too well that Indians were always ready for a second stand. Don’t look, she told herself. It’s better not to know.
She looked.
The ambush was ready; she could see it from where she stood. The men of Hadley might kill some Indians, but they themselves would soon be killed.
Mercy could jump up and down and scream a warning, but the rescuers would not see her against the glare. And if they did, they wouldn’t recognize a warning; they’d ride faster to save her.
Mercy hoisted Daniel and Marah one on each hip, and climbed on, feet sideways in the snow to get a purchase on the slippery tilt. At the top of the hill, she set them down. Her knees were trembling and her ankles hurt from being skewed around. When she lowered her exhausted arms, she wanted to cry along with Marah.
Jemima and Ruth had halted to enjoy the rescue. Ruth was clapping, while Jemima waved her hat and scarf.
The French vanished over the snow and across the brook, in the opposite direction from the hill up which the prisoners floundered. A few Indians were gathering the last plunder when the men of Hadley galloped up. A great cheer rose from the Deerfielders still fighting. It was a stirring sound, as full of joy as a shouted Amen!
Jemima forgot her fear and Ruth forgot her anger and they too cheered.
Tears wet Mercy Carter’s face as she watched. From the besieged houses, the surviving English poured out. There was no pause. The men of Hadley rode right past the stockade, while the men of Deerfield raced on foot after them, hoisting long dark flintlock muskets.
Don’t go after the Indians! she prayed. Stay where you are.
But nothing would stop this pursuit; the English would hurl themselves against the enemy to get a hundred captives back.
Mercy held Marah and Daniel tight against her so they could not watch.
The Indians pulled back, coaxing the pursuit forward.
One Indian was shot down, body twisting and arms flailing, and another great cheer came from the English. Then the French exploded out of the trees and Indians stepped from a cleft in the ground.
Sunlight caught the snow and the world took on an odd pewtery shine and Ruth’s brother, marked out by the persimmon-dyed cap Ruth had knit him last fall, was the first one killed in the meadow.
LAST TO REACH THE TOP of the hill, Eben supported the heavy burden by tucking his hands behind him, so he could straighten a little and look back.
The English flag blew in a light wind, as if it did not know or care that its sons and daughters had died.
Eben’s house was burning.
In spite of its heavy covering of snow, the wood-shingled roof had caught fire. Fire was melting the snow, but snowmelt was not putting out the fire. A window fell in, cracked by heat, and flames leaped out. For a moment the flames were small and yellow, and then something caught; ammunition perhaps, or grease in the pan by the hearth.
Spires of orange and scarlet streaked from the house and smoke blackened the snow.
The men of Hadley died in the meadow and Eben Nims died in his heart.
Molly and Mary and Hittie would be silent forever now.
THE CAPTIVES HAD NOT RESTED five minutes when the Indians moved them on. The French did not join them, nor were they visible. Those glorious uniforms and startling swords might have been swallowed by the frozen river.
The prisoners went down the other side of the hill, and Deerfield vanished. They could neither see their home nor smell it burn, because the wind was blowing the other
way and the smoke stayed behind. Ahead of them, snow sparkled rose and gold and the sun shone bright.
A few Indians walked first, trampling out a path, while the prisoners trudged in single file after them. There were about twenty adult men, tied at the wrists and elbows. Around their necks were leather collars with two leashes, one held by the Indian in front, the other by the Indian behind. About the same number of grown women walked alone, because the Indians weren’t letting husbands walk with wives. The mothers were stunned and heartsick and, above all, slow.
It was frightening to see their fathers treated like dogs and their mothers without hope. The children kept to themselves.
Mercy’s legs throbbed, Daniel got heavier and Marah would not stop crying.
Eliza walked fast enough but had to be guided in the right direction. She didn’t say anything about what had happened to her husband, Andrew, and nobody else said anything either. In fact, nobody talked.
Jemima cried as much as Marah, wailing for the rescue that had failed.
Ruth’s lungs were as noisy as the crunching of snow.
They crossed field after field, the Indians constantly demanding more speed. Mercy did not know why the Indians were in such a hurry. They had killed anybody who could chase them.
EBEN HAD FALLEN a number of times, and this time when he struggled to his feet, the huge pack on his back had shifted and he could not balance himself. An Indian saw and came over to adjust the straps.
Eben had not thought he could tell one Indian from another, but he recognized the two-fingered smear in the man’s red face paint. It was greasepaint. Eben could smell the rancid fat.
The sight of his house burning had turned him into a mere collection of muscle, a tool to carry and lift, a body that would make a good slave. He supposed that was the purpose of taking so many prisoners. Slavery. The mark on his forehead must be the mark of ownership.
He, Eben Nims, had ceased to be a free Englishman. He was Indian property.
A hundred paces ahead, Ruth Catlin turned and saw how close to Eben the Indian stood. She had been raging anyhow and when her brother was shot in the meadow her rage had intensified. “Kill him, Eb!” shouted Ruth Catlin. “Just kill him! They’re all murderers.”
Eben could hear Ruth and understand Ruth and even agree with Ruth. He was in a position to seize the hatchet. But there was no fight in him. He followed the Indian.
The pace was relentless. This was not a walk. It was a march. Like soldiers, they must take another step. They did not walk in rhythm. Nor was there a drum, like the one used to call the people to meeting. Instead, there was the shining edge of a sharp blade, which surpassed any drumbeat in its demands.
MERCY COULD NOT KEEP up the pace. Gradually the line passed her by, until she was walking with Eben Nims, and she must not fall farther behind than that, because the Indians behind Eben were the end of the line. Daniel held tight and sucked his thumb. But not only did Marah refuse to walk, she kept yelling that her feet were cold, and she wanted Stepmama, and she needed her mittens, and she was hungry.
Mercy could walk, though not fast enough, and she could carry, though not easily. But she could not supply food, warmth or Stepmama.
Mercy tried to believe that Stepmama was up ahead of her with the baby; that it was so crowded and chaotic Mercy could not spot her. But in her heart, she did not think Stepmama had left the stockade.
“The savage put food in my pack, Mercy,” said Eben quietly. “If you slip your hand into the opening near my left shoulder, there’s a loaf of bread on top.”
They walked on, considering whether the Indians would tomahawk her for stealing Eben’s own bread. Well, they’d shortly tomahawk Marah for whining, so Mercy might as well get on with it. She set the two children down, and Eben bent his knees so she could reach and Mercy fished around in the pack. She slid the loaf out. It was long and fat and crusty.
Her Indian was watching. Mercy looked straight at him while she ripped off a chunk for Marah. He did nothing. Mercy decided to give some to Jemima too, which would give her something to do besides whine. She would give bread to Eliza and hope food would break Eliza’s grieving stupor.
Marah didn’t take a single bite. She threw the bread across the snow. “I want Mama!” she said fiercely. She glared at Mercy, as if all this hiking and shivering were Mercy’s fault.
Mercy could not abandon the bread out there in the snow. She was going to need that bread. It was all they had, and somehow Mercy had become responsible for Marah and Daniel and Ruth and Eliza and Jemima, and probably even for Eben. Mercy stepped off the trodden path to retrieve the crust, but her Indian stopped her, shaking his head.
On his face was no expression but the one painted in black. His arms were tattooed with snakes that curled their fangs when he tightened his muscles. How could he go half bare in this weather? she thought, and then remembered that she wore his rabbit-lined cloak.
Daniel, sitting happily on her hip, reached out from under the rabbit fur and patted the snake. The Indian tensed his upper arm to make the snake slither. Daniel giggled, so the Indian did it again, and it seemed to Mercy that he actually smiled at Daniel.
Then, blessedly, he took Marah for her.
One child she could manage. One child was nothing. Now she would not fall behind. “Help me get Daniel on my back, Ruth.”
Ruth removed the Indian’s cape and lifted Daniel. He dug his heels into her waist, got comfortable and began to suck his thumb once more. Ruth tucked the cape in and around them both, tying the hood. Invisible and toasty under the cape, Daniel gnawed on his bread. Little crumbs fell down Mercy’s back. She was able to walk as fast as Eben now. They were still last in line, but not in danger.
Up ahead, several children were being carried by Indians. Little Eunice Williams, the minister’s youngest daughter, was actually riding on an Indian’s shoulders, enjoying this strange parade, because she had a comfortable seat and a fine view.
Mercy’s spirits actually rose. The distant hills looked like piled quilts. Her favorite psalm came back to her in all its beauty and truth. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
Faith passed through Mercy like a drink of something sweet and warm.
A moment later her Indian came up from behind, passing her and heading toward the front.
He did not have Marah.
IT WAS AN HOUR before the Indians paused again, and then they stopped so abruptly that prisoners were tripping over each other.
It frightened Eben. What was going to happen?
What dread plan might the Indians have for their white prisoners now?
No Indian lifted a weapon. They stood motionless, looking west.
Eben watched for several moments before he was able to pick out distant figures coming toward them. It was not rescue. If those were English, the Indians would long ago have surrounded and attacked them.
Slowly, the shapes turned into men; men carrying burdens; men bent double under the weight, yet not staggering as Eben had. They looked as if they had killed and were carrying entire cows.
They were very close before Eben realized he was seeing warriors carrying their wounded. Each hurt man was rolled up into a package, swaddled like a baby in blankets and strapped to a warrior’s back. These men were carrying, by their foreheads and on their spines, a weight equal to their own.
Eben was awestruck.
Dropping his own pack on the snow, Eben’s Indian knelt beside one of the wounded men, unwrapping bandages to examine the wound. His profile against the snow was beautiful as an eagle or a hawk is beautiful.
BLESSED REST.
Mercy flopped onto the snow. Daniel danced around, just a three-year-old enjoying the pretty day. Mercy closed her eyes so she could not see his happiness. She knew Marah was in the hands of the Lord. It’s my fault. I didn’t keep her quiet, thought Mercy, and she wept into the snow and then, because she had had so little sleep and so much horror, because she had walked so far and
carried so much, Mercy fell asleep.
Even in sleep, she felt the extraordinary cold. The sleep was intense and short and she woke to the odd sensation of somebody unlacing her shoes.
I fell asleep with my shoes on, thought Mercy. Mother is taking them off for me. Mother is going to tuck me in and say my prayers for me.
Sam and Benny and John and Tommy loved stories about Mother, and Mercy loved to tell them. When she knew she was dying, Mother had pleaded with her children. Don’t forget me, she had said, her eyes filled with tears. I will wait for you in the Lord, but don’t forget me.
I will never forget you, Mercy had promised, but soon the shape of her mother’s smile and the scent of her mother’s hair disappeared from memory. Mostly Mercy remembered Mother by the house. Mother had had plans. Glass windows were what she wanted most. A real table, not a trestle and a slab of wood that had to be taken down between meals to make room for other chores. “Soon,” Father used to tell her, smiling. She was a scholar, having read the Bible through many times, and there was nothing she liked more than telling the rough-and-tumble stories of the Old Testament.
Mother didn’t get tired the way Stepmama did. It was nothing for her to weave several yards of cloth in one day and also kill two chickens, make a stew for ten, bake bread, help a sick neighbor, write Bible verses with the boys and show Mercy how to knit the heel of a stocking. Mother could accomplish anything.
Except her sixth child. She had not lived through Marah’s birth.
The chill penetrated. It could not be Mother untying her shoelaces. Mother had not been alive for three years. Mercy woke up.
Her Indian, killer of Marah, was taking off her shoes.
“No, no!” she said, horrified. “I have to have shoes,” she explained, as if his English vocabulary went this far. “I can’t go barefoot. Let me keep my shoes.”
But he threw them out into the snow, where they skidded over the crusty surface and vanished beneath hemlock branches like two brown rabbits. On her feet he placed deerskin slippers, lined with fur like the cloak. They tied at the ankle, with tall flaps to keep her legs dry and warm. She ran a finger over intricate embroidery. She remembered Mother stitching pretty things; a white ruffle on Father’s best shirt; a narrow row of lace around the pocket of Mercy’s Sunday apron.
The Ransom of Mercy Carter Page 3
