The Ransom of Mercy Carter (22 page)

Why was the group leaving so swiftly? Mercy wondered. Indian men rambled any time of the year, but they did not casually leave on major journeys. There were public prayers to be made, provisions to be set
aside, wives to be considered. A year was a great length of time.

It was May. Last year, the men had stayed home during the summer, resting from a winter of danger and deprivation. For them it had been a richly deserved time of sun and ball games. Besides, hunting was difficult in summer, when the leaves of trees and the thick green of grass and shrubs could hide a deer only a few feet away.

She imagined Joseph leaping into the canoe, eager to do his share of the paddling and prove he was a man. What an adventure! And Joseph might be easier in his heart if he was far from Montréal, far from the stranger in the fields who was really his father.

Joseph had not called Great Sky Father since the day of Mr. Williams’s visit, but just now he’d said “father” to refer to the men who would accompany Ebenezer and Remembrance and Annisquam.

“I will make a present for you, Sowangen,” said Mercy. “Promise to wear it and remember me during your journey. A year is a long time.”

But Joseph was already racing away, boasting to the boys who would be left behind.

Mercy and Nistenha worked long into the dark so her gift would be ready when the boys set out at first light. It would be his first tobacco pouch, a neck sash with pockets. She fringed the bottom edges and embroidered a row of tiny red and white beads. Joseph was too young
for pipe and tobacco, but one day the warriors would let him smoke, and he must be ready.

She knew he would never set aside the tobacco sash, because he would be so pleased that Mercy saw him as a man.

When they had finished it, Nistenha got to her feet and stirred the stew, which did not need stirring, because everybody else had been asleep for hours, and were not about to eat. “You and I, Munnonock, as soon as the men have departed, will be looking for strawberries. My favorite field is many miles away. We will carry many baskets and plan to stay several nights.”

Mercy did not look forward to that. Berries grew low to the ground, their leaves smothering and hiding the fruit. One basket of delicious sweet berries was worth a backache, but dozens of baskets? Mercy would be groaning with back pain every night. And the return trip home would be awkward and slow. Nistenha would choose two saplings, slicing away branches with a hatchet. She would walk first and Mercy second, and on their shoulders would rest the two poles, and from these would hang the heavy baskets. Mercy would also have to carry a burden pack to hold all the supplies.

Only yesterday, Nistenha had said she wanted a rest; she was tired from smoking so many fish; she was sick of work.

Mercy slept badly.

·  ·  ·

J
OSEPH WAS THRILLED
with his tobacco pouch, and Mercy thought that Great Sky was even more pleased.

Sadagaewadeh gave a quick prayer and a quicker speech.

The sun was only a faint pinkness and a touch of yellow in the east when two dugouts of French
voyageurs
pulled up to the jetty. Off they went: two canoes of Indians, two boats of French, paddles digging into the water like shovels into the earth, up the great river and out of sight.

For a year.

She could not comprehend it.

“We will leave shortly,” Nistenha told Mercy. “While I prepare, I wish you to bake corn cakes. Plan for the two of us for a week. Snow Walker, you will do this with Munnonock.”

When the girls arrived at the bake ovens, Mercy was aware of a general unease; a tension she did not usually feel among the Indians, and certainly not among women baking. There was little chatter. A surprising number of families were away. Aongote’s family had left when it was still dark.

She and Snow Walker prepared a large tray of corn cakes and, as soon as they were done, beat the batter for a second batch.

There was a commotion at the jetty, but Mercy did not race to see who had arrived the way she used to. A
horde of hungry children had surrounded her, and she was handing out cakes as fast as she could spread the maple butter. There was nothing more pleasurable than giving food to children. “You will have to start over,” said Snow Walker. “They’ve eaten all but four cakes.”

In Deerfield, there would have been much irritation that the same chore must be repeated the very same morning. But an Indian would not think of it that way: food was for eating and children were for joy.

Mercy turned back to see if the ovens were free so she could start her next batch, and her eyes fell on the activity at the jetty. And then there was no turning back. Eight white men stood on the stones by the river.

Six French soldiers.

One Catholic priest.

And a Deerfield survivor, Deacon Sheldon, whose sons had left at dawn to be away for a year.

The woven reed tray slipped from Mercy’s fingers and dropped lightly to the ground. The four remaining corn cakes scattered and the dogs pounced on them.

Ransom had arrived.

“S
TAY HERE
,” said Snow Walker frantically. “You must stay here.”

“No,” said Mercy courteously, although Mohawk had no word for “no” and the closest she could come was
jaghte oghte
. Maybe not.

Snow Walker caught Mercy’s wrist, but Mercy looked
at her sharply and Snow Walker let go. Among Indians, your body was your own. Others could not interfere with it.

“No, Munnonock,” whispered Snow Walker. “Please. Much depends on you.”

Mercy walked around several Indian women who stood in her path, holding out their hands and silently beseeching. Had Nistenha planned better, she and Mercy would have been miles away among the strawberries, and Mercy would never have known who had arrived in Montréal.

Joseph would never know. Ebenezer and Remembrance Sheldon would never know. Eunice Williams, Aongote, would never know.

Gathering on the jetty were several Indian families, her own included. Tannahorens’s mother and sisters. Snow Walker’s mother. Nistenha’s mother. Otter and Ruth’s former family. Joanna’s. Aongote’s distant relatives. Joseph’s mother’s family.

Sadagaewadeh wore necklaces, his neck pouch with its sacred talisman and his silver cross. The priest was one who substituted for Father Meriel, and the English deacon—
oh, the deacon!

Mercy floated on waves of memory.

Deacon Sheldon had built a great new house the year before the attack. Its second floor overhung the first, making it easier to defend, because it was safer to shoot from those upper windows. His house hadn’t saved anybody.
She remembered seeing the Indians hack at the huge oak door whose hinges Deacon Sheldon had been so proud of: heavy cast-iron hinges and bolt. Mistress Sheldon had been shot right through the hole in the door—Ebenezer and Remembrance had seen it happen.

Tannhahorens, thought Mercy dizzily.
He Splits the Door
. But it can’t have been that door; he already possessed that name.

She thought of the Deerfield captives Mr. Sheldon would try to ransom. There must be dozens still alive. Of the adults, Mercy had seen only Mr. Williams; not once had she laid eyes on another Deerfield parent.

Who, thought Mercy, will return with Deacon Sheldon? My brothers? Perhaps Deacon Sheldon has already ransomed them. Perhaps even now they are on an English ship, ready to sail for an English port. Boston. Massachusetts. Home.

And Eben and Sarah? Would his Indian family, having taken on the French so that Eben could have his bride, now shrug and let them sail away?

Sally and Benjamin Burt? Would their families surrender not only the couple, but also baby Christopher, whom every Indian girl took turns cuddling?

The de Fleury family, who had turned Cousin Mary into Marie-Claire—they spent more money on Marie-Claire’s clothing than Massachusetts would raise for all the ransoms. Would they hand their daughter over to Deacon Sheldon?

Joanna was still in Kahnawake, unless they had taken her with Aongote. Joanna, whose prayers were in Mohawk. Would her family surrender her? Rebecca, the other Kellogg sister, had moved away with her Indian family months ago.

And Aongote. Little Eunice Williams. Mr. Sheldon would try to get the Williams family home first, because the minister was related to such important people. But Aongote was important to her Indian family, and her strong name—Planted—would work against any removal.

Ruth! She must be wild with excitement. All over again Mercy saw Ruth throwing Joanna’s pack into the snow—the fry pan and the leg of lamb and the knife flying all over the place.

Nistenha tied a scarf over Mercy’s hair.

Mercy took it off.

Snow Walker stepped in front of Mercy.

Mercy circled her and went on. She was at the end of another journey. The world beyond ransom seemed as unknown as Kahnawake had one year ago.

Nistenha blocked Mercy’s path. All these months, she had remained blackened and torn in widowhood. She did not touch Mercy but wrapped her arms around her own body and hugged herself. “Daughter,” she said to Mercy, but no sound came out. It was just the motion of dry lips. Their eyes met and Mercy thought, Who is this woman?

“She suffers,” whispered Snow Walker, and Mercy thought, So do I.

From the jetty, the highest-ranking French officer spoke first. “My people,” he said in Mohawk, “this man comes from the town of Deerfield, much known to you in war. He offers much money if you give their sons and daughters back. I am honor bound to tell you that those who still live in Deerfield miss their children and are in much pain at their loss. The parents of Deerfield beg your forgiveness. The mothers and fathers of Deerfield pray for your understanding. They ask for their children.”

No parent in Deerfield would ever ask forgiveness from an Indian. Forgiveness? they would demand. For what?

But it was nicely said. Mercy admired a translator who knew better than to translate.

Tannhahorens’s mother joined Nistenha, holding up a hat of soft plain deerskin for Mercy to wear. It had no fringe, no dangling foxtail. It was a covering to hide Mercy’s yellow English hair.

The priest said, “If it is in your heart to return a child whom you yourself have come to love, the ransom money shall be yours. But remember, the English are not Catholic. Your sons and daughters will be lost to hell if they are returned.”

The men were trained to speak loudly: the officers so
their voices would carry over wind and
water
, battle and gunshot; the priest so his voice would rise to God.

Mercy stood inside a tight circle of older, heavier, taller women. She did not try to push through. When she was ready, she would call out. Her hair and eyes would be her proof.

“How many Deerfield children are actually in Kahnewake?” demanded Mr. Sheldon. He of course spoke English, and that had to be translated both for the soldiers and for the priest, because Father Meriel alone was fluent in English.

“We think there are about fifteen,” said the priest finally, “but it is difficult to be sure. The Indians move them around, and of course the Indians themselves move quite a bit. Soon many will go to summer camps, where the fishing is better. They are not an easy people to count.”

“And my sons?” said Mr. Sheldon. “My children? Where are my sons? Remembrance and Ebenezer?”

“They’ve gone hunting,” said Sadagaewadeh.

Slowly, ready to be knocked aside, Tannhahorens’s mother lowered the hat over Mercy’s head. How soft the skin was, beaten for so many hours.

“When will my sons return? When do I see them?” Mr. Sheldon’s voice betrayed fury that a savage dared make the rules for a deacon from Massachusetts.

“They’ve gone hunting,” said Sadagaewadeh again.
Indians did not like the English habit of going over and over something.

There was silence, with which Indians were comfortable and English were not.

Nistenha wept. Tears ran through the soot she still applied in honor of Tannhahorens, leaving streams of sorrow on her cheeks.

Mr. Sheldon shouted, “Where are my sons?”

Nobody spoke.

Even Mercy, who could have told him, did not speak.

Listen, listen, listen
, came so many voices: every adult of her first childhood and every adult of her second world.

For the first time since her capture, Mercy saw Deerfield clearly, and all her relations and neighbors and friends. She saw the hills bright in autumn and heard the laughter of children coming from school, the snap of an English flag in the wind. She saw the grave of her birth mother, and she almost saw the newer graves next to it, those who had died on a snowy morning in 1704.

Deacon Sheldon’s voice broke. “Please! I have lost my children. Surely you know how terrible that is. Permit me at least to speak to them.”

Go forward, Mercy told herself. He cannot speak to his sons, for they have been removed, but I can tell him what he needs to know. He will lift me in his arms, crying, “Mercy! Mercy Carter!” He will turn my face up like an offering and thank the Lord that I who was lost am found.

But am I lost?

And am I Mercy Carter?

I will remember
, she had promised Uncle Nathaniel. I will remember my family, my God and my home.

I have not broken my promise. I remember my family with love. I honor my God in every way … and in every language. And my home—
oh, my home
.

Is it here?

It seemed to Mercy that she needed more time—weeks, months, even years—to know the answer to that question. She had been thinking about it since May of 1704, and yet she did not know. Annisquam had set it down. Mercy carried it all, the burden strap of memory still cutting her forehead.

The French priest asked the deacon if he would like to enter the French church and see where the children of Deerfield worshiped, but Deacon Sheldon shook his head in horror and walked back to the boat.

Mercy Carter closed her eyes.
Lord, Lord, Lord
.

Latin slipped into her prayer, and Mohawk, and French, and she felt herself swept away by so many languages. So many fears and hopes were the same, so many answers as hard to find, in every language.