Read Online The Ransom of Mercy Carter by Caroline B. Cooney - Free Book Online
Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
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that Mercy had seen. He continued to carry the body. Mercy did not know if he planned to take it home to Canada to bury or if he could not yet bear to part with it.
Now, quite gently, he separated the two girls, taking Jemima’s pack away from Mercy. “Carry boy,” he said to Mercy, pointing down the hill at Daniel. “Go.”
Mercy met the Indian’s eyes. They both knew Jemima had told the truth. Jemima could not go on. And if everybody walked north and left her behind, what would happen? Jemima would be meat for predators.
So when the Indian said again, “Go,” Mercy skidded down the hill, but she could not miss the cracking thud of stone against bone.
The tremor that had destroyed Jemima, partly destroyed Uncle Nathaniel and was quivering inside her brother Sam invaded Mercy’s heart.
I will be brave, she told herself. I will stay strong.
Lord, Lord, Lord
, she said to Him. She had never needed Him more, but in this cold white wilderness, she could not feel His presence.
The snowball fights ended.
The sledding stopped.
The march went on. Nobody could help Mercy. Everybody had their own trembling legs and hearts to deal with.
Tannhahorens appeared by her side. He had covered his ears and shaved head with a great scarlet muff of a hat. In his long blue coat, he was astonishing, like something out of a Bible story. With mittened hands, he lifted Daniel from Mercy’s back, giving the little boy another bite of hard bread and setting him on his shoulders to ride high and comfortable, the way Eunice Williams was riding. Then he took Mercy’s hand to keep her from falling as the march went up yet another hill.
Chapter Four
The Connecticut River
March 2, 1704
Temperature 10 degrees
E ben saw his sisters’ smiles etched in the snow and their hair in the weeping branches of the willow. Yet he was not the captive possessed by rage. It was Ruth who stomped and fought and spat. When Joanna took the hand of her mother’s killer, Ruth trembled with anger. “I won’t forgive Joanna!” Ruth said in Eben’s hearing. “She suffers from blurry eyes and maybe she didn’t see it happen, but she’s been told!”
Eben said nothing.
“I can’t forgive Mercy either,” said Ruth. “How could she just walk away and let them kill Jemima?”
Jemima’s death already seemed remote. Six more captives had been killed since then. Eben hardly thought about them. To his shame, he thought about his stomach. They had had almost nothing to eat in three days.
When he was not thinking of his sisters, he wasremembering his mother’s hasty pudding, how she would add hot milk and maple sugar. Her baked beans. How she mixed in molasses and chunks of ham to make the most wonderful dinner.
“And I will not forgive Joseph Kellogg for making a game of it,” said Ruth.
Eben let Ruth yell. He didn’t mind being yelled at, but the others had lost patience with Ruth.
The French had used Ruth’s house to shelter their wounded during the battle. Ruth’s mother had stepped across the bodies of her son and husband to nurse the bleeding French soldiers. Eben found this an act of Christian service beyond anything; maybe even beyond Christianity. Who could understand Mistress Catlin, saving the lives of those who had just killed her children? Minutes later, when Ruth was shoved out the front door and into the line of captives, her mother actually waved good-bye in the doorway, the only English settler left behind on purpose.
“Listen to Sarah Hoyt!” cried Ruth. Her long bony face was twisted with anger and hunger. “She’s actually laughing. I despise her! It dishonors the dead to make friends with their murderers.”
Eben’s heart broke for Ruth. Was that how she believed her mother had behaved? Dishonoring her dead?
Ruth stormed over the snow to holler at Sarah, and Eben hoped Sarah would answer gently. But Ruth was caught by her Indian, who did not want the children’splay interrupted. Ruth attempted suicide. She lunged
Now, quite gently, he separated the two girls, taking Jemima’s pack away from Mercy. “Carry boy,” he said to Mercy, pointing down the hill at Daniel. “Go.”
Mercy met the Indian’s eyes. They both knew Jemima had told the truth. Jemima could not go on. And if everybody walked north and left her behind, what would happen? Jemima would be meat for predators.
So when the Indian said again, “Go,” Mercy skidded down the hill, but she could not miss the cracking thud of stone against bone.
The tremor that had destroyed Jemima, partly destroyed Uncle Nathaniel and was quivering inside her brother Sam invaded Mercy’s heart.
I will be brave, she told herself. I will stay strong.
Lord, Lord, Lord
, she said to Him. She had never needed Him more, but in this cold white wilderness, she could not feel His presence.
The snowball fights ended.
The sledding stopped.
The march went on. Nobody could help Mercy. Everybody had their own trembling legs and hearts to deal with.
Tannhahorens appeared by her side. He had covered his ears and shaved head with a great scarlet muff of a hat. In his long blue coat, he was astonishing, like something out of a Bible story. With mittened hands, he lifted Daniel from Mercy’s back, giving the little boy another bite of hard bread and setting him on his shoulders to ride high and comfortable, the way Eunice Williams was riding. Then he took Mercy’s hand to keep her from falling as the march went up yet another hill.
Chapter Four
The Connecticut River
March 2, 1704
Temperature 10 degrees
E ben saw his sisters’ smiles etched in the snow and their hair in the weeping branches of the willow. Yet he was not the captive possessed by rage. It was Ruth who stomped and fought and spat. When Joanna took the hand of her mother’s killer, Ruth trembled with anger. “I won’t forgive Joanna!” Ruth said in Eben’s hearing. “She suffers from blurry eyes and maybe she didn’t see it happen, but she’s been told!”
Eben said nothing.
“I can’t forgive Mercy either,” said Ruth. “How could she just walk away and let them kill Jemima?”
Jemima’s death already seemed remote. Six more captives had been killed since then. Eben hardly thought about them. To his shame, he thought about his stomach. They had had almost nothing to eat in three days.
When he was not thinking of his sisters, he wasremembering his mother’s hasty pudding, how she would add hot milk and maple sugar. Her baked beans. How she mixed in molasses and chunks of ham to make the most wonderful dinner.
“And I will not forgive Joseph Kellogg for making a game of it,” said Ruth.
Eben let Ruth yell. He didn’t mind being yelled at, but the others had lost patience with Ruth.
The French had used Ruth’s house to shelter their wounded during the battle. Ruth’s mother had stepped across the bodies of her son and husband to nurse the bleeding French soldiers. Eben found this an act of Christian service beyond anything; maybe even beyond Christianity. Who could understand Mistress Catlin, saving the lives of those who had just killed her children? Minutes later, when Ruth was shoved out the front door and into the line of captives, her mother actually waved good-bye in the doorway, the only English settler left behind on purpose.
“Listen to Sarah Hoyt!” cried Ruth. Her long bony face was twisted with anger and hunger. “She’s actually laughing. I despise her! It dishonors the dead to make friends with their murderers.”
Eben’s heart broke for Ruth. Was that how she believed her mother had behaved? Dishonoring her dead?
Ruth stormed over the snow to holler at Sarah, and Eben hoped Sarah would answer gently. But Ruth was caught by her Indian, who did not want the children’splay interrupted. Ruth attempted suicide. She lunged
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