Read Online The Ransom of Mercy Carter by Caroline B. Cooney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
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war party tohave killed
twenty
, dragged every huge carcass here so there would be feasting on the journey home—Eben was filled with respect as much as hunger.
The Indians made several bonfires and built spits to cook entire haunches. They chopped the frozen moose meat, and Thorakwaneken and Tannhahorens sharpened dozens of thin sticks and shoved small cubes of moose meat onto these skewers. The women and children were each handed a stick to cook.
The men were kept under watch, but at last their hands were freed and they too were allowed to eat.
The prisoners were too hungry to wait for the meat to cook through and wolfed it down half raw. They ripped off strips for the littlest ones, who ate like baby birds: open mouths turned up, bolting one morsel, calling loudly for the next.
When the captives had eaten until their stomachs ached, they dried stockings and moccasins and turned themselves in front of the flames, warming each side, while the Indians not on watch gathered around the largest bonfire, squatting to smoke their pipes and talk. The smell of their tobacco was rich and comforting. The wounded were put closest to the warmth, and hurt English found themselves sharing flames with hurt Mohawk and Abenaki and Huron.
One of the Sheldon boys had frozen his toes. His Indian came over to look but shook his head. There was nothing to be done. Ebenezer Sheldon could limp toCanada or give up. “Guess I’ll limp,” said Ebenezer, grinning.
Thorakwaneken had taken four scalps. Nobody wanted to watch, but nobody could look away. With the flat of his knife, he scraped off the flesh from the underside until he had just skin and hair. He poked a row of holes along the edges of the skin. As calmly and carefully as Mercy would stitch a hem, he stretched the scalp and stitched it, loop by loop, to a hoop of willow wand. It looked as if someone had painted in a spider’s web and hung a horse tail from it.
Every captive knew whose scalp had just been stretched but it seemed impossible; how could the farmer who had worn his brown hair long and tied in a double knot be part of the strange thing Thorakwaneken had just created?
The relief of warmth and food made the captives talkative. Until now the Indians had permitted little speech, but tonight their anxiety seemed gone. Mercy asked Tannhahorens if she and Sarah could sit with Eben and he nodded.
“You asked him in Indian!” said Sarah. “How did you learn?”
“I’ve learned some too,” said Eben. “I like having something to think about besides—” He stopped. The golden yellow of the firelight looked like his sisters’ hair.
“You did your best, Eben,” Sarah said, and for a moment Eben thought Sarah was going to kiss him, but herkiss landed on the wind-chapped cheeks of sleeping Daniel, cuddled for the moment in her arms instead of Mercy’s. They sat watching as the Indians bundled small children in layers of blankets and tucked them in a row, close to the fires.
“My theory,” said Eben, “is that being a captive is an honor for the strong and the uncomplaining.”
Sarah and Mercy considered this.
“Then why is Ruth alive? She complains all day long,” said Sarah.
“But she isn’t sobbing,” Mercy pointed out, “and she isn’t actually complaining. She’s calling them names. She attacked her own Indian this afternoon, did you see? She was going to stab him with his own knife.”
They giggled. It was scary to watch Ruth, and impossible not to. Instead of a blow to the head, though, Ruth was usually given food. It wasn’t a method anybody else wanted to try.
“But Eliza doesn’t fit your theory, Eben,” said Mercy. “She hasn’t spoken since they killed Andrew. If you let go her arm, she stops walking. Yet they’re patient with her.”
“I admit Eliza isn’t brave,” said Eben. “She’s in a stupor. Maybe they respect her for caring about her husband so deeply.”
Mercy had never liked thinking about Eliza marrying an Indian.
twenty
, dragged every huge carcass here so there would be feasting on the journey home—Eben was filled with respect as much as hunger.
The Indians made several bonfires and built spits to cook entire haunches. They chopped the frozen moose meat, and Thorakwaneken and Tannhahorens sharpened dozens of thin sticks and shoved small cubes of moose meat onto these skewers. The women and children were each handed a stick to cook.
The men were kept under watch, but at last their hands were freed and they too were allowed to eat.
The prisoners were too hungry to wait for the meat to cook through and wolfed it down half raw. They ripped off strips for the littlest ones, who ate like baby birds: open mouths turned up, bolting one morsel, calling loudly for the next.
When the captives had eaten until their stomachs ached, they dried stockings and moccasins and turned themselves in front of the flames, warming each side, while the Indians not on watch gathered around the largest bonfire, squatting to smoke their pipes and talk. The smell of their tobacco was rich and comforting. The wounded were put closest to the warmth, and hurt English found themselves sharing flames with hurt Mohawk and Abenaki and Huron.
One of the Sheldon boys had frozen his toes. His Indian came over to look but shook his head. There was nothing to be done. Ebenezer Sheldon could limp toCanada or give up. “Guess I’ll limp,” said Ebenezer, grinning.
Thorakwaneken had taken four scalps. Nobody wanted to watch, but nobody could look away. With the flat of his knife, he scraped off the flesh from the underside until he had just skin and hair. He poked a row of holes along the edges of the skin. As calmly and carefully as Mercy would stitch a hem, he stretched the scalp and stitched it, loop by loop, to a hoop of willow wand. It looked as if someone had painted in a spider’s web and hung a horse tail from it.
Every captive knew whose scalp had just been stretched but it seemed impossible; how could the farmer who had worn his brown hair long and tied in a double knot be part of the strange thing Thorakwaneken had just created?
The relief of warmth and food made the captives talkative. Until now the Indians had permitted little speech, but tonight their anxiety seemed gone. Mercy asked Tannhahorens if she and Sarah could sit with Eben and he nodded.
“You asked him in Indian!” said Sarah. “How did you learn?”
“I’ve learned some too,” said Eben. “I like having something to think about besides—” He stopped. The golden yellow of the firelight looked like his sisters’ hair.
“You did your best, Eben,” Sarah said, and for a moment Eben thought Sarah was going to kiss him, but herkiss landed on the wind-chapped cheeks of sleeping Daniel, cuddled for the moment in her arms instead of Mercy’s. They sat watching as the Indians bundled small children in layers of blankets and tucked them in a row, close to the fires.
“My theory,” said Eben, “is that being a captive is an honor for the strong and the uncomplaining.”
Sarah and Mercy considered this.
“Then why is Ruth alive? She complains all day long,” said Sarah.
“But she isn’t sobbing,” Mercy pointed out, “and she isn’t actually complaining. She’s calling them names. She attacked her own Indian this afternoon, did you see? She was going to stab him with his own knife.”
They giggled. It was scary to watch Ruth, and impossible not to. Instead of a blow to the head, though, Ruth was usually given food. It wasn’t a method anybody else wanted to try.
“But Eliza doesn’t fit your theory, Eben,” said Mercy. “She hasn’t spoken since they killed Andrew. If you let go her arm, she stops walking. Yet they’re patient with her.”
“I admit Eliza isn’t brave,” said Eben. “She’s in a stupor. Maybe they respect her for caring about her husband so deeply.”
Mercy had never liked thinking about Eliza marrying an Indian.
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