The Ransom of Mercy Carter Quotes

“St. Lawrence River
May 1705
Temperature 48 degrees

The dancing began. Along with ancient percussion instruments that crackled and rattled, rasped and banged, the St. Francis Indians had French bells, whose clear chimes rang, and even a bugle, whose notes trumpeted across the river and over the trees.
“Mercy Carter!” exclaimed an English voice. “Joanna Kellogg! This is wonderful! I am so glad to see you!” An English boy flung his arms around the girls, embracing them joyfully, whirling them in circles.
Half his head was plucked and shiny bald, while long dark hair hung loose and tangled from the other half. His skin was very tan and his eyes twinkling black. He wore no shirt, jacket or cape: he was Indian enough to ignore the cold that had settled in once the sun went down.
“Ebenezer Sheldon,” cried Mercy. “I haven’t seen you since the march.”
He had been one of the first to receive an Indian name, when the snow thawed and the prisoners had had to wade through slush up to their ankles. Tannhahorens had changed Mercy’s moccasins now and then, hanging the wet pair on his shoulder to dry. But Ebenezer’s feet had frozen and he had lost some of his toes.
He hadn’t complained; in fact, he had not mentioned it. When his master discovered the injury, Ebenezer was surrounded by Indians who admired his silence. The name Frozen Leg was an honor. In English, the name sounded crippled. But in an Indian tongue, it sounded strong.
The boys in Deerfield who were not named John had been named Ebenezer. That wouldn’t happen in an Indian village. Each person must have a name exactly right for him; something that happened or that was; that reflected or appeared.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Montreal
October 1704
Temperature 55 degrees

Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.”
Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl.
“I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.”
Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.”
“I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.”
They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission?
“My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.”
Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.”
The Indians rather enjoyed being French allies one day and difficult neighbors the next. Lorette Indians might find this a fine way to stab a French soldier in the back without drawing blood.
They would need Father Meriel. He could arrange anything if he chose; he had power among all the peoples. But he might say no, and so might Eben’s Indian family.
Mercy translated what was going on for Nistenha and Snow Walker. “They want to get married,” she told them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She couldn’t help laughing from the joy and the terror of it. Ransom would no longer be the first word in Sarah’s heart. Eben would be. Mercy said, “Eben asked her right here in the street, Snow Walker. He wants to save her from marriage to a French soldier she doesn’t want. He’s loved Sarah since the march.”
The two Indians had no reaction. For a moment Mercy thought she must have spoken to them in English. Nistenha turned to walk away and Snow Walker turned with her.
If Nistenha was not interested in Sarah and Eben’s plight, no Indian would be.
Mercy called on her memory of every speech in every ceremony, every dignified phrase and powerful word. “Honored mother,” she said softly. “Honored sister. We are in need and we beg you to hear our petition.”
Nistenha stopped walking, turned back and stared at her in amazement. Sarah and Eben and Snow Walker stared at her in amazement.
Sam can build canoes, thought Mercy. I can make a speech. “This woman my sister and this man my brother wish to spend their lives together. My brother will need the generous permission of his Indian father. Already we know that my sister will be refused the permission of her French owners. We will need an ally to support us in our request. We will need your strength and your wisdom. We beseech you, Mother, that you stand by us and help us.”
The city of Montreal swirled around them.
Eben, property of an Indian father in Lorette; Sarah, property of a French family in Montreal; and Mercy, property of Tannhahorens, awaited her answer.
“Your words fill me with pride, Munnunock,” said Nistenha softly. She reached into her shopping bundle. Slowly she drew out a fine French china cup, undoubtedly meant for the feast of Flying Legs. She held it for a moment, and then her stern face softened and she gave it to Eben.
Indians sealed a promise with a gift.
She would help them.
From her bundle, Snow Walker took dangling silver earrings she must have bought for Mercy and handed them to Sarah.
Because she knew that Sarah’s Mohawk was not good enough and that Eben was too stirred to speak, Mercy gave the flowery thanks required after such gifts.
“God bless us,” she said to Sarah and Eben, and Eben said, “He has.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“St. Lawrence River
May 1705
Temperature 48 degrees

The girl who had been Mercy Carter stood for a long time watching the canoes disappear down the St. Lawrence. She had waved after Daniel, had been too crushed to wave after Sarah and Eben, and never thought of waving after Deacon Sheldon.
Ransom, she thought. I didn’t take it.
Nistenha removed the hat, folded it and touched the heavy gold braids. “Daughter?”
It seemed to the girl that sky and wind and river held their peace and waited to hear. Mother, she thought, beloved mother in heaven, forgive me. I walk now into another life. “Nistenha,” she said.
“It is your choice? For if not, my daughter, we follow them.”
I follow where the world took me. Mother. Father. Love me anyhow. I shall always love you.
“It is my choice,” said Nistenha’s daughter.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“St. Lawrence River
May 1705
Temperature 48 degrees

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.
When she finished speaking to the Lord, Deacon Sheldon was gone.
And so was Mercy Carter.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“St. Lawrence River
May 1705
Temperature 48 degrees

They stayed in St. Francis for several days.
Mercy was careful not to be around Ebenezer Sheldon again, and careful not to examine the reasons why.
Minutes before the Kahnawake Indians stepped into their canoes to paddle home, Mercy spotted the adopted boy walking alone. She darted between buildings to catch his arm. “Forgive me,” she said in English. The language felt awkward and slippery, as though she might say the wrong thing. “I know you’re not supposed to talk to us. But please. I need to know about your adoption.”
Annisquam’s look was friendly and his smile was pleasant. “You’re one of the Deerfield captives, aren’t you? I’m from Maine. Caught a few years before you.”
She ached to know his English name, but he did not offer it. She must not dishonor whatever he had achieved. If he had become Indian, she must not encroach upon that. “Please, I need to know what happened when you were left alone inside the powwow’s longhouse.”
His freckles and his pale red hair were so unlikely above his Indian clothing. “Nothing happened. I just sat there.”
Mercy was as disappointed as if he had forgotten his English. “I thought you would have been given answers.” Her voice trembled. “Or been sure.”
Annisquam looked at her for a long moment. “Nothing happened. But they did scrub away my past. I was born once more. I was one person when they pushed me under the water and another person when I left the powwow’s. I’m not sure my white blood is gone. I will never forget my family in Maine. But I have set them down.”
Mercy’s head rocked with the size of that decision. He set them down. How had he done that? Every captive carried both: both worlds, both languages, both Gods, both families.
Listen, listen, listen, the powwows and the chieftains cried.
But so many voices spoke. How had Annisquam known which voice told the truth? How had he been sure what to set down and what to keep?
“But your parents,” she said. “What would they think? Would they forgive you?”
His smile was lopsided and did not last long. “My parents,” he said gently, “are waiting for me.”
They stared at each other.
“Go with God,” he whispered, and he walked away from her to join the man who had put the wampum belt around his neck and the woman who had washed him in the river.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“St. Lawrence River
May 1705
Temperature 48 degrees

“I don’t understand adoptions myself. I wouldn’t want to be a father to somebody else’s son. But the French and the Indians have run out of children. They love to pretend we’re their children.”
They aren’t pretending, thought Mercy. Annisquam’s mother and father were not pretending. Annisquam is their son.
“Do you know this boy Annisquam?” asked Joanna. “Where is he from?”
Ebenezer shook his head. “Nobody will say and he isn’t allowed to talk to us. That doesn’t surprise me. I’m usually separated from the other captives. We become Indian quicker if we don’t have any English around us.”
Joseph spoke up.
Mercy had almost forgotten that Joseph was along. Since his encounter with Mr. Williams, Joseph had been unwilling to talk about family. As soon as a captive referred to the past, Joseph melted away. Of all the captives, Mercy thought, Joseph suffered the most from wrestling with past and present.
“Have you become Indian?” said Joseph to Ebenezer.
Ebenezer made a disgusted face. “Absolutely not. I get along with them, but I do not permit a thought in my head to be Indian. It’s different for me than it is for the three of you, though. Nobody in my Indian family attacked Deerfield. You and Mercy and Joanna deal with men who actually killed somebody in your family, but I’m just with Indians who bought me. It’s easier. I promise you, Joseph, I’m going home one day. They could adopt me a hundred times and I’d still be English. So how’s Kahnawake? I’ve never been there. Is it a trash heap like this?”
“Kahnawake is a beautiful town,” said Mercy stiffly.
Ebenezer Sheldon laughed. “Watch your step, Mercy. They’ve got you by the ankle. Probably planning your adoption next.”
Joseph looked away.
Joanna looked excited.
Lord, thought Mercy. Lord, Lord, Lord.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“St. Lawrence River
May 1705
Temperature 48 degrees

“You know what is happening with Eben, don’t you?”
“Will he marry Sarah?” Mercy asked excitedly. “We don’t know how it worked out. Tell us.”
“Father Meriel will honor Sarah’s decision to accept Eben. I guess it’s going to be quite an event. The French family does not accept Sarah’s decision, and they’re going ahead with their wedding plans. Eben’s Indian family are going ahead with their wedding plans. There’s going to be one bride, two grooms and a lot of armed men.” Ebenezer was laughing about it. Mercy certainly hoped it was safe to laugh. “I don’t think anybody will actually fight,” said Ebenezer. “Father Meriel will straighten it out.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“St. Lawrence River
May 1705
Temperature 48 degrees

From the river they walked back to the town, and the boy was taken into the fire circle outside the powwow’s longhouse. Here he was placed on the powwow’s sacred albino furs. A dozen men, those who were now his relatives, sat in a circle around him. The powwow lit a sacred pipe and passed it, and for the first time in his life, the boy smoked.
Don’t cough, Mercy prayed for him. Don’t choke.
Afterward she found out they diluted the tobacco with dried sumac leaves to make sure he wouldn’t cough on his first pull.
Although the women had adopted him, it was the men who filed by to bring gifts. The new Indian son received a tomahawk, knives, a fine bow, a pot of vermilion paint, a beautiful black-and-white-striped pouch made from a skunk and several necklaces.
“Watch, watch!” whispered Snow Walker, riveted. “This is his father. Look what his father gives him!”
The warrior transferred from his own body to his son’s a wampum belt--hundreds of tiny shell circles linked together like white lace. The belt was so large it had to hang from the neck instead of the waist.
To give a man a belt was old-fashioned. Wampum had no value to the French and had not been used as money by the Indians for many years. But it still spoke of power and honor and even Mercy caught her breath to see it on a white boy’s body.
But of course, he was not white any longer.
“My son,” said the powwow, “now you are flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone.”
At last his real name was called aloud, and the name was plain: Annisquam, which just meant “Hilltop.” Perhaps they had caught him at the summit of a mountain. Or considering the honor of the wampum belt, perhaps he kept his eyes on the horizon and was a future leader. Or like Ruth, he might have done some great deed that would be told in story that evening.
When the gifts and embraces were over, Annisquam was taken into the powwow’s longhouse to sit alone. He would stay there for many hours and would not be brought out until well into the dancing and feasting in the evening.
Not one of Mercy’s questions had been answered.
Was he, in his heart, adopted?
Had he, in his heart, accepted these new parents?
Where, in his heart, had he placed his English parents?
How did he excuse himself to his English God and his English dead?
The dancing began. Along with ancient percussion instruments that crackled and rattled, rasped and banged, the St. Francis Indians had French bells, whose clear chimes rang, and even a bugle, whose notes trumpeted across the river and over the trees.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“St. Lawrence River
May 1705
Temperature 48 degrees

During the march, when Mercy was finding the Mohawk language such a challenge and a pleasure to learn, Ruth had said to Eben, “I know why the powwow’s magic is successful. The children arrive ready.”
The ceremony took place at the edge of the St. Francis river, smaller than the St. Lawrence but still impressive. The spray of river against rock, of ice met smashing into shore, leaped up to meet the rain. Sacraments must occur in the presence of water, under the sky and in the arms of the wind.
There was no Catholic priest. There were no French. Only the language of the people was spoken, and the powwow and the chief preceded each prayer and cry with the rocking refrain Listen, listen, listen.
Joanna tugged at Mercy’s clothes. “Can you see yet?” she whispered. “Who is it? Is he from Deerfield?”
They were leading the boy forward. Mercy blinked away her tears and looked hard. “I don’t recognize him,” she said finally. “He looks about fourteen. Light red hair. Freckles. He’s tall, but thin.”
“Hungry thin?” worried Joanna.
“No. I think he hasn’t got his growth yet. He looks to be in good health. He’s handsomely made. He is not looking in our direction. He’s holding himself very still. It isn’t natural for him, the way it is for the Indians. He has to work at it.”
“He’s scared then, isn’t he?” said Joanna. “I will pray for him.”
In Mercy’s mind, the Lord’s Prayer formed, and she had the odd experience of feeling the words doubly: “Our Father” in English, “Pater Noster” in Latin.
But Joanna prayed in Mohawk.
Mercy climbed up out of the prayers, saying only to the Lord that she trusted Him; that He must be present for John. Then she listened. This tribe spoke Abenaki, not Mohawk, and she could follow little of it. But often at Mass, when Father Meriel spoke Latin, she could follow none of it. It was no less meaningful for that. The magic of the powwow’s chants seeped through Mercy’s soul.
When the prayers ended, the women of John’s family scrubbed him in sand so clean and pale that they must have put it through sieves to remove mud and shells and impurities. They scoured him until his skin was raw, pushing him under the rough water to rinse off his whiteness. He tried to grab a lungful of air before they dunked him, but more than once he rose sputtering and gasping.
The watchers were smiling tenderly, as one smiles at a new baby or a newly married couple.
At last his mother and aunts and sisters hauled him to shore, where they painted his face and put new clothing, embroidered and heavily fringed, on his body. As every piece touched his new Indian skin, the people cheered.
They have forgiven him for being white, thought Mercy. But has he forgiven them for being red?
The rain came down harder. Most people lowered their faces or pulled up their blankets and cloaks for protection, but Mercy lifted her face into the rain, so it pounded on her closed eyes and matched the pounding of her heart.
O Ruth! she thought. O Mother. Father. God.
I have forgiven. ”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Montreal
October 1704
Temperature 55 degrees

None of the captives possessed the freedom to choose anything or take care of anyone.
It turned out that Eben Nims believed otherwise.
Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.”
Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl.
“I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.”
Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.”
“I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.”
They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission?
“My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.”
Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.”
Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Montreal
October 1704
Temperature 55 degrees

“Remember how in Deerfield there was nobody to marry? Remember how Eliza married an Indian? Remember how Abigail even had to go and marry a French fur trader without teeth?”
Mercy had to laugh again. It was such a treat to laugh with English friends. “Your man doesn’t have teeth?”
“Pierre has all his teeth. In fact, he’s handsome, rich and an army officer. But what am I to do about the marriage?” Sarah was not laughing. She was shivering. “I do not want that life or that language, Mercy, and above all, I do not want that man. If I repeat wedding vows, they will count. If I have a wedding night, it will be real. I will have French babies and they will be Catholic and I will live here all my life.” Sarah rearranged her French scarf in a very French way and Mercy thought how much clothing mattered; how changed they were by what they put on their bodies.
“The Catholic church won’t make you,” said Mercy. “You can refuse.”
“How? Pierre has brought his fellow officers to see me. His family has met me and they like me. They know I have no dowry, but they are being very generous about their son’s choice. If I refuse to marry Pierre, he and the French family with whom I live will be publicly humiliated. I won’t get a second offer of marriage after mistreating this one. The French family will make me a servant. I will spend my life waiting on them, curtseying to them, and saying ‘Oui, madame.’”
“But surely ransom will come,” said Mercy.
“Maybe it will. But what if it does not?”
Mercy stared at her feet. Her leggings. Her moccasins. What if it does not? she thought. What if I spend my life in Kahnawake?
“What if I stay in Montreal all my life?” demanded Sarah. “A servant girl to enemies of England.”
The world asks too much of us, thought Mercy. But because she was practical and because there seemed no way out, she said, “Would this Frenchman treat you well?”
Sarah shrugged as Eben had over the gauntlet, except that when Eben shrugged, he looked Indian, and when Sarah shrugged, she looked French. “He thinks I am beautiful.”
“You are beautiful,” said Eben. He drew a deep breath to say something else, but Nistenha and Snow Walker arrived beside them. How reproachfully they looked at the captives. “The language of the people,” said Nistenha in Mohawk, “is sweeter to the ear when it does not mix with the language of the English.”
Mercy flushed. This was why she had not been taken to Montreal before. She would flee to the English and be homesick again. And it was so. How she wanted to stay with Eben and Sarah! They were older and would take care of her…but no. None of the captives possessed the freedom to choose anything or take care of anyone.
It turned out that Eben Nims believed otherwise.
Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.”
Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl.
“I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.”
Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.”
“I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.”
They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission?
“My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.”
Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Montreal
November 1704
Temperature 34 degrees

What capacity the Indians had not to worry. In Deerfield, all had been worry. Worry about the Lord, worry about sin. Worry about today, worry about tomorrow. Worry about crops, worry about children.
But Indians set worry down.
The next day, Mercy didn’t see Ruth once, nor the day after that, nor the third day. Finally she sought out Otter. “Is Spukumenen ill?” said Mercy anxiously.
“She has been sold,” said Otter. “She is in Montreal with the French nuns.”
Mercy was astonished.
He had sold Ruth? This man who had accepted everything Ruth had ever done--from throwing packs to kicking him in the shins? From wearing French clothing to refusing to speak a syllable of Mohawk?
“When she could not let you mourn your father, it was best for her to go,” said Otter.
Mercy wanted to sob. Difficult as Ruth was, Mercy would miss her terribly. She was Mercy’s only enduring link to Deerfield. “Would you tell me why you gave her a second name, Otter? Let the Sky In?”
“She never told you? I am not surprised. She looked two ways on this. Once on the march, she and I stood at the edge of an ice cliff and it was I who lost our argument. I fell over and was much damaged. Ruth risked her life to save me,” he said, using the English name Ruth had refused to surrender. “Without her, I would not again have seen the sky. But she was not glad to have done it. It was punishment for her to give me life.”
Ruth had saved the life of her father’s killer?
Oh, poor Ruth! Carrying her good deed with her! Knowing it was equally a bad deed!
Otter rested a hand on Mercy’s shoulder. “Your Ruth is well. She will not miss us. We will miss her, for she did bring our sky in. Someday in Montreal, you will see her again. Now go with the children and play. You have mourned enough.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Montreal
November 1704
Temperature 34 degrees

It was the work of a warrior to enter the cave, jab the bear awake and tempt him, grumpy and stuporous, to come out where he could be shot. No fur was so warm, no meat so good, no claws better ornaments. Of course, one swipe of that great paw could break a man’s jaw or rip off an arm, but that was why it was so admired and why the warrior who goaded the bear got the claws: such impressive risk.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Montreal
November 1704
Temperature 34 degrees

Tannhahorens did not look at Mercy. The tip of his knife advanced and the Frenchman backed away from it. He was a very strong man, possibly stronger than Tannhahorens. But behind Tannhahorens were twenty heavily armed braves.
The Frenchman kept backing and Tannhahorens kept pressing. No sailor dared move a muscle, not outnumbered as they were. The Sauk let out a hideous wailing war cry.
Mercy shuddered with the memory of other war cries.
Even more terrified, all the French took another step back--and three of them fell into the St. Lawrence River.
The Sauk burst into wild laughter. The voyageurs hooted and booed. The sailors threw ropes to their floundering comrades, because only Indians knew how to swim.
Tannhahorens took Mercy’s hand and led her to one of the pirogues, and the Sauk paddled close, hanging on to the edge of the dock so that Mercy could climb in. Mercy could not look at the Sauk. She had shamed Tannhahorens in front of them.
Mercy climbed in and Tannhahorens stepped in after her, and the men paddled slowly upstream to Tannhahorens’s canoe. The other pirogue stayed at the wharf, where those Sauk continued to stand, their weapons shining.
Eventually the French began to load the ship again.
“Daughter,” said Tannhahorens, “the sailors are not good men.”
She nodded.
He bent until he could look directly into her eyes, something Indians did not care for as a rule. “Daughter.”
She flushed scarlet. On her white cheeks, guilt would always be revealed.
“The cross protects,” said Tannhahorens. “Or so the French fathers claim. Perhaps it does. But better protection is to stay out of danger.”
Did Tannhahorens think she had gotten lost? Did he believe that she had ended up on the wharf by accident? That she was waving the cross around for protection?
Or was he, in the way of Indians, allowing that to be the circumstance because it was easier?
When he had thanked the Sauk sufficiently and they had agreed to tell Otter that Mercy had gone home with her father, Tannhahorens paddled back to Kahnawake. His long strong arms bent into the current. Her family had not trusted her after all. Tannhahorens must have been following her.
Or, in the way of a real father, he had not trusted Montreal. Either way, she was defeated. There was no escape.
If there is no escape, and if there is also no ransom, what is there for me? thought Mercy. I don’t want to be alone. A single star in a black and terrible night. How can I endure the name Alone Star? “Why do you call me Munnonock?” she asked.
She wanted desperately to go home and end this ugly day.
Home. It was still a word of warmth and comfort. Still a word of safety and love.
The homes she had known misted and blended and she did not really know if it was Nistenha in the longhouse or Stepmama in Deerfield or her mother in heaven whose home she wanted.
“You are brave, daughter,” said Tannhahorens without looking at her, without breaking his rhythm, “and can stand alone. You shine with courage, and so shone every night of your march. You are our hope for sons and daughters to come. On you much depends.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Montreal
November 1704
Temperature 34 degrees

“Girl! English, eh? What is your name? Indians stole you, eh? I’ll send news to your people.”
His excellent speech meant that he did a lot of trading with the English. It meant, Mercy prayed, that he liked the English. She found her tongue. “Will you take me to France, sir? Or anywhere at all? Wherever you are going--I can pay.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You do not belong to an Indian?”
She flushed and knew her red cheeks gave their own answer, but rather than speaking, she held out the cross. The sun was bright and the gemstones even brighter.
The man sucked in his breath. He leaned very close to her to examine the cross. “Yes,” he said. “It is worth much.”
He straightened up slowly, his eyes traveling from her waist to her breast to her throat to her hair. The other sailors also straightened, and they too left their work, drawn by the glittering cross.
“So you want to sail with me, girl?” He stroked her cheek. His nails were yellow and thick like shingles, and filthy underneath. He twined her hair into a hank, circling it tighter and tighter, as if to scalp.
“You are the jewel,” he said. “Come. I get a comb and fix this hair.”
The other sailors slouched over. They pressed against her and she could not retreat. He continued to hold her by the hair, as if she were a rabbit to be skinned. She could see neither river nor sky, only the fierce grins of sailors leaning down.
“Eh bien,” said the Frenchman, returning to his own tongue. “This little girl begs to sail with us,” he told his men. “What do you say, boys?” He began laughing. “Where should she sleep? What am I bid?”
She did not have enough French to get every word, but it was the same in any language.
The sailors laughed raucously.
Indians had strong taboos about women. Men would not be with their women if they were going hunting or having important meetings, and certainly not when going off to war. She had never heard of an Indian man forcing himself on a woman.
But these were not Indians.
She let the cross fall on its chain and pushed the Frenchman away, but he caught both her wrists easily in his free hand and stretched her out by the wrists as well as by the hair.
Tannhahorens pricked the white man’s hand with the tip of his scalping knife.
White men loading barrels stood still. White sailors on deck ceased to move. White passersby froze where they walked.
The bearded Frenchman drew back, holding his hands up in surrender. A little blood ran down his arm. “Of course,” he said, nodding. “She’s yours. I see.”
The sailors edged away. Behind them now, Mercy could see two pirogues of Indians drifting by the floating dock. They looked like Sauk from the west. They were standing up in the deep wells of their sturdy boats, shifting their weapons to catch the sun.
Tannhahorens did not look at Mercy. The tip of his knife advanced and the Frenchman backed away from it. He was a very strong man, possibly stronger than Tannhahorens. But behind Tannhahorens were twenty heavily armed braves.
The Frenchman kept backing and Tannhahorens kept pressing. No sailor dared move a muscle, not outnumbered as they were. The Sauk let out a hideous wailing war cry.
Mercy shuddered with the memory of other war cries.
Even more terrified, all the French took another step back--and three of them fell into the St. Lawrence River.
The Sauk burst into wild laughter. The voyageurs hooted and booed. The sailors threw ropes to their floundering comrades, because only Indians knew how to swim.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Kahnawake
November 1704
Temperature 44 degrees

“They won’t let you see her,” said Ruth flatly. “Now tell us, Mr. Williams, why has ransom not come? Do people have short memories or no memory? Why do they not rescue us? I get so angry sometimes.”
Sometimes! thought Mercy.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“She had spent the summer forgetting to be English--and Tannhahorens had spent the summer forgetting the same thing.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Kahnawake
August 1704
Temperature 75 degrees

“What do you mean--your family?” he said. “Joseph, you do not have a family in this terrible place. You have a master. Do not confuse savages who happen to give you food with family.”
Joseph’s face hardened. “They are my family. My father is Great Sky. My mother--”
The minister lost his temper. “Your father is Martin Kellogg,” he shouted, “with whom I just dined in Montreal. You refer to some savage as your father? I am ashamed of you.”
Under his tan, Joseph paled and his Indian calm left him. He was trembling. “My--my father? Alive? You saw him?”
“Your father is a field hand for a French family in Montreal. He works hard, Joseph. He has no choice. But you have choices. Have you chosen to abandon your father?”
Joseph swallowed and wet his lips. “No.” He could barely get the syllable out.
Don’t cry, prayed Mercy. Be an eagle. She fixed her eyes upon him, giving him all her strength, but Mr. Williams continued to destroy whatever strength the thirteen-year-old possessed.
“Your father prays for the day you and he will be ransomed, Joseph. All he thinks of is the moment he can gather his beloved family back under his own roof. Is that not also your prayer, Joseph?”
Joseph stared down the wide St. Lawrence in the direction of Montreal. He was fighting for composure and losing. Each breath shuddered visibly through his ribs.
The Indian men who never seemed to do anything but smoke and lounge around joined them silently. How runty the French looked next to the six-foot Indians; how gaudy and ridiculous their ruffled and buckled clothing.
The Indians were not painted and they wore almost nothing. Neither were they armed. And yet they came as warriors. Two of their children were threatened. It could not be tolerated.
Tannhahorens put one hand on Joseph’s shoulder and the other on Mercy’s. He was not ordering them around, and yet he did not seem to be protecting them.
He was, it dawned on Mercy, comforting them.
In Tannhahorens’s eyes, we are Indian children, thought Mercy. Her hair prickled and her skin turned to gooseflesh. She had spent the summer forgetting to be English--and Tannhahorens had spent the summer forgetting the same thing.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Kahnawake
August 1704
Temperature 75 degrees

“It’s me! Mercy Carter! Oh, Mr. Williams! Do you have news?” She flung herself on top of him. Oh, his beautiful beard! The beard of a real father, not a pretend Indian father or a French church father. “My brothers,” she begged. “John and Sam and Benny. Have you seen them? Have you heard anything about them? Do you know what happened to the little ones? Daniel? Have you found Daniel?”
Mercy had forgotten that she had taken off her tunic to go swimming. That Joseph did not even have on his breechclout. That Mercy wore earrings and Joseph had been tattooed on his upper arms. That they stank of bear.
Mr. Williams did not recognize Joseph, and Mercy he knew only by the color of her hair. He was stupefied by the two naked slimy children trying to hug him. In ore horror than even Ruth would have mustered, he whispered, “Your parents would be weeping. What have the savages done to you? You are animals.” Despair and shock mottled Mr. Williams’s face.
Mercy stumbled back from him. Her bear grease stained his clothing.
“Mercy,” he said, turning away from her, “go cover yourself.”
Shame covered her first. Red patches flamed on her cheeks. She ran back to the swimmers, fighting sobs. She was aware of her bare feet, hard as leather from no shoes. Savage feet.
Dear Lord in Heaven, thought Mercy, Ruth is right. I have committed terrible sins. My parents would be weeping.
She did not look at Snow Walker but yanked on the deerskin tunic. She had tanned the hide herself, and she and Nistenha had painted the rows of turtles around the neckline and Nistenha had tied tiny tinkling French bells into the fringe. But it was still just animal skin. To be wearing hides in front of Mr. Williams was not much better than being naked.
Snow Walker burst out of the water. “The white man? Was he cruel? I will call Tannhahorens.”
No! Tannhahorens would not let her speak to Mr. Williams. She would never find out about her brothers; never redeem herself in the minister’s eyes. Mercy calmed down with the discipline of living among Indians. Running had shown weakness. “Thank you, Snow Walker,” she said, striving to be gracious, “but he merely wanted me to be clothed like an English girl. There is no need to call Tannhahorens.” She walked back.
On the jetty, Joseph stood with his eyes fixed on the river instead of on his minister. He had not fled like Mercy to cover himself. He was standing his ground. “They aren’t savages, Mr. Williams. And they aren’t just Indians. Those children over there are Abenaki, the boy fishing by the rocks is Pennacook, and my own family is Kahnawake Mohawk.”
Tears sprang into Mr. Williams’s eyes. “What do you mean--your family?” he said. “Joseph, you do not have a family in this terrible place. You have a master. Do not confuse savages who happen to give you food with family.”
Joseph’s face hardened. “They are my family. My father is Great Sky. My mother--”
The minister lost his temper. “Your father is Martin Kellogg,” he shouted, “with whom I just dined in Montreal. You refer to some savage as your father? I am ashamed of you.”
Under his tan, Joseph paled and his Indian calm left him. He was trembling. “My--my father? Alive? You saw him?”
“Your father is a field hand for a French family in Montreal. He works hard, Joseph. He has no choice. But you have choices. Have you chosen to abandon your father?”
Joseph swallowed and wet his lips. “No.” He could barely get the syllable out.
Don’t cry, prayed Mercy. Be an eagle. She fixed her eyes upon him, giving him all her strength, but Mr. Williams continued to destroy whatever strength the thirteen-year-old possessed.
“Your father prays for the day you and he will be ransomed, Joseph. All he thinks of is the moment he can gather his beloved family back under his own roof. Is that not also your prayer, Joseph?”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Kahnawake
August 1704
Temperature 75 degrees

It was worth going into the water just to get away from Ruth’s nagging. Mercy waded in, appalled by how cold it was. Snow Walker towed her around for a minute and then let go. At first Mercy couldn’t take two strokes without having to stand up and reassure herself that there was a bottom, but soon she could swim ten, and then twenty, strokes. Joseph, who had been swimming with the boys, paddled over to admire her new skill.
Snow Walker coaxed them to put their heads under the water and swim like fish. Mercy loved it. Wiping river water from her eyes and laughing, she shouted, “Come on in, Joanna!” In front of Snow Walker, she spoke Mohawk. “It feels so cool and slippery inside the water.”
Joanna shook her head. “I can’t see where I’m going on land. I don’t want to be blind in water over my head.”
“Ruth!” yelled Joseph, in English so she’d answer. “Try it. I won’t pull you under by the toes. I promise.”
“Savages swim,” said Ruth. “English people walk or ride horses.”
By now, Mercy had flung her tunic onto the grass and was as bare as everybody else. When Ruth scolded, Mercy ducked under the water and stayed there until the yelling was over.
“Just wait till you get out, Mercy,” said Ruth. “The mosquitos are going to feast on your wet bare skin.”
Mercy translated for Snow Walker, who said, “No, no. We grease to keep the mosquitos away.”
Joseph, of course, had been greasing for weeks, but so far Mercy had not submitted. Ruth, unwilling to see Mercy slather bear fat over her nakedness, stalked away.
“Good,” said Snow Walker, giggling. “The fire is out. We are safe now.”
Mercy was startled. “I never heard you use her old name.”
“I don’t call her Let the Sky In,” explained Snow Walker. “She would let nothing in but storms.”
Snow Walker’s not such a fence post after all, thought Mercy. “Snow Walker, why have they given Ruth such a fine new name?”
“I don’t know. One day at a feast, the story will be told.”
“They’ll have to gag Ruth before they tell it,” said Joseph. “She hates her new name even more than she hated her old one.”
They got out of the water, racing in circles to dry off, and then Snow Walker rubbed bear grease all over Mercy.
“I can’t see you from here, Munnonock,” said Joanna, “but I can smell you.”
“Want some?” said Mercy, planning to attack with a scoop of bear grease, but Joanna left for the safety of the cornfields and her mother. Snow Walker went back in to join a water ball team.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Kahnawake
August 1704
Temperature 75 degrees

Mercy was outdoors more than she had ever been.
She had thought that after the horrifying journey of ice and snow, she would never want the outdoors again. But spring and summer were joy.
“You’re not joyful because you love the outdoors,” said Ruth. “It’s because you don’t have to be afraid of the Indians anymore. Anything they could do, they’ve already done.” Ruth was in a terrible mood because ransom had never arrived.
Joanna said Ruth was in exactly the same mood she had always been, and if only fire would eat Ruth, everybody would be happier.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Kahnawake
August 1704
Temperature 75 degrees

By summer, Kahnawake children had stopped wearing clothing.
Mercy could not get over the sight of hundreds of naked children playing tag, or hide-and-seek, or competing in footraces. The boys--naked!--went into the woods to shoot squirrels and rabbits and partridge. They used bow and arrow, since their fathers did not like them using guns yet. Even the six- and seven-year-olds had excellent aim.
Joseph didn’t go entirely bare, being a little too old, but wore a breechclout, a small square of deerskin in back and another square in front, laced on a slender cord. The boys played constantly. They were stalking, shooting, running, chasing, aiming, fishing, swimming--they never sat down.
The men, however, mainly rested. They liked to smoke and talk, and when they were showing a son or nephew or captive how to feather an arrow or find ducks, they did it slowly and sometimes forgot about it in the middle.
A Puritan must rise before dawn and never take his ease. Puritans believed in working hard. But for an Indian man, working hard was something to do for an hour or a week. After he killed the moose or fought the battle, an Indian took his ease. Hunting men and animals were dangerous; he deserved rest afterward, and besides, he had to prepare himself to do it again. A Deerfield man didn’t risk much plowing a field. A Kahnawake man risked everything going into a cave to rouse a sleeping bear.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Kahnawake
April 20, 1704
Temperature 56 degrees

Mercy’s only hope for friendship was Nistenha’s cousin’s daughter, Snow Walker, who was a frequent visitor and pleasant enough. But Indians were less likely to talk for the sake of talk and Snow Walker hardly talked at all. Snow Walker for a friend would be like a fence post for a friend.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Leaving the Connecticut River
March 8, 1704
Temperature 40 degrees

They reached a river where the water was open, seething and churning over rocks.
We’re going to cross that? thought Mercy. It’s too wide and deep. We’ll drown.
Tannhahorens took off his tobacco necklace. He loved to smoke, as did all the warriors. Since they smoked only when they had time and felt safe, the prisoners also loved it when the men smoked; it meant everybody had time and was safe.
Tannhahorens poured tobacco into his palm. He lifted it toward the sky, calling as the loon called, his voice shivering through the wilderness. Then he faced the river and held, it seemed to Mercy, a conversation with the river. Finally, over the sharp rocks and ripping current, Tannhahorens threw all his tobacco. Every Indian did the same. The captives stared.
Eliza, who had not spoken once since her husband was struck down, said, “It’s an offering. They give their best to the river, and hope the river will give its best to them.”
They walked upstream, fighting thickets and snarling brooks. When the Indians stopped to kick at a great melting drift, Mercy was too tired even to wonder.
Snow covered a dugout canoe. Forty or fifty feet long, it had been made of one great pine, the center core burned out and chiseled clean. They would paddle the rest of the way.
Mercy lay on fur on the bottom of the dugout, the sounds of water above her head, for she was lower than the surface of the river. Not having to carry her own body was joy. The loons called back for hours, wailing a long wandering cry, like a bell that would not stop ringing or a sob that would not stop weeping.
Tannhahorens said to Mercy, “It is the speech of the north,” and Mercy understood.
That wild terrifying beautiful cry was the sound of where she was going.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Leaving the Connecticut River
March 8, 1704
Temperature 40 degrees

Thou shalt not kill.
Ruth lay down and inched forward until she could look over the edge of the cliff to see what had happened.
The force of Otter’s fall had brought snow and rock down upon him. One hand stuck out, and part of his face.
But I say unto you which hear. Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you…And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other.
What could Jesus have been thinking when he said that? This enemy was the murderer and slaughterer of innocent women and children. Ruth was not going to love him, she would never do anything good unto him, and certainly she was not going to offer him yet another chance to strike her in the face.
She rejoiced that this enemy had no choice about living or dying, any more than her father and brother had had a choice about living or dying.
She thought of her mother, giving water to the wounded French officer, and for that gesture, being left behind. She wondered how Mother felt now, alone in a world where her men had died to save her while she helped their enemies.
The savage was alive, trying with that one hand to dig himself free. A rim of ice fell like knives upon him. Ruth cried out. The Indian made no sound.
Ruth scuttled backward, out of his sight. She could go get help. Or let him die.
It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t supposed to be Ruth who had to love the enemy. That was just a verse you repeated in meeting. She was not going to take it seriously, loving her enemy.
But it was the Word of the Lord.
The Twenty-third Psalm moved through her mind, as warm and sure as summer wind. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.
If she broke the commandment and failed to love her enemy, she would never lie down in green pastures. Not on earth, not in her heart, and not in death.
Ruth worked her way through tangles of thin saplings and around boulders. She slid down rock faces. Sweating and sobbing over terrain that could not have been made by God, only by devils, she reached Otter at last. Her bad lungs sounded like sand rubbed on floors. She dug him out, not carefully. She might have to save him but she would not spare him pain. He was bleeding where ice had sliced him and by now her mittens were shredded, and their blood mingled, flecked scarlet on white snow.
When he was finally on his feet, she said, “It’s not because I wanted to, you know.”
Otter took a short careful step and paused in pain, Ruth thought, though pain did not show on his face. “It’s so I won’t be a killer like you,” she said.
He snapped a branch in his strong hands to use as a cane. Laboriously, they made their way up the cliff, crawling part of the way.
“Actually, I hate you,” said Ruth. Huge hot tears fell from her eyes and she knew that hate was not as simple as that.
Nor were the commandments.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Leaving the Connecticut River
March 8, 1704
Temperature 40 degrees

Ruth stormed away.
She hated the Indians and prayed constantly not to hate her fellow captives as well. They were becoming Indian lovers. Only the stupefied Eliza had avoided it--and that was because she loved Indians so much she had married one. Ruth could not stand the sight of her own Indian, whose Mohawk name Mercy said meant “Otter.” Ruth could not bear to think that Otter owned her, but the other captives easily referred to their Indians as their masters.
Every time Ruth had to step into the woods and be private for a few minutes, she walked farther than she needed to and stayed longer. Now she stomped off the lake and into the hated forest. If only she dared escape. The closer they got to Canada, the more desperate Ruth felt. She could not be a slave, she could not be an Indian, she could not--
Her foot reached the edge of a crag she had not seen and did not expect.
In the moment of pitching over the cliff, Ruth abandoned hate and thought only of life. She scrabbled frantically. She was just flesh that wanted to go on breathing, and instead would be smashed bones on rocks below. “No!” she cried. “Please, Lord!”
The hand that closed around her and kept her from going over was the hand of the Indian who had slain her father. For a moment they stood balanced on the icy rim, until Ruth let her anger come back. “You murderer,” she said, spitting on Otter. “I should have let myself fall before I let you catch me!” She jerked free and shoved him away.
He fell soundlessly over the precipice.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“And Ruth was the last person to whom a sensible Indian would hand a weapon.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Leaving the Connecticut River
March 8, 1704
Temperature 40 degrees

They marched until the captives could not take another step. Eben dragged Eliza half the way and Sarah dragged her the rest. Mercy and Joseph took turns hauling Ruth. That night they slept like rocks, and in the morning Mercy understood why bears spent the whole winter sleeping. It sounded good to Mercy.
Perhaps it sounded good to the Indians too, because they did not leave camp. Instead, they built two fires, gathering an enormous woodpile.
Joseph was stripped of his English clothes. Too torn and filthy to bother with, they were tossed into the woods. He was given a long deerskin shirt and leggings that hung from thigh to ankle, held up by cords strung to a belt. Then came coat, hat and mittens, all Indian.
How dark Joseph’s hair was. How tan his skin. Joseph looked like a young brave.
In a moment, the Indians did the same with Eben, whose coloring was very English, ruddy cheeks and straw-yellow hair. He did not look at all Indian, but in deerskin, he looked tough and strong and much older.
The girls were nervous. They did not want their clothes stripped off their bodies, no matter how torn and filthy. But Eben’s Indian, Thorakwaneken, hoisted a flintlock musket and looked questioningly at each girl.
Mercy could not imagine what he was asking of her. Eliza did not notice him or the gun. And Ruth was the last person to whom a sensible Indian would hand a weapon.
Sarah, however, nodded. “I’m a good shot.” She took the musket from Thorakwaneken.
Food was such a problem that even Joseph and Eben would be armed and sent forth to hunt. The girls would stay by the fire with enough wood to last for days, and Sarah to fend off wolves.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter

“Leaving the Connecticut River
March 8, 1704
Temperature 40 degrees

They marched until the captives could not take another step. Eben dragged Eliza half the way and Sarah dragged her the rest. Mercy and Joseph took turns hauling Ruth. That night they slept like rocks, and in the morning Mercy understood why bears spent the whole winter sleeping. It sounded good to Mercy.”
― Caroline B. Cooney, The Ransom of Mercy Carter