The Ransom of Mercy Carter Read Free Page B

Indian and said loudly, “I’ll carry my sister,” pointing to show what she meant.
    His eyes rested on Mercy. Then he put his hand on her hair.
    I’m dead, she thought. He’ll scalp me right here.
    But the Indian handed Marah over, and with both arms free, he tied his loot into a bundle, using the four corners of Mercy’s blanket. He threw the sack over his back.
    “Wait. I need a coat,” said Mercy, reaching into the bundle and yanking out a warm covering for Marah. “Come, Mama,” she said, but her stepmother did not move. “Walk on,” said Mercy, shoving her. “Don’t drop the baby.”
    Perhaps being upside-down had prevented Marah from whining, because as soon as Mercy got outside and turned her upright, she started shrieking again.
    The line of prisoners had changed; it was moving; people were being forced out of the stockade and into the frozen fields. Her brothers and the Hurst children and the Williams children were gone and Mercy ended up next to Jemima Richards.
    “They’re going to kill us,” cried Jemima, her body convulsed by sobbing.
    “They had time to do that and they didn’t,” said Mercy. “I think we’re prisoners.” She forced Marah to stick her arms into the coat she had snatched, but it was Benny’s and far too large for Marah. It would keepMarah warm to her toes, but it meant Benny wasn’t wearing anything. Where were the boys? She must catch up to them and button Tommy into his jacket. She looked around. She had already lost Stepmama and the baby.
    There were too many people. She couldn’t think straight about so many people who needed so many things. Jemima held on to Mercy so hard that Mercy could barely keep her grip on Marah. Burning barns fell in and the shrieking of penned animals filled the air. They had to get out of the stockade or burn. “Hurry, Jemmie. We have to catch up.”
    “I don’t want to,” moaned Jemima. “I’m English. This isn’t fair. I don’t want some savage near me. They even gave me a pack to carry. I don’t want to carry it.”
    “Go!” said Mercy, jabbing her.
    The north wind flung embers into the air, tossing them down to burn on, like candles in the snow. Mercy’s family had never been able to afford candles, just pine knots.
    “Where’s my mother?” moaned Jemima.
    “We’ll find her,” said Mercy. “Move faster, Jemima.”
    Ruth Catlin stumbled into line with them, wearing only her white nightdress. On her feet were huge heavy boots that must be her father’s or brother’s. In the reflected fire, Ruth’s dark hair seemed to turn blue.
    Ruth was frail and had bad lungs. Nobody had expected her to live through the winter. No young man spent time with Ruth because if there was one thing ayoung man needed, it was a strong wife. Ruth didn’t qualify.
    She’ll freeze to death quicker than I will, thought Mercy. She gave her scarf and cloak to Ruth, who snapped them through the air as if whipping a bare back. “Somebody let those savages in!” yelled Ruth, stamping her foot and whirling in circles to find the evidence. “There is a
traitor
here. Who opened those gates?”
    Mercy had seen the attack. There was no traitor, only the stupidity of Deerfield, convinced that snow and cold were a barrier. She put Tommy’s little jacket over her shoulders until she could find him. It was a beautiful thing, heavy boiled wool the color of charcoal, a gift from Boston relatives. It had no effect on the cold. Ruth took her time wrapping herself in Mercy’s thick cozy cloak.
    “I’m finding out who it was!” said Ruth. “I’m
killing
them.”
    As if there were not enough killing.
    Out of the meetinghouse came a row of white men roped together, a crowd of women carrying babies, and older children carrying blankets and coats and little brothers and sisters. Dozens of prisoners. Had they fled to the safety of the meetinghouse only to find themselves trapped? Or had the Indians put their prisoners inside to keep them from being shot in