The Ransom of Mercy Carter

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Ruth was lucky to see things clearly. Mercy was losing track of who had done what to whom. Every day it seemed less important to remember the attack. Memory was passing away like morning fog, first gray, then clear, then gone.

  Father Meriel called this forgiveness.

  Ruth called it forgetting, and she called it evil.

  Mercy also knew that they were not living in ordinary Indian ways. Her Indians were Frenchified. They were Catholic. But before any of that, they were Indian and carried with them the ancient feuds of their tribes.

  Especially during ball games, when the men bet so much and played so hard, the teams divided along tribal lines. Mercy would feel, between the Abenaki and the Mohawk and the Huron, history she did not have and did not want to have.

  She was always relieved when ball games were over. They generally ended in laughter, payment of bets, men’s arms around each other’s shoulders as they went off the field. But not always. There were times when tempers on the playing field were tempers on a battlefield and Mercy would pray for peace.

  More often, she just wasn’t home. In summer, Indian women rambled as much as the men. They wandered far afield for every berry in its season. They foraged for birds’ eggs and tasty greens. They went night fishing in creeks, one holding the torch to bring the fish to the surface, another perched on the rocks to spear the fish when it rose to the light. When they came home, they weeded among the pumpkins and fat dark beans and rows of tobacco.

  There was no end to the sewing, any more than there had been in Deerfield. Mercy learned to shape moccasins and get a needle through thick bear fur to make a hat. She learned how to paint designs on hides, to embroider with European beads or with shells and feathers. She would sit outside, crosslegged like Nistenha, enjoying the patient labor of needlework and the yellow heat of the sun.

  Women and older girls continued to wear skirts, but tunics were stored for the summer. All the girls and women were bare-chested.

  “There’s no place you can look without seeing them,” said Ruth grumpily.

  Mercy thought about taking off her tunic in public, but she didn’t. Eunice Williams did, but she was little. Joanna was ready to do it, but she told Mercy she would wait until Ruth was not around to scold.

  All the Indian boys and some of the girls loved to swim. They stayed away from the rough currents of the St. Lawrence and spent hours every day splashing in the shallows.

  “Come, Munnonock,” said Snow Walker. “I’ll teach you. We swim like dogs and dogs do not sink. You’ll like the water. You’ll feel sleek as an otter.” She took Mercy’s hand. “Come, sister.”

  “Mercy,” warned Ruth, “when she calls you sister, you remember your real sister, do you hear me? Your dead sister.”

  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 mosquitoes are going to feast on your wet bare skin.”

  Mercy translated for Snow Walker, who said, “No, no. We grease to keep the mosquitoes 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.

  The two white captives were momentarily alone. They switched into English.

  “Mercy,” said Joseph very quietly, “I’m going to be adopted.”

  She almost congratulated him. It was what he wanted. He loved Great Sky and Great Sky loved him. But everyone said if you were adopted, you would not be ransomed home. “Don’t tell Ruth, Joseph,” said Mercy anxiously. “She’ll think you have a choice.” In fact, a captive was not asked whether he wished to be adopted; it was the decision of the captive’s owner.

  “Father Meriel wants me to be baptized Catholic at the same time.”

  Mercy swallowed. “You do have a choice about that, Joseph. You must refuse. You would go to hell, you know it.”

  “Father Meriel says Catholics do too save their souls. And I like Mass.” His almost Indian face stared into hers. “So do you, Mercy.”

  Last Sunday a visiting priest had taught the congregation a long slow repeating chant in Latin, called the Te Deum. Four hundred Indians sang it together, and Mercy’s heart nearly burst at the beauty of the men’s voices.

  The Deerfield frontier had been hard, and God had not made it easier. Just when the sky seemed blue, the children sweet and the crop good, God would fling hail at the corn and smallpox at the babies.

  But the French God slipped like a strong shadow behind the path of the Indian spirits. He was a gentler God. In Deerfield, Mercy had been taught to fear the Lord. Father Meriel wanted her to love the Lord. Still, for Joseph to become Catholic …

  “I will keep the name I was given on the trail,” said Joseph. “Sowangen.”

  “Eagle,” repeated Mercy. It was an honorable name.

  “Because from the beginning I was brave,” said Joseph.

  “It is so,” said Mercy, and realized that she and Joseph had gone back to Mohawk. What would Ruth say if she found out Mercy’s thoughts were in Mohawk? In that language the words eagle and adoption had a beauty and a resonance that made Mercy tremble. And my real mother, thought Mercy. What would she say if she knew that my head spins with Indian words? That I like Mass? That I’m happy for Joseph?

  An elm-bark canoe drew up to the stone jetty and the captives turned, as always, to see who it was.

  Three white men. Not priests. Nor were they dressed like fur traders. Two stepped easily out of the rocking narrow boat. French officers, Mercy decided, but not in parade dress. Just long guns slung over their shoulders.

  Dugouts were so solid you could jump up and down inside the well of the boat, but canoes tipped, and passengers not used to a canoe were terrified of being dumped into the river to drown. The third man, definitely afraid of the canoe, had to be helped out.
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  Joseph gasped. “Mercy!” he whispered. “It’s Mr. Williams!”

  The minister wore French clothing, of course; his real clothing hadn’t lasted so many months. But how familiar he looked! How right. How English. In a moment Mercy would hear his voice—listen to his blessing. All her questions would be answered. Mr. Williams knew everything.

  Shouting and laughing, Mercy and Joseph raced along the river, across the stones and onto the jetty.

  “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 more 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 Montréal. 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 Montréal. 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 Montréal. 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.

  Snow Walker joined the group, now wearing a skirt. In Mr. Williams’s eyes, of course, she was still naked.

  But Mr. Williams saw only the gathering men. He forgot Mercy and Joseph. “My daughter,” he said eagerly. “My little girl. Eunice Williams. I know you have her here. I must see her. Bring her to me.”

  He wants news of Eunice as intensely as I crave news of my brothers, thought Mercy. He wants to hold Eunice and talk to her and know that she is well.

  She thought of her real father, whom she could forget for days at a time. Somewhere on this earth he too was desperate for news about his children.

  The French officers interpreted Mr. Williams’s request to the Kahnawake.

  “Aongote is with her mother,” said Cold Sun.

  “No, no. Eunice,” said Mr. Williams loudly. “My daughter. My little girl.”

  “Aongote is with her mother.”

  “Her name is Eunice.” His voice was strained and high-pitched. He sounded like Ruth. And like Ruth, he would not ask for a translation of Aongote. He would not believe an Indian name could have meaning. If he did know, his pain would only increase. For Aongote meant “planted.” The black-haired red-cheeked English girl would grow where she was planted.

  Here. In Kahnawake.

  “I demand to see her!” said Mr. Williams in his pulpit voice, the syllables ringing out over the jetty and the river. “I am her father!”

  Cold Sun had refused. He could not understand why Mr. Williams continued to ask. Nevertheless, he said once more, “Aongote is with her mother.”

  “Her mother,” said Mr. Williams, “was murdered by you!”

  Wisely, the French did not interpret this.

  There was a pause. The warriors were motionless. The French were fidgety. The children were afraid and the minister lost heart.

  “I am her father,” pleaded Mr. Williams. “Let me see my little girl.” He held out his hands to the warriors as a kneeler in Mass begs for a blessing.

  Mercy’s heart broke for Mr. Williams. If she could rest her eyes upon her brothers and know that they could smile and were among friends, she too could rest her heart. So Mercy said to the minister, “Eunice is fine. They treat her well. She has Joanna Kellogg to play with and two best Indian friends already. I haven’t really made any Indian friends, but people are nice to me.”

  He stared at her as if she had been speaking Mohawk.

  “My brothers,” she reminded him. “Sam and John and Benny. Have you any news?”

  He stared longingly into Kahnawake. No laughing red-cheeked little daughter ran toward him. He said wearily, “Your brother Sam is with the Indians in Lorette. He lives near Eben Nims. I have indeed spoken to him. I sorrow at how he falls into Indian ways. Your brother John has bee
n taken by a French family. He becomes more French and more Catholic every day. Already he answers to the name Jean.”

  Mercy yearned to confide in him and tell him how hard they were all trying, how blurry the situation was. If only she could be alone with him and pour out her heart. She struggled, wondering how to explain their lives, but he burst out, “A new name is their first step in seizing your soul. Do not let them give you a name, Mercy! When the French can think of no other name for a girl, they use Marie. Do not yield. You are English, you are white, you are Puritan, you will be ransomed. We will go home. I am confident that the Lord is with us still.”

  Marie. Munnonock. Sister. Daughter. Mercy answered to all these names. But she did not answer Mr. Williams.

  Finally she said, “And my brother Benny?”

  The French soldiers were withdrawing. Mr. Williams had not noticed. “Benny is supposed to be with an Indian family near Fort Chambly. I have not been there nor seen him.” He looked over Mercy’s head, searching once more for Eunice.

  “And little Daniel?” asked Mercy.

  “Nobody knows.”

  Nobody knows. Oh, the horror of it: to be three years old and have nobody know where you are.

  And then she thought: But somebody does know where Daniel is. Nine warriors took Daniel. One of them surely gave him an Indian mother. Somebody somewhere is caring for Daniel. And Mr. Williams hates it, but many here are caring for his daughter, too. “You’ve seen Sarah Hoyt, then,” she said. “And Eben.”

  “Sarah was in Lorette briefly, but she’s been purchased by a French family. She too is in Montréal. Thankfully she is not yielding to the Catholic pressure.”