The Ransom of Mercy Carter

  “She has been sold,” said Otter. “She is in Montréal 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 Montréal, you will see her again. Now go with the children and play. You have mourned enough.”

  Chapter Twelve

  St. Lawrence River

  May 1705

  Temperature 48 degrees

  The day of the adoption was cool and windy, with a gray sky and the ground wet from spring rains.

  Mercy was trembling. O Lord, she prayed, and as in every prayer for a year and a month, she stopped there. She did not know what she was praying for, only that the presence of God was necessary. She prayed that He would know where to be and what to do.

  It began to rain softly and lightly. Like a baptism, thought Mercy. The Lord himself supplies the water.

  In the canoe, she was surrounded by Nistenha’s family, but she hardly saw them and did not think of them. What would it be like to see an English child adopted? How would she feel, in her heart and in her soul, as the white blood was scrubbed out so that Indian blood ran true and forever?

  She wondered if the boy wanted to be adopted. Not that it mattered. There was no choice involved. The boy would make no promises and supply no answers. It was a magical cleansing, followed by a magical welcome. And she, and all other white captives, would be part of it: witnesses to the surrender of English blood.

  The captives did not know the boy’s name, because on such a day, the English name would not be spoken. They did not know if they would be allowed to talk to him or whether he came from Deerfield or from another of the many towns on the Maine or Massachusetts or New York frontiers. They did not know if he was three years old, like Daniel; almost a man, like Eben; or fourteen, like Joseph. Joseph and Mercy had both had birthdays since their capture.

  I am twelve now, thought Mercy. Close to being a woman. I am treated as Nistenha’s daughter. But she has never spoken of adopting me. I am still the child of Samuel Carter and his wife Mercy Brooks, sister of Nathaniel. I am still a child of Deerfield, Massachusetts.

  She ordered herself to show courage during this adoption. Courage for the boy’s sake, she wondered, or for mine? Carefully Mercy said, “Does the boy have a name given by his priest?” Sometimes the English name could be guessed from the French.

  “Jean,” said her uncle.

  Heartbreak hit Mercy. Jean was the French way of saying John.

  It could not be her brother John, for he lived in Montréal and everyone said he was happy becoming French. O John! thought Mercy. Please, God, let it be so, that he is happy.

  John was a popular name among Deerfield boys. This could be John Catlin, Ruth’s brother, who would be seventeen now. John Burt, Sally Burt’s brother-in-law, who was about twenty. It could be Jonathan Hoyt, Sarah’s older brother, or John Stebbins, Thankful’s older brother. Or, far more likely, John Field, age four.

  Little John Field’s sister Mary sat in a canoe a hundred yards downriver from Mercy. Mercy was almost never permitted to speak to Mary Field. What if it was Mary’s very own baby brother being adopted, whom none of them had seen in a whole year?

  It’s nobody we know, Mercy told herself. It’s a stranger, entering a strange life for good.

  Mercy wanted to pray that the boy John was ready, that it would be easy for him, that he would be calm. But Ruth and Mr. Williams would expect Mercy to pray for the opposite: that he would refuse the adoption; that he might even fight to escape it.

  Perhaps it was only Mercy whose heart was flung about like a leaf in a storm, for the others were thinking mostly of the feast. Joanna said, “I hope their corn lasted longer than ours. I hope we have something to eat at the feast besides meat and fish.”

  Kahnawake had used up its corn supply weeks ago. No one had gone hungry because game remained plentiful. But a diet of nothing but meat was exhausting.

  It was a long journey to the Abenaki fort of St. Francis.

  When they finally clambered onto the shore, Mercy didn’t like St. Francis half so much as Kahnawake. It wasn’t clean or well planned. Its buildings were not attractive. The fields were not orderly and had not been made ready last fall. Nor was she impressed by the housing given to the guests. In fact, she found the entire village slovenly and dirty.

  Mercy heard these thoughts as if someone else had uttered them. Of all the amazing things she had said to herself in the last year and month, this was the most amazing. She had become loyal to Kahnawake.

  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 melt 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.

  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.

  “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.

  When Mercy and Joanna finished telling Frozen Leg everything that had happened to them in the past year, Mercy anxiously asked after Ebenezer’s brother, Remembrance. She had heard nothing of his fate. It might be too terrible to be spoken of.

  “We’re both in Lorette,” said Ebenezer cheerfully. “His family didn’t come to this feast, though. Neither did Eben’s. 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.”

  Mercy hadn’t seen the priest in many weeks. She hoped he would visit Kahnawake soon. She missed him. “You must see my brother Sam every day.”

  He sighed and then he shrugged. “Yes. Go easy on him when you finally see him, Mercy. He’s very Indian. I’ve never seen anybody take to hunting the way he has. In one year he’s become an excellent shot. His family didn’t come to this feast. I expect they’ll adopt him and I expect they don’t want him hearing arguments from you.”

  His family knows I am his sister, thought Mercy. They did not bring him here lest he talk to me.

  “Your little brother Benny I haven’t seen,” Ebenezer Sheldon went on, “but Sam has run into him. Once when they went hunting, they stopped at Benny’s village, which is quite a way south. Benny has forgotten all his English. Of course, he’s only seven. A year is a long time when you’re that little. As for your brother John, I’ve seen him twice in Montréal. He and Mary Brooks, your cousin, they’re both Frenchified. She’s Marie-Claire now and your brother’s Jean. They love being French. 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.

  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.”