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.
Chapter Six
Kahnawake
St. Lawrence River, French Canada
April 10, 1704
Temperature 44 degrees
The dugout pulled up to a stone jetty and an Indian town, out of which Indian women and children poured. For a month, Mercy had prayed to reach the end of the journey, and all she wanted now was to be back in the wilderness, with only cold and hunger to worry about.
People flooded over the captives; an entire town running like water over the fields and onto the jetty, raising their arms in proud salute. Mercy tried not to show her terror.
Why had the Indians taken captives?
What would happen next?
Lord, Lord, she said, asking Him to be with her and keep her brave.
Since her mother had died, Mercy had been an adult in her household; bringing up her brothers; making meals; caring for babies. She had not thought of herself as a child, nor had she been one. Now she knew herself to be eleven years old, small and thin and easily defeated. She could not imagine what these alien people planned to do with her.
She looked to Tannhahorens for help, but he did not glance at her. The man who had lifted her over creeks and fed her parched corn did not exist in front of his people. Mercy had forgotten that what Tannhahorens really was, was a triumphant warrior returning home.
Tannhahorens held up scalps.
Thorakwaneken held up scalps.
Otter and Great Sky and Cold Sun held up scalps.
Eben could not stifle a groan, and Sarah Hoyt, who was closer to Eben than Mercy, put her hand lightly over his. One of the scalps was the heavily braided chestnut-red hair of Eben’s older sister.
The crowd of women and boys and old men whooped continually. It was not the same sound as the howls during the assault; if screams were speech, this was different speech. But it was equally frightening.
“They’re busy,” whispered Ruth. “Let’s just paddle away.”
Joseph and Eben managed to laugh. The dugout was tied to the wharf and there were dozens of warriors within a few yards. Eben did not want to be dragged out of the boat, so he was first to step onto the jetty. He coaxed the girls to follow him. “Don’t look at their faces,” he said quietly. “Look beyond them at the village.”
The land sloped gently up from the St. Lawrence River, and the village—much larger than Deerfield—was filled with long narrow houses with rounded roofs and no windows. The town was enclosed on three sides by its stockade, while the river formed the fourth side of protection. Beyond the town, muddy and patchy with old snow, were fields for corn. To the east of the town were stone buildings, quite beautiful and quite high. In Deerfield, stone was for foundations and wood was for buildings.
Alongside one of the stone houses stood French soldiers and above their heads flew a French flag. Its graceful gold fleurs-de-lis snapped lightly in the wind.
Mercy’s heart hurt.
She was truly and fully defeated. This was enemy territory. In this place she had two enemies: the French and the Indians. The English flag with its fierce lions, she might never see again.
The crowd descended on her, fingers exploring her yellow hair, black eyes staring into the blue of her own. Mercy got separated from the other captives. She prayed for them: for Eliza to stay stupefied, so she did not know what was happening. For Ruth to stay quiet, so she did not make things worse. For Sarah to stay brave—but Sarah would do that without Mercy’s prayers.
Lord God, she prayed—and outside the stockade, between the village and the garrison, Mercy saw a church.
She had known that these were Praying Indians, but she had not realized there would be a church. Puritans did not have churches. No building made by man could be sacred. They had meetinghouses and used them to discuss broken fences or ammunition shortages as well as to worship.
Made of stone, gray and strong and serious, the church was where it should be, on a hill and closer to heaven. The roof was sharply pointed, as a roof was meant to be, instead of rounded like those of the Indian houses. On its peak was a cross. Mercy fixed her eyes on the cross. She would never wear one, like Tannhahorens, which would be a sin, but if she happened to see the cross in the sky, that would be God’s will.
Lord, stay with me, prayed Mercy Carter.
THERE WERE SPEECHES, none of which Mercy could follow.
There were presentations of prizes taken from Deerfield, distributed with much hollering and stomping. There went the flintlock musket Sarah had held, with her father’s initials carved in the wood. There went the packet of Benny’s fishhooks and the pewter cider mug that belonged to the Catlins. There was the shiny dark red quilt stitched in England by Eben’s grandmother: countless tiny stitches forming a garden of puffy flowers and climbing vines.
The Indian women exclaimed over it. They knew what it was to put that many stitches into cloth.
One of the prizes was Joseph. In his Indian clothes, you could hardly tell he was English, and they walked him through the crowd to be petted and stroked.
People drifted up and wandered off and Mercy caught a glimpse of Joseph’s sister Rebecca standing on the edge of the crowd with two Indian women! And then, far to the rear, Eunice Williams! So she had not fallen off her sled. The other parties must have moved more quickly—found more game, perhaps—or taken a better route. And there was Sally Burt, still huge, and her husband! Who would have thought Sally could survive?
Mercy caught their eyes, one by one. Be brave, they seemed to say. It’s not so bad.
But for Eben, who in height and weight and strength was a man, it was going to be so bad.
Tannhahorens and Thorakwaneken walked off the jetty to smoke and laugh with warriors they had not seen in weeks. Then the captives were prodded out onto the packed dirty snow and arranged in a line.
From here, Mercy could see that this town was far more of a fort than Deerfield. Not only was the soldiers’ garrison up high, and made of stone so it could never burn, but hanging over the water were three cannon, black holes staring grimly. Were the English ever to be so foolish as to sail north from Boston, hoping to defeat the French here, their ships would be blown to pieces.
The Indians drew back, forming lines of their own, and the captives knew this was the moment. Eben was taking deep breaths, trying to prepare himself. Sarah was fighting tears. They knew better than to cry, even Ruth. They must show as little emotion as possible.
“It’s all right,” said Eben quietly to the girls. “It evens the score.”
“Only God can do that!” whispered Ruth, as if she had forgotten Molly and Mary and Hittie; as if she did not know the agony in Eben’s heart. “It was torture enough to have witnessed the slaughter of our families. Not to mention marching three hundred miles in winter. How dare they do anything else?”
Sarah disagreed. “That wasn’t torture. For the Indians, it was routine.”
But Indians were not drawing back to demonstrate their cruelty on Eben’s flesh. They were showing respect for a man slowly approaching over the trampled snow. Mercy knew it had to be a man, because of the silver-threaded black beard, and because of the beard she also knew he was not Indian. They did not have beards. But
the man wore a gown like a woman and its black hem trailed and flowed where the snow rose and dipped.
“A Catholic priest,” whispered Ruth. “He prays to a Pope instead of to God. He is going to hell. Do not speak if he talks to you. Do not meet his eyes.”
Naturally they wanted to study a man who was going to hell, and even Ruth ended up staring. His beard had not been left to grow by itself, the way Deerfield men wore theirs, some patchy, some full or curly. His was clipped short and gave him dignity.
The priest’s belt seemed to be made of silver and gold, tasseled like corn. On his chest hung a cross studded with brighter beads than anything Mercy had ever seen, like ice cut in chips, glittering with color.
“Precious jewels,” exclaimed Ruth. “So that’s what they look like. Isaiah 61:10,” she quoted. “As a bride adorneth herself with her jewels.”
Mercy’s mother had always quoted chapter and verse. She had known the Bible as well as Mr. Williams. But Mother had been a Puritan bride, and no Puritan bride ever adorned herself with jewels.
The priest greeted the returning warriors, and to the astonishment of the captives, Tannhahorens and Thorakwaneken, Otter and Great Sky and Cold Sun knelt before him. The priest prayed in a language the English children did not recognize. It was not Mohawk, it was not English, it had none of the sounds of French. What could it be?
The priest extended his cross to the end of its heavy gold chain, and each warrior, as he rose to his feet, kissed the cross. Mercy was aghast.
The crowd bowed their heads while the priest moved his arm in magical circles to finish his show. He is going to hell, thought Mercy.
And then, not only did the Catholic priest speak to the captives, he spoke in English. “My children, do not be afraid. I am Father Meriel. I will be your priest. Were you hard used on your march up north? Did you suffer much?”
A Frenchman cared if they were all right? A Frenchman who was a sinner, who had a Pope?
“They will not treat you so harshly now,” said the priest. “Already, your people will be trying to arrange a ransom. You will stay here for the time being. I will try to arrange your purchase by good French families. Your Indians have already sold one of you to me.” He put his hand on Eliza’s hair, an odd, open-palmed gesture, which also seemed full of magic; as one calling on his Pope to enter Eliza. Mercy shivered.
“You will live with the nuns in Montréal,” Father Meriel said to Eliza. His voice was gentle, so perhaps he had been told her history. “I will take you now. For the rest, I will see you every week when I come to say Mass and you will tell me if you need me.”
Mercy locked her fingers together lest she throw her arms around his hidden knees and beg to be taken also. She touched his robe, even though Ruth would yell at her for that, and said, “What are nuns, sir? Will Eliza be safe? She isn’t very well. Will they take care of her? She doesn’t talk very often. Will they be kind?”
Behind his beard she could see the hint of a smile. “And what is your name?”
“Mercy Carter.”
“Marie Cartier,” he said in French.
“Mah-ree Cah-tee-ay,” Mercy repeated, as she had repeated syllables to learn Mohawk.
“I will tell the nuns what you have said,” he went on in English, “and yes, they will be kind.” The priest lifted his hand and moved it over Mercy’s head in the magical pattern he had used for the crowd.
Ruth and Sarah backed away, horrified.
“Is that the work of the devil?” whispered Mercy. How would she get rid of it?
“It is the sign of the cross. I am blessing you. See?” He did it again. “I am drawing a picture of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. His peace will go with you.”
He turned to bless the others, arm and palm still up, and Ruth said fiercely, “Do not do that again. I will leap into the river and wash it off if you try to paint your cross over me.”
He looked at Ruth tenderly. “The current is strong. Do you hear roaring? Rapids are downstream. You would be dashed against the rocks. Pray to the Lord for patience and He will bring you home.”
What did Ruth possess, Mercy wanted to know, that no matter how rudely she spoke, everybody liked her for it?
Father Meriel headed back toward his stone buildings, pausing to paint the cross above every Indian who spoke to him. He walked more slowly than an Englishman would have. Deerfield men, including the minister, had crops to plant and animals to tend, weather to fend off and firewood to lay in. Deerfield men were in a hurry. Father Meriel floated, like a hawk on the wind.
A hawk, of course, with sharp eyes and sharper beak, would soon drop, going for the kill.
MERCY FOUND HERSELF escorted by a grown woman on either side of her. Where was Tannhahorens? Had he given her away? Sold her? Lost interest? Did she have to do this alone? If only she could hold Daniel while she walked here! Where was Daniel? Was he safe?
Row after row of windowless bark huts spread out before her. Doors were hanging flaps of skin and instead of chimneys there were holes in the roof. Smoke rose in lazy curls.
Her heart burst with worrying about Sam and John and Benny. Had her brothers gone alone into some Indian town like this? Did they have each other? Had they been sold or abandoned? Or, like Joseph, were they being made much of and given honorable names such as Sowangen?
Could Father Meriel really call the peace of the Lord into her heart? She certainly needed it.
Finally the women stopped, lifting a deerskin door, and they and she ducked to enter one of the longhouses. Inside it was smoky from two bright fires, full of shadows thrown by the flames. But its frame of saplings was hung with the same things as home: smoked meat, dried corn, leggings, adze, pistol, buckets and many plates.
She wondered briefly how you could hang plates but was too tired to consider it very long.
It was blessedly warm inside and smelled of herbs and woodsmoke. From a tripod over the fire hung an iron kettle filled with stew. She could see beans and meat and corn in the gravy and was so overwhelmed by hunger she was ready to use her bare hand for a spoon.
One of the woman filled a ladle with stew for Mercy, who took it in trembling hands and swallowed desperately. It was delicious. She was so glad to taste real food instead of gnawing bones over a wilderness fire. So glad to have something with ingredients, a mixture, a variety. She was glad to be among women.
She ate standing up, hoping for a second helping, but the women shook their heads. They guided her to a sort of shelf piled with furs and blankets. When she was seated, they handed her a corn cake. It was a plain flat patty with maple syrup dribbled over it, and Mercy had never eaten anything so wonderful. She had had no bread for so long.
Then they peeled away her filthy clothing. She was too tired to be modest and when they washed her with hot water and pulled a long Indian tunic over her, the soft deerskin was so clean; so welcome. They coaxed her to lie down on the shelf and tucked her in as so long ago she had tucked Sam and John and Benny and Tommy in. Mercy had not slept in a bed for over a month.
And a roof above her.
When you lived with nothing between you and the weather, you were indeed savage, and so it took savagery to stay alive. But a roof! And walls. You could breathe again. Sleep without terror.
A hideous smell filled the room and she jerked upright, but it was medicine, a salve they rubbed into the raw skin and cracking scabs of her feet. Just as she closed her eyes to tumble into real sleep, she saw the many plates swaying slightly in the updraft from the fire.
They were scalps.
WHEN SHE WOKE UP, Mercy could not guess from the dim smoky light what time of day it might be. The woman who had given her stew was stirring food in the same pot, a little girl was playing house on the floor, making tiny lodges out of twigs and bark shreds, and two men were playing a game with stones over a pattern drawn on the dirt floor.
I will pray, she told herself. I will eat breakfast. Then I will walk out of here and go find the others. I’ll talk to Sa
rah and Joseph. I’ll see how Eunice did on her trip. I’ll find Rebecca Kellogg and Sally Burt and see if they know where John and Benny and Sam are.
It took courage to move the blanket away, swing her legs around and meet their eyes. She had thought Tannhahorens would be here, not four staring strangers and a gap-toothed little girl. How fair was it that this little girl lived, while Marah and Tommy and Molly and Mary and Hittie did not?
Mercy pulled her moccasins on. The salve had worked. Her feet felt much better.
Everything would be all right. The priest had said so. He had said that even now, her people were working on ransom. So this was temporary; she need only cooperate for a while; she would go home.
The word home split into pieces. She could not fathom what home might consist of right now.
Lord, Lord, she said, and He quieted her heart and told her to put her trust in Him.
Leaving the spoon in the kettle, the woman took Mercy’s hand and led her outside into softly falling snow. They walked between several houses and past a wide open space that must be a common garden come spring, and then the woman stood over a trench, lifted her skirt and made water. Mercy closed her eyes with the horror of doing this so publicly, but there were no other choices, so she did the same, washing herself with snow, and they went back into the house.
After several corn cakes, Mercy felt ready to face the day until she saw that one of the men was wearing her father’s best shirt: the white blouse with ruffles he saved for Sunday. The ruffles Mother had sewn with such affection, evening after evening, as Father took his turn telling stories and the boys fell asleep by the fire.
Mercy tried to find a place to look where nothing would upset her. There was no such place.
Tannhahorens appeared in the door, but Mercy hated him now and hardly looked his way. He didn’t notice. He talked with the woman who had ladled out the stew, and when Tannhahorens left, the woman took Mercy’s hand and led her from the house once more.
Tannhahorens had already vanished.
Ruth was right about everything, thought Mercy. We’re going to be slaves, helping with Indian babies and staring up at Indian ceilings.