The Ransom of Mercy Carter Read Online Free PDF

to her husband, Andrew, and nobody else said anything either. In fact, nobody talked.
    Jemima cried as much as Marah, wailing for the rescue that had failed.
    Ruth’s lungs were as noisy as the crunching of snow.
    They crossed field after field, the Indians constantly demanding more speed. Mercy did not know why the Indians were in such a hurry. They had killed anybody who could chase them.
    E BEN HAD FALLEN a number of times, and this time when he struggled to his feet, the huge pack on his backhad shifted and he could not balance himself. An Indian saw and came over to adjust the straps.
    Eben had not thought he could tell one Indian from another, but he recognized the two-fingered smear in the man’s red face paint. It was greasepaint. Eben could smell the rancid fat.
    The sight of his house burning had turned him into a mere collection of muscle, a tool to carry and lift, a body that would make a good slave. He supposed that was the purpose of taking so many prisoners. Slavery. The mark on his forehead must be the mark of ownership.
    He, Eben Nims, had ceased to be a free Englishman. He was Indian property.
    A hundred paces ahead, Ruth Catlin turned and saw how close to Eben the Indian stood. She had been raging anyhow and when her brother was shot in the meadow her rage had intensified. “Kill him, Eb!” shouted Ruth Catlin. “Just kill him! They’re all murderers.”
    Eben could hear Ruth and understand Ruth and even agree with Ruth. He was in a position to seize the hatchet. But there was no fight in him. He followed the Indian.
    The pace was relentless. This was not a walk. It was a march. Like soldiers, they must take another step. They did not walk in rhythm. Nor was there a drum, like the one used to call the people to meeting. Instead, therewas the shining edge of a sharp blade, which surpassed any drumbeat in its demands.
    M ERCY COULD NOT KEEP up the pace. Gradually the line passed her by, until she was walking with Eben Nims, and she must not fall farther behind than that, because the Indians behind Eben were the end of the line. Daniel held tight and sucked his thumb. But not only did Marah refuse to walk, she kept yelling that her feet were cold, and she wanted Stepmama, and she needed her mittens, and she was hungry.
    Mercy could walk, though not fast enough, and she could carry, though not easily. But she could not supply food, warmth or Stepmama.
    Mercy tried to believe that Stepmama was up ahead of her with the baby; that it was so crowded and chaotic Mercy could not spot her. But in her heart, she did not think Stepmama had left the stockade.
    “The savage put food in my pack, Mercy,” said Eben quietly. “If you slip your hand into the opening near my left shoulder, there’s a loaf of bread on top.”
    They walked on, considering whether the Indians would tomahawk her for stealing Eben’s own bread. Well, they’d shortly tomahawk Marah for whining, so Mercy might as well get on with it. She set the two children down, and Eben bent his knees so she could reach and Mercy fished around in the pack. She slid the loaf out. It was long and fat and crusty.
    Her Indian was watching. Mercy looked straight at him while she ripped off a chunk for Marah. He did nothing. Mercy decided to give some to Jemima too, which would give her something to do besides whine. She would give bread to Eliza and hope food would break Eliza’s grieving stupor.
    Marah didn’t take a single bite. She threw the bread across the snow. “I want Mama!” she said fiercely. She glared at Mercy, as if all this hiking and shivering were Mercy’s fault.
    Mercy could not abandon the bread out there in the snow. She was going to need that bread. It was all they had, and somehow Mercy had become responsible for Marah and Daniel and Ruth and Eliza and Jemima, and probably even for Eben. Mercy stepped off the trodden path to retrieve the crust, but her Indian stopped her, shaking his head.
    On his face was no expression but the one