Free Spirited by Nancy Holder

were chanting.
    Her father was led to the first of the two posts. Two men threw ropes to the evil-looking man, who began to wrap her father to the post. He made no struggle, but stood resolutely, his chin raised, his eyes open and clear. He was British to the core, and Isabella was moved by his heroism. She resolved that if they were both to die tonight, she would prove as illustrious an example of British courage as he.
    But tears trickled down her cheeks. She couldn’t imagine a worse fate than this.
    Then the chief moved toward the prisoners andspread forth his hands. He began to speak. The villagers immediately grew silent. A dog barked, yelped, made no more noise.
    The tall man came up to Isabella. He gazed at her and said, “Oneko says, sell you to
les Français.”
    “Sell us?” she whispered. “You cannot sell us. We’re not slaves!”
    “He means as hostages,” her father said to her. “That would be an excellent thing, poppet.”
    The man regarded her. “You are slaves. Now. Forever.” Then he looked back at his leader and listened.
    Next, one of the warriors who had captured them spoke up. Another followed after. Her would-be ravisher strode to the piles of sticks, selected one, and carried it to the bonfire. As he railed in his native tongue, the tip of the stick ignited and a cheer rose up.
    The pretty woman followed suit, grabbing a stick and holding it against the evil man’s until it, too, burned and smoked.
    Another woman joined in, and then a man. And then the little boy who had hit Isabella with a switch. The pretty woman walked up to the tall man and held her torch out to him. She gestured to Isabella and then to the torch. She stood before him with her arm outstretched.
    In a gesture of refusal, he crossed his arms over his chest.
    The woman stomped her foot. She spoke again, tried to hand him the burning stick again.
    Isabella blurted, “Forgive me, sir, I don’t speak your tongue. But we meant no harm. Please, please let us go.”
    The tall man shook his head, his eyes hooded and piercing. “We cannot let you go. You will bring more white skins.”
    “My father, Dr. Philip Stevens, is a great healer,” she said. “His only wish is to stop sickness. We were on our way to Fort William Henry to save the people there from a terrible plague.” She took a breath. “Let him go do his duty and I will stay as your hostage.”
    “Isabella, no!” her father shouted. “Don’t even suggest such a thing.”
    The evil-looking man spoke again. The tall man pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, but he was studying Isabella’s face very closely. It seemed to her that he was searching for something.
    Then another woman stomped up to Isabella and showed her a rope. She turned and spoke to Oneko, who had been silent, and gestured that she would start tying Isabella to the stake.
    Oneko unfolded his arms and said to Wusamequin in their language, “What does she speak of, this white captive?”
    “Her father is a shaman,” Wusamequin told him. “He was on his way to heal the white skins of a plague. Her heart hurts that so many will die. She’s offered to stay as hostage if we’ll allow him to heal the sick ones, and then to return to us.”
    Odina raised her fist. “Are you mad? They’ll bring soldiers back and finish the job they started thirteen moons ago.”
    “Please, what is she saying?” the white woman—Isabella—asked him in her own tongue.
    “That you will tell soldiers of us,” he replied. His Yangees was clumsy; he hadn’t spoken it in a long time. His people no longer counted any Yangee as welcome in their village.
    “No.” She shook her head. “My father and I swear on our honor never to tell of you. Only let us conclude this mission of mercy.”
    Mercy.
He remembered that word. Her people prayed to a god of goodness and mercy, and James Anderson had explained that word to him very carefully.
    “Why show mercy to our enemies?” he flung at her. “Never