Free The Ransom of Mercy Carter by Caroline B. Cooney

But what was her own future now? Would she, would Sarah, would Ruth, end up marrying an Indian?
    The image of Ruth Catlin agreeing to obey an Indian as her lawfully wedded husband made Mercy laugh.
    “And they let Sally Burt live,” Sarah went on, “and she’s about to give birth right on the trail. They’re letting her husband walk with her, and he’s the only one they let do that.”
    Sally’s courage was inspiring. Eight months pregnant, big as a horse, and she bounded along like a twelve-year-old boy. She had even taken part in the snowball fight. “I’m having this baby,” she had said when Mercy complimented her. “It’s my first baby, I know it’s going to be a boy, I know he’ll be strong and healthy, and I know I will be a good mother. That’s that.”
    In Mercy’s opinion, Sally Burt was holding her husband up and not the other way around. If she could be half as brave as Sally Burt, she would be satisfied.
    At the crunch of footsteps they looked up, and then they stopped talking. Ruth was dangerous, not because of her habit of throwing things, but because every word she spoke was upsetting. They had begun to see that part of survival was staying calm, and Ruth could not be calm. Even the way she sat down next to them, flouncing her skirt and whipping her cloak, was angry.
    Nobody asked what she was angry about now. She probably felt they shouldn’t have eaten Indian meat.
    Sarah chewed thoughtfully on the end of her skewer until she had shredded the wood like a tiny broom. Then she poked it in the snow and drew aimless patterns.“Suppose we do live. Suppose we do get to Canada. Then what?”
    “I think we’ll be slaves to the French,” said Eben.
    “The French are Catholic,” said Ruth. “It’s probably better to be dead.”
    “Then slaves to the Indians,” he said, shrugging. “I’m already a slave to Thorakwaneken. I fetch his wood and cook his meat.”
    Sarah shook her head. “You’re not going to be a slave, Eben. Your Indian likes talking to you. I think he may adopt you.”
    “That is disgusting!” said Ruth. “Adopted by a savage? Can you imagine living like this forever? Eating like animals, sleeping in snow caves, sharing your fire with your father’s killer? We must pray for ransom.” Ruth took her position as oldest and wisest. “Eben, never speak another syllable in that savage language. You and Mercy should be ashamed. How many dead did we leave in Deerfield? And you bounce alongside their murderers, saying, ‘Tell me the word for “squirrel.” ’ ”
    Eben hung his head. Mercy’s cheeks stained red.
    “Ransom,”
said Ruth. “That is the word you must cherish. An English word and an English hope.”
    Sometimes the governor of Massachusetts was allowed to pay the French to get a captive back. It took months or even years, with negotiators traveling back and forth, bearing gifts or making threats. Because ofthe war, Boston jails were full of French prisoners and sometimes those men were exchanged.
    But it puzzled Eben that the Indians would make such an effort. Why walk all the way from Canada to Deerfield in this terrible season, suffer hunger, lose brothers, take the immense trouble to carry a hundred captives back to Montréal—just to sell them home again?
    He decided not to say that he thought ransom was unlikely.
    “Oh, stop it, Ruth!” said Mercy, outraged. “
You
are the one who is selfish. The Indians saw Eben kill one of their warriors. You remember the killing
you
saw. Well, they remember the killing
they
saw. Did you think the Indians were joking when they said they would burn somebody alive? Do you think they will pick somebody on a whim? They will choose
Eben
. Thorakwaneken must come to like Eben and we must help that happen. Eben must have
allies
, not more enemies.”
    Ruth’s stabbing finger dropped to her lap.
    Whether or not anybody was burned, the men still faced suffering: the gauntlet, a quicker form of torture in which a captive