Each long day she stared at the back of the man ahead, the one who always walked first. It had not taken long for Dianna to see the differences between the two Indians. The one she had wounded was clearly the leader, both in his imperious posture and in the way the other deferred to him. His name was
Mattasoit—though Dianna did not understand their language, she had figured out that much from the context of their conversations—and he was tail and lean and strong, his movements as spare and lithe as a panther’s. Like Kit, she’d caught herself thinking more than once; before this she hadn’t realized how unlike most Englishmen Kit was or rather, how much more like an Indian. She found the idea unsettling and concentrated, instead, on noting the differences.
For one, there was Mattasoit’s hair, shaved clean on either side of his head, with the top crest left long and flowing. Two turkey feathers were tied into his hair, along with several strands of beads made from purple shells. Beneath hisipaint he was tattooed, dark dots across his cheekbones and the mark of a deer on one arm. On his other arm was the cut Dianna had given him. From the way he ignored the wound, purposefully leaving it uncovered, Dianna sensed her action had caused far greater injury to his pride, and secretly she rejoiced. There on his arm was the proof that she had not always been so helpless!
Though in appearance the second man looked much the same, there seemed to be a hesitancy about him that lessened the fierceness of his painted face.
While he was quick enough to prod Dianna with his musket if she slowed, he was more patient with Mercy, helping the girl if she stumbled and offering her berries and parched corn from his pack. But Dianna remained wary of his kindnesses, remembering that this man had torched their house. Mattasoit called him Quabaug.
Both men were bare-chested, with trading blankets looped over their shoulders in place of shirts or jackets.
Dianna envied them their leather leggings and the ease with which they glided through the brush as again and again her own skirts caught on branches and twigs. The invisible paths they followed were not meant for English petticoats. Impatiently Quabaug would yank the fabric off, tearing it rather than working it free. At first Dianna thought with dismay of all her careful handiwork shredded so ignominiously, but then she noticed how the scraps of torn fabric were left behind. They would, she realized, be an easy trail to follow. As often as she dared, she began to catch her skirts on purpose, and prayed that their rescuers would spot the scraps.
If, that is, there were any rescuers. Desperately Dianna wanted to believe that she and Mercy would be saved, but too well she recalled all the reasons why the militia hadn’t gone after Goodwife Barnard, and she knew this was no different. How could she reasonably expect them to come after a servant and a child?
Because Kit loves you, her heart answered fiercely, What had he thought when she hadn’t joined him on training day? Had he been angry when she didn’t come, or worse yet, had he despaired, believing she had changed her mind? She remembered how surprisingly insecure he had been about her loving him, betraying a desperation that she didn’t understand, It was strange to think of a man like Kit so vulnerable, and she never wanted to hurt him not even this way, when she couldn’t help it. But surely Asa would have explained, once he’d seen the burning house: and gone to Wickhamton for help, Asa was unpredictable, but he did love Mercy, And Kit—Kit loved her. Even before he’d known her name he had rescued her from the nightmare in her uncle’s house, and so much had changed between them since then. He would come for her and for Mercy. He would. Over and over Dianna repeated the words to herself as they went deeper into the wilderness.
She was worried most about Mercy. Once they had left sight of their home, the girl had stopped her weeping and instead had seemed to draw into herself, her face empty as she let Dianna draw her along by the hand. She did not seem to hear Dianna, nor did she speak in return, and when they stopped to rest, she would curl herself into a tight little ball with her eyes squeezed shut. To lose her parents, her home and her pet, too, was more than any child should have to bear, and the unftirness of their capture tore at Dianna. Nor could she tell how much longer Mercy could bear the strain. Each dawn she was harder to rouse, and her slender body was growing visibly weaker from the hardships.
The night they crossed the river brought reality to Dianna’s fears. The Indians had not stopped at dusk as usual, but Continued on, and in the darkness unseen branches lashed at Dianna’s arms and face and roots and rocks seemed to rise from nowhere to trip her feet. The night was cold, too, with the chill of winter in the autumn air, and Dianna shivered in her tattered dress without a shawl or cape. Mercy’s little hand was icy, and the child was almost weaving from exhaustion.
“We must keep up, MercY,” Dianna urged, as much to encourage herself as the child.
“We’re warmer walking than if we stop.”
Dianna heard the rushing water ahead as they came through the trees, The river was narrow here, scarcely more than a wide stream as it raced over and around a cluster of large rocks. Mattasoit easily stepped from the bank to the first rock and then jumped across to the next in line. When he was haft way across, he turned and beckoned sharply for Dianna and Mercy to follow.
“Nay, Dianna, I can’t!” wailed Mercy, shaking her head as she backed away from the water.
“I’ll fall an’ drown, an’ they they won’t care!”
“I care, lamb, and I have no intention of letting you drown. See, the water’s scarce a foot deep here, just like the stream at home.” Gently Dianna tried to draw Mercy toward the water. She could feel the impatience radiating from Mattasoit. She didn’t want to frighten Mercy, but this was definitely not the time to dawdle. Kit said that the trail between Deerfield and Quebec had been littered with the corpses of English women who had faltered.
“At home you’d be hopping over these stones like a leap-frog. I’ll hold your hand, I swear, and I won’t let go. But we must go now, Mercy. Now!”
Whimpering, Mercy let Dianna pull her to the water’s edge.
“I’ll count, Mercy, and we’ll go together.
One, two, three, jump!”
The rock was wet and more slippery than Dianna had expected, and their shoes skidded across the surface before Dianna could steady herself enough to stop. She took a deep breath as she looked at the next -rock, the black water foaming and churning around her feet. She didn’t: like this any more than Mercy did, but there stood Mattasoit ahead of them, one hand on the tomahawk at his belt. Lord, how she hated the threat the gesture implied, and how much she hated the man who made it!
“Again, Mercy.” They had come this far, and she wouldn’t falter now.
“One, two, three, jump!”
Fourteen rocks they crossed until only the last step remained to the bank.
“Almost there, Mercy,” coaxed Dianna, “and you’ve done it, just like I knew you could.”
Mercy smiled tremulously up at Dianna, and for the first time dared to let go of her hand. ““Twas not so very hard,” she said and took the last hop on her own. But she hadn’t counted on the marsh grass that lined the bank, and though she scrambled frantically for a foothold, she tumbled back into the water with a shriek. The water here was not deep, and Dianna at once dragged her, weeping, to the river bank.
“Hush, Mercy, you’re safe enough,” murmured Dianna as the little girl clung to her neck. The water coursed from Mercy’s skirts and petticoats into puddies around her sodden shoes and stockings, and the cold, wet wool clung to her legs. Already Dianna could feel her shivering.
Yet Dianna felt Mattasoit’s hand on her shoulder as well. She did not need to understand his words to know that he was angry with the delay and demanding that they continue. Slowly she disengaged herself from Mercy’s embrace and rose to face the Indian.
“We cannot go on, not tonight,” she told him firmly, forgetting that the man knew no English.
“The child needs to dry her clothes and to lose the chill with the warmth of a fire.”
Mattasoit’s eyes narrowed, and he pointed once again to the trail into the woods.
“Nay, I will not go,” said Dianna angrily, her silver eyes flashing.
“I refuse to risk the child’s health so that you might continue to drive us like animals!”
Furiously the Indian raised his hand and struck Dianna across her jaw. She stumbled back from him, but kept her footing. Instead of subduing her, his blow only fanned her temper more, and all the indignities and fears she’d borne in the past few days came rising up.
“You have no right to treat me thus!” she said defiantly.
“I’m not one of your heathen squaws, but an English gentlewoman, a lady, and nothing you can do or say to me can change that! You think you are such a brave warrior to bully and torment a woman and child! Mercy and I are ten times braver than you.
Nay, a hundred times! You are a coward, and so I’ll tell everyone in Quebec! Vous Jtes un trbs gros poltron’ Mattasoit’s whole body tensed with fury as he answered her in flawless, unaccented French.
“If you were not worth so much to me unharmed, I would cut your tongue from your mouth so I would hear no more of your lies. You will call me master and you will obey me.”
Stunned, much of Dianna’s anger evaporated with the knowledge that they could now communicate.
“Then you must understand—” Swiftly his hand sliced the air before her face.
“I
must do nothing you ask!” he said sharply.
“Through your English cunning you have concealed from me that you speak the Frenchman’s tongue, and as your master, I am displeased. I have sworn to deliver you unharmed, but not so your child. Perhaps she shall suffer in your stead.”
“Nay, you can’t!” protested Dianna wildly. Her gaze flew back to Mercy, huddled miserably on the river bank with Quabaug crouched beside her.
“Do whatever you wish to me, but leave her alone! She is innocent, she has done nothing!”
Mattasoit smiled triumphantly, his lips curling back over even white teeth.
“So, you give me the secret to your obedience.”
Another master, another man who demanded she obey. But for Mercy’s sake, Dianna abandoned her pride and Softened her voice with supplication. His belief that she was Mercy’s mother could only add weight to her requests.
“My child is weary, and she will sicken if you refuse her the comfort of a fire’s warmth. If she becomes ?” she’ll only delay you longer.”
Mattasoit shook his head, the beads in his long hair clicking softly against one another.
“It matters not.
If she cannot keep up, she will die.” His smile widened.
“Monsieur le Lieutenant Hertel de Rouville will give me four gold pieces for an English child’s scalp.”
“Nay, you could not!” gasped Dianna, horrified.
“Your words continue to be harsh to my ears, Anglaise and unfit for your master. I care nothing for your child. It is Quabaug who wanted her, not I.”
He waved dismissively toward the other Indian.
“He wishes to make a gift 9f her to his sister, to replace another claimed by death. I believe yours is likewise sullen and sickly, an unworthy gift, and I have told him so. But he will not listen and fancies her all the more.”
While Mercy had been frozen by fear and cold, Quabaug had gently pulled off her wet socks and chafed her icy feet until the blood had returned. Modestly she had quickly tugged her skirts back down over her toes as soon as he was done, but she had not run away to Dianna’s side, watching instead as he emptied his leather pack. At last he drew out a pair of child’s moccasins, embroidered across the toes with porcupine quills. He held them up to Mercy’s feet and frowned. He stuffed the toes of the moccasins with dry leaves until, satisfied that now they would fit, he held them shyly out to Mercy. The girl hesitated only a moment before accepting his gift. While Quabaug beamed and nodded, she slipped them on with a tentative smile and pointed her feet toward Dianna for approval.
But Dianna’s eyes were on the contents of Qua-bang’s pack, piled neatly on the grass beside him.
On the top was a white linen shirt, an Englishman’s shirt, worn and crisscrossed with mending and covered with the stiff, dark blotches of dried blood.
Dianna noted how the old shirt’s collar had been turned and’re sewn to lengthen its wear; she had done the work herself not a fortnight before. Slowly, as if in a dream, she forced herself to see Quabaug’s musket, still cradled protectively in his lap. Why hadn’t she noticed before the two wedge-shaped notches in the stock, the notches that were Asa’s special mark?
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and dug her nails into her own skin, fighting back the impossible urge to laugh. No one was coming for them because no one knew they were gone. In her elegant courtier’s French, she was left to barter for her life with a haft-naked savage who painted his face like a skunk’s back.
By the time they finally halted for the night, several hours before daybreak, Mercy’s eyes were un naturally bright and her cheeks were flushed with fever.
“I’m so c-cold, Dianna,” she said, stammering with the chills that shook her weakened body as she sank to the ground.
One hand across the child’s forehead told Dianna all she needed to know, and quickly she turned to Mattasoit.
“Please, I beg you, my daughter needs hot food to eat. If you or Quabaug can bring me anything, a squirrel or a rabbit, I can make us all a stew.”
“You would have us fire muskets, would you?”
Mattasoit snorted with scorn.
“So that every Englishmen will know we AN? here? I am no fool, Anglaise.”
“A fire, then, just a san one,” pleaded Dianna,
“so that she might warn herself and her clothes.”
“A fire and musket-shots? Why don’t I let you go to the highest hill, and shout so that all might hear you?”
“But there is no one!” Dianna’s voice cracked with the admission.
“Please—”
“Do not test me, Anglaise, for you know my answer he snapped.
“We leave at sunrise.”
Numbly Dianna watched as the two Indians rolled themselves in their blankets and were, it seemed, instantly asleep. Curled on the ground, Mercy, too,