None of the children had been allowed out of the stockade since October. Out beyond the stockade, icy fields gleamed like lakes in the starlight. Against the barn, which sheltered one cow, two sheep and a pig, were drifts taller than Mercy, crusted over from freezing rain. Just below the window was the vegetable garden, covered now in three feet of snow. In spite of twenty soldiers quartered in the village and every Deerfield man armed and at the ready, Mercy could never fall asleep until she herself checked the horizon. She dreaded getting into her own bed, because she slept alone, and only body heat could keep anyone warm tonight.īefore she shuttered and barred the window, Mercy knelt to look out. The boys were wearing most of their clothes, which made them fat and funny under the quilts. Downstairs, where the fire was blazing, one of the soldiers had tried to write a letter to Boston and his ink had frozen. It was the coldest night she could remember during a winter when every night had been colder than it ought to be. Even though she wore both pairs of stockings to bed, the cold of the floor came through the heavy wool. Or any night, she told the Lord, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Mercy tucked her brothers in, packing them close. Dear Lord, prayed Mercy Carter, do not let us be murdered in our beds tonight.
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