Diamonds in the Rough

by Emmy Waterford

  Again, Mo offered no answer, Alice and Belle following his frightened example.

  Another of the three, tall and lean, a white hat low over his face, said, “Just check their brand is all.”

  “To the devil with their brand,” the third said, thickly bearded, his horse anxious and clopping its hooves into the mud. “To the devil with the Robinson plantation, that place is done.”

  Belle couldn’t help but want to hear more of what happened after their escape, of who survived and who didn’t. Even in that moment when her own destiny hung in the balance, Belle couldn’t help but flash on Missy and Chrissy Robinson, locked up in their bedroom as the plantation burned around them. They’d been afraid of being attacked by the slaves, but wound up in all likelihood devoured by their own place of power, their sanctuary-turned-tomb.

  She’d often hoped and prayed that they’d made it out okay, but there was little enough time to reflect on it there and then.

  The bearded man said, “We tar ‘em up, won’t nobody be the wiser, bring ‘em out Missour’a way, take ‘em to market and sell ‘em outright.”

  The fat one looked the Robinsons over. “You think they’ll make the trip?”

  “We’ll drag ‘em back and cart ‘em, crop ear!”

  After a bitter pause, the fat man said, “I told you don’t never call me that.”

  “Then shut ‘cher hole and get down ‘ere, tie ‘em up. They won’t give you no trouble with them dogs barkin’ at ‘em.” The fat man hesitated, but the thickly bearded one shouted, “Do it!” The fat man climbed down off his horse and reached to free a long coil of rope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bang! Bang!

  All heads turned, most to the north. The horses jostled and writhed beneath the riders, huffing and spinning as the bearded man and his tall, lean companion pulled out their pistols and tried to find the source of the fire baring down on them.

  The tall one didn’t even get the chance, as another shot rang out at the precise moment he snapped back with a gurgled grunt, falling from his horse but still locked in by one stirrup around his left ankle. When the horse fled, it dragged his still-living body along the ground behind his, head banging against the ground as the beast disappeared in the face of their attackers.

  Belle and her family stood stunned, still huddled together, the adults trying to shelter the young. But all eyes were on the encroaching men on horseback, fast on their paints, their shirtless torsos painted with white and red stripes, rifles in their hands as they rode in.

  The bearded slave hunter kicked his horse and the creature strode into action, a wide swath around the encroaching Indian braves. But what at first seemed like to Belle as a retreat was actually a broad move to prepare to attack them, single-handedly if necessary.

  Whether it was through sheer primal instinct or superior training, Belle couldn’t be sure, but the hounds instantly pulled back from their position guarding the Robinsons in favor of joining their master in a strong defense against their attackers. They ran around the braves’ horses, trying to scramble them and hobble their attack. But those four braves were moving too fast, their horses disinterested in the dogs’ fangs or fury.

  One hound became emboldened and lurched at one of the paints as it rode past, lunging with those clapping jaws. But it was a mistake, and when the horse’s hoof landed flat on the back of the hound’s neck. It let out a terrible yelp and lay on its back wriggling, breathing its last breath.

  The fattest of the three slave drivers was still on his feet, scrambled to climb back onto his horse and falling onto his back as his own mount abandoned him. He turned to face Mo, no dogs to protect him, no cohorts to back him up.

  But he still had his guns, and shaky as he was, the fat man was still quick to reach for them. Mo could wait no longer to summon his courage. He’d been helpless before, Belle knew, but he was no longer helpless, able to do what he could to protect his family, able to fight.

  Just as the fat man drew his pistols, Mo let out a pent-up roar of frustration and threw himself at the white man, hands reaching out, fingers clawing. He hit the man hard and both toppled to the ground, the pistols falling to the ground. The men exchanged punches, rolling in the grass. Alice clutched Joseph with one arm, wrapping the other around Belle to pull her in tight, unable to grab for the pistols herself.

  Not far off, the bearded slave hunter, whose name Belle didn’t know and hoped never to know, rode straight into the pack of Chippewa braves, reins in his teeth, a revolving pistol in each hand.

  Bam bam bang bam!

  Gun smoke filled the air as the slave hunter weaved in and out among them. He seemed to know that if one was behind him, the one in front might hesitate to fire. The braves were masters of the assault, but one wily adversary could overturn their practiced strategy and overcome their superior numbers. If that happened, Belle knew she and her family were surely doomed.

  But the slave hunter rode faster than he could control without using his hands, and his aim was equally compromised. Belle and her mother ducked their heads down as the gunshots kept bursting nearby, bullets digging into nearby trees.

  Mo went on struggling with the fat white man, throwing several hard punches into the man’s face. Belle could feel the years of anger and sadness invested in those punches, the horrors he was returning to the white man for all his cruelty, as much as Mo’s humble hands could deliver.

  On their other side, Belle and Alice turned to see the bearded slave driver take the first bullet, a red hole bursting in his shoulder. He dropped his pistol, arm hanging slack, before a second shot tore into his hip. His body twisted, hat falling from his head as his mount spun in a tight, terrified circle.

  Bam bam! The second of the last two shots found his forehead, exposed by his fallen hat. His face and beard were sprayed by his own blood as his body sat shocked, still in the saddle, before slowly slipping out and falling to the grass. His horse ran off without him.

  The remaining hounds also ran, whining and disappearing over the slope behind them all, the fear of God deep in their hearts; if not of God, at least of the Chippewa.

  Mo and the fat man finally separated and Mo scrambled back, his hand finding one of the discarded pistols. Both men pushed themselves to their feet, Mo holding the pistol on the fat man, who stood there with his hands flat and out.

  “Please, please don’t kill me,” the fat man said, fear quivering in his jowls, his pasty complexion glistening with his sweat, slick like a fish’s belly.

  “I ought kill ‘ya f’what you done, so many good folks you done wronged.”

  “I … I know, I … look, I’m sorry, okay? Just please don't kill me!” He started to cry, his words drowning in rising sobs. “Please … have mercy … please … ”

  “Ain’t d’at what so many my people say’d to so many white folks like you? How much mercy your people done show’d? What ‘choo say when we say please? ‘Please, Massah, please!’”

  The fat man hung his head crying, arms falling to his fat side, muttering, “I know … I know … ”

  Belle watched with Alice, little Joseph crying in her arms.

  Mo stood locked in that moment, the white man’s instrument of death in his hands, the mantle of his evil there for Mo to assume for himself, the instrument of their so-called Christian justice. But for Mo and his own Robinson family, that instrument could only be the cross.

  “Awright,” Mo said, “I ain’t g’wine kill ‘ya. You go back’n tell them others we ain’t hard like you, we ain’t wanna hurt none you, just be free.”

  The fat man was already looking up, smiling, slowly straightening his posture as he lowered his arms. “Yes, yes I will,” he said with a feverish nod, “thank you, thank you so much! God bless you, God bless each and every—”

  Bang! The gunshot burst open in his broad, fast bosom, a stunned look on his pasty, jowly face. Bang! Another hole exploded in his fat gut. He crouched forward, looking at Mo in confusion and fear, brows arching to
see Mo holding the cold, unfired gun. But that was all he saw before a third shot tore off half of his skull and sent him tumbling back into the grass, his chubby leg twitching as whatever was in his body finally escaped it.

  Belle and the others turned to see the Chippewa braves riding up to them, one holding a rifle with smoke still wafting out of the barrel.

  Belle clung to Joseph and to their mother, standing upright as the Indians rode up to them. They had nothing to fear from their rescuers, Belle was certain, and she only hoped that the pistol in her pappy’s hand wouldn’t give them the wrong idea.

  The braves looked down from their horseback, then at each other. They knew where Belle and the Robinsons had come from, where they were going. They also seemed to know that Belle and her family were struck dumb with confusion as to why a band of Indians would kill to save a family of escaped slaves.

  As if to answer both questions, the brave at the head of the pack simply raised his hand, four fingers splayed, his thumb tucked into his flattened palm.

  Belle couldn’t be sure what he meant. There’s four of us, that’s true ‘nuff. That what he means, four fingers for four slaves? He axin’ if there’s more of us comin up behind? That it?

  Got’sta know if we’d gonna make it. Got’sta know.

  But though there was much more to it, the brave wasn’t saying. He looked to the north and pointed, then back at Belle and her family to display the same four-fingered sign. He nodded, then turned to one of this fellows. The other brave climbed down off his horse and pulled out a knife.

  Alice covered Belle and Joseph’s eyes and led them away so they didn’t have to be exposed to the gruesome sight of a human scalping, especially from so close.

  Belle still had no idea what the sign meant, or why they’d been rescued. But it was clear that they were being ushered forward, guided to the north, and that with their unseen allies on horseback, Belle and her family had an excellent chance of making it to whatever awaited them. But that thought only brought her temporary solace, as surely new horrors would be there to greet them, dangers to match or even better the old.

  And they’d be facing them soon enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The summer had come by the time the Robinsons crept up Indiana toward Marion County. The first sign of good things to come came inscribed in the thick bark of a willow, standing at the top of a ridge, alone, other trees standing clustered around it but keeping their respectful place of their unspoken, unspeaking master.

  The four lines were gouged into the bark, each about six inches long, were wider in the middle than at the top or the bottom. Belle instantly recognized them as the sign the Chippewa brave had illustrated with his four fingers. It hadn’t been the number in the Robinson family, it couldn’t have been.

  But what does it mean? Belle puzzled. Is this the fourth tree? Are there four more states? Four men to find?

  There was nothing more to the tree than the sign. There were no gourds of water, often planted under the soil, no buried pots of corn mash, sometimes even fresh dried, smoked meat. But several hours later a big oak tree stood with large, extended branches, thick and low, and the same four marks were carved into its trunk.

  Belle almost would have taken it for the mark of a bear’s claw, though one single blow didn’t seem likely. The lines had deep, deliberate carvings; they’d been made by human hands, not a bear’s paws.

  But the trail seemed clear, a nearly straight line from one tree to another, heading directly north, and Belle and her family stayed low and kept pushing onward, moonlight marking the exposed wood pulp by night, bright against the dark bark around it.

  The signs of the four marks led the Robinsons around the growing township of Marion County, buildings with nights glowing at night and streets bustling with daytime traffic which Belle could only imagine from its outskirts.

  A railroad stood between the Robinsons and the town, and Belle was thrilled to see the great machine steam pass them as they approached the tracks to cross. It was massive and loud, greasy iron wheels grinding the big black boxes as they hauled car after car of lumber, then another series of cars with coal. The ground trembled beneath Belle as she and her family lay on the ground, belly down so as not to be seen by the engineer or anyone else who might bring the white man down on them.

  By midnight the next night, the lights of Marion County were behind them and a lone cluster of buildings dominated the hillside over town. The three-story manse was shimmering, like the fabled House on the Hill. Stables and sheds stood on one side, an apple orchard, what looked like a smithy with several empty carts in various stages of construction.

  Belle sat crouched down in front of the property, certain that this was the place the signs on the trees had led them. When they saw another four strokes in the same pattern as the others on the trunk of a poplar tree, they knew they’d found the right place.

  The only question was how to approach the house without being mistaken in meaning or person or intent. It was at the risk of a swift death, but considering what they’d narrowly escaped and what awaited them upon capture, death would be a welcome respite.

  When the horse came up behind them, crouched uncertain in the bushes, Belle knew they were trapped. There was no more running, no more hiding.

  This man was fat too, like so many of the white men Belle had endured the displeasure of knowing. But this man stayed on his horse, looking down at them. He said only, “Don’t be afraid. Go around the side of the property, the line of willow trees along the west there.” He pointed out the area. “There’s a little white house near the workshop, where the carriages are. Basement floor’s for you, but keep your heads down if there’s any trouble. There’s food and water in the cupboards, easy to find, blankets too. We tell anyone who don’t know the basement is for the smiths who work our carts, so don’t anybody pay it much mind. Still, you don’t know who might be out riding in the hills, so once you’re in, stay in. You’ll be more properly greeted once you’re inside.”

  He pulled his horse back a few steps to let Mo lead his family up and around to a clear and safe passage to the line of willows leading to the smithy about fifty yards ahead. The chubby horseman said, “These people are risking their lives for you, best you show them the proper respect, and I mean in every particular. They’re welcoming, but they’re not stupid, and they won’t be made to regret the good they’re doing. Yes?”

  Mo nodded, Belle and the others sharing his willing compliance. He rode back, and after a few moments, Mo led them around the periphery of the property, crouching to hide from the moonlight, following a trail of trees toward the house, and from there a quick and low dash across the yard to the back door.

  Entering through the kitchen, they feasted on the fruits and cheeses left on the counter, eagerly drinking down the pitcher of fresh water. The little white house was quiet, empty but for them, a lone horsemen passed by on his regular route, Belle presumed. Mo found the door to the basement and led his family down the unlit stairwell. A stack of blankets was piled near the foot of the stairs. Mo needed little instruction.

  Belle and her family took the blankets and huddled together in a corner of the basement, pulling the blankets over them, huddling together in relative safety for the first time in months. Belle held tight to Joseph and even tighter to Alice, their beloved Mo wrapping his arms around them all. They were still together, still alive, and still moving toward that paradise of freedom. Now more than ever, Belle really did think they would make it.

  Then the basement door opened.

  The fat horseman stepped in first, a rifle in his hands. Behind him, a slighter figure, a cloak over the head, and behind that person a man of intimidating physical presence, a cocksure posture and the arrogant squint of a man who felt he was further beneath his station with every step down those stairs.

  The one in the middle pulled the head off the cloak to reveal a woman’s face and hair, pretty and brown, sending a chill up Belle’s spine. No go
od had ever come to her from such a pretty face, certainly not one so pale.

  She smiled. “Hello,” she said softly, Belle’s chill passing. “As my man here undoubtedly told you, you’re safe here, at least as much as we can guarantee your safety. We’ll do everything we can to help you, that I can promise.”

  Mo and Alice nodded, Belle staying as Joseph always remained.

  The woman asked, “May I know your names?”

  Mo and Alice looked at each other, worried by the question. The chance of trickery was ever-present. This pleasant face was almost certainly hiding the devil’s grin, it seemed to Belle, all they needed was to keep their prize happy and foolish and waiting to be either picked up or simply shipped out.

  But to not answer was a disrespect which wouldn’t befit someone truly trying to help, and would be suicide with somebody who wasn’t. “Mo’s my name, ma’am, and d’is here my wife Alice, our chilluns Belle and Joseph.”

  “I see.” She smiled. “Don’t you have last names?”

  Belle knew that this was a dangerous question, that their last name would identify them by their master’s name, tie them to the fateful events back at the Robinson plantation.

  “No, ma’am,” was all Mo said, his humble smile adding what words could not.

  She said, “I understand.”

  Alice said, “May we know your name, kind madam?”

  “You may not,” said the man behind her, stepping forward with his chest broad, shoulders back. “You’ll ask nothing, and you’ll say nothing of what you’ve seen here, what we’re doing, not a word of it!”

  The woman put her hand on his arm and said, “Husband, please.” To Belle and the others, she said, “The Chippewa call me Daughter of the She Bear.” She bent down and extended her white hand, Mo taking it to shake as an equal, as her guest. She in turn shook Alice’s hand, Belle’s, Joseph’s, personally welcoming us to her home, to her shelter.

  The man eased back his wife. “You’ll spend the next day down here and away from the main house, but you’ll be able to go above for food and toilet. You’ll be under a white guard, but they’re our guards, so you don’t have to fear them, and for heaven’s sake don’t run from them! Morning after next we’ll have a caravan’s worth of coal to load up and trek up north where you’ll be shipped over Lake Michigan and into Canada. Don’t say anything to anyone. Is that clear?”