Rhoda of the Underground

by Florence Finch Kelly

But before Rhoda could reply three men, pushing their way authoritatively, were beside them, and a moment later she found herself under arrest and being marched along between the marshal’s two assistants.

Soon she saw that a change was taking place in the character of the crowd. Its numbers were being rapidly augmented, but most of those who were joining it now were silent, and Rhoda guessed by their looks and by the glint of an eye here and there that they were moved by a determined purpose. The marshal surveyed them anxiously, spoke to his aids, and they, with Rhoda between them, held back, then edged their way into a cross street and let the throng surge on past them. Then they rushed her along until they came to a two-story brick building, where they gave her into the charge of another official, who locked her into an upstairs room.

Through the barred windows she could see the mob, now at a standstill half a block down the street, eddying round the center where stood Mary Ellen between her two captors, a drooping figure of despair and resignation. On the outskirts and apparently merely looking on was the Quaker, who had told her his name was Daniel Benedict. And still farther away her eye caught sight of a familiar form, old and shabby, topped by a bell-crowned hat, standing beside a dingy peddler’s wagon and watching the proceedings with an interest which broke out now and then in shrill calls and shuffling capers.

Rhoda leaned against the bars, her hands wrung together, and waited breathlessly for what might happen next. The men were surging and pushing this way and that, and she soon made out a resolute movement on the part of those who were on the outside to force their way to the center. Many of those who made up the nucleus had been moved apparently by idle curiosity, and they were now falling back, out of the way of the onward efforts of the others.

“There’s the marshal,” Rhoda exclaimed to herself, pressing her face against the bars, “right in front of Mary Ellen! Oh, poor, poor girl! Surely, God won’t let them take her back! Those men are pushing up closer! What’s the marshal saying? Oh, he’s calling for a posse! There, they’re fighting! Oh, see, they’ve got hold of him!”

In her excitement she was breaking into speech. “Oh, oh! They’ve knocked down the trader!—and the other man—Mary Ellen—they’ve got her! They’ve got her! And they’re shooting! Oh, again! Again!”

Hands clasped hard against her heart, she stood breathless, silent, watching the struggle, while the sound of shots, the cries of the mob, and the shouts of the officers broke the stillness of the room. “There, they are getting her out! Oh, don’t hurt her! Now—oh, run, Mary Ellen, run, run! Oh, they’re helping her—two men—and another running ahead— Oh, God, help her, help her to safety!”

She leaned against the side of the window, sight swimming and lips trembling, as Mary Ellen and her body-guard of rescuers, dashing down another street, passed from her view. Then she turned her attention back to the throng of men who seemed now to be intricately struggling with one another. But presently the mass began to resolve itself. A number, which seemed to contain both parties, for some were evidently trying to stop or hinder the others, rushed after the slave girl and her protectors. Many others fell back and stood near to be on hand for the next development. They had not long to wait, for the marshal and his assistants, regaining their feet, speedily began arresting their assailants. Rhoda presently saw them marching up to the jail door with a dozen men under guard, of whom several were wounded.

A few minutes later she heard a tenor voice, surprisingly good though somewhat cracked with age, singing loudly in the street, “In Dixie land I’ll take my stand.” She smiled, for she knew the voice at once, and hurried back to the window. Chad Wallace in his dingy peddler’s wagon was passing the jail. His eyes were roving carelessly over the front of the building and she felt sure he saw her, although he made no sign. But he flourished his whip in a wide circle round his head and held it poised for a moment above his shoulder, pointing back into the middle of his wagon.

Later in the day Daniel Benedict came to see her and gave her explanation of what had happened. His wrinkled, benignant face and silver gray hair seemed to her distraught heart to carry assurance of fatherly protection.