* * *
Mr. O’Toole arrived home later than usual that night. Ryan and Matthew had moved Joseph out to the shed in back of the house and had waited nervously for their father to return.
“And how are my two fine boys this evening?” asked Mr. O’Toole cheerfully as he hung up his coat and eased himself into a parlor rocking chair.
Matthew glanced furtively at his older brother.
“We’re fine, Father,” replied Ryan. “We’re fine, aren’t we, Matthew?”
“Oh yes, of course…yes, we’re fine,” agreed Matthew.
Mr. O’Toole’s face darkened. “Something’s wrong. You two definitely do not sound like yourselves.”
“We are fine, Father,” said Ryan, hesitating slightly. “It’s just that…well, we have something to tell you.”
“Is this something that your mother and I should both hear?” Mr. O’Toole asked warily.
“No, No!” Matthew interjected quickly. His father immediately turned toward him with a quizzical and somewhat anxious look on his face. “It’s just…” Matthew continued, “it’s just that I’m not sure Mother would understand.”
Mr. O’Toole began to shake his head slowly. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this. Now, whatever is on your mind, please come right out with it.”
Ryan sighed deeply. “It’s like this, Father. Do you remember Joseph Smith, the friend of ours who Jim McIntyre was trying to scare?”
“You mean the episode with the old sword?” said Mr. O’Toole. “Yes, I’m afraid that one won’t be an easy one to forget.”
“Well, Joseph is in real trouble now. His Father has been arrested—and maybe even shot—and we’re afraid the detectives are after Joseph now.”
“Detectives? What detectives?” Mr. O’Toole asked anxiously.
“The detectives that came to his house the other day when we were visiting Joseph. They just burst in—knocked down the door—and arrested Mr. Smith,” said Matthew breathlessly.
“Arrested him? For what?”
“We don’t know,” said Ryan. “He and Joseph were going to try to sneak out of Richmond. He said it was no place for a free black man. He said they might try to make him fight against the Yankees.”
“Well, there’s probably some truth in that,” said Mr. O’Toole thoughtfully. “But what about Joseph? What were the three of you doing when this was going on?”
“They were after Joseph, too. Mr. Smith told us to run so we did. We ran through the alleyways in back of Mr. Smith’s house and finally hid in an old warehouse,” Ryan explained, the words tumbling out quickly.
“You were running from the detectives!” cried Mr. O’Toole. “My gosh! You could have been killed! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“We were afraid you’d be angry,” Matthew replied timidly.
“Angry? Well, I guess I’m angry…but I’m mostly just grateful you’re all right. Now listen, boys…I’m sorry to have to say this, but I don’t want you having any more to do with Joseph Smith or his father. I don’t know what’s going on with that family but it’s obviously dangerous business and I don’t want you to have any more to do…”
“Father,” Ryan interrupted quietly. “Joseph is hiding out in our tool shed right now.”
“Joseph! In our tool shed?”
“He was in the cellar last night and earlier today but Lettie found him there,” said Matthew. “She said he had to go and we had to tell you about him.”
“So the only reason you’re telling me that Joseph Smith has been hiding from the detectives in our house is because Lettie forced you to?” said Mr. O’Toole, anger beginning to rise in his voice.
“We would have told you, Father!” said Ryan anxiously. “We were just waiting for the right time.”
“And when exactly would the right time have been, Ryan? When we’d all gotten hauled into Castle Thunder for aiding and abetting a runaway?” demanded Mr. O’Toole.
“Oh, I’m sure that wouldn’t have happened,” Matthew responded, shaking his head vigorously.
“Matthew!” cried his father. “You are my dear son but you simply don’t know all there is to know about life! Things are very complicated now! The war has turned every thing on its heels. Richmond is in trouble and it’s acting like a wounded animal. I can’t say that’s very surprising—the people are just trying to defend their way of life.”
“Do you mean our way of life, Father?” asked Matthew quietly.
“No, I mean their way of life,” Mr. O’Toole said firmly. “I do not consider myself a Confederate and I will not defend all that goes on here, especially slavery. But that doesn’t matter right now. The thing that matters is that we must not allow ourselves to become involved in other people’s problems if it means that we will suffer as a result of it.”
“But Father,” cried Ryan. “Joseph is already suffering. And his father is suffering terribly. Shouldn’t we just try to help them in any way we can?”
“No, we should not!” Mr. O’Toole shot back. Then he paused, continuing on in a softer tone. “Ryan, I know your heart is in the right place—and yours too, Matthew—but there’s just nothing we can do to help the Smiths. It’s out of our hands. We’ll only manage to get ourselves in serious trouble without really helping them get out of theirs.”
“But what if we could help them without getting ourselves into trouble?” asked Ryan plaintively.
“There’s just no way…” began Mr. O’Toole. An instant later he was cut off by the clattering of nearby bells and the sound of yelling in the street. “Good grief! What is it now?”
Matthew ran to the front door and jerked it open. The streets were filled with men running and horse-drawn wagons speeding by.
Mr. O’Toole moved swiftly to the door and yelled to one of the men in the street, “What is it? What’s happening out there?”
“A fire! A bad fire down the street!” bellowed the man as he hurried by.
“Oh, no!” moaned Mr. O’Toole. “Boys, stay with your mother!” he commanded as he grabbed his coat and started out the door. The boys looked at each other for an instant, glanced quickly out the door and down the street and quietly followed their father.
The fire was easy to find. A large house at the end of the block was engulfed in flames that were just now starting to lick the rooftop. Mr. O’Toole first walked quickly and then broke into a run as he recognized the house. It belonged to Richard Wilson.
The street was a confusion of sounds and movement. Another fire wagon sped past the boys, its bells clanging ferociously. Men and boys shouted to each other. Several women came to their front steps, shaking their heads sadly at the sight.
Mr. O’Toole stopped about fifty yards from the burning house. The heat was intense and the orange-red glow of the flames created a glare that made him shade his eyes. The fire was raging most furiously at the back of the house, although he could see through the parlor window that the flames were consuming that room as well. The fire seemed erratic, the flames billowing forth out of the side windows for a moment and then withdrawing, almost seeming to die away. But then they burst forth again, brighter and higher than before.
He could see that the rooftop was almost completely alight with flames now and they seemed to be gaining in intensity. The hoses of the two fire wagons constantly pumped water through the windows of the flaming structure but to no avail. The fire almost seemed to feed on the water, the flames shooting out even further into the street with each new torrent. And the water pressure seemed to be fading. When the men tried to elevate the hoses to douse the burning roof, the stream of water failed to get more than part way up the steep roof.
“Look to your own house!” someone yelled behind him. Mr. O’Toole glanced around quickly. A bucket brigade was forming, men quickly moving buckets of water from hand to hand. Some men had climbed to the roofs of the houses on either side of the Wilson’s home and the buckets made their way into their hands. The men worked quickly to cover each of
the rooftops with water so the flames wouldn’t take hold, even as several red-hot ashes seem to be floating down right on top of them.
Mr. O’Toole quickly moved forward to join in the brigade. But as he reached for a bucket to pass it along to the next man in line, one of the men looked him straight in the face and snarled, “We don’t need your kind of help.” Stunned, Mr. O’Toole took a few steps backward.
Just then, Ryan and Matthew ran up behind him, breathless with exertion. “Father, Father!” they yelled.
“Back! Back, boys! It’s dangerous here!” Mr. O’Toole cried, holding out his arm to restrain the boys from surging forward.
“Is that Mr. Wilson’s house burning?” asked Matthew, his eyes widening as he absorbed the full impact of the scene.
“I’m afraid it is,” said his father sadly.
“But Father,” said Ryan, “why don’t you help the men put out the fire?”
Mr. O’Toole shook his head slowly. “I guess my help isn’t wanted around here.”
Mr. Wilson’s house was now completely aglow. The heat had blown all of the windows out and now the flames burst forth from every orifice. Even over the yelling and clanging, he could hear the structure of the house starting to give in. The roof over the parlor was badly sunken in and the rest of the house seemed too fragile to stand much longer.
Suddenly Mr. Wilson ran toward him, his eyes wild with fear and anger. “Do you see what they’ve done to my house? They’ve ruined my house! They’ve ruined me!”
“This is just terrible,” said Mr. O’Toole, reaching out to put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “What happened? Was it an accident in the kitchen?”
Mr. Wilson pulled away. “An accident? Do you think this was an accident? They started this fire! They burned my house down because in their eyes I’m just a northerner…nothing more than a Yankee. All the years I’ve lived here mean nothing…I’m nothing more than a darn Yankee to them!”
“But Richard, I’m sure no one would…”
Mr. Wilson thrust his face to within an inch of Mr. O’Toole’s. “Can’t you hear me? They burned down my house! And they’re coming to get you next!”
Due North to Freedom Page 11