Due North to Freedom

by Terence O'Grady

  * * *

  Mrs. O’Toole was told that the councilman was extremely busy and could not guarantee an appointment that day. “I’m sure he will find time for me, “she exclaimed confidently, sitting herself firmly on a chair in his outer office. “We are friends of old.”

  Several hours later, the secretary approached her. “Mr. McIntyre will see you now, madam,” she said coldly as she ushered Mrs. O’Toole into the councilman’s large, dimly lit office. Mustering her dignity Mrs. O’Toole walked in quickly and took a seat. Moments later, Mr. McIntyre entered briskly.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked stiffly.

  “Mr. McIntyre, please…you must help me,” pleaded Mrs. O’Toole.

  “What seems to be the difficulty?” ask Mr. McIntyre, easing himself slowly into his large chair.

  “It’s my son…he’s missing,” she began. “I’d hope that you, being an influential man, could perhaps…”

  “I know all about your son, madam,” said McIntyre, a slight sneer forming on his face. “He has been arrested as a common thief.”

  Mrs. O’Toole sat in stunned silenced for several seconds. “But…what can you mean…I can assure you that….”

  “I’m not interested in your assurances, Mrs. O’Toole,” Mr. McIntyre barked. “He was caught—red-handed—in a stolen sutler’s wagon with two accomplices.”

  “But my son never would…”

  “There’s no question about it, Mrs. O’Toole. He was taken into custody last night. Being of a tender age, the provost marshal decided not to press charges and he was released just minutes ago and is probably on his way home now.”

  Oh…thank God,” murmured Mrs. O’Toole.

  “I will tell you frankly, Mrs. O’Toole, that if it were up to me, that boy would be put in prison like a common criminal,” said McIntyre, his voice rising in anger. “And, if I had anything to say about it, your husband and your daughter would be in jail right beside him.”

  “But sir, surely you can not mean…”

  “I mean exactly what I say, madam.”

  “But surely—you and I—as true sons and daughters of Virginia…”

  “You are no daughter of Virginia,” McIntyre spat violently. “You—or at least your family—are traitors to our glorious cause. Your husband has had meetings with other Yankee-lovers and therein has engaged in treasonous talk. Your daughter has betrayed her trust as a teacher and has spread seditious lies to our dear school children. And you have done nothing…nothing to steer them to the true path! As far as your son is concerned, we suspect that he did more than steal a wagon, Mrs. O’Toole. We suspect that he helped two black men to illegally flee Richmond. And if we can prove that charge, I can assure you that your son will be taken back into custody immediately. No, Mrs. O’Toole, you will gain no assistance from me. This interview has concluded.”

  Mrs. O’Toole rose slowly from her seat, fighting back tears. “Perhaps, sir…perhaps I have misjudged my countrymen.” Standing erectly, she turned quickly and left.

  A thousand conflicting emotions assailed Mrs. O’Toole as she walked slowly home. As she rounded a corner, only a block from her house, she was startled to here a noisy commotion. Voices bellowed unintelligibly to one another. Just then, a fire wagon came storming down the street. A fire! She moved quickly now, picking up her skirts as she went. Fear gripped her as she drew closer to her home. Yes! It was her house that was ablaze!

  Abigail raced to meet her mother as she approached what was now a roaring inferno. “Oh, Mother! It’s terrible! They’ve burned our house!”

  “Who? Who has destroyed our home?” her mother demanded,

  “A gang of men—five or six at least. Father tried to stop them but was knocked unconscious!” Abigail blurted.

  “Is he…?” asked Mrs. O’Toole in a quavering voice.

  “He’s all right now, mother,” her voice firmer now. “Ryan and I dragged him to safety even as the fire spread to the second floor.”

  “So Ryan is home again!” asked Mrs. O’Toole.

  “Yes, he arrived home again shortly before the fire started.”

  “And Matthew?”

  “He was with me the whole time. We managed to get Father’s strongbox and a few other possessions out of the house before the flames forced us outside. But then we remembered Lettie. Matthew wanted to run back in and look for her but I wouldn’t let him. Mother…I’m not sure Lettie made it to safety. Her room in the back of the house was one of the first to be consumed by the flames.”

  Mrs. O’Toole nodded somberly. “We shan’t give up yet, Abigail. Just thank God that we’re all safe and pray for Lettie. And now, I must see your Father and the two boys. Please take me to them.”

  Mr. O’Toole lay on the sofa in a neighbor’s house, rubbing the back of his head. He struggled to sit up as Mrs. O’Toole and the children approached. “Mary…children,” he exclaimed. “Thank heavens you’re safe.”

  “All is well, William,” said Mrs. O’Toole calmly, reaching out her hand to rest it on Mr. O’Toole’s brow. “But I fear for Lettie…she may not have…”

  “I know, Mary,” Mr. O’Toole said, shaking his head sadly. “All we can do is hope.”

  “No,” said Mrs. O’Toole stoutly. “We can do more. We can leave Richmond for the north…tonight.”

  “But Mother,” said Matthew earnestly, “you’ve always said that only Richmond could be a true home for you.”

  Mrs. O’Toole grasped her son’s hand tenderly. “Perhaps I was being foolish, Matthew. There is no place that is inherently virtuous, neither South nor North. You must first decide to lead a virtuous life and then find a decent place where you can accomplish that. For the time being, that place is not Richmond, though I love it dearly. At some time in the future we may well return, but for now we must pursue happiness elsewhere.”

  Mr. O’Toole nodded in agreement, a gentle smile on his face. “Yes, Mary. The time has come.”