Due North to Freedom

by Terence O'Grady

  ***

  Half an hour later, the O’Toole family was back in their carriage, the lights of Richmond behind them. They traveled slowly, afraid of over-burdening their horse, but eventually made their way to the old road out to the Van Lew’s farm. The road was deserted and the night dark, the moon only occasionally peeping out from behind clouds. Only the dim glow of the carriage’s single lantern provided any illumination of the old road.

  As they rounded a sharp bend in the road, they could detect the presence of horses and men. An instant later, a man stepped out of the darkness. “State your business,” he shouted.

  “On our way to Van Lew’s farm,” replied Mr. O’Toole, bringing the carriage to a halt.

  “For what reason?” came the voice.

  “We have some items to deliver,” replied Mr. O’Toole, grabbing one of the silver bowls to display it. “Miss Van Lew has graciously lent us these fine silver bowls for a social event. And now we’re returning them to her farm. She has need of them.”

  “Her farm, heh?” came the doubtful voice. “Why not her house in town?”

  “That I can’t tell you, my good man,” answered Mr. O’Toole. “She simply asked us to take them out to her farm.”

  “Awfully late for such doings,” said the man. He stepped toward the carriage, his uniform and gun clearly visible now. “Say, you’ve got quite a crowd in that carriage,” he said, getting a closer look at the whole family. “Does it take all five of you to return a pair of silver bowls?”

  Mrs. O’Toole answered quickly. “Why sergeant,” she said gaily, “you know that we ladies must have our parties. Mrs. Van Lew has asked me if I would help her with a little social gathering she has planned for tomorrow at the farm. I told her I would be delighted to help. The five of us will be staying at the farm tonight to get an early start in preparing for the gala event.”

  The sergeant grunted. “Sounds like foolishness to me. It ain’t safe when you get this far out of the city, ma’am. You should know that. There might be some Yankee patrols lurking about.”

  “I can assure you that we’ll keep a sharp eye, sergeant,” said Mr. O’Toole cheerfully. “Don’t you worry about us.”

  “Well…”the sergeant drawled. “I guess it’ll be all right…but it sounds right silly to me.”

  “Thank you, sergeant,” said Mrs. O’Toole. “I believe we’ll be on our way now. As you said, the night grows late.”

  Mr. O’Toole jiggled the reins and the old horse pulled the carriage ahead slowly. The next twenty minutes were uneventful. The moon would show itself for periods of time, lighting the darkness considerably and putting everyone into good spirits. Although the wind was cool, family members were able to huddle together under a pair of blankets so no one was uncomfortable. There was even a sense of excitement as they proceeded mile after mile, growing in confidence that the first leg of their journey would soon be over.

  Suddenly, the sound of pounding hooves could be heard—first, faintly in the distance, then closer and more clearly. Mr. O’Toole prompted the old horse to pick up speed. But the hoof beats from the single rider were clearly getting louder. Whoever the rider was, he was in a hurry to overtake the O’Toole’s carriage.

  “Who could it be, William?” Mrs. O’Toole asked anxiously. “Are they after us?”

  “Probably a detective,” Mr. O’Toole said, grimacing as he urged the horse onward. “If they saw us going into the Van Lew’s home, they probably guessed this would be our next step.”

  Less than a minute later, the rider had drawn even with the carriage. Wearing a dark, wide-brimmed hat and holding a musket in his free hand, the man dismounted and ordered the carriage to stop. Mr. O’Toole reined in the horse gently and the carriage slowed to a stop.

  “What seems to be the problem, Mr. …” began Mr. O’Toole calmly.

  “I want this carriage turned around and headed back to Richmond. Right now!” bellowed the man.

  “Listen, whoever you are, you’ve got no right to…”

  “This badge says I’ve got that right, Mr. O’Toole,” he sneered, flashing a detective’s badge. “I know who you are. You’re under arrest. And your whole family is wanted for questioning by the provost marshal. So turn that carriage around…now! I won’t be asking again.”

  Mr. O’Toole paused for an instant and lowered his eyes. Then, he quickly grabbed the whip and dashed it across the horse’s hindquarters. The horse leapt forward and the carriage jerked ahead, leaving the man standing flat-footed in the road. But in an instant the detective swung his musket to his shoulder, took aim and fired. The bullet grazed Mr. O’Toole’s left arm. He groaned and let the reins slip out of his hand. The horse immediately slowed to a trot and then stopped completely. As Mr. O’Toole clutched his left arm, the detective sprinted up to the wagon and began to reload the musket.

  Ryan moved immediately to the front seat of the carriage, putting his hand gently on his father’s shoulder. Mrs. O’Toole slowly reached down beneath the front seat of the carriage. She grabbed the small Derringer pistol and aimed it directly at the detective. She spoke in a soft but steely voice. “At the risk of offending a southern gentleman, I will tell you plainly that if you try to reload that musket or reach for your revolver, I will shoot you between the eyes.”

  The detective froze.

  “Ryan, take the reins. Abigail, unburden him of his weapons.”

  Ryan quickly took up the reins. Abigail leapt from the carriage and defiantly grabbed the detective’s musket and as well as the revolver out of his holster.

  “Matthew, see to his horse,” Mrs. O’Toole said, her voice strong and unwavering. Matthew jumped from the carriage and dashed back to the detective’s horse. He slapped him hard on the rump, yelling “gee-haw!” and the horse galloped briskly down the road.

  “And now, sir, hear my warning. If you try to follow my family down this road, things will go badly for you. I hunted with my father many times as a girl and I am quite capable of removing your head from your soldiers with a musket if called on to do so.”

  The detective snorted. “Hah! You won’t get away with this. There’ll be more than me coming down this road shortly and I’d like to see you take them all on.”

  “Well, sir,” said Mrs. O’Toole, “we’ll do what we must. But if I see your face again, it’ll be the worse for you.” Turning to her daughter, she said, “Abigail, see if you can staunch the bleeding.”

  Abigail quickly tore a strip of cloth from her petticoat and wrapped it around her father’s wound. “It’s not that bad, Mary. Just a flesh wound.”

  “A lot of blood but no real damage,” said Mr. O’Toole, still wincing slightly as he moved to the back seat of the carriage.

  Mrs. O’Toole turned to Ryan, who was now holding the reins in his hands. “Ryan, let’s get moving.” Ryan flapped the reins and the horse jerked forward. “Use the whip if you must, Ryan. The detective may not be bluffing. There may be others on our trail.”