Chapter Seventeen: Flight to Freedom
The next several minutes were uneventful as the carriage made its way down the twisting, narrow road to the Van Lew’s farm. Finally, it was in sight—an unusually large farmhouse surrounded by a group of smaller outbuildings.
“Should we stop at the house, Father?” asked Abigail. “Miss Van Lew said they might be able to give us some food.”
“Not now, Abigail,” said Mr. O’Toole as Ryan started to head the carriage in the direction of the largest barn. “Now that the detectives are aware of our intentions, I think it’s best that we keep on the move. Besides, if the detectives ask the servants whether they’ve seen us, they can truthfully reply that they have not. Right now, we’re going to head into those woods over there, on foot.”
As the carriage came to a stop, Mrs. O’Toole called out, “Take only what you think you can carry on a five mile hike, children. It doesn’t matter if we leave a few baubles behind. It’s more important that we can move quickly when we have to.” She smiled at her husband. “It’s a journey to freedom now, and we don’t want anything to slow us down.” Mr. O’Toole smiled back, clasping his wife’s hand tightly.
“You are going to take your gun, aren’t you?” Matthew asked eagerly. “You were wonderful with that gun, Mother. I’ll bet that detective is still shaking.”
Suppressing a grin, Mr. O’Toole said, “Your mother was only doing what she had to do to save us, Matthew. Everyone did their part and did it well. You too, Matthew.”
Matthew stood up a little straighter than usual, smiling slightly.
“Yes, Matthew, you were great,” said Ryan, his eyes dancing. “Why, I’ll bet that horse is still running.”
“Oh quiet, you,” said Matthew, his smile bending into a slight frown.
Just then, the faint sound of hooves became audible. “Did you hear that?” Abigail said urgently. “More horses coming down the road!”
“I expected that,” said his Father. “It’ll take them a least a couple of minutes to get here. By that time we’ll be in the woods and hard to spot. Okay, everyone. Hurry now.” Mr. O’Toole grabbed one of the family’s bundles, wincing again with the pain of his wounded arm. In his other hand, he grabbed the musket from the carriage. “Those woods on the left are our target. Once you hit the woods, spread out a little and we’ll make faster time. But stay within ten feet of the person nearest to you. “I’ll be in the middle and lead the way. Mary, you take the right side. Abigail, you’re on the left. But for now, run as fast as you can.”
The five O’Tooles dashed toward the woods, Matthew and Ryan ahead of the others. Abigail and her mother, both burdened with bundles of clothes and their small chest of money, followed closely behind. Mr. O’Toole, repeatedly looking over his shoulder, brought up the rear. They reached the woods in less than two minutes and then stopped at Mr. O’Toole’s signal, about twenty-five feet or so inside the woods, hidden by the dense foliage. Mr. O’Toole crept back closer to the edge of the woods for a better look.
“Good,” he said, nodding his head. “They’ve discovered our carriage but they’re heading for the farm house, probably expecting to find us there. The servants will say they’ve not seen us, but they’ll still search the house from top to bottom and that’s just what we want. It’ll be twenty minutes before they realize we’ve taken to the woods.”
The O’Tooles pressed on through the woods, as quickly as possible without losing contact with each other. The moon was now bright enough that they could sense each other’s outline. Hearing each other was not a problem; the boys in particular seemed to be pushing their way through branches rather than ducking them.
“Land o’ Goshen!” whispered Abigail. “You two are as noisy as a pair of wild horses!”
“It’s not my fault,” exclaimed Matthew, loudly enough that both his mother and father quickly said “Shush!”
“It’s not my fault,” he said again, this time in an urgent whisper. “I can’t see anything and these trees keep hitting me in the face!”
“Well, you don’t have to keep hitting them back,” said Abigail lightly.
“And how about Ryan? He’s just as noisy as I am!”
“I’m sorry if I’m making too much noise,” said Ryan softly. “I’ll try to be quieter.”
“Everybody, be quiet for a minute,” said Mr. O’Toole urgently.
Everyone stopped in their tracks and craned their necks to hear the sounds of possible pursuit. But the woods seemed quiet.
“That’s good. We’ve been on the move for at least fifteen minutes and I don’t think they’ve discovered that we took to the woods yet. Once they do, they’ll probably make a lot of noise following us, so we should be able to hear them at least a mile away.”
“What if they somehow get around in front of us?” asked Ryan.
“Unlikely,” said his father. “If we hear anybody in front of us, it’ll be soldiers. And let’s hope it’ll be Federals. There shouldn’t be many Confederate patrols on foot in this area. Now if we hit a road—and Miss Van Lew said we should come across two of them—then be real careful. Stay back behind the trees until I investigate. But for now, let’s move on—quickly but quietly.”
Several minutes passed with the only accompanying noises from the occasional hoot owl and the leaves rustling in the slight breeze. The family was moving more efficiently now, covering ground quickly except for when someone became tangled up momentarily with some particularly tenacious vines or roots. Then, without warning, the echoes of three gunshots cut through the quiet.
“Father!” gasped Matthew.
“We’ve got more than a mile on them, Matthew,” Mr. O’Toole said calmly. “They’re just trying to spook us. Just keep moving. With any luck, we’ll reach the Federal lines before they reach us.”
Newly motivated, the family moved ahead with even greater haste. Matthew tripped over a hidden tree root and fell hard, gashing his forehead on a jagged rock. Mrs. O’Toole ran to him quickly, hugged him tightly and tended to his wound briefly. But there was little time for expressing sympathy and the family pressed on almost immediately.
Almost half an hour later, shouting and the sounds of horses could be heard clearly ahead. “Shush!” said Mr. O’Toole in a sharp hiss. “Get down and stay down! I’ll move up a little and investigate.” He crept forward, moving up a few feet and then stopping to listen. All of a sudden the voices were quite loud, almost right on top of them. Peering from behind a thick elm tree, Mr. O’Toole could see a group of Confederate horsemen, no more than three or four, moving down a narrow road that cut the woods in half. They were clumped together, arguing in sharp whispers back and forth. Suddenly, a man who appeared to be an officer hushed the others. He paused, and then directed his horse slowly and cautiously in the direction where Mr. O’Toole sat, crouched behind a tree. An instant later, a small animal—probably a raccoon—scooted out of the underbrush noisily, temporarily spooking the officer’s horse, which snorted and reared back. “Down, you fool horse!” cried the officer, fighting to regain control. “Damnation, you foolish animal!” he cursed. “This is no place to be making noise!” He wrestled the horse down the narrow road toward the others. “Let’s get out of here,” he grunted to the others. “We stick around too long and we’re going to run into some darn Yankee patrol twice our size.” He dug his heels into his horse’s side and galloped off down the road, followed quickly by the other soldiers.
Mr. O’Toole rapidly made his way back to his family. “You could probably hear that little exchange,” he said, a sense of relief in his voice. “It was a small Confederate patrol, but they weren’t looking for us and were obviously feeling a bit edgy. And that’s good news for us. It probably means that this is about as far as the Confederates dare to go because the Yankee lines are so near. Another two miles or so and I think we can make it to the Federal picket line. But remember—we’ve got to be careful. As far as the pickets are concerned, we could be Confederates sneaking up on them
through the woods. We’ve got to make sure that when they do hear or see us that we identify ourselves as peaceful civilians right away.”
The O’Toole family worked their way up to the narrow road carefully, then crossed quickly after checking both directions. They weren’t more than a quarter of a mile into the woods on the other side when Ryan was sure he heard voices.
“What did you hear? Any gunshots? Horses?” snapped his father, as they once more stopped in their tracks to listen.
“No, just voices. Calling out to each other,” explained Ryan. “I just heard snatches of what they were saying when the wind seemed to change direction for a minute.”
“It’s probably the detectives, still after us. I’d hoped they might have given up by now,” Mrs. O’Toole said wearily.
“No such luck, I’m afraid,” said Mr. O’Toole, his voice also reflecting his exhaustion and concern. “I’m sure the provost marshal told them not to come back without us. For some reason, he must consider the O’Tooles to be dangerous criminals indeed.”
“We’ll be dangerous enough if they come close to us again,” Mrs. O’Toole said grimly.
“I’ve no doubt of that, Mary. You’ve already put the fear of God in them once,” Mr. O’Toole said, a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. “Still, we must hurry. I doubt that they’ll risk the sound of musket fire with the Federals so close, but they’ll overtake us if they can.”
But before the last words left Mr. O’Toole’s lips, the sound of gunfire again echoed loudly through the woods and a branch three feet over Ryan’s head was cracked in two by a zinging bullet.
“Down! Flat as you can be!” shouted Mr. O’Toole. Everyone except Mr. O’Toole fell quickly on their stomachs while he wrestled to get his musket into shooting position.
“Where are they?” Mrs. O’Toole exclaimed anxiously. “I don’t see them!”
Mr. O’Toole sank to his knees, still trying to balance the musket on his bad arm. “I don’t know. The woods are just too thick here. They may be hundreds of yards off. That may just have been a lucky shot.”
“Well, it won’t be lucky for them,” Mrs. O’Toole said grimly as she gently took the musket and powder horn from her wounded husband. “We can’t just lie here and wait for them. You said we must be close to the Yankee lines, William. I want you and the children to make a run for it. I’ll stay here and give them something to think about.”
“Mother!” yelled Abigail, shock in here voice. “You can’t do that!”
“My darling,” said Mrs. O’Toole soothingly, “we’re all in this together and we’ll all make it to safety—as a family. But right now—with your father hurt—I’m the only one who can do this. Now stay low and get moving. You’ll have to carry the strongbox. But don’t go too fast for your father, please…his bleeding seems to be getting worse. I’ll fire, reload quickly and the fire again. They may think that two of us have guns and that may slow them down a bit. Now go!”
“She’s right, Abigail,” said Mr. O’Toole gently. “It’s important that we get out of musket range and she’ll catch up to us in a minute.”
Still shaking her head, Abigail grabbed each of the boys by the hand and moved further into the woods, urging both boys to keep their heads down.
Speaking softly to his wife, Mr. O’Toole said, “I’m always beside you. You know that.”
She smiled. “I do know that, although I may have forgotten it for a while…this terrible war…”
“It will be over soon…at least for us.”
“I know that,” she said, nodding her head gently. “Hurry now! I’ll be right along.”
Bending low, Mr. O’Toole followed Abigail and the boys, now twenty or thirty yards ahead. Mrs. O’Toole waited for a couple of seconds, her musket elevated, then—when she thought she heard voices—fired in that direction. She reloaded quickly and listened again. With no sounds audible, she fired again in the same direction as before. Then she grabbed the musket in one hand and her bundle in the other and, crouching low, moved quickly after her husband.
Within five minutes the family was together again, advancing as quickly as the terrain and their burdens would allow. Hearing no further noises, they had begun to straighten up slightly when suddenly the crack of musket fire and the very audible zing of a miniball striking the ground between the two boys stopped them short. Once again they threw themselves to the ground.
“I’ll have to load again,” Mrs. O’Toole whispered urgently, reaching for the powder horn around her neck and starting to rise to a kneeling position.
“No! No! Stay down!” Mr. O’Toole hissed urgently. “We don’t know how close they might be!”
A split second later, a second shot rang out, from a position somewhat to their left.
“They’re trying to circle us!” gasped Mr. O’Toole. “Children…stay on the ground. Don’t even lift your head!”
More shots rang out…four…five. But now most of the shots came from in front.
“Oh No! We’re trapped!” cried Mrs. O’Toole.
“No…maybe not…wait…” said Mr. O’Toole softly.
Two more shots rang out and a man cried out.
“But…who’s shooting?” Mrs. O’Toole wondered aloud. “That can’t be…”
“It’s not the detectives,” Mr. O’Toole cut her off joyfully. “Look—it’s the Federals!”
Mr. O’Toole pointed to three blue-clad soldiers twenty yards in front of them and closing fast. Another shot rang out…this time from the detectives who had pursued them. But the three Union soldiers answered with almost simultaneous musket blasts and the pursuing detectives fell silent, except for what sounded like a scurrying retreat back through the woods.
“They’re on the run…let ‘em go,” said one of the soldiers. “We don’t want to get too far from our picket line.”
A second soldier had now walked up to where the children were huddled, their faces still pressed close to the ground. “So exactly who are you folks anyway? You must have done something mighty fiercesome to have half the rebel army after you.”
“Thank God you’re here,” sighed Mrs. O’Toole. “You can get up now, children, it’s all right.”
“Indeed, we’re enormously grateful you saved us,” said Mr. O’Toole, smiling broadly and rising up to shake the soldier’s hand. “Actually, they were provost marshal’s detectives from Richmond. But we would have been just as dead if they had caught up with us.”
“So what did you do to get the detectives after you? Rob a bank?” asked the third soldier, ambling over to the children with a huge smile on his face and helping them to their feet.
“Well, I guess it was because we were from Boston,” said Matthew, a smile beginning to crack his lips as well.
“Yankees living among the rebels, eh?” said the first soldier. “That couldn’t have worked out too well.”
“The war made things very complicated,” said Mr. O’Toole softly. “But none of that matters now. We’re just grateful you saved our lives and we’re hoping you can take us through to the Union lines.”
“Won’t have far to go,” said the first soldier. They’re up yonder a little less than a mile. In fact, you people will feel right at home. One of the regiments that we’ve got bivouacked in camp is the Third Massachusetts. Heck, you might even meet someone you know.”
“I’m not sure about that, private, but I know we’ll be happy to see a friendly face…or even anybody who’s not trying to shoot us, for that matter,” said Mrs. O’Toole, a poignant smile crossing her face.
Ryan, Matthew and Abigail were now on their feet, beaming happily. As Ryan brushed off the dirt and leaves from his clothes, he thought that he couldn’t remember a time when he had been happier. He knew it would be some time before the O’Tooles would have a home they could call their own, but he also knew that their worst troubles were behind them. Maybe his family would go back to Boston and start over. But it wouldn’t really matter to him even if they never saw Boston
again. As he looked over to his mother and father in a fond embrace, both smiling joyously, Ryan knew that his family was a real family again and that was worth more to him than anything else in the world. They may have lost a home, but they had found each other again. It was a trade he’d make any day of his life.
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About the author:
A musicologist by profession, Terence O’Grady has written extensively on various musical topics, most notably popular music and the Beatles. He has also been interested in children’s literature and has authored a handful of middle readers and chapter books. Due North to Freedom combines his interest in children’s literature with another longtime interest, the American Civil War.
For other books by this author, see the author's page.
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