

### Due North to Freedom

Terence O'Grady

Copyright 2011 Terence O'Grady

Cover photo courtesy of Rob Shenk

Cover by Joleene Naylor

Smashwords Edition

Smashword Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Richmond under Siege

Chapter 2: Fight!

Chapter 3: Expectations Denied

Chapter 4: First Threats

Chapter 5: Mr. Smith Arrested!

Chapter 6: Southern Strategy

Chapter 7: The "Yankees" Meet

Chapter 8: Joseph Discovered

Chapter 9: Dark Times

Chapter 10: Warnings

Chapter 11: Plotting the Escape

Chapter 12: Escape from Chimborazo

Chapter 13: Family Conflicts

Chapter 14: Due North to Freedom

Chapter 15: Hopes Destroyed

Chapter 16: Time to Leave

Chapter 17: Flight to Freedom

Prologue

While the main characters and story line of _Due North to Freedom_ are fictitious, most of the circumstances depicted here are historically accurate. A number of northerners had moved to southern cities such as Richmond prior to the war, mostly for economic reasons. When the war came, some of the transplanted Yankees completely embraced the Confederate's perspective. Others, like the O'Toole family, were divided in their loyalties from the beginning and eventually concluded that they could not support the Confederate cause. From that point on, it was just a question of how and when they could return North to freedom.

Chapter One: Richmond Under Siege

Ryan sometimes felt his ears would go deaf with the explosions. The Yankees had been lobbing shells into Richmond from their long-range guns for so long that he forgot what quiet really sounded like. The Yankees probably knew that the shells weren't doing much damage; they just wanted to remind everybody in the city that they weren't going away.

And the heat! It seemed like it was always hot in Richmond, even in early October. Boston had been different. He had loved the crisp, cool air of Boston in the fall, and the roaring fires that he and his family would huddle around in the frigid winters. But Richmond barely had a winter. There was never any real snow here. That's what he missed most about leaving Boston—sliding down the small but slippery hills that were only a couple of minutes from his house.

Of course his mother, Mary O'Toole, said that it was a blessing that Richmond was so warm. She hated the Massachusetts winters. But she had been born in the South, in Virginia, not far from Richmond, and always claimed that she could never got used to the cold. When the family had moved from Boston to Richmond so that his father, William O'Toole, could take a position at one of the largest banks in Richmond, no one was happier than his mother.

The move had not been an easy one for thirteen year-old Ryan O'Toole. He was lanky and tall for his years, but shy—slow to make friends—even after living in Richmond for over three years. There were a couple of other boys he liked, boys he sometimes fooled around with. But many of the other boys teased him about the way he talked, teased him about being a "Yankee." Usually they were smiling when they said it, but not always. Lately, as the war was getting worse and worse for the Confederacy, he could hear real anger in their taunts.

His younger brother, eleven year-old Matthew, seemed fine with the move to Richmond. Matthew had made friends quickly, as he always did. When the family first arrived, the other kids teased him about his "Yankee" accent, but he gave it right back to them with a broad smile on his face. Matthew was easy to like. He had had dozens of friends back in Boston and now he had dozens of friends in Richmond as well.

Ryan's older sister, Abigail, seemed happy enough in Richmond. She was nineteen and had recently taken a position as a schoolmistress. She now lived next to the little school in which she taught on the other side of Richmond. But Abigail still visited with the family often on weekends and that was fine with Ryan. She had a beau now, but sometimes made fun of him when she was alone with her family. Still, Ryan figured that moving to Richmond was probably just fine with her.

Ryan wasn't sure about his father, though. While his Mother talked about moving to Richmond as "coming home," Mr. O'Toole would just smile slightly and nod. His father seemed to enjoy his job at the new bank—he was a vice president now and people always called him "sir"—but Ryan thought that he had become much quieter than he used to be, especially in public. Mr. O'Toole had been so lively and outgoing back in Boston. He seemed to know everyone. But now, he was so soft-spoken when he greeted people, and he never seemed to really smile, not unless he was home with his family. Even then, his mother and father never seemed to laugh together—or at least not as much as they had in Boston. Of course there wasn't much to laugh about with the war going on right in their own backyard.

Ryan suddenly heard the sounds of horses in back of him. Turning back toward his house, he saw two soldiers, dressed in drab, butternut uniforms, dismounting and heading toward the door. Something about the war! He was sick of hearing about the war! It had started right after his family had moved to Richmond. All the grown ups talked about it constantly and the boys at school always wanted to play soldier. Ryan wanted no part of it. The boys, of course, all pretended to be Confederate soldiers fighting the Yankees, driving them out of Richmond, driving them out of the South altogether. Ryan just ignored the other boys. He didn't want to be a Yankee or a Reb. He just didn't want to think about it. But now he saw that a couple of Confederate soldiers were knocking on his front door. Ryan returned quickly to the house and went around to a side window, ducking his head down so as not to be seen, and listened as best he could to what the soldiers had to say.

"Now Mr. O'Toole, sir, we're not here lookin' for any trouble," said the older of the two soldiers. "You're a respected man in this community, even if you haven't been livin' in Richmond too long."

"But on the other hand, sir," chimed in the younger man, "we have to be lookin' to the defense of our fine city. We must know how everyone stands on these matters. Richmond is under siege by the Yankees and we must know who we can count on."

Mr. O'Toole paused. He cleared his throat slightly.

"Gentlemen," he said quietly. "Rest assured that I will take no action that reflects badly on Richmond, providing of course that all of her citizens are protected from abuse—abuse from any quarter."

"That's all very well and good," the younger man said curtly," but them that is not with us is against us, if you take my meaning."

"It's just that...well...people will talk, sir," said the older soldier in a gentler tone. "Everybody knows that you're from Massachusetts, and it may be some of those Massachusetts boys we find on our doorstep one of these fine days. We've got to know if we can rely on you for help if it comes to defending Richmond from the Yankees."

"Well, corporal, I think you'll agree that I'm a little old for active military service. But I can be relied on to continue to work hard for the betterment of Richmond, just as I have for the last three years," said Mr. O'Toole, his tone stiffening slightly.

"That's as may be," said the younger soldier, "but some of us are a bit suspect as to just where the loyalties of some of you transplanted Yankees lie."

"You will recall, sergeant, that we 'Yankees'—two of whom work with me at my bank as you well know—came to Richmond of our own free will to make our homes and our lives here. We're here now and have no plans to leave. As far as our loyalties are concerned, we—my 'Yankee' friends and I—are loyal to the notion of peace and harmony, nothing more and nothing less. Now if just you're here to throw some more northerners in jail..."

"We're not here to make an arrest, sir, but we felt we must remind you of the circumstances in which we all find ourselves," said the older soldier calmly. "And as a man of standing in this community, you surely are aware that there can be no peace without honor, sir. And Virginia must think of its honor."

Mr. O'Toole nodded his head gently. "I understand your position, sir. Now please understand mine. We wish to be left alone—myself and my family—to pursue our lives and to live in peace. Now, I'm sure you gentlemen have other business which you must attend to so I'll bid you good day."

The soldiers nodded and turned toward the door. Then the younger man wheeled around abruptly. "Mr. O'Toole, you've got a fine family, I hear—a lovely wife of good Virginia stock. I wouldn't think you would want to do anything foolish that would bring harm to them."

"I have no intention of bringing harm to anyone, gentlemen," replied Mr. O'Toole, raising himself to his full height, "and I will see to it that no harm comes to my family, I can assure you."

"Good day then, Mr. O'Toole," said the older soldier, putting his hand on the younger man's shoulder and beckoning toward the door.

The two soldiers left quickly, closing the door hard behind them. Mr. O'Toole turned to face the window under which Ryan had been crouched.

"So, did you hear what you wanted to hear?" he said loudly, striding toward the window.

Ryan straightened up, looking guilty. "I guess so, sir."

"So it's you, is it?" said his father, a smile starting to spread across his face. "I had figured it would be your reckless little brother, Matthew. Well, come on in anyway. If you're going to hear some of it, you might as well hear all of it."

A couple of minutes later, Ryan was munching oatmeal cookies at the dinner table while his father tried to explain.

"The war isn't going well for the South, son, and they're getting worried. It looks as if Richmond might come under direct attack and people are getting all agitated. So they're looking for traitors—someone who they think is going to sneak around and open up a backdoor somewhere and let the Yankees creep in under cover of night. And if you're looking for traitors, you're naturally going to look at folks who come from up north, like you and me. And Mr. Boniface and Mr. Wilson at the bank. They came to Richmond from the North, too. And there are plenty of others, mostly merchants who came to Richmond to set up a business. Up until now, there's been no problem. But now I guess we're all under suspicion."

"But people used to be so friendly to us," lamented Ryan.

"Sure, they needed our help," his father replied. "And no one thought it would come to this."

"Did you think this would happen, with the war and everything?" asked Ryan.

"Well, I should have known, even if I didn't," replied Mr. O'Toole. "The storm clouds were gathering for all to see. I should have known...but your mother..."

"What did Mother think"? asked Ryan, wiping the cookie crumbs from his face with the napkin.

"Your mother figured everything would work out for the best. She loves Richmond, loves Virginia. She just couldn't imagine that anything would go wrong."

"Isn't there anything we can do?"

"No, there's not much. Keep your head down and hope this foolish war comes to an end soon. And hope the Yankees don't overwhelm Richmond and cause us all a lot of grief."

***

Later that day, Ryan's mother moved quickly through the kitchen, holding a platter of freshly sliced cucumbers in one hand and a jug of water in the other.

"Ryan, where's your brother? Landsakes, that boy is never around when you want him!" said Mrs. O'Toole.

Ryan looked up from his book. "He told me that he was going to go down and watch Samuel, the smithy, for a while."

"That's your little brother all over," said Mrs. O'Toole, shaking her head, "spending half his life in some sweaty, dirty old blacksmith shop. What on earth does he find so fascinating about a blacksmith shop?"

"I think he like to see the men work with the fire, Mother," said Ryan.

"On a day like today? He'll be coming home all filthy as usual, I expect, if he comes home on time for supper at all. Well, Ryan, you've got to go on out and find that boy. I suppose you'll have to lead him by the hand all the way home just to get him away from that terrible place."

"He'll come all right, Mother," replied Ryan. "It's just that he loses track of time and forgets all about us."

Mrs. O'Toole smiled weakly. "Yes, I suppose you're right. But that boy would forget to eat for days at a time if somebody wasn't leading him by the hand and sitting him down at the table."

Just then there was a clatter at the back door and Matthew, breathless, his blonde curly hair in disarray, charged in. He wheeled around quickly, the long, blackened slab of metal in his hands bumping against one of the kitchen cabinets.

"Am I in time for supper?" he cried, a hint of anguish in his voice.

"You're just in time," replied his mother curtly. As she turned toward her younger son, she eyed the blacken slab of metal, now sitting on the kitchen table. "And what on earth is that?"

"Why, it's a sword, of course. Or at least part of a sword. Old Samuel Hayes said I could have it. Said it wasn't good for nothing," replied Matthew jauntily.

"Good for anything, not good for nothing," corrected his mother. "What will people think of your father if his own sons can't speak God's English?"

"I can speak English," replied Matthew with a shrug. "It's just that Samuel said..."

"I'm sure that Samuel is a perfectly fine blacksmith," interrupted Mrs. O'Toole, "but that doesn't mean I want my sons talking like him. And I hope you don't think for one minute that I will be letting you keep that awful instrument of war in this house!"

"Oh, mother," protested Matthew. "It's not a real sword...I mean, I don't think anyone's ever been stabbed with it. It's just an old broken blade. Samuel says it can't be fixed."

Ryan had been reading, not paying much attention to the conversation, but now he perked up. "Mother, what do you think about the war?"

"Heavens! Don't we hear enough about the war? I am certainly not going to be talking about the war all of the time, especially with my own children at the dinner table."

"But mother," protested Ryan, "two officers came to the house today and asked father where he stood on the war. It was like they were trying to get him to say something that he didn't want to say."

"Yes, I heard about that little bit of eavesdropping, young man, and I think you should be ashamed of yourself, carrying on as if you were some sort of sneak thief in the night."

"I just thought I should find out what's going on," said Ryan. "I thought that maybe father was in some trouble."

"Your father is not in any trouble, Ryan," Mrs. O'Toole replied stiffly. "I can assure you that a vice president of one of the largest banks in Richmond does not get into any trouble."

"But the two soldiers kept asking whose side father was on," pleaded Ryan.

"What a silly question that is!" his mother responded. "It's obvious what side your father is on!"

"It's not obvious to me," said Ryan. "What side are you on, Mother?"

Matthew, who had picked up the sword and was preparing to take it outside, stopped to listen.

"I'm against all wars, Ryan. You know that. I just wish the Yankees would go home."

"But what about slavery, mother?" Matthew chimed in quickly.

"Matthew O'Toole," his mother said angrily, "you know that we don't approve of slavery. Your father is an educated man who is well respected in the community. We're not plantation owners who have to grow cotton to make a living."

"But it's not just cotton growers who have slaves, mother," said Ryan. "Mr. Stinson has some slaves working down at the mill, down by the river."

"I don't care what Mr. Stinson does, Ryan," she insisted. "We don't own slaves and we never will. Why, way back when I was a child, living not forty miles from here, my family never had slaves."

"So you want the Yankees to win the war, mother?" Ryan peered at his mother intently.

"I want the Yankees to go back where they came from and leave us alone. We have God-fearing people here in Virginia...civilized people...people with a level of refinement that puts the North to shame. I just want the Yankees to go back home."

Chapter 2: Fight!

"Come on, Joseph. Hurry! We've got to catch up with Jim." Matthew gestured to a ten-year old black boy a little taller than himself as he broke into a run through the dusty street. "Hey, Jim! Wait up!"

A tall, redheaded boy about twenty yards ahead on the street stopped and turned toward Matthew. "Oh, it's you, O'Toole. What do you want?"

Matthew stopped, panting slightly, while he caught his breath. "You've got to see my new sword! Joseph said it's one of the best he's ever seen." Joseph, who had been trotting leisurely, pulled up to the two boys and nodded toward Jim.

Jim smirked. "So Joseph says it's one of the best he's ever seen, does he?"

Jim grabbed the sword blade from Matthew and eyed it suspiciously. "Well, I think it's a piece of junk."

Matthew looked indignant. "It's not junk. Old Mr. Hayes, the blacksmith, said it was a good sword...once."

"You gonna believe an old slave?" sneered Jim, leering at Joseph.

"He's a good blacksmith," Matthew fired back quickly. "He knows what he's talking about."

"Oh, yeah? I never knew a slave— _any_ slave— who knew what he was talkin' about," said Jim, glaring directly at Joseph."

"I'm no slave!" demanded Joseph. "My father's a freeman and so am I!"

"Once a slave, always a slave, my father says," said Jim mockingly.

"Well, I guess your father's wrong, then," said Matthew, his eyes locking with Jim's.

"And I guess your father is a darn Yankee," Jim fired back, poking his finger into Matthew's chest. "And I guess that makes you a darn Yankee too...you and your whole family."

"Sure, I was born in Boston. So what?" said Matthew in his cockiest tone. "I'm just as good as anybody born in Virginia."

"You Yankees ain't even as good as any black man born in Virginia! And that's sayin' something," said Jim, his eyes shifting again to Joseph as he broke into a wide grin.

Matthew glared, his eyes narrowing. "There's nothing wrong with either of us and you know it!" he demanded.

"Nothin' wrong with you...Nothin' wrong with you that goin' to jail won't solve. My daddy says that all the Yankees livin' here in Richmond are goin' to be rounded up and stuck in jail 'til we win this war once and for all. My daddy says that you're all just a bunch of spies and slave lovers and that you all deserve to go to jail."

"You take that back!" screamed Matthew, dropping his sword blade, and throwing up his fists.

"Oh, go home to your mamma," sneered Jim, turning to leave. But Matthew grabbed him by the shoulder and threw a wild punch that just grazed Jim's arm. His face bright red, Jim turned to Matthew and shoved him to the ground. Immediately, he began to kick Matthew hard in the ribs as he lay sprawled on the ground. Joseph clenched his fists and took a step toward Jim.

"You touch me, black boy, and your father goes to jail! And they throw away the key," bellowed Jim as he turned to face Joseph.

"Get up, Matthew. Get up and get out of here." The voice was Ryan's, who was striding quickly in their direction.

"Oh, so you get big brother to do all your fighting for you?" sneered Jim, kicking dirt at Matthew as he scrambled to his feet.

"I don't need..." began Matthew angrily.

"I said, get out of here, Matthew. Go home...now," ordered Ryan, trying hard to make his voice sound calm.

"Well big brother ain't big enough to handle me, and he knows it," taunted Jim as he turned to face Ryan.

"No reason for anyone to fight," said Ryan, returning Jim's glare. "We've all got things to do without having to do this." Ryan turned to face his brother. "Let's go."

Matthew turned away and started to dust off his pants. Just then, Jim swooped down quickly to pickup a nearby rock. As he swung his arm back to throw it at Ryan, Matthew quickly grabbed the sword blade off the ground and whisked it at Jim. The blade glanced off the older boy's ankle and he cried out in pain as the rock dropped out of his hand.

"Ow! You tryin' to kill me? You tryin' to kill me with that sword?" Jim screamed. "I'm gonna to get you for this! My father's gonna get you—all three of you. He's gonna put all three of you in jail, you darn Yankees!" Jim ran off quickly, obviously favoring his sore ankle.

"Oh, it barely nicked him," said Matthew, a slight smile on his face.

"Just nicked him?" said Ryan. "Are you kidding? You could have taken his foot off with that blade."

"Looked to me that he was running pretty fast for a boy with just one foot," said Matthew, obviously pleased with his comment.

"Mother and Father aren't going to think it was so funny," said Ryan, scowling at his little brother. "You all right, Joseph?"

"I'm all right. He never touched me," said Joseph, shaking his head.

"He's lucky I didn't..." began Matthew.

"You're lucky you didn't hurt Jim worse. Matthew," said Ryan. "That boy can cause trouble."

"What you mean...trouble?" asked Joseph.

"Well, his father's on the city council. And our father says he's one of the worst."

"What does he mean? Is he going to put us all in jail?" Matthew asked quietly.

"He's probably just talking. But he sure doesn't like northerners, especially now that Richmond's in trouble. And he's not the only one. Two soldiers came to see father yesterday. Said they wanted to know whose side he's on," explained Ryan.

"What did Father say?" asked Matthew.

"Not much. Said he just wanted things to be peaceful."

Joseph kicked the dirt in front of him. "My pa tells me that there are some people who want to make him a slave again. Maybe force him into the army."

"I don't know, Joseph," answered Ryan. "I don't think that's likely, but I'll have to ask my father."

"Because my pa's not goin' to be a slave again, he tells me. He says he'd rather die first."

Chapter Three: Expectations Denied

Abigail O'Toole gazed slowly across the classroom. How did it get so messy? She thought the students had had a good day, considering the circumstances. It was getting more difficult to keep their minds on their lessons, now that Richmond itself seemed in danger.

At the beginning of the war, things had been very different. The war had been little more than a game at first. The boys had grabbed broomsticks and marched around the schoolyard in imitation of Richmond's beloved F Company or frolicked around on pretend horses like the renowned Light Cavalry Blues. The girls had clapped their hands together in admiration of the boy's antics, duplicating the delighted faces of their big sisters as they watched the handsome young men go off to the battle of First Manassas. And when Richmond had been chosen as the capitol of the entire Confederacy and President Davis took up residence there, why it looked as if the young boys would fairly burst with pride.

But things had changed somewhat when the first casualties started to be brought back to the city. At first, there was much talk of the gallant bravery of the young soldiers and how one must accept the occasional "empty chair" as a cost of defending freedom. When the first word came of the early Confederate victories, there were predictions of a short war—predictions that Washington would soon be taken by the brave Confederate boys who were each worth any five Yankees.

But the older veterans—those who had fought in the Indian or Mexican wars—were quieter, less prone to boasting. And as the stretchers and the simple pine boxes that served as coffins began to stack up at the railroad stations, the talk grew more muted, at least for a while.

It had been a thrill when the first Yankee prisoners had been paraded through town, looking bedraggled and dispirited. But the prisoners, and the large number of Confederate recruits who poured into Richmond, stretched the town's resources to the limit. Temporary prisons and hospitals were set up everywhere. Prices for everyday items had skyrocketed. There was a shortage of many of the necessities of life. And more and more frequently, you could see the amputees—originally strong confident southern boys, some from Virginia and some heralding from the deeper south—who now looked confused and unsure. They hobbled around, sometimes with a bottle of whiskey in their hand. The good citizens of Richmond would nod toward them and then look away quickly, hurrying down the sidewalk to their destination a little faster than usual. Not all the casualties of the war were heroic deaths—young men cut down in an instant as they defended their comrades. Some deaths seemed to take much longer.

At first, Abigail was able to use the children's excitement to her advantage at the school, at least some of the time. The arrival of each new regiment from afar was celebrated by a new geography lesson, highlighting that regiment's place of origin. Never had the children, especially the boys, seemed so eager to talk about Alabama, South Carolina, even Texas, which had always before seemed so far away, almost like a foreign country. It was harder to get the children interested in talking about the Northern states. But when a group of prisoners from a New York regiment were brought to Richmond, she had used the opportunity to talk about their home state. The children had professed little interest, but some had squirmed a little when she had described New York's industrial might.

But as the war dragged on, there were fewer opportunities to exploit it in the classroom. Some children had now lost their fathers. Several had not seen them for months. Most of the war talk remained optimistic, at least publicly. But she could tell that even the children were becoming more fatalistic, especially as the threat drew nearer to Richmond itself.

Abigail found that she herself had to become more animated to reach them. They seldom laughed now and many seemed lethargic. But on a good day she could rekindle that spark of curiosity in their eyes, at least for a little while. And today had been one of those days.

As she picked up the last of the papers littering the floor, Abigail turned quickly, hearing a familiar voice.

"Miss Abigail, I do hope that I am not catching you at a bad time." A pale young man in uniform stood before her.

Abigail smiled slightly. "Mr. Whitney, this is a fine time. I'm glad to see you." She offered her hand to the young soldier who took it and kissed it gently.

"I see your young charges have been dismissed for the day," Mr. Whitney said, a slight smile crossing his lips.

"I fear that my young men, not to mention my young ladies, do not conduct themselves with the polish displayed by the brave men of the Montgomery Regiment," said Abigail, pulling her hand away slowly.

"I am confident that you have all the young men eating out of your hand, Miss Abigail," said the soldier with a slight bow.

"They are a spirited lot, I can vouch for that. Or at least they used to be."

"But the spirit of Virginia can never be broken by..."

"The war takes its toll. There is no use denying it."

"But Abigail, the war goes well. Every day we hear good news."

"Good news, James? What? That Richmond has lost fewer sons in the most recent battle than in the one before? Or perhaps that we have suffered great casualties but remain in possession of the field...some God forsaken farmer's field of no use to anyone? Now that's something to crow about."

"Abigail!" demanded James. "You must not give in to dark thoughts. The men fight bravely and all of Richmond—nay, all of the South—pulls together for a common goal."

"Our great common cause—of course," said Abigail shaking her head sadly.

"We have discussed this before, Abigail. Surely you must admit that freedom from tyranny is the most noble goal for which mankind can fight!"

"But what of the tyranny that we bring on ourselves, James?"

"The conniving Yankees have always been the aggressors—you know that, Abigail."

"Do I, James? The North responded to _our_ declaration of war at Fort Sumter, to our tearing the Union apart."

"The Union!" spluttered James angrily. "What do the Yankees know of the Union? They are responsible for destroying the Union. Their prying, mettlesome ways destroyed the Union long before the first short was fired at Sumter."

"Enough, James," said Abigail, shaking her head sadly. "It does us no good to discuss these matters and it hurts our once-true friendship."

"Surely, Abigail," objected the young soldier huskily," surely we must protect our way of life?"

"Oh, it's a grand life to be sure, James. We live in a city full of anger and violence. Many of the children have lost their fathers..."

"Virginia must defend its own values and its own people. You used to understand those values. You—even as a Northerner—used to understand the value of our society."

Abigail looked away, staring purposely out the window.

James continued, speaking more softly. "Abigail...I don't understand. In these last months we have drifted farther and farther apart. We used to...understand each other. But now it seems that you have little use for me." James paused, lowering his head. "Of course I am merely an aide to the general, I myself have not had the opportunity to prove my manhood on the battlefield."

Abigail's eyes widened. "You think that we would be closer if you had risked your life in battle? Do you think that perhaps I would love you more if you had been maimed by a sabre or a cannonball?" Her eyes showed fury now. "Or do you think you could find more favor with me if you had killed dozens of Yankees, bringing their swords and flags home as prizes."

"Abigail, I..."

"No, James. We came together when we were young. I was, perhaps, too young and not able to see what I now can see so clearly. This war is wrong, James. To fight a war to maintain slavery is wrong, no matter how skillfully the war is justified by reference to honor or the great traditions of Virginia."

"I see, Miss Abigail," James said formally, clicking his heels slightly. "You have finally made your sentiments as clear as crystal." He paused for a few seconds. "Well, I am grateful for that. It appears that I have been wasting my time...that we both have been wasting our time for these past two years. I assure you that I will not darken your threshold again." James turned quickly and walked briskly out of the classroom.

Abigail leaned slightly on the desk with her left arm, her right hand whisking away a tear from her eye.

* * *

Later that evening, Mary O'Toole gazed at her daughter from across the parlor. "Abigail," she said, pausing in her knitting, "you're so very quiet tonight."

Abigail sighed. "I suppose I am," she said, a weary smile on her face. "It's been a difficult day."

"Has it indeed? Were the children hard to manage today?"

"No. Not really. But James came to see me today. There was a scene."

"A scene?" Mrs. O'Toole dropped her knitting to her lap. "Goodness! Whatever happened?"

"Oh, don't worry, Mother. No one else was present. It was just between the two of us." Abigail paused briefly. "You know, mother, James and I see the world differently now."

"It's the war, isn't it, Abigail?" said Mrs. O'Toole, shaking her head sadly.

"The war is endless. I can hardly remember a time before the war," Abigail answered listlessly.

"Ah, but there was a time before the war, when you first met James. You two were immediately fond of each other, as I recall."

Abigail gave a weak smile. "Yes...I suppose we were." Abigail half-closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the large armchair.

"Well, the war will be over soon, I'm sure, Abigail. Those Yankees..."

"Those Yankees aren't just going to go home, Mama," Abigail interrupted. "They're all around the city. You know it's just a matter of time."

Mrs. O'Toole tossed her knitting to one side and straightened up stiffly in the chair. "Never! They will _never_ take this city. We turned them back once...we turned McClellan back when he and his army were at the gates."

"That was McClellan, Mama. Not Sheridan and not Grant," said Abigail firmly. "And that was before the South had to pour out half its blood on the battlefields of this war."

Mary O'Toole turned away from her daughter and spoke softly. "Yes, it has been difficult. We have all suffered. And the young men...But James..." She turned back to face Abigail. "James has been with you. He has been a source of strength for all of us."

"James has never been able to accept the truth, Mama, the truth that thousands of good men—North and South—have died for no good reason. And none of our generals have been able to accept the truth either...not General Johnston...not even General Lee. The Confederacy is lost, Mama."

Mrs. O'Toole rose quickly to her feet. "No! No! It will never be lost! It will never..."

Suddenly there was a loud noise from the kitchen. Matthew burst into the room, Ryan at his heels. Quickly regaining her composure, Mrs. O'Toole turned toward the two boys. "Children! Children! Whatever is the matter?"

The words tumbled out of Matthew's mouth. "Mama, there's been an accident! Jim McIntyre's been hurt. I mean...well, I hurt him, but he pushed me...and he was going to hit Ryan with a rock and I..."

Abigail moved quickly to Matthew's side, resting her hand gently on his shoulder. "Slowly, slowly. Just slow down and tell us what happened from the beginning."

"What's all the commotion about?" said Mr. O'Toole, entering the room quickly. "You can hear these two wildcats all the way out in the garden." Seeing the panicky look on Matthew's face, Mr. O'Toole's cheerful expression darkened. "What's happened?"

"There's been some sort of accident, Father. Matthew was just going to tell us about it," Abigail said softly.

Matthew now turned to his father. "You see, Father, there was a fight. There wasn't supposed to be a fight but there was. You see, Joseph and I, we..."

"Joseph? Joseph Smith?" his mother interrupted, fear in her voice. "Haven't I told you not to spend your time with that dirty little boy?"

Matthew wheeled to face his mother. "He's not dirty, Mama. Honestly. He's just as clean as me. We're good friends. We..."

"He's a horrid little slave boy, Matthew and I won't have my children playing with him," demanded Mrs. O'Toole.

"He's not a slave boy, Mother. He's Robert Smith's son. Mr. Smith is a freeman. He works in the post office. You know Mr. Smith," said Ryan.

"All I know is that Joseph Smith is a dirty little black boy and..." began Mrs. O'Toole.

"Please, Mary, we must get to the bottom of this," said Mr. O'Toole. "Go on, Matthew. What happened when you were playing with Joseph?"

Matthew continued, trying to speak more clearly. "We were showing Jim McIntire my new sword and..."

"Not that horrid sword! I told you to throw that horrible sword away!" moaned Mrs. O'Toole.

"Please, Mother...continue Matthew," said Mr. O'Toole.

"And Jim said that all the Yankees in Richmond were going to be rounded up and stuck in jail. He said we were all a bunch of spies...and he wouldn't take it back."

"And so?" said Mr. O'Toole.

"Matthew took a swing at him," interjected Ryan. "I saw it happen. Didn't do too much harm, though. He barely touched him."

"And then?" said Mr. O'Toole, a tone of exasperation rising in his voice.

"Then Jim shoved Matthew to the ground...started kicking him," Ryan continued.

"Joseph wanted to help me, but Jim said his father would go to jail if he did," Matthew offered eagerly. "Then Ryan showed up. Jim tried to get him to fight but Ryan wouldn't do it. Then Jim picked up a rock and was going to throw it at Ryan. What was I going to do? I had to do something! So I tossed the sword blade at his foot. It just grazed his ankle but he screamed like a stuck pig and ran away."

"How bad was the wound, Ryan?" asked Mr. O'Toole, turning to his older son.

"Hard to tell," said Ryan. "It didn't look too bad, but he was limping pretty fierce. Bad enough, I guess."

"Oh my goodness!" wailed Mrs. O'Toole. "Jim McIntire is the son of one of our city's most powerful council members. I fear that we haven't heard the last of this."

Chapter Four: First Threats

Moments later, there was a sharp banging at the front door of the O'Toole's house.

"Now who could that be? I was not expecting visitors today," Mrs. O'Toole said anxiously.

"I'll see to the door, Mary," said Mr. O'Toole. "Boys, I want you to go into the kitchen and stay there until I call you."

"But Father," moaned Matthew.

"Right away, please," said his father. Shrugging their shoulders slightly, Matthew and Ryan walked slowly toward the kitchen.

Another burst of banging echoed through the parlor as Mr. O'Toole swung the heavy door open, revealing a short, stocky man with an angry expression and a second, taller man with a rough looking face.

"Do you know who I am?" demanded the short stocky man.

"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure," said Mr. O'Toole politely.

"Don't you give me any of your sweet-tongued Yankee talk," barked the first man. "You may not know my name now but you're not going to forget it after today. I'm Otis McIntyre."

"Ah, yes. Well, I have heard of you, Mr. McIntyre," said Mr. O'Toole, bowing his head slightly.

"Well, I hope you've heard that I am not a man to be trifled with, sir," said McIntyre, puffing out his broad chest, "and I have come on most important business. I have been informed that your sons have ganged up on and accosted my son Jim. Attacked him with a dangerous weapon with malicious intent, sir."

"It appears, Mr. McIntyre, that I have had a somewhat different report regarding the incident in question," replied Mr. O'Toole coolly.

"Different report indeed!" blustered Mr. McIntyre. "I have no doubt that your two brutal sons have tried to paint a pretty picture of something that is no more and no less than common thuggery."

"My sons are not brutes and they are not thugs," Mr. O'Toole responded firmly. "My understanding is that my sons were provoked. I'm told that your boy had raised his hand to throw a rock at my oldest son, Ryan, and this caused Matthew to try to disarm him."

"Disarm him? Sir, are you mad? My son was defenseless! He was brutally attacked by a gang of three boys—your sons and that foul little black boy, Joseph Smith."

"Ah, yes. Joseph Smith, whose father your son threatened to have thrown in jail if memory serves me correctly."

"Your memory does not serve you correctly, sir," blustered Mr. McIntyre, shaking his fists furiously. "My son may have passed on a well-chosen word of warning to that uppity little slave boy..."

"Joseph Smith is no slave, Mr. McIntyre," said O'Toole. "He is a freeman, like his father, whom I have had the pleasure of knowing."

"They are all slaves, O'Toole, even if some of them have been freed by some misguided soul. And I will not have any of them roaming the city in gangs to accost peaceable citizens."

"See here, Mr. McIntyre, I have heard you out, even though you have insulted my sons and a freeman of the city. But my patience is wearing thin. Just what is your business here?" demanded Mr. O'Toole.

"My business," roared Mr. McIntyre, choking with rage, "is to demand and receive justice. I want your boys punished. If you do not see fit to take on that responsibility, then I will punish them myself."

"If you—or your hired help," said Mr. O'Toole looking directly at the large man still standing in the doorway, "try to lay a hand on either of my sons, you will answer to me!"

"Answer to you? By God, no sir! You will be answering to _me_ , you intolerable Yankee! Do you know the code duello?"

"A dual, Mr. McIntyre? Pistols at twenty paces or some equally ridiculous nonsense?"

"Do you deny a southern gentleman his honor, sir?"

"I give honor to every man who conducts himself honorably, Mr. McIntyre. There are many southern gentlemen whom I honor. You, however, are not one of them."

The larger man in the doorframe stepped forward, a grimace on his face. Trembling with fury, McIntyre shook his fist in Mr. O'Toole's face. "You forget yourself, sir! And you forget who I am!"

"You, sir, are one of the noisiest and most offensive members of Richmond's city council, and a disgrace to that body."

"William!" gasped his wife. "You mustn't!"

But Mr. O'Toole's face and voice were steely. "I believe our business together has been concluded, Mr. McIntyre."

"Not likely, sir! Not likely!" bellowed Mr. McIntyre. "If you haven't got the courage to face me in single combat—well, there is not much I can do about that. But I will say, sir, that it doesn't surprise me at all that a Yankee like you—a Boston Yankee—would lack the personal courage to confront a man of honor. But I say, sir, I say look to your family. Other Yankee lovers are sitting in prison at Castle Thunder even as we speak, sir, and yet there is room for more—there is indeed, sir."

"On what charge, McIntyre?" demanded Mr. O'Toole. "We have done nothing wrong and you know it! No court would hold me or any members of my family for an instant."

"Perhaps not, Mr. O'Toole, perhaps not," said Mr. McIntyre, adopting a quieter, more insinuating tone. "But justice comes not from the courts alone, Mr. O'Toole. And who's to stop an aggrieved Confederate patriot from taking the law into his own hands?"

"So that's your game is it, McIntyre! Send your hooligans under darkness of night to terrorize my family?"

"I said nothing of the sort, O'Toole. But the good men of Richmond grow restless. They have seen the Yankees pillage our lands and threaten their city and they know that there are Yankee spies in our midst."

"Let me tell you plainly, McIntyre," said Mr. O'Toole, his voice unnaturally quiet. "If any person lays a finger on my home or any member of my family, you will answer for it first. Now leave my house before I throw you—and your hooligan—out onto the street."

Mr. McIntyre gestured for his man to leave and then turned to Mr. O'Toole, a nasty smile spreading over his face. "Just watch yourself, Mr. O'Toole."

Chapter Five: Mr. Smith Arrested!

The next day, Ryan and Matthew walked swiftly past Main Street, following Joseph who broke into a trot from time to time. As they continued, they encountered fewer of the neatly gabled houses and shops that crowded the middle of Richmond and more and more large buildings—mostly old warehouses, some of them abandoned and falling apart.

"How much longer?" yelled Matthew to Joseph, who was still twenty yards ahead of him.

"About ten minutes, but we've got to hurry," answered Joseph over his shoulder without breaking pace.

As the boys started trotting again to keep up with Joseph, Matthew turned to Ryan. "I've never been this far out of the city, have you?"

"No, I think we're headed to Shanty Town. I guess that's where Mr. Smith and Joseph live," answered his brother quietly.

"Shanty Town? Didn't mother tell us to stay away from Shanty Town?"

"Yes, she did. But we're close now and I think we'll be fine as long as we're with Joseph. Besides, Joseph said that he has to tell us something important. I think we'd better hear him out."

The three boys finally arrived at a small house—barely more than a shack—on the outer edge of a block of similar buildings.

"In here. I'm pretty sure my father is home," said Joseph, holding open a rickety door.

"Joseph, is that you?" came his father's voice from inside the little house.

Mr. Robert Smith came striding out of a back room. "I'm glad to see you, son. Oh! I see we have visitors," he said, nodding in the direction of Ryan and Matthew as they walked slowly through the door.

"Pa, these are my friends, Ryan and Matthew O'Toole," said Joseph.

"O'Toole? Yes, I believe I've met your father. A fine man. Well, sit down, all of you. I'll see if I can rustle you up something to eat."

Ryan and Matthew gazed around them. The Smith's home seemed solid, but very small and simple. There were just three chairs around a plain pine kitchen table and Mr. Smith gestured the brothers into two of them while he remained standing.

"Better stick closer to home, Joseph. I'm not sure how safe it is for either of us to go wandering around Richmond these days," Mr. Smith said, a concerned expression on his face.

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Ryan.

"Well, the good people of Richmond are getting a bit nervous lately," he said, a slight smile crossing his face. "The war's been going badly—at least for them."

"Do you think the Yankees are going to take Richmond, Sir? Are they going to burn it the ground and slaughter everybody?" asked Matthew, his eyes widening.

"Don't believe everything you hear, young man," Mr. Smith chuckled. "I have no doubt the Yankees are going to take Richmond eventually, but they're not quite the demons that some of the good people of Richmond make them out to be."

"Do you want them to take Richmond, Mr. Smith?" asked Matthew.

"Of course I do, although I'm not looking for any more bloodshed. There's been enough of that already."

"But you're a free man, Mr. Smith, you could leave anytime you wanted to," said Ryan.

"I'm a free man? What you mean is, I'm not a slave. Nobody owns me the way they owned my mother and father. But am I a free man? I don't think so."

"I don't understand, Mr. Smith," said Matthew. "Isn't a free black man just like anyone else?"

Joseph sneered. "You know that's not true, Matthew. You're my friend, Matthew, and I'm proud of that. But you just don't understand about this."

"Joseph is right," Mr. Smith said. "Being a free black and being a regular citizen isn't the same thing. Did you know, Matthew, that a Negro can't walk down the street with a cigar in Richmond? Slave or freeman, it doesn't matter. I can't walk down the street with a cigar in my mouth. I can't be caught walking on the grounds of the capitol building. I've got a good job, I'm lucky to have it. But I can't hire a carriage without permission of my "master"—never mind that I don't have a master, so I've got no one to get permission from. Did you know that five black men can't meet together outside of a church without getting arrested?"

"But why do you put up with it?" demanded Ryan. "Why don't you complain to the Mayor or the City Council?"

"They're the ones doing it! They're the ones that passed all the laws!" groaned Mr. Smith.

"But can't you fight back somehow?" asked Matthew.

"You don't understand," sighed Mr. Smith. "No black man can stand up to the City Council. Doesn't matter if he's a freeman. Listen, a few months ago a bunch of free blacks were rounded up and informed that they were going to go out and dig trenches around the city...trenches for the soldiers to fight from. These men were simply told they were going to do this. They weren't asked—they were told. Now, you can say that it's not slavery, because each man was promised he'd get paid just like an army private. But are any of Richmond's white citizens being forced into service to dig ditches? Only the black man has that particular honor."

"Did the free black men do it?" asked Ryan. "Did they go and dig those ditches?"

"Sure, they did it! What else are they going to do? They gave a cheer for old Robert E. Lee when he came to oversee their work. What else can they do? Is there anybody who thinks a black man who refuses to dig ditches for the Confederacy won't end up in jail or worse?"

"Did you have to dig ditches?" asked Matthew.

"No, I was fortunate. Since I work at the post office, they figured they should let me be. But most black men were not so lucky."

"Is there anything you can do about it?" asked Ryan.

"There's not a lot I can do, not if we stay in Richmond. And that's why we're fixin' to leave. Joseph and I are going to hightail it out of here as soon as possible."

"Leave Richmond?" said Matthew, his eyes widening as he looked quickly from Mr. Smith to Joseph. "Where will you go?"

"Up north. If we can get through to the Yankee lines, we should be all right."

"You could go to Boston," said Ryan encouragingly. "That's where we were from—before we came to Richmond."

"I don't know exactly where we'll go. I just know I've got to find a place for Joseph and me, a place where we'll really be free. I know life won't be perfect in the North. The Yankees don't always look too kindly on black men either. Still, I've made up my mind."

"But you said the Yankees are going to take Richmond," said Matthew. "Can't you just wait until that happens?"

"The Yankees _will_ take Richmond," replied Mr. Smith. "But before they do, things could get real bad around here. There's talk that some people want to put rifles in the hands of black men and force them to fight the Yankees. That's not going to stop the Yankees but it sure could get a lot of black folk killed."

"How do you plan to do it?" asked Ryan. "How are you going to get through to the Yankee lines? There are Confederate soldiers everywhere you look in Richmond."

"If you mean, can we just get in a carriage and drive through the Confederate lines with them waving goodbye to us?" chuckled Mr. Smith. "No sir. I've heard that some black men have escaped by stowing away on some of the river traffic on the James and then up the Chesapeake Bay. Others have made it by going up the road to Port Royal on the Rappahannock and then on to the north. But it's not safe to go by the river anymore and I think the road to Port Royal is patrolled every night now. No, it's not going to be easy. We're going to have to sneak through the Confederate defenses. I think I found a guide, though. He's a smuggler—sells contraband to the Rebels and the Yankees. He says he knows just how to get through the Confederate lines. Says he'll take us through the lines himself, for a fee of course."

"Pa says we got to go at night," Joseph said excitedly. "He says we're going to need some disguises—maybe cloaks. I was hoping that maybe you two could help us out there—help us find some old cloaks to wear."

Ryan thought for a few seconds, his eyes meeting Joseph's. "We'll do what we can. I think we can come up with something."

Matthew chimed in quickly. "Sure, we can help you out. I know we can."

"I'm sorry to have to ask you boys to do this," said Mr. Smith, his face darkening. "But Joseph here says you've both been a good friend to him and there's nobody else we can turn to. We really would appreciate the help. But you've got to remember to tell no one about this. This is a risky business. If we're caught trying to escape, we'll get thrown into prison, even Joseph. We may even get shot on the spot. And the army isn't going to be happy to see a couple of white boys helping two black men to escape."

"We understand there's a risk," said Ryan firmly, "and we're willing to help."

"I appreciate it young..."

At that instant, Mr. Smith was interrupted by a loud, thumping sound.

"We know you're in there, Smith!" yelled an angry voice outside the front door. "You get out here right now or you'll live to regret it!"

"Joseph! Boys! Out the back way, quickly!" Mr. Smith leapt to his feet and gestured toward the back room urgently. "Quickly! There's no time to lose!"

"Father! Who is it? Who are those men pounding at the door?" gasped Joseph, rising quickly to his feet. Ryan looked over to Matthew, urging him to his feet.

"Detectives! Or worse! We've been betrayed! Get out of here now—get down to the dock. I'll meet you there as soon as I can. Now go—right now!"

Ryan grabbed Matthew by the arm, pulling him along. "Where's the back door, Joseph? We've got to leave _now_."

"Through that door—there's a window that leads out to the alley from the bedroom. But I can't..."

"You've got to! We've all got to get out of here!"

Joseph looked back yearningly at his father. "Now! Now!" shouted his father.

The pounding started again. "Come out of there—both of you! Right now or there'll be the devil to pay!" demanded the outraged voice. Men began throwing their shoulders against the door, trying to break it down.

Ryan charged through the door to the back room, Joseph and his brother right behind. Ryan went quickly to the window as the noise behind him got steadily worse. He tugged at the old window. It stuck for a moment—Joseph joined him and the two of them managed to heave it open. "You first, Matthew!" Ryan barked, pushing his brother toward the open window. Matthew squeezed through quickly and Joseph went next. Ryan could hear the front door cracking in back of him and the bellowing of the angry men. "You'll be sorry, Smith!" screamed a high-pitched voice, crazed with anger. Ryan paused for a split second to listen. "You get out of my house," yelled a voice that Ryan knew must be Mr. Smith's. Then Ryan slipped quickly out the window.

Matthew and Joseph stood there, panic in their eyes.

"OK, we've got to move fast!" said Ryan.

Suddenly, the three boys heard the sharp report of a pistol. They froze. Joseph moved back toward the window.

"No!" yelled Ryan. "He said he'd meet us by the dock! We've got to do what he said!" Ryan grabbed Joseph's shoulder and pushed him down the alleyway. Suddenly, there was another voice—closer by. "The kid's gone! He must have escaped out the back! You go round and catch him!" They heard footsteps coming toward them quickly.

"Quick! Go the other way!" cried Ryan, gesturing toward the other way down the alley. Ryan and Matthew started running with Joseph holding back briefly. "He said to get out of here—we've got to clear out!" demanded Ryan, back pedaling for an instant. Joseph shook his head, tears forming in his eyes. Then he ran after Ryan and Matthew.

The boys weaved their way quickly through dark back alleys and narrow streets. "Joseph, I'm lost! How do we get out of this maze?" Ryan yelled over his shoulder, slowing down for a couple of seconds.

"Follow me!" bellowed Joseph. "I know the fastest way down to the docks!" Joseph veered down an alleyway to their left and the boys followed.

"There they are! After them!" Matthew glanced back to see two older men coming after them with surprising speed.

"We've got to keep to the alleys!" Joseph spoke in a quieter but still urgent tone. "If we can't outrun them, we're going to have to shake them." Joseph veered again to the left, the boys following a few paces behind.

"Circle around!" yelled one of the two men in pursuit. "I'll go this way and flush them out!"

Matthew, slowing down to peer over his shoulder at his pursuer, started to fall behind. Ryan looked back and yelled for him to keep up. Turning his head one last time to look, Matthew tumbled over a barrel sitting near the edge of a building, hitting the ground hard. Hearing the sound, Ryan spun around quickly. Matthew was sprawled on the ground, fighting to get his breath back. "Oh, no!" shouted Ryan. "Get up! Quick!" Ryan then turned to Joseph, now several yards ahead of the boys. "Go ahead, Joseph! Don't wait for us!"

"I'm not going anywhere without you!" insisted Joseph, running back to help with Matthew. Ryan and Joseph quickly got Matthew to his feet. Each boy grabbed one of Matthew's shoulders and almost lifted him from the ground. In an instant they were flying down the alley once more.

"Quick! Over here!" hissed Joseph, turning the boys sharply to the left into a darkened alley. The boys followed, but stopped quickly after a few steps. Straight ahead was the wall of a small, tumbledown shanty. There was no exit! "Back! Back!" screamed Joseph. But it was too late. He could hear from the excited yells of the two men pursuing them that they were only yards away in a nearby alley.

Standing there for seconds that seemed like hours, Matthew glimpsed out of the corner of his eye the back door of one of the buildings that opened into the alley. Although it was almost completely dark now, he had a feeling that the door was not tightly closed. "In here! Quick!" he ordered. He slammed his shoulder against the door and it opened easily. In a flash, the boys were inside what turned out to be a small warehouse that was almost completely black. Ryan quickly turned to close the door behind him. But it kept sticking and refused to shut tightly. "We've got to hide somewhere in here!"

"Those kids must have gone down here!" They could hear the voice of one of the men clearly. Soon the other arrived. "Down here? Are you sure?"

"Must have. No other place they could have gone. There'll be here all right."

The three boys felt their way quietly through the darkness. There were dozens of barrels everywhere. Most seemed to be empty.

"Well, it's a dead end," said one of the men. "Maybe they went through that door."

Ryan gulped. "Inside! Get inside these barrels!" The boys quickly found three barrels that seemed empty and crawled inside, ducking down as far as they could.

The backdoor creaked as the two men kicked it open. Afraid to raise their heads, the three boys could only listen as the two men made their way slowly into the room. Suddenly, the boys could hear the angry, low-pitched snarling of a large dog. Seeing a large black dog come at them, his teeth bared menacingly, the two men backed up to the door.

"Where did that thing come from?"

"I don't know—guess it's some sort of guard dog."

"Well, I don't want any vicious dog at my throat. Let's get out of here."

"How about the Smith boy and those other two kids? They told us to catch them no matter what."

"Those kids ain't here. That dog would have torn them apart if they'd come in here. They must have turned down one of those other alleyways. We'll just have to come back to his house and pick the Smith kid up later. He'll probably be hanging around his house later tonight. What else is he going to do when he realizes his father's gone?"

The two men backed out the door carefully with their eye on the snarling dog. Then they turned and trotted down the alley.

After about ten minutes, Ryan poked his head up from inside the barrel. He could not hear the dog. Maybe it had gone back to sleep. He climbed slowly out of the barrel. Glancing around the room, he saw nothing. "I think it's OK. You can come out," he whispered to Matthew and Joseph.

The two boys crawled carefully out of their barrels. Suddenly the dog emerged from the darkness. All three boys gasped and took a step backwards. But the dog just wagged its tail, turned around, and lay down on some hay piled up over in the corner.

All three boys breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Let's get out of here before they come back," said Matthew. "And whatever you do, Joseph, don't go back to your house."

Chapter Six: Southern Strategy

"I want you all to know that I called this meeting because I think we're facing an important crossroads," said General Winder, beckoning for the other three men—Mayor Mayo, Councilman McIntyre and Colonel Wendt—to study the large map he was unfolding.

"As you can see, we are surrounded on three sides," the white-haired general said quietly but firmly, his finger sweeping the map. "The Yankees are probably 120,000 strong. I doubt if we have 60,000 able-bodied troops defending the city of Richmond."

Mayor Mayo shook his head sadly. "Can we hold?"

General Winder nodded his head vigorously. "General Lee is a wizard. He's defeated Yankee armies twice his size more than once. If anyone can hold, he can."

"But we are hard-pressed and the situation is getting worse," added Colonel Wendt gloomily. "Food is getting scarce. We have barely enough to feed our soldiers much less all the Yankee prisoners we're obliged to take care of. Meanwhile, the people of Richmond go hungry."

It's those darn Yankees," said General Winder, exasperation in his voice. "They refuse to exchange prisoners anymore so we're stuck with thousands of Yankee mouths to feed."

"They refuse to exchange prisoners because our soldiers ignore the terms of their parole and come right back to fight for their regiment," said Mayor Mayo.

"True, very true," said the colonel, "but the Yankees have an endless supply of manpower. Their losses outpace ours at a rate of two to one. And yet they still keep coming. We need every southern man we can get to resist their aggression."

"Rightly spoken, Colonel," said the mayor, "but you can hardly expect the Yankees to be stupid enough to send all of our soldiers back to us if they know they'll be facing them across the line a couple of days later."

"No, the Yankees haven't been stupid. At least not since they put the army under General Grant. Grant is not the soldier that Lee is, but he's a battering ram, and one that never seems to get tired."

"And now he's battering Richmond," said Mayor Mayo. "The question is whether there'll be anything left of our great city when it's all over."

"What are you suggesting, Mayor?" asked General Winder, turning to face Mayo.

"I am simply stating that I do not eagerly look forward to the utter destruction of the fairest jewel in the Confederate crown. Richmond is not just the capitol of the Virginia and the capitol of the Confederacy, it one of the greatest cities—perhaps the greatest—of both. If we can possibly avoid its destruction, we should strive to do so."

"By capitulating?" asked the colonel angrily.

"By repositioning our forces," replied the mayor calmly. "Lee has stated plainly that defending Richmond is a burden. If Lee were no longer obligated to shield Richmond, he could maneuver independently and be able to strike the Yankees when and where he desires."

"But the city of Richmond remains a proud beacon for the rest of the Confederacy," objected Colonel Wendt.

"It will be of precious little use as a beacon when it has been reduced to ashes," responded the mayor bitterly.

"All of this misses the point," interrupted Mr. McIntyre. "We need no defeatist talk here." He glared at the mayor, who shook his head sadly. "Richmond will not fall to the Yankees—not unless we allow her to fall by failing to do our duty within the city."

"Whatever are you talking about?" demanded Mayor Mayo.

"I think, sir, that you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm referring to the nest of spies that plagues this great city. It has been two years since we've taken any action against the traitors in our midst. And in the meantime, the criminal acts continue. Several fires have been started at the Tredegar Iron Works and this despite the armed guard that constantly patrols the grounds. As you know, sir, the iron works are the greatest in the entire Confederacy. If they are lost to us...well, then the South is lost. And yet several attempts to destroy them have occurred. Not from outside, not by the Yankees at our gates, but by the Yankees and Yankee sympathizers within our walls."

"No serious damage has been done," the mayor protested indignantly. "In every case the problem has been dealt with in a timely fashion. If the Iron Works are quiet now, it is for lack of raw materials, not because of espionage."

"Again, you miss the point!" thundered Mr. McIntyre. 'If the spies have failed to bring down the Iron Works, they have not failed to disrupt our city—and our forces—in a thousand ways! I am absolutely convinced that information about our troop movements is given to the Yankees on a regular basis. And there are spies to be found in petticoats as well as pantaloons; I am absolutely convinced of it."

General Winder nodded his head in agreement. "Well, there certainly is that Van Lew woman. Some people think that she's just a crazy old loon, but we're highly suspicious that she is consorting with Yankee spies."

"But we haven't been able to prove it, even though we have tried to entrap her on various occasions," Mayor Mayo said, shaking his head vigorously.

"Bah!" snorted Mr. McIntyre, shaking his fist at the mayor. "You have no need of proof and you know it! The old ordinance states the point clearly: if the mayor finds reason to believe that certain people entertain dangerous opinions, then those people may be—nay, should be—arrested for the protection of the good people of Richmond."

"But I can not do so on a whim, Mr. McIntyre, either yours or mine," said the mayor. "There must be evidence of criminal wrong-doing."

"Evidence!" Mr. McIntyre spat out the word angrily. "There is evidence aplenty for whoever has eyes and sees what's going on right in front of him. Just yesterday, I heard through my contacts that yet another free black was attempting to flee the city. I assure you that I put a stop to it immediately. Several detectives were dispatched to deal with this ingrate—this thankless wretch for whom thousands of decent southern boys have died."

"What are you talking about, McIntyre?" asked the mayor.

"You heard what I said. We can't let any black man who gets an idea in his head to just up and go and leave Richmond defenseless."

"Was he a spy?" asked the colonel.

"No, sir, he was a traitor! A traitor to Richmond! He should be working for the defense of the city, not seeking to flee it like a coward!"

Mayor Mayo sighed. "Perhaps, but Richmond could use a few less mouths to feed. We are near starvation."

"But the man might have been an asset to the city...if we had the courage to make a bold decision," said Mr. McIntyre.

"To what decision do you refer, sir!" demanded General Winder. "I do hope you are not proposing that we arm the blacks and have them fight the Yankees for us!"

"I would not be the first to make that proposal, General Winder," replied Mr. McIntyre coolly.

"But McIntyre," objected Colonel Wendt, "the black man could never be a proper soldier."

"I believe that question has been put to rest, Colonel," said the mayor, shaking his head sadly. "The blacks seem to fight well enough for the Yankees."

"Yes! And that's the worst of it. Our own slaves sent to fight against us! Fighting against the homeland where they were raised and treated properly..." said McIntyre, summoning up his most eloquent tone.

"You could hardly be surprised if the slaves don't see the situation in quite that light," said the Mayor quietly.

"I don't care how they see it!" bellowed McIntyre. "The fact of the matter is that the South has been good to them—the Confederacy has been good to them! It is time for them to step up and serve their country! The Yankees are just taunting us by using black troops against us. It's time we turned the table on them."

"If there are no objections from their owners," said Colonel Wendt, "but that's by no means a certainty. A slave can be worth over a thousand dollars to its owners. A dead slave is worth nothing, no matter if he was killed in defending our city."

"Sir, southern families have given up their husbands and sons to defend the honor of the Confederacy," said Mr. McIntyre grandly. "Surely, they will gladly make their possessions available."

"Maybe," said Mayor Mayo slowly, "but I am not..."

"Do you suggest that we offer them their freedom for fighting the Yankees?" interrupted General Winder.

"Perhaps," replied Mr. McIntyre.

"But does that not undermine one of the basic foundations of the Confederacy?" cried the general. "If a black man can make as good a soldier as a white...and if we are forced to free slaves in order to save our country...what of the country remains to save?"

"It may be a cheap price for peace, General," said the mayor.

"No solution can be cheap, Mayor Mayo," replied the General. "Two many young lives have already been taken."

"I say that all of this talk is futile," insisted McIntyre. "Right now, we must make use of every able-bodied man. The free blacks can stop a bullet as well as anyone and they are no man's property. They must be used to fight against the Yankees. As far as the slaves are concerned, we'll face that decision when we have to. But the time for action is now. And Mayor, you must move—and move quickly—against the spies that are among us in Richmond. For if you do not move quickly, there are justice-loving men that will take matters into their own hands."

Chapter Seven: The "Yankees" Meet

"I called us together this evening because I believe there is reason for all of us to be concerned." The speaker, Richard Wilson, was a middle-aged man who spoke quietly to group of four men, sitting around a rich mahogany table.

"Please, Richard," said Tom Meachem, a heavyset, redheaded man to his left. "I know you mean well, but is it a good idea to get everybody riled up for no good reason?"

"I don't know about getting riled up," replied Wilson, "but I can tell you that there is a very good reason for everyone around this table—and every other northerner living in Richmond—to be worried."

"Do you have evidence that the police detectives have been out looking for spies again?" asked Albert Latimore, a sliver-haired elderly man sitting across the table.

"I know from my sources that things are about to happen. I don't know if there will be more arrests or if it will be something else," said Mr. Wilson.

"Maybe we're getting excited about nothing," said Mr. Meachem. "The detectives haven't made any arrests of Yankee sympathizers for more than a year. Frankly, I think the police have got more important things to worry about with General Grant at the doorstep."

"It's because General Grant is at the doorstep that things are once more getting dangerous for Yankee sympathizers," said Mr. Wilson. "There's not a lot they can do about Grant, but it makes them feel better if they can take out their anger on someone. And that someone is likely to be us if we don't watch our step."

"But what is the point of harassing us?" asked Edward Stinson, looking around the table from face to face. "I've never done a thing against this city since I moved here twelve years ago. I'm an honest merchant and I do a great service for the city."

"It doesn't really matter what you've done and what you haven't done, Wilson explained. "The fact is that you were born up north—Michigan wasn't it?—and so you're not a "true southerner" no matter how many years you've been here. And you know and I know that the term 'Yankee sympathizer' can be applied to any man or woman who happened to be born north of the great state of Virginia regardless of whether they support the Union."

"Well, I don't support the Union," Mr. Stinson said angrily. "I've found the South to be a good place to do business and raise a family. My wife is happy here. She enjoys Richmond society—says that it's a lot more genteel than in the North. I don't give a darn whether Virginia is a part of the Union or not, just as long as people don't stop buying cotton goods."

"There has to be more to it than that," said Mr. O'Toole, shaking his head sadly. "It's fine to say that business is business, but at some point you have to look around and decide whether you like what you see."

"And just what do you see?" asked Mr. Latimore, a slight sneer on his face.

"I think you understand what I mean," said Mr. O'Toole. "States' rights are one thing, but this whole business about slavery..."

"You knew that Virginia had slaves before you came here from Boston, and yet you still came," said Mr. Stinson.

"Yes, I did know it," Mr. O'Toole replied coolly. "I must say now that I regret not having given it more thought. My wife was anxious to return to the state of her birth and I was anxious to please her. I came to the conclusion that since I did not support slavery personally, I could just turn a blind eye to it and live my life here without dealing with it."

"It seems to me that you still can," Stinson shot back.

"Can I? Can I turn a blind eye to slavery when it's been one of the primary causes of a war that's killed hundreds of thousands of soldiers—North and South?"

"You can turn a blind eye to anything you want," grumbled Mr. Stinson. "If Lincoln hadn't have gone and signed that Emancipation Proclamation freeing all the southern slaves...well, it just would have been better if he'd just have left it alone. The war would probably have been over by now. It's just better not to make a fuss about these things."

"No, O'Toole is right," Mr. Wilson said firmly. "I've enjoyed living in Richmond for almost twelve years and I've never taken a stand. But at some point you've got to."

"What are you saying?" asked Mr. Latimore eagerly. "Are you saying we should actively take the Union's side in all this? Because if that's what you're saying, I'll tell you right now that you're going to end up in prison for a long time."

"So you're telling us that the detectives are out looking to arrest Yankee sympathizers again?" asked Meachem.

"All I'm saying is that crazy talk like that is likely to get you into trouble," said Mr. Latimore, folding his arms across his chest.

"Can we put aside our political differences for a moment and try to assess what it is we're actually facing?" pleaded Mr. O'Toole.

"Yes, certainly. That's the reasonable thing to do," said Mr. Wilson. "And that's why I've asked Otis, my servant for more than eight years, to come and tell us what he's been hearing from his people. Is that all right with everyone?"

"I guess we can hear what he's got to say," said Mr. Stinson with a shrug. The others nodded.

Mr. Wilson walked into the kitchen. "All right, Otis, you can come in now and tell us what you know." Mr. Wilson walked back to his seat, followed by a graying black man with a slight stoop. Otis walked to the side of the table, his eyes downcast. He glanced quickly at the five men sitting around the table before once again averting his eyes.

"I've seen a lot of troubles," said Otis.

"Yes, we know, Otis," said Mr. Wilson impatiently, "but please tell us what you've heard lately."

Otis began hesitantly. "Well, I talk to a lot of black people, usually downtown when I'm buying food for the family."

"Yes, yes. Go on please, Otis," urged Mr. Wilson.

"The people I talk to say that there's a lot of trouble coming. Men—freemen like me—have been arrested and thrown in jail for no reason. They say we're spies. We're not spies, but some black men have crossed over—made it to the Yankee lines."

"Is it safe to do that, Otis?" asked Mr. O'Toole.

"Not so much now," replied Otis softly. "A year ago it was pretty easy. Not now. Three men got killed last week when they tried it. The Confederate soldiers got them a couple of miles out of town."

"So why do they try it if it's so dangerous?" asked Mr. Meachem.

"They're afraid to stay here. Like I said, free blacks are being thrown into jail for no reason."

"Well, maybe some of them are spies," said Mr. Latimore, smirking broadly.

"No!" Otis' voice became stronger. "They're not spies. They've got no information to sell."

"Oh, I see. So they'd sell it to the Yankees if they had it?" said Mr. Stinson.

"Who knows?" answered Otis, his eyes meeting Mr. Stinson's squarely. "A man may be free, but he may have a sister or a brother who's still a slave. Most men would like to see their sister or their brother free."

"Of course, of course," said Mr. Wilson. "But what have you heard about the former Yankees living in Richmond? You told me that they might be in danger as well."

"I've heard it said that all of the Yankees are going to be rounded up—all of them—and sent to prison until the war's over."

"All the Yankees?" spluttered Stinson. "This is intolerable! I'm a good citizen of Richmond. I've never done the South any harm."

"I don't think they're going to ask about that," replied Otis blandly.

"What else have you heard, Otis?" asked Mr. O'Toole eagerly.

"Some say that it won't be the detectives that'll come for the Yankee," continued Otis, a touch of drama in his voice. "Some say it'll be the soldiers—out of uniform—they say. Some of the soldiers will come to settle the score with the Yankees and the Yankee lovers."

"Well, I've certainly heard more than enough," Mr. Stinson erupted. "I don't know if your servant is trustworthy or not..."

"Otis is not a liar, Edward. He's been kind enough to come in and tell us what he's learned," Mr. Wilson interrupted, glancing warmly at Otis.

"I don't know if your man is trustworthy or not," Mr. Stinson repeated pointedly, "but I do know that I'm not going to sit around and wait for something terrible to happen. I'm going to demand protection from Mayor Mayo! I've been a productive citizen of Richmond and I insist on being protected from ruffians!"

"Thank you, Otis," said Mr. Wilson, nodding in his direction. "That'll be all for now." Otis nodded his head slightly and left slowly through the kitchen door.

"My God!" exclaimed Mr. Meachem. "Maybe we should leave here! Maybe it's no longer safe!"

Mr. O'Toole shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Tom. You heard Otis. It doesn't sound like it's safe to try to leave. People who try it are getting shot. We certainly can't leave the city openly and if we were going to try to do it in secret...well, who here among us knows how to get through to the Yankee lines?"

"Well, I might try it, by thunder!" said Mr. Wilson, pounding his hand on the table. "If Otis is right, it's just a matter of time before some thugs show up at our doors. I'm not just going to sit around and wait for that to happen. I'm thinking seriously of getting as much gold together as I can and trying to slip out of here, maybe down the river, maybe up the canal. I hear the Yankees got a camp up in that direction."

"You're a fool if you try, Wilson!" roared Mr. Latimore. "Stinson is right about this. If you've got nothing to hide...you've just got to go to the mayor and explain that you're loyal to the Confederate cause and don't intend to cause any problems. I'm sure the mayor will..."

"Well, I'm sure of nothing," replied Mr. Wilson, "and I'm not taking any chances with my family. I thought the rest of you would want to hear what the real situation is for people like us here in Richmond. I guess I was wrong. At any rate, gentlemen, I believe that our business is concluded for the evening."
Chapter Eight: Joseph Discovered

Lettie Anderson descended the cellar steps quickly. She had a lot of work to do and she meant business. For eight years, she had been a maid for the O'Toole's—the only servant the family had, even though Mr. O'Toole could certainly afford more. Lettie knew that Mrs. O'Toole has asked her husband on numerous occasions whether they might not bring in a new servant or two. But Mr. O'Toole had always steadfastly refused, saying, "There's no reason we can't do some of the work around the house ourselves."

But the problem was that they never did. Mrs. O'Toole was Virginia born and enjoyed the gracious life. She was more comfortable giving orders than taking things into her own hands. And Mr. O'Toole was always off at the bank, even evenings at times. And of course the two boys, Ryan and Matthew, were next to useless. They were nice boys—no doubt about that. But they were no help in the kitchen. And when she sent them on an errand to fetch this or that, they almost always got distracted and came back hours later, usually having grabbed the wrong thing. She seldom bothered asking them for their help any more. She knew things would go better if she just did everything herself.

And today the flour needed dragging up from the cellar to the kitchen. It was a job she hated, her with her bad back, but it had to be done. You couldn't leave the flour in a basement for very long.

Lettie glanced quickly around the basement. It was dimly lit in some places, completely dark in others. She went directly toward the flour bin but could see from several feet away that it was empty. Where had those fool delivery boys put the flour? Wasn't it obvious where it should go?

She moved into the dark side of the basement, her eyes darting back and forth. Suddenly, she heard a soft, shuffling sound. "It's those pesky rats again!" she thought to herself. "I told Mr. O'Toole that we were going to need a couple of new cats around here."

But as she reached for the broom standing in the corner, she distinctly heard another, louder sound. A box over in the darkened corner had moved slightly.

"Now what kind of varmint do we got?" she said out loud, clutching the old broom with both hands and starting to move in the direction of the sound.

Suddenly, a pair of eyes was visible in the dim light. Someone was there. He stood up quickly.

"Don't hit me! I ain't done any harm!"

"Yankees! We've been attacked by Yankees," screamed Lettie as she bolted up the cellar stairs. "No, Lettie, No!" It was Ryan, with Matthew behind him, standing at the top of the stairs. As Lettie charged ahead, Ryan gently put his hands out to stop her.

"It's all right!" said Ryan in a soothing voice. "He's not a Yankee. He's a friend—a friend of ours. His name is Joseph Smith."

Lettie's eyes narrowed as she examined Joseph, who had stepped out into the middle of the basement. "Is he a runaway slave?" she whispered loudly to Ryan.

"No, he's not a slave at all. He's a freeman," said Ryan reassuringly.

"Then what's he doing hiding in our cellar?" Lettie asked suspiciously.

"He's hiding in our cellar because he's got no place else to go," replied Matthew stepping forward to pat Lettie on the arm gently.

"How's that?" said Lettie. "Everybody's got some place to go."

"Not Joseph," Matthew said quietly. "His father was taken away by the detectives two nights ago. And if Joseph goes back home, they'll get him, too."

Lettie put her hands on her waist. "Why is that? How come the detectives are after him and his father? What'd they do wrong?"

"They did nothing wrong, Lettie," Ryan said firmly. "It's just that they want to leave Richmond and I guess someone doesn't want them to go."

"Want to leave Richmond?" asked Lettie as she turned back to glare at Joseph. "What for? Afraid of the Yankees?"

"Mr. Smith and Joseph are afraid of what'll happen to them if they stay," replied Ryan.

"Well, I don't know what you boys are talking about, but I'll tell you right here and now that this black boy can't stay in my cellar," said Lettie firmly, folding her arms across her chest as if to finish the conversation once and for all.

"Look, Lettie," said Ryan, "he's got to stay, at least for a while. He spent last night in a deserted warehouse with no food and water. He can't stay there again. Maybe when his father comes back..."

"If the detectives got him, he won't be coming back," Lettie said solemnly.

"You don't know that, Lettie," said Ryan. "You've just got to have a little patience."

"Patience? You of all people, Ryan O'Toole, should not be lecturing me about patience."

"I'm not lecturing you, I'm trying to..."

"Doesn't matter," said Lettie angrily. "I'm telling you that that boy cannot stay in this house! I'll bet your mother and father don't know anything about this."

"No, they don't, Lettie, but..." began Ryan.

"There are no 'buts', interrupted Lettie. "I'm going to tell your mother about this—right now!"

"Not mother!" Matthew cried. "She'll have a fit."

"Of course she will," said Lettie smugly, "and so she should."

"Now look, Lettie," said Ryan in his most reasonable tone. "If you just calm down a little, everything will be fine. Look, I'll tell Father when he comes home tonight, I promise. But don't you tell Mother. It'll just upset her for no reason."

"No reason? She..." began Lettie.

"No reason." Ryan shot back. "There is no reason for anyone to get excited about this. I'll tell Father about this tonight and everything will be just fine."

* * *

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!"

Chapter Nine: Dark Times

Few words were exchanged the next morning at the O'Toole's home. After venturing out of the house briefly to examine the charred ruins of the Wilson's house, Mrs. O'Toole returned weeping. For the next hour, she continued to glance furtively at the street from behind the curtains of the parlor windows, checking to see if anyone was approaching the house. Finally, she broke down in tears once again and retreated to her upstairs bedroom where she spent the day.

Mr. O'Toole wore an expression of steely resolve on his face, breaking it only briefly to attempt a few light-hearted exchanges with his sons. But Ryan and Matthew were somber as well. No laughter was heard in the O'Toole's home that day.

Mr. O'Toole did not go into the bank that day. He explained to his wife that Mr. Wilson might need his help in the aftermath of his great catastrophe. Luckily, no one in the Wilson family had been hurt; everyone had managed to escape the building long before the fire had spread dangerously. It seemed that the five hooded men who had snuck into their backyard and set the fire shortly after dark had planned it that way. Shortly after the fire was set, they had banged loudly on metal pots and pans, apparently to warn the family of the fire. At least, Mr. O'Toole thought to himself, they hadn't wanted to kill anyone.

But that was small consolation to Mr. Wilson. He and his family members had stayed overnight with another neighbor, and Mr. O'Toole had gone over early in the morning to once again express his regret over the tragic situation and to offer whatever help he could give. Mr. Wilson was taciturn. "I said the other night that I'd leave Richmond if I could," he mumbled to Mr. O'Toole as they sat closely together in the kitchen of their neighbor's house.

"Yes, I remember that you did," replied Mr. O'Toole, nodding his head gently.

"But don't you see?" cried Mr. Wilson. "That's what brought all this on!"

"I don't understand..." began Mr. O'Toole.

"Sure you do. This happened because I said in our meeting the other night that I had a half a mind to get my valuables together and sneak out of Richmond."

"But how would anyone..."

"How would they know? They would know because someone told them...someone in that meeting told those Confederate thugs that was I planning to leave town. And you know as well as I do who did it."

"But I'm sure our friends wouldn't..."

"Our _friends_? Why do you assume that Stinson and Latimore are our _friends_? Because they were born in the north and moved here just like you and me? That means nothing! They're southerners now, and proud of it."

"There are many fine southern people, as you know, Richard," said Mr. O'Toole quietly.

"That's as may be, and I'll admit that there is much to admire in the people of Virginia," said Mr. Wilson, "but you'll excuse me if I don't feel too kindly toward them at present."

"It's the war," Mr. O'Toole said sadly.

"Of course it's the war," Mr. Wilson snapped. "But fighting a war over your principles doesn't give you any right to abandon those principles any time it's convenient to do so."

"Richard," said Mr. O'Toole. "Who did it? Did you see the people who set the fire?"

"Got a glimpse of them," said Mr. Wilson, shaking his head slightly. "It wasn't the regulars. No uniforms. But of course they'd take off their uniforms for dirty work like that."

"Did you lose everything?"

"Just about. We had some warning, but not much. No one got hurt, but our dog's missing. We were hoping that maybe he'd show up today. But I'm afraid that he was lost in the fire."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. I'll be traveling a lot lighter if I ever do leave Richmond," he said, a grim smile coming over his face. "I have some money in the bank and at least my business is still intact. I'll just hunker down and see if we can rent a small house somewhere, although God knows that won't be easy. At this point I'm just praying that the war gets over with soon so I can pack up what's left and go back north. I can't stay in a town where you can't even trust your friends."

"If you need a place to stay, we'll be happy to take you and your family in," Mr. O'Toole said earnestly.

Mr. Wilson was incredulous. "Are you serious? You were at that meeting, William, and if I remember correctly you said something about leaving Richmond as well."

"I didn't say much," said Mr. O'Toole quietly. "Meachem was saying that he might try it."

"Well, then he's in trouble. He'd better look to his family. But I'd keep a sharp eye, William. My guess is that Stinson or Latimore have made a full report of that meeting to the local authorities and I doubt that they painted a particularly pretty picture of you."

"I understand, Richard," said Mr. O'Toole, "but I'm not really sure what I can do. My wife would never even consider the possibility of leaving Richmond."

"I guess you'd know what is best for your family, William, but I'll tell you again—I think you're a marked man."

* * *

Abigail had come home for the day, hoping that she might be able to give comfort to her mother and father. But her mother had no desire to speak with anyone, asking only to be left alone in her bedroom.

Abigail had always found it easier to talk to her father, especially as the war had begun to threaten Richmond directly. Her mother had always refused to talk about the war, but Abigail and her father sometimes exchanged their thoughts about Richmond's future—and their own. But on this day, her father too was quiet. He said only that he was glad that the destruction of the Wilson's home had at least not resulted in any fatalities. When Abigail asked him if the O'Toole's family might also be in danger, he was noncommittal and quickly changed the subject.

Now, in the late afternoon, the house was quiet, the two boys having been sent off to play catch in the park on the capitol grounds. Abigail picked up a novel and began to read and soon was lost in the chivalric world of Sir Walter Scott.

But her brief reverie was soon disrupted by a sharp knock on the front door. She went to the door and opened it quickly, revealing James Whitney in full dress uniform.

"James! It is a great surprise to see you here," said Abigail, nodding her head and smiling.

"Yes, I'm sure it is a surprise," James replied coolly. "I had not myself expected to be speaking with you so soon."

"Well, it is a pleasure. Please come in and sit for a while."

James slipped off his cap, stepped through the door quickly and made his way into the parlor.

"Abigail, I have come to see you on a matter of great urgency," he said grimly.

"I see, James," she responded quietly. "Well, I cannot say that I am eager to hear urgent news of any kind, but I will be happy to hear what you have to say."

"Abigail," he continued. "You are in danger. Your family is in danger, although I must admit my concern is not primarily for them. It is for you. We were close once, you and I. I once thought..."

"There is no reason that friendship cannot continue to exist between us," said Abigail, cutting off James' trailing voice.

"Perhaps," said James, regaining his composure, "but it is not my intention this day to try to rekindle past hopes. It is my intention to make you realize the seriousness of your situation."

"You are referring, I assume, to the destruction of Mr. Wilson's house?"

"I am."

"Do you have any direct knowledge of the perpetrators?"

"I do not," James shot back angrily. "The people who did that heinous deed were not Confederate officers, nor was the deed endorsed by any officer."

"The Field Marshall's detectives, then?" asked Abigail, her tone resolute.

James shook his head violently. "Abigail, what does it matter who put a torch to Mr. Wilson's house?"

"I imagine that it would matter quite a bit to Mr. Wilson."

"Not now! At this point it doesn't matter at all! The damage is done!"

"But if we are to avoid more such horrific incidents?"

"Don't you see, Abigail, that it is not in your power to avoid such incidents? It may not be in your power even to prevent them from happening to you or your family."

"I see," responded Abigail. "So our situation is hopeless."

"It may not be," said James, his tone softening slightly. "But you must declare yourself for the Confederacy. You must do it openly and unambiguously and you must do it quickly. If you do not..."

"Yes, James?"

"If you do not, you will almost certainly lose your teaching position. Your family is suspect and..."

"Oh, I see," interrupted Abigail. "My family is suspect but I can save myself by declaring myself unambiguously for the great Confederate cause!"

"Confound it, Abigail!" exclaimed James, "I care not at all what you _really_ believe! I am trying to help you by telling you what you must do to save yourself."

"James, I am not sure whether I should be pleased by your concern for me or furious at your willingness to believe that I would be a complete hypocrite." She paused and walked a few steps further into the parlor before turning to face him. "I do understand what you are trying to do, James. It is a very sweet gesture...all the sweeter because I know that you have come to be very disappointed in me in the last few days."

"I can assure you that I did not intend..."

"Please—hear me out," said Abigail quietly, putting up her hand gently on his. "I have come to love the city of Richmond, James—its lovely rolling hills, the beautiful capitol square, the warmth and elegance of her citizens. I have come to love the children even more—both the precious little girls and the not-so-perfect little gentlemen.

"And they have come to love you, I am sure," said James, a hint of a smile coming across his face.

"But James...Richmond—the entire South—is more than these things. It is also slavery—the unjust imprisonment of one man of another. How can I love that?"

"No one loves it, Abigail," James shot back. "It is a question of necessity, if we are to keep the southern culture alive. And there is now another necessity, whether or not either of us wishes it. It is the necessity that you save yourself by declaring your allegiance to our flag."

"You know I cannot," replied Abigail sadly.

"It needn't be public. If you can declare your loyalty to the Confederacy right now—to me alone—and swear that you will give no aid or succor to our enemies—then I will vouch for you and no harm will come to you."

"And my family?"

"I can say nothing without a similar pledge from each of them."

Abigail paused, biting her lip and turning away. "Please don't think for a moment that I wouldn't be overjoyed if these problems could so easily pass away from me and my family. I very much wish that things were as simple as you suggest. I almost wish I could be as naïve as I was just two years ago, when everything about Richmond seemed ideal." She turned again and walked quickly up to James, her eyes burning into his. "But things cannot be made better so easily, James. I cannot make a pledge to you that would be bitter in my mouth even as I said the words and a lie as soon as they had escaped my lips. I must refuse."

"I have done all that love or honor requires, Abigail. I can do no more," said James, placing his cap firmly on his head and striding quickly toward the door.

"No, James," Abigail said poignantly as the door closed behind him, "you can do no more."

**Chapter Ten: Warnings**

"Quietly now," whispered Ryan to Matthew as they slipped down the stairway in their bare feet. "Father's had to stay late at the bank again and I think Mother is in bed. But Lettie's around here somewhere so we've got to look out for her."

Matthew nodded his head. The two boys were down the stairs in a minute and easing out the front door as quietly as they could. In an instant they were outside, slipping on their shoes. Matthew immediately began to dash down the street.

"No! Slow down!" urged Ryan. "We don't want anybody to take notice of us. Just walk down the street...like we have all the time in the world." Ryan ambled casually down the street. Matthew, disgusted, shook his head. "But Joseph is waiting for us! We'll never get there!"

"We'll get there all right," replied Ryan, "and the worst thing that could happen to us is someone asking where we're going and why we aren't home with our parents!"

"Okay, I'll slow down, but Joseph's going to think we've forgotten him."

Almost forty minutes later, they were approaching Shanty Town. It was now almost completely dark. They searched the dark alleys for almost twenty minutes before once again finding the back door to the small warehouse where the three boys had hidden just a couple of days earlier.

Ryan tapped softly against the door. "Joseph! Joseph! Are you in there?"

"Yes, but come quietly," came Joseph's voice from within. "I heard some noises in the alleyway just a few minutes ago."

"Do you think someone's poking around here looking for you?" whispered Matthew as he and Ryan pushed the door open and made their way slowly into the semi-darkness.

"Can't tell," Joseph whispered back. "But we can't take any chances."

"We brought you some more bread and a small jug of water," said Ryan. "Have you been all right?"

"Well," I'm been hungry, thirsty and I can't sleep too well cooped up in this damp, smelly building," said Joseph with a sigh. The three boys quickly sat on the floor in the only corner of the building where the moonlight managed to creep in through the rafters. "But I'm still here so I guess I must be all right," Joseph continued. "I sure liked staying in your cellar better than this place. Heck, I even liked staying in your tool shed better than this place."

"I know," said Ryan. "I'm really sorry we had to ask you to leave, but Father said it would be dangerous to hide you. He said that, since your father was gone, you might have to go to an orphanage, at least for a while."

"My father's not gone!" Joseph cried. "I found out that they took him to the old Chimborazo Hospital. He's been hurt."

"Hurt?" asked Matthew. "Hurt badly?"

"I don't know," replied Joseph quietly. "But he can still walk because the father of a kid who lives down the street from me in Shanty Town is an orderly at the hospital and he saw my Father being brought in."

Ryan nodded his head. "Do you have any idea when they'll let him out?"

"He's being held in the prisoner's wing of the hospital, I guess. So they just might take him to prison when he's out of the hospital," said Joseph.

"Why should he go to prison? On what charge?" demanded Matthew.

"They don't need a charge," snapped Joseph. "He's a black man, remember?"

"But he's a freeman," Matthew argued.

"Doesn't seem to matter much," said Joseph angrily.

"Remember that your father said that he'd hired a guide to help him get through the Confederate lines? My guess is that guide was really a Confederate spy and he turned your father in for trying to leave Richmond," explained Ryan.

"We're _still_ going to leave Richmond," exclaimed Joseph passionately. "We've just got to get my father out of the hospital first."

"We can't just walk in there, Joseph. You know that," said Ryan.

"We've got to do something! If they throw him into Libby prison or the Castle, he's done for!" cried Joseph.

"I know, I know," said Ryan, reaching out to touch Joseph's shoulder. "I'm just saying that we can't just walk in there, but maybe there's a way that somebody else can get in there and rescue your father."

"But it's got to be soon, Ryan. It's got to be soon," said Joseph, leaning forward and gazing directly into Ryan's eyes.

"Look...I've got an idea," Ryan responded quickly. "But I'm going to need a little time to work on it. Joseph, I know you hate it here, but you've got to stay here a little longer—maybe a day or two. In the meantime, I'll try to put the plan together and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"Make it soon, Ryan. Make it real soon," Joseph said desperately. "This place has got rats as big as cats, and they may be moving my father into prison at any time. And once they get him in prison, we're never going to get him out."

"I'll make it soon, Joseph," said Ryan, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. "You just hold on here. We'll be back to you before you know it."

* * *

Mr. O'Toole looked at his watch once again. It was 10:00 in the morning. He had been waiting in the provost marshal's office for half an hour at least. It had been almost two hours since two officers had come to his door and informed him that the provost marshal, Mr. Lawrence Ames, had requested a meeting with him that day. The officers had made it clear that refusing to attend this meeting was not an option.

He had quickly gotten dressed and hurried to the appointment. But now, it turned out that Mr. Ames himself had been in much less of a hurry, since he had yet to make an appearance.

The door to the office opened slowly and Mr. Ames finally appeared, a slight smile on his face. "Mrs. Hanson, please cancel any appointments I might have for the next hour," he said over his shoulder to his secretary in the outer room. "Mr. O'Toole and I will be having a nice chat for a while." Mr. Ames' smile broadened unpleasantly.

"Since the two soldiers who instructed me to come to your office made no mention of the reason for this interview, I'm afraid you have the advantage of me," said Mr. O'Toole, standing up to shake Mr. Ames' hand.

"Well, Mr. O'Toole, I will be blunt," said Mr. Ames, ignoring Mr. O'Toole's outstretched hand and taking his seat behind his desk. "I have heard disturbing reports about you and your family."

"And what exactly is the substance of those reports, Mr. Ames?" Mr. O'Toole asked coolly.

"Actually, there are a number of things that have come to my attention," replied Mr. Ames snidely. "First of all, there is the matter of your sons."

"My sons!" exclaimed Mr. "O'Toole. "What do my sons have to do with this?"

"It is reported that they have frequently been seen in the company of one Joseph Smith, the son of a Mr. Robert Smith, who is currently in custody for plotting an unlawful flight from the city," said Mr. Ames, referring to a paper on his desk.

"I fail to see any significance in that," Mr. O'Toole said calmly. "I've met the boy. He can be no older that ten or eleven and seems a fine lad."

"That 'fine lad,' as you put it, is a wanted fugitive."

"Wanted for what?"

"For questioning. We must be certain that his father's plot does not extend to other Negro freemen in the city."

"I doubt seriously that an eleven year old boy would be privy to that sort of information, Mr. Ames. And even if he were, what gives you the idea that my sons have anything to do with it?" Mr. O'Toole asked, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

"We have no certain information that they do, Mr. O'Toole. I can assure you that if we had, we would have invited them in for a chat as well," replied Mr. Ames.

"Listen Mr. Ames," said Mr. O'Toole grimly, "I may have to put up with your absurd questions, but you will not under any circumstances have access to my children."

"My dear Mr. O'Toole," said Mr. Ames unpleasantly, "you find yourself much mistaken if you think that you are in a position to tell me what to do. It is true that you have a respected position in one of Richmond's finest banks, but I can assure you that men in more elevated positions than yours have found themselves in Castle Thunder if it's been determined that they have put themselves at the disposal of our city's enemies."

"Neither I nor my two sons have done any such thing, Mr. Ames, and I think you know that."

"On the contrary, sir, I know nothing!" objected Mr. Ames. "And that is why I've asked you to come in today for a little talk. Now, if you are able to put my mind at rest in regard to these few matters...well then, I can assure you that neither you nor your family will be harassed."

"I can assure you that neither of my two sons has been assisting any 'enemies' of the city, as you put it," said Mr. O'Toole quietly.

"Can I be further assured that if you gain knowledge as to the whereabouts of young Joseph Smith that you will communicate that knowledge to the authorities immediately?"

"You can be assured."

"Excellent. And now there is the matter of your daughter, Abigail O'Toole. She is a teacher, I believe."

"She has been a grammar school teacher for slightly over a year—as your records no doubt indicate."

"Fine potential as a teacher, I understand. But I understand further that in recent months her lessons for the children have not been completely supportive of the Confederate cause. She has, we are told, not been teaching the true meaning of the Confederacy," said Mr. Ames, shaking his head slowly.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm not even sure that I understand what the 'true meaning' of the Confederacy is," said Mr. O'Toole.

"Indeed," mused Mr. Ames. "I think we have put our finger on part of the problem, Mr. O'Toole. As a gentleman who has resided in Virginia's fairest city for almost four years should well understand, the true meaning of the Confederacy lies in the refinement and harmonious workings of our society—the gentility of our culture...the..."

"Not everyone has apparently found the workings to be so harmonious, Mr. Ames," said O'Toole.

"You refer, sir, to our slaves of course. You are perhaps not aware that many slaves find their positions to be quite satisfactory indeed. The advantages..."

"Is that why so many have fled as soon as they've had a chance?"

"They flee, sir, because the Yankees have got them all agitated and filled their heads with nonsensical dreams. Then the Yankees insult us by making them soldiers and turning them on us. They use our own slaves against us."

"You forget that the men who take up arms against you are no longer slaves."

Mr. Ames slammed his fist on the desk angrily. "This is yet another illustration of the problems of which I speak, sir. Your own words condemn you, Mr. O'Toole. You are no friend of the Confederacy!"

"I am a friend of justice, sir. Neither the North or the South can claim my undivided allegiance," Mr. O'Toole answered calmly.

"Mr. O'Toole," said Mr. Ames, regaining his composure and smiling thinly, "I think you can understand that at this point in history—with the Yankees nipping at our heels and our entire civilization in jeopardy—we must take the position that whomever is not with us is against us. If you are to avoid difficulties, you must be _with_ us. Surely your charming wife, a true daughter of Virginia, appreciates this situation and..."

"I will tell you frankly, Mr. Ames. My wife and I do not see current matters in quite the same light. It is not something we talk about."

"Well, I think you had _better_ talk about it, sir," roared Mr. Ames, his face flush. "For regardless of your respected position in the business community of Richmond, you find yourself treading dangerous ground. Take heed that the ground does not suddenly become quicksand and draw you down to your doom!" Rising ceremoniously from his chair, Mr. Ames added, "I trust we understand each other better now."

Chapter Eleven: Plotting the Escape

Later that afternoon, Ryan and Matthew hurried down the hallway of the old school where Abigail was a teacher. Hearing voices at the other end of the hallway, they ducked briefly into a deserted classroom. It would be better if no one saw them. They didn't want to explain to anyone why they were there and didn't want to get Abigail into trouble.

Finally, they found their sister's room and peeked around the corner. She was there, grading papers at her desk. They bounded in quickly and Abigail glanced up, a surprised look on her face.

"You two rascals! How did you get here?" she said, smiling cheerfully.

"We ran all the way after school was out!" boasted Matthew. "We hoped to catch you before you left."

"Oh, it'll be a long time before I get back to my lodgings this evening, Matthew," she said wearily. "I have arithmetic papers to correct and spelling and..."

"Actually," interrupted Ryan, "we're not just here to pass the time, Abigail. We've come on a mission."

Abigail smiled again. "A mission? Really!"

"This is serious, Abigail," said Matthew, frowning slightly. "We've got to save someone's life but we need your help to do it."

Abigail nodded her head somberly. "All right, I think it's time for you two to sit down and tell me what this is all about—slowly and starting from the beginning."

The boys did. They explained how Mr. Smith had been taken from his home. How shots had been fired and how Joseph, Ryan and Matthew had managed to escape, hiding in an old warehouse to avoid the men pursuing them. They explained how Joseph was forced to stay in the old warehouse because he didn't dare to go back to his home, and how Ryan and Matthew had brought him back to stay in their cellar. But then Lettie had discovered Joseph and so they had to move him again, this time to the shed out back. But Father had told the boys that they mustn't have anything to do with Joseph so he was forced to go back to the old warehouse and stay there.

But in the meantime, Joseph had discovered that his father had been taken to the old Chimborazo hospital and was being held there in a prison ward. That's when the three of them decided that it was up to them to sneak into the hospital and rescue Mr. Smith.

"Sneak in to the hospital and rescue him? Just like that?" asked Abigail.

"Well, I suppose it won't be easy," said Ryan, "but there must be some way to do it."

Abigail shook her head gently. "Boys, I know this is very important to you and I admire both your cause and your nobility of spirit. But really...how are two little boys just going to march into the hospital and take one of the patients who just happens to be under an armed guard?"

"That's where we thought you could help us, Abigail," said Matthew eagerly.

"Me? So _I'm_ supposed to just walk into a closely guarded hospital and walk out with one of the prisoners?" said Abigail. "Do I just do this in broad daylight or can I at least wait for nightfall?"

"But Abigail," pleaded Matthew, "the hospital is not as closely guarded as you'd expect. We've been out there—twice now—and we know for a fact that you can sneak in without getting caught."

"You've been sneaking around Chimborazo hospital?" gasped Abigail. "I can't believe it! Father and Mother would have a fit if they knew that!"

"There's no reason for them to know it," Ryan said calmly. "I know Father wouldn't want us to do it, but he doesn't really understand the situation. And he's always telling us to follow our principles. Joseph and his father need our help and there's no one else who can do it."

"Ryan...Matthew...I'm so sorry but there's no way that I could possibly..." began Abigail.

"Joseph's father will die if he goes to prison, Abigail," said Ryan firmly.

"You don't know that, Ryan," countered Abigail.

"I think there's a good possibility," said Ryan. "Joseph has heard that his father may be transferred to Castle Thunder after he leaves the hospital. How many black men walk out of Castle Thunder?"

Abigail shook her head slowly. "This is just crazy. Whatever gives you the idea that anything like this can work?"

"We know it can work, Abigail," said Matthew eagerly. "We've got it all figured out."

"It's like this," explained Ryan. "Joseph knows the son of an orderly and he's already been able to get hold of his father's extra uniform. You go in there pretending that you're bringing flowers and foodstuffs to the soldiers. Ladies do that all of the time at the hospital. Then you find Mr. Smith, have him put on the orderly's uniform and the two of you can just walk right out the door together. You just walk to the front gate and Joseph will be there in a wagon to pick you up. And, just in case that doesn't work, you know that the Chimborazo hill runs right down to the river. Joseph's already got a boat and we'll be waiting for you there if anything goes wrong. No one will pay any mind to another small boat on the river."

"The ladies of Richmond often bring flowers to the _Confederate_ soldiers in the hospital, Ryan," said Abigail warily. "You said yourself that Mr. Smith will be under armed guard. He won't be kept with the Confederate wounded."

"Well...no, probably not," admitted Ryan. "But once you're in the hospital, I'm sure you can find Mr. Smith."

"Ryan, the hospital is huge. It's by no means certain that I locate Mr. Smith and, even if I do, what makes you think I can sneak him past the guards?"

Ryan looked frustrated. "I don't know. I'm not sure how it's going to work, but I know we must try. If you can't help us, Abigail, then I guess we'll have to do it ourselves."

"Oh, so if I refuse to help, I send my two little brothers off like lambs to the slaughter," said Abigail mournfully.

"Something like that," said Matthew, a sly smile crossing his face.

Abigail paused, shaking her head slowly. "You know, boys, I don't think your scheme has any chance at all of succeeding. But I admire your determination to help a friend who seems to sorely need it. And I admire your courage. So here's what I'll do. I'll go and visit the hospital tonight, bringing some flowers for the soldiers. Maybe...just maybe...I'll be able to locate Mr. Smith. Even if I do find him, the chances are that he'll be closely guarded and I won't be able to do a thing. But I guess there's only one way to find out."

* * *

It was a dark and rainy evening. No moon. That may be useful tonight, thought Abigail as she strolled at a leisurely pace down the long walk leading to the entrance of the hospital.

"Yes, ma'am, what can I do for you this evening?" drawled the guard at the gatehouse as Abigail approached.

"And a gloomy evening it is, don't you think?" said Abigail, doing her best to imitate a Richmond accent. "My name is Sally Harris and I thought I'd try to bring a little joy to some of our wounded soldiers...bring some beauty into their lives with some freshly picked flowers."

"Well, ma'am, that's a right kindly thing to do," said the guard, smiling warmly and nodding his head. "The men haven't had many visitors this evening and I'm sure they'd appreciate it. The only thing, ma'am, is that you don't appear to have one of those pins that the ladies wear. Major Fitchett requires that all ladies coming to visit the soldiers wear the special pin or we can't let them in."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Abigail, thinking quickly. "But you see, Sergeant...it is sergeant, isn't it?"

"Yes indeed, ma'am, Sergeant Kline, at your service."

"Well, you see, Sergeant," Abigail said softly as she leaned her head slightly toward the sergeant's, "we have a small problem with that. This is my first visit to the hospital and, since I was a little nervous this evening when I was collecting my flowers, I completely forgot about wearing my pin."

"That's alright, ma'am. But you will have to see Major Fitchett about that. I'm sure he'll set you straight."

"Oh, I see... Major Fitchett. Unfortunately, Sergeant, I am not acquainted with the major. Just how would I go about getting an interview with him?"

"Well, ma'am, he's usually to be found out and about the hospital this time of evening, but I must say that I haven't seen a trace of him so far tonight. So I'm guessin' that he's still in his office. If you go right through those doors ahead of you and then turn right, I reckon you'll come onto the major's office soon enough."

Abigail smiled warmly. "Why, that's wonderful, Sergeant. I'm so fortunate that I found someone so helpful to me in my time of need. I'll be on my way now, and thanks again for your courtesy."

Abigail nodded again to the sergeant and moved swiftly toward the door. The double doors opened into a small lobby with hallways extending to the right and left as well as straight ahead. Abigail walked toward the right corridor, thinking that the sergeant might still have his eye on her. The she paused, glancing out of the corner of her eye to see the sergeant, now engaged in a lively conversation with another soldier. She then changed directions and walked briskly toward the middle corridor, pushing firmly through a second set of double doors.

Looming ahead of her was a long room with two rows of beds, most of them inhabited by soldiers. These were all Confederates soldiers—she could tell by their butternut hats and coats hung by the side of some of the beds. An orderly busied himself at the far end of the room, but there seemed to be no guards or any officers on duty.

Abigail walked purposely down the corridor between the two rows. Many soldiers were asleep, but a number of them were wide-awake, playing cards or conversing animatedly. About two-thirds down the corridor, one particularly noisy soldier took notice of Abigail and gestured to her broadly. "Now there's a handsome young filly," he bawled. "Have any flowers for me, sweet thing?"

"Mind your manners, Lucius," said another. "That there is a lady and she'll be having nothing to do with the likes of you."

Ignoring his friend, Lucius stood up, dropping his cards on the bed next to him. "Now that just shows how much you know," said Lucius, a wide grin covering his face. "Why that's exactly why these ladies are here—to give aid and comfort to us heroes of the Confederacy."

"Shut your mouth, Lucius. You ain't a hero of nothin'," said his friend, shaking his head vigorously.

"Now, Dick, I don't know why you would say such a thing," answered Lucius in mock horror. "I reckon I've suffered for my country as much as anyone."

"Lucius, you got shot in the toe. You've barely been scratched," Dick said wearily. "So why don't you just leave the nice lady alone. She's probably here to see some of the seriously wounded."

Abigail, who had paused slightly, nodded and smiled gently to Dick and walked on more quickly. Soon she came to another set of double doors.

"Are you really sure you want to go in there, missy?" came a voice from across the hall. Abigail paused and started to look back toward the voice. But then she quickly faced forward and pushed vigorously through the doors into the next ward.

The smell was overpowering. Abigail stopped in her tracks, her hand involuntarily going to her lips. This ward was as long as the last one, but was filled with patients who were much more seriously wounded. Few men were sitting up on their beds. Many groaned or tossed restlessly. Several men had had limbs amputated; more than a dozen had lost both an arm and a leg. Many men were feverish with infection. Others picked at their blood-soaked bandages. Almost all looked defeated and forlorn.

Some men looked up briefly as Abigail passed, but then quickly turned away. She saw an orderly on the far side of the room tending to one of the patients. He raised his head and glanced quickly over at Abigail. Remembering that she had a role to play, she walked slowly up to one patient, sprawled uncomfortably on the stiff bed. "Sir," she said, "will you take a flower as a token of appreciation from the citizens of Richmond?"

The man grunted and turned away.

"It's but a small token, sir, but..." said Abigail, holding out a white rose to the wounded man.

"It don't mean nothin'," grumbled the man, refusing to look Abigail in the face and waving her away with his right arm, which had been amputated at the elbow.

"I understand that you've been badly wounded," began Abigail.

"You understand nothin'!" bellowed the man, now turning to face Abigail and propping himself up in his bed. "You ain't ever been shot at...never saw your friends blown into bits right before your eyes...never lost your arm..."

Abigail couldn't reply. Her head drooping to her chin, she walked away slowly.

"Say, miss!" It was the orderly from across the room. "Hold on there for a minute."

Abigail stopped and looked up at the man who strode quickly toward her.

"It'll be no use trying to comfort that man, ma'am," said the orderly, shaking his head sadly. "He's a bitter one, he is, ma'am. Not that I can blame him. He's lost an arm and may yet lose a leg, if that infection gets any worse."

"I understand," said Abigail, smiling weakly. "Perhaps this isn't a good time to come and see the men."

"No, it's a bit late in the evening. Say, you're a new one, aren't you?" said the orderly, examining her face closely. "I don't remember ever seeing you here before."

"No," said Abigail. "This is my first visit. My pin...they haven't given me a pin yet."

"I see," said the orderly. "Well, perhaps it would be better if you'd come back earlier on another day. The ladies usually come in to do their good works earlier in the afternoon. And by then you'd probably have your pin."

"Yes, yes...l guess I would," said Abigail slowly. "Well, I believe I should go...but before I do, I was wondering if you could help me find a Mr. Robert Smith, who I believe is a patient here."

"Robert Smith? The black man?" I believe he's in the next ward. But you can't go in there, lady. That's a prison ward."

"Oh, I see," said Abigail, fussing with a bunch of flowers in a vase. "That's a shame. Even prisoners need to have a little beauty brought into their lives, Mr...."

"The name is Adams, ma'am, and I reckon not everybody sees in that way," the orderly chuckled. "Especially not the guard. I'd say you could ask him, but I think he must have just stepped away from his post. Call of nature probably."

"Yes, of course. Thank you," said Abigail, puttering with the flowers for a couple of seconds. At that point the orderly nodded his head toward her respectfully and left the ward. Except for the patients—most of whom were now sound asleep—she was alone.

Abigail moved quietly but quickly to the end of the ward. There she saw the door to the prison ward. She looked in the small glass window but could see no one. The orderly was right. The guard had stepped away from the door, although it was impossible to know for how long. Was the door locked? She tried to push the heavy door open. It moved! She pushed harder. Suddenly she heard a moan from one of the patients. He rolled over painfully but, after a minute, was quiet again. Abigail pushed again. The door swung open slowly. She stepped into the room and closed the door gently behind her. This ward was darker and it took her a moment for her eyes to focus. Then she saw him—at the far end of the room—looking directly into her face. It was Mr. Smith!

Chapter Twelve: Escape from Chimborazo

Abigail moved quickly across the ward to Mr. Smith's bedside.

"Are you Robert Smith?" she whispered urgently.

"Yes, I am," said Mr. Smith, eyeing Abigail cautiously. "But I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure, ma'am."

"My name is Abigail O'Toole, Mr. Smith. I'm Ryan's and Matthew's older sister. And I'm here to help you."

Mr. Smith smiled slightly. "Now that would take a lot of doing, young lady. Just how do you intend to help me?"

"By getting you out of this hospital and back with your son," said Abigail, sounding as confident as possible.

"Whew! That's a tall order! In case you haven't noticed," he said, indicating his bandaged arm hanging loose in a sling, "I'm not really in a position to fight my way past half a dozen guards."

"We're not going to fight our way out," said Abigail calmly. "We're going to walk out...as primly and properly as you please. But first you've got to put on this orderly's uniform." She looked around the room quickly and saw a screen standing in the corner. "There," she said, pointing to the screen. "That should do nicely."

"Well, ma'am, I think it's only fair to tell you that I think you've completely lost your senses and you're likely to get into some serious trouble if you persist with this scheme," said Mr. Smith, shaking his head sadly.

"Let me be the one to worry about that, Mr. Smith. Right now, the only thing you have to worry about is getting this orderly uniform on quickly and quietly. The guard might return at any moment. We've no time to waste and your son is eager to see you."

"All right, missy. I'm grateful for any plan that'll keep me out of Castle Thunder."

Mr. Smith eased himself out of bed, the orderly uniform draped over his good arm, Abigail turned to watch the only door to the ward. Abigail could hear Mr. Smith struggling to get his wounded arm free of the sling so that he could force it into the sleeve of the uniform. Finally he succeeded and stepped away from the screen.

"You know, ma'am, there aren't many black orderlies in this hospital. Somebody's bound to get suspicious. Most of them are in the next building where most of the Negro patients are kept," said Mr. Smith, rubbing his wounded arm and grimacing slightly.

"If anybody asks, we tell them that I just borrowed you from the Negro ward to help me carry something," said Abigail, her eyes darting quickly around the room. "Yes, that will do nicely," she said, putting down her flowers and eyeing a large bag of letters waiting to be mailed. "I'll simply tell the guards that I've agreed to do a favor to the patients and take their letters to the Richmond post office. And you've agreed to help carry them as far as my carriage."

"That's all well and good, Miss Abigail," said Mr. Smith warily, "unless we run into someone who knows who I am."

"Well, the sooner we get far away from this ward, the sooner we can stop worrying about that," Abigail said firmly, picking up the bag of letters and placing it gently into Mr. Smith's arms. "Keep your bandaged arm on the bottom and maybe no one will see it."

"I'll do my best ma'am, but I've little strength in that arm at present."

"I understand, Mr. Smith. We'll make our escape as quickly as possible."

The pair walked through the ward in a leisurely manner, Abigail chatting cheerfully to project a confident air. Most of the patients didn't even bother to lift their heads until Abigail reached for the door handle.

"Say! Smith? Is that you?" came a voice from the back of the ward.

"Hush now, Charlie," said Mr. Smith, affecting a light hearted manner. "I'll be back to see you later."

"Damnation, Robert! You can't just walk out like that..."

But Abigail and Mr. Smith were gone, the door closing behind them.

Abigail saw that Adams, the orderly from the next ward, had not yet returned. "That's a blessing," she whispered. But as the two walked quickly through the ward, another orderly appeared in the doorway.

"Say, what's all this?" the orderly said, gesturing toward Mr. Smith.

"This man has kindly agreed to help me with a little project," said Abigail, smiling confidently. "Some of our gallant wounded have asked that I deliver their letters to the post office."

The orderly turned his attention to Abigail. "And who exactly are you, ma'am? I've never seen you before."

"My name is Sally Harris and I've come to give some aid and comfort to the wounded," said Abigail in her most innocent tone. "This is my very first trip to see the wounded and a number of men asked me if I would just carry this bag of letters to the post office. Then this kind man offered to help me with my burden and..."

"They did, did they?" interrupted the orderly angrily. "Well, it just so happens that that's my job at the hospital. I'm the one who picks up the mail."

Abigail hesitated. "Oh, I see sir but...surely you must have more important things to do...tending to our brave heroes...I'd be delighted if I could lighten your load a little bit."

"Hrumph!" grunted the man, folding his arms across his chest. "Well, I guess so. We're awfully short-handed tonight. Half of these wards are unattended. I guess it'd be all right if you took the letters to the post office—just this one time."

"It would be my pleasure to do so," said Abigail, "as long as this gentleman can help me carry the mail bag to my carriage."

"Well, if he's quick about it and then gets right back to work," said the orderly. He turned to Mr. Smith, a sour expression still entrenched on his face. "Just where do you work, boy? I don't remember seeing you around here."

"I work in one of the Negro wards in the next building, sir," said Mr. Smith quietly. "I'm new. Only started working here a couple of days ago. I was just passing through here when this lady asked me to help her."

"Yeah? Well, all right then. But better get a move on and get back to your ward fast."

"Yes sir, right away sir," said Mr. Smith.

"Well, we'll be on our way then," said Abigail, nodding politely. "Come along now," she said, gesturing for Mr. Smith to follow her and moving quickly through the door.

Left alone, the orderly shook his head and shrugged. "Oh well, it's no skin off my teeth."

A moment later, Adams appeared. "Did you by any chance see one of the men from the prison ward walking through here? I just got a crazy report that the man just walked away from his bed and no one stopped him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said the other orderly. "Nobody's been through here except for some lady here to visit the wounded. She had some letters with her. Said she was going to take them to the Richmond post office for the prisoners."

"Have anybody with her?" Adams asked, an annoyed look on his face.

"Just an orderly. Somebody I've never seen before. Said he was new, from the Negro wards."

"You fool! It's a black man that I'm looking for! That was probably Robert Smith, the one who's trying to sneak out. Tarnation! Get out of here right now and alert the guards!"

Abigail and Mr. Smith were almost out the front door of the hospital when they first heard voices yelling behind them. "A man's missing! Somebody's escaped!"

"Ma'am," said Mr. Smith eagerly, "I think the time has come for us to step lively!"

Abigail, however, refused to quicken her pace. "No, Mr. Smith," she said firmly, "the last thing we want to do is to draw attention to ourselves. Walk normally and pretend we are having a pleasant conversation. When we get past the building ahead of us, we will be turning left."

Mr. Smith nodded, pretending to be chatting casually. "But ma'am, the gate's straight ahead. I thought you said your carriage is waiting."

"It is waiting, with your son at the reins. But that's not where we're going. Our plan allows us an alternative escape route and it's obvious we're going to have to take it," said Abigail as she steered Mr. Smith to a path on the left.

"But...where does this path lead?" asked Mr. Smith anxiously.

"Most importantly, it leads away from the main gate where the guards will be waiting to apprehend us."

"But..." began Mr. Smith.

"Where it leads _to_ is a little difficult to be sure of, but I'm guessing that if we walk another couple of blocks, we'll be past the main buildings and not too far from the river."

"Pardon me, ma'am, but how is that going to help us? I must tell you ma'am that I am unable to swim."

"Swimming won't be necessary, Mr. Smith. Ryan and Matthew will meet us at the river in a small boat," said Abigail, as she and Mr. Smith began to move faster.

"But how?"

"As I stated, Mr. Smith, it's all part of the plan. If things had gone completely smoothly, we would have walked out the front gate together and gotten into our carriage as proper as could be. But we figured that we might run into a little problem and so the boys decided to have the boat ready on the river just in case."

"Praise be! It seems you thought of everything!" exclaimed Mr. Smith, hurrying to keep up with Abigail as they walked past the final building in the hospital complex.

The voices behind Abigail and Mr. Smith had gotten quieter for a few seconds but now they started up again. Whistles could be clearly heard, probably no more than two hundred yards away from them. But most of the commotion seemed to be taking place at or near the main gate. It appeared that no one was following them on their path to the river.

"There! Down the bank and over to the right!" exclaimed Abigail, gesturing toward the boat. "Careful now! The embankment gets steep here." Abigail led the way, pulling up her long skirts and moving gingerly but quickly down the slope. The waiting boat was barely visible in the twilight.

"Over here, Abigail! Over here!" shouted Matthew, beckoning Abigail and Mr. Smith to the small boat.

"Lower your voice, Matthew!" demanded Abigail in a loud whisper. "We don't want to attract the whole Confederate army!"

The agitated voices in the distance seemed to draw closer. Abigail could hear their pursuers' excited shouts clearly now.

"They're on to us. In the boat, quickly," ordered Abigail. "You first, Mr. Smith."

Mr. Smith stepped into the river, no more than two or three feet deep at that point, and awkwardly climbed into the small boat. Abigail followed, the boys reaching out to pull her in.

"Quickly! Quickly, boys! But as quietly as possible." The boys had wrapped their oars in canvas and the boat pulled away from the shore without a sound. A minute later, they thought they could see men standing on the riverbank, yelling and peering intently down the river. But as they rounded a bend in the river and the moon slipped under a cloud, the voices stopped as the boat disappeared into the inky blackness of the night.

Chapter Thirteen: Family Conflicts

Mr. O'Toole dropped his book into his lap for the third time in as many minutes. It was no use trying to read. He couldn't concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time. Too much had happened lately and he was by no means certain that he knew what it all meant. His sons had become embroiled in an angry dispute with the son of a city councilman. The provost marshal had inquired menacingly as to his loyalties. His friend and neighbor's house had been burnt to the ground by assailants under the dark of night. And then Mr. Smith had been arrested. When was it going to end? Or was it never going to end...at least not until the war had finally ground to a bloody conclusion?

And what of his wife, Mary? Once cheerful and gregarious, Mary had grown more and more taciturn in recent months. At first, she had refused to acknowledge the war at all. "It is none of our business," she had told the children, "and we will keep it that way. I want no discussion of this dreadful war in my house."

But as the war had dragged into the second and third year, its effect on her was obvious. She had smiled only in moods of forced gaiety, perhaps at a party with a group of her Richmond friends. Mr. O'Toole had always been surprised that the parties had continued, even as the war raged closer to Richmond and the shortages had begun taking effect. But the ladies of the city had insisted that some level of normalcy be maintained and so the parties had remained regular events. Until recently, at least. In the last few weeks the city's mood had begun to turn ugly. It wasn't just the burning of Mr. Wilson's house. As the Yankee threat loomed on the outskirts of the city, most of Richmond's citizens had become pessimistic...even despairing. And if there still were parties to be held...well, neither of the O'Tooles was invited. It was clear that they were thought of only as Yankees now, despite the fact that they had lived in Richmond for more than three years.

And Mary especially hated that. Born in Virginia, she had always thought of herself as a true Southerner, even when she had been sent to the finishing school in Boston where she had met Mr. O'Toole. And when her Richmond friends began to turn away from her, she felt a great sense of loss. She refused to talk about it, but Mr. O'Toole and the boys knew she was deeply troubled.

But what could he do? The war might go on for months. Things were not likely to get better for the O'Toole family. And if the war ended in a Yankee occupation of the city? If that happened, Mary's friends would simply grow more hostile than ever toward her. No, there was no use in staying in Richmond, waiting for the axe to fall. Somehow, they would have to find a way to leave, before those final dark days when the whole town would erupt in hatred and violence. When that happened, he could not be sure of the safety of any member of his family.

He would have to talk to Mary. He would have to explain to her that they could not go on living like this in a dangerous, hostile environment. Surely, he could make her understand that, one way or another, they had to find a way to leave Richmond and go north before it was too late. But it would not be easy. It seemed that he and his wife had great trouble communicating about anything in recent months.

Mr. O'Toole sighed, placed his book on the table next to his chair, and rose to his feet slowly. There was no reason to delay any longer.

He walked into the kitchen where Mrs. O'Toole was peeling carrots. Although she sensed his presence, she did not look up nor pause.

"Mary," said Mr. O'Toole softly. "I think it's time for us to have a little talk."

Without looking up, Mrs. O'Toole said grimly, "A little talk? What would be the use of it?"

"We have to make some important decisions. If we do not make them soon, it may be too late to make them at all," Mr. O'Toole said gently.

"There's no decision we can make that will change anything, William, and you know that's a fact."

"But you must realize that we cannot simply go on like this..."

"There's nothing we can do," she snapped. "There's not a thing we can do to make the Yankee invaders go home...not a thing we can do to make the war go away."

"No, Mary," he said slowly. "We can't make the war go away. But we can take steps to protect ourselves."

"From the Yankees?" she spat back bitterly, finally turning to face him. "And how is my middle aged husband going to protect his family from the Yankees?"

Mr. O'Toole paused, looked away briefly, and then spoke again. "I can't protect us from the Yankees, Mary, but I think I can get us out of harm's way."

Mrs. O'Toole dropped the carrots and her paring knife. "And how are you going to do that, William?"

"By leaving Richmond, Mary. By leaving Richmond before it's too late."

"Leaving Richmond? Leaving our home? I cannot even conceive of such a thing."

"Mary..." Mr. O'Toole said sadly. "It will never be the same again. You know that."

"Yes, it will!" she demanded, her fists clenching on the countertop. "Those Yankees will leave! My home will be safe again. My friends will return to me..."

"And what of Richard Wilson? What of his home? It was burned to the ground by the good citizens of Richmond."

"Richard Wilson is a traitor! He is a traitor to Richmond! He is a traitor to the South!"

"Mr. Wilson is an honest and decent man who's harmed no one. You know that to be true," said Mr. O'Toole firmly, taking his wife gently by the shoulders.

"No!" She tore loose from his grasp and wheeled around quickly to face him. "I know nothing of the sort! God does not visit his punishment on the undeserving!"

"Mary...this was not the hand of God...it was an act of unreasoning fear...and now I fear for our sons, for you...for all of us. We must find a way to leave Richmond while we can."

"Never! My sons and I will never leave our home," she hissed, her eyes narrowing with anger.

Mr. O'Toole turned and moved away slowly, shaking his head sadly.

Mrs. O'Toole turned to face her husband. "I love you William, but I will not leave my home."

* * *

"There's one thing for sure," said Mr. Smith as he began to scrawl on the back of an envelope, "we can't stay holed-up here for long." He looked up at his son Joseph, flanked on either side by Ryan and Matthew. The boys nodded. The old warehouse, which had served Joseph well as a hiding place for days, would surely be searched again, now that Mr. Smith had escaped from the hospital.

"Now here are our choices as I see them," explained Mr. Smith as he put his finger to the small, hand-drawn map. "We can head out to Port Royal Bridge road and try to make it to the Chicahominy Swamp. Once we get there, we could dodge any pursuers for days if we had to."

"Are there a lot of troops guarding that road, Pa?" asked Joseph, trying to hide his nervousness.

"I reckon there aren't a lot—at least that's what I heard before the detectives raided our house and took me prisoner to the hospital. They don't think the Federals are going to launch an assault from that area and they don't figure anyone from the city would be foolhardy enough to try to escape through the swamp."

"Foolhardy?" asked Ryan. "Why would people think it was foolhardy?"

"Well, a swamp's a swamp," answered Mr. Smith grimly. "As soon as you get off the main road, you can find yourself on some pretty treacherous ground."

"So is that a bad way to go then?" asked Matthew timidly.

"Depends," said Mr. Smith. "Not a lot of Confederate troops, but the ones that are out there will be keeping a sharp lookout for spies coming and going."

"What are the other choices?" asked Ryan.

"There's the Williamsburg Road and the Charles City Road," replied Mr. Smith. "Both of them are going to have plenty of troops guarding them, but you get to miss the Chicahominy. But then of course there's the White Oak Swamp if you choose the Charles City road."

"I've heard that's a terrible place, Pa," said Joseph anxiously. "What if we get lost?"

"Well, that's the thing," said his father. "You can't just go walking down the road, but you've got to stay close enough to the road that you don't lose your sense of direction and just go wandering off in the swamp."

"So is that the best route, Mr. Smith?" Matthew asked earnestly.

"No..." Mr. Smith paused. "I don't think it is. If Joseph and I get caught heading toward the Yankee lines on one of those roads, it'll be shoot first and ask questions later."

"So what are you going to do?" asked Ryan anxiously.

"We're not going to walk, that's for sure," answered Mr. Smith, his head nodding in affirmation. "We're going to ride—right through the Confederate sentries. And they're just going to stand there and wave at us."

"Pa!" Joseph's jaw dropped open. "What are you talkin' about? How can we just ride by the Confederate troops?"

"Because," explained Mr. Smith, cracking a narrow smile, "they're going to think we're a sutler's wagon. They're going to think we've come to sell foodstuffs to the troops in the field."

"But Mr. Smith," Ryan interjected quickly, "how are you going to get a sutler's wagon?"

"It won't be that difficult," explained Mr. Smith. "I've seen two or three abandoned down by the docks. Several of the sutlers who used to service the army have abandoned Richmond as a lost cause in the last few months. The wagons aren't in very good shape, but they ought to get us there. We've just got to fill one of them up with some empty boxes and barrels so it looks like we've actually got something to sell."

"But where are you going to get a horse?" asked Matthew.

"Well, I'm not pleased to say it, but I'm going to have to break into some stables somewhere tonight and just take one," said Mr. Smith sadly. "Not that there'll be much to choose from. Hard to find a decent nag in anyone's stables right now. But I've got my eye on a few places I might try."

"Will they be expecting to see a black man driving the wagon? Especially with no white man present?" Ryan asked quietly.

"Well, I don't know. I'm not too sure about that," Mr. Smith admitted.

"Won't you and Joseph get arrested the first time you're spotted? Won't they know you're trying to escape?" Matthew asked anxiously.

"I know the plan isn't perfect," said Mr. Smith, "but it's all I've been able to come up with. We've got to get out of Richmond somehow, and we've got to do it fast."

"I've got an idea," said Ryan eagerly.

"I'm listening," said Mr. Smith.

"They're never going to let a sutler's wagon with two black men in it through the Confederate lines. But there's a good chance they'll let a wagon through if there's a white man holding the reins."

"That's as may be," said Mr. Smith, rubbing his chin with his hand, "but what white man am I going to get to drive the wagon for me?"

"Me," said Ryan quietly. "I'm going to do it."

"That's crazy talk!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. "I'm not going to have a boy risk his life in something as dangerous as this."

"You two are risking your lives," protested Ryan.

"We're risking our lives in order to save them—it's a different thing." Mr. Smith paused. "It's not that I'm not grateful. You two boys have been great friends with my son Joseph, and I already owe my life to you and your sister. But I won't have any of you risking your lives again. The danger is just too great."

"The danger isn't that much," said Ryan. "I'll only go part way with you...enough to get you through the sentries at the edge of Richmond. Then I'll turn around and hike back into town."

"By yourself?" gasped Joseph. 'You'll be stopped by the soldiers!"

"Nah, they don't care about people coming into town, only those trying to leave," said Ryan, shrugging off the concern.

"Unless they think you're a spy," said Mr. Smith.

"They'll be thinking I'm too young to be a Yankee spy," Ryan said calmly.

"How about me?" asked Matthew eagerly. "Will I come back into town with you?"

Mr. Smith rolled his eyes heavenward. Ryan smiled at his little brother. "You're going to have to stay home with Mother and Father and cover for me. Tell them I went to bed early because I wasn't feeling well. But don't let Mother come up and check on me. Tell her I'm already fast asleep."

"Me?" I've got to stay home?" cried Matthew, clearly stung by the news. "Why? I can fight as well as any man!"

"If anyone of us has to fight, we're done for," explained Ryan coolly. "You heard Mr. Smith. Our only chance is to fool the sentries, and we can fool them much better if there are only three of us in the wagon."

Matthew folded his arms against his chest indignantly. "I don't know how you could leave me out of this," he grumbled. "I've been in danger before and I'm just a brave as anyone else."

"That's not the point, Matthew. Of course you're as brave as anyone else. But we need someone older to handle the wagon. And we need you to be at home. If we both try to sneak out tonight, neither of us will make it."

"I don't know what makes either of you think that I'm going to let you get mixed up in this," said Mr. Smith, shaking his head firmly. "It's just too dangerous to ask for help from anyone."

"And it's even more dangerous to try to do this on your own," said Ryan, looking Mr. Smith directly in the face. "You know you've got to let me help. Because if you don't, the both of you will end up in Castle Thunder...or worse."

Chapter Fourteen: Due North to Freedom

Securing a wagon turned out to be an easy task. As Mr. Smith predicted, several abandoned wagons cluttered the streets around the dock. Many were badly damaged or were missing wheels, but Mr. Smith managed to find a small one in tolerable working order. The wagon had clearly been used by a sutler, its sides still emblazoned with florid lettering indicating that "Samuel J. Kleinhausen, Esq." had once been its proud owner. Ryan and Joseph helped Mr. Smith to quickly drag the wagon from the exposed street to a nearby warehouse. Although it was not yet dark, it was cold and drizzly and both the street and the warehouse had been empty of prying eyes. So the first step of the plan went smoothly.

Finding a horse was another matter. Mr. Smith had checked every one of the livery stables in the dock area. Most were now empty. One or two sheltered a few horses but they were carefully guarded, evidence of the fact that horseflesh had become as valuable as gold in the last few months. In the end, he had to go to a farm lying just within the city limits to find a lowly nag that had been ignored by the foraging soldiers. There was some question whether the horse would actually be able to pull the wagon, but Mr. Smith, Joseph and Ryan finally concluded that the horse was stronger than it looked and, since the wagon was a fairly small one, it would be probably be able to do the job.

It had taken a couple of hours to scrounge up some empty barrels and crates to place on the wagon so that it would appear that the sutler's wagon had some goods to sell. Some old tobacco and small bags of coffee were found in the surrounding warehouses. A close inspection would reveal that both the tobacco and the coffee were spoiled, but Mr. Smith didn't intend to let anyone get that close to his "goods for sale." Mr. Smith also managed to find half a bottle of scotch that he figured would come in handy if he had to bribe any of the Confederate soldiers they encountered.

It was almost 9:00 before everything was in place. Mr. Smith, Joseph and Ryan sat in the wagon, making their final plans.

"Remember, Ryan," Mr. Smith said, "talk as little as possible. Just keep telling anybody who asks that we're going out to the Confederate lines to sell our goods. Keep it simple."

"Yes sir," replied Ryan solemnly. "But they're going to be able to tell that I'm not really the owner of the wagon."

"Of course they are," said Mr. Smith, "but it doesn't matter. You're working for Mr. Kleinhausen. You can say you're his nephew, and he's become ill, so he asked you if you'd do the run for him."

"How do I explain you?" asked Ryan, gesturing toward Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith smiled. "That's just as simple. You say that I'm a family servant, here to help you sell the goods. Joseph is going to be hiding in that big barrel back there and he'll keep quiet. So don't worry about him. But whatever happens, we can't let anyone take a look in that barrel."

Ryan nodded. "All right. I'm pretty sure I know what to do. I guess we should get going."

"Right," said Mr. Joseph, nodding and smiling. "The sooner we get going, the sooner that Joseph and I can make it to freedom."

As Matthew headed back to the house, the three hitched the horse to the wagon and climbed in. They proceeded at a slow pace away from the docks and then through the back streets of Richmond. While the horse snorted and tossed his head uncomfortably at first, he eventually settled down and seemed to have no trouble pulling the small wagon.

The evening was rainy and unusually chilly and there were few people on the streets. None of the passers-by took much notice of the old sutler wagon creaking its way down the street, eventually hooking up to Williamsburg Road. Within ten minutes they had arrived at the first picket line of Confederate soldiers. Far from the front, the dozen or so soldiers manning the barricade took relatively little interest in the wagon.

"Whatchya' got there?" bellowed one private, gesturing toward the contents of the wagon with his gun.

Ryan pulled the reins back and the horse stopped quickly, happy for a rest. "Just a few supplies for the soldiers at the front. A little tobacco, some coffee," replied Ryan, doing his best to sound casual.

"How about giving some credit to a hard-workin' soldier," grunted a second soldier, tearing off some chewing tobacco with his teeth. "The tobaccy we got here is barely worth chewin' on."

Ryan hesitated slightly. "Well, sir," he said slowly, "I'm not sure that ours is much better, and that's the God's honest truth."

"Well now," said the second man, moving toward the back of the wagon, "Why don't I just do a little investigatin' and find that out for myself."

"No sir!" cried Ryan quickly. "I mean...well you see, Mr. Kleinhausen told me I was to take these supplies all the way to the front line. He said they'd been spoken for already. So I'm afraid I can't..."

"The deuce take it!" roared the man. "I reckon my money's good enough for any man!"

"The trouble is," chuckled the first private, "that you ain't got no money—neither good nor bad."

The second man turned angrily to face him. "Say, what do you mean? I got plenty of money. Most of it I won off of you, playin' cards the other night."

"You won nothin' off me," countered the first man, his smile becoming a snarl. "Why I have half a mind to..."

"And that's exactly your problem, Private Simpson," bellowed a sergeant, coming to investigate the noise, "you've got half a mind and you don't always use what you've got."

The first soldier wanted to answer back but bit his lip hard instead. The second gave a short, snorting laugh and stepped back from the wagon as the sergeant walked right up to Ryan.

"This here your wagon, boy?"

"No sir, it's my uncle's," answered Ryan. "He told me to take it up to the front lines and see what I could sell."

"A little late for that, isn't it?" asked the sergeant, his gaze sweeping over the contents of the wagon.

"Yes sir, it is," Ryan responded, "but you see, sir, he wanted me to get there tonight so that I'd be the first wagon there in the morning. You know, sir...maybe I could sell some coffee that way."

"Coffee?" said the sergeant, his eyebrows lifting. "Well, if you've got some real coffee there...now that would be something else."

"To tell you the truth, sir, my uncle tells me that the coffee ain't much. He told me I should sell it cheap," Ryan shot back quickly.

"Oh, so it's _that_ kind of coffee," the sergeant said knowingly. "Well, I'll tell you this much, sonny. They already got quite a bit of the home-brewed stuff up at the front. They expect you sutlers to have something better."

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's all I've got to sell."

"Yeah, well...I guess it's all right. But keep an eye peeled. Some of those Yankees might be sniffin' around here with a small patrol. And you've always got to look out for spies."

"Yes sir, I will, sir. Thank you, sir," said Ryan, grabbing the reins and quickly getting the horse moving again.

The wagon moved on for about twenty minutes before the three of them encountered more soldiers, this time a group of three—probably couriers—headed back into Richmond. The three riders slowed down long enough to look over the wagon and its passengers and then, without a word, galloped away toward Richmond.

"That's just what we want from you soldier boys," chuckled Mr. Smith. "Give us a little sniff and then be on your way. I think we've doing a good job of looking downright harmless, boys. Let's hope our luck holds out."

Almost half an hour later, the wagon pulled up to another barricade, this time manned by almost a dozen pickets. A large campfire and several rows of tents stood about a hundred yards off to their right, a thick woods on their left.

"Halt and state your business!" demanded a voice.

Responding as boldly as he could, Ryan said, "We're sutlers, looking for the soldier's camp."

"Well, sonny boy, it looks like you've found it," said the soldier. "You go any farther on this road and you're in the Yankee's lap."

Two more soldiers walked up to the wagon. "What do we got here?" said the first. "Got anything good to sell?"

Ryan hesitated. "Well, we got a little tobacco and some coffee." He remembered that most of their barrels were empty and they only had a couple of packets of spoiled tobacco. He hoped the soldier wasn't really serious about buying anything and eyed the man nervously as he wandered to the back of the wagon. "There's nothing back there," Ryan snapped, "only empty barrels."

"Why'd you bother to come way out here if you've got nothin' to sell?" whined the first soldier.

The other soldier spoke up. "Say, doesn't that wagon belong to old Kleinhausen? Sure got his name on it."

Ryan had expected this. "This is Mr. Kleinhausen's wagon all right. I'm his nephew and he asked me to drive it out here to see if we could pick up a little business."

"Why couldn't he come himself?" asked the second soldier warily.

"He's been ill," replied Ryan. "That's why I've come in his place." Nodding in the direction of Mr. Smith, he added, "This man here is a family servant. He's here to help me."

"Well, I'll tell you the truth," the first soldier said, smiling broadly, "if you're a nephew of old Kleinhausen, there ain't going to be anyone more surprised about that than Kleinhausen himself, seein' as he's always claimed that he has no family in these parts. I guess we'll just have to ask the man himself about it, since he's sitting right over there by the fire. Hey, Kleinhausen! There's something over here you might be interested in."

A few second later, a portly, red-faced man came puffing up to the wagon, accompanied by a sergeant.

"Kleinhausen! Now there's the man of the hour!" bellowed the first soldier, a broad smile on his face. "I'll bet you didn't know you had any kin around here."

Kleinhausen scanned the wagon quickly, put his hands on his hips and glowered. "Who the heck are you, kid? And what are you doing with my wagon?"

Ryan panicked briefly, his eyes darting to Mr. Smith, who shook his head slightly. "Well...I guess I just thought it would be okay for me to borrow it...nobody was using it."

"Listen, kid," demanded Kleinhausen, "that's my backup wagon and whether I use it or not is my business. You've got no right to 'borrow' anything from me, understand?"

"Yes sir," said Ryan quietly, "but..."

"But nothing!" interrupted Kleinhausen. "Sergeant, I want these people taken into custody immediately."

"Now Mr. Kleinhausen," said the sergeant gently, "let's just take it easy. The boy shouldn't have taken your wagon, but I have no authority to arrest him."

"Well, send back to Richmond for the detectives," blustered Kleinhausen. "They'll take care of him. And how about the black man? He looks like a spy to me."

Just then, another soldier at the back of the wagon took the lid off of the largest barrel, and tipped it over, sprawling Joseph on to the floor of the wagon. "Looks like we got another one back here," he said, grabbing Joseph around the collar.

"See?" demanded Kleinhausen. "They're spies. I told you so."

The sergeant shook his head slowly. "Look Kleinhausen, I agree that there might be something fishy going on. So here's what I can do. I've got to ride back to Richmond now to get orders anyway. I'll take the boy with me and hand him over to the detectives when I get there. We'll hold the two blacks here until the major has had a chance to question them."

All right," Kleinhausen sneered, "but make sure that this boy gets what's coming to him."

"Don't worry, Mr. Kleinhausen," replied the sergeant. "I can assure you that justice will be done. You two men," he said, gesturing toward the other two soldiers, "place the two blacks into my tent for the time being and try to locate the major. The boy will go with me."

Joseph and Mr. Smith climbed off the wagon slowly and the two soldiers herded them into a nearby tent. Ryan mounted on the back of the sergeant's horse, a look of complete misery on his face, and the two of them galloped off down the road.

Minutes later, Joseph and Mr. Smith sat uncomfortably inside the sergeant's small tent.

"Well, at least they were too lazy to tie us up," sighed Mr. Smith.

"What are they going to do, Pa? Are they going to throw us in prison? Are they going to shoot us?" asked Joseph, fighting back tears.

"Neither one, Joseph, because we're going to get out of here," replied his father calmly. "The back of this tent is only a few feet from the edge of the woods. We'll bide our time for a while since they'll probably have one of those soldiers look in on us. Right after they do, we're going to pull out those two stakes at the back of the tent to get it nice and loose. And then we're going to crawl out of here as quiet as a mouse. Once we get into the woods, they'll never find us. They probably won't even know we're gone for a while."

"Do you think we'll make it?" asked Joseph, his voice still trembling a little.

"Sure we will," said his father. "You just sit tight for a while."

About ten minutes later, one of the guards opened the front flap of the tent and peeked in the tent. "You boys are in real trouble now," he sneered. "The major's going to be here any minute, and he'll make you sorry you stole that wagon." The guard snickered unpleasantly as he closed the flap and walked off.

"Okay, Joseph, we've got to move fast," whispered Mr. Smith. "See those stakes near the back of the tent? See if you can get the left one loose. I'll work on the right one. We're lucky it rained earlier. The ground ought to be soft."

Joseph and his father tugged at the canvas and tried to get a grip on the thick, six-inch pegs that held the back of the tent tautly to the ground. After about three minutes, Mr. Smith was able to loosen the right stake, clutching it through the canvas. With one huge tug, the stake broke free from the ground and the backside of the tent billowed slightly. "There. The other one should be easier now." Mr. Smith quickly joined Joseph and the second stake was rapidly yanked free from the soft ground.

Mr. Smith pulled at the bottom of the tent, managing to clear a space of several inches. He peered under the canvas quickly. "No one in sight. We have to move fast now. Stay low to the ground and get to the woods as quickly as you can. I'll be right behind you."

Joseph wiggled furiously under the canvas until he was completely through. Staying flat on the ground, he peered into the darkness, trying to get his bearings. He saw that the woods were no more than fifteen feet away. He got to his knees and started to crawl toward the trees. In a moment, his father was in back of him, urging him on.

Suddenly a soldier walked past the back of the tent. "Hey! What are you doing? Get back in there!" yelled the guard, walking quickly toward Joseph and Mr. Smith, both still sprawled on the ground. But seconds later the night erupted with gunfire. "Yankees! It's a raid!" came a voice from behind them. The guard stopped in his tracks, threw an angry scowl at Mr. Smith and Joseph, and then ran quickly toward the sound of the gunfire.

"This is our chance!" cried Mr. Smith. "Make a run for it!"

Joseph and Mr. Smith made it to the woods in seconds. "Which way?" gasped Joseph breathlessly.

"Due north, Joseph," Mr. Smith said eagerly. "We're heading for freedom!"

Chapter Fifteen: Hopes Destroyed

The next morning was bright and cheerful, a welcome change from the cold drizzle of the previous night. Matthew woke up slowly, forgetting for a moment that his brother had gone the night before to help Joseph and Mr. Smith flee to safety across the Confederate lines. As soon as the thought flashed through his mind, he jumped out of bed and dashed to his brother's room. He found the blankets and pillows molded in the shape of the sleeping boy to fool their mother if she looked in on him late at night. But Ryan was nowhere to be seen! He had never returned home!

I should never have fallen asleep last night, he thought to himself. Ryan was supposed to be home by midnight. Something serious must have gone wrong! Matthew sat on the bed and gathered his thoughts. Did his brother get lost on the way back from the lines? Did the pickets arrest him and the Smiths? One thing was clear—he would have to tell his parents...and quickly.

* * *

Abigail sat bolt upright across from her mother, who sat slumped in her chair, shaking her head slowly. Abigail felt she had never seen her mother look so old and worn out. Her father stood by the mantle, his eyes staring blankly into the mirror above it.

"Mother," Abigail said firmly, "I know you don't want to hear this, but I believe our only recourse is to leave Richmond...and leave quickly. Things are bad, but they will get worse soon, particularly for our family."

"How can you ask me to leave my home?" Mrs. O'Toole asked weakly, tilting her head slightly.

Mr. O'Toole turned to face her. "Abigail is right...you know she is. This is not a safe place for us."

"But this evil will pass...I'm sure it will," replied Mrs. O'Toole.

"The evil may pass, Mary, but not before it has done our family great harm. I believe..." began Mr. O'Toole.

Suddenly Matthew burst into the room. "Father! Mother! Something terrible has happened! Ryan never came back last night!"

Mrs. O'Toole raised her head to meet her son's eyes. "Whatever are you talking about? He's been in his bed...you said yourself..."

"It was a trick, Mother...just a trick," Matthew moaned. "He left last night to help Mr. Smith and Joseph sneak through the Confederate lines...to get to the Yankees."

Mr. O'Toole took his son by the shoulders. "Tell me, Matthew, exactly when did they leave and what road did they take?"

"The Williamsburg Road...he left after 8:00...they all went together in a sutler's wagon. But Ryan was supposed to help them find their way and then come back home by midnight."

"The Williamsburg Road?" Mr. O'Toole turned to his wife and daughter. "I'm going after him. If he's in trouble, I'll find him." Quickly, Mr. O'Toole grabbed his hat and bolted out the front door.

"This is dreadful! My child!" cried Mrs. O'Toole. "We must seek help! I'll go immediately and talk to Mr. McIntyre!"

"Mother!" said Abigail in alarm. "Is that wise? Father says that Mr. McIntyre is no friend. He might even refuse to see you."

"But I must do something, Abigail! I cannot just sit here with my child in danger! The McIntyres have been friends of my family for ages. Mr. McIntyre is an influential man on the city council. His office is nearby. I know he will see me! I know he will help me!"

* * *

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."

Chapter Sixteen: Time to Leave

The O'Toole family soon worked out a plan of escape. They were able to purchase an older horse and a few supplies with the currency and gold in the strongbox that had, miraculously, survived the fire. Not much else had been saved from the fire, so it would not be difficult to travel light. Each person carried only a small sack holding personal belongings. Over his wife's objections, Mr. O'Toole had also insisted on buying firearms. An old musket, a revolver, and a small Derringer pistol were all they could afford. Mr. O'Toole tucked them all under the seat of the carriage. "I don't want anyone to touch any of them unless it's absolutely necessary," he warned.

There was little debate as to the timing of their escape. Even now the detectives might be watching them, preparing to arrest them as spies. They had to leave that very night, under cover of darkness. The route was widely debated. Ryan warned against the Williamsburg Road; it would be watched more closely than ever now. The Charles City and New Market roads were also dismissed as being too heavily patrolled by Confederate cavalry.

It was decided that the first step was to seek out the assistance of Elizabeth Van Lew. The Van Lews were widely known to be sympathetic to the Yankee cause and rumor had it that Elizabeth had helped to smuggle a number of people out of Richmond and over to the Union lines. But Confederate patrols often dropped in unannounced at the Van Lew's to look for fugitives and the house might even be under surveillance by the provost marshal's detectives. Still, it was a chance they had to take.

Knowing that they might be being followed, the family members agreed to scatter until darkness fell and then meet together at an abandoned livery stable to begin their journey.

About three hours later, the family of five squeezed into their carriage and started on their way. They took the narrow back streets and went slowly, in part not to draw attention to themselves and in part because the horse struggled somewhat with the combined weight of the five passengers. Two blocks from the Van Lew residence, Mr. O'Toole brought the carriage to a halt.

"Mary," said Mr. O'Toole softly, "we don't dare approach the house with the carriage. You and Matthew should go first. I don't know Elizabeth Van Lew well, but from everything I've heard, she will welcome you graciously. Abigail, you and Ryan should follow in five minutes. I'll hide the carriage as best I can and follow in ten minutes."

Mrs. O'Toole and the children nodded in agreement and climbed out of the carriage. Smiling down at Matthew, she took him by the hand. "Now children," she said quietly, "this is the time for all of us to be brave."

Abigail put her hand affectionately on Ryan's shoulder. "We'll be just fine, Mother. Don't worry about a thing."

Mrs. O'Toole gave both Abigail and Ryan a kiss on the cheek, and she and Matthew turned and walked quickly down the street.

"Right," said Mr. O'Toole. "You two wait for a bit and then follow your mother and brother. I'll see to the carriage."

Minutes later, Mrs. O'Toole and Matthew knocked on the door of the Van Lew home. "Please miss," Mrs. O'Toole said to the servant answering the door, "we've come to see Elizabeth Van Lew on a matter of some urgency."

Seconds later, Mrs. Van Lew, a middle-aged woman with an animated expression, came to the door. "How can I help you, dear?"

Carefully controlling her emotions, Mrs. O'Toole said, "We've come to seek your help, Miss Van Lew. Our house has been burned to the ground and we've no place to go."

Elizabeth Van Lew eyed Mrs. O'Toole and Matthew carefully for a few seconds and then said, "Yes, of course. Please come in. But do so quickly. I believe the house may be watched tonight."

Mrs. O'Toole and Matthew entered quickly. "We can't thank you enough, Miss Van Lew. Our family is distraught and it is no longer safe for us here in Richmond."

"Your family?" asked Miss Van Lew.

"Yes, my husband and two other children are with me and should be coming to the door soon. We thought it safer..."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Miss Van Lew, "although no one is very safe these days." Miss Van Lew paused. "You say your house has been burned down. Are you Yankee sympathizers?"

"My husband and children...that is..." Mrs. O'Toole hesitated, and then spoke firmly. "Yes, we are Yankee sympathizers. My husband is from Boston. All of my children were born there. We lived there for years before moving to Virginia. I was born just a few miles from Richmond."

"I see," said Miss Van Lew, nodding her head gently.

"We are not spies, Miss Van Lew," said Mrs. O'Toole. "We've done nothing to harm Richmond...and yet..."

"And yet Richmond has turned against you? It's not surprising. War seldom brings out the best in mankind. And now you must leave the city, is that correct?"

"Yes," Mrs. O'Toole said bitterly. "We are forced to leave. We have no choice."

"Leaving Richmond is no easy task these days, I fear," said Miss Van Lew, "but we will do what we can. When the rest of your family is safe under my roof, we will talk."

Within minutes, Abigail and Ryan arrived at the house. Mr. O'Toole followed some time later, reporting that he may have been watched as he entered the house.

"Now that everyone is here, I will tell you what I believe to be possible," said Miss Van Lew to the O'Toole family as they gathered in a circle in the large parlor. "Unfortunately, you cannot stay the night here. I've received word that two freemen, a Mr. Joseph Smith and his son, somehow escaped through the picket lines to the north so the detectives are particularly riled up today. They've been swarming around the house like flies because they're convinced I had something to do with it. I didn't, although I would have been happy to help the both of them if they had asked. At any rate, you must begin your journey tonight since things are only going to get worse. All the roads to the north are too closely watched, but I have a farm slightly to the south and east of the city and I regularly send messages through to the Federals through that route. There is no large concentration of troops there and that is to our advantage. The Confederate army sees no great threat from that direction and so does not fortify it well. You may encounter a few patrols and you will have to talk your way through them. I believe that..."

Suddenly there was a loud banging on the door. "That could be trouble...quickly up the stairs...all of you...there is a secret room under the portico...Alice will take you."

Led by Mrs. Van Lew's servant, Alice, the O'Toole family moved quickly up the stairs. Miss Van Lew waited a moment or two and then went to the door, opening it to half a dozen of the provost marshal's detectives.

"Miss Van Lew," said the leader, a tall lieutenant with an angry sneer on his face, "You are suspected of harboring fugitives."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," replied Miss Van Lew in her gayest voice. "How often are we to play at this game? Have fugitives ever been found in my home?"

"Our detectives report that five people have entered this house within the last hour. We demand to see them," said the leader, glowering fiercely.

"Yes, I did have visitors...briefly," Miss Van Lew said calmly. "Unfortunately, they could not stay. They sought advice on where they might procure housing for the night. I suggested one of our local hotels, and they departed."

"Miss Van Lew, I must tell you that the front door has been carefully watched," said a portly sergeant. "No one has left your house tonight."

"Well now, come to think of it, I guess they did leave through the kitchen door," said Miss Van Lew, her finger to her chin. "They said something about it being easier access to their carriage."

"Madam," said the sergeant, "we saw no evidence of a carriage. All of your visitors arrived on foot."

"Well then, don't you see?" Miss Van Lew responded in her cheeriest voice. "They must have left the carriage in the back by the stables. And that is no doubt why they wished to leave by my kitchen door. A bit irregular, I suppose, but they were insistent."

"Madam," said the lieutenant somberly, "it will be necessary to search your house."

"If you must," replied Miss Van Lew wearily, "although I have no earthly idea why you would wish to. You detectives have rampaged through my home at least half a dozen times in the last month and have found nothing."

"Nevertheless madam, we must do so again," said the lieutenant, indicating to his men to fan out and begin the search.

"Suit yourself, detective," said Miss Van Lew, "but if you don't mind, I'll just be sitting in my parlor knitting. What with all of these visitors tonight, I've gotten terribly behind in my work."

The search took about half an hour. The detectives, disgruntled at finding nothing, offered a cursory apology to Miss Van Lew and took their leave.

Forty-five minutes later, Miss Van Lew signaled to Alice to bring the O'Tooles out of hiding. She met with them briefly in the upstairs parlor.

"The detectives will not bother us again tonight," she told the O'Tooles, "but it is best if you begin your journey immediately. There is an exit from the cellar that you may take. It opens up to the west side of the house."

"Good," said Mr. O'Toole. We can circle around from there to the old livery stable where the carriage is stored and then be on our way."

"Remember," said Miss Van Lew," you must take the southeast road to my farm. It is little trafficked and you may not be challenged at all. If you are stopped, simply tell them that I've asked you to transport some valuables out to the farm for me. Here, take these so you have something to show." Miss Van Lew handed Mr. O'Toole two glistening silver punch bowls. "If anyone doubts you, show them the family crest. That should convince them. Once you've found the farm, bear to your left until you reach the woods by the James River. Do not travel on the river itself...it is too well patrolled. Make your way east through the woods to City Point. From there you go directly north and you'll encounter the Federal troops. There are rumors that General Grant has his headquarters there. At any rate, you'll be safe."

"We can never repay you for your kindness," said Mrs. O'Toole, grasping Miss Van Lew's hands warmly.

"It is not necessary to try," she replied, smiling sweetly.

***

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."

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.

