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.”