* * *
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.”