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.”