Sons of an Ancient Glory (5 page)

Holding his breath, Tom hugged the log and waited. It seemed like a very long time since the frog had disappeared. The wind was blowing harder now, whipping up the pond and setting off a wailing in the trees.

Tom trembled all over, not only from the cold, but also with a fierce disappointment at losing the frog. Holding on tight, he peered down into the pond. He could see nothing beneath the big lily pads and vines growing up out of the water.

“Come back here, you old Bull-Frog!” he demanded. He was angry at the frog, even angrier with himself for letting it get away.

Now he had nothing to show for all his effort but a skinned belly and a bad case of the shivers. Once more, but with no real hope, he rippled the water with one hand, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature that had outwitted him. Seeing nothing, he finally began to creep backward on the log.

It hurt even worse than before, the splintered bark tearing at his stomach and scratching the palms of his hands. Stopping, Tom carefully pushed up on his knees, then, bracing both hands on the log, pulled himself upright.

At a splash in the water close by, just off to his left, followed by a strong burst of wind at his other side, Tom jerked around. He teetered, one foot going out from under him. Thrashing his arms, he grabbed nothing but air. With a sharp cry, he pitched off the log into the pond.

Tom sank fast. His heavy boots felt like stones pulling him down, down into the darkness. He tried to scream, but only managed to pull in huge gulps of the rancid pond water.

Pushing and kicking, he bobbed up once, then again, flailing his hands in a desperate search for the tree trunk, for something to grab onto. He found only ropelike vines, his vision totally obscured by the dense covering of lily pads and vegetation.

Tom thought he heard someone shouting and opened his mouth to cry out. Instead, he strangled on the rush of bitter water that flooded his lungs.

Pain squeezed his heart, his lungs, his throat. Tears of terror mingled with the pond water as he tried to scream. Panic engulfed him. He kicked wildly, beating the water as hard as he could. Once more, he bobbed up, smacking his head on something hard.

Just before they reached the clearing, the girls stopped long enough to tuck the baby rabbit safely into its nest.

As they broke free of the woods, Dulcie indicated to Johanna that someone was shouting in the park. Johanna lifted her head, staring across the distance toward the pond.

A chill wind had blown up, and the sun had gone behind the clouds, leaving the afternoon pewter-gray and bitter. Johanna's eyes locked on a woman standing on the bank of the pond. Across from her stood two elderly men.

Johanna began to walk, her eyes fixed on the woman in the bonnet and flounced dress. After a few steps she could see that the woman was holding what appeared to be a man's coat.

A chill washed over Johanna. For an instant she stopped, feeling as if her legs were weighted to the ground. Dulcie touched her arm, and Johanna looked at her, then turned back to the pond.

Desperately, she looked around for a glimpse of Little Tom, but he was nowhere in sight. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the young woman drop the coat on the ground, then put her hands to her face in a gesture of dismay. At the same time, the two elderly men on the opposite bank moved even closer to the water.

Only then did Johanna see the man in the pond, standing chest-high in the water, holding something in his arms.

She was vaguely aware that she had begun walking again, moving as if in a dream toward the scene across the park. Fear, cold and painful, hammered against her chest, and she suddenly took off at a dead run.

The wind blew across her face, whipping her hair against her skin. Her legs cramped, and the bottoms of her feet burned through the soles of her shoes. Her pulse thundered faster as she ran.

As they drew near the pond, Dulcie grabbed her arm as if to hold her back. Johanna whipped around to look at her, throwing off her hand and running the rest of the way to the pond.

She came to a dead halt at the water's edge. For the first time she saw clearly what the man in the pond was holding in his arms.

Johanna's anguished scream found no voice except in the breaking of her heart.

Far off is a spark
From the lamp-lit town,
And the grey, chill day
Slips away with a frown.

J
AMES
S
TEPHENS
(1882-1950)

New York City

M
ichael Burke was only one of over three hundred city police officers assigned to the Astor Place Opera House late that afternoon. Most were to be deployed later in the evening, but even now several star badges could be seen in the vicinity.

It was a damp, unseasonably cool day for May. The wind held a threat of rain, but the weather hadn't deterred the crowd. Already, hundreds were milling about outside, shoving toward the theater entrance.

After walking the perimeter of the building, Michael stood surveying his surroundings. The theater, often described by the press as resembling a Greek temple, occupied a far too vulnerable position to his way of thinking. In its triangular location with Astor Place on the south, Eighth Street on the north, and the Bowery and Broadway running east and west, it presented a number of defense problems.

His men had been busy for some time boarding up windows, but Michael couldn't see how the boards would provide much protection, should the rocks start flying. And there was every likelihood they would. A great deal of pavement had been broken up for the purpose of laying sewer pipes, leaving loose rock lying all about the building. A handy arsenal for a mob.

And a mob was exactly what the mayor and the police were expecting this night. Michael shook his head in disgust at the foolishness of men. It seemed the height of absurdity that an ongoing feud between two actors—one a silk-stockinged Englishman and the other a stage star from Philadelphia—could bring an entire community under siege.

To the genteel, kid-gloved audiences who frequented the Opera House, the English-born William Macready was a “gentleman” and an “aristocrat,” while Forrest, the popular American actor, was “common,” even “vulgar.” According to the press, there had been bad blood between the two for years, resulting in a number of questionable incidents and, more recently, an all-out feud.

The American, Forrest, had been hissed and reviled while performing
Macbeth
in London. He blamed the insults on Macready and got even by hissing the English actor in the same role in Edinburgh. Ever since, they had been at each other like a hound and a tomcat, the result being that the press adored them both, for there was no denying that their antics sold newspapers.

Michael was rapidly becoming convinced that both men were fools. Macready's opening at the Astor House on Monday night had provoked a nasty disturbance just short of a major riot, with the English actor being pelted on stage with eggs and old shoes. The irate Macready had vowed to end his engagement then and there, but an appeal from a number of influential New Yorkers apparently convinced him to stay on.

Tonight, the city officials were expecting an even rowdier crowd than Monday night's. Michael had it from two of his best informants that the notorious crime boss, Isaiah Rynders, was plotting some sort of row with his bully-boys at the theater during the performance.

If anyone could mix up trouble, it was Rynders, Michael thought sourly. A knife fighter, a gambler, and a Tammany politician, “Captain Rynders” controlled most of the gangs in the Five Points. He was a known English-hater and would set his hoodlums on Macready with no other provocation than a whim.

As if Rynders and his thugs weren't enough to contend with, another hothead, a writer of dime novels who called himself “Ned Buntline,” was said to be planning a fracas with his own bunch of hoodlums. Buntline, the head of a swaggering nativist group who claimed “America for Americans,” had declared his intention to put all “aliens” out of the country, and had been agitating against Macready for days.

Michael sighed. Some of his men thought it ridiculous that most of the police force had been dispatched to Astor Place. Even the militia was mustered, awaiting orders at the Parade Ground.

Michael, however, thought it only good judgment on the part of the mayor and Chief Matsell. Of late, the entire city seemed to be simmering with excitement and a growing lust for trouble.

Well, trouble was coming, Michael could feel it. After all these years on the force, he could sense the approach of trouble the way a hound sensed a storm moving in. And on this chill and dreary afternoon, every nerve in his body was tensed in anticipation of a calamity.

Evening was almost upon them. The late afternoon light had faded into a weak mist of gray, leaving the room dim and shadowed. On a small stand beside the examining table, an oil lamp flickered, providing just enough light for the doctor to work by.

Jess Dalton glanced across the room at Nicholas Grafton and his young assistant, Daniel Kavanagh. Dr. Grafton was bent over a little girl, one of the city's numerous children who worked in a tenement crowded with other family members. No more than nine, the child had open sores on her lips, her cheeks, and all over her fingers.

Nicotine poisoning.
Jess had watched the physician treat enough cases, that he recognized it now when he saw it. Frequently seen among those who worked stripping tobacco and rolling cigars, it was no respecter of age. Dr. Grafton claimed to have treated children as young as five or six years for it.

Jess was standing by the door when a message from Brooklyn arrived—a scrawled note from Lewis Farmington, brought over on the ferry by one of the boys from the shipyards.

Daniel was needed at home right away, the note urged. There has been an accident, a serious one. Could Pastor Dalton and Dr. Grafton come, too?

Jess glanced up at the doctor, read the note once more, then turned to the youth who had delivered it. “What sort of accident, son, do you know?”

Clutching his cap in his hands, the boy replied in a thick brogue, “I don't, sir. I was only sent with the message, you see. But I did hear someone make mention of a drowning.”

A sick feeling of dread settled over Jess. With another glance at the scene on the other side of the room, he lowered his voice. “A drowning?” he repeated softly.

“Aye, sir,” the boy replied with a quick nod. “That seemed to be the word about the yards.”