Sons of an Ancient Glory (6 page)

Jess stared with dismay at the lean-faced boy. After another moment, his gaze again went to rest on young Daniel. Finally, with heavy steps and an even heavier heart, he started across the room.

By half past six that evening, most of the city's police force had been dispatched to the Astor Place theater. The majority of the men were posted inside, with fifty at the rear of the building, along Eighth Street, and another seventy-five at Astor Place.

Michael remained inside with most of his men, receiving periodic updates from the streets. Finally, he decided to have a look for himself and made his way to the main entrance at Astor Place.

He groaned aloud when he looked outside. Some of the men had thought the threatening skies and cold temperatures would discourage a large theater crowd. To the contrary, from Broadway to the Bowery, the streets swarmed with a wave of human flesh.

If the military were indeed mustering, as reported, he fervently hoped they would not delay their arrival. From the looks of the crowd converging on the theater, the police were going to need all the help they could get.

He stood watching for another minute, then ducked back inside. Turning around, he nearly collided with Chief Matsell himself. “Sorry, sir!” he blurted out, embarrassed to be caught lurking in the doorway.

The chief gave a grim smile and waved off Michael's apology. A young man for his position, Chief Matsell had from the beginning made himself approachable to his officers. At the same time, he managed to inspire a formerly unknown sense of discipline and respect throughout the force. He treated his men with courtesy and fairness, his captains with unmistakable regard.

“We've got trouble tonight, Captain,” he said, meeting Michael's eyes. “Bad trouble.”

“Aye, sir, so it would appear. We'll be needing the militia soon, I'll warrant.”

The chief nodded. “General Sanford is to send word when they're ready. After that, the mayor has only to issue the orders.”

Michael hoped the guardsmen would not delay their preparation. He had the sick sense that they would soon need every man available.

The curtain went up at 7:40, ten minutes late. By then the word had been passed that more tickets had been sold than the building could accommodate, which meant that in excess of eighteen hundred people now crammed the theater.

The chief had positioned himself in the Astor House box on the right of the stage, making sure he was readily visible to his men and to the patrons. To Michael's great relief, Denny Price came round with the news that the militia was formed and would move the minute they received their orders.

Despite the troublemakers in the audience, the first two scenes went off without event. In the third scene, however, Macready swaggered onto the stage attired as Macbeth.

“So foul and fair a day I have not seen”
The first line he spoke fired the bullies in the crowd like a torch tossed into a pan of gunpowder. Michael saw Isaiah Rynders himself jump to his feet to lead his cronies in a roar of boos and hisses. At the same time, Macready's champions broke into cheers and applause, tossing their hats and waving handkerchiefs in the air.

For a full fifteen minutes, all movement on the stage came to a dead halt as the noisy factions in the house did their best to outshout one another. Michael and the men lining the back of the aisles stood, tense and waiting. Finally the play resumed, although the dialogue of the actors was barely audible.

Only then did Michael remember that Sara's father and the Widow Coates were planning to be in attendance this evening. He snapped his gaze up to the left, toward Lewis Farmington's box. Seeing it empty, he gave a sigh of relief. Perhaps they'd gotten wind of the expected trouble and changed their plans. In any event, they were well out of this pandemonium.

The moment the second act began, chaos broke out. The barricaded windows rattled, some shattering, as the rowdies outside began to hurl rocks against the building. Soon the police had all they could do to keep replacement boards going up. As the noise in the street swelled, the launching of stones began in earnest.

The dull ache that had lodged itself at the back of Michael's neck earlier in the day now moved up his head, drumming fresh pain into his skull with every rock heaved against the building. When a deafening crash sounded at one of the upper windows, he thought his head would explode in agony. Looking up, he watched in horror as a stone went sailing into the magnificent chandelier in the center of the theater, smashing it to ruins.

He ran to the window and peered out between the missing shards of glass upon a cursing, snarling mob that seemed to have gone entirely berserk. Someone had opened a water hydrant, flooding the pavement. Every streetlamp within view had been shattered. Glass from the lamps and the windows formed a treacherous moat about the building.

Michael saw in an instant that the police were greatly outnumbered. They had gone on the counterattack with their clubs, but their numbers were pathetically few against a mob that had to range in the thousands.

Most of the rabble-rousers appeared young, little more than boys. To his astonishment, Michael saw that some wore firemen's uniforms. Carrying ladders, they rushed the building, yelling, “BURN THE DEN OF ARISTOCRACY!” There were more than a few Irish faces in the crowd, spewing their invective against the English as they flung their stones and other missiles at the theater.

Whipping around, Michael found himself face-to-face with the sheriff.

“Rally your best men to the Eighth Street door, Captain! There's a bunch of roughnecks over there trying to break through!”

With the help of Denny Price, Michael mustered a platoon of men. As he and Price rushed the door, the officers poured out behind them, driving back the front ranks of the mob.

His blackthorn club raised, Price drove through the crowd like a stampeding bull. Michael had abandoned his club and drawn his gun before charging out the door. He took off after Price, shouldering his way through the red-faced attackers, leveling the pistol on one angry face after another as he went. They had been instructed against firing into the crowd, but there had been nothing said about firing a warning shot or two into the air.

Once they'd pushed the mob back and managed to secure the door, Michael left Price in charge and hurried off to the main entrance at Astor Place. For a moment he could only stand and stare at the scene in front of him. The mob here was denser, and clearly more violent. The young participants, mere boys, had gotten the best of the police. From all appearances, they were about to break through the main doors.

Even as he watched, a policeman trying to force them back fell, crumpling under a volley of stones. Rage rose up in Michael, and he took off running after the officer's assailant. Shooting once in the air, he caught up with the youth, grabbing him hard from behind and shoving him down onto the street. He had no orders to make arrests, but arrest the little thug he did, sending him stumbling into the theater under the strong arm of a young patrolman.

The officer who had fallen was unconscious. Pocketing his gun, Michael hooked his hands under the man's arms and hurriedly dragged him inside. When a fiery-eyed youth and his companion tried to block the policemen from the entrance, Michael flung out his leg, booting one a hard blow to the kneecaps, the other a kick in the groin.

Once inside, he shouted at nobody in particular,
“We need a doctor for the injured!”
then took off toward the house doors to see if he could muster some additional men to hold the main entrance.

Behind him, someone called his name. Michael whipped around to see Benjamin Fairchild, captain of the Eighth Ward Precinct, rushing toward him.

Fairchild's face was a thundercloud. “We're to order our men inside right away!”

“Inside?”
Michael stared at him in amazement.

The other precinct captain nodded shortly. “We're to rally every man inside in order to hold the building. The military is on the way.”

Michael's anger quickly gave way to mere frustration. He knew it was the only sensible call.

“We can't hold them off any longer, Mike,” Fairchild reasoned. “We're but a few against their thousands. And they're altogether out of control. The chief says it would be meaningless slaughter to leave the men out there any longer. The best we can do is secure the building—if we can—until the guardsmen arrive.”

Michael gave a curt shrug. “Aye, well, let us hope, then, they don't arrive too late for us all. I'm thinking the slaughter will be worse if that rabble storms the building.”

Fairchild left him, and Michael turned to glance inside, toward the stage. Incredibly, the play was still going on. Furious noise battered the building, the chandelier hung in ruins, shards of broken window glass lay everywhere, and the crowd was screaming. But the English actor, Macready, still raced through his part, looking entirely foolish in his attempt to make himself heard.

It was dark by the time Daniel and the others hurried off the ferry at Brooklyn and made for home. When he saw Mr. Farmington waiting at the docks beside his carriage, Daniel's stomach wrenched with fear. Whatever had happened must be bad. Bad, indeed.

Mr. Farmington's face was grave, his eyes tired. He shook hands briefly with each of them, then took Daniel by the arm. “Daniel…a moment, son.”

A heavy weight of dread settled over Daniel's chest. He saw Mr. Farmington dart a look to Pastor Dalton, then Dr. Grafton. “A sad thing has happened,” he said quietly, returning his gaze to Daniel. “A tragic thing, I'm afraid.”

He hesitated, and something in Daniel suddenly flung up a protest. He did not want to hear another word. He didn't want to know about this latest tragedy, whatever it was. He had thought they were finished with tragedy. At least for a time. There had been enough of it in their lives. More than enough.

Daniel looked at Mr. Farmington. Slowly he shook his head, denying what was to come before he even heard the words.