Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  “Blast!” Tom cried again, louder this time, breaking his crawl to watch the frog disappear under the water.

  Johanna let out a gasp of horror at the sight of the big black cat trotting into the woods at the far side of the park. With a tiny bundle of fur in its mouth, it fairly swaggered with feline satisfaction.

  Grabbing the sleeve of Dulcie’s dress, she gestured toward the cat. The younger girl opened her mouth to let out a shriek. Then they both took off running.

  Johanna, with her long, thin legs, easily outdistanced Dulcie. As they ran, they flailed their arms and Dulcie screamed, hoping to frighten the cat into dropping the baby rabbit.

  Johanna began to cry as they crashed through the trees, her heart wrenching at the sight of the tiny bunny in the clutches of the cat. Hiking her skirts up still more, she cleared decaying tree stumps and bramble bushes with ease, never taking her eyes off the cat.

  With the baby rabbit still in its mouth, the cat continued to dash into the woods, but aimlessly now, lunging first in one direction, then another, as if uncertain which way led to escape.

  Sprinting far out in front of Dulcie, Johanna managed to bring herself up almost even with the cat. The animal acted as though it didn’t see her, veering off to the right, leaning into the wind as it ran. But Dulcie, shrieking and wildly waving a tree branch, cut around Johanna to close in on the cat.

  Unexpectedly, the animal seemed to lose all sense of direction. It darted first one way, then another, whipping back and forth. Finally, it tossed its tiny prey on the ground and took off in a frenzied run into the heart of the woods.

  Johanna dropped to her knees to retrieve the baby rabbit, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. Cradling the pitiful little bunny against her, she got to her feet. She could feel the tiny heart racing beneath her hand and thought perhaps the rabbit was as frightened of her and Dulcie as it had been of the cat.

  Suddenly, a flash of remembrance struck her. How long had they been gone? Little Tom…he’s been alone all this time.…

  With her free hand, she motioned to Dulcie that they had to get back to the park right away!

  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.

  2

  A Gray, Chill Day

  Far off is a spark

  From the lamp-lit town,

  And the grey, chill day

  Slips away with a frown.

  JAMES STEPHENS (1882-1950)

  New York City

  Michael 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 stag
e 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.”

  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 s
napped 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!”