Sons of an Ancient Glory Read Online Free Page B

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