Sons of an Ancient Glory Read Online Free PDF

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.
    â€œRally 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