“‘Burn, Boston, burn,’” Peters whispered.

“It won’t come to that, Mr. Mayor, I assure you. Why, the entire Harvard football team is now armed and standing by for orders. Those are fine young men. And I’m in constant contact with Major Sullivan and the State Guard Command. They’re just around the corner, sir, standing at the ready.”

Peters nodded, taking comfort in that, however small. Four full regiments plus a machine-gun unit and the motor and ambulance corps.

“I’ll check in with Major Sullivan now,” Peters said.

“Careful out there, Mr. Mayor. Dusk is near upon us.”

Peters left the office that just yesterday had been occupied by Edwin Curtis. He walked up the hill to the State House, and his heart leapt at the sight of them—my god, an army! Under the grand archway at the back of the building, the First Cavalry Troop paraded their horses back and forth in a steady stream, the clop of the hooves sounding like muffled gunshots against the cobblestones. On the front lawns facing Beacon Street, the Twelfth and Fifteenth Regiments stood at parade rest. Across the street, at the top of the Common, the Tenth and Eleventh stood at full attention. If Peters had never wanted it to come to this, he could nevertheless be forgiven for the swell of pride the sight of the Commonwealth’s might birthed in him. This was the antithesis of the mob. This was calculated force, beholden to the rule of law, capable of restraint and violence in equal measure. This was the fist beneath the velvet glove of democracy, and it was gorgeous.

He accepted their salutes as he passed through them and up the front steps of the State House. His body felt utterly weightless by the time he passed through the great marble hall and was directed to Major Sullivan in the back with the First Cavalry. Major Sullivan had set up his command post under the archway, and the telephones and field radios on the long table in front of him were ringing at a furious pace. Officers answered them and scribbled on paper and handed the papers to Major Sullivan, who took note of the mayor as he approached, and then went back to scanning his latest dispatch.

He saluted Andrew Peters. “Mr. Mayor, I’d say you’re just in time.”

“For?”

“The volunteer police General Cole sent to Scollay Square walked into an ambush, sir. There have been shots fired, several injuries reported.”

“Good Lord.”

Major Sullivan nodded. “They won’t last, sir. I’m not sure they’ll last five minutes in truth.”

Well then, here it was.

“Your men are ready?”

“You see them here before you, sir.”

“The cavalry?” Peters said.

“No quicker way to break up a crowd and establish dominance, Mr. Mayor.”

Peters was struck by the absurdity of it all—a nineteenth-century military action in twentieth-century America. Absurd but somehow apt.

Peters gave the order: “Save the volunteers, Major.”

“With pleasure, sir.” Major Sullivan snapped a salute and a young captain brought him his horse. Sullivan toed the stirrup without ever looking at it and swung gracefully atop his horse. The captain climbed onto the mount behind his and raised a bugle to his shoulder.