"I wouldn't want to be the one to spread rumors now." She glanced over her shoulder before continuing. "There's talk about some of our lads going out there and helpin' them."

"Helping them? How?"

"Why, to escape."

"Escape! That's nonsense."

"I heard it with me own ears, Father. The other one, that Halligan fellow, it's said he fought in the Uprising. A blasted croppy, he was, begging your pardon. And some of our boys as fought with him are going out there and breakin' the two out of jail."

"I don't believe that."

" 'Tis true, Father. I won't breathe a word who told me but I have it on quite good authority, too." She winked again. "Me mistress says they're going to send a whole regiment of soldiers out there. In case there's trouble."

"Well, I wouldn't trust every rumor you hear, Nell."

"The God's truth," she said, crossing herself. "Do you believe 'em to be guilty, Father?"

"That's for the court to decide."

"I got a feeling they done it. And if so, by rights they should swing. The sooner the better, you ask me."

"I have to be going." He pushed by her and continued on his way.

"I'm prayin' they're found guilty, Father," she called after him. "Otherwise, I fear it'll go hard on the rest of us Irish."

When he reached Summer Street, the road was crowded with wagons and peddlers' carts and women carrying baskets of eggs and baked goods. People were shouting and calling out, and there were the cries of vendors selling milk and fish and charcoal, as well as the clatter of hooves and the rattling of iron wagon wheels over the cobblestones. The priest turned west, and headed toward the Sullivan residence. The street here was quieter, more residential. It narrowed to a tree-lined way just wide enough for a single carriage to pass along. Lindens and elms and a few tall cedars bordered the street. The houses were elegant three-and four-story brick mansions in the Federal style. While some of the houses stood right on the street, most had small gated areas, pretty gardens, that led up to their front doors.

He heard the bells of the Park Street Church sounding nine times. Now he would be late. As he hurried along, the woman's words kept echoing in his brain: I'm prayin' they're found guilty, Father. Otherwise, I fear it'll go hard on the rest of us Irish. Pay no attention to her, he told himself. She was just a foolish, malicious woman who liked to spread gossip. Still, there was an element of truth to her callous remarks. Things might, indeed, go hard for the Irish if the two were found innocent. And what if some were planning on doing something as reckless as trying to set the prisoners free? The authorities would seize any excuse to crack down hard on them. On all Catholics, for that matter. There was no telling how bad things could get if something like that were to happen. He made a mental note to mention in his next sermon the need to avoid acting rashly, for cool heads to prevail.

Cheverus did not look forward to this visit. The attorney general would, he knew, make it unpleasant in various subtle, and not-so-subtle, ways. Neither man liked the other, though they usually pretended a gloss of mutual respect, at least in public. For instance, Sullivan, president of the Massachusetts Historical Society, and Cheverus, one of the founders of the Boston Athenaeum, sometimes had to appear together at fundraising or social gatherings and act cordially to one another. But with Sullivan now riding the Republican wave of popularity that had spread across the country since President Jefferson's victory, he could afford to be less than cordial to a priest whose standing in the community had fallen because of rising anti-French sentiment. With his recently acknowledged political aspirations, the attorney general would doubtless try to turn to his advantage the always-present anti-papist, anti-foreign resentment which simmered in New England's Protestant hearts. With the war in Europe, with Catholic France seizing American vessels on the high seas, and with the mass of immigrants streaming into Boston Harbor, that suppressed resentment had come to a full-fledged boil once again. Though the attorney general and Strong were not much different when it came to their views on Catholic immigrants, Sullivan would wish to show the citizens of the commonwealth that if he was elected, Irish Catholics who broke the law could expect little leniency from him.

Ironically, the Sullivan clan had come from Limerick as Catholics two generations before. His grandfather had been one of the "Wild Geese" who had fled to France. The Sullivans had settled in Maine as farmers, worked hard and prospered. Somewhere along the line, they did what many before them had: realized the unacceptable burden of their faith and abandoned it in favor of one less onerous. His brother, General John Sullivan, a governor of New Hampshire and a Revolutionary War hero, had called Catholicism that "cursed religion," and like his brother James, thought it was bent on destroying "the pure race of Protestants." Having come from Catholic stock, James Sullivan made the most formidable sort of enemy--the kind of man to turn his back on his past with the narrow-minded zeal of a convert. And he was a self-made man, one of the few men of power in Boston that had risen from modest beginnings to become the most influential Republican in the state. He, like many a self-made man, held in contempt those not so able to rise above their station. Though a Republican like Jefferson and thus someone who should have been more sympathetic to the plight of the poor, the common man, he felt nothing but disdain for them, especially immigrants. Even before this case, Sullivan had been unapologetic in his prejudice against Catholics and other "foreigners." In particular, he viewed the Irish with downright animosity, a form of self-loathing which hated the roots from which he had sprung. Whenever a poor Irish laborer or scullery maid broke the law and came before him in his role as prosecutor, he always sought the harshest penalty: the stocks, a good whipping, cutting off of an ear, a hanging on the Common.

It wasn't only the poor laboring class or just-off-the-boat immigrant who brought forth his ire. It was all Catholics, including its ministers. As a Republican, he had supported--at least in theory--the French Revolution as an attempt to throw off the dual chains of monarchy and Catholicism. In two previous court cases involving the diocese, Attorney General Sullivan had made it abundantly clear that he held only contempt for any brand of papist. One case arose out of a controversy involving tithe taxes in the commonwealth. The Church brought suit to have Catholics legally exempt from having to pay taxes for the support of the Protestant clergy. It was a matter, Fathers Matignon and Cheverus had tried to argue in court, of the fundamental separation of church and state. Why should Catholics have to pay for a Protestant minister when they attended a Catholic church? Yet the court found against them, and they had to pay several hundred dollars not only for the taxes but for the court costs as well, money which they could ill afford to lose.

The other case involving Mr. Sullivan was even more troubling. It stemmed from an incident up in Maine, which was under the jurisdiction of Massachusetts. Besides ministering to the Indians, Cheverus spent a part of each year up north administering the sacraments to a handful of Catholics who had settled around Newcastle, Maine. While up there several years earlier, he had performed the marriage ceremony for two Irish Catholics, James Smithwick and Elizabeth Jackson. According to law, marriage was only legal if performed by an acknowledged minister or by a justice of the peace. Hoping to avoid a legal conflict, Cheverus had advised the couple to have their marriage offically sanctioned in a civil ceremony before a justice of the peace, just to be safe. Which they did. Nothing happened until the following year, when Cheverus returned for his mission work in Maine. The attorney general then served him with a warrant for his arrest, taking, to Cheverus's mind, a more than professional interest in the case. The priest was charged with marrying a couple without legal authority and placed in jail like a common criminal. It was the second time in his life he'd been in jail. In court, Cheverus had to prove himself a "settled" minister, that is, one legally sanctioned and recognized by the state. Mr. Sullivan had hoped to win a guilty verdict so that he could show everyone that New England was, is, and always would be a Protestant realm that wouldn't stand for, as he put it in court, "popish harlotry." Fortunately, Silas Lee, a member of Congress and a skilled attorney, defended Cheverus and won him an acquittal. Even so, when dismissing the case, one of the judges, Justice Bradbury, had stared down from his bench at Cheverus and declared spitefully, "Nothing would have delighted me more, sir, than to see you spend a pleasant hour in the pillory."

Though there had been some significant concessions made in the laws of the commonwealth over the past twenty years regarding Catholic rights, Cheverus had learned not to expect much. Under Father Matignon's tutelage, he had come to be ever wary, ever cautious. Even in 1806, he knew that Catholics were still considered second-class citizens, trespassers in this Protestant country, and that something like the Daley-Halligan case had the potential to make things only more difficult for all. Still, he'd given the Daleys his word. He had told them he would talk to the attorney general, and they had no one else to speak for them. He realized, too, that it was partly his own pride that made him waver now. He didn't like the thought of going to Sullivan and asking him for his help. Yet he must swallow his pride, he thought: Pride goeth before destruction.

While he was debating with himself, he had reached the Sullivan residence. The attorney general's mansion was one of those newer, Federalist-era houses that had changed the face of Boston during the past decade, turning the city from a simple Puritan village of plain wooden structures to an English-style municipality with grand brick houses preaching the new faith in materialistic success. Cheverus went through the wrought-iron gate and up to the impressive front doors. The building was enormous, a four-storied, double house with long windows recessed into the white-painted, brick bow fronts--a home befitting someone as substantial as James Sullivan. He was after all, the most important Republican in the city, in fact one of the most important men period, wealthy, highly connected to many of Boston's most influential families. One didn't want to make an enemy of such a man. Remember to be discreet, he told himself.

Cheverus struck the gleaming brass knocker and waited. A Negro servant answered the door.

"Yessuh," the man said. He was tall and lean, with graying hair and loose, jaundiced eyes. The priest stated that he had an appointment to see the attorney general.

He gave his name, and the man had him step into a foyer. He had him wait there while he went off to see Mr. Sullivan. He returned after a moment and said, "Mr. Sullivan is with his barber now. Please to wait here, sir."

Cheverus glanced around. He had never been in the attorney general's residence. It was an impressive home, high-ceilinged, elegant, with Italian marble floors. A chandelier hung from the ceiling while a curved staircase with ornate balusters wound its way to a second story. On the walls were various portraits of men and women, several appearing to be in the style of Gilbert Stuart, for whom many of the city's elite sat. One on the wall opposite happened to catch his eye. It was of a young woman wearing a mull cap and a dark shawl drawn slightly down off one pale, angular shoulder. She had sharp features but was pretty in a severe sort of way. She stared at Cheverus unabashedly with large, dark, candid eyes. There was about her stare a kind of challenge.

His forehead felt damp with sweat. The fever was upon him still. He reached into his pocket, took out his handkerchief, and dabbed his face. As he did so, he smelled something odd. A too-sweet odor. It took him a moment to realize what it was: the scent of Finola Daley. Her tears, that odd smell she gave off. He remembered the night before, that suffering, saint-like aspect of hers. My poor Dom. My poor love. And he remembered as they stood at the door, her leaning into him, her cool hand on his wrist, whispering that she would pray for him.

After making him wait the better part of an hour, the attorney general finally appeared.

"Good morning," the man said curtly, without offering his hand. His face glowed a bright pink from having just been shaved, and his gray hair was freshly powdered and held in place at the neck with a black ribbon. He was of the newer style of men who went without a wig, though he still had his hair powdered so that his scalp appeared a grayish white. "I hope I have not kept you long, Mr. Cheverus." The priest knew that the absence of a title of respect was intended as a slight, as was the time he had been made to wait.

"Not at all. . ." Cheverus replied, hesitating, then deciding finally to address him in kind. "Mr. Sullivan."

"We'll be more comfortable in here." The attorney general led the priest into a front parlor directly off the foyer. The room was bright and gracefully furnished with Queen Anne chairs, an expensive Persian rug, a gilt taboret before a Hepplewhite sofa. Over the mantel hung another portrait, this one of an elderly woman wearing a simple shawl over her head.

"Please, have a seat," he instructed Cheverus, though he remained standing. It was a calculated move on his part. He wasn't a tall man himself, perhaps only five-six, but standing he could lord his height over the seated priest. He also didn't offer Cheverus anything to drink, which was a customary hospitality.

The attorney general was a distinguished-looking man in his sixties. Though short, he gave one the impression of size, of substance, perhaps because of his erect bearing and the long, perfectly tailored coat he wore. Underneath his coat he had on a gray waistcoat, a white frilled shirt with a high collar and silk necktie, and long trousers that fitted his slender form. He had an angular face profoundly lacking in any softness, with a sharp nose and chin that made him resemble some bird of prey. Save for a pronounced widow's peak, his forehead was high and shiny, except for the powder at his hairline. A narrow, pursed mouth formed words with great frugality. Before uttering something of note, he had a habit of crossing his arms over his chest, the right elbow supported in the palm of his left hand, the index finger of his right hand pressed against his lips, as if he were asking his listener for silence. His most prominent feature, though, was his eyes. They were dark, all iris, made darker still by the contrast to the pale, bluish-white skin of his face and the powered hair, and they gazed at you without blinking or giving any indication of what was going on behind them. Cheverus thought it was like looking into a lump of coal.

"If you don't mind my saying, you don't look well, Mr. Cheverus," Sullivan noted, giving him a patronizing look.

"I have been ill."

"Nothing serious, I hope."

"No. A fever. I am nearly recovered."

"You must take better care of yourself. Your colleague Matignon has already far too much to do." His gaze lingered on Cheverus, as if his statement implied more. The man pulled a silver watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, glanced at it casually, then returned it to his pocket. Tm afraid," he said, "I am rather pressed for time this morning, Mr. Cheverus. My carriage shall be leaving for Northampton shortly."

"Yes, of course," Cheverus replied. "I will only take a moment of your time."

"Your note mentioned that it was of an urgent nature. Something concerning the Irish prisoners, I believe?"

"Yes, I have come to speak on their behalf."

"In what regard, sir?"

"Their treatment."

"Treatment?" he said, the dark eyes fixed, expressionless, though the thin mouth drew itself into a slight grimace of vexation. "With all due respect, sir, I do not see what concern they are of yours."

"Daley is a member of my parish. And the other one is a Catholic as well."

"This is a legal matter," he lectured. "Not one of concern to a minister of God."

He said "minister of God" as if he were trying to expel an irritating grain of sand that had somehow found its way into his mouth. Though he told himself not to, that he didn't want to antagonize a man of Sullivan's importance, Cheverus went ahead and said it anyway. "That was not your position when I married those two Catholics. You made a union under God a matter of state law."

"As indeed it was," the man said evenly, with great restraint. "You broke the law of the commonwealth and as attorney general, I had no alternative but to prosecute you. I was merely carrying out my elected duties. No more, no less."

"You seemed to take particular interest in my case."

Cheverus saw a momentary glimmer of emotion break the placid surface of those eyes. He wasn't sure if it was anger or amusement or some other emotion. Whatever it was, his eyes quickly regained their cool composure and he even managed a thin smile. "Merely the interest of performing one's duties to the best of one's ability. Similar, I would imagine, to your giving a sermon."

Before Cheverus could reply, the man turned his back to him and proceeded to the front window. He moved with a noticeable limp, one leg obviously shorter than the other. Yet he was vain enough not to use a cane, and he tried to hide the flaw in his carriage by walking slowly, a kind of crab-like shuffle, pulling the bad leg stiffly after its fellow and canting a little to one side, like a ship taking on water. Sullivan stood at the window looking out onto Summer Street, arms crossed, a finger placed contemplatively to his lips. He watched the passage of people and vehicles as if with profound interest. He didn't speak for several seconds, allowing the awkward quiet of the room to make his guest feel nervous. An old courtroom trick of his. In a trial, he would do just that--turn away from the jury and stand as if lost in deep thought for a moment, the courtroom growing uneasy with the silence, wanting him to speak just to break it. Cheverus had heard it said of Sullivan that he wanted to run for office partly because he feared the prospect of a chaotic future, a time when masses of filthy, ignorant, immoral foreigners streamed onto these shores, bringing their backward religions and decadent ways, befouling the gem-like purity of this once-Protestant Eden. Doubtless he saw this trial as nothing less than a conflict between two incompatible ways of life. There were the Yankees, rightful heirs of the Puritans, and then there were the "others."

Sullivan finally broke the silence. "Now what about their treatment so concerns you, Mr. Cheverus?"

"Am I to understand their trial is to take place on Thursday?"

"That is correct."

"It is hardly giving them time to prepare a defense."

"They have been given adequate time."

"The prosecution has had five months to ready its case."

"If you must know, the trial was to commence tomorrow. But I was able to have it delayed, at considerable personal inconvenience, until Thursday so they would have more time."

"That still only gives them a few days."

Sullivan took a deep breath and exhaled loudly through his nose. "You are a man of God. Not one trained in the intricacies of the law. I would suggest, sir, you stick to saving souls." Then he added with a sardonic sneer, "It would seem you have your hands full doing that."

"It doesn't take one trained as a barrister to understand that the circumstances are not favorable to the defense. Have they even been assigned counsel yet?"

"They have. They will have a fair trial, I can assure you of that."

"Fair, Mr. Sullivan?"

"Indeed fair!" he snapped, annoyed at having his word questioned.

"Would justice not be as well served if the trial were postponed to give them sufficient time to ready a defense? A fortnight, perhaps."

"An innocent man need only a moment to prove his innocence."

"But the state has had five months to prove them otherwise."

"The trial proceeds as scheduled," he declared. "Now if that is all you came here for, Mr. Cheverus, as I said, I am rather busy."

"There is something else." He paused for a moment, careful to choose his words. "Daley's family would like to ask that they be permitted to visit him before his trial."

"Out of the question," Sullivan said, brushing the request away as if it were an annoying fly.

"But why?"

"I will not take the chance of a bunch of Irish ruffians trying to break them out of prison."

"Ruffians? I am only asking that he be allowed to see his immediate family."

"I have dealt with Irish prisoners before, Reverend Cheverus," he said. "If I permit one, fifty of his reprobate countrymen will come and there is no telling what will ensue. There is already talk abroad of a band of their compatriots planning to go west and help them escape."

Cheverus thought again of what Nell O'Rourke had told him. Could it be more than a rumor?

"That's absurd."

"Is it?" Sullivan picked a piece of lint off his coat, inspected it between his thumb and forefinger, then flicked it away. "Can you assure me that won't happen?"

"I'm only asking that he be permitted to see his immediate family-- his mother, his wife and child. Certainly they pose no threat to the security of the commonwealth."

"They might try to smuggle in weapons."

"You can have their belongings searched."

"I am sorry. But it is quite out of the question."

"Why?"

"I don't have to explain my reasons to you, sir."

"The family deserves the right to see their loved one."

"Dare you speak of rights?" he said, his voice growing sharp as a knife blade. "What about Marcus Lyon's rights? Did he not have the right to see his loved ones once more before he was so brutally dispatched?"

"You are assuming that they are guilty. In America, I thought one is innocent until proven guilty."

"I don't need to be lectured on the Bill of Rights. My family fought in the War for Independence. I supported your own revolution until it grew into madness."

"It was not my revolution, Mr. Sullivan."

"No, I suppose a movement that freed people from the oppression of the Catholic Church would not be," he replied contemptuously.

"You don't know of what you speak," he flung back in anger. He quickly chastised himself for losing his temper. "Forgive me," he said, swallowing his pride. "What if I were to assure you nothing will happen?"

The attorney general placed his hands behind his back and let out a mocking little laugh. "How can you assure that? They are followers of the papist religion and you could not keep them from slaying their fellow man over a few dollars. They are like the rest of their kind."

Their kind, Cheverus thought. He reached into his pocket and took out his cross. "My mother gave me this when I was a boy," he explained. "A long time ago. It came across the ocean with me. Did you have one?"

"I do not believe in such idolatry." "But your people did come from Limerick, Mr. Sullivan? They were Catholic, were they not?"

Cheverus saw that he had struck a nerve. The man glared at the priest, offended that he would dare bring up such a fact.

"Fortunately for my soul and for those of my children, my forebears saw the error in believing in such false images."

"It is a sacred image to me," Cheverus said. "What if I were to swear on the cross that nothing will happen?"

Tm afraid I cannot take the chance. It is as much for their own safety. Given the public outcry against this dreadful crime, someone might try to do the prisoners harm. Or their relatives. I don't want to be responsible for another riot."

"He has not seen his wife and small child since November. And his mother is ill. What harm can come from allowing him to see them?"

Sullivan pursed his lips. He seemed to be entertaining the idea, weighing the political consequences to himself.

Cheverus seized the moment to continue. "Such a gesture will be looked on as an act of kindness in a political leader. Especially one campaigning for governor."

"Or as weakness."