"You'll recall after the Shays rebellion. Two rebels named Parmenter and McCullough."

"Indeed, I remember them."

"You defended them."

"That was a long time ago. I was in private practice then. My position now is to see that the laws of the commonwealth are enforced."

"And yet, when they received the death penalty, you personally recommended to the governor that he grant them clemency."

"That was different. They weren't cold-blooded murderers."

"Merely traitors and rebels." Cheverus paused for a moment, wondering if he should simply give it up. He could go back to the Daleys and say he had tried. But then he said, "In the last election you lost by a handful of votes. There are a thousand Irish in Boston now. Many will have the right to vote in the next election. They will remember how you treated their countrymen." "That rabble. Most are illiterate and have no political awareness."

"Ah. Perhaps I could put in a good word."

Cheverus withheld a smile. As Sullivan stared at the priest, a hint of a smile came to his own sharp features.

"Well, well. I wonder if I underestimated you, Mr. Cheverus." He thought for a moment, then said, "Very well then. One short visit. Just his wife and child."

"And his mother, too. I beg of you."

"All right, his mother, too," he conceded. "But only after the trial. Not before. And I will hold you personally responsible if anything happens. Do I make myself clear, Reverend Cheverus?"

"Yes."

"Now is that all?" he said testily.

"There is one more thing."

"What?" he hissed, exasperation finally winning out.

"They would like to be allowed to bathe."

"To bathe?"

"Yes. For the trial. And they would need some clean clothes."

He shook his head, then said, "Yes, I will grant them permission to bathe. You may have the clothing delivered to the jail."

"Thank you."

He turned and started for the door, his limp more noticeable now. Before he reached it, he stopped abruptly and turned around. "I must warn you," he said, wagging a thin finger at him. "If there is any more trouble with you papists, there will be hell to pay, Mr. Cheverus. Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite clear," the priest said.

"Good day to you, sir. I think you know the way out."

After leaving the Sullivan residence, Cheverus headed north to tell the Daleys the news. The day was warming, the sun bright and high in the sky over the city. The harbor was crowded with schooners and sloops, merchant ships and whalers. The docks were a flurry of activity. People passed by with carts and wheelbarrows and wagons. He saw shipwrights and caulkers, sailmakers and mastmakers, all smelling heavily of tar and salt. A fishwoman pushing her cart called out, "Fresh cod for sale. Eels for sale."

When he reached the Daley home, he found himself half hoping that Finola would be there, but it turned out she was away at work. She had left the baby home with Rose and with Dominic's little sister, Pegeen. Cheverus found Rose seated in a rocking chair by the small fire. Despite her illness, she was smoking a clay pipe and knitting something.

"Hello, Father," she said. "Back so soon?"

"Good morning. How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you."

"I have some news, Rose," he said. "I was able to see Mr. Sullivan today."

"Will he postpone the trial?"

"No, I'm afraid not. But he will let you see Dominic. He says it'll have to be after the trial though. He assured me you will be allowed in to visit."

"And Finola and the baby, too?"

"Yes."

"Arrrah!" she said, folding her hands in thanks.

Cheverus reached into his pocket and took out a few coins and put them in Rose's palm.

"What's this, Father?"

"You'll need some money for the stage. And for lodging and food."

"We couldn't take your money, Father."

She tried to refuse, but he made her accept it.

"Buy your son some new clothes with it then. And the other one as well. Bring the clothes to the jail. They'll see that they get them for the trial."

"Oh, thank you, Father. You've done so much for us, I don't know what to say."

"I've done nothing. Give Dominic my love."

"I will, Father. Indeed, I will."

"And tell him he'll be in my prayers."

"You won't be comin' out then? For the trial." "No," he replied. "I'm afraid I can't." The old woman took his hand and kissed it in gratitude. "Bless you, Father."

Chapter Six.

The next morning, the turnkey brought their breakfast earlier than usual, just before dawn. He carried a lantern in one hand, the basket of food in the other. The meal was more substantial than the standard slab of stale bread and watery gruel. This morning it consisted of fried cod, a piece of cheese, boiled turnips, corn nocake, and a pot of warmish tea.

"Rise and shine, lads," Dowd said, sliding the trenchers of food through the narrow space in the bars. "You got a long day ahead of you."

Daley got up from his bunk to get their breakfast.

"I hear they expect a fair crowd today," offered Dowd.

"You don't say?" the big Irishman replied.

"A second coach arrived last night from Boston. And there's not a room to be had in town."

"Here just for the trial, are they?"

"Why, you boys are famous," Dowd said with a good-natured chuckle. "You'd better get crackin'. They'll be coming for you shortly. Good luck."

"Here, Jamy," Daley said, handing him his plate. "Lookit all they give us today."

Halligan sat up, rubbing his eyes. He was still half asleep, his head dulled with dreams he could not remember. Though he woke hungry as always, the greasy smell of the food turned his stomach. Since he didn't have any idea how long the trial would last or if they'd take time out for lunch, he figured he'd better eat. Before Daley began on his, he got down on his knees.

"O Heavenly Father," he prayed, "thank you for the food we are about to eat. Be with us today. Watch over me family. Let nothin' happen to them. Amen."

Daley started eating ravenously, shoveling it into the hairy hole in his face. Food slopped down into his beard.

"So this is the day we been waitin' for, eh Jamy boy?"

" Tis," he replied.

"They'll see they got themselves the wrong fellers. They'll have to."

"Let's hope so anyway."

"That lad that says he saw us with the horse, I want him to look me in the eye and say that."

Halligan continued eating.

After a while Dowd returned, followed by a half dozen guards. All of them shouldered muskets, save for the leader, a captain in the militia. He was young and good looking, freshly shaven, with long side whiskers and his blond hair tied at the nape of his neck. A cavalry saber with an ornate baskethilt dangled from his belt. He had a certain swagger about him, but his eyes betrayed a vague uneasiness.

"James Halligan and Dominic Daley," he said in an overly punctilious tone. "You are to be tried this day in court. I am to escort you there presently."

Out in the corridor they offered their wrists, expecting the irons to be clapped on them, but the captain motioned them to move along without them. Instead of heading up the road to the courthouse, the guards led them out a back door of the jail and down a narrow alley between the jail and a barn next door. Daley shot a quizzical look at Halligan, and he could only shrug at the meaning of this unexpected detour.

A small muddy paddock was connected to the barn. Off to one side a dungheap steamed in the frigid morning air, while up near the barn, a pair of broad-chested Percherons stood curiously watching their approach. Chickens wandered about, pecking at the ground for food. They entered the paddock through a gate and crossed to the far side where a water trough lay against the fence. The dark water had a thin coating of ice on it. The rain had stopped, but the day was overcast and chilly. A light frost lay on everything like a sugar glaze. On the other side of the pen, the land sloped down to a river and a swampy area of cattails and reeds. Upriver was a bridge and a gristmill, its wheel slowly turning. Beyond the river lay fields and pasture land, then a forest of hardwoods and pine. Way off in the distance, hazy and gray in the morning, rose the mountains, scallops of lighter and lighter blue fading to gray at the horizon.

"Take off your clothes," the captain said to the prisoners.

"Our clothes, sir?" asked Daley.

"That's right. You are to have a bath," he said, pointing at the water trough. "Sergeant," he said, turning to one of the guards, "See to it that they are made presentable. And they are not to have any contact with anyone. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," replied the sergeant. He was an older man, a veteran with a weather-beaten face, and it was obvious that he bristled at taking orders from his young superior. The captain then turned and headed out to the street.

"Here," the sergeant said, handing them a bar of lye soap. When they didn't move right away, he snapped, "Don't just stand there like you're daft."

They undressed quickly in the crisp morning air, hanging their tattered clothing on the fence. They stood barefoot on the frozen ground, hopping from one foot to the other, hunched over. Embarrassed at their nakedness, they tried to cover their privates with their hands. Their bumpy skin was a ghostly white.

"Get a move on," the sergeant barked. "We ain't got all day."

They cracked the ice with their fists and dipped their hands into the water, which burned painfully when it first touched their skin. They moved quickly, shivering, their teeth chattering. But it felt good finally to be scrubbing off the months of dirt and filth, the putrid odor of the cell. They ducked their heads into the trough and washed their hair, too. They worked in silence, not uttering a word. Up toward the barn, Halligan noticed that a group of young boys had congregated, staring at them. They carried things in their hands: stones, clumps of dirt, rotten vegetables.

"Run along now," the sergeant called to them. None moved. "You hear me?" When they still didn't move, he took off after them. They broke and scattered like chickens as the sergeant chased them for a short distance.

While the sergeant was gone, one of the guards said, "Have you ever smelled anything as foul as a stinking Irishman?" He was a boyish-looking man with long red hair pulled back behind large ears and freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Several of the guards made sniffing noises and laughed.

"Smells worse than a goddamned pig sty," said another.

The others nodded in agreement.

"And look at the tiny yard on that one there," said the red-haired one, pointing at Daley's cock.

A guard with a mouthful of crooked and broken teeth said, "D'ye think an Irish whore would have a hankering for such a small cock?"

"You'd have to ask his mudder," the red-haired man said, leering at Daley.

There was more laughter, raucous, obscene.

Bent over the trough, Daley stopped washing, turned his head, and glared up at the red-haired man. Halligan put his hand lightly on Daley's arm, but the big Irishman didn't seem to notice.

"Do you fuck your dear ole mudder, paddy?" said the red-haired man, putting on an Irish brogue. They all laughed again.

Daley rose slowly to his full height so that he towered over the guards. His raw, pink fists, clenched by his naked thighs, were large as hamhocks.

"He's a big bastard, ain't he," exclaimed the snaggle-toothed guard.

"Dom," Halligan warned. "No."

"I won't let the podgreen talk that way," Daley said, staring at his friend. He had an expression in his normally sanguine eyes Halligan had not seen before. A wild unpredictable look.

"Think of your wife and son, Dom."

Gradually, Halligan could feel the muscles begin to relax in Daley's body.

"Go ahead and try it, ya stinkin' Irish dog," the red-haired man challenged, holding his musket at the ready. "It ain't the two of you against an unarmed man now."

"That'll be enough, private," said the sergeant, who had just returned then. "And you two, hurry up."

They fell to washing themselves again. A guard appeared and gave them some rags with which to dry themselves. He also carried a brown paper sack.