The present week has been a very interesting one, as the Supreme Court [heard the case of] those unhappy murderers Halligan and Daley, two Irish Men, that have been guilty of murder.... the trial was very solemn, and affecting, and what added to the painful feelings was the presence of the wife and mother of Daley, one of the prisoners. But their sentence before an earthly tribunal is pass'd.

-JOURNAL OF MRS. MARY SHEPHERD.

NORTHAMPTON. MASSACHUSETTS.

FOR SALE AT THIS OFFICE.

Price 9 penny single, 1 dollar per dozen A Brief Account of the murder of Marcus Lyon; The detection of the murderers, their trial, &c.

Written by a gentleman who resides near Where the murder was committed Man lifts his hand against his brother And brethren murder one another: The bloody shafts of death are hurl'd From man to man, throughout the world.

THE REPUBLICAN SPY.

APRIL 29. 1806.

Daley seemed to be in some degree agitated and immediately after sentence was pronounced fell upon his knees, apparently in prayer, but Halligan, who previous to the trial was by many supposed much the least criminal, exhibited stronger marks of total insensibility or obstinate and hardened wickedness than is often witnessed.

HAMPSHIRE FEDERALIST.

APRIL 26. 1806.

Two men riding along, fired at an eagle and killed him; an Irishman coming by at the same time, says he, "You might have saved your powder and shot, for the very fall would have killed him."

-THE REPUBLICAN SPY 1806.

Chapter Nine.

Cheverus was in the parlor of the rectory making final preparations for his trip north to the Indian mission. He was packing things into a large battered trunk that had come across the ocean with him. He carefully laid all that he would need in the faraway forests of Maine--hosts, candles, holy water and oil, communion wine, breviaries, rosaries, missals, vestments, and various liturgical paraphernalia for Mass. He packed some books for his own perusal: a slender volume by Villon--his favorite poet--a book on the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius, and of course the book he always brought with him when he ventured into the wilderness, the large, tattered volume called The Jesuit Relations, the collected letters the early Jesuits had sent back to France about their travails working with the Indians. No matter how often he read it, he never ceased to find it inspiring.

With this, his tenth visit north, he had learned to pack wisely, frugally, taking everything he would need but no more. The hosts and paper items he wrapped carefully in oil cloth. Fragile things, like the small, gilt-edged tabernacle he brought for the altar, he covered in linens and packed away at the bottom of the trunk so they wouldn't be damaged during the long journey. A few years earlier, he had purchased a beautiful two-foot-high marble and wood crucifix for the chapel in the Penobscot village. Yet when he arrived and opened the trunk, hoping to impress the Indians with the gift he'd brought them, there was the body of Christ in several pieces. The natives were saddened that le sauveur casse--the broken saviour--could not be resurrected like in the magical story he told them of the tomb.

He would be leaving in three days and still had much to do. He would go by wagon to Newburyport, then take the ferry over to Pleasant Point, Maine, where he would spend several weeks with the Passamaquoddy tribe. From there, he would continue north along the Penobscot River by canoe with his native guides, to the village of the Penobscots on the island of Old Town. It would be, as always, an arduous trek, not without an element of danger. During his second journey north, one of the canoes had overturned and he'd nearly drowned in the frigid water. Even now, he could recall floundering in the frigid, fast-moving river, thrashing wildly about, all the while thinking any moment he would go under. But then, like a miracle, one of his Indian guides plucked him by the collar and lifted him to safety. As it was he'd lost all of his vestments, and the prayer books they did manage to recover floating in the river had been damaged beyond repair.

Despite the difficulties, Cheverus looked forward to going on the two-month mission into the north woods. While Father Matignon complained he couldn't spare him being gone that long, or worried the harsh living conditions might undermine his already frail health, Cheverus always enjoyed his time there. If anything, it seemed to have a salutary effect on his physical well-being. He worked hard, splitting wood and doing odd jobs about the small, bark-covered structure the Indians had made for a chapel. He went for long hikes in the forest. He found his muscles growing hard and knotted, his hands callused. He returned so darkened by the sun and weather-scarred by the wind that Father Matignon hardly recognized him. The fresh air of the forest provided a welcome change from the often fetid streets of Boston. At night, he slept soundly to the cries of loons, the howls of wolves, and the bugling of moose.

Besides, he delighted in working with the Indians. Ministering to them, helping lead them to God. Their ancestors may have slaughtered the first blackrobes who tried to convert them, but now they yearned for His light. Their faith was a simple and pure thing, brilliant as gold waiting to be harvested and hammered into something finely wrought.

Unlike the white man, they lived in a perpetual spiritual realm, negotiating the seen and unseen worlds as effortlessly as deer running through the forest. He especially loved working with the children, teaching them their catechism, playing with them, learning their songs. His time with the Indians seemed to benefit him as much as them. In fact, he sometimes felt closer to God there than in some great cathedral. In the profound stillness of the deep woods, he felt more clearly, more keenly the quiet presence of the Lord. There he felt a closeness to Him that he didn't in the noise and bustle of the city. Especially now, he thought, this visit might be just what he needed. Perhaps there, sleeping under the stars, amongst His children of the forest, that heaviness about his heart would leave him.

He glanced down at the thick, worn book he held in his hand, The Relations. He could still recall his mother reading to him those rousing narratives of Jesuit missionaries who had come to New France to save the souls of the savages. He opened it, his eyes chancing to fall on a passage he had read often before, the story of a young Huron Indian who had nearly been killed by his Iroquois enemies: My God ... he wrote, dispose of my life as you please. If I knew your will, I would present myself and tell them to burn me: and then I would offer you my torments . . . could I die a better death? Would I not go straight to Heaven?

Cheverus still hadn't made up his mind about whether he would stay in America or return to France. He had been so busy lately with baptisms and confirmations, with communions and weddings, and, because of a number of cases of yellow fever, with ministering to the sick, that he hadn't actually given it much thought. He had taken Father Matignon's advice--to be patient, to wait for God to reveal His plan for him. He had considered it best to put off any decision until he got back from the north. He had hoped the time away from his hectic duties in Boston would help him make up his mind.

Things in the city had settled down since the trial, more than a month ago now. Other news had taken precedence. There was the war in Europe, Napoleon's latest battles. Also, the killing on the high seas of an American citizen named John Pierce by a British man-of-war had sparked an international incident. Many in Congress, particularly Republicans, were outraged, calling for reprisals against Great Britain. Closer to home, a dozen cases of yellow fever had been reported in the city, with several deaths already attributed to it. People were apprehensive about another major epidemic like the bad one of '98. Cheverus had paid visits to several of the affected families to do what he could, to give comfort and administer the last rites to the dying. Perhaps the most important news for Boston as well as the state was the election for governor. After a hard-fought campaign, the results of the close voting had dragged out for weeks, finally having to be decided in the Massachusetts legislature. By the narrowest margin in history, incumbent governor Strong had defeated the attorney general again. Heartened by his near victory though, Sullivan was already preparing for another run against him. His supporters were already attacking Strong for the arrest and trial of the publisher of the Northampton newspaper, the Republican Spy, on charges of slander.

Cheverus had not heard much about the two Irishmen. Of course, he'd been informed of the sentence--that they would hang on the 5th of June, now less than a week off. And there had been the usual smattering of editorials and broadsides and sermons, proclaiming God's terrible vengeance on those who took another's life, or blaming the loose immigration policies of the Republicans for the vicious crimes of foreigners. And just a few days before, Father Matignon had learned that the Daley family's petition for clemency had been turned down by Governor Strong. Cheverus was against the death penalty in principle, believing only God should decide when and under what circumstance a man should die. Yet if any crime ever deserved it, he supposed, this one did. Nonetheless, it was a tragedy for all concerned. Not only for the Daleys, but a stain on the entire Irish-Catholic community of Boston. And it would take a long time before people were able to put this behind them.

He had not seen the Daleys at Mass or in the confessional for several weeks. He wondered why. He felt a terrible pity for them. He had been meaning to pay them a visit, but he had been so busy tying up loose ends before he left for Maine he had not had the chance. At least that's what he'd told himself. Recently he'd received a note from Finola, asking if he would consider traveling out to the jail to hear the condemned men's confession and help them prepare to face death. He'd discussed the matter with Father Matignon, who felt it best to wash their hands of the whole sordid affair. He thought it would only stir up trouble for all concerned, not least the Catholic Church. So Cheverus replied to Finola by letter that, while he would certainly like to go, regrettably, he couldn't possibly make the trip as he had too many other obligations to meet. Secretly, he was relieved he would not have to attend the execution. He knew what it would remind him of: those poor devils driven through the streets of Paris in carts, crowds screaming for their blood, to face the guillotine in the Place de la Revolution. Cheverus didn't think he could go through that ever again.

He had seen Finola once. One evening not long after the trial, he was coming out of the vestry when he'd seen her praying before the statue of the Holy Mother. She was kneeling, her head bowed. He watched her for a moment. The flame of a candle lit her face, made it appear to glow palely in the otherwise darkened church, her bony face thrown into sharp chiaroscuro, like a painting by El Greco. He thought of going over and trying to comfort her. Saying a prayer with her as he had done before. He knew that's what he should have done, as a priest, a man of compassion. But something held him back. Wasn't it better, as Father Matignon advised, to keep a safe distance? To be mindful of the consequences? And there was, too, that awkwardness he felt around the woman, a certain unease he could not quite define nor dispel. Perhaps it was because of the way she stared at him, with that odd mixture of pity and . . . was it scorn? Did she revile him for not offering his help? In any event it would soon be over, and in many ways he would be glad of it. Not of the outcome, of course. But merely that it would be done, the entire disagreeable affair put behind them.

"Jean," he heard Father Matignon's voice. The old man entered the parlor, walking gingerly because of his gout. He patted Cheverus on the back, his touch frail as a feather. In French, he asked, "Are you all packed?"

"Almost. I have a few more things, Father," Cheverus said.

"You will be sure to say hello to my friends up there for me. What is that little one's name? The one they call Otter."

"Ki-wan-ik. He is hardly little anymore, Father."

"Yes, it has been some time since I was up there. Not since your arrival," he said, glancing at him meaningfully. "Give this to him," he added, handing Cheverus a small vellum Bible.

"He will like it."

The old abbPS stood peering into the trunk.

"I suppose this will do me good," he said. Cheverus looked at him, perplexed. Father Matignon wore a rueful smile on his sharp, rawboned face. "Getting used to your being gone, I mean."

"I haven't decided anything, Father."

"True. But we both know it is for the best."

"Do we?"

"The Church there needs you. Your family, too. And you need them."

"Am 1 not needed here?"

"Of course you are, Jean. You don't know how sorely you will be missed, my friend. You have become my right hand. Both my hands," he added with a chuckle.

"Perhaps you, too, will return home someday, Father."

"No," he said, shaking his head resignedly. "This is my home now. When I left France I thought I would be gone for a year. Perhaps two. Just until the difficulties there were over. Now 1 know I will never return. This is where He wants me to serve Him. And whenever it is He chooses, this will be where I shall be buried."

"Your desire is to be buried here?" Cheverus asked.

"It is. Here among those I have served."

Cheverus felt a deep sadness at these words of his friend. "Lord willing, you shall have many more years to serve, Father."

"Perhaps," the old abbe offered with the insouciance of one whose fate was already determined. He appeared as if he would say something else, but Yvette came scurrying into the room then, her hands aflutter.

"Excuse me, Father," she said excitedly in French to Father Matignon. "You have a visitor. That Irishwoman."

"Who?" Father Matignon asked.

"The one whose husband is the murderer."

The elder priest glanced at Cheverus. "Tell her we are busy." "I did. But she won't listen."

"Tell her--"

But before he could get the words out, Finola Daley was standing in the doorway of the parlor. She wore a long blue chemise gown, an apron, a neckerchief over her thin shoulders.

"Come in, come in, Finola," Father Matignon said with forced affability.

"Hello, Finola," Cheverus added, surprised to see her. He thought she'd be out in Northampton with the execution not a week away.

"Good day to you," she said to them politely.

"I am so sorry to hear about your husband, Finola," Father Matignon said, taking her hands in both of his. "Just terrible."

"Thank you, Father."

"Come and sit, my child," the elder priest offered. "May we offer you some tea?"

"No, thank you. I can't stay long," she said.

She had lost weight, he saw. The bones in her face and neck were even more pronounced, and there were dark circles under her too-large eyes. In the crook of one scrawny arm, she carried a basket with a cloth over it.

"How is Rose?" Cheverus asked.

"Not so good, Father," she explained. "She caught a chill going out to visit Dom and has been in bed ever since."

"I shall have to get out to see her," Cheverus said. She stared at him. Feeling himself caught in a lie, he lowered his gaze to the trunk before him.

She handed him the basket. "I made some nice pig's trotters for you both. To thank you for all you done."

"How very kind of you, Finola," Father Matignon said. Then, leaning toward her solicitously, he asked, "And how are things . . . ?"

She pursed her lips. "You heard the governor turned us down for clemency?"

"Yes, we heard," the elder priest replied. "I'm so sorry, my dear."

"We've not given up hope yet. There's still the appeal. Mr. Blake wrote us and said he believes we'll be granted a new trial." "Yes, of course. Let us pray for that," Father Matignon said, shooting a quick sideways glance at Cheverus. "And how is Dominic holding up?"

"I've never seen him so down. I keep telling him he's not to lose hope. That we still got the appeal."

"So you have been able to visit with him?"

"Aye. Thanks to Father Cheverus," she said, nodding toward him. "I was out there just a while ago. I'll be heading back tomorrow. We don't have much time left, I fear. It's the fifth of June, you know. When they are to be . . ." she paused though, leaving the thought unsaid.

"Yes," Father Matignon said. "Is there anything you need? Do you have enough money, my child?"

"I'm doing all right."

"If there's anything we can do," Father Matignon said. "Anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Well, there is something, Father," she began tentatively. "Dom heard that on the day they're to be executed, they will have to listen to a sermon. A Protestant minister will preach to them. Is that true, Father?"

"Yes," Father Matignon replied for them. "A condemned man must submit to a funeral discourse on his crimes."

"But it's not right, Father," the woman said, her eyes flashing with anger.

"That is the custom here in America, I'm afraid," Father Matignon explained.

"My husband's a Catholic. He should have a priest there to see him off. That's only right, Father." She looked down at the paper in her hands. Then she held it out to Cheverus. "This is for you, Father," she said to him. "Dom asked that I see you got it personally."

He looked at what she held in her hand. Finally, hesitantly, he took the letter and opened it. He read it silently to himself.

22 May, 1806 Dear Father Cheverus: While the judgment of men is liable to be deceived, we adore in the decrees of Providence. If we are not guilty of the crime imputed to us, we have committed other sins, and to expiate them, we accept death with resignation. We are solicitous only about our salvation. To that end, we ask that you help prepare us to meet our Maker. It will be a painful task for you after the fatigue of a long journey, and especially after the sad impressions made on your heart by the sight of two young men about to die in the bloom of youth. Please do not refuse us this favor, and reduce us to the necessity of listening, just before we die, to the voice of one who is not a Catholic. It is in your hands. Come to our assistance.

With humblest thanks and reverence, Dominic Daley & James Halligan .

When he had finished reading the letter, he knew it had to be the other one who'd composed it. Dominic could hardly write his own name in the church registry when his son had been baptized. The person who had written this had had some education. Cheverus finally looked up at Finola Daley. She watched him, waiting for his response.

"I know it's askin' an awful lot of you," the woman said to Cheverus. "What does he write, Jean?" the elder priest inquired. "He asks that I come out there, Father. They want me to be . . . to prepare them," he said, pausing to look at Finola Daley, "for their end."

She returned his look straight on, not even flinching when he said "their end."

"Will you do it, Father?" she asked, her olive-green eyes pleading with him. "Will you go to 'em?"

"I would like to . . ." Cheverus began, but then deferred to his superior. "Of course, we appreciate the seriousness of such a request, Finola," the elder priest replied. "We do not take such an appeal for spiritual guidance lightly. Unfortunately, we must say no."

"But he needs you, Father," she pleaded, not taking her eyes off Cheverus.

"Much as we might wish to, we couldn't possibly go out to Northampton right now," Father Matignon explained. "Why?" she pressed.

"There are just the two of us, and we have much to do," Father Matignon explained. "It's a busy time of year for us. Father Cheverus must leave for Maine in a few days. He shall be gone for several months, and I will be here alone to serve the entire diocese."

"My husband's always been a good Catholic, Father," she said, anger making her voice thin and brittle. "He believed everything the Church taught him. And now he needs you."

"Yes, of course. But we couldn't possibly, my dear," Father Matignon said. "Please try to understand."

"The only thing I understand is my husband oughtn't have to listen to a Protestant right before they kill him. He ought to have his own kind there."

"We appreciate how difficult this must be for you," Father Matignon sympathized.