"But you're my son's priest," Rose said. "And they're being treated like dogs."

"Worse than dogs, mam," said Finola. "My husband writes they've not been allowed out of their cell, not to bathe nor walk about nor anything, in all this time. Dom says the cell stinks like a hog's pen. Mother o' God," she sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment. Her lips were parted, her face angled upward, an expression of inconsolable sorrow on her thin, haggard countenance. When she did this, she reminded Cheverus of something he'd seen before. Mary Magdalene in a painting he'd seen at the Louvre? Some grieving Madonna in a pieta? "Oh, my poor Dom. My poor love," she wailed. Sudden tears streamed down her cheeks and fell onto her dirty apron. Her sobs convulsed her slender body.

"There, there, darlin'." Now it was Rose doing the consoling. "Asthore, love. It's all right." The old woman stroked Finola's hair, wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Here, Finola," the priest said, offering the young woman his handkerchief.

"Thank ye, Father," she said, wiping her eyes.

"I wish there was something I could do, Finola," he offered. "But. . ."

They were silent for a moment. Then Rose said, "Finola and I are planning on taking the stage out there for the trial."

"Do you think that's wise?" Cheverus asked of Rose. "I mean, in your condition?"

"My son needs me there, Father," she said determinedly. "I have to go."

"It might not be safe for the two of you," Cheverus advised. "There might be trouble."

"Father," Finola said, staring at him, her olive eyes narrowing. "Our place is there. We'll take our chances."

The two women looked at each other. Cheverus suddenly felt an overwhelming pity for them. What would it hurt to talk to Sullivan, he thought. Just talk. You're their priest, he told himself. They've come to you for help.

"Perhaps I could speak to the attorney general after all," he offered. "But I would first have to get permission from Father Matignon."

"Of course, Father," said Finola, smiling through her tears.

"If I am able to speak to him, what would you wish me to ask?"

"If we could be allowed to see him," said the old woman.

"And try to get them more time before the trial starts," Finola added. "So they'd have a fighting chance. Oh, and if they might have a bath and some clean clothes."

"I shall look into the matter."

"Oh, thank you, Father," Rose said, folding her hands in prayer.

"I cannot guarantee anything," he explained. "With the trial this close, the attorney general may already have left for Northampton. Or he may not have time to see me."

"We'd appreciate anything you could do, Father," Rose said. "Anything."

He nodded, wondering if he would come to regret his decision.

"Would you care to take communion?" he asked. He hadn't seen Rose at Mass for a while.

"Aye, Father. If it's not too much trouble," the old woman replied.

After he had given her communion, he said, "I should be on my way." "Finola, love, get Father's cape. And have Tom see him home."

"That's not necessary," he said.

"Are you sure?" Rose asked. "Tis a devil of a night. And the neighborhood, well, it ain't so safe to be walkin' about by yourself."

"I'll be fine. Goodnight, Rose."

"Bless you for coming, Father."

Finola got his cape and walked with him to the door. The men were still seated around the fire, drinking and smoking pipes; the women were huddled together on their knees, rocking back and forth, saying the rosary.

"Thank you for agreeing to help us, Father," Finola said to him softly at the door, as if telling him a secret. "I can't tell you how much it means to us."

"1 don't know how much help I can be. Sullivan may not even agree to see me."

"At least someone's on our side. With the whole countryside against us, it's good to know someone believes them innocent."

He nodded, unsure whether he did or not. Then again, that wasn't his job. That was the job of a court to decide. His was to prepare them for the next life.

"Dom hasn't said confession in a while, Father. Maybe you could come with us?"

He pursed his lips. "1 am very busy, Finola."

"Of course. Och, I nearly forgot. Here," she said, taking from her pocket his handkerchief. "I could wash it for you and bring it by the rectory tomorrow."

"That won't be necessary."

He looked up into her face. She was taller than him by half a head. Her too-large eyes made him think of the nervous eyes of a deer, wary, about to bolt. They were glossy, filled with a liquid sadness, the flesh around them drawn and wan-looking. He stared at her mouth, the ample lips slightly parted. This close the severity of her face took on a certain comeliness--the sort inspired by pain, the transcendent glow of suffering. He had seen such a face somewhere before. Where, he wondered. Perhaps a fleeting glimpse of a woman's face, some aristocrat he'd seen in a cart approaching the guillotine in the Place de la Revolution? He stared at her until it became awkward for both of them and then, coughing, he averted his gaze.

"God bless you, Finola," he said. "I'll pray for your husband." He drew his hood up and was about to go out into the night when she laid her hand on the bare skin of his wrist. Her fingertips were cool, surprisingly so, and a shiver went coursing through him. His head swirled, both from her touch as well as from the liquor he'd drunk. She leaned into him, her full mouth slightly parted, her large eyes fixing him. She was close enough that he could smell her: a peculiar odor of smoke and sour breast milk. But of something else, too. Something sweet, a honeyed ripeness.

"I'll pray for you, too, Father," she said.

He pulled his hand back from her as from a flame. He stared at her for another moment. Then he turned and hurried out into the cold, dark night.

Chapter Two.

NORTHAMPTON, MASSACHUSETTS.

He awoke in the small hours of morning, in that slippery, blue-black territory between night and day, when a man's heart can fail him utterly. In the bunk next to his, Daley was snoring away. It always amazed him how soundly the fellow slept, as untroubled as the sleep of a child with a full belly. Occasionally Daley might call out something. Finola, he'd say, where are me shoes? But he hardly ever roused himself into consciousness, didn't so much as turn over. He woke in the same position he went to sleep in, on his back, hands locked behind his head. Halligan had trouble sleeping. His mind swirling with thoughts and images, half-recalled songs from home, scraps from a life which seemed as unreal, as distant as the moon. And when he did manage finally to fall asleep, it felt as if he were falling, plunging into black space. His dreams were tangled affairs from which he woke thrashing and fighting as if trying to free himself from a net made of sorrow.

It always took him the odd moment or two to get his bearings. Sometimes when he first woke, especially in the dark, he found himself back with the Franciscans, in that long, narrow, high-ceilinged room with the other orphans, old Brother Padraig passing among their beds, rousing them with his rough hands to morning devotions and chores. Other times he believed himself in the stables of some gentleman in whose employ he'd been, the reassuring snorting and snuffling of the horses in their nearby stalls gently stirring him. But other times, the worst by far, he thought himself in that quiet, secluded place among the willow and pine trees, lying on the soft cool moss that grew along the mountain stream. It was there he used to meet a young girl with raven-colored hair and eyes dark and luminous as opals. In the treachery of those first few moments between sleep and waking, he was teased into believing she was lying beside him, her presence so palpable, so unmistakable, he could almost feel the velvety down along her cheek and the smooth thrill of her thighs, could smell the apple fragrance of her hair. In the darkness, he would whisper, Bridie, and then again, Bridie. But when he reached out to touch her, the only thing his hand came into contact with was the cold stone wall of his cell.

He shivered in the frigid darkness, his feet swollen and aching with chilblain. The turnkey maintained a fire in the small room at the end of corridor where he slept, but not much of its heat reached them. So they were always cold, even with their boots and greatcoats on, their paper-thin, grubby blankets wrapped around them like shrouds. It was the one thing about America Halligan had never quite adjusted to. The cold. Back home, he was used to roughing it, tramping about from place to place, sleeping out in any sort of weather, in a hayloft or under a tree, walking barefoot to save on shoe leather, and it never really affected him. The cold back there was a teasing sort of thing, something just to make the warmth of a turf fire or a noggin of whiskey all the more inviting. But here it was grim and bone-wearying. Was it any wonder these Yankees had hearts of flint?

He got up and made his way in the darkness to the slop bucket in the corner. He unbuttoned his trousers and relieved himself. Daley stirred but continued to sleep. Once back in bed, Halligan pulled the blanket tighter and managed to doze for a while. He woke again, heard a cock crowing in the growing blue of morning. Outside the jailhouse, the town hadn't yet begun to stir, not even the hoof beats of the early post rider galloping for the ferry. Halligan lay there shivering, curled on his left side, his face inches from the damp stone wall. His belly growled from hunger. He pictured food, great heaping platters of beef and mutton, cruibm and ham, pratie oaten and cobbledy, with a strong pint of porter to wash it all down. He pictured standing in the sun on a warm day in July, cutting turf, his shirt off and the sun baking his back. He pictured sitting around a blazing fire, sipping a warm spiced rum and staring drowsily into the flames. He dozed again, dreaming of the ocean off Slea Head, the deep blue stretching out dizzyingly to the horizon, like a carpet extending all the way to America.

Here's your grub, boys," said the turnkey, as he slid first one wooden trencher and then the other through the space in the bars on the floor. His name was Dowd. He was a short, balding man, with red whiskers streaked with gray. Chatty and high-spirited, Dowd would often show up whistling or talking about the weather. He was, despite his position, a decent sort, even kindly, providing Halligan with books to read and paper and ink with which to write, occasionally even sharing a pot of tea with them. He had to walk a half mile to the center of town, to a tavern called Pomeroy's, to get their twice-a-day meals. If he were busy, sometimes an old humpbacked crone would bring their meals down. It was usually cold gruel and a crust of stale bread, a piece of moldy cheese, on Sunday a hunk of some brown thing that passed for meat. And a pitcher of water that tasted of tallow.

"Thank you, sir," said Daley, picking up his plate and Halligan's as well.

"You'll need to eat up quick lads," the man explained in an undertone, as if conveying a secret. "The sheriff is to bring you to court today."

"Court, sir?" Daley asked in disbelief. "Today?"

"That is what I understand."

When the turnkey left, Daley glanced at him. "What do you make a that, Jamy?"

Shoveling the food in with his fingers--they weren't allowed utensils for fear of hurting themselves--Halligan replied, "About bloody time I say."

"Ain't we supposed to have counsel first?" Daley asked.

"Maybe it's just a hearing or something."

"Or another rumor."

For months they'd lived for this day. Yet their lives till now had been dominated by rumors, the odd bit of gossip that reached them--from the turnkey or from one of the other infrequent prisoners, or from the old woman who showed up now and then with their food. Rumors that their trial was imminent or that it had been put off yet again. That the attorney who was to defend them would be arriving on the noon stage. Even that it had all been just a terrible mistake, and that Daley and he were about to be released. One night they'd even heard distant shouts and cries coming from somewhere up the road, toward the center of town. The woman who'd arrived with their suppers informed them that a mob was gathering on the town square. According to her, they had torches and carried pitchforks and ropes. Their intention, she was only too eager to tell them, was to break the two out and administer their own brand of justice, and not to wait for the next session of the Supreme Court. The woman, a wizened, bent-backed old crone, took particular relish in telling them of this. "They'll soon be comin' for you, Irish," she taunted, sticking her blackened tongue out and making a hideous face as if she were being hanged. The truth, they would later learn from the turnkey, was that while a crowd had gathered, it hadn't amounted to much, just a few drunken farmers that the sheriff and his men had forced to disperse before they gathered any momentum.

But this? This sounded like the real thing.

They didn't have to wait long to find out. The guards came for them before they'd even had a chance to finish their breakfast. They entered noisily, their boots resounding on the flagstones of the corridor, their sabers and guns clanging and rattling. The high sheriff of Hampshire County appeared at their cell door, surrounded by a half-dozen armed militiamen, all crowded into the narrow space. Major General Ebenezer Mattoon, the man who'd led the posse that had captured them, was tall and athletic in appearance, with a gristle-like leanness to his still-handsome, windburned face. Mattoon looked impressive in his uniform. Around his waist he wore a red sash, which held a gleaming saber on one side and on the other the same navy pistol he'd pointed at Halligan when he'd arrested them five months earlier. The turnkey opened the cell door, and the sheriff strode in, his bearing officious.

"Gentlemen," he instructed them, "I am to conduct you to the courthouse."

"But we've not met with counsel yet," Halligan said.

"That's not my concern. Step lively. We don't want to keep the judges waiting."

Manacles were placed on both their hands and feet, and the two were led out into the street. They had to take short, mincing steps, so as not to trip. Besides that, their legs were weak from lack of exercise, and it took a moment or two for them to get used to walking again. Outside, the militiamen shouldered their muskets and took up positions in two lines around them. The sheriff mounted his horse, a large bay mare with four white stockings, and the group began moving north toward the center of town.

Halligan glanced around. The early spring day loomed cloudy, with a light rain falling out of a tattered gray sky. The air hung chilly, smelling of wood smoke and ash and of the earth slowly thawing. The street was muddy, deeply grooved by wagon tracks, and they had to be careful not to turn an ankle. On each side of the street, the still-naked trees and houses appeared dull and drab after the long winter. Despite the overcast, the sudden vastness of the outside world nearly overwhelmed him. He'd forgotten just how expansive the sky was.

Daley leaned toward Halligan and whispered, "Me guts are rumblin' something awful. I got to use the jakes."

"A fine time you picked to have to shite. You'd better hold it."

"1 don't know if I can."

"Quiet there," cried a stocky beared guard to their right. He glared at them.

They were marched north along Pleasant Street toward the center of Northampton. It was the route they had taken when they were first brought here, though they'd been on horseback then instead of on foot, and in the confusion Halligan hadn't taken much notice. Now he thought the place reminded him a bit of Dingle town--the hilly streets, the houses packed close together, the mountains he could spy in the distance. He noted the shops and businesses along the way. A saddlery and a cooper's shop, a wig-makers establishment, a goldsmith and a bookseller, a blacksmith's dark-looking den with smoke curling from the forge.

Because of the rain, only a few were out and about. A large-bosomed, spindly-legged woman, one of the Osborn sisters who ran a milliner's shop on the corner of King and Main streets, happened to be tossing a pan of dirty water into the street. She paused to watch the procession, her hand covering her mouth in muted surprise. A young boy herding some hogs toward the slaughterhouse just west of town appeared to fall in beside the group. He stared at the two prisoners with dumb fascination as he swatted the animals with a hickory switch. And the blacksmith, a squat, dark-featured man named Wallace, came lumbering out from his forge to stand defiantly in the rain, his sleeves rolled back over massive forearms and a hammer clutched in one beefy hand. Somehow he caught Halligan's eye, and a smile seemed to pass over his dusky face.

The small procession turned onto Main and made their way up the street toward the squarish courthouse building. A little ways beyond it, standing on the very summit of the hill, was the much larger Protestant meetinghouse, its white steeple pointing like a bony finger toward the sky.

Inside the large courtroom, a few men up front were standing about, engaged in conversation. They turned to look at the prisoners as they entered. The place was oddly empty, hushed, unlike the sort of busy, crowded justice halls Halligan had seen back home. The guards took up their position along the back wall, while the sheriff escorted them forward. The jangling of their chains scraping the floor echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room. At the front was a plain, oaken table, slightly elevated on a platform, with two chairs behind it, now empty.

"I am going to remove these," the sheriff said as he took hold of Daley's manacles and held up a key. "You're not going to give me any trouble, are you?"

"No sir. You'll get no trouble from us," Daley replied.

"Good." Only then did he remove the manacles and have them sit at a table by themselves. He stood a few feet behind them.

Off to their left, two men, one seated, the other standing, were engaged in conversation. The one standing was a stout, ruddy-faced individual who wore small clothes, yellow satin breeches and white stockings held up by garters. The second sat at a table covered with papers. This man was balding, with the jerky movements of a squirrel. Halligan recognized him as Mr. Hooker, the assistant prosecutor, a man who had come to their jail cell several times to interogate them about the murder. He glanced over at them now and nodded perfunctorily. Then he returned to conversing with the heavyset man.

The two Irishmen sat there waiting, awkwardly, warily, like animals caught in a trap. They looked ragged and unkempt, their long hair tangled and greasy, their beards hanging almost to their chests. They hadn't bathed once since being jailed. Halligan started to scratch himself, hardly aware of it. He picked a louse off his shirt and crushed it against a nail, the blood--his own--staining the tip of his finger. He wiped his hand on his coat. The garment was filthy. So, too, were his hands, the long fingernails encrusted with grime, looking more like the claws of an animal. He angled his nose toward his armpit and caught a sour, musky odor, like that released from the belly of a gutted sheep. He hadn't been aware of his own smell in the jail. But here, in the courtroom, among regular people, he realized he stank. He felt ashamed suddenly, and he suspected that's just what they wanted him to feel. The bastards, he cursed.

Daley touched his arm. "Jamy," he whispered anxiously.

"You'll just have to hold it."

"No, not that. What do we say if they ask . . . you know?"

"What we agreed on."

"But--"

"Shut your bloody gob," Halligan hissed. "We stick to our story, Dom. It's our only chance."

H alligan had met Dominic Daley the previous fall, only a few months before they were arrested. They had run into one another on the Boston Road as they traveled on foot looking for employment. Times were hard in Boston, what with the war in Europe and the terrible situation in Ireland forcing growing numbers of immigrants to come here looking for work. Many of the Irish traveled west to pick apples or to help with the harvest or the laying of roads, anything to make a little money. A Connemaraman, Halligan guessed as soon as he heard his broad, thick hill accent. Daley was a large strapping fellow, nearly six feet five and weighing well over two hundred pounds, with a sallow complexion pitted from having had smallpox as a child. Unrefined in his speech and manners, he had gray-blue eyes that looked upon all things with a child's unblinking sense of wonder.

"I'm Dominic Daley," the big man said to him, offering his hand.

"Jamy Halligan," he replied. From an inside pocket of his great coat, Halligan removed a bottle of rum and offered him a drink.

"Where do your people come from, Jamy?"

"Here and there," was all he could say.

They decided to throw in together. Walking the road in the early mornings, working in orchards, sleeping under the stars at night, they became fast friends. Halligan found Daley a boon traveling companion. Though unlettered, he had a cheerful, gregarious disposition, a good sense of humor, and a surprisingly fine voice. In the evening, around a campfire, they would play cards from a deck Daley carried or share Halligan's bottle of rum, and later Daley would sing a song. Some ballad or jig from back home. "Snowy Breasted Pearl" or "Green Bushes."

"Where'd you learn to sing like that?" Halligan asked.

Daley shrugged, told him it came natural as breathing. They would swap stories of home, of what they'd left behind and what they hoped to find here in America. He learned that Daley had come over in '99, the year after the failed Uprising, and the large, close-knit Daley clan had settled in Boston. His friend was forever going on about his family, talking about his beloved mother, his siblings. But he especially liked to talk about his wife and newborn son. He was always bragging about Finola, about her cooking and how well she could sew, how much he missed her. "Finola's a right fine woman," he'd say. "I'm lucky to have her."

Halligan wasn't nearly as tall as Daley, but he was solid, broad through the chest with sloping shoulders and arms well developed from his labors. He had a wide, squarish face and deep-set, almost pretty blue eyes, eyes at once pensive and a touch jaunty. He was good looking in a gypsy sort of way, with a head of curly brown hair and a lusty mouth always ready with the hint of a smile, one that men found a challenge and women an invitation. Something of a ladies' man, he amused Daley with stories of his rakish past. Of this conquest and that. The time he'd nearly been shot by a jealous husband or run off by an irate father.

"Don't you have a girl?" Daley asked him once as they sat around a campfire preparing their supper.

"1 wouldn't want to be tied to only one," he'd joked. "It wouldn't be fair to all the others."

"Listen to himself. You get one as knows how to cook it'll change your thinkin'."