"I know Dominic though. I should have known he wasn't capable of something like this. In your letter, you told me you were innocent. I should have believed you. Please, forgive me."

"Don't worry about it," Halligan said. "And I'm sorry for losing me temper, Father."

The priest nodded.

Halligan stood then, his chains rattling at the floor. "I suppose I'll be going now."

"Wait, James," Cheverus said, holding up his hand. "Stay a moment."

"I won't be wanting to make confession, Father."

"Yes, I understand. Perhaps we could just talk. I would like to get to know you a little, James."

"Why, Father? What's the point?"

"I don't know. I just would."

"I pretty much told you all there is to tell."

"Please," he said, patting the bunk with his hand. "As a kindness to me."

Halligan shrugged but sat down. What did he have to lose? Harmless chatter to pass the time. "I suppose I could cancel my other plans, Father," he said, smiling.

How wrong he had been, the priest thought. How terribly wrong. He, like everyone else, had doubted them, had believed them to be coldblooded murderers. And he had looked upon their sentence, though perhaps harsh, as not altogether undeserved. He had come here, he knew, to save the souls of sinners, not of innocent men. Cheverus now believed this Halligan was telling the truth. In fact he knew it, knew it with a certainty in his heart he had felt about few things in life. He had heard enough final confessions to know when someone was telling the truth or not. He recognized in the man that frightening calm, the resigned look of someone drawing near to death, a look stripped of all pretense, pared of all necessity to dissemble or equivocate. Yes, they were innocent. That much was clear to him now. And their fate seemed almost unbearable, a monstrous travesty of justice. Innocent young men going to their doom and yet so placid about it all. How brave they were.

He had been wrong not only about them but about so many things, he realized now. Deceiving himself about whether he should return to France or not. Trying to convince himself it wasn't his own desire but God's will that he go back, that he was needed there. When in truth he knew in his heart God wanted him to stay here, to serve His Church in the new world. He saw it all so clearly now as he sat in this tiny jail cell so far away from France. Worst of all, he had been wrong about his own reasons for coming to the aid of these two men. He had told himself it was to perform this great service in God's name, to save their souls for His greater glory. But it wasn't for God, he knew now. And certainly not for the two of them. No, it had been for himself. He had wanted to do it for his own glory, his own vanity, his own egotism. That great deed his mother had predicted for him so many years ago, which he had failed at, would finally be his. And perhaps in helping to save the souls of these two men, hadn't he really also hoped to save his own? Wasn't that his real reason for coming? It was all so painfully clear to him now.

Dear God, he prayed. Forgive me.

He looked over at the condemned man, seated on the bunk. Of the two, he felt far worse about this Halligan. Dominic Daley had his faith, the love of his wife and family to see him through. Cheverus could pray with Daley, give him communion and spiritual comfort, help prepare him to meet his Maker. But what of this man, someone who didn't believe? Someone so cut off from his fellow man, from the solace of faith, from the grace of God. How could he help him? How could he ready him to climb the steps to the gallows tomorrow? He saw in the man's cool blue eyes such a terrible loneliness. Such solitude and remoteness. It was like gazing up into the heavens at night, the stars so distant they took your breath away. He would help him in any way he could.

"Do you miss your home, James?"

"Home?"

"Ireland."

"Oh. Some things, I suppose."

Unlike Daley, Halligan was harder to talk to, more reserved. He was obviously intelligent, articulate when he chose, but he was a man who was used to keeping things to himself. At first he answered most of Cheverus's questions in a few words. But the more they conversed, the more Halligan seemed to grow comfortable talking with him. He said he used to love the spring in Ireland. The lush valleys, the green hills covered with gorse and heather and bog cotton. Most of all, he missed tramping about.

"I loved walking the hills on a day like today," Halligan told him. "The sun in your face. 'Tis beautiful this time of year. Have you never been to Ireland, Father?"

"No," Cheverus admitted.

"A lovely place. You would like it."

"How old were you when your mother died, James?"

Halligan shrugged. "Three or four. I don't recollect much of her. I remember she had black hair and smooth pale skin. I want to say she was pretty, but the truth is I don't remember what she looked like."

"Where was she from?"

The man smiled wistfully. "I dunno. Never even knew where they buried her."

"It would have been nice to have a place to go to. A grave to visit."

Halligan tilted his head to one side and shrugged.

"Just a piece of ground is the way I see it, Father."

"My own mother died when I was a boy, too. But I was fortunate enough to know her. When she died, it was a great comfort to be able to visit her grave."

"I suppose for some it may be," the man responded, glancing quickly at him and then away.

Halligan fell silent, seemed to draw into himself again. Cheverus watched him rub the knuckles of one hand. They were raw, scabbed over, as if he'd been in a fight.

"We were very close, my mother and I," Cheverus continued, talking just to keep the silence at bay. "It was because of her that I went into the priesthood."

"You don't say?"

"Yes. She was a very devout woman. I used to accompany her to Mass each morning."

"Do you have brothers and sisters, Father?"

Cheverus nodded. "Yes. Two brothers and three sisters. I was the eldest."

"Not the tallest, I suppose," Halligan said playfully.

"No," he conceded with an awkward chuckle. "Fortunately they were all taller than I."

"Have you not seen them in all this time?"

"No. It has been almost fourteen years."

"You must miss them."

"I do very much." Then before he quite knew it, he blurted out, "I have been contemplating going home." He couldn't say why he had told this man, a complete stranger, such a thing. Then again, perhaps it was because he was a stranger. At the same time, he no longer knew if he would return home now. Why then did he say it? Was it just to acknowledge to himself that the opposite was true?

"Are ye now, Father?"

"Perhaps. But please don't tell Dominic. It might upset him to think I won't be here. I told him I would look in on Finola."

"Don't worry, Father. Your secret's safe with me," he said with a wink.

Feeling as if he had to justify his reasons though, he explained, "My old parish needs a priest. And my father is growing old."

"I understand," Halligan said.

"He'd like to see me again before he passes on to his reward."

Even as he said it though, the prospect of his leaving began to fade, to slip off into the hazy distance like a ship vanishing at the horizon. He felt saddened to think that he wouldn't see his father again in this life. That he couldn't fulfill the old man's wish. And yet if God willed that he stay here, then so be it.

Halligan nodded, then pursed his lips sympathetically. Cheverus thought perhaps he shouldn't have brought that up, about his father passing on. It was foolish to broach the subject of death to a man this close to his own. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps it was exactly what he needed to talk to him about.

After a while he asked, "Are you prepared, James?"

"Prepared?" he said. "Oh. You mean about tomorrow." He knitted his brows in thought, as if considering this possibility for the first time. "As much as I'll ever be, I guess. But the way I figure it, we all got to die sometime or other. And at least it won't come sneaking up on me, not like it does with most."

Cheverus nodded. He had to admit the man did look oddly calm, self-possessed. He wondered how any man, but especially a young, healthy man who had his whole life in front of him, an innocent man, one dying for a crime he didn't commit--how could such a man be so sanguine about his own end? And yet he had seen it before, countless times--a child passing from yellow fever, a woman dying in labor, a young man whose chest had been crushed in a factory accident. The resignation in their faces. More than resignation--a certain peacefulness of spirit, a look almost of joy in their fading eyes. The heart fully disposed to the notion of its own end. He had always wondered about that. Being a religious man, he shouldn't have, but he did. The calm acceptance of death by others amazed him, humbled and shamed him, too. He, on the other hand, in his one real brush with death, had fought it tooth and nail, something he should have welcomed with open arms.

"Some men make their peace with death," he said to the prisoner.

"Is that so, Father?" he said, his tone not so much mocking as it was of cool skepticism.

"Yes. Near death some speak about a light. A light in the darkness. To many it is very soothing."

"1 don't reckon there'll be any light for me," he said. He paused for a moment, then asked, "Have you never had any doubts, Father?"

"Doubts?"

"You know, about there being something after. After we're dead and gone, I mean."

"No, not about that. About myself perhaps. About whether I am worthy or not. But not about whether there is life everlasting."

"Can I speak frankly, Father?"

"Yes. Please do."

"I mean no disrespect. But it all just seemed like, I dunno, a fairy story to me."

"What does?"

"All of it," Halligan said, waving his manacled hands in the air in front of him. "The virgin birth and the rising up from the dead. All those miracles. The whole business. It just seemed like a child's story."

Cheverus didn't know how to respond.

"I know Dom believes," Halligan went on, "and if it helps get him through tomorrow, then I say good for him. But it's not me."

"You don't need it? Faith in something," Cheverus asked.

The prisoner looked over at him. He frowned, trying to find the right words. "It's not that so much, Father. It's more just that, it wasn't in my heart."

"Do you fear dying?"

"I reckon I do. A little. I mean, what man doesn't?" His eyes took on a distant look. "It's not fear so much that I'm feeling, Father. The truth is, I was pretty mad there for a while. A fellow takes something from you, you're angry. It made my blood boil to think they were going to rob me of my life, and I'd not done a thing. Why, I wanted . . ." he said, pausing, his hand clenching into a fist. "To kill someone. Aye, I did. If they were going to hang me for killing somebody, then I ought to give them what they wanted."

Cheverus nodded. "And now?

"I'm still a bit angry. But what's the use of it?" He opened his fist and let his hand fall against his thigh. "It won't change anything, right?"

"Yes. You must try to let it go, James," he advised. "It will poison your heart."

" 'Tis easier said than done though." Cheverus noticed the man's gaze seemed to turn inward, become the sightless stare of a blind man. "Can I ask you something, Father?"

"Of course."

"What was your reason for coming here?"

Cheverus felt the man's eyes weighing heavily on him. "I thought I could be of some help to you and Dominic."

"No, I meant to America. Why did you leave France?"

"I didn't have much choice actually. The Jacobins passed a law that priests who wouldn't sign the loyalty oath to the new government must leave the country or face imprisonment."

"Not much of a choice that. I heard they gave you priests a pretty rough time over there."

"Yes, it was very bad. Many were killed or imprisoned. Some, like myself, went into exile."

"Back home, too, they killed a good many priests after the Uprising. Some didn't have so much as a trial. The British just took 'em out and hanged 'em from the nearest tree. Others they tortured to get information on the names of rebels."

"How terrible."

"Aye. Ever hear of a Father Roche?"

"Yes, I have."

"He fought against the British. He led troops into battle. Later he tried to surrender. When he rode into Wexford to give himself up, the bastards--begging your pardon, Father--pulled him from his horse and threw him in jail. General Lake, the Butcher of Wexford, as he was called, had him hanged. Some Catholics said Father Roche was wrong to do it. A priest taking up arms. Killing. But for my money, he was a good man. He died fighting for his people."

Halligan looked over at him. There was something almost of a challenge to his stare. Cheverus was reminded of his conversation with Mairtin Kelly about moral questions, the nature of hatred.

"I could not kill another," Cheverus replied. "But that's something only one's conscience can answer."

"You never were in war, Father," he said.

"No, you're right. I wasn't."

"It's not wrong that a man--be he a priest or not--defend what's his. Or when he's being treated like a dog." Halligan rubbed his beard, then swallowed hard. "I killed a few men meself in the fighting. I had nothing against them. But they were the enemy. They were trying to kill me. I don't think what I did was wrong. The only thing I'd have wished for was to die then, fighting for something. Instead of now. Like this." He glanced around the cell, as if looking for a space through which he still might crawl to freedom.

"I understand," Cheverus said.

"Do you, Father?"

"Yes, I think so."

"We'd heard French troops were supposed to join us before Vinegar Hill. By the time they showed up, it was all but over."

"You should have known better than to place your trust in a Frenchman," Cheverus said with a smile.