"I can cook just fine," Halligan replied with a coy smile. "It's the other thing I can't do for myself."

In November, they had set out together from Boston, bound for the city of New York. Daley knew someone there who owed him some money, money he was planning on putting aside for a piece of land he wanted to buy up in New Hampshire. Halligan went along simply to keep him company, for the adventure of it. He had never seen New York. He'd heard it said it was bigger even than Dublin, though he found that hard to believe. He thought he might sign on with some merchant ship and sail around the Horn. He was free, unattached, all his worldly possessions slung over his shoulder. The autumn days had stretched out fine and clear, and the traveling had been pleasant. They'd taken their time walking west, stopping to have a pint of porter and play some cards in a tavern, sharing a room at various inns. At night, Daley would get down on his knees and say his prayers. In fact, Halligan had never seen a man so damned religious. But each to his own, he felt. Things went well until they reached Rye, New York, where they'd stopped at an inn to have supper. They were to take the ferry from there to New York City. But a large party of heavily armed riders came swooping down on them, guns drawn. Halligan could recall thinking that whoever they were after must have done something terrible. The posse's leader, the high sheriff of Hampshire County, pointed a large-bore navy pistol at Halligan's chest and said they were under arrest.

"On what charges?" Halligan asked, incredulous.

"We have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murder."

Murder, they exclaimed, thinking at first it had to be some kind of joke. But it was no joke. They were clapped in irons and placed on the back of an old piebald mare who staggered under her dual burden and brought back to Springfield. There, at the inquest, a nervous, scrawny young boy pointed a finger at them and said they the ones he'd seen leading the murdered man's horse into a field near where the crime had happened. That was enough to convince the authorities they had the right men. They were conducted twenty miles north to the county jail in Northampton. They were told they would be held here until the next session of the Supreme Court, which tried capital cases. They had waited in jail for five months, not allowed to see or speak to a soul, except for the assistant prosecutor and a minister by the name of Williams.

After nearly a half hour's wait, a door to the left opened and two men entered, one walking briskly, the other slowly, gingerly, as if he had a bad back.

"All rise," cried the stout man, who took up a position to the left of the table. "The court of Hampshire County in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is now in session," he droned in a mechanical voice. "The honorable Judges Theodore Sedgwick and Samuel Sewall presiding. Be seated."

The Supreme Court justices wore scarlet robes with black collars, and upon their heads white silk wigs, old looking and yellowed from smoke. One judge, a tall, slump-shouldered man in his sixties, wore a sour expression on his long, wrinkled face. He had dark eyes set deep beneath graying, shaggy brows, long side whiskers, and a large nose that seemed to be displeased at some odor. The other was a short, rotund man, with ears that protruded from beneath his wig and a small pink mouth held in an attitude of mild consternation. Neither one looked at the prisoners, almost as if their presence there was superfluous. Instead the judges spent some time shuffling through papers, occasionally writing something down or turning to the other to ask a question or make a comment. Finally, the tall judge with the dark eyes looked up and spoke to the assistant prosecutor. "Mr. Hooker," he began, "is the government ready to proceed?"

The assistant prosecutor stood. "We are, your honor," he replied.

"Where is Mr. Sullivan?"

"He's not here, your honor."

"I can see that," the judge scoffed. "Does he plan to grace us with his presence? Or will you be trying the case by yourself, Mr. Hooker?"

"No, I will be assisting Mr. Sullivan. He very much wished to be here for the arraignment but he had certain other pressing affairs of his office he had to tend to."

"Of his current office?" Judge Sedgwick said, raising one of his furry eyebrows.

"1 would assume so, yes."

"If the attorney general would put half as much time into performing the duties for which he is currently being paid by the commonwealth, instead of campaigning for the governors office, then perhaps such crimes as this would not even take place."

"Yes, your honor," Mr. Hooker replied meekly. "The attorney general wished me to express his sincerest apologies to the court for his unfortunate absence today. And he would like to assure you he will be here on Thursday. That is, if it is suitable with your honor."

"No, it is not suitable, Mr. Hooker," retorted the judge. "In fact, it is highly unsuitable. You have had five months' time to prepare the government's case. I would think that would be quite sufficient given the circumstances."

"My apologies, your honor," Mr. Hooker said, his bald skull turning red. His hands trembled, his face twitched in spasms.

"Let the attorney general's Republican cronies handle his campaign," Judge Sedgwick berated the man. "He has duties which require his presence--"

The plump judge to his left touched Sedgwick on the shoulder then. The two spent a moment conferring in an undertone which grew heated. When they were finished, Judge Sedgwick turned back to the assistant prosecutor. His mouth pinched in annoyance, large nostrils flared, he stared down at Mr. Hooker for several seconds. "If it is not too much to ask, please inform the attorney general that his presence is required here on Thursday," he said, with a dismissive flick of his hand. Then he looked to the stout man wearing the yellow breeches. "Would the clerk kindly read the indictment against the defendants."

"Yes, your honor," said the man, rising to his feet. He held an official-looking document before him, from which he read in the same mechanical voice as before: At a court holden at Northampton, within and for the county of Hampshire, on the fourth Monday of April, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and six, before the Honorable Judges Theodore Sedgwick and Samuel Sewall, Esquires, Dominic Daley and James Halligan come on to be tried for the willful murder of Marcus Lyon, a resident of the state of Connecticut. On motion by the Honorable James Sullivan, Esquire, Attorney General of the Commonwealth, they are to be arraigned on an indictment charging them with having, on the ninth of November in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and five, at Wilbraham in the county of Hampshire, killed one Marcus Lyon, in the peace of God and of this Commonwealth, then and there being: ~ The first count states that Daley, with a pistol, gave Lyon the blow of which he instantly died and that Halligan was present, aiding, abetting, and encouraging; ~ The second, that Daley gave the blow as aforesaid and immersed the body in the Chicopee River so that Lyon died, as well by reason of the immersion as the blow, and that Halligan was present as before; ~ And the third, states that both Daley and Halligan, with each a pistol in his right hand, gave the mortal bruises and wounds of which Lyon instantly died.

When the clerk finished reading the indictment, he came over to the two and said in a whisper, "The judges will now ask you how you plead, and you are to say guilty or not guilty. Then they will ask how you are to be tried. You must answer, 'By God and my country.' Nothing more. And when you address them you are to call them 'your honor.' Do you understand?"

They nodded that they did.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir," said Daley, "do ye think I might use the jakes?"

"Not now. We are about to begin."

Judge Sedgwick looked down at the prisoners for the first time.

"I am Justice Sedgwick of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court," he explained. "Justice Sewall and I will be hearing your case. Today you are being formally arraigned. Do you understand the charges that have been read to you?"

Daley looked at Halligan, deferring to him.

"We do, your honor," replied Halligan.

"And how plead you to the charges?"

"But your honor, we haven't been allowed to speak to counsel yet."

"In good time, sir. I am now asking how you plead to the charges," he repeated.

"But your honor--"

"Silence!" cried the judge, wagging a threatening finger at Halligan. Color rose again to his pale cheeks and his thin mouth wrinkled in anger. "In my court, sir, you will speak only when I ask you a question. Do you understand?"

He wanted to tell the stinking old bastard he didn't care a tinker's fart for his court, but he figured he'd better not. "Yes, your honor," he replied instead.

"Now. How plead you to the charges?"

"Not guilty," they both replied at once.

"Not guilty to all the charges?"

"Yes, your honor," said Halligan. "Not guilty to all the charges."

"Very well." Staring at Halligan, he asked, "Dominic Daley, how will you be tried?"

"Beggin' your pardon, your honor," Daley interrupted this time.

"I warned you already, did I not?" the judge cried, scowling at the two. "I'll indulge no further interruptions."

"But sir, Vm Halligan," Halligan explained. "He's Daley."

Glancing from one man to the other, the judge frowned, as if he could tell their names just by staring at them long enough. He then shuffled through the papers on his desk, before resorting to a quick appeal to the sheriff, who shrugged. Finally, the judge turned toward the clerk. "Mr. Lyman, I thought the tall one was Halligan."

"No, your honor," the clerk replied. "That's Daley. The other one's Halligan."

Judge Sedgwick paused for a moment, shaking his head in annoyance at this oversight. "Very well. Dominic Daley," he began again, this time looking at Daley, "how will you be tried?"

"By God and my country, your honor." He then asked the same of Halligan, who responded in kind. After that the judge said, "God send you a good deliverance." He next inquired of the prisoners if they wished to have counsel. They said they would and the judge assigned them a man named Francis Blake, of Worcester, Massachusetts, a town some fifty miles to the east. Finally Judge Sedgwick set a trial date for Thursday, three days hence, to begin at nine.

"I hope that is convenient for your esteemed colleague, Mr. Hooker," Judge Sedgwick offered sardonically.

"The commonwealth appreciates your gracious indulgence, your honor."

The judge stared at Mr. Hooker to see if he was trying to be sarcastic. When he couldn't decide, he remanded the prisoners to the custody of the high sheriff, then the two judges stood. They left the courtroom the same way they had entered it.

The sheriff placed the prisoners in irons, and led them out. Word having spread about the two being brought to the courthouse, more people had assembled in the street despite the rain. Small groups had gathered here and there, in front of shops and on porches to get a look at the prisoners. Young boys ran alongside the procession now. Just outside the jailhouse, a small crowd of some fifteen or twenty had congregated in the street. Somebody called out, "There they are!" and several heaved rotten eggs, one of which hit Daley on the back. The sulfuric stink rose up around them. "A curse on ye," he cried. "Come and fight me like a man, why don't ya." But the guards easily kept the men at bay and hustled the prisoners into the jail.

As soon as they got back to their cell, Daley rushed over to the slop bucket in the corner, unbuttoned his trousers, and squatted. As he emptied his bowels, he cried, "Jesus Mary and Joseph. I thought I'd shite me pants there for a minute."

Halligan sat on his bunk. He unlaced his wet boots and took them off. His feet were hurting, cold and blistered from the unaccustomed walk.

"So we're finally to have our day in court, eh, Jamy boy?"

"Looks that way."

"We'll just get up on the witness stand and tell 'em the truth."

"You reckon it'll be that simple?"

"It'll be our word against theirs."

Halligan didn't say anything.

"If they had anything on us, don't you think they'd of tried us long before this? Mark me words, Jamy. In a few days we'll be home."

Home, Halligan thought.

Daley wiped himself with a piece of old newspaper, pulled up his trousers, and went over and lay down on his bunk. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

"Yessir. Won't be long now."

They were the only prisoners in the small jailhouse of this western Massachusetts town. For some reason the turnkey allowed them to share the same cell. Perhaps to give them some company, as they were allowed no visitors. Since their arrest back in November there had been other prisoners. The most recent being an old man, a frail bag of bones clothed in a ragged watchcoat and an old-fashioned tricorn hat from the revolutionary days. As old as Atty Hayes's goat, Daley had called him. He'd been brought in a few weeks before for hitting somebody during a drunken argument. And there had been a man arrested for stealing a horse. He had a look in his eyes of one teched in the head. He would stare through the bars at Halligan and curse, "What the hell are you looking at, paddy?" But then he was taken off somewhere, to trial or to another prison, they couldn't say. Back in the winter, there had even been a young Irish lad from Clonakilty, an indentured servant who'd run away from a harsh master down in Springfield. For the two Irish prisoners, it was good to talk to someone from home. His master eventually came for him though, put him in irons, and dragged him back to serve out the remainder of his contract. For the last few weeks, the jail had held only the two of them.

The turnkey appeared before their cell.

"This come by the morning's post rider," he said. He slipped a letter through the bars and dropped it on Daley's bunk. It was from his wife. Even from across the cell, Halligan recognized her handwriting. She wrote to her husband nearly every week and he saved the letters in a packet, tied with a piece of string. He kept the packet inside his shirt and, though he couldn't read a word of them, would take the letters out from time to time and fondle them, put them to his nose as if he could smell her.

Daley sniffed the envelope. "Would you do the honors, Jamy boy?" he asked, as he always did, handing the letter finally over to Halligan to read.

Halligan felt in a playful mood for some reason. He took the letter and passed it under his nose, in imitation of Daley. Then, when he began to read it, he did so in a breathy, comical way. "Oh, Dominic. I miss your big-"

"Just read the bloody letter, before I crack yer head for you," Daley said, pretending to be angry.

In a regular voice Halligan started over.

My Dearest Dominic How are you, my love? We are all fine here and in good spirits. Even your mother, whose cough appears to have improved somewhat. Your folks send their love and miss you very much. Michael grows bigger with each passing day. You would hardly recognize him. And quick, too. Though but six months, he's going to be very intelligent, I can tell. I am trying to get him to say "Da" so he can surprise you when you come home.

We spent a lovely Easter together. The weather has been unseasonably cold and rainy. Back home it would already be like summer, the air smelling of gorse and the hills green. What is it like out there? Are you getting enough to eat? Did you receive the pair of socks I sent you with my last letter? 1 know how your feet get cold.

Your mother and I have been to see the Attorney General on several occasions to ask permission that we be allowed to visit with you. But alas, he has not even extended us the courtesy of hearing our petition. Have no fear though, we shall keep trying.

I have missed you terribly these past few months. 1 am so lonely without you. I am able to keep myself occupied during the day but the nights I have a devil of a time. I sometimes think of that song you used to sing when you were courting me. "The Banks of the Roses." Do you remember it, my love? I sing the words at night to help me sleep. Each morning before I go to work I stop in the church and say a prayer to the Virgin, asking Her to watch over you and to send you safety back to us. I do not know what I would do if anything were to befall you. Take care, macushla.

Always and forever your wife Finola .

When he finished reading, he handed the letter back to his cellmate. Daley lay quietly, brooding, fondling the paper and staring at the ceiling. His eyes were moist, a look of terrible sadness on his long face. "Dom, are you all right?" Halligan asked. "I hate thinkin' she's all by herself." "She's got your family there."

"Still. She gets lonesome. She's the sort of woman needs someone around."

"Aren't they all like that?" Halligan said, kidding. "No!" he snapped, suddenly angry. "You don't understand. Finola's not like that."

"Easy, Dom. I'm only fooling with you." "She's not been the same since we lost Eva."

Daley had told him about the child that had died of fever back in Ireland. How Finola had cried for months, how it had almost destroyed her.

And it was only with the birth of their second child, Michael, here in America that she was able finally to move on.

Like always, Daley had Halligan write a letter in reply. The turnkey provided them with paper and writing implements, and Daley told him what he wanted him to write. The big Irishman was clumsy with words, handling English as if it were a piece of thread he were trying to guide through the tiny eye of a needle. Often he'd say to Halligan, "Put it so it has a nice ring to it, Jamy boy. So a woman will like it." For his part Halligan did his best, though he wondered what it would be like to write to a woman he was in love with as much as Daley was in love with his wife.

When Halligan had finished, Daley put his X on the paper and folded it. He would have Dowd give it to the post rider tomorrow.

Halligan held up the well-worn deck of cards and Daley nodded that he wanted to play. They used Halligan's bunk as a table and had to keep track of what one owed the other by making scratches in the stone wall with a piece of chicken bone. So far, Daley, a wild, daring gambler, perhaps because nothing was at stake, was in debt over a hundred dollars. They played just to help pass the time.

"Who learned you to read and write like that?" Daley asked.

"The brothers that raised me."

He thought of them: Brother Padraig and Brother Sebastian and little Brother Simon who always smelled of the barn and had a loony smile of someone not right in the head. Kind-hearted, serious men of faith. They were among the last of the Franciscans in all of Ireland, after Cromwell and William of Orange and a hundred years of the penal laws. It was a small community west of Cahirciveen, in the remote mountains of Kerry. They lived in an old abbey, one that through the influence of a local landlord had been spared razing like all the other Catholic buildings throughout the country. The brothers took in orphans and taught them to read and write and do their figures. Old Brother Padraig used to read Robinson Crusoe or Gullivers Travels to the boys at night and then listen to their prayers.

" 'Tis a grand thing," Daley said, "to open a book and know what it says. Do you think you could learn me someday?"

"You want to learn? To read and write?"

"Aye. Do you think I could pick it up?"

"A big dumb ox like yourself!" Halligan scoffed, smiling. "Hell, it'd be easier to teach a pig to stand on its hind legs and play the pipes."

Daley didn't smile. "But would you? Would you learn me to read an' write?"

"You're bloody serious, ain't you?"

"I am."

Halligan shook his head. "Why all of a sudden this interest in reading?"

"I'd like to write a letter to me son."

"I could write one for you."

"No. I mean, something in me own hand. Something he'd have from his father."