by Peter Quinn
“What now?”
“Patience on your part, persistence on mine. I must help our friend along. Tighten the screws a little at a time. Push him down the proper path. One day he’ll do it. Ain’t no doubt. Take his bundle and skip-toe. That’s the moment we strike. We’re in, we’re out, get the bundle, and off he goes with the Metropolitans and Morrissey in hot pursuit!”
“Can’t wait forever. Got my own business to attend to, and I’m no glad leg goes in a place without first lookin’ it over and gettin’ an idea of what’s inside.”
“That’s why I picked ya. Got a reputation for bein’ careful. Enter a house in some disguise, as a tradesman or the like, before you pull a job. That’s the kind of preparation I admire. For now, sit tight, that’s all.”
Capshaw reached down and removed the urn from Dunne’s lap. A signal their meeting was over. Next gip, please. Dunne took a final draw and blew a last O. It circled Capshaw’s head, grew wider, and descended around his neck. A noose. Protestants might not believe in omens, but wasn’t a Paddy didn’t know the truth they held. It was Dunne’s turn to wave the smoke away.
“You want me to leave front or rear?” Dunne said.
“Up to you.”
“When should I come back?”
“Sit quiet until you hear from me. When the time comes, I’ll have another message left at the desk of the New England Hotel. It’ll say, eh, ‘Father is dead. Please come home instantly. Mother.’”
“One last thing. How’d you know I’m living at the New England?”
“I know mine, and mine know me.”
They stood together by the door. Capshaw opened it, and gave his eagle-marked hand to Dunne. They shook. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still threatening, the wind stronger than before. Across the street, the half-built church loomed over the ragged fence, a rain-stained shell.
“Be patient, Dunne. Don’t do anythin’ foolish.”
“Never have.”
“Don’t start.”
Dunne started down Madison. A lone carriage moved up the avenue. He looked back once. Capshaw was at the window, preening. Dunne knew Capshaw was up to more than he had revealed. Had to be a trick in there somewhere. Not sure what. Have to find out for himself, no other way, poke around, listen, ask, play it carefully. A dangerous combination, Capshaw, Morrissey, the Metropolitans, but hit it right, and hey get along Josey, get along Jim, no telling what might come.
II
THE WIND SWEPT IN from the harbor, up the long corridors of stone, shaking the coach as it turned the corner of Thirty-fifth Street onto Madison Avenue. As they, came over the crest of the hill, Father Corrigan looked out the rain-streaked window across Forty-first Street at the massive sloping wall of the collecting reservoir, the flag on its rampart standing out straight, pointing north. The coach picked up speed as it rattled and jolted down to Forty-second Street. Corrigan leaned forward to look out the other window at the hill that brooded over the street’s east end. Its slopes were covered by a ragtag collection of shanties. Smoke rose out of the crooked chimneys that poked through their roofs, white wisps trailing north with the wind. St. John’s parish. Miserably behind in its contribution to the building of the cathedral. People with goats and small yards full of potatoes, old women who smoked clay pipes and spoke in Irish. A place to be avoided. Corrigan sat back in the seat, and turned to his right. The old man, shrouded in his black cape, was more silent than usual. Probably been drinking. But didn’t smell of it. Could be the weather. Two days of it now. A burden on even the sunniest temperaments, never mind those suffering from inordinate melancholia. Corrigan put his hand gently on the sleeve of his companion’s cape. “Your Grace,” he said, “don’t think it would be wise to leave the coach. It would be better, I think, if we drove around the site without exposing ourselves to the elements.”
There was no response. The old man’s face was up close to the window, his nose almost pressed against it. A lone figure moved down Madison Avenue, his head bowed into the wind. The coach turned onto muddy, rutted Fifty-first Street. Corrigan felt the weight of the old man fall against him. More shadow than man. At the corner they turned onto Fifth Avenue and came to a halt.
“Your Grace, we’re here.” Corrigan grasped the strap by the door and pulled his bulk forward. His cassock came up over his socks. He raised himself off the seat and straightened it. “I’ll tell the driver to circumvent the site.” He reached up to the small glass panel set high in front of them and knocked on it. It shot back. A red face appeared.
“Yes, Father?” the driver asked.
“Turn around here and slowly circle the cathedral.”
The coach rocked as the door swung open. The old man jumped to the ground. Corrigan slid across the seat and crouched at the door. The wind almost blew his hat off. The black cape was already moving away. Corrigan looked up at the panel. The face was still there. “For God’s sake, Heaney,” he said, “give me a hand.” The coachman climbed down slowly and held up both hands. Corrigan took them and lowered himself. He stood and righted his hat. The black cape was moving on. “The mud, Your Grace,” he shouted, “be careful of the mud.” He turned to the coachman. “Not a word of this to Mrs. Rodrigue, do you hear me, Heaney.”
The coachman took off his cap and stuck it in his pocket. There was a smirk on the red face. “Your man has a mind of his own, no doubt about it, a powerful mind of his own.” He pointed at the old man. “Better stay close to him. I’ll be waiting for you here, Father. And be sure of it. Not a word to the Archbishop’s sister.” He put a finger to his lips. “Not a word.” The smirk spread into a smile.
Corrigan looked to make sure the Archbishop was still in sight. Him a kind of coachman, too. The same roughness. The same undertone of insolence. The edge in his voice that always sounded like a challenge. The Archbishop’s sister, as well. Married to the son of a wealthy planter from Santo Domingo. Servants, a French tutor. Her husband’s successful career as an architect, with the Archbishop of New York, her brother, as his patron. The mansion on Lexington Avenue. Silk drapes. A cellar full of wine. And still she looked and sounded like one of those crones from the shantytown on the hill above Forty-second Street. Peasants, all of them. An indelible stamp, like the priesthood. Corrigan lifted his cassock at the knees. He walked on the tips of his toes to where Archbishop Hughes looked up at the cathedral. The Archbishop’s cape billowed around him, and he kept one hand on the back of his head over his zucchetto, the purple skullcap the Pope had given him.
“It could start raining again any minute, Your Grace.”
The Archbishop started to move again. Corrigan resisted the urge to grab him by the arm and hold him. A fine sight. Archbishop Hughes and his secretary wrestling in the mudhole surrounding the cathedral. They walked along the tall wooden fence that cut the construction sight off from the avenue. The watchman came out from his hut, tipped his hat, and opened the gate. Hughes went past without acknowledging him, his pace quickening. Ahead was a great puddle. Corrigan called after him, “Watch out!” But he went ahead, striding through it, his cape trailing through the water, the mud splattering his slippers and the bottom of his cassock. The parted water closed behind him. Corrigan stepped around the perimeter of the puddle as quickly as he could. The mud sucked at his shoes. Hughes had stopped in front of the great portal, an empty arch with water dripping from its stone.
“Your Grace,” Corrigan said as he came up behind Hughes, “please stand back, the wind might blow some debris down; please don’t get too close.”
The wooden framework that enshrouded the cathedral sagged in places. It had been two years since any workman had used the cranes or climbed the scaffolding. First they had gone on strike. The winter before the war. The Catholics had gone out with the others. Hughes had threatened to find out their names and have their priests order them back to work. An impossible task, the priests told him. It will only embarrass the Church. Embarrass the Church. “And what was it called,” Hughes asked, “when Irishmen put down t
heir tools and abandoned the construction of a monument to the suffering their race had endured for the sake of that Church?”
Corrigan watched the parapet above them. Some ropes had come loose and were swinging wildly in the wind. He moved closer to the Archbishop. He should take him firmly by the arm. He should insist they return to the coach. If anything should happen, he would be held responsible. The wind played on the scaffolding. The ropes made a snapping sound, and a piece of one came loose and sailed over their heads toward the avenue.
“Your Grace, please!”
Corrigan heard the desperation in his own voice. He reached out to grab the old man’s arm. He couldn’t. The sanctity of his office. A successor to the Apostles. Crude at times. Always cold, distant, exacting. Sometimes cruel. Never at ease, nor concerned whether anyone else was. Occasionally an embarrassment. A relic. A bishop who despite his unwavering declaration of loyalty to the Holy See still saw himself as sovereign in his own diocese, an equal of the Pope’s. That was why the red hat had never been placed on his head. He had wanted to be the first American cardinal. He wouldn’t be. Rome needed him but did not trust him. His old-fashioned independence and his public avowals of democracy. Cardinal Barnabo of Propaganda had said as much to Corrigan that final day in Rome. You understand Rome, he said, because you have been educated here. You have the spirit of a Roman, Father Corrigan. You will need that very much when you return home. You must serve Archbishop Hughes as best you can. He is a great man, and I would not like to see him fall prey to those in Rome who would destroy him. But he is … the Cardinal held out his hand with the palm down and gently rotated it … how shall we say, incautious. He says things that are, eh, hard to comprehend. So, my friend, you must … the Cardinal put a finger to his eye … and you must … the Cardinal put a finger to his ear … and you must … he made a gesture as if he were scribbling on a pad. We must know what is happening in New York. Someone must be the eyes and ears of Rome.
Archbishop Hughes stepped forward under the scaffolding and put his hands on the wall. He could have settled for Belleville or Dorchester stone. It was cheaper, said the architect, Mr. Renwick. And just as durable. Mr. Renwick was a Protestant. They tended to be practical in all things. But the worship of God wasn’t a practical matter. It was a mystery, sorrowful, joyful, glorious. And this was an edifice that would house the greatest mystery of all: wine into blood, bread into flesh. Protestants didn’t believe that. They preferred logic to mystery, Dorchester stone to white marble.
“It may rain again, Your Grace. It will aggravate your rheumatism,” Corrigan said. He felt himself sinking into the mud. He lifted his left foot, and the mud almost pulled off his shoe. Water dripped from the scaffolding onto his hat.
The Archbishop stood with his hand against the wall. He seemed not to hear. Corrigan cleared his throat. In the time he had been the Archbishop’s secretary, Corrigan had never raised his voice to him. As unthinkable as Peter raising his voice to Our Lord. But now he had no choice.
“Sir, I must insist.” He said it so loudly he felt himself stiffen from the sound. Hughes didn’t move. Corrigan repeated himself. “Sir, I must insist you step out from here.” Nothing. “Sir, Your Grace, your sister gave me specific instruction: ‘Keep the Archbishop out of the rain.’”
She had stood by the door, arms folded beneath her small bosom, like a mother superior talking to a novice. She had all the haughtiness of her brother. “Madam Archbishop,” some of the priests had taken to calling her since Hughes had moved into her home on the top of Murray Hill, a three-story town house with a commanding view of Brooklyn and the lower city. At first it had seemed a good idea. When they had returned from Rome in February, the Archbishop had been sick. His sister said the old residence on Mulberry Street was drafty and the neighborhood unwholesome. It was hard to argue with her. The squat brownstone cathedral and its grounds were wedged in the narrow streets between Broadway and the Bowery, an insignificant collection of buildings lost amid the tenements, factories, and saloons that surrounded it.
The Rodrigue house was only twelve blocks from the new cathedral. A short drive. The Archbishop can visit it when he wishes, Mrs. Rodrigue said. It will lift his spirits. Besides, this is a home more like the one he will occupy when the cathedral is finished. She was right. Stately, tall, with a corner location that let its rooms fill with southern light, it was a home fit for an archbishop, a long way from the cramped quarters downtown. It was enjoyable at first. The fine carpets, the warmth, the private chapel. Only gradually did the visitor begin to detect the uniformity in Mrs. Rodrigue’s voice: She addressed priests and house-guests as she did the light-skinned Negro servants. She and her husband used French with the servants; but it didn’t matter, the tone was the same. Clipped, unpleasant, an undercurrent of annoyance.
In the vestibule under the cut-glass chandelier, she had unfolded her arms and put her hands on her hips. Her gray hair was pulled back severely from her face. Always the peasant wife talking to the spalpeens, acting as if she were better than they. Corrigan struggled to maintain an impassive face.
“The Archbishop is not to get out of the coach. He is to be kept out of the rain. Is that clear, Father?”
“We must return to the coach this minute,” Corrigan said.
Hughes didn’t move. He ran his fingers over the wall. The stone was wet and cool, like a tomb. The day wasn’t far off. They would carry him in procession to his grave. The priests in black chasubles with gold crosses embroidered front and back. The altar clouded by incense. But where? Not here. No altar, no roof, no floor, no windows, no vault with the chiseled words JOHANNES, ARCHIEPISCOPOS PRIMUS NEO-EBORACENSIS Would he be put beneath the floor of the old cathedral on Mulberry Street? Forgotten. Left behind. When Hughes’s sister Mary had died in county Monaghan, the law had forbidden Catholic priests to enter the gates of a cemetery. The procession had stopped at the stone wall, and the priest had reached down and scooped a handful of dirt from the road. The priest blessed the dirt and poured it into Hughes’s hands. It made a sad, empty sound when he dropped it onto his sister’s coffin. They never raised a marker above her grave. They began leaving the next year. His father went first, to a place called Maryland, a place where they had been told Catholics could live well. A long time ago. Mary waiting all these years beneath the wet grass. No stone to remind passersby to pray for her soul. Her family gone, the last of them driven out by the Famine and the Orangemen. The wind moved through the door-less portal of the cathedral. A sad, empty sound.
“Your Grace, please, I am begging you.” Corrigan gently touched Hughes’s sleeve. “Step out from here.” Large drops of water continued to drop from the scaffolding onto the broad rim of his hat. He kept his hand on Hughes’s sleeve. The Archbishop walked away from the wall. Corrigan followed behind him. More rain was imminent. To the west, heavy clouds were skirring low across the sky, their black bellies seeming to scrape the earth as they approached the horizon. There was a long, distant rumble. Lightning crossed the sky.
Corrigan circled the Archbishop like a dog herding sheep. He stayed at his side, directing him toward the wooden fence, then moving him back toward the gate. Corrigan realized he was perspiring. But slowly they were moving in the right direction. You must help guide the Archbishop, Cardinal Barnabo had told him, and he put his hands together like a ship and moved them in a zigzag fashion. Keep him on the narrow path. The Cardinal’s hands moved smoothly ahead in a straight line.
They walked side by side back to the gate. Corrigan relaxed a bit. The cheek of Heaney. Sitting in the coach and leaving him to escort the old man alone. Always so polite with the Archbishop, a fawning, cloying, false man. As lazy as any Negro. He always reeked of horse manure and whiskey. His favorite tactic was to engage in conversation as a way of avoiding work. The sort who give the Irish a bad name among the Protestants. He would have to bring this up with Mrs. Rodrigue again. Simply refuse to take him as driver. But Heaney now had this incident to use against him. Father
Corrigan left your brother, His Grace, to wandering in the mud and rain, and it’s a miracle he didn’t catch the death of it. Heaney would employ any tactic. Shameless as well as shiftless. They approached the lake of mud. Corrigan began herding the Archbishop away from it. But it was useless. The Archbishop seemed once again determined to part it. Corrigan looked down at the Archbishop’s shoes. They were caked in mud. So were the bottoms of his cape and pants. Mrs. Rodrigue would know right away. Corrigan felt small beads of sweat run from his armpits down his sides.
The Archbishop stopped at the edge of the puddle and turned around. In the distance, over the fence that ran along Madison Avenue, he could see the upper stories of a row of brownstones sited where a farmhouse had once stood. Thirteen years ago, before the rumor of the new cathedral led to a fever of land speculation, before Mr. Renwick had been consulted, a stooped, hatless man had come out onto his porch and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. An ancient, solitary Yankee with a white beard, he stayed there for nearly an hour as the three strangers had walked across a field of wildflowers. He watched them as they got back into the coach and drove away.
He was a well-known character in this area, said Mr. Curran, the diocesan lawyer, on the trip home. Amos Greene. As a boy of six or seven, he had helped his mother fill a wagon with food and cider and drove over to the Bloomingdale Road to feed Washington’s soldiers as they retreated up Manhattan away from General Howe. His mother had hoped to find her husband amid those men. But he had been captured in Brooklyn. At one point, as they were doling out their food to the retreating Continentals, an advance party of redcoats came up on them, and, Greene claims, he grabbed a musket and fired it at them, killing one of the British soldiers and alerting the Americans. Says he was the youngest person to fire a musket in the Revolution. He’s been telling that story forever. Mr. Barnum has agreed to sign him up as an exhibit at his museum. “THE YOUNGEST HERO OF THE REVOLUTION.” Someone to go alongside General Washington’s Negro wet nurse.
