At St. Peter’s Church, Walt Whitman disturbs a funeral in progress when the sound of his boots echoes through the spacious hall. In the center of the nave, a coffin rests before rows and rows of pews, where a congregation of thirty mourns. A priest, whom Walt recognizes as the antidissectionist Father Allen, stands next to the coffin, his head bowed in prayer, his face hidden from view.
More quietly now, Walt makes his way to the sacristy at the front of the cathedral where he finds himself alone. Standing where he can see the church entrance, he checks his pocket watch. 7:25.
While Walt waits, Father Allen continues with the funeral sermon: “And Mary said to Peter and John: ‘They have taken away the Lord out of the sepulchre, and we know not where they have laid him.’” He raises his voice. “Mary had gone to treat the Lord’s body with spices and found the stone rolled away from the tomb. She went inside and the body was not there.”
Father Allen hesitates.
“She worries that they had taken the Lord’s body to humiliate him. For as yet she knew not the scripture, that he must rise again from the dead. Imagine that: She assumed his body had been snatched from the grave. So what does Mary do? She seeks out Peter and John.
“So they ran both together: and John did outrun Peter, and came first to the sepulchre. And he, stooping down and looking in, saw the linen clothes lying; yet went not in. Peter and John didn’t know what to do, so they went home and left Mary at the grave.
“And then the miracle happens. A man approaches Mary and asks why she is crying. ‘Sir,’ she says—she thinks this man knows something about the body—‘if thou hast borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.’ Brothers and sisters, that man was Jesus! And Jesus called her by name, and she knew it was him. He was resurrected and so shall we all be resurrected if we believe in him we call Christ the Lord.”
The door to the cathedral opens, and Samuel Clement appears in his overcoat and leghorn hat. Alone. At least, Whitman can’t see Henry Saunders or anyone else. Perhaps Henry is outside with one of Clement’s men. Maybe he is hidden somewhere in the church. Or—
He grips the gun in his pocket.
Clement sits in the last pew and surveys the room.
Father Allen ends the funeral a few minutes before eight. As the parishioners exit, Whitman makes his move. He tiptoes to the side of the chapel, amidst the commotion, and ducks behind a pew. Clement hasn’t seen Walt yet.
Now, as he walks, he pulls the pistol from his pocket and holds it pointed downward at his side. He feels like a character in an Ainsworth novel.
When Samuel Clement sees Walt Whitman, he stands to greet him. “You are the author of Franklin Evans. Imagine my surprise.”
“Where’s Mr. Saunders?”
“After I read your novel, I abstained from alcohol,” Clement says. “Your portrayal of the evils of alcohol moved me to improve my own life.”
“You said to meet you here. I did. Now what about Henry?”
“I’m trying to pay you a compliment, Mr. Whitman. Your story did what years of sermons could not: It changed me. And now, a few months later, business is thriving, my relationship with Frankie is on the mend—she’s so good to help out and she refuses to give me up to persuadable folks such as yourself—and I am seeing matters more clearly than I can ever remember.”
“Your sister is ill for the laudanum you give her.”
“Nonsense.” Clement pauses. “I’ve done all I can to get her off the stuff.”
Walt clutches the pistol. His hands are sweaty.
Clement says, “You don’t seem sufficiently impressed by your own work, Mr. Whitman.”
Walt shifts his grip on the pistol. “Tell me where Henry is.”
“Your work has incited the sheriff and his men.”
“They hanged an innocent person.”
“And city hall? I met with the mayor today, and your name surfaced more than once.”
Whitman surveys the church.
“Oh, the watchmen aren’t inside yet,” he says. “But, clearly, you have no idea what you’ve done.”
Walt raises his arm.
“Mr. Whitman.” Clement shakes his head. “The way you hold that pistol—you’ve probably never shot a gun in your life.”
He has. Once. And he missed. “Tell me where Henry Saunders is.”
“Hand me the gun.”
Walt’s hand trembles as he aims it at Clement, who takes another step toward him.
Walt wraps his index finger around the trigger.
“Either you kill me.” Clement takes another step. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Whitman aims his gun at Clement’s head just as Snuffy told him to do, but he doesn’t know if he can pull the trigger.
Clement is only a step away now.
Walt squeezes the trigger halfway before he lets go, and then, before he can react, Clement knocks him to the floor, takes the gun, and straddles Whitman, holding the gun to his head.
But instead of a gunshot, he hears the voice of the priest. “Get out.” Father Allen points a rifle at Samuel Clement. “And I have shot a gun before. Many times.”
Clement’s green eyes bore into Walt. The look on his face suggests he would rather kill Whitman than save himself by obeying the priest.
Father Allen’s voice rings out again. “Out.”
Clement takes his time, the gun still pointed at Walt’s head. “As you wish, Father,” he says. Then he steps over Walt and lowers the gun.
Whitman breathes a sigh of relief.
But then Clement turns and kicks Walt in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He rolls over, gasping—
“Out,” repeats the priest.
Clement sets the gun down on the cathedral floor, looks at Walt again, then the priest, and backs away into the shadows.
The priest extends his hand to Whitman. “Come with me.”
“No,” Walt says as he is pulled off the floor by the priest. “I have to follow him. He has my friend.”
Father Allen grabs him by the arm. “Trust me.”
“If I don’t go now, I’ll lose him.”
“You have no idea, do you?” Father Allen says. “You’ve been set up. A dozen men, including the sheriff, are waiting to arrest you.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m guessing it has something to do with this.” The priest holds out today’s copy of the Herald featuring a front-page story about Walt’s break-in at the Aurora and his slanderous articles about New York City law enforcement. Samuel Clement was right.
Whitman stares at the article for a moment, then turns to the priest.
“Trust me,” Father Allen says.
The priest leads him through a door at the back of the nave—a heavy door with three locks—that leads to his living quarters. Inside, the sitting room is warm, heated by a large fireplace. Several paintings hang on the walls, most of them of Catholic saints or popes, Walt guesses, but the one above the fireplace is of Christ himself, floating in the air above his disciples, back from the dead.
“I need to show you something.” The priest holds out Walt’s pistol. “Here,” he says. “Take it.”
The gun sits heavy in Whitman’s hand. He strokes the barrel with his index finger, lets his hand grip the gun, slips his finger around the trigger. His mind is a whirl, flashes of Henry Saunders’s face interspersed with Samuel Clement’s. He aims the pistol at the fireplace.
Father Allen stands behind him, takes his arm, and holds it out straight. “Like this,” he says. “Before you shoot, take a deep breath and let it out halfway to better hold your aim. And shoot for the head. Leave no room for error. You can be sure the other man won’t.”
“Where did you learn to shoot a gun?”
“I was not always the man you see before you.”
Whitman wants to ask more, but he’s silenced by Father Allen’s suddenly stern countenance. Instead, he asks, “Is it a sin to kill a man who has killed someone close to you?”
Father Allen rubs the back of his neck. “It is not a sin to kill a man before he kills you, no. Not something to take lightly, however. Killing a man crosses a line and you might—well, you might end up like me.”
“You just told me to shoot for the head.”
“We all have that power, you know. To take another’s life. God knows sometimes it has to be done, and I’m only telling you to be careful.” Father Allen looks lost in himself.
“Father?”
He snaps out of his reverie. “I’ll lead you out.”
At the back door to the church, Father Allen says, “Allow me to survey the area before you leave.” He opens the door. “I won’t be long.”
Minutes later, Father Allen returns. “One man stands on the corner closest to the front entrance, and another four or five across the street. I can’t see the others, but they’re probably there. You’ve become a popular man, Mr. Whitman.” Father Allen removes his overcoat, whose sleeves were too short for his long arms. “Give me your coat and hat.”
Whitman hesitates.
“They’ll mistake me for you.”
Walt goes through his pockets and finds the gun, bullets, the note from Abby Runkel, and his green notebook. “They’ll know you’re helping me if you wear my coat.”
“The Lord will provide.”
“You believe that?”
The priest nods. “Of course I do. Now, your coat?”
They switch coats. Father Allen’s is tight around Walt Whitman’s body, the arms even shorter on him than on the priest.
“I’ll lead them away,” Father Allen says. “You follow in a few minutes—take the long way, south a block, then east, and you should be clear. Watch for others—I’m not sure how many there are.”
Father Allen steps through the door and walks in clear view of the man at the front entrance.
The officer doesn’t move until Father Allen is twenty-five feet past him. Another man emerges out of the shadows, and together, the two men rush the priest and take him by the arms. A black carriage appears from the other direction, stops, and the three men get in.
Whitman resists the urge to go to the priest’s aid.
On Barclay Street, the frigid night air stings Walt’s neck. Flakes the size of silver Liberty dollars swirl above him. He looks into the sky and sees nothing but a fluttering whiteness. He pulls up the collar of the priest’s coat and makes his way south, the cobblestones slippery under his feet.
He won’t stop until he reaches McCleester’s tavern.