Monsignor Downes tried to fight against the tide and get into the Cathedral, but found himself in the street squeezed between a heavy woman and a burly police officer.
The two bogus priests who had been pressing guns into the backs of the Bureau of Special Services men blended into the moving throng and disappeared. The two BSS men turned and tried to remount the steps but were carried down into the Avenue by the crowd.
Police scooters toppled, and patrol cars were covered with people trying to escape the crush of the crowd. Marching units broke ranks and became engulfed in the mob. Police tried to set up perimeters to keep the area of the disturbance contained, but without radio communication their actions were uncoordinated and ineffective.
Television news crews filmed the scene until they were overwhelmed by the surging mob.
Inspector Philip Langley peered down from the New York Police Department command helicopter into the darkening canyons below. He turned to Deputy Police Commissioner Rourke and shouted above the beat of the rotor blades. “I think the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade is over.”
The Deputy Commissioner eyed him for a long second, then looked down at the incredible scene. Rush hour traffic was stalled for miles, and a sea of people completely covered the streets and sidewalks as far south as Thirty-fourth Street and as far north as Seventy-second Street. Close to a million people were in the small midtown area at this hour, and not one of them was going to get home in time for dinner. “Lot of unhappy citizens down there, Philip.”
Langley lit a cigarette. “I’ll hand in my resignation tonight.”
The Deputy Commissioner looked up at him. “I hope there’s somebody around to accept it.” He looked back at the streets. “Almost every ranking officer in the New York Police Department is down there somewhere, cut off from communication, cut off from their command.” He turned to Langley. “This is the worst yet.”
Langley shook his head. “I think the worst is yet to come.”
In the intersection at Fiftieth Street, Burke could see the bright orange sashes of men being led into a paddy wagon. Burke remembered the Irish saying: “If you want an audience, start a fight.” These Orangemen had wanted an audience, and he knew why; he knew, too, that they were not Orangemen at all but Boston Provos recruited to cause a diversion—dumb Micks with more courage than brains.
The policewoman turned to him as she urged the horse on. “Who are those people with orange sashes?”
“It’s a long story. Go on. Almost there—”
Brian Flynn came down from the pulpit and faced Maureen Malone. “It’s been a damned long time, Maureen.”
She looked at him and replied in an even voice, “Not long enough.”
He smiled. “Did you get my flowers?”
“I flushed them.”
“You have one in your lapel.”
Her face reddened. “So you’ve come to America after all, Brian.”
“Yes. But as you can see, on my terms.” He looked out over the Cathedral. The last of the worshipers were jamming the center vestibule, trying to squeeze through the great bronze doors. Two Fenians, Arthur Nulty dressed as a priest and Frank Gallagher dressed as a parade marshal, stood behind them and urged them on through the doors, onto the packed steps, but the crowd began to back up into the vestibule. All the other doors had been swung closed and bolted. Flynn looked at his watch. This was taking longer than he expected. He turned to Maureen. “Yes, on my terms. Do you see what I’ve done? Within half an hour all of America will see and hear this. We’ll provide some good Irish theater for them. Better than the Abbey ever did.”
Maureen saw in his eyes a familiar look of triumph, but mixed with that look was one of fear that she had never seen before. Like a little boy, she thought, who had stolen something from a shop and knows he might have to answer for his transgression very shortly. “You won’t get away with this, you know.”
He smiled, and the fear left his eyes. “Yes, I will.”
Two of the Fenians who had posed as police walked around the altar and descended the stairs that led down to the sacristy. From the open archway on the left-hand wall of the sacristy, they heard footsteps approaching in the corridor that led from the rectory. Excited voices came from a similar opening on the opposite wall that led to the Cardinal’s residence. All at once priests and uniformed policemen burst into the sacristy from both doors.
The two Fenians drew the sliding gates out of the wall until they met with a loud metallic ring, and the people in the sacristy looked up the stairs. A uniformed sergeant called out, “Hey! Open those gates!” He advanced toward the stairs.
The Fenians tied a chain through the scrolled brasswork and produced a padlock.
The sergeant drew his pistol. Another policeman came up behind him and did the same.
The Fenians seemed to pay no attention to the officers and snapped the heavy lock on the ends of the wrapped chain. One of them looked up, smiled, and gave a brief salute. “Sorry, lads, you’ll have to go round.” Both Fenians disappeared up the stairs. One of them, Pedar Fitzgerald, sat near the crypt door where he could see the gate. The other, Eamon Farrell, came around the altar and nodded to Flynn.
Flynn turned to Baxter for the first time. “Sir Harold Baxter?”
“That’s correct.”
He stared at Baxter. “Yes, I’d enjoy killing you.”
Baxter replied without inflection, “Your kind would enjoy killing anyone.”
Flynn turned away and looked at the Cardinal. “Your Eminence.” He bowed his head, and it wasn’t clear if he was mocking or sincere. “My name is Finn MacCumail, Chief of the new Fenian Army. This church is now mine. This is my Bruidean. You know the term? My place of sanctuary.”
The Cardinal seemed not to hear him. He asked abruptly, “Is this Cathedral on fire?”
“That depends to a large extent on what happens in the next few minutes.”
The Cardinal stared at him, and neither man flinched. The Cardinal finally spoke. “Get out of here. Get out while you can.”
“I can’t, and I don’t want to.” He looked up at the choir loft over the main doors where Jack Leary, dressed as a colonial soldier, stood with a rifle. Flynn’s eyes dropped to the main doors nearly a block away. People still jammed the vestibule, and noise and light passed in through the open doors. He turned to Father Murphy, who stood next to him. “Father, you may leave. Hurry down the aisle before the doors close.”
Murphy strode deliberately to a spot beside the Cardinal. “We are both leaving.”
“No. No, on second thought, we may find a use for you later.” Flynn turned to Maureen again and moved closer to her. He spoke softly. “You knew, didn’t you? Even before you got the flowers?”
“I knew.”
“Good. We still know each other, don’t we? We’ve spoken over the years and across the miles, haven’t we, Maureen?”
She nodded.
A young woman dressed as a nun appeared at the altar rail holding a large pistol. In the front pew a bearded old man, apparently sleeping on the bench, rose, stretched, and came up behind her. Everyone watched as the two people ascended the steps of the altar sanctuary.
The old man nodded to the hostages and spoke in a clear, vibrant voice. “Your Eminence, Father Murphy, Miss Malone, Sir Harold. I am John Hickey, fancifully code-named Dermot, in keeping with the pagan motif suggested by our leader, Finn MacCumail.” He made an exaggerated bow to Flynn. “I am a poet, scholar, soldier, and patriot, much like the original Fenians. You may have heard of me.” He looked around and saw the signs of recognition in the eyes of the four hostages. “No, not dead, as you can plainly see. But dead before the sun rises again, I’ll wager. Dead in the ruins of this smoldering Cathedral. A magnificent funeral pyre it’ll be, befitting a man of my rank. Oh, don’t look so glum, Cardinal, there’s a way out—if we all keep our senses about us.” He turned to the young woman beside him. “May I present our Grania—or, as she prefers her real name, Megan Fitzgerald.”