Whatsoever You Do
Chapter 7
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Gerald Holm prodded Sean down toward the bank of the Potomac River, the barrel of his gun digging into Sean's back. "Never should have stuck your nose in it in the first place," Holm muttered as Sean stumbled ahead. "And how you got out of the shack and took down Stephen all by yourself, I'll never know." Holm sighed. "But one thing's for sure, Maxwell's going to want your head. But your cousin? Maybe Maxwell will just leave her be. Nobody would believe her story anyway." Sean stared straight ahead, his bound hands folded quietly in front of him, not even attempting to free himself. He sensed Holm's unspoken question, but stubbornly clung to silence. He wouldn't give Holm any reason to go after Molly and his friends. The pressure of the gun in Sean's back suddenly eased. "Stop. This is far enough." Sean halted. "God will take care of Molly," he said quietly, staring down into the muddy waters of the Potomac. Holm grunted. He put his gun away, drew a knife from a vest pocket, and advanced toward Sean. A gunshot would draw too much attention, Sean decided, resigning himself to the fact that his death probably wouldn't be quick. Didn't matter. Not now. Molly was safe. If God wanted his life for her safety, amen. Sean did not flinch as the knife arced down toward his chest. But the searing pain he had braced himself for never came. Sean stared in shock as the knife sliced cleanly through the rope binding Sean's wrists without drawing blood. "Wha-?" Sean gaped. "Just keeping my word. Besides the fact that I owe you now, I didn't sign up for murder. Had I known what Maxwell was planning to do with you and the girl, I'd never have agreed." Holm replied, sheathing the knife. "Owe me one? Owe me for what? I don't understand. . ." Sean stammered, still trying to grasp the fact that he was alive. "You obviously don't know anything about that letter you gave me this morning," Holm observed, eyeing Sean with a new respect that the boy had not expected to see. "It was from my son in Philadelphia. I'd invited him to join the Know-Nothing Party some time ago." Sean nodded as everything fell suddenly into place. Why had he been so blind? He should have figured out that the Know-Nothing, anti-Irish, anti-immigrant party would have had their hand in the stealing of the Pope's Stone. "My son refused to join the Party," Holm went on, "It seems that a young man by the name of Michael O'Hare stepped in front of the bullet that would have killed my son during that riot in Philadelphia." Sean jerked, his eyes popping open in shock. Michael, his cousin? Died for a Protestant? "Seems impossible, eh?" Holm nodded. "Nathan, my son, mentioned yours and Richards' names. It's starting to make sense, why Richards has a Catholic apprentice, seeing as Michael died in Richards' home not two hours after the riot. I didn't even know my son had been in Philadelphia until I got the letter from him. He finally decided to tell me the truth about why he couldn't join the Party. Michael's death changed Nathan's life. In his letter, he wrote a lot about loving thy neighbor. I'm honestly not sure if I'm going to live to regret what I've done, or if I'll ever leave the Know-Nothing Party. But I do know I owe you at least a life for a life, Sean Ryan. Now get going, and don't ever tell anyone what you saw tonight. Maxwell and the others have got to believe that you died in the river." Sean felt as though his legs were melting under him. His head spun with memories of Michael and the new revelation of this unexpected reward from his sacrifice. Holm patted him firmly on the shoulder. "Go on now, boy! Get! Before someone see us!" Knowing that he did not have time to stand still and work through the surprising twists of the day, Sean got his footing and darted across the field, up the mossy embankment near the monument -- Straight into Gregory Richards' chest! "Sean!" Richards whispered, wrapping his apprentice in a tight hug. "I thought we were too late! What did he say to you? What happened? Are you all right?" Sean nodded, and after a moment, pulled away. "I can't talk about what happened tonight," he said, "and you must promise that you won't, either. Not anything that's happened." "But Sean," Richards protested, "We need to tell the authorities! They just destroyed the Pope's Stone! They just. . ." "Nothing happened here," Sean said firmly. "How can you say that? You two were almost. . ." "And tell Sam and Toby not to say, write, or do anything about anything that happened here," Sean went on, "because as far as anyone knows, I'm dead." Richards blinked, and looked down at Holm, who was sitting on the embankment, staring into the river. "He let you go, and he's going to tell the others that he killed you, isn't he?" "Yes," Sean replied. Richards nodded slowly. "I can't say I agree with your decision not to turn them in anyway, Sean, but it is your decision to make, and it seems like you've made it. We'll leave tonight. There are other places where we can find work. We'll take Molly with us, and we'll go." Richards suddenly jerked Sean down beside him on the embankment as Maxwell joined Holm on the beach. Sean and Richards held their breath as the two exchanged words. Holm gestured at the river, and patted the pocket that held his knife. Then Maxwell clapped Holm on the back, handed him a small object and walked away. Sean squinted to make out the details of the misshapen piece of pinkish marble cradled in Holm's hands. An odd lump rose in his throat. Holm was holding a piece of the Pope's Stone. Sean watched as Holm ran his thumb over the rough surface, and then looked back over his shoulder at the rising stump of the unfinished monument. His eyebrows rose as though an idea had struck him. Slowly, he withdrew the knife from his pocket and started whittling away at the marble. "Sean, Maxwell's gone! We need to go!" Richards hissed urgently in Sean's ear. Sean reluctantly tore his eyes from the scene, wishing he knew what Holm was doing. But this time, he allowed common sense to win out over curiosity. Obediently he rose and trotted after his mentor away from the river, not looking back once. Molly ran to Sean across the entryway of Sheppard's Boardinghouse, throwing her arms around his waist. Sean smoothed his hand over her wavy hair and grinned, remembering that only hours before he had thought that neither one of them would survive the night. "How did you escape?" Sam asked. "We saw you fall and Richards went back for you. He told us to bring Molly back here. We were all afraid that you'd be. . ." "He almost was," Richards interrupted quickly, "but Holm let him go. I still don't understand why." "And unfortunately, you never will." Sean's green eyes swept the group. "None of you must say a thing. You must all pretend that tonight never happened. You must swear to it!" "But they will get away with. . ." Toby Sikes protested. "God has a plan for everything," Sam cut in quietly, with an understanding glance at Sean, "even if we can't see it." Sean nodded. "One thing is certain," he said, taking his cousin's hand and squeezing it gently. "This Sunday, wherever we are, Molly and I are going to church to light a candle for Michael. He just saved my life." ~ Epilogue In 1959, Right Reverend Phillip M. Hannan, the auxiliary bishop of the Roman Catholic archdiocese of Washington, told the Washington Star that an old woman had given him a carved marble replica of the Washington Monument. It was supposedly made out of a piece of the Pope's Stone. She had told him that her grandfather had been one of the men who had taken the stone on March sixth, 1854. Right Reverend Hannan made efforts to persuade the Vatican to replace the stone, and in 1982, presented the Monument with a replica of the 1854 Pope's Stone bearing the same words, A Roma Americae. It now resides in the monument at the 340-ft level.
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