The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  “My dear, Patrick. I know you’re all fired up about the rising, but it won’t succeed, lad.”

  “What,” Patrick exclaimed. “But you said—”

  “Aye, lad, I said we were going to finally free Ireland. But it won’t happen next Sunday—next bloody Easter Sunday. But the message will have been sent, and if young Callahan down there,” he nodded toward the river front, “has a concerned father, with millions, who thinks the bloody Brits have done his son wrong,—well, ye do get me point now, don’t ye, Patrick?”

  “We can get his money?”

  “Ah, Patrick. There’s hope for ye yet, lad. Now, let’s go meet young Mr. Callahan and help him to find his destiny.”

  Robert Lynn, Commander of Central Brigade of the Brotherhood, referred to later as the Irish Republican Army, had underestimated the influence of Thomas Callahan, Irish-American. The original notification process did indeed follow the formal and interminable British protocol. The British Foreign Office notified the American ambassador in London that several Americans had been taken into custody following the abortive attempt at a rebellion in Dublin, during Easter weekend, 1916. When the list of American detainees was telegraphed to the State Department in Washington, a mid-level functionary reviewed the list, and attempted to obtain next-of-kin information to advise the respective families. When the telegram arrived at the home of Thomas Callahan in Salt Lake City, the bureaucratic process abruptly ended.

  After calming Katrina and telling her not to worry, Thomas went upstairs to his private den, sat at his desk, and lifted the receiver from the telephone. His call to Anders Hansen, United States Congressman from Utah, at his home in Alexandria, Virginia, set in motion a flurry of transatlantic cables. Congressman Hansen called the Speaker of the House, and within one hour, they met in the Speaker’s office. Together they telephoned the president and asked for an immediate audience, which, favors owing, was granted forthwith.

  President Wilson’s telegram to Winston Churchill was acted upon with unusual expediency, exceeding that of traditional British procedures. Executions had begun in Dublin of those found guilty of treason against the Crown during a time of war. Churchill’s orders to retain in custody, but not to harm anyone holding American citizenship, saved not only young Patrick James Callahan, but also the primary leader of the rebellious Irish contingent, Eamon de Valera.

  Tom’s arrival in Dublin, slightly more than three weeks later, was met with appropriate protocol by the governing British officials. Tom declined the government proffered hotel accommodations and demanded to immediately meet with key officials. He was taken directly to Dublin Castle and presented to the commander of British forces in Ireland.

  “Mr. Callahan,” the officer said, extending his hand, “we are most—”

  “I’ll see my son now, sir, if you please,” Tom said curtly.

  The officer, a Brigadier, and a veteran of the ill-fated campaign at Gallipoli, tilted his head back slightly, unaccustomed to being interrupted by others—especially Irish others.

  “As I was saying, sir,” Brigadier Sir Edmund Hillcrest continued, “this most unfortunate incident—”

  Tom stepped forward to the edge of the desk, coming face to face with Brigadier Hillcrest. “I said, sir, I will see my son, now! If that is not possible,” Tom said, reaching into his inner coat pocket, “I will lift that telephone receiver and will connect with this number,” he said, handing the slip of paper to the Brigadier, “which, I am advised, will get me directly to Mr. Churchill’s office. Have I made myself perfectly clear, Brigadier?” Tom demanded. “I will see my son, sir, and I will see him now.”

  “Mr. Callahan,” Hillcrest said, moving back behind his desk to take his seat, “surely we can reach some accord, can we not?”

  Tom turned around and lifted his briefcase from the side table where he had placed it upon entering the office. Reaching inside, he removed a newspaper and slammed the paper down on the desk, the masthead facing the Brigadier.

  “Have you seen this edition of the New York Times, sir? It is a couple of weeks old now, and from what I understand the latest editions have begun to use red ink for the headlines. This, sir, is what America thinks of the bloody executions you’ve been conducting with a sham of a trial, and against people you call your own countrymen. By God, sir, it’s no wonder we still clamor for our freedom. If you consider us countrymen and yet withhold all access to basic British law in these mock trials, how can you expect the Irish not to rebel?”

  The Brigadier read the emblazoned headline across the top of the paper Tom had thrown onto the desk. “BRITISH EXECUTIONS CONTINUE” it read, accompanied by a four-column picture of several coffins lined up with mourners in various states of wailing grief.

  The brigadier looked up at Tom. “Sir, I was led to believe that you are an American, as is your son.”

  Tom had acquired a semblance of control over his temper and smiled at the brigadier. “Sir, I am an Irishman, and as God is my witness, I will be an Irishman the day I die. Now, sir. Is it the telephone, or shall I see my son?” he asked calmly.

  The service tray had been uncovered and the two hotel waiters were departing the room as PJ came out of the bathroom suite, his hair still wet and his robe loosely tied about his waist. Seamus sat in the corner, waiting, as Tom pulled two more chairs around the small table next to the food tray.

  “Ah, Dad, that’s the first bath I’ve had in over six weeks, if you don’t count the hosing. It was a stifling hell hole they had us in.”

  Tom didn’t respond and simply nodded toward the food. “Seamus, join us,” Tom said.

  As the three men ate, Tom silently took stock of his son. He’d lost weight, but was not in any physical danger. It actually seemed as if he’d toned his frame during his absence. When PJ finished eating, Tom poured himself a cup of coffee and moved to sit on the divan. He pulled his watch chain and noted the time, each action calm and deliberate. PJ recognized the manner. The three Callahan kids used to call it “the calm before the storm.”

  “PJ,” Tom said softly, “start at the beginning.”

  PJ rose from his seat next to the food tray and sat in a leather chair adjacent to the divan. Seamus returned to his corner seat near the window and sipped at his coffee. They were all silent for a few moments, watching PJ, who seemed unsure how to proceed.

  “Dad ...” he said, his head lowered toward the rug. The silence returned momentarily, then PJ stood and stepped to stand in front of his father. “Dad, we’re Irish,” he said firmly.

  Time spent renewing Tom’s acquaintance with his remaining brothers and sisters took up the remainder of the week. His visit to Tipperary, to his mother and father’s cemetery plots, and even a talk with his boyhood friend and fellow miscreant, Tony Leonard, and his wife, Jo, filled Tom with nostalgia. Tony’s spirited declaration of the need to once and for all rid the countryside of the Brits brought to Tom’s mind the deep-seated hatred most rural Irish felt for their uninvited guests.

  The train ride to Cork where they were to meet the steamer also reminded Tom of his walk through the same countryside, the week he had scurried from Tipperary one step ahead of the law. The night before departure, Seamus, who had accompanied Tom and PJ during most of their stay, suggested they visit the pub for a while before turning in for the evening. Accepting Tom’s younger brother’s suggestion, the three men left the hotel and walked several blocks to McHanrahan’s, the very same pub Tom had frequented during his sojourn in Cork so long ago. The pub was full of men. Consuming a requisite pint or two before going home to face the wife was a ritual of their everyday life.

  The three Callahans sat at a rear table, but not fifteen minutes had passed before Seamus stood and headed for the toilet. He returned a few minutes later and motioned with his head for Tom to follow. Tom rose and PJ followed, both men trailing Seamus.

  “Is this to be a family outing to the toilet,” Tom laughed as they closed the water closet door and were alone in the small room.

/>   Seamus smiled, opened the stall door, and reached behind the ceramic toilet bowl to knock on the wall. A three-quarter door opened in the wall, and Seamus stepped over the toilet bowl and went through the opening. Tom and PJ followed.

  The door closed behind them, and Tom found himself in a slightly larger room where three men were seated around a small table.

  “Ah, Mr. Callahan,” one of the men said, rising. “Three Mr. Callahans to be exact,” he smiled. “Thank you for joining us. We won’t take but a moment of your time, if you’d be so kind as to indulge us.”

  Tom quickly understood he had unknowingly stepped into a meeting of the fledgling Irish Republican Army. Formed from multiple groups of disaffected Irishmen, dating back to well before the unsuccessful Fenian uprising in 1867, they had banded together as a result of the Easter Rising fiasco. Forced by English repression, some unity was finally coming to the forces that opposed the British occupation of Ireland.

  “Please, be seated,” the man said. “Mr. Callahan, my name is Michael Collins, and this is my associate, Robert Lynn. I have been asked to meet with you before your

  departure.”

  “And who did the asking?” Tom interrupted.

  “Ah, yes. Who’s in charge? Well, we’re still working on that, Mr. Callahan, but you can rest assured that we are all headed in the same direction, finally. It’s good to see your lad fared well.”

  “Did he now?” Tom said. “And did he fare well when someone saw the need to get him in this mess in the first place?”

  “He saw his duty, Mr. Callahan. His family ... I mean, young Seamus there, explained to PJ the abuses we’ve had to tolerate while some were, shall we say, comfortably established elsewhere.”

  “I make no apologies, Mr. Collins, either for leaving Ireland or for my, as you say, comforts.”

  “Indeed, and none are required, Mr. Callahan. But then there are those of us who remained to continue the struggle, so you see. To finish what our Da’s and their Da’s began.”

  “I’ve heard it all before, Mr. Collins. Get to your point.”

  Collins nodded. “I appreciate directness, Mr. Callahan. Well, then, here it is. No matter where we live, we are always Irish. We’ve stayed to fight. But you can be of just as valuable a service, if you’ve a mind.”

  “I see,” Tom said, looking at each of the men around the table. “This particular Irishman fights his way through the bank, is that it, Mr. Collins?”

  “Aye. That and possibly through his connections to Mr. Browning’s company in Ogden.”

  “I don’t control John Browning’s weapons company, Mr. Collins.”

  “No, certainly not. But you do hold a significant portion of his loans, and his weapons are, as we have been told, of the finest quality.”

  “So, I provide the money and the weapons, and you provide the troops.”

  “Aye. There you have it, Thomas Callahan of County Tipperary. You buy the gloves, and we’ll bloody the Brits’ nose. The time has come, Tom,” he said, his voice more conciliatory. “It’ll still be a struggle and might even take a few more years, but the fever’s high now, and we’re ready.”

  Tom looked at PJ, barely eighteen and already in and out of a British jail. PJ looked up at his father, seeking approval of what he had done and the course he had taken. Tom stepped closer to Seamus who had remained quiet during the conversation.

  “Well, me baby brother ...” Tom said, grabbing his sibling, “I can’t say I’m pleased with how you’ve welcomed your nephew to Ireland, but given the way it turned out, it seems ye may need to travel to America occasionally to make your acquaintance with the rest of the family. What d’ya say?”

  “Aye, Tom. Aye,” he said, his face beaming.

  Tom turned back to Collins. “Mr. Collins, we’ll be off tomorrow, but send young Seamus to visit his family in about a month. I’ll see what can be done.”

  “Welcome aboard, Tom,” Collins said.

  “It’s not quite that easy, Mr. Collins. I’ve only been here just over a week, but I don’t feel the unity quite so strongly as you make it appear.”

  Collins nodded agreement. “Aye, but we’ve a good start. We just need to be able to show support from beyond the farms and the hillside. It’s hard to take on the village constabulary with pitchforks, or have ye forgotten?” he smiled.

  “Aye,” Tom said, extending his hand. “Send young Seamus over. And now, is there some bloody way out of this place without crawling back over the toilet?” Tom laughed.

  Chapter 5

  Sister Mary sat patiently, a tender smile on her old, wrinkled face as the young girl fidgeted and mumbled platitudes, trying her best to avoid getting to the point. Finally, Teresa looked directly at Sister Mary and a broad smile crossed Teresa’s face as the old nun gave one of her well-known, “All right! Out with it,” looks.

  “You’re worse than my Mom,” she laughed out loud.

  “Teresa, I’ve known you every bit as long as your Mom has, lass. I should have learned something about your habits by now,” Sister Mary replied.

  “And you knew Mom back then, too, didn’t you?”

  “Back then?”

  “I mean back when she met Dad.”

  Sister Mary Theophane, approaching seventy-eight, nodded.

  Her smile gone and her hesitancy returned, Teresa continued, but in a more serious tone of voice. Sister Mary knew the subject that was about to be broached.

  “Sister Mary, did you, uh, did you know Mom, before she married Dad?” Teresa asked, unable to continue to meet Sister Mary’s eyes.

  “Not well, Teresa, but yes, I knew your mother then. I first met her after your father had gone to Alaska.”

  “Then you knew she was married before?”

  Sister Mary thought for a few moments before answering, and then asked, “Have you spoken to your mother about this, Teresa?”

  “I didn’t know anything about it,” she blurted out. “It all came out a few months ago when he came.”

  “He?”

  “Seby, or Sebastian Antonio. Oh, I don’t know what his name is. He seems to have several. But when he came, it all came rolling out, and I ...” Teresa stopped talking, lowered her head again, and clasped her hands, rubbing her fingers together.

  “Teresa, have you and your mother had a disagreement?”

  Teresa looked up briefly, the tears just on the verge of flowing. “I’ve been so mean to Mom, Sister Mary,” she cried. “I just yelled at her and told her to leave my room, and I haven’t spoken to her for weeks. I couldn’t go back to the sorority house, I was so embarrassed. She was a polygamist, Sister Mary. And I’m ... I don’t know what I am. After Dad left to get PJ in Ireland, the house was dead silent for two weeks. Now, Dad’s coming home, PJ’s safe, and I ...”

  “It was quite a shock, my dear, wasn’t it?” the elderly woman said.

  “Of course! I mean, wouldn’t you be shocked if your mother told you she’d been married before and in a polygamous marriage?”

  Sister Mary placed her hands on her knees and pushed herself to her feet. She came to sit on the couch next to Teresa and put her arm around the young girl.

  “Maybe there’s a bit more to the story than you know, Teresa. Let me tell you some of what I understand. Your mother is actually an exceptional woman. I’m certain you thought of her that way before this new revelation.”

  Teresa acknowledged this with a nod of the head and a sniffle.

  “So then,” Sister Mary exhaled, “where can I begin?” she said, pursing her lips and rubbing her chin.

  An hour later, darkness had nearly enveloped the small room where Sister Mary and Teresa sat. The time had been profitably spent. The young woman’s tears had dried, and under Sister Mary’s skillful prodding, her laughter had returned.

  Sister Mary had taken the time to help Teresa understand her mother’s dilemma. Forced to choose between two suitors, Katrina had chosen the one who shared her religious beliefs, only to find that she had been dec
eived. She was unwittingly made a party to a polygamous relationship that she would never have approved. After the death of her first husband, she had entered into an honorable marriage with Tom, the real love of her life. Teresa’s mother had done nothing to be ashamed of. It may have been wiser to have told the children, Sister Mary conceded. “But when,” she asked, “would have been a good time to do that?”

  It was a contrite Teresa who hugged Sister Mary and thanked her for helping her understand. But instead of leaving, the young woman stood fidgeting near her chair.

  The old Catholic nun paused in the doorway and glanced back at Teresa, giving the young woman another of her looks.

  “There is one more thing, Sister Mary,” Teresa mumbled.

  “Aye,” the older woman said, pursing her lips and nodding again. “You like this new young man, don’t you?”

  Teresa’s eyes grew wide and she tried, but failed, to keep the smile from forming on her face. “How do you do it, Sister Mary?” she laughed.

  “Experience, lass. Experience.”

  Tom entered the double doors of the church Office Building and informed the receptionist that he had an appointment with Elder David O. McKay. The young man asked him to be seated and went to advise Elder McKay that Tom had arrived. Sitting in the busy foyer, Tom was amazed at the number of people coming and going. It was his first visit to church headquarters, and he quickly gained the impression that it was more like a corporate office than an ecclesiastical headquarters.

  After a few moments, D.O. appeared and greeted Tom warmly. Together, they climbed the stairs to Elder McKay’s office where Tom was offered a seat on one of two soft leather chairs in front of an ornate wooden desk.