The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  Born 3 October 1839

  Waterford, Ireland

  Died 11 April 1919

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  All She Had, She Gave

  Katrina’s telephone call the night before his departure from Maryland, informing him of Sister Mary’s death, had made the train trip to Utah a long, somber journey. In the face of the worldwide influenza epidemic, Sister Mary had continued to disregard her own health, and her chronically weakened condition from recurring malaria made her a prime target for the flu. Over the protests of her co-workers, she had continued to spend extensive hours at Holy Cross Hospital, caring tirelessly for the unfortunate victims of the rampant, and often fatal, epidemic.

  The only good thought from Tom’s trip to Washington, D.C., and Maryland, was that he and Tommy had at last been reconciled. They had met by arrangement just outside the reception center at Annapolis. It would be the first time they had seen each other in nearly three years, and Tom paced nervously while waiting for Tommy to arrive. He had gone over in his mind the words he planned to say, discarding one approach and then another, and finally, despairing to know what to say at all.

  When Tommy appeared, Tom had at first glance not recognized him. The man who strode toward him so purposefully was tall, ramrod straight, and resplendent in his Marine dress greens.

  But as he approached, the Marine slowed his pace, then stopped altogether, standing a few feet away from his visitor—a look of uncertainty on his face. They had stood for a few moments, looking at each other, before Tom began to speak.

  “Tommy, I know ...”

  Before he could utter another word, and in full view of the other young men passing by, Tommy stepped quickly to his father and the two fell into each other’s arms—each of them unable to speak.

  They had spent time together the rest of that day and into the evening, eating dinner in a nearby hotel and conversing afterward in a way they never had before—about feelings, fears, and hopes. They had gotten finally to the event that had separated them for so many years. When young Tom described for his father the heartbreak he had experienced when he heard Tom condemn him for his cowardice that morning in the hotel in New York, following the loss of Benjamin, Tom could only shake his head and lower his eyes in shame. After a time he expressed his sorrow and apologized for the pain he had so needlessly inflicted on his son.

  That Tommy had become a man was no longer in question, and that Tommy had accepted his father’s apology made Tom’s heart soar.

  “Tommy, it’s been hard for me to accept, much less to say, but I have never really been angry at you. I was angry at myself,” Tom said. “I was the one who should have been on that ship—I should have taken care of my family. There’s no excuse, Tommy, but you were the only male I could blame. Your mother has understood my misdirected anger, but she has continued to love me anyway. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  But in spite of all that and Tom’s plea for his son to come home and take up his rightful place at Utah Trust Bank, Sergeant Callahan remained adamant about his decision to accept appointment to the United States Naval Academy, and they had parted amicably. Once again, father and son.

  His mind now at ease and the long-standing burden lifted, Tom’s thoughts on the train had turned to the events in his life in which Sister Mary had participated. Not much he had done, he decided, had not undergone her scrutiny. He had benefited in untold ways by her words of wisdom. That he loved her was as certain as the solid granite underneath him. That she had loved all with whom she had come in contact was also just as certain.

  “Ah, Sister,” he said softly, sitting on the bench and reverting to the Irish dialect they had always shared, “what are we goin’ to do without you? You were the very soul of the hospital. It’s me own self that’ll be needin’ you—as I always have. If you’d been me own dear mother, I’d not have loved you more.”

  Tom lowered his head, reluctant to depart, content to remain on the bench. Katrina had said death had come reverently for Sister Mary, as she slept. She was taken by the angels, as it were, Katrina had said. And rightfully so.

  “I’m only ten years younger than you were when I first came, Sister Mary, cap in hand, looking for work and a place to lay me head. And you gave unto me, as I watched you give all your life to those in need. The world has changed so much, Sister Mary. Values we took for granted are challenged and youngsters are finding life’s choices more difficult. My children have all grown now, and started their own lives, but I have far too few answers for them, Sister—few words of wisdom, other than those you taught me, and now, I can’t tell them to ‘go see Sister Mary.’”

  Tom stood and wiped his hand across the top of the headstone, clearing some imaginary dust.

  “Sure now, and you’ll be havin’ a grand reunion with Father Scanlan, bless his soul. I suppose it’s a strange thing to be askin’ you, but if you should happen upon me mother, would you be asking her to understand that I need to go against her wishes, and that I mean her no disrespect? I pray that she’ll understand, as you always have. Father Scanlan’s gone, me dear Mor’s been gone too all these years, and now, well, now Sister Mary, you’ve earned your reward too.” He paused for a moment, looking up at the gray, overcast skies, then looking back at the inscription. “Remember, I’ll not be far, Sister, should you be need’n me. I still live just down the road.”

  He turned to leave the gravesite, fresh with soft, mounded earth, as yet uncovered by the spring grass. He turned once more, several feet from the grave, and removed his hat, looking back toward the headstone.

  “God’s blessings on you, Moira Molloy. I loved you truly.”

  Chapter 13

  October, 1919

  County Cork, Ireland

  Thomas Callahan could barely see the Obsidian as she stood a half mile offshore. Obscured by the darkness of a cold and cloudy October night, the unlighted, rusty freighter pitched and rolled, besieged by an endless line of dark Atlantic rollers that surged in serried ranks toward the rocky Irish coast. Below the spot where Tom stood, on a ledge overlooking the cove, the waves broke on the jagged rocks and narrow beach then fell back in a froth of white foam.

  Three small fishing boats bobbed and danced on the agitated sea, continuing a relay they had been running since shortly after midnight, making round trip after round trip from the ship to the rocky beach. It had been easy enough to enlist the owners of the local fishing fleet to help shuttle the contraband cargo from ship to shore, but negotiating the large swells and heavy surf in the near total darkness had proven risky, and the operators of the small boats were by now tired and testy and anxious to finish their task.

  Wrapped in a thick, Aryan sweater and wearing a heavy woolen mackinaw, Tom stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning into the gale and looking out to sea, watching the work progress. The wind and salt spray burned his eyes and numbed his face, and he wondered how cold and miserable it must be for the three- or four-man crews on each of the fishing boats.

  Tom’s youngest brother, Seamus, stood beside him, and the two men watched without talking as the heavy wooden crates were handed ashore, lugged up the steep embankment, and then hastily loaded onto the waiting lorries. Once loaded, the heavily laden trucks quickly disappeared, each in a different direction beyond the rolling hills.

  Tom had made a decision. In 1916, he had met with Michael Collins in a pub in Cork and had agreed to support the Irish Brotherhood in that organization’s fight to win Irish independence from England. Tom had stood by his pledge, and for three years had financed the procurement and delivery of weapons and ammunition to be used in the struggle. During those years, Seamus had made several trips to America and to Mexico, to visit Tom and to function as the middleman in the acquisition of the armaments. On three previous occasions, ships had made the run from Mexico to Ireland, transporting their contraband cargoes and delivering them under cover of darkness. Each time, the ship had rendezvoused with members of the brotherhood at a different loca
tion, at prearranged sites along the barren, remote stretches of the Irish coastline, as far north as County Donegal and now at this isolated spot in southwestern County Cork, south of the village of Kinsale.

  Watching the crates come ashore, Tom wrestled with how he would tell Seamus, and Collins for that matter, that this was to be his last delivery—that he had had a change of heart and could no longer be a part of the killing and maiming that had gone on and would continue.

  To the east, toward the Welsh coast, the early morning light was beginning to break over the ocean, and the fishermen who were ferrying the valuable cargo knew they had time for only one more trip each to the freighter before dawn would fully be upon them. Anxious to remove his vessel beyond the twelve-mile limit, the captain of the Obsidian had bellowed his orders, and the Irish fishermen knew there would be no reprieve from his determination to depart. Still, for the most part, the weapons were ashore, and the vessel had been unloaded of her cargo with only one mishap.

  On the first round trip, the third fishing boat to tie up alongside the freighter had loaded her cargo too high, and on the return trip to the beach she was hit beam on by a heavy roller, causing her to list severely to port. A dozen crates of small arms had slid overboard into the sea, and only an heroic effort on the part of the crew had saved the remaining cases. After that trip, each boat limited its load and made certain to fasten it securely—resulting in the prolonged process that had lasted nearly till dawn. Other than that single incident, the long night’s work had been productive, and the Irish Republican Army had increased its stockpile of weapons and ammunition considerably.

  Awaiting the final load, the twelve-man beach crew was startled by an explosion and a blinding flash that erupted without warning, illuminating the cove. Caught and brightly silhouetted in the momentary glare, the men whirled toward the light and were astonished to see that one of the fishing boats had exploded and was burning brightly on the water. A second explosion then erupted in the water, some fifty meters astern of one of the other fishing boats, and a loud voice began barking orders to his men on the shore.

  “Right, lads. Away with ya, and mind the major crossin’s. Watch for the ambush,” he hollered over the noise of the howling wind. Suddenly the man was up the cliff and standing beside Tom and Seamus. “It’s a British gunboat. She’s behind the point, in the lee of the weather,” he said, handing Tom a pair of binoculars. “She’ll be after the freighter right enough. The captain’s already turned for deep water,” he said. The three men peered through the gray light to the west to catch a glimpse of the freighter, her bow now pointed away from land and her stack belching smoke as she gathered steam for the run to international waters. Farther to the west, appearing as a ghostly shadow on the turbulent sea, was the dark silhouette of a trim British frigate. As quickly as Tom spotted her, she rounded the Old Head of Kinsale, slicing her way through the incoming rollers in pursuit of the fleeing invader.

  “The Obsidian’s got a four-mile start,” Tom said. “They’ll never catch her before she reaches the twelve-mile mark.”

  “They don’t need to catch her,” the other man said, just as another cannon shot erupted from the frigate. “They’ll be content to sink her.”

  Tom stood silently, the rain and ocean spray continuing to buffet his face, as the chase continued. The growing light from the east brought increased visibility as the drama unfolded. Several minutes passed while the frigate continued to close the distance between the two vessels, her forward cannon rising and falling with the heave and plummet of the waves. With her Morse lamp, the frigate challenged the Obsidian, ordering the freighter to heave to, but she ignored the warning, steaming at full speed toward international waters.

  The first shell to hit the target struck the ship on the stern, just above the railing but inflicted little damage. Having found the range, the frigate’s next two shots apparently disabled the bridge crew, and the freighter lost her way, listing to starboard and beginning to slew off toward the west. With the Obsidian broadside on, and having received no reply to their order to halt, the frigate fired again, impacting the freighter amidships. The resulting secondary explosion was enormous. When the blinding glare died down and Tom’s eyes adjusted to the predawn light, the Obsidian had all but disappeared.

  “The bloody Brits. She was disabled and running loose,” Willie Ryan, the man with Tom and Seamus said. “They could have taken her instead of sending her to the bottom.”

  “Aye,” Tom said softly, turning on his heel and pulling Seamus’s arm as they headed for the cliffs. “They must have radioed our position. We’d best be off.”

  The three men began to climb the cliff toward their vehicle, parked above them on the rocky outcropping above the beach. Before they reached the crest, the sound of barked orders and of the clank of military equipment above them and beyond their sight reached their ears. In moments, several British soldiers appeared at the top of the cliff, pointing their weapons down at the trio.

  “We’ll have you peaceful now,” the man in charge shouted down the hillside, “or we’ll have you dead. Keep climbing.”

  Tom glanced at Seamus and shook his head, trying to encourage his younger brother not to panic and bolt, but it did no good. The young man jumped behind a rock alongside the trail and began to scurry down the cliff, scrambling through the brush in his attempt to escape the soldiers. Gunfire erupted and Tom watched as his brother was struck, several times it seemed, and then fell, tumbling end over end to the rocky beach below, where he lay still.

  “You, lot,” the officer hollered again, “keep climbing, and put your hands in the air.”

  Tom reached the top ahead of his companion and was unceremoniously thrown to the ground, his face ground into the dirt, and his hands pulled roughly behind him. A thin rope was used to lash his wrists and then he was jerked to his feet and shoved toward the back of a canvas-covered lorry. A young British officer came to stand close to both prisoners, eyeing each of them in turn.

  “Where are the guns that came ashore?”

  “Forget that. See to the man that you shot,” Tom demanded.

  The officer looked at Tom for a moment, his facial expression and slightly cocked head revealing his surprise at Tom’s American accent.

  “No need. He’s dead. Now where are the guns?”

  “You don’t know that he’s dead. For God’s sake, man, send someone down to see to him.”

  A sergeant stepped forward and thrust his rifle butt into Tom’s stomach, doubling him over in pain.

  “Keep a civil tongue in yer head, ye bloody Yank, when speaking to the leftenant.”

  “Now answer the question,” the officer repeated. “Where did you take the weapons?”

  Both captives remained silent.

  “Well, Paddy,” the young leftenant said, a smile crossing his face, “His Majesty’s government hangs gunrunners for treason against the Crown. But if you tell us where the weapons are, it might go easier on you.”

  Tom Callahan and Willie Ryan, the man who had commanded the beach party, remained silent.

  “Take them,” the officer commanded.

  Tom was lifted by two men into the bed of the truck and shoved against the back of the cab. Willie, who had remained with Tom and Seamus when the loaded trucks had carried the weapons away, was also placed in the lorry, his hands tied behind him. The engine was started and the truck bumped over the ruts in the field, reaching the road and beginning the short drive through the breaking dawn to the nearby village of Kinsale. Tom remained silent, replaying in his mind the vision of his brother’s body cascading down the cliff. The bitter thought that recurred to him was the irony that Seamus should die during Tom’s last delivery of weapons to Irish soil.

  February, 1920

  Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland

  “Thomas Matthew Callahan, it is the sentence of this court that you be incarcerated in His Majesty’s prison at Portlaoise Gaol for the term of fifteen years and that you be transported forthwit
h. Have you anything to say to the court?”

  Stunned by the verdict, Tom stood numbly beside his legal counsel, Sir Reginald Hollister, a London barrister who had presented Tom’s case and had succeeded in convincing the court that although Mr. Callahan had indeed been born in Ireland, he was now a citizen of the United States of America. Hollister had argued that as an American citizen, Callahan was perhaps guilty of gunrunning, but had not committed treason and was therefore not subject to execution under British law. Hollister had cited the example of Eamon de Valera, who had a few years earlier been convicted and sentenced to death for his part in the abortive 1916 Easter Rebellion, but whose sentence, in deference to his American citizenship, had later been commuted.

  A plea for leniency by President Woodrow Wilson, the response to Congressman Anders Hansen’s request for the president to intervene, had also weighed heavily in Tom’s favor, but in the end, the fact that he had been captured in the act of unloading a shipload of weapons made defending Tom a formidable task. Finally, at the urging of Tom’s brother-in-law, Congressman Hansen, the London lawyer had convinced Tom to throw himself on the mercy of the court.

  Fifteen years! Sir Reginald had told Callahan to expect nothing less. His Majesty’s government was determined to stamp out the Irish insurrection, and putting an end to foreign gunrunning was seen by British authorities as a priority. But a sentence of fifteen years! Hearing the judge’s actual pronouncement left Tom feeling numb.

  “Mr. Callahan,” the judge said, “do you have anything you wish to say to this court?”

  Before responding, Tom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, looking into the judge’s eyes, he said, “I do wish to speak, your honor. I wish to express my gratitude for your willingness to recognize my American citizenship and for your leniency in waiving the death sentence. However, I also wish to state that while I am an American citizen by choice, I am Irish by birth and by temperament. The time is not far distant when this people will be free of British tyranny. May God grant that I live to see that day. That’s all I have to say, Your Honor.”