The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  “My greetings to you, madam,” Churchill said, bowing slightly and taking Katrina’s hand. He then turned to shake hands with Anders, after which he turned back to Reginald. “This has become a mini League of Nations, eh, Reggie?”

  “So it would seem, Winston,” Sir Reginald said. “Perhaps if I could have a moment alone with Mr. Churchill,” he said to his three guests. “Please be seated. We shan’t be a minute.”

  Churchill and Sir Reginald stepped into a small office just off the main suite while Ambassador Davis, Anders, and Katrina took seats. After several moments Sir Reginald returned and sat behind his desk.

  “Mr. Churchill will rejoin us presently. He, uh, had to make another contact. And how have you found London, Mrs. Callahan?”

  “London is a lovely city, Sir Reginald, but I’ve found myself a bit more occupied than on previous visits.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. And Congressman Hansen, have you been to London before?”

  Before Anders had a chance to answer, Mr. Churchill returned to the room, stepping briskly to stand alongside Sir Reginald’s desk.

  “If I might suggest, Mrs. Callahan, gentlemen, perhaps we can reconvene this meeting just down the street.”

  “Winston?” Reginald queried, perplexed.

  “Congressman Hansen, if you and Mrs. Callahan will please follow me outside, I’ll obtain transport for us. Ambassador Davis, perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany Sir Reginald.” He then turned to face Reginald. “Ten Downing Street, Reggie,” he said, winking.

  “I say,” Reginald responded stiffly.

  “Yes, indeed,” Churchill replied.

  The two hansom cabs arrived in tandem at Ten Downing Street, the residence and working abode of the prime minister of the United Kingdom, and a footman stepped quickly to attend them. Katrina, Anders, and Winston Churchill exited the first vehicle, and Sir Reginald and Ambassador Davis followed quickly behind. Inside the doorway, they were met by a smartly tailored young man who took their coats and asked them to be seated in an antechamber off the main foyer. Presently, he returned.

  “Mr. Churchill, the prime minister will see you and your party now, if you please.”

  They climbed the stairs to the upper level and were ushered into a large room furnished with several desks of various sizes arranged against the walls. A large, rectangular table occupied the center of the room, and a more formal, larger desk was positioned farther into the room on the other side of the conference table. From a doorway toward the rear, a man entered the room and walked toward Mr. Churchill.

  “Good morning, Winnie. It’s good of you to come,” the man said.

  “Good morning, Prime Minister. May I introduce you to your guests. Ambassador Davis you know of course, and Sir Reginald Hollister, the barrister of record in this case. This gentleman is Congressman Anders Hansen, and I have the honor to introduce his sister, Mrs. Thomas Callahan, of Salt Lake City, Utah. Mrs. Callahan, Congressman Hansen, may I introduce Prime Minister David Lloyd-George.”

  Lloyd-George smiled and shook hands all around and then invited everyone to take a seat.

  “Now that the formalities are completed, how may I be of assistance?” he asked.

  A moment of hesitancy ensued during which the prime minister looked from person to person. Finally, Sir Reginald spoke up.

  “Prime Minister, since I am the barrister of record, perhaps I should brief you on the issue before us.”

  “You are referring, of course, to the incarceration of one Thomas Callahan for surreptitiously providing arms and ammunition to the Irish Republican Army, are you not?”

  “Precisely, Prime Minister.”

  “To my understanding, Mr. Callahan pleaded guilty to the charges, ­isn’t that so?”

  “He did, Prime Minister,” Sir Reginald replied.

  “He pleaded guilty so he ­wouldn’t hang,” Katrina interjected.

  Anders and Ambassador Davis shot her a quick look. Katrina momentarily locked eyes with Winston Churchill and caught from him the briefest hint of a smile.

  Lloyd-George nodded toward Katrina. “A wise decision, no doubt, and under the advice of counsel I presume,” he said, looking toward Sir Reginald.

  “Yes, Prime Minister,” Sir Reginald replied, “we discussed the charges at length with king’s counsel and reached an understanding.”

  Again Katrina spoke. “An understanding reached under threat of death is no understanding at all, Mr. Lloyd-George.”

  “Are you contending, madam,” he asked, “that your husband is not guilty and confessed only to preserve his life?”

  “No, I knew of his activities,” she said, slumping her shoulders and nodding her head. “My husband—reluctantly, mind you—told me of his intentions before he left Utah. He also told me that this was to be the last time he would assist the Irish Republican Army. He gave me his word.”

  “And that is the sole basis upon which you have come to seek his release?” Prime Minister Lloyd-George asked, a tone of incredulity in his voice.

  “Mr. Lloyd-George,” Katrina said, her posture now upright and her green eyes focused on the man seated before her, “as I informed Sir Reginald two days ago, this is a political issue, not a criminal one. You, sir, personally approved the release of many political prisoners in 1917, men who had been involved in the Easter uprising in 1916. After you had executed their leaders. Nonetheless, some of those men ... and women ... had killed British troops in their insurrection. Thomas Callahan has killed no one.”

  “No,” Lloyd-George rebutted, “ he merely provided the weapons by which others can kill.”

  “I remind you, sir, these people are Irish. You are killing them and withholding their freedom simply because you currently have the power to do so. You killed the American colonists, too, until they had finally had enough and drove you from their country. Today, tomorrow, perhaps next year, the Irish will do the same thing. You cannot stifle a country’s freedom forever, Prime Minister, no matter how you oppress their people.”

  The American ambassador and Anders sat uneasily, squirming in their seats and slipping, if it were possible, even lower in their respective chairs.

  “Ambassador Davis, is this the position of your government?” the prime minister asked.

  “Sir, I ...”

  “This is my position, Prime Minister, and Woody ...” Katrina caught herself and gave an embarrassed smile. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I mean President Wilson, has nothing to do with it. I ask no permission of my government to make my case. Since becoming an American citizen, I have learned that the freedoms granted in the British Magna Carta and those derived from the American Constitution are viewed quite differently. Americans are guaranteed their rights, Prime Minister. I’m sorry, Ambassador,” she said, looking toward the silent diplomat, “if my comments offend or embarrass you, but I have come to England for a purpose, and I will achieve that purpose by one means or another. Should I fail—and to assure that I fail, gentlemen, is certainly within your power—I will have expended every effort and every dollar at my disposal to publicize this issue and, if necessary, to continue the work my husband foreswore.”

  Lloyd-George inserted a finger into his shirt collar, twisted his neck around beneath the stiff fabric, and glanced at the other gentlemen in the room. A silence ensued for several moments during which Katrina continued to stare at the prime minister.

  “Madam,” Lloyd-George said, “do I take it that you mean to continue funding arms to the rebels in Ireland?”

  Katrina exhaled and turned her attention toward Winston Churchill, softening her voice. “Mr. Churchill, I have it on good authority that despite press reports over the past several years—the disasters of the last war included—you are an honorable man. I know my husband to also be an honorable man. Mr. Callahan has often said that the only difference between a traitor and a patriot ... is who ultimately wins.

  “Now, I have been informed that you are currently negotiating with Mr. Griffiths and Mr. Collins of the
Irish Republican Army toward resolution of this crisis and that your negotiations are likely to bring about a measure of independence for Ireland.”

  Churchill blinked twice and looked toward Prime Minister Lloyd-George, then back. “Madam ...”

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Churchill,” Katrina continued, “to answer the prime minister’s question, I would be very reluctant to continue supplying armaments to the Irish. I would like to avoid bloodshed as much as you would, and as I have indicated, my husband assured me that his involvement was at an end. He did, in fact, for what it’s worth, advise Mr. Collins to expend all efforts necessary to negotiate this issue to completion. I want my husband free, Mr. Churchill.” She turned her attention back to the head of the British government.

  “Prime Minister Lloyd-George, you have the power to free my husband, as you did those in 1917. It will happen sooner or later, given my understanding on the progress of your negotiations—negotiations that the press is as yet unaware of, I believe,” she added. “I would prefer it to be sooner, of course, to preserve what health my husband may have left after spending six months in solitary confinement, most likely on the traditional British prison fare—bread and water.”

  Again, both Churchill and Lloyd-George allowed their facial expressions to betray their astonishment at Katrina’s understanding of the situation.

  “My husband is getting weaker by the day in your rat-infested prison. I will give you one week, gentlemen. If I have not received assurance by then that Thomas Callahan will be released, with your personal guarantee, Prime Minister, and yours as well, Mr. Churchill, I will divulge everything I know to representatives from Fleet Street as well as the American news affiliates here in London. And I will also place ads in every major newspaper throughout the continent—ads that will not be pleasant or complimentary to your government. Understand me clearly, gentlemen, my husband and I are conservatives, as is your government, Prime Minister—even if Woody is a Democrat,” she smiled—“but I will have no qualms about funding your opposition in an attempt to bring down this government in favor of Labour. Given the present state of domestic labor unrest and international rebellion across the Irish sea, that should not be a difficult task.”

  Silence prevailed in the room as the six occupants absorbed what amounted to a threat on the sovereignty of the British government, placed before them by a small, extremely attractive, blonde-haired woman from Salt Lake City, Utah. In spite of the weight of the moment, slowly, and with growing volume, Winston Churchill began to laugh.

  “Have I said something humorous, Mr. Churchill?” Katrina asked, obviously irritated.

  “Quite the contrary, madam. I believe you to be quite serious. But your comments put me in mind of something I read many years ago. Over a century ago, the eminent French philosopher and parliamentarian, Alexis de Tocqueville, wrote about American ways and mores following his tour of the newly liberated colonies. When he returned to France, he addressed the Parliament. He said, ‘Were I to be asked to what I would attribute the strength of the American people, I would ascribe it to their women.’ I now understand his meaning, Mrs. Callahan, notwithstanding your Norwegian heritage.”

  Katrina smiled and rose from her chair, followed immediately by each of the men present in the room. She extended her hand to Prime Minister Lloyd-George.

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Prime Minister. I trust I will hear from you presently. Mr. Churchill, it has been a great pleasure meeting you, sir. Good day to you both.”

  With abbreviated salutations around the room, Katrina, Anders, and Ambassador Davis departed the hastily convened meeting, leaving Prime Minister Lloyd-George, Secretary for the Colonies Winston Churchill, and Tom’s barrister, Sir Reginald, alone in the office at Ten Downing Street.

  Once on the street, Ambassador Davis excused himself and hastened to hail a passing hansom cab.

  “Shall I get us a taxi?” Anders asked, smiling at his sister, and shaking his head.

  Katrina looked up at the sky, took a deep breath, and slipped her hand into the crook of Anders’ only arm. “I believe I’d rather walk,” she responded. “It seems such a nice day.”

  “If you promise not to browbeat any more Englishmen, Klinka,” he said, using his childhood nickname for his sister, “I’ll come with you. You’ve threatened to bring down the prime minister of England, offered to fund arms for an Irish rebellion, and held in absolute silence several of the world’s most powerful men. All in all, Klinka,” he laughed as they started to walk, “it’s been some day, and it’s not even noon. By the way, I have two questions for you. How did you know about the British negotiations with the Irish?”

  Katrina pursed her lips. “The morning after we arrived, a man I’d never seen approached me in the hotel lobby and handed me a note. It was from Michael Collins.”

  Anders raised his eyebrows. “And Woody?’”

  “I made it up,” she said. “The prime minister ­wouldn’t know that I’ve never met President Woodrow Wilson.”

  “Klinka, I’ve often thought of the strength of will you must have possessed to have gotten through your ordeal in the Mexican jungle with Seby so long ago, but until today, dear sister, I had no idea how strong you really are.”

  “I hope I’m strong enough, Anders,” Katrina said. “Actually, I’m very much afraid.”

  Chapter 15

  July, 1920

  Portlaoise Prison, Ireland

  The grating of the rusty steel bolt roused Tom from his stupor as he lay on the floor in his cell, staring at the stone ceiling. Other than to make the occasional exchange of his slop bucket for a new receptacle, and to distribute the twice- daily meager ration of bread and water through a small sliding grate, it had been three weeks since anyone had come to his cell door. The bright light that streamed in blinded him, and he shielded his eyes, able only to see the silhouettes of the two men who stood in the doorway.

  “On yer feet, Yank,” one of the men said, grabbing his arm and jerking him upright. “It’s time we get ya cleaned up.”

  “Where ... where am I going?” Tom stammered as they dragged him out of his cell and down a dark, damp hallway.

  “Not to worry, Thomas, me lad. You’ll be told right enough.”

  The bath facilities, which Tom had visited only once previously during his five months in solitary confinement, consisted of a shallow recess in the rock flooring where water could accumulate. A cast iron spigot dripped cold water into the stone basin, and a rough equestrian curry brush floated in the fetid water. Two additional guards were present when Tom arrived, and they stripped him of his ragged, dirty clothes and made him sit in the cold water. A bar of lye soap was tossed in along with the brush.

  “Clean it up, Yank. Time to look presentable if yer gonna meet the constable.”

  After stepping out of the putrid pool, he was handed the clothes he had been wearing when he had been arrested. Dressed and fed the first proper meal he’d had in months, he was shackled, hand and foot, as he had been when he had arrived at Portlaoise Prison, and then he was loaded into the back of a enclosed lorry. From the sounds he could discern and the shouting of the driver at the prison gate, he assumed the truck was leaving the prison grounds. The meal of old, tough beef, hard corn, and boiled potatoes had hurt his teeth, and as he sat alone in the back of the truck, he could taste blood in his mouth. He had known for weeks that several of his teeth were loose and that his gums were swollen and inflamed.

  The truck rumbled through the countryside for the next several hours, stopping only once to allow Tom to step off the road and relieve himself. In the late afternoon, the external sounds and the smell of salt air told Tom that the truck had reached a coastal location. Given the time of their trip, he knew it had to be either Cork or Limerick. When they stopped again, the two guards opened the rear of the truck, and Tom was assisted to step down. He confirmed that he was near the ocean and in fact, on a commercial shipping dock. It looked familiar, and as he was being escorted toward an
open, wooden warehouse building, he saw a one stack, medium-sized ocean liner moored to the pier. Suddenly it came to him. It had been twenty-five years, but he now stood on the same dock in Queenstown, near Cork, where, pursued by the law, he had boarded the Antioch in 1895 and fled from Ireland.

  As they approached the building, Tom and his guards were met by two men wearing suits, one of whom wore a bowler and both of whom Tom instantly took for plainclothes policemen. Without speaking, one of them motioned to the taller of the two prison guards, and the guard knelt and unlocked Tom’s ankle shackles, then removed the irons from his wrists.

  “Mr. Callahan, is it?” the other well-dressed man said.

  “Aye,” Tom replied.

  “Good. That will be all, gentlemen,” he said to the warders from the prison.

  “If you’ll just sign this document, Inspector,” the tall guard said.

  The man in the bowler quickly scribbled his name on a piece of paper, and the two guards departed. Tom watched them climb into the truck and leave.

  “Not sorry to be rid of them, are you?” the man asked, inclining his head toward the departing guards.

  Tom glanced at the back of the truck as it pulled away and then looked back at the inspector for a moment before answering.

  “We had an understanding of sorts. They told me what to do, and I did it.”

  “I see,” the man said, smiling and nodding his understanding. “I’m Chief Inspector Mullins, and this is my associate, Inspector Harrigan. ­We’re from Special Branch, Irish Constabulary. And will you confirm that you are Thomas Matthew Callahan of Salt Lake City, in America?”