The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  “What can we do for you, Mr. McIntyre?” Robert Thurston said, taking the lead.

  “My business is with this man,” he said, nodding toward Tommy.

  “I think the two of you have had enough business already,” Robert said.

  “Stand aside, sir,” he said, abruptly shoving Robert. “Are you prepared to defend yourself against someone who’s not intoxicated?” he challenged Tommy.

  “It appears to me ­you’re always intoxicated—with your own pompous attitude, you ignorant English twit,” Tommy said, stepping forward to stand face-to-face with Jonathon. “Where’s your knife today, you sniveling coward?”

  McIntyre stood his ground and smiled at Tommy. “Before I’m through with you, you’ll eat those words, my good fellow.”

  “And you’ll be serving the dinner I suppose? And your keeper—where’s Albert today? Did you slip your leash?”

  “No weapons, no Albert, Mr. Callahan. A bloody Irish name, I see. No wonder you have the manners of a cowman.”

  “The manners, Mr. Esquire, or lack thereof,” Tommy smiled in return, “have been more of your making, I would say. So what’s it to be? Knives at two paces,” he laughed.

  “All right,” Tom said, stepping between the two men, “this has gone far enough. You, McIntyre, move along and get back inside the hotel.”

  McIntyre shoved Tom aside as he had Robert and took another step closer to Tommy.

  “I’ll brook no interference from you, Mr. Callahan, the elder,” he said. “Fists, I would say,” he challenged again, speaking once more to Tommy. “By the Marquis of Queensberry rules.”

  Tommy just shook his head, sneering at the impudent young man. “You’ve got guts, Mr. Esquire, I’ll give you that. Let me get this straight. You come to my country, want to kill my bears, insult and then stab my father, and then challenge me to a fist fight by your rules. Only an Englishman would be that cocky. Perhaps it’s time you learned a real lesson.”

  Robert stepped between the two men to separate them.

  “It’s all right, Robert,” Tom said, his anger again kindled. “Tommy can handle himself.”

  McIntyre smiled victoriously and laughed. “There’ll be a lesson taught, all right, and I’ll be the teacher, Mr. Callahan. I must inform you though, I have held the boxing championship two years running at Oxford. That’s fair warning in case you wish to reconsider your decision, although I hope you would choose to continue and prove your manhood.”

  “Manhood, is it?” Tommy said, dropping his creel and rolling up his sleeves. “Pop, maybe you’d be kind enough to hold my fishing gear for a few minutes. Mr. Esquire himself, and Mr. Queensberry want to teach me a lesson. Shall we begin, you bloody Brit?”

  The quick, sharp jab to Tommy’s chin came lightning fast, and, instantly, Tommy found himself sitting on the gravel driveway, gazing through watery eyes up at McIntyre who was prancing around on the balls of his feet, holding his fists upright in front of him.

  “Lesson one, never take your eyes off your opponent. Take your feet, Irishman, and we shall move on to lesson two.”

  “Master Jonathon, please!” Albert said as he came around the corner of the building.

  “Albert,” McIntyre said, continuing to hold a steady gaze at Tommy who was regaining his feet, “you will be silent and keep out of the way. Come now, Mr. Callahan, I thought the Irish had more staying power than one punch.”

  Fists up, Tommy began to circle as McIntyre danced about, feigning a thrust and withdrawing at each perceived opening. Suddenly, Tommy darted inside and threw an uppercut into McIntyre’s body, but he was rewarded with a resounding blow to the side of his head as he retreated. This time Tommy held his feet but kept his distance for the next several seconds, trying to clear his head and moving warily, keeping his eyes focused on McIntyre. Several feints later, Tommy had yet to land another blow, but had avoided absorbing any further lessons from the Englishman.

  With a smile, McIntyre changed his tactic and instead of prancing, he shifted to a steady pursuit, quickly landing two jabs to Tommy’s face, causing Tommy to shake his head to clear his vision. When McIntyre threw his next punch, a looping right hand, Tommy moved quickly forward, stepping inside the punch. The Englishman’s arm wrapped for a moment around Tommy’s neck, and before he could withdraw for another blow, Tommy grabbed McIntyre’s wrist and pulled the Englishman into him, locking the man’s arm in the hollow of his armpit. When McIntyre hit Tommy on the side of his head with his other fist, Tommy lifted up hard on the imprisoned arm, wrenching the elbow violently upward. The sudden movement caused a cracking sound that was heard by all. Jonathon McIntyre yelped in pain and stepped back, looking down with amazement at his arm, which hung loosely by his side.

  Albert stepped forward, attempting to render assistance and receiving for his trouble a verbal assault from his charge.

  “You may consider boxing a game used to teach the lower classes to mind their station in life, McIntyre,” Tommy said, rolling down his sleeves, “but fighting is the last resort for a man with a weak mind and should be finished quickly. Albert, I suggest you take Mr. McIntyre to the doctor. Just tell him the stabbing victim from last night sent him. And tell the doc to send me the bill.”

  That evening, sitting around a roaring fire in the hotel lobby, Robert, Seby, Tom, and Tommy were shelling peanuts while drinking hot cider and spending one more evening discussing the day’s fishing. Everything had been prepared for their departure the following morning, but the episode with young Jonathon McIntyre had somewhat dampened the mood of the group. While they were conversing, Albert approached the group from the direction of the bar and stood quietly until he was noticed and the men ceased talking.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Callahan, but Sir David has sent me to inquire if he might speak with you for a moment, that is, if it is convenient.” He addressed his remarks to Tom, who considered the request and then nodded his approval.

  “Sure, why not?” Tom replied.

  Albert left for a few moments, then returned to the lobby in the company of a ruddy-faced, silver-haired gentleman of about fifty, who carried himself with a military bearing. He walked straight toward the group, focusing his attention on Tom.

  “Mr. Callahan,” he said, stopping directly in front of the small circle of chairs, “thank you for agreeing to my request. I am Brigadier David McIntyre, and I have come, sir, to offer my sincere apologies for the inexcusable behavior of my son, Jonathon. Albert has informed me of the events of last evening, and, unfortunately, this afternoon. I can only offer my most humble apology, sir.”

  “Things got a little heated, but I think we can call the episode over,” Tom said.

  “Indeed,” Sir David said. “And you, sir,” he said, turning to address Tommy, “I am informed, are a United States Marine Corps officer.”

  Tommy stood and faced Sir David directly.

  “Yes, sir. Thomas Callahan III, second lieutenant.”

  “Then you are newly in the service of your military forces?”

  “No, Brigadier, I just graduated from the naval academy, but I enlisted in the Corps in ’17.”

  “I see,” Sir David said, raising his eyebrows. “And served in France?”

  “I did, sir. With the 6th Marines, at Château-Thierry and Belleau Wood.”

  Sir David nodded his approval. “That would account for the boldness of your actions here.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry things got out of hand, but your son’s attack on—”

  Sir David raised his hand in a gesture of silence.

  “Lieutenant Callahan, I have been reliably informed by the barkeep that over the years many a man in this part of your country has died for significantly less affront than that given by my son to your father. Your restraint in not killing him on the spot speaks highly of your training and your discipline. You owe me no apology. Quite the contrary. Should you ever find yourself in England, and in need of a good reference—and I might add, in spite of my son’s behavior, or
lack thereof, I do have an impeccable reputation among my peers—please do not hesitate to call on me for assistance. Alfred will give you my card. It may perhaps come in handy some day,” he said, extending his hand to Tommy.

  “And, Mr. Callahan,” he said, turning to address Tom, “I’m sorry for your wound and trust that it will heal quickly.”

  Tom waived off the apology. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yes, well,” Sir David continued, “you have reason to be proud of your son, just as I have reason to be ashamed of mine. But such is life, as I understand it, and we each must deal with our progeny accordingly. I have had many young men under my command and consider myself a good judge of character, Mr. Callahan, and I would be proud to serve with Lieutenant Callahan, were the occasion to arise.”

  With that, Sir David drew himself up and said, “Well, if there is nothing else, gentlemen, I will take my leave. God-speed on your return trip.”

  Tom got to his feet and stepped toward Sir David and shook his hand without speaking. As the two Englishmen disappeared back into the bar, Robert was the first to respond.

  “A true gentleman from the old school,” the banker said. “How could you be mad after that?”

  “An era that’s about gone, I’d say,” Tom replied. “But I’ll tell you what, Tommy, I am proud of you. Damned proud of you.”

  Tommy smiled and looked into the fire for a few moments. Then he said, “I hope I can find something more honorable to earn your praise, Pop, but thanks.”

  During the flight home the next day, Tommy found himself feeling a bit melancholy. Remembering earlier days and thinking how long it might be until the next fishing expedition with his father, he remained quiet during most of the flight. The thought of departing to the marines again, after just rediscovering his home, brought a sense of foreboding and added to his somber mood. His chosen career would, of necessity, send him around the world for the indefinite future, and he’d more than likely meet others like young Jonathon McIntyre, Esquire.

  Arriving home, Tommy tried to hide the bruises on his face by avoiding his mother’s searching gaze. But she noticed them immediately, and when she was told the story, with Tom omitting the part about having been stabbed, she somehow blamed her husband for permitting the whole sorry mess. When she discovered Tom’s bandaged arm later that night as they got ready to go to bed, her exasperation was complete.

  “Honestly, Thomas, I don’t know what to do with you! ­You’re as irresponsible in these things as one of the children.”

  Tom only smiled until his wife finished reprimanding him, then said, “You’d have been proud of Tommy, Katie. He handled himself beautifully.”

  “How are you going to find a nice LDS girl out there, Tommy?” Katrina asked at dinner his final evening at home.

  “Mom, you know no one can take your place,” he teased.

  Her stern look quickly dispelled his humor, and he nodded his head in submission.

  “It’s not time for that yet, Mom. I’ll know when.”

  The next morning, pleading that she wasn’t up to trying to control a public display of emotion, Katrina said her tearful good-byes to her son in the front hallway of Valhalla, leaving Tom and Tommy to go to the train station without her. Now, as they stood together, waiting for the train, father and son did so without conversing.

  Just before the scheduled departure of the train, Tom finally broached the subject that had been on his mind for some time.

  “Tommy, this fishing trip—aside from the McIntyre episode—”Tom laughed, rubbing his upper arm, “brought back all the happy memories of our early days. I want you to know that one of the best things that ever happened to me took place four years ago when you forgave me for being so pigheaded. But I feel there’s another area where I’ve done you wrong, and that’s regarding the church.”

  “Pop, I—”

  “It’s my turn to talk, Tommy,” Tom said, “just hear me out, please.”

  Before continuing, Tom was quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. Finally, he went on.

  “PJ gave me this same talk when we left him in New Zealand nearly six years ago, at a time when we knew you were going to France. I’ve lived something of a charmed life, Tommy, and I’ve always been surrounded by people who’ve had an interest in me and watched out for my welfare. When I landed in New York as a brash young fellow with no sense, Father O’Leary helped me see things more clearly. Then when I arrived here in Salt Lake City there were Sister Mary and Father Scanlan to look out for me. Even in Alaska, Uncle John opened a door for me, and, well, you’ve seen the results of that.

  “I’ve had the friendship of people like Elder McKay and Robert Thurston, and many others, and for years I guess I depended on others. But it wasn’t until I began to look inside myself and seek a personal relationship with God that I found any real satisfaction, any peace.

  “While I was getting to this point I had your mother’s love to sustain me. She’s had the faith to believe that I would one day open my heart to the truth and embrace the gospel. Well, I’ve come to that day, Tommy, but what I’m afraid of is that it’s happened too late to help you understand the things that are now most important to me. I’m sorry for all the confusion my doubts must have caused you when you were growing up, but I want you to know that I now have a testimony. God lives, and the Mormon church is His church. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to understand that.”

  “Pop,” Tommy responded, “I remember the feelings I used to have about the church when I was little. I remember talking to Bishop Thurston and believing in the things Mom told me. It’s just that now ...”

  Tom nodded his head and took his son’s arm in his, drawing the young marine officer close. “Just don’t shut God out, Tommy. It’s a dangerous profession you’ve chosen, and as long as our president keeps sending the marines around the world to fight other people’s battles, well, you’ve got to see the potential dangers. As much as I love you, and as much as your mother loves you, the Lord loves you more, son, and wants you to know that. I failed you for years,” Tom said, his face reflecting his sorrow at the omission, “but the Lord has never left you. You said as much in your letter to me from France. God gave you the protection you needed, and He preserved your life. I understand that you feel He took your friend’s life, perhaps in place of yours, but as you said to me in that letter, that was His choice to make, not yours or mine. Just give it some thought, Tommy, and don’t abandon the principles your mother taught you as you were growing up.”

  Both men stood facing each other for a long, silent moment, and then Tommy reached out and hugged his father. “You’ve made Mom very happy, Pop. I’m glad for her, and for you. Thanks for all you’ve done for me. I love you both very much.”

  “And we love you, son. Whatever happens around the world, you’ve always got a home here. Don’t forget that. God’s blessings go with you, Tommy.”

  Chapter 5

  On August 4, 1923, three days after he arrived on the island, Tommy stood, sweating profusely but rigidly at attention, in front of Colonel Wilson Rixby, the commanding officer, 2d Brigade, United States Marine Corps, who was seated behind a chipped and worn wooden desk. The brigade was currently on assignment to the Dominican Republic with the 1st Brigade close at hand on the west end of the island in Haiti.

  “Second Lieutenant Thomas M. Callahan, reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “Stand at ease, Lieutenant,” the officer behind the desk said. Colonel Rixby, an up-through-the-ranks mustang who had distinguished himself in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War, slowly riffled through the personnel folder that lay before him on his desk. Tommy snapped to parade rest, waiting patiently in front of the colonel’s desk. Finally, the senior officer looked up.

  “I swear, I don’t know what to make of you, Lieutenant. Most often I get some snot-nosed, wet-behind-the-ears momma’s boy out of the academy. They come into my brigade, hang up their dress-white ballroom suits, think ­the
y’re marines, and try to command my troops.”

  Rixby’s voice was deep, gravelly, and laced with a no-nonsense tone. Tommy instantly understood that Colonel Rixby was not a man to trifle with. He remained silent at his fixed position, his eyes riveted to the wall above and behind the colonel.

  “But,” and the older man paused again, flicking once more through the papers on his desk, “by all accounts, Lieutenant Callahan, you are a marine. And you can command troops. So just what in blazes do I do with you in this mosquito-infested, swamp-ridden, tropical paradise?”

  Tommy remained silent.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, the lieutenant is honored to be assigned to the Second Brigade and under the colonel’s command, sir.”

  Rixby eyed Tommy and shook his head. “You won’t be so honored when you see what we’ve got to do here, son. We’ve been assigned to move a pile of manure, and ­we’re flat out of shovels. In short, this is no ordinary marine outfit and you’ll be assigned to no ordinary line company. In fact, if I’ve got one single platoon worth of decent marines on the whole island, I’ve not yet seen ’em. We’ve got the dregs here, Lieutenant, and on top of that, we’ve got the job of turning the meanest bunch of local thugs you can envision into policemen.