October, 1919
County Cork, Ireland

Thomas Callahan could barely see the Obsidian as she stood several thousand yards offshore. Obscured by the darkness of a nearly moonless, cold, and cloudy October night, the unlighted, rusty freighter pitched and rolled, besieged by an endless line of large, Atlantic rollers that surged in dark, serried ranks toward the rocky Irish coast. Below the spot where Tom stood, on a ledge half-way between the cliff tops and the waters edge, the waves broke with a roar on the jagged rocks and narrow beach, before falling back in a froth of white foam.

On the agitated sea, three small fishing boats bobbed and danced, 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 middle man 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 location, at prearranged sites along the barren, remote stretches of the rocky 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 weapons come ashore, Tom wrestled with how he would tell Seamus, and Collins for that matter, that this would be his last delivery—that he had had a change of heart and could no longer be a part of 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 to the freighter before dawn would be full upon them. The captain of the Obsidian, anxious to remove his vessel beyond the twelve mile limit before daylight, had bellowed his orders and the Irish fishermen also 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. Ten or twelve cases of small arms had slid overboard into the sea, and only an heroic effort on the part of the crew saved the remaining cases. After that trip, each boat limited their load—resulting in the prolonged process that had lasted nearly till dawn—and made certain to fasten it securely. 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 startled when an explosion and a blinding flash 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 behind another fishing boat, and a loud voice began barking orders to the men on the shore.

"Right, lads. Away with ya, and mind the major crossin's. Watch for the ambush," he hollered over the frenzy of the howling winds. 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 small 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. Further 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 on 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 inflicting 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 challenge 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 pre-dawn light, the Obsidian had disappeared.

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

"Aye," Tom repeated 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, positioned above them on the rocky outcropping above the beach. Before they reached the crest, the sound of barked orders and dozens of men scrambling above, 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 Seamus fell, tumbling end over end to the rocky beach below, where he lay still.

"You lot," the soldier 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 with 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 inside 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 ride through the breaking dawn toward the nearby village of Kinsale. Tom remained silent, replaying in his mind the vision of his brother's body cascading down the cliff. The only thought that came to him was that this would indeed be his 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 forthwith. Have you anything to say to the court?"

Tom stood stunned 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. The case of Eamon De Valera, who had several years earlier been convicted and sentenced to death for his part in the abortive 1916 Easter Rebellion, but whose sentence had later been commuted as a result of his American citizenship, was a precedent that had gone far toward establishing the case for Hollister.

A plea for leniency by President Woodrow Wilson, a response to Congressman Anders Hansen's request for the president to intervene, had weighed heavily in Tom's favor, but in the end, the fact that he had been captured in the direct act of unloading a shipload of weapons made defending Tom a formidable task. Finally, the London lawyer, at the urging of Tom's brother-in-law, Congressman Hansen, 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 our the Irish insurrection, and putting an end to foreign gun running 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 again, "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 offer my appreciation 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 of Irish heritage. 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."
The magistrate shifted uncomfortably on his seat, coughed a bit, then pounded his gavel on the bench. "Yes, yes, well, we'll see about that in due course. The prisoner is remanded into custody and will be transported immediately."

As Tom and Sir Reginald shook hands, the barrister said, "I won't stop, you understand. I'll keep trying to have you released and deported." The prisoner was then immediately shackled, hand and foot, by two Irish Guarda officers.

"Take heart, Tom. I shall keep working on this case at the highest levels," Sir Reginald continued.
As he was being led away, Tom said, "It's Katie I'm worried about, Reggie. Anders had a hard enough time keeping her from coming over here. Now when she hears the sentence . . . Contact her, encourage her, and keep her informed, please."

"You can count on it, Tom. God speed. I'll be in touch."

 

The ride to Portlaoise prison, located about fifty miles west of Dublin, took nearly two hours. Two other prisoners were being transported in the canvas-enclosed back of the truck and two guards sat also inside the rear, but separated from the prisoners by a wire barrier. No talking was allowed, but the two Irishmen ignored the guards' repeated attempts to get them to shut up.

"We hear ya done well, Yank," the more burly of the two other prisoners said.

"Time will tell," Tom replied. It struck him that in his native land, on the way to prison, he was now viewed as a foreigner.

"The bloody Brit's seen his best day, man. He's through in this land and he knows it. And as for the Irish traitors who sat at their feet and licked crumbs from their table," the prisoner said, looking through the wire at the guard and spitting on the floor of the truck, "they'll be no place in Ireland deep enough for him to hide."

"I said shut your gob," the guard bellowed, rapping on the wire with his billy.

The truck arrived at the prison and was driven through an archway in the two-foot-thick, stone walls. Once in the central compound, the truck stopped in the open area and the guards opened the rear door and the wire cage, motioning for the prisoners to climb down. Shackled closely together, it was a difficult task to maintain their balance as they exited the truck. After all three prisoners were on the ground, one of the guards from the truck positioned himself behind the three shackled men. Suddenly the man next to Tom, the one who had derided the guard, grunted and fell to his knees from an unseen blow to the small of his back. Tom was jerked off balance by their connecting chains and fell to one knee.

"Get up, Yank,' the guard bellowed, "unless you want some of the same."

Tom tried to assist the downed man to his feet, but received a kick in the buttocks from the guard. "I didn't say to help him, I said get up."

Tom rose slowly, but his chains prevented him from standing fully upright while his companion remained on the ground.

"Now you, Mick. Stand on your feet."

Grimacing in pain, the other prisoner got to his feet and stood unsteadily alongside Tom. Both men remained silent as several guards gathered around. One of them, wearing a wide, polished leather belt around his waist, came to stand in front of the Irish prisoner.

"You've been granted a five-year visit with us, lad. We'll brook no mouth of yours in here. If you're to see your dear, sweet mother again, you'll do what you're told, as you're told, and when you're told. And that goes for the lot of you. Do I make myself clear, lads?" the man said.

The three prisoners looked down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with the warder and didn’t speak.

"Right, move 'em inside."

Spirit of Union: Heritage
Publisher: Deseret Book Company
Publication Date: 1999
Binding: Hardbound, 406 pages