by Gordon Ryan
Tom nodded to confirm his identity. “Am I being transferred?”
“You might say that, Mr. Callahan. In three hours you’ll be on that ship,” he said, nodding toward the end of the pier.
“I don’t understand. Am I being transferred to England?”
“You’re being released, Mr. Callahan. There’s no subterfuge involved. When that ship leaves the dock, you’ll be a free man again, on the understanding that you are not to return to the British Isles.”
Tom stared at the man, trying to comprehend his meaning.
“Free?”
Again, Constable Mullins nodded. “Indeed, Mr. Callahan. There is someone who would like to speak with you before you board. Oh, and we’ve placed your luggage—the luggage you had in your hotel when you were arrested—in your cabin accommodations. If you would kindly step this way.”
Walking unsteadily, Tom accompanied the two policemen to the warehouse. At the entrance, the two constables stopped, motioning for Tom to continue inside. As he stepped through the doorway, Tom spotted another man across the open space, slowly walking toward him. There was something familiar about the man, but in the gloom of the warehouse, it took Tom several moments to make out who it was.
“Michael?”
Michael Collins, one of several leaders of the Irish Republican Army, the most recent incarnation of the Irish Brotherhood and the ’67 Feinian uprising and the chief negotiator in the Irish-British peace talks, stepped close to Tom.
“And how goes prison life, Tom?” the man said, smiling and taking Tom by the shoulders. “A few pounds gone, I’d say.”
“More likely two stone,” Tom replied, reverting to the Irish measurement where a stone equals fourteen pounds.
“Tom, I’m sure it wasn’t a pleasant ten months, including the time you spent in Mountjoy Prison in Dublin before the trial, but at least it’s not fifteen years. It’s good to see you, lad.”
“And you, Michael. What happened? Did Reggie find a sympathetic ear?”
“It’s a long story, but I’ve left a few letters and documents that will explain things in your cabin aboard the Annabelle. She’s a good ship, with an understanding captain, if you know what I mean, but she’s not what you’re used to traveling on,” he smiled. “But I suppose right now a dory with two good oars would suit your purposes.”
“Aye,” Tom laughed, instantly reaching up to hold his jaw as the pain shot through his mouth, “anything to put some distance between me and the bloody Brits. Truth be known, Michael, it was the bloody Irish warders that gave me the worst of it.”
“There’ll come a reckoning, you can count on it. Are you hurt?” Michael asked.
“Nothing that a few days of soup, soft porridge, and mushy, boiled vegetables won’t cure.”
Collins nodded knowingly. “Ah, the famous British ‘brick-bread and water’ diet, I see. Many an Irish lad has lost his teeth and a bit of flab due to that one.”
“Did you bring this about?” Tom asked.
“I’d like to claim credit, but all I did was share some inside political information with your wife. As I understand it, your missus went toe-to-toe with Lloyd-George and bested the old sod. She gave Churchill a run for his shilling, too,” he smiled.
“You’re serious?”
“And here we’ve been dealing with you for all these years when it’s your wife, lad, who’s got the stomach for the battle.”
Tom smiled and nodded. “Quite a woman, my Katie. Before I leave, there is one thing I’ve needed to talk to you about, Michael. I’ve thought a lot about it in the prison.”
“You’ll not be returning,” Collins said, a knowing look on his face.
“Aye, that’s the gist of it, but I wanted you to know that the last shipment was to have been my last, anyway, even before the Brits decided it for me.”
“I thought as much, Tom. I understand.”
“I’d like to see you settle it across the table, Michael. I just feel I can’t support the armed rebellion the way I once did. I’m sorry about that.”
“Dawn doth break on yonder horizon, Tom. We may be at an end to it, anyway.”
“How long now since Cromwell came across the Irish Sea? Three hundred years? Dawn’s been a long time coming, Michael. I hope you understand my decision. It has nothing to do with my imprisonment.”
“I understand,” he said, clamping his arm around his Irish-American visitor. “You’ve come face-to-face with your epiphany, have you?”
Come face to face with an epiphany? Indeed he had! The long months spent in solitary confinement had given him ample time to think. In the darkness of his cell, he had often reflected on the events of his life, recalling his days as a wild Irish youth, the long months he had spent prospecting for gold in Alaska, and the rescue of Katrina from Mexico.
Katrina. She had occupied his thoughts more than anything else. Visualizing her face and remembering the softness of her body, he had missed her so much that he had often wept.
He had also thought of his children—PJ living in far-off New Zealand, Tess in New York following her dream of being an actress, and Tommy who was still in the Marine Corps. He was grateful that he and Tommy had patched up their differences, and it had provided him much comfort while in prison to remember the day his grown son had come into his arms at Annapolis, and they had been reconciled at last.
To pass the time in prison, he had often played a game in his mind—recalling events and conversations from the past. It had been pleasant for him to remember Sister Mary Theophane, the years of her gentle friendship and guidance, and the bittersweet farewell he had said to her at her grave site.
He had given ample thought, also, to his financial support of the Irish rebellion. The Irish “cause” was just; of that, Tom had no doubt. And following his visit to free his eldest son, PJ, from the British jail after the 1916 Easter Rebellion, it had seemed a reasonable thing to Tom to furnish arms to the rebels. It was clear to him that his countrymen were correct—fighting their way to freedom had been their only option. The Americans had done the same thing, hadn’t they, and the British were now close allies of the Americans.
But Michael Collins saw it one way, and Tom’s priest, Father Scanlan, as Irish as any of them, had seen it another. And they were both Catholic. They couldn’t both be right, could they? The one thing he couldn’t escape was the knowledge that the arms and munitions had been the cause of bloodshed and destruction. He sometimes awoke from horrifying dreams of women and children weeping over the mutilated bodies of their husbands and fathers.
Waking from those dreams in the dark confines of his cell, his thoughts had often gone to religion. Prayer had frequently been his only solace, but he wondered exactly to whom he should pray. Was it his Catholic God or the God of Katrina’s Mormonism? That conflict had plagued him from the moment he had met Katrina and become aware of her faith in the Book of Mormon.
Father Scanlan had told Tom on more than one occasion that in order to receive direction from God, one needed to clear the way—to open the door. Father Scanlan had said that by doing so, God could reach in and touch your heart.
On board the ship, while leaving New Zealand, Katrina had put it another way. Never in their twenty years of marriage had she been so insistent. She had told him boldly that she was tired of waiting and that she was determined to have a temple marriage—either to Tom or to someone else. It was time, she had said, that Tom discover the truth of his relationship with God.
“Epiphany, you say?” Tom said to Michael Collins. “Perhaps so. It’s rather personal, though.”
Collins nodded. “I’ve harbored a few ghosts of my own over our past activities,” he said. “You’ve been a good soldier in your own way, Tom, and we’ve been grateful for your help. But I guess I’m to the point where if we can settle this thing across the bargaining table and can end the bloodshed, I’m ready. I fear, however, that ending our struggle with the British will only lead to further conflict at home. Not all are
unified, even within our own ranks.”
“As I said, Michael, Godspeed in your negotiations, here and in London,” Tom replied.
“And, Tom. I’m truly sorry about Seamus. He was a good lad, he was.”
Tom lowered his eyes and was silent for a moment.
“And a good brother, too, Michael. Thank you.”
Once on board the Annabelle, Tom was shown directly to his cabin by the first officer. The man presented the Captain’s apologies and explained that Captain Rugers had gone ashore to take care of some last-minute business before embarking. Alone in his cabin, Tom found his luggage and immediately disrobed, filled the small basin with water, and washed his body, this time using a soft cotton washcloth and considerably milder soap than the lye bar the guards had provided. He put on clean underwear and pulled back the bedding on the single bunk. Slipping between the sheets, he didn’t even pause to read the note from Collins he found on the bedstead. For the first time in nearly a year, Tom Callahan felt the comfort of a mattress and pillow, but his joy was short-lived. Within moments he had fallen asleep.
A persistent knock on his door eventually awakened Tom. He emerged from a dream and sat upright in the bunk, momentarily confused by his surroundings. The door slowly opened, and a heavyset man with a thick, dark beard stuck his head through the doorway, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“Mr. Callahan, it’s good to see you awake,” he said in a thick, Germanic accent. “Would you care for some food?”
Tom rubbed his face and smoothed his hair, gathering his thoughts and quickly recollecting where he was.
“Yes, that would be fine. Something ... uh, soft, if you will,” he said, running his tongue against the back of his front teeth. “Will we be departing soon?”
“We’re underway, Mr. Callahan,” the man grinned. “In fact, we’ve been at sea for almost thirty-six hours. I’m Captain Rugers. Hans Rugers,” he said, stepping closer to the bed and offering his hand. “I’m pleased to have you on board.”
Tom accepted his hand and shook it briefly. “I take it this is not usually a convict vessel.”
Rugers laughed. “We consider you a celebrity, Mr. Callahan. It’s my honor to have you on board the Annabelle.”
“Thirty-six hours you say? Have I been asleep all that time?”
“You have. We’ve looked in on you, but the doctor thought it best to let you sleep. If you’d like, we have a full bath facility just down the passageway. After you’ve bathed, I’ll have a hot meal for you, either in your cabin, or you can join me in the officers’ mess.”
“That sounds fine, Captain. I’ll join you in the mess, if that’s appropriate.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Callahan. My officers—two Dutchmen like myself, one Irishman, and an English doctor—know of your recent circumstances and they are quite supportive. Please, there’s no need to be embarrassed. Also, the ship’s doctor would like to have a look at you, if that meets with your approval.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’ll take it all—bath, meal, and the doctor,” Tom smiled. “It’s still hard to believe I’m free.”
“I understand,” the seaman nodded. “If you have a robe, I’ll show you to the bath facility. It’s just a couple of cabins down and there’s plenty of good, hot water. We have no other passengers this trip. You’re actually quite alone in this corridor.”
“Where are we bound, Captain?”
“Philadelphia is our first port of call, and then to New York, if you desire to remain aboard. I believe Mr. Collins wired your wife to expect you in Philadelphia. We should be there in about six more days.”
“Time for a couple of dozen baths and to get used to solid food, right?” Tom laughed.
“We’ll do our best, Mr. Callahan. Again, sir, it’s an honor to have you with us.”
Tom bathed, a long, luxurious soak, to which he continued to add gallons of hot water. Then he put on fresh clothes from his original luggage and made his way to the officers’ mess. Four ship’s officers, including Doctor Huddleston, were present, in addition to Captain Rugers. The men all stood when Tom entered the mess, and brief introductions were made all around. The cook had been instructed by the ship’s doctor what to prepare, and Tom’s meal consisted of a broth, laced with small pieces of boiled chicken meat that Tom was able to savor and slowly chew. He also peeled and ate an orange. The juice stung his gums, but he enjoyed the exquisite sweetness of the fruit—the first he had eaten in many months. The other officers ate silently, and Tom sensed a slight tenseness in the room. When the steward returned to take Tom’s bowl, the Filipino man smiled at Tom.
“Me get some-ting more for you? Some-ting you likee?” the steward asked.
Tom looked around the room briefly and smiled at the small, brown-faced man.
“Would you have any hard, moldy bread and a tin of dirty water?”
“Scusee?” the steward asked, bewildered.
The remark cleared the tension in the air, and the men in the wardroom broke into laughter.
“That will be all, Fernando,” the Captain said, dismissing the steward.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said, “but my changed circumstances, unexpected as they were ...”
“I understand, sir,” Captain Rugers said. “Anything we can do to make your trip more pleasant, please let us know. Now, Doctor Huddleston, I think perhaps a quick once-over would be in order.”
“Indeed,” Huddleston said, standing. “How about coming down to the infirmary, Mr. Callahan? I’d like to have a look at you if you don’t mind.”
“Doctor, you’ll find skin and bones. Not much more, I’m afraid.”
“Sounds to me as if you’ve retained a bit of pluck, as they say.”
“That’s the Irish in me, Doctor. I’m told it dies hard.”
Later that evening, after sharing a few private moments with Captain Rugers, Tom retired to his cabin, content to return to the solitude he had come to accept. Doctor Huddleston had found nothing to surprise either of them. Tom’s weight, normally about 190 pounds, had dropped to just below 160, a loss of nearly two and a half stone. His gums and teeth had suffered considerably, but Huddleston informed Tom that eating fruits and vegetables would likely eventually restore him to normal health, although he thought a visit to a dentist would be in order immediately after their arrival in Philadelphia.
Though just forty-five years of age, Tom’s hair had thinned, and his ashen pallor was evidence of deprivation of natural light. His chronic dysentery, Doctor Huddleston said, would likely right itself with a solid and varied diet, as soon as he was able to chew and properly digest food. He warned Tom that some sickness following meals would be normal but should abate within two weeks. Tom’s self-imposed prison regimen of physical exercise, extremely limited as a result of his meager food supply and lowered energy levels, had preserved some muscle tone, and the doctor was pleased to see that his heart, lungs, and circulatory system, as far as his on board instruments could detect, were operating normally.
On the bedside, Tom discovered the sealed brown envelope that Michael Collins had informed him was waiting. He slit the envelope and discovered a folded sheet of paper and another envelope inside. The second envelope was addressed in Katrina’s familiar hand, simply marked Thomas. Saving Katrina’s letter for last, Tom unfolded and read Collins’s brief note.
Tom,
As you journey home, the thought may occur that your support of our cause cost you more than you had bargained for. As consolation, I can only offer my sincere appreciation for your efforts, but I know you are aware that many before you have paid an even higher price. Perhaps, as it is rumored, we are close to resolving Ireland’s long struggle. The warrior in me cries out for victory, yet the statesman, a role forced upon me, recognizes the futility of needless bloodshed and seeks to grasp at the solution—any solution that allows us all to return to our loved ones, free of the need to run, hide, and fear. You now have that chance, Tom, and I envy you the prospect.
/> Godspeed on your journey back to your loved ones. You have earned your place among us—by birth and even more by your generous contributions. When the final victory—across the table or on the battlefield—is achieved, your name will be among those honoured—legion they are—who brought Ireland to its rightful place.
God bless you and yours.
As always,
Michael
The second envelope contained a single buff-colored sheet of paper, crested with the Savoy Hotel, London, England, legend. Tom paused to admire the beauty of Katrina’s script and her practiced hand. With tears blurring his vision, he read:
My Darling Thomas,
I do not know how long it will take for this note to reach you, or if indeed it ever shall, my beloved. An associate of Mr. Collins has offered to see this delivered with all possible haste. I have received word that it is the intention of the British government—Mr. Lloyd-George being in agreement—to release you from your travail as soon as it is politically acceptable—thirty days at the most, I am informed. Mr. Churchill has given his word on this, Thomas, and I sense that he is a man of honor.
Come to me, my darling. Let not this somber memory serve to shake the faith I know resides in your heart. I know you have sought our Lord since New Zealand, and I have taken heart that He will watch over you and protect you. You are my life, my darling, and I will be your light. Until you hold me in your arms, all my love,
Katrina
Tom spent most of the voyage alone in his cabin or, when the weather was fair, walking on deck. His thoughts ran from Katrina facing down the leaders of the British Empire, as Michael Collins had explained it, to his own epiphany—also described by Collins. He felt as if his life—before his arrest—had been neatly progressing toward a finalization of the religious conflict between himself and Katrina, and he had meant his trip to Ireland to be the final clearance, a washing away of all the things that stood between him and an understanding with God.