The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  Robert rose from the divan and came to stand by his friend at the fireplace. “If you think that, my friend, then perhaps ­you’re not ready to give your answer either. I’ve known of your good works, Tom, since those early days when you and Sister Mary used to make your 3:00 a.m. food deliveries. Did you truly think no one knew?”

  “But how ...”

  “Do you remember the gentleman who provided the money to Sister Mary to buy the food?”

  Tom thought several moments and nodded. “I never met him, but one night when I asked her if we were delivering food to our poor Catholic neighbors, she said she didn’t know and it didn’t matter what religion they were—that the man who paid for the food was LDS and some of the recipients were Catholic.”

  Now it was Robert’s turn to nod. “That man was my father, Tom—the man who taught me the true meaning of Christlike love. He also knew of your involvement, and before he died some years ago, Dad told me the story. He was part of the bishopric that called Elder McKay on his mission, and when McKay returned, my father told him the story about the Irish lad who had worked with Sister Mary and had run away to Alaska after being hunted on a murder charge. Neither of them believed the story, and then when young David McKay went to see Father Scanlan, the priest was unable to confirm or deny the accusation but left Elder McKay with the impression that he also believed you were innocent.”

  “I had no idea that so many people knew the story. About the food or the, uh, criminal charges.”

  “And do you still think that you’ve never given Christ a present?”

  “Well, that’s different, Robert. I was just a young kid and was helping Sister Mary to—”

  “You were just a young kid who found a way to serve Christ, even if you didn’t know you were doing it at the time,” Robert said, a smile on his face. “Now tonight, in answer to your challenge, all we are really doing is finding voice for many of the things we try to do every day.”

  Tom turned to look at Seby who had been quietly listening to the two older men. “What do you think of all this, Seby?”

  “Señor Callahan, I am in awe of the continuing revelations that come to my attention about your past. The more people I meet who know you, the more I understand why you have succeeded in your business ventures.”

  “You’d find plenty who’d argue that point, Seby. And another thing, while ­we’re off the subject, how old are you now?”

  “This last summer, Señor, I had my twenty-sixth birthday.”

  “As I thought,” Tom said to the younger man, who appeared perplexed by the question. “Robert,” Tom said, turning back to his friend, “how old was your son Mark when he returned from Harvard and joined us at the bank?”

  “Just twenty-six I believe, Tom.”

  “Right. At that time I told young Mark that it was time he started calling me Tom. And the same applies here,” he said, looking back toward Seby. “From this point forward I would prefer that you call me Tom. Are we in agreement?” he smiled.

  “Señor ... Tom,” the younger man smiled, “it would please me very much to call you Tom, but if I might be so bold,” he said, rising from his chair and taking two steps to stand in front of the two men, “I have another matter I wish to discuss with you. I had intended to ask to meet with you at some later date, but ...” he paused, glancing out the parlor door toward the kitchen where no sign of the ladies yet appeared.

  “And that is?” Tom asked.

  “You spoke to me once, a couple of years ago as you took your lone horse trip into the mountains, about Mexican traditions, and how I came to join the LDS church. Those traditions, as you said, were strongly ingrained in me by Don Sebastian, and they are hard to avoid. In fact ... Tom, I agree with most of them and do not wish to forget any of them. One such tradition is that a male suitor who wishes to call on a young lady with the possible intention of seeking her hand in matrimony should visit with her father in the company of his priest who, hopefully, can attest to his good character.”

  Seby paused again, and a look of understanding spread across Tom’s face. A gentle smile began forming on Robert’s.

  “In the absence of such clergy, I would ask you, President Roberts,” he said, turning his gaze toward the older man, “that, as someone who knows me, you would serve me this evening in such a spiritual capacity.”

  Robert nodded. “I think I understand, Seby.”

  “Good. Then, Señor Callahan ... Tom, it is my formal request to you that I be granted permission to attend to your daughter, Teresa Callahan, and that I be permitted to arrange time together, properly chaperoned of course, so that we may determine if the interest I possess and the interest I think, or perhaps hope, she possesses is sufficient to establish a union between us—in due time, of course.”

  “Whew, Seby, no wonder the Mexicans marry for life. You’d have a hard time saying that again, ­wouldn’t you?”

  A brief silence was followed by a burst of laughter from all three men. Just then, the women emerged from the kitchen, bringing with them a pot of hot cider and some finger sandwiches.

  “Did we miss something funny?” Katrina asked.

  “You did,” Tom said, continuing to laugh, “but please don’t ask us to repeat it. Once was enough. And yes, Seby,” Tom said, his laughter subsided and his face now turned serious, “it would be my great honor to approve such a request.” Tom reached out and shook the younger man’s hand, and Seby smiled broadly. He leaned a bit closer to Tom and lowered his voice while Katrina set the tray she carried on a nearby sideboard.

  “Perhaps, all going well, I may be able to call you something more personal than Tom.”

  “Perhaps,” Tom whispered back.

  “Wait a minute,” Teresa said, “have you guys been sharing your thoughts and conspiring about a gift?” she accused.

  “Oh, and we’re supposed to believe it was as quiet as a church mouse in the kitchen,” Tom said.

  “We talked a little,” Teresa admitted.

  “So, are we ready?” Tom asked. “Who’s to go first?”

  “I’ll go first,” Katrina immediately volunteered.

  “But you were the most reluctant,” Tom teased.

  “Yes, I was,” she said, coming over to stand by her husband and slip her arm into his, “but I also have the most to be thankful for this Christmas.”

  Tom motioned for everyone to take seats again and assisted Katrina into her chair. After Teresa finished pouring cider and Alice distributed a cup to everyone, the room grew quiet, waiting for Katrina to reveal her intended pres­ent to Christ. Katrina sat quietly for several moments, looking into the crackling fire.

  “Over thirty years ago, when my parents first investigated the church in Norway, I found a new meaning in my life. I was not yet fifteen, but I knew from the beginning that the message was true. Many people tried to tell my poppa that what these Mormons asked was far too great a price to pay—that God would never ask so much from His children. But I knew then, and I know now, that what He asks is so little in comparison to what He gives. So if His Son, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, entered our home tonight, on the eve of His birthday, I would first hug Him,” and at this statement she paused, smiling shyly as if she had erred, “and then I would tell Him that I would continue to do what His Father and my Father had told me to do, so that His sacrifice would not have been made in vain. Just as He had nothing more sacred to give us than Himself, so then, neither would I. And perhaps, in both cases of obedience to our Father’s commandments, we would give the gift we most treasured—we would give ourselves.”

  The only sound in the room was that of Teresa’s cup clinking on her crystal saucer as she set both utensils down on the table beside her chair. Then she came to kneel by her mother’s chair, resting her head in Katrina’s lap. She remained silent for some long moments, as did all the others in the room.

  Chapter 7

  Two days following Christmas, 1923, Colonel Rixby, Lieutenant Callahan, and Gunnery Sergeant Hol
loman drove through a mountain pass toward one of the upland villages on a recruiting mission for the new police academy. Originally called the Guardia, the organization had recently been renamed the Policía Nacional Dominicana, and the Dominican government had taken control of the force in anticipation of a U.S. withdrawal, expected sometime in late 1924. Marines, however, continued to provide primary training and, when necessary, the backup support required to assure police control of difficult situations.

  The first class of recruits since Tommy’s arrival was already in their twelfth week of training. Seventeen of an original class of sixty had washed out by Christmas, and it was likely that about a dozen more would either fail or drop out before completing the course in April. If that happened, the six-month course would have reduced the class size by nearly half before the cadets were supposed to move on to the second phase—a six-month probationary field experience.

  The regimen that Gunnery Sergeant Holloman had created included more physical training than the academy had previously offered, and complaints were common among the cadets. But it was the administrative duties—logistics, map reading, and even the menial task of rotational kitchen duty—that were most unacceptable to the recruits, many of whom felt that once in the police, they were above such labor.

  In fact, of the twenty-odd dropouts in the first class, nearly half had been self-imposed in response to Sergeant Holloman and Corporal Butterman’s demanding daily workouts. “Not even fit for pogie marines,” Holloman had complained. The veteran training instructor had seemed quite content with the dropout rate, although Colonel Rixby was pushing for larger numbers of graduates to satisfy the demand from higher headquarters and the State Department for quotas that would show the program to be a success.

  The tropical winter brought with it little change in temperature but a considerable increase in rainfall, which rendered the muddy mountain roads nearly impassable. Arriving in a small village after a perilous drive on a slippery road that was often as not a muddy stream, the three marines had hoped to find fifty or more candidates for the police academy. For two days, Corporal Butterman and two marine privates had scoured the surrounding villages for recruits, but had met with little success. Only a half-dozen men were to be seen, lolling about in the muddy village square.

  “Slim pickings, Corporal?” Rixby asked.

  “Afraid so, Colonel. The village chief told us that a group of bandits came through about a week ago, threatening any family that provided recruits. It seems to have worked, sir,” the corporal said, looking at the small, motley group of men.

  Colonel Rixby walked over to the closest Dominican and began to converse with him in Spanish. After several moments, he returned and nodded toward Lieutenant Callahan and Sergeant Holloman who both followed the colonel toward the back of the truck.

  “Lieutenant, the job just got a little tougher, it seems. ­We’re going to have to go into each of these villages and counteract the fear presented by the bandits. Look,” he said, removing his campaign hat and running his fingers through his thinning hair, “­we’re about to wrap up this assignment down here. You recall when I went to that meeting at the Constabulary Training Center at Haina?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tommy replied.

  “Well, the State Department had sent Sumner Wells down to negotiate with the Dominican government. By his direction, we’ll probably finish this program and get our troops out of the DR by the end of next year. We’ve got, what, maybe two more classes to train, and then ­we’re gone. The sooner that gets done, the faster we can get back to being marines.”

  Gunnery Sergeant Holloman glanced briefly at Lieutenant Callahan, and they both looked again at Colonel Rixby.

  “Sir,” Callahan said, “I was under the impression ...”

  Rixby nodded, anticipating Tommy’s question.

  “I know, Lieutenant, so was I, but that’s the word from upstairs. General Lee wants this job completed. He wants it done right and he wants it done fast. And that’s what ­we’re going to do.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Tommy replied.

  “Now,” Rixby continued, “this morning we’ll talk with these few recruits,” he said, looking at the small group of assembled men, “and then I’ll take one of the privates and head back to camp. You and Sergeant Holloman, along with Corporal Butterman, make the rounds of the surrounding villages for the next couple of days and gather what volunteers you can. I want you back at the training center by Friday. Understood?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s get to it then.”

  After having transferred the remaining supplies to Corporal Butterman’s vehicle, Colonel Rixby and Private Dominguez left the village shortly before noon. Tommy continued with the physical testing throughout the afternoon and was preparing to call it a day when a commotion started in the village. A local boy, about twelve years old, rode into the center of the village on a burro and in short bursts of Spanish, most of which Tommy ­couldn’t understand, began recounting something to one of the village leaders. Corporal Butterman, who spoke fluent Spanish, quickly gained a sense of what was occurring.

  “Lieutenant, the colonel’s been ambushed about eight miles south, just over the crest of the mountain road.”

  “How many men?” Tommy asked.

  Butterman jabbered at the young lad for a moment and looked back at Tommy, shaking his head.

  “The boy don’t know, Lieutenant.”

  Tommy turned to speak to Holloman, but the gunny was already gone and one of the other privates was running after him. Tommy looked back at Butterman.

  “Ask the kid if he can guide us back to the site.”

  “He said it’s right on the road, Lieutenant, by the shrine of the Holy Mother. You know, the crucifix station. I know the spot, sir.”

  “Right. How many rifles did you bring with you, Corporal?”

  “We’ve got our own weapons, sir, plus three rifles for marksmanship testing of the recruits. With you and the gunny, sir, that makes five men with weapons plus the three spare rifles.”

  Tommy glanced again in the direction Sergeant Holloman had disappeared and saw the sergeant coming back, his arms loaded with several packs. Tommy turned his attention back to Butterman.

  “Did you complete rifle testing yesterday, Corporal?”

  “We did, sir.”

  “Fine. Pick the best riflemen and give them the three extra rifles, assure them of a spot in the next class, and tell them they are now officially cadets of the academy. Issue twenty rounds to each man and be prepared to move out in ten minutes.”

  “Sir, none of these guys is what you would call a ‘rifleman,’ actually.”

  “I understand, Corporal; nevertheless, get them ready.”

  Gunnery Sergeant Holloman arrived just as Tommy was completing his orders. Butterman looked to the gunny who had heard the last of Tommy’s orders—to move out in ten minutes—but the gunny remained silent.

  “Sir,” Butterman said, “it’ll be dark in about forty-five minutes. We’ll never traverse that road in the dark.”

  Holloman interjected before Tommy had a chance to respond.

  “Who’s out there, Corporal?” he demanded.

  “Gunny?” he responded, confused. “Uh, the colonel and Private Dominguez, Gunny.”

  “Would they come for you, Corporal?” Holloman asked, his face a stern mask.

  The corporal thought momentarily and nodded his understanding.

  “We’ll be ready to move out in ten minutes, Lieutenant,” he said, looking back at Tommy.

  “Five minutes, Corporal,” Holloman added, turning his attention to Tommy. “Lieutenant, I’ve pulled together about two hundred rounds, plus another hundred for the BAR, and a couple of barrels of water.”

  “The corporal’s right, Gunny,” Tommy said. “It will be dark before we can reach them, and ­we’re as likely to get ambushed as the colonel did. The bandits are probably hoping that we’ll mount a rescue.”

  Holloman n
odded. “I would if I was them, sir.”

  Tommy allowed a small grin to cross his face. “Five minutes, Sergeant.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Holloman replied and turned on his heel, making for the remaining truck and shouting orders at the two privates who were loading ammunition and water.

  Intermittent cloud cover provided only an occasional glimpse of the moon, and in those brief appearances, the light provided enabled the small cadre of men to make their way through the jungle path. One mile short of the crucifix station, a small Catholic shrine where all who crossed the mountain pass stopped to offer their prayers to the Holy Virgin, Lieutenant Callahan divided his small command into two segments. Corporal Butterman waited in the truck with one private and one of the new recruits while Lieutenant Callahan, Sergeant Holloman, two privates, and two of the hastily recruited cadets made their way through the underbrush toward what they presumed to be the ambush site.

  Without radio contact, Corporal Butterman was to wait exactly sixty minutes and then proceed slowly up the road, attempting to draw fire from the suspected second ambush.

  Tommy’s group of six men made their way to the high side of the road above the crucifix shrine and settled in to wait for the arrival of Butterman and the truck.

  Just over an hour later they heard the rumble of the truck engine and saw the headlights round a curve just below the religious shrine. As Butterman crested the high point in the road, the headlights illuminated a newly felled tree blocking their passage. As soon as Butterman killed the lights and the engine and began to exit the vehicle, gunfire opened up from both sides of the road ahead.