In this final volume of the Spirit of Union trilogy, author Gordon Ryan follows Tom and Katrina Callahan into their middle and late years. Tom must decide whether to remain true to the promise made to his mother not to abandon his Catholic faith or to embrace his wife's Mormon religion. Living in a time when aviation is just becoming a viable industry, the stock market is booming (some say growing out of control) and Hitler's evil machinations are on the horizon, the Callahan's face challenges that threaten to rob them of all they hold dear.

Set in Hawaii, the Dominican Republic, South America, Great Britain and the United States, Spirit of Union: Heritage is filled with scenes and characters that will linger in your mind long after you close the book.

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.

Chapter One continues ...