by Gordon Ryan
He was frequently overcome by fear—that his chances of actually making it to Utah were minimal and the likelihood of her waiting to marry were even less. Still, rather than abating, his determination grew stronger. He would get to Utah.
Eight hundred miles to the west, on the far side of Chicago, the train pulled out slowly, gathering speed as the Hansens settled in after a full week and a half of resting, bathing in Lake Michigan, and obtaining sleep lost during the previous several days traveling from New York. Lars Hansen and his family had stopped in Chicago to visit with relatives who had immigrated several years earlier, and to explore the prospects for his business ventures in Utah. A furniture maker by trade, Lars had arranged with the Chicago branch of his family to obtain necessary materials and to ship additional orders and specialized cabinetry that would be needed to establish his new business in Salt Lake City.
Katrina and her sisters had used the time to refresh themselves and to purchase some new American clothes. Her mind was filled with constant thoughts of Thomas and how, or perhaps if, he would indeed come for her. In a way, the promise she made to him on the Antioch was thrilling, but there were times when she panicked thinking of actually being married to a man she had only briefly known. It didn’t help that her father had such strong views on the topic. She’d heard him express his pleasure to her mother that they had finally gotten the Irish lout out of Katrina’s life and that as soon as they got to Utah she’d find some suitable Mormon boy from a proper family and settle down. “Ya, Momma, it is time,” Mr. Hansen had said to his wife, “she’s coming to be a woman.”
The train trip west proved mind numbing. For a time, the scenery west of Chicago was green and lush and the rail line frequently ran through small communities. Then, the number of towns thinned out, and the landscape became more open, dry, and dusty. Advised that they were approaching the Mississippi River, which she had learned about in world geography, Katrina brightened some, but in the main, each clickity-clack of the train wheels only served to reinforce the image of the miles opening up between herself and young Thomas Callahan, the handsome Irishman who continued to permeate her thoughts and dreams.
As June stretched into July, Tom found the stifling New York heat almost unbearable. He had taken to stopping at a reasonable facsimile of an Irish pub on his way home from an evening job he had located as a night janitor for the New York Transit Authority. Cleaning horse-drawn trolleys at night, after spending ten hours at the produce market, wasn’t the most enjoyable thing Tom had ever done, but it did provide another seventeen dollars and fifty cents a week to add to his growing savings. He had accumulated slightly over a hundred and twenty dollars, much of it acquired from one-time odd jobs. Tom had found he wasn’t afraid of work. Thinking back, he thought it ironic that the one thing his father had taught him was to work hard, and that ability was the thing that was enabling Tom to survive.
His visits to the pub, however, were beginning to sop up an ever-growing portion of his earnings, and his tendency to brawl after drinking was bringing Tom to resemble the typical “Paddy” many New Yorkers despised. Feisty, belligerent, and downright mean-spirited when drinking, Tom was quick to confront anyone who dared to voice an opinion contrary to his. Luckily for him, he was handy with his fists and more often than not came out on top in the fights he provoked or accepted. But the course he was on was leading him toward exactly what Katrina’s father had warned her about and—what frightened Tom the most—to becoming a replica of his own father. Whether he acted out of depression over the seeming impossibility of ever catching up to Katrina or in response to his native Irish temperament, the result was the same. Tom was fast becoming a typical, hard-drinking, hard-fighting Irishman who bore little resemblance to the man that Katrina continued to harbor in her dreams.
Quietly listening to the piano player bang out the latest hit tune, “Sweet Rosie O’Grady,” Tom sat in the pub one evening, staring morosely into his pint of Guinness, his mind and spirit back on the Antioch the night Katie sang to him, when he had felt the confirmation of his love for her. He didn’t notice the man who approached the table until he spoke. “Mind if I join ya, lad?”
Tom looked up from his stein, over which he’d been brooding, toward the kindly face of an older man. Looking pointedly around the room, Tom gestured to several empty tables, and returning his gaze to the man, responded in a surly tone, “I prefer to drink alone.”
“Aye,” the visitor responded, “I’ve noticed, but conversation, now that’s another thing entirely, and I’m in desperate need of someone for a palaver.” He smiled affably as he pulled back the empty chair and seated himself. The man’s hair was sparkling white and thinning, and his face was ruddy, showing a number of small, broken capillaries around his nose and cheeks. Tom was in no mood to notice, but the lobes of the man’s large ears turned up, almost as though they were folding over on themselves, providing a somewhat comic look. He held Tom’s gaze with a pair of eyes that were a deep brown color, and continued smiling as he made himself comfortable.
Tom returned his gaze to his beer stein. “Suit yourself, old man.”
“I notice you’re coming in more often than at first,” the old man stated, forming a question.
Tom continued to stare at his drink, unsure how to handle the intrusion. Most with whom Tom had dealt in the bar had been young Irishmen, like himself. After an initial meeting, either a discussion or a confrontation resulted, but the old man—that was a different story. “What’s it to ya?”
Signaling to the bartender for a pint of Guinness, and continuing to smile, the old man just stared at Tom for several seconds. “Everything, lad,” he said softly. Then leaning forward and folding his hands in front of him on the table, he said, “Let me tell you a story.
“I met a young lad not too long ago. Much like you, he was. Came in here nearly every night, he did. Sat mostly by himself but occasionally got involved in a bit of a donnybrook. One night, three of the lads were waiting for him outside the pub, and in the fight, he picked up a piece of cobblestone and bashed in one of their heads.” The old man paused to take a drink of his beer, before continuing.
“I sat with him once more after that, not long ago, upstate, as he waited to meet our Lord. He was more subdued by then, frightened you might say, as was I. You see, lad, the jury found him guilty of murder. I sat with him for hours, heard his confession, and prayed with him. I walked with him down a long corridor and read to him from the Holy Book as they strapped him in the chair. He’s gone now, lad,” the old man continued, looking up at Tom. “He was electrocuted in New York State Prison, not yet turned twenty-one.”
“What’s that got to do with me, old man,” Tom asked, his voice angry and accusing. “What are you, anyway, a do-good Yank?”
The old man laughed. “No lad, just an Irish immigrant like yourself, only I’ve been here over forty years now. Came over in ’52 as a young man about your age.”
“And you spend your time in pubs bothering the rest of us with scare stories?”
“No, I spend most of me time down the street at St. Timothy’s. I’m the parish priest there, lad.”
Tom was surprised. The man wore ordinary work clothes, with no visible sign of his calling. “So, are ya looking for contributions then, Father?”
“You could say that, lad,” the priest acknowledged, “but not so as you’d think. I’m after saving souls, lad, not money.”
“Humph,” Tom snorted, “ya missed yer mark this time, Father. I’m not in need of saving this fine evening. I got troubles enough of my own, and you’d do better looking for someone’s soul who needs your services.”
“Oh, I think you missed the point, Mr. Callahan,” he said, surprising Tom with the knowledge of his name. “It’s not your soul I’m after saving, it’s me own that needs help, lad. Ya see, the other lad I told you about—I saw the trouble coming for months, and I just sat back and let it happen. It wasn’t his soul I was worried about up there in the prison cell, for
he’d seen the error of his ways. It were me own soul I feared for.”
“Well, I’m not the one with the collar around me neck, Father, so’s I can’t give you absolution. Go see yer own priest.”
The old man downed his pint and slid his chair back, continuing to stare at Tom as he started to stand. “I have, lad. I have that, indeed. But I’ll not stand by and let another walk down the same path he did without trying to help. You been here what, two, three months? You look to be about twenty, Mr. Callahan, and might have a long life ahead of you, if you but find your way. I’ll give you my oath on it, lad, the next six months will tell the tale. You might indeed live a long and adventurous life, but in the next six months you’ll determine how it’ll play out. I’d like to be of help, but you’ve got to be willing, lad. Father O’Leary’s the name, and you can find me at St. Timothy’s just down the street. Anytime, lad, anytime.”
He stood to leave but then paused for a moment. “One more thing, lad. If it’s a young lass you’re brooding over, you’ll not find her in the bottom of that beer mug.” He stood quietly, until Tom looked up at him briefly, “And if she knows you’re in there, she’ll not be wanting you, either. Think on it, lad, and come see me.”
After Father O’Leary left the pub, the bartender came over to replace Tom’s drink. “He means well, son,” the bartender said. “He’s just burdened with his load, like the lot of us. He took young Patrick’s death hard, that he did.”
Tom returned his stare to the fresh glass as thoughts of Katrina began to run again through his mind. Till the end of the year, Thomas Callahan, she had said. I’ll wait for you till the end of the year.
Eventually finding his drunken way back to his dingy one-room flat, Tom lay fully dressed on his mattress, unable to sleep and thinking about the old priest’s words: “The next six months will tell the tale, lad.” In more ways than you think, Father. In more ways than you think, he mumbled to himself.
Chapter 5
The early morning fog swirled around the harbor and the wharf in Copenhagen giving a ghostly appearance to the small group of young men waiting to board the steamship, which was already crowded with other passengers who had boarded the evening before in Bremerhaven.
After shaking hands with a well-dressed, older gentleman, Harold Stromberg, leader of the six men boarding the ship, carried his belongings up the ramp, with the rest of the group following quickly behind him. After stowing their gear in their cabins, the young men returned to the main deck and stood at the railing, watching as the crew singled up all lines. As soon as she was released, the vessel began drifting away from the pier, aided by the harbor tug pulling at the stern of the great ship.
Stromberg hailed from Salt Lake City, Utah, and held the honor of being the grandson of Magnus Stromberg, one of the early pioneer settlers of that arid desert. By the time Harold’s father had been born, the economy of the Utah Territory was thriving and already had drawn thousands of Mormon converts from the eastern states and the British Isles to the high mountain valleys. When his father, also named Magnus, had been called to serve a mission in Wales, young Harold was already six, and it was standing by his mother’s side, holding back the tears, that he had watched his father leave with a group of men for their fields of labor. In the Mormon tradition, their service and sacrifice (including their extended absence from the family) was viewed as both an obligation and an honor—a necessity to further the Lord’s plan on earth. Elder Harold Stromberg was, then, a third-generation Mormon and the third in his paternal line to complete a mission for the church. He was intelligent, somewhat more sophisticated than the other elders, and possessed of a strong sense of duty. In short, he was the product of a strong intellectual and spiritual heritage and had represented himself very well.
The older man, who had remained on the wharf, was Charles Ogleby, president of the church’s Scandinavian Mission. He had come to say farewell to the six young men who had served under his leadership, but who were now going home. The elders waved good-bye to their president and spiritual leader, until the fog completely obscured him. With land out of sight and the ship entering the harbor’s main channel, Harold Stromberg allowed the memories of the three years he’d spent in Denmark and Norway to play through his mind. Both countries were part of the Scandinavian Mission of The church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a mission territory that extended as well to Sweden, Finland, and Ireland. One thought above all others occupied his mind, as it had since first meeting Lars Hansen’s family and his daughter Katrina. Stromberg knew that the Hansens had emigrated and were by now living in Salt Lake City, Harold’s final destination. And the letter from Lars Hansen, posted from Chicago and received only two days before Stromberg’s departure, advised that his return would be a welcome occasion and stated that he was heartily invited to call on the Hansen’s, where, Mr. Hansen had assured him, Katrina would be most happy to receive him.
It had been a long and arduous three years, and Elder Harold Stromberg, aware of his family heritage and imbued with the spirit of his calling, had worked hard to ensure the Lord would find his service acceptable. But now, as he turned his thoughts toward home, he was just as sure the Lord had a multitude of future blessings in store for him. Katrina Hansen stood at the head of that list, and in less than six weeks, he hoped to reap the most important reward of his service.
The young lad carrying the flyers wasn’t more than ten by Tom’s reckoning, but like hundreds of other children Tom had seen since arriving in New York City, he was out earning his portion of the family’s income. Tom accepted one of the posters from the lad and glanced at it as he boarded the trolley, bound for his evening job. The notice took his immediate attention.
Laborers Wanted
No Experience Necessary
$5.00 a Day
East River Bridge Construction
6:00 A.M.
In 1868, John Augustus Roebling was commissioned to build a bridge that would span the East River, from Manhattan to Brooklyn. With ferry service the only way across, the river had long served as an inconvenient barrier, and Roebling had long dreamed of building a bridge that would span the river. He had worked for many years to see it established. Unfortunately, early in the process that started in 1869, Roebling died in a construction accident.
His son, Washington Roebling, a Civil War veteran, continued the work, though he was at one point incapacitated by diver’s sickness, or the “bends” as the decompression ailment came to be called. Bedridden during much of the construction period, the younger Roebling nevertheless continued to engineer the building of the world’s first cable-wire, steel suspension bridge, a true engineering marvel.
The first task, however, designed to facilitate the building of the bridge, was the fabrication of a caisson, or floating construction dock. An engineering marvel in its own right, the caisson was a device that employed a pressurization system to remove water from its lower compartments, enabling construction workers to work below the surface of the water. The use of the caisson was fraught with dangers and a number of mishaps and deadly accidents dogged the massive project. When the bridge was completed fourteen years later, in 1893, the construction had been costly in terms of both money and human life.
Folding the flyer and putting it in his pocket, Tom found himself astonished at the wages, exceptional by any standards for skilled tradesmen, much less general labor. Unknown to Tom, ten years earlier, the original bridge laborers had earned only two dollars and fifty cents a day. The peril involved in working within the pressurized caissons had made it difficult to keep good men and had driven the wages up.
Applicants were directed to apply in person to the foreman, Stanicich Construction, 236 East River Road, between six and noon for the following three days.
At five-thirty the next morning, Tom arrived to find a large number of men already standing in a line outside the warehouse facility. The applicants ranged in age from kids no older than the young man who had passed out the flyers, to men
the age of the priest Tom had met in the pub. At six sharp, a man opened the door to the warehouse, and the line began to slowly move. Tom could tell from the men coming out that the old and the very young were being rejected for the work, raising his hopes for acceptance. Finally his turn came and he entered a small room where two men were seated behind a table. A stocky man, with a two-day growth of beard and chewing on a cigar, looked up.
“What’s your name, son?”
Tom removed his cap and held it in his hands in front of him. “Callahan, sir. Thomas Callahan.”
“How long you been in America, Callahan?”
“Three months, sir.”
“Any experience working around the harbor or on bridges?”
Tom hesitated, not wanting to eliminate himself on the basis of lack of experience, but not wanting to be caught out in a lie. “No, sir,” he replied, “but I’m a quick learner, sir.”
The man glanced up at Tom. “It’s not a job for the faint hearted, Callahan. You got the stomach for a dangerous job?”
“Aye, sir,” Tom replied, beginning to wonder what kind of job would pay such wages with no experience necessary.
“All right, Callahan, sign here, and be back at six o’clock tomorrow morning. Six sharp, Callahan, and sober. Miss one day’s work, drunk, and you’re through. Understand?”
“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir,” Tom said, backing out of the room quickly.
Outside again, Tom fell in quietly with a cluster of men who had also apparently been hired. He mingled with the group, hoping to find some clue as to the kind of work they would be doing. He saw a man about thirty years old, who was talking to several younger men, seeming to give instructions.