by Gordon Ryan
In one plot, the tombstones told a specially poignant story of the hardships endured by the people who dared to settle there. Reading the inscriptions on the markers filled Tom with both sorrow and a feeling of awe. He was able to imagine how those courageous people had suffered in that isolated place and harsh climate.
In one set of graves, Alexander Potemkin lay side by side with his wife and three children. The inscriptions gave ample information for Tom to piece the story together. Anna was born 22 April 1768, and died the next day. Nicholi was born 30 May 1769, but lived only six days. The third child, a daughter named Katrina, was born 17 December 1770 and lived only eight days, dying on Christmas. Tom stood for many minutes looking at Katrina’s grave marker, marveling at her name, and trying to imagine the pain the parents must have felt as they buried their infant children.
Alexander Potemkin’s wife, Sophie, died in 1771, a young woman, just twenty-six years old. Potemkin followed her eight months later. He was only thirty-four.
Looking at those old grave markers and trying to imagine how it had been for these people, Tom found it easy to believe that after burying her three babies, and dying herself within a week of the last child, that Sophie Potemkin likely succumbed to a broken heart, rather than some illness.
Such stories were also told by the grave markers Tom had seen in the cemetery in Salt Lake. The cost of pioneering new lands was always high, and thinking of such things always put Tom in a mind of home and Ireland, where the terrain had been claimed and the land settled for generations and where, in spite of poverty, relative safety and civilized comforts were readily available.
For ten days the Pacific Challenger remained in Kodiak, giving Tom the opportunity to travel inland with a small hunting party from the ship and to observe firsthand, the taking of a giant Kodiak bear. Never in his life had Tom seen a creature so big. When spotted, the majestic animal had simply tried to make its way peacefully to safety, but once shot in the hind quarters, it had turned and raised to its full height, nearly eight feet, as measured following the fusillade of shots from the inexperienced and frightened hunters who finally brought it down.
Out to sea, the Pacific Challenger once again made good time on the run down the Alaska Peninsula, cutting through the chain of islands at Dutch Harbor and running north by northeast for St. Michael’s. Tom arrived the last week of July and immediately took local transport by water to Anvil, across a large inlet. Miraculously, within four hours of arriving in Anvil, Tom had located his uncle who had just returned from a trip inland.
“By all the saints ’tis good to see ya, Tom. You’re a strapping, lad, that ye are. Tell me, lad, how’s that passel o’ young’uns?”
“All were well when I left, Uncle John. Of course, that’s been over a year now. Ma’s letter back in May said they were still doing fine.”
“And how’s your father treating m’sister?”
Tom lowered his head. “About the same, I’d be guessin’, Uncle John.”
“Aye. ’Tis sad. But knock off the ‘uncle’ bit,” he said, taking the edge off the conversation. “We’re in the wilds of Alaska now, lad. Partners we be, not kin. Least not so we need to show the world.”
“Aye,” Tom replied.
“So, what brings ye two-thirds of the way around the world, Tom? Surely not a visit with yer uncle.”
“Just a series of events, Uncle . . . I mean, John. Your letter said it was a bright place, full of promise, and I thought I’d see for myself.”
“It’s a bright place now, Tom, but come winter, well, you came at the right time, lad. We’re off in a few days. If you’d been much later, I’d have been gone.”
“Off? To where?”
“Up the mighty Yukon river, lad. Inland, hundreds of miles. I was up there a few years ago and met a man named Carmack. George Washington Carmack. Rough sort of fellow, with a Scotsman named Henderson for a partner. He had a couple of Indian or Eskimo relatives, and they were mining.”
“You’re going into the mines?” Tom asked, incredulous.
John laughed and slapped his knee. “Not ‘into the mines,’ lad, but mining, sure enough. Panning, to be more exact. We’re after gold, Tom. The gold of a man’s dreams.”
“In Alaska?”
“In Canada, actually. Well inland, past the Alaska territory. In a place called Dawson. Just a wee campsite, actually. Carmack’s found some color, and he wrote me last month to come on over and have a go at it. So, what do ye say, Tom? Ready for a bit more travel?”
“On the river?”
“Aye, lad, and we’ve got to get moving. The river will freeze up late September or October and then nobody travels in Alaska, ’cept by the dogs.”
“The dogs?”
“Sled dogs, Tom. Aye,” John laughed again, a full throated uproarious laughter that reverberated through the small cabin where Tom had located his uncle. “I’ve got a right ’nuff cheechako on me hands.”
“A chee . . . what?”
“A greenhorn, lad. Somebody who don’t know nothin’ about Alaska. Somebody who’d die in thirty minutes outside during the winter without someone what’s gonna protect him.”
“Well, I’ve been traveling for the better part of six weeks, John,” Tom said with a grin. “I suppose another couple of weeks won’t kill me.”
“Just might, Tom. ’Tis a hard land you choose to visit to see your old uncle,” John laughed. “Just might kill ya.”
“This chee . . . cheechak . . . , or whatever, intends to stay alive, Uncle John, unless you’d rather write Ma and tell her what you did with her son.”
John’s face grew serious for a moment, and then he smiled at Tom. “Good to have ya, lad. A man needs a partner in this here land, and kin’s the best kind of partner a man can have. Put your hand on it, lad. Partners we be, and partners we stay. Fifty-fifty, come gold or come mud. What say ye?”
“I say I’m hungry, John. Any food in this land you’re boasting about?”
“Down to the saloon, lad,” John said, standing up and grabbing his mackinaw. “Where all good Irishmen should be to celebrate their good fortune, or maybe the thought of it.”
“John, what’s ‘color’?”
“What?”
“You said Carmack found some ‘color.’”
John laughed again. “C’mon, lad. A few pints of the brew, and you’ll know all about the color of gold.”
Harold Stromberg’s trip south took him to a much more hospitable climate. In 1519, leading an expedition of several ships from Spain, Hernan Cortez made landfall on the western shore of the Gulf of Mexico. His arrival marked the beginning of the conquest of the New World. Directed by King Ferdinand II to find gold, Cortez was determined to obey his sovereign. Finding a harsh, inhospitable land, difficult to traverse, he broke his company into several parties with instructions to seek out and conquer the natives, plundering whatever they might find that would be of worth to His Majesty.
By 1536, under another king, Cortez had extended his exploration and discovered the Baja Peninsula. He sent out separate parties to explore the surrounding land, and to Captain Garcia Cardenas fell the task of marching north and west toward the mythical Seven Cities of Cibolo, or cities of gold. On the western coast of central Mexico, a natural harbor was encountered. Captain Cardenas figured that from this harbor, where he would establish a port, his ships could easily load the gold and return to Spain laden with the treasures that were certain to bring honors to his family name. Surrounded by marshy terrain, the land abounded with deer, which the local natives called mazat, and in 1540, Mazatlán, which did not actually become a city until the early nineteenth century, was entered onto explorers’ maps.
Over the next three centuries, Mazatlán became a haven for pirates, ships flying foreign flags, and a headquarters for the Catholic missionaries who accompanied the conquistadors, as eager to capture the souls of the local natives and bring them unto Christ as the soldiers were to subject them to their individual desires and royal g
reed.
By the time Harold Stromberg arrived there in the late nineteenth century, Mazatlán had experienced three hundred and fifty years of European influence, and Don Sebastian Cardenas, a direct descendent of Captain Cardenas, was well established as the Patron of Mazatlán. Closely allied with Porfiro Diaz, President of Mexico, Don Sebastian’s holdings were vast.
His residence in Mazatlán rested on a high promontory, overlooking the large harbor. It was a site easily defended from sea assault by the guns of a single outpost situated on the rocky point at the entrance to the harbor.
As his ship entered the harbor, Harold Stromberg was met by Don Sebastian’s oldest son and several caballeros who rowed out to the ship. Speaking excellent English, Miguel Antonio Cardenas greeted Harold with a flair that surprised the Utah native and which immediately established his status in the community. Those with Miguel saw that Señor Stromberg was a man who Don Sebastian held in high esteem, and who was to be treated with great deference and respect, a role Harold quickly and easily assumed.
Don Sebastian spoke English surprisingly well. He explained to Harold that the house in which they currently resided was his town home. His hacienda, he said, was located about eight miles north. Twelve miles beyond there, farther up the coast, was the land Don Sebastian had described to Harold’s father, consisting of about eighteen thousand acres, some marsh land, but mostly excellent farming land with ample vegetation for cattle. Miguel, the Don said, would escort Señor Stromberg to the site as soon as he had sufficiently rested from his arduous journey, a two- or three-day process during which he would be well cared for.
After being shown to his room, Harold unpacked some of his clothing, then stood on the balcony, admiring the view of both the harbor and the town of Mazatlán. In the center of town, the spires of a magnificent cathedral rose above the red tile roofs of the buildings surrounding it, its bells pealing pleasantly, calling the faithful to evening worship.
Below, in the quadrant, several riders made a dramatic entrance, their horses’ hoofs clattering on the floor of the cobblestone paved courtyard. Servants rushed to attend to the horses, controlling the spirited animals as the riders dismounted. Harold’s eyes were riveted to one of them. She wore a black, tailored riding skirt, a white, long-sleeved silk blouse, and polished, black leather boots, and her eyes were shaded by a flat-brimmed Spanish riding hat with dangling tassels. Dismounting skillfully and with an air of authority, she handed the reins of her excited stallion to one of the grooms. Stepping away from the horse, she loosened the wooden slide on the cord under her chin, allowing her hat to fall from her head to the back of her neck. Then, removing a comb and shaking out her long, black hair, she turned toward the house. Before disappearing from the courtyard, she glanced up at the balcony, catching Harold’s eye, smiling slightly and nodding to acknowledge his presence. Then she was gone.
As the courtyard cleared, Harold remained for a time on the balcony, feeling as though he had been granted the privilege of observing the royal party. He returned to his room, where he slept, lying on his bed, until he was roused by a light tapping on his door.
“Señor Stromberg?” an accented male voice called through the door.
Startled from his unplanned sleep, Harold stirred slowly. “Yes, yes.”
“Señor, dinner will be served in thirty minutes, por favor.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be there,” Harold responded groggily.
The servants were waiting with cool lemonade as Harold descended the spiral staircase and found Miguel Antonio on the verandah. As was the case from his room, the view was magnificent, encompassing the entire harbor and the colorful boats of the fishing fleet anchored there. They were quickly joined by Don Sebastian, who greeted Harold as Magnus had advised him to expect, with the most cordial of Mexican greetings. “Mi Casa, Su Casa,” Don Sebastian declared.
The courtesy of saying “my house is your house,” in the Spanish tradition, meant exactly that. Full privileges of the house were afforded, and the guest was treated as family by the servants, made to feel completely at home. His father’s advice had proved correct, and the custom was exactly to Harold’s liking. He would revel in the courtesies being extended him.
“Don Sebastian, I brought some documents from my father,” Harold said, handing a sealed packet to his host.
“Gracias, Señor,” Don Sebastian responded. “And how is your father?”
“Quite well, sir, thank you. He sends his regards and asks that you take no insult from his not having come in person.”
“Ah, de nada, Señor. It is nothing. We are most honored to have his eldest son with whom to conduct our business. Surely you will wish to see the land we have proposed to your father, but first we must show you some of the hospitality of Mexico and of our beautiful Mazatlán. Do you ride, Señor?”
Harold smiled. “Sí, Don Sebastian. My father taught me to ride as a young boy.”
“Ah, bueno. Then tomorrow, perhaps you and Miguel can ride some of the countryside, and you will learn a bit about our land and our people.”
“I would like that, Don Sebastian. If that would be acceptable to you, Miguel,” Harold said, looking toward the younger man.
“My pleasure, Harold. It is my hope that we become good friends, as we shall be neighbors shortly.”
Harold’s eye caught a flurry of activity as several servants moved toward the staircase and Señor Cardenas and Miguel turned toward the inner room. Harold watched as the young woman he had seen earlier gracefully descended the staircase. Her eyes locked for a moment with Harold’s, and then she turned her attention to her father, smiling at him as she came forward.
Harold hadn’t thought she could look more beautiful than she had appeared in riding costume earlier, but her presentation this evening was stunning. She wore a simple, yet elegant, full length, powder blue, empire-waist dress of satin material, accented only by a pearl necklace and matching single pearl earrings. Her dark hair, now removed from the plaiting she had worn earlier, hung in a dramatic single coil, cascading over one shoulder.
“Señor Harold Stromberg, allow me to present my daughter, Teresa Maria Cardenas. Teresa, this is my old friend Magnus Stromberg’s eldest son, Harold.”
Teresa performed a slight curtsy and nodded her head as she offered a smile to Harold. “El gusto es mio, Señor,” she said softly. Switching to English, she continued her greeting. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to my father’s house, Mr. Stromberg. It is our hope you will find everything acceptable. I am at your service, Señor, to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”
Harold stood quietly, enjoying her beauty and marveling at the grace with which she assumed the role of hostess in her father’s house. Don Sebastian spoke to break the brief silent interlude.
“My wife had been dead for some years now, Harold, and Teresa has graciously accepted the responsibility to serve as the woman of the house. We pay great respect to the hostess,” he laughed, “and I’m certain you will find that Teresa will spare no effort to assure you are welcomed with proper Spanish civility,” he said, wrapping his arm around his daughter.
“Don Sebastian, that I may be deserving of such hospitality is my foremost desire, and, through a growing friendship with your son,” he said, looking at Miguel, “to solidify the relationship you have formed with my father. And, of course, your lovely daughter,” he added, taking care to smile directly at Teresa and receiving in return a pleasant smile from the beautiful young woman. “Thank you most humbly for this warm and gracious welcome.”
Don Sebastian smiled broadly, nodding toward his son and looking back toward Harold. “Well said, young man. Your father has been a great friend to us and rendered us a valuable service. It will be an honor to have the Stromberg family as our neighbors in Mazatlán. To your health, Señor,” the Don said, raising his glass. “And rest assured, Harold,” he added, “your father has long ago explained to me your religious beliefs with regard to alcohol. I assure you that you will ha
ve them honored while in my household. Now,” he gestured toward the dining room, “if you would be so kind as to escort my daughter to the table, Señor Stromberg, we will commence with dinner.”
Teresa moved toward Harold, waiting for him to initiate their movement toward the dining room. Realizing that all were waiting for him, as the lady’s escort, Harold stepped off lightly. A waiting servant assisted with her chair, the one at her father’s left. Harold, at the unspoken direction of another servant, was seated on his right, directly across from Teresa.
At the conclusion of dinner, the four removed to the drawing room, a spacious, leather appointed room filled with books of all origin, many in English, as during the next several days, Harold would come to discover. Pleasant conversation consumed the evening until shortly before eleven, when Teresa excused herself. Her father and brother stood, bringing Harold to his feet also as she prepared to leave.
Before exiting the room, she glanced at Harold, then turned to Miguel. “Perhaps, Miguel, Señor Stromberg would like to join us for an early morning ride.”
Miguel looked at Harold for his consent.
“It would be my pleasure, Señorita Cardenas.”
“Excellent,” she said. “Shall we say six o’clock?”
Harold nodded. “I will look forward to it. Until then,” he replied, enjoying the dramatics of the situation and bowing slightly as she exited the room.
“Well,” announced Don Sebastian, “I think it’s time an old man also took his leave. One thing, Harold,” he added. “Your father included this envelope in the packet of documents he provided. I believe it is for your eyes.” He handed Harold a sealed envelope that had his name boldly written on the outside.
“Thank you, Señor Cardenas. If you’ll excuse me, I think I would also like to go to bed. It’s been a long day, and six o’clock will come early. Thank you for providing such a warm welcome.”