The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  Through the following several weeks, Katrina struggled to survive and to provide sustenance for herself and the baby. Still overcome at times by fear and depression, Katrina nevertheless continued to exist, day to day, on the edge of the Mexican jungle. To survive and to save the baby had become the focal point of her existence.

  Tom posted two letters the following morning before checking out of his hotel. One, to Sister Mary, contained a copy of his will, executed the day before Andy arrived and leaving everything to the Sisters of Holy Cross, to be used in caring for children in need. The other letter, written after Andy arrived in San Francisco, was an instructional letter to the Bank of Ireland. It contained a draft drawn on Wells Fargo Bank in San Francisco. The letter contained an order for the Irish bank to provide monthly payments to Mrs. Margaret Callahan of County Tipperary until further notice.

  Andy had brought Tom a couple of letters, given to him by Sister Mary on the day he left Salt Lake City, including a forwarded note from Tom’s mother advising that his father had passed away some months earlier. She had sold the shop and was living off the proceeds. Two of his younger brothers had left home, but one had returned following their father’s death. Tom’s bank draft assured them of a comfortable living for the indefinite future.

  Except for the sense of urgency to discover what had happened to Katrina, Tom and Anders’s ocean trip down the coast of California and around the Baja Peninsula was peaceful and uneventful. Tom took the opportunity to reflect on the past year. Running away from Kansas City, then Salt Lake City, escaping the law, no money or prospects—all of it seemed eons ago. Receiving news of his exoneration while in Seattle had taken some time to work its way into Tom’s everyday thought process, but now he actually felt as though his fugitive status had been lifted, and that feeling changed his outlook on life.

  Tom had purposely not told Andy about his good fortune in Alaska. The only person he had confided in, via his letter, was Sister Mary and even then, only that he’d had good fortune in Alaska, but not how good. His mother and family taken care of, Tom felt the Lord had truly stood by his side and as Katrina had said, he would have no worry for his future with such a companion.

  During the voyage to Mazatlán, Andy told Tom about some of the developments at Holy Cross Hospital and why he had decided to leave his father’s household and accept employment with Sister Mary. It was long overdue, he said. Even Lars Hansen had come to accept the move, Andy said.

  By the evening of the third day, the ship rounded the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula and began crossing the gulf to Mazatlàn. The offshore islands presented a beautiful picture as Tom stood by the railing, observing the ship’s approach to the narrow gap between two towering rock formations, behind which lay the natural harbor that Captain Cardenas had discovered nearly four hundred years earlier.

  Watching landfall from the deck of a ship, Tom thought, was becoming his routine. He had seen such views in New York harbor with its majestic Statue of Liberty, in Seattle, in Alaska on the western edge of North America, and of course, in the wide entrance to the harbor at San Francisco. Though he found that he had fairly good “sea legs,” Tom could not envision a life at sea for himself. He much preferred having land beneath his feet.

  Taking a carriage into the center of Mazatlàn, Tom and Anders arrived in the town square, a center dominated by a large Catholic cathedral, the likes of which Tom had seen in several places in Ireland. The hotel did not match the accommodations of the Grand Union in San Francisco, but then neither had the tent in which he had spent most of the past year in the Klondike.

  Inquiries to the local police provided no more information than the fact that the remaining Mormon colonists had left by wagon and on foot for the north of Mexico. Reports were that they had arrived at an old, established Mormon colony just south of the United States border. Andy did the questioning while Tom remained quiet.

  A guide was located, and on the morning of their third day in Mexico, they procured horses and rode out to the remains of New Hope. There they saw the charred rubble that had been the barn and several houses. The houses that had not been torched had been torn down for their lumber and other materials. All that remained as evidence that people had once lived there was the rutted road in and out of the place and the hard-packed, bare ground in front of the burnt or dismantled dwellings. Off to the east, in a small grove of trees, the villagers had buried those settlers who had died during the skirmish on the evening of the raid.

  The graves were not marked, but the guide told them that at least two women were buried in the grove. Tom stood over the grave sites under the trees, wondering if Katrina lay beneath his feet. The thought of her being dead created a great hollowness in him, though he would hardly allow himself to believe such a beautiful young woman was actually gone, her promising future ended in disaster in Mexico. Unwilling to contemplate such a fate for Katrina, he turned and headed back toward the deserted community.

  “We’ve got to go see Don Sebastian,” Andy commented on the ride back to Mazatlàn.

  “You said he didn’t reply to your inquiry,” Tom said.

  “That’s right. But we’re here now. Maybe he’ll see us.”

  Two more days spent in town provided some information on the whereabouts and habits of Don Sebastian. His routine, it was said, included Saturday evening worship at the cathedral. The following Saturday, Tom and Andy sat in the town square surrounding the cathedral and watched the residents come and go, in and out of the church. Don Sebastian’s carriage was easy to spot, and as the distinguished gentleman was helped from his seat by a servant, Andy rose to intercept him. The servant, more a bodyguard, moved between the two as Andy approached.

  “Señor Cardenas, my name is Anders Hansen, and I seek your assistance in locating my sister, Katrina Stromberg. May I please speak with you for a moment?”

  Don Sebastian paused, then continued walking, grunting something in Spanish to the guard, who waved Anders off.

  “Please, Señor. I would like to know if she is alive,” Andy said to the old man who shuffled away, toward the steps of the cathedral. Tom stood close behind, but said nothing as Andy pleaded.

  Don Sebastian hesitated, then turned to Andy, observing Tom’s presence as well. “Mr. Hansen, I do not know if your sister is alive, but I do know that my daughter is dead—as I am dead. I can be of no assistance to you. Please, allow me to grieve in private.”

  Andy was embarrassed to have troubled the man, seemingly old beyond his years and the suffering which he had borne evident in his manner. “I am truly sorry, Señor, for your grief. Please excuse the intrusion.”

  Tom and Andy stepped back, retreating to the bench they had been sitting on and resumed their seats, unsure how to proceed next.

  “Did you see the sorrow in his eyes?” Andy asked.

  “He looks like a man in deep grief,” Tom replied. “It may have been that more people suffered than just the Mormon colony.”

  Thirty minutes passed while they sat, discussing their inability to proceed without some sort of lead. Then, looking up, they saw Don Sebastian’s body guard approaching.

  “Señor Cardenas instructed me to advise you that his son, Miguel Antonio, is in residence at the small hotel at the end of the plaza,” he pointed. “He may be of some assistance.”

  “Thank you,” Andy said. “And, please, thank Don Sebastian.”

  “Sí, Señor. Buenos noches.”

  They watched the carriage drive off, catching a final view of Señor Cardenas through the carriage window as it turned the corner. He was slumped in his seat, his chin lowered onto his chest, and he didn’t acknowledge those who stood and bowed their heads respectfully as the carriage passed.

  “A man of honor, I think,” Tom said.

  “And respected by the people of the city, by all appearances,” Andy added, watching as the carriage disappeared around a corner. Looking at Tom, Andy nodded in the direction of the hotel, a question in his eyes.

  Tom
agreed. “Aye, let’s go see if Miguel is there. We’ve got to see if he knows anything, Andy,” he said, rising from the bench.

  In the lobby of the hotel, they asked directions to Señor Miguel Antonio Cardenas’s room.

  “Señor Cardenas is in the cantina across the street,” the desk clerk said in broken English.

  “Thank you,” Andy replied.

  Seated alone outside the cantina, at a small table in a courtyard lighted by colorful lanterns, was a man drinking beer from a bottle. Music and some laughter came from the open door, but the man paid no attention. A cluster of empty bottles was scattered about him on the table where he sat.

  Approaching the man, Tom followed his hunch. “Miguel?” he asked, and the man looked up.

  “Sí. Miguel. What is it you want?” he said in slurred English.

  “A word with you, if possible,” Tom said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. Andy remained off to one side and watched.

  “We have come looking for the sister of my friend,” he said, motioning toward Andy. “Her name is Katrina Stromberg.”

  Tom could see the man bristle at the mention of the Stromberg name. “Can you help us, please?”

  “I don’t know anything. Be on your way.”

  Tom looked down at the table and back up into the man’s eyes. “We’ve come a long ways, and anything you might know would help,” he said.

  “What makes you think I know anything?”

  “Your father sent us to you, Señor. He seemed to think you might be able to help us.”

  At the mention of his father, Miguel looked directly at Tom. “You have spoken with Don Sebastian?”

  “Briefly. At the cathedral.”

  “Is he . . . he is well?”

  Tom held the man’s eyes, reading the family trauma that had somehow separated father and son. “No. He is not well.”

  Miguel lowered his head, maintaining silence between them for moments while Tom allowed him time to contemplate. Finally, Miguel looked up at Tom and spoke. “I have not been home since the night of the raid. I was responsible for . . .” he hesitated, staring off into the distant night. Looking back at Tom, he continued, “About twenty-five miles north, on the beach, at a place called Point Lobos. You may find her there. You can go by sea. Just tell anyone in the harbor you want to go to Point Lobos.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Her husband?” Miguel queried, confused.

  “Harold Stromberg,” Tom said.

  Miguel’s face registered his shock as he realized that Teresa and Katrina had also been part of the deadly game. “He is dead,” Miguel said flatly.

  Tom maintained his composure at the surprising news of Harold’s death, and standing to leave, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Cardenas.” Miguel didn’t acknowledge his thanks, but sat, head drooping, continuing to stare down at the table. Before turning to walk away, Tom said, “Miguel, your father needs his son,” but receiving no answer, he joined Andy, and the two men walked through the town square, back toward the hotel.

  “Any luck?” Andy asked.

  “She’s apparently about twenty-five miles from here.”

  “He knew where she was?” Andy asked, excited.

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful. When can we go?”

  “In the morning,” Tom said, continuing to walk.

  “Tom?” Andy asked, seeing his concern.

  “Tragic family, Andy. He didn’t know that Harold was Katrina’s husband. I wonder what happened here.”

  “Maybe Katrina knows.”

  “Maybe. Let’s get some sleep and see about a boat in the morning,” Tom said. “Oh, and Andy. Harold Stromberg is dead.”

  “Then Katrina is alone out there.”

  “Until we find her,” Tom said.

  Chapter 2

  Working inland of the offshore islands, the wind-powered fishing boat took several hours to navigate the twenty-five miles to Point Lobos, tacking to take advantage of the shifting winds.

  About noon, the forward crewman pointed as they rounded a spit of land that thrusted abruptly out from the steady, even coast line they had been following. “Point Lobos,” he said. A small cluster of huts, thatched palm leaf roofs, and naked children signaled the appearance of the fishing village the skipper had told Tom and Andy about. They pulled the boat in until it grounded itself against the smooth, sandy bottom, and one of the crewmen jumped out and held it fast. Tom and Andy also jumped over the side and waded through the warm surf to shore, then walked with wet pants across the broad beach toward the village.

  The skipper, who spoke both English and Spanish, accompanied them to translate. He asked the first man they met as they approached the village about reports of a gringo woman living in the area. Without speaking, the villager pointed south on the beach, and returned to mending his nets. The three men walked farther along the beach, keeping to the hard wet sand where the surf had washed up. They encountered villagers also walking the coast line, gathering driftwood and scavenging the beach. After a walk of several hundred yards, they came to two small huts but found them both abandoned. Though they were clearly deserted, Andy glanced anxiously into each of them, only to announce, “No one here.”

  They came at last to a place where several Mexican women were foraging in the brush, inland from the beach, and a group of small children was running and playing in the area. Two of the women each had a baby strapped to her back as they gathered firewood. Andy walked toward the women, signaling the fishing boat skipper to accompany him to translate. As he neared, the women stopped gathering to watch his approach, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun off the water at Andy’s back. As Andy drew near, one of the women took a hesitant step or two toward him. She was dirty and her hair was matted on her head, in desperate need of combing.

  Tom watched as Andy spoke with her through the interpreter and then began the walk back toward the beach.

  “Any news?” Tom asked.

  “She left. A week ago,” Andy replied.

  “Where to?”

  “They don’t know.”

  As dark descended on the fifth day of her trek, Katrina worked at starting her nightly fire, which she desperately wanted, knowing it would comfort her and the baby through the dark hours. Obtaining the matches had been the final detail in her plan to quit the beach and strike out overland for New Hope and, eventually, Don Sebastian’s hacienda. She had stolen them from the Mexican who came twice a week with a donkey and cart to Point Lobos to purchase fish for his inland village. Stealing the matches from his cart had filled Katrina with fear, but she knew she would have no chance in the jungle without the ability to start a fire.

  Now, only four matches remained, and she had not yet recognized any landmarks, although she felt certain she must be nearing familiar ground. Her plan to go to the hacienda had seemed the right thing to do, although she was not at all certain how Don Sebastian might receive her. She found herself banking on his responding favorably to Teresa’s baby.

  After surviving nearly three months in the shack on the beach, the decision to leave had not come easily. But no further sign of Miguel Cardenas during that time had convinced her that she was indeed on her own, and an indefinite contest for survival on the beach seemed fruitless.

  But it was the baby who, once again, had made the decision for her. Sebastian had survived—something that several times hadn’t seemed possible—but he hadn’t gained much weight, and his stool was constantly loose. A steady diet of goat’s milk seemed to be inadequate to properly nourish him. Then, too, Katrina constantly reflected on her promise to Teresa.

  For part of the time, Katrina actually had labored under the belief that she would keep the child—would raise him as her own. In her prayers, she had bartered with the Lord, arguing that Sebastian was little enough compensation for all she had lost and all she had endured. But even as she prayed, she knew it wasn’t right. Besides, she had promised Teresa to deliver the baby to Don Sebastian, and her conscie
nce wouldn’t allow her to do less. His dark hair and dark skin served as a constant reminder that the baby was Teresa’s child—and Don Sebastian’s grandchild. Only his eyes linked him to his father.

  But it was a dream that convinced her of what she must do. She saw Don Sebastian standing before her, smiling and holding out his arms to her—whether for her or for the child, she could not decide.

  It took her nearly two weeks to hoard enough food to begin. She saved some fish by drying it and obtained a few ears of corn from the villagers. During that time she experimented leading the goat on a tether. At first it had been balky and resisted, but by working with it each day, she was finally able to coax it along.

  Then, early one morning, she tied her few provisions into a bundle, and strapping Sebastian to her back in the native fashion, she led the goat away from the beach and headed inland into the jungle.