by Gordon Ryan
The leader turned to his cronies and laughed. “’Ere, Alf, we got us a Mick with a mouth on ’em. What say we let ’em join the Norski on his face. Seems he needs a bit of a lesson hisself, though I don’t believe he’ll have the money this bloke’s carryin’.”
Didn’t yer Pa tell ya, mate, never take yer eyes off the other lad?
Before he had fully turned back to face Tom, a blow to the side of his head had rendered the large man mostly senseless, and he fell to his knees. As he tried to regain his feet, Tom delivered a quick kick to the man’s ribs, then, planting his boot on the back of his neck, slammed the man’s face and nose against the steel plates of the deck, where he lay without moving. Shocked by the speed with which Tom had dispatched their leader, the two cronies stepped backward, away from the no-longer smiling Tom.
“Now, lads,” Tom began, maintaining control of his voice and nodding to their victim, “I’d be helping this young man to his feet if I were you, and then your pal’s likely going to be in need of the ship’s doctor. He seems to have injured his nose rather badly in a fall down the gangway—or perhaps you’d rather tell the ship’s officer that one scrawny Irishman stepped in while you were trying to put the squeeze on one of their first-class passengers. What say ye?”
The two glanced nervously at each other. The forward man immediately lifted his foot from the shoulder of their victim, bending to help him to his feet. Tom slowly lifted his foot from the large man’s neck, still keeping the bulkhead to his back. The two rowdies moved to assist their companion, lifting him to his feet and heading off down the passageway, leaving a trail of blood behind them.
“Oh, and lads,” Tom called out, “it’s not a good idea to stroll these decks of an evening unless you’ve good intentions. Never can tell when you might run into an Irish ruffian, don’tcha know.”
Smiling politely as the two departed, carrying their injured leader on wobbly legs, Tom turned his attention to the young man he had saved, who was now standing unsteadily.
“Can I help you there, lad? Tom Callahan’s the name. And who might I be addressing, sir?”
Wary that perhaps he had escaped one incident only to fall victim to another, the young man remained cautious. Tom noticed his fear and smiled gently at him. “Not to worry, lad. And what might your name be?”
As the shaken young man stepped forward into the light, Tom recognized him immediately.
By all the saints, it’s her brother, he thought.
He was about Tom’s age, and unmistakably the man he’d seen walking with the young lady on the quay in Cork. Tom had chosen the right side, a decision that now filled him with an immense sense of satisfaction.
“Hansen,” the man said. “Anders Hansen, and highly grateful to you, sir, for your intervention.” He spoke with a decidedly proper British accent but something about the tone eluded Tom. Not British, he thought, but well-schooled in English.
“And where might ye be from, Mr. Hansen?” Tom asked.
“My family is from Norway, sir, uh, Mr. Callahan, was it?”
“That’s right. Tom Callahan. Here, let’s see if we can clean up some of the blood before your mother goes over the side with shock,” Tom said, reaching for the handkerchief in Anders’ pocket and handing it to him. “Seems the lads,” Tom said, nodding toward the direction the three had departed, “were out for a bit of your money. It’s kind of late to be up on deck all alone.”
As Anders wiped gingerly at the blood under his nose, he began to grin—a response to Tom’s being there alone also. “Aye, well, the Irish are used to being alone, even in a crowd,” Tom laughed.
“Mr. Callahan, this Norwegian is most thankful you chose tonight for your solitary stroll. And how might I repay your kindness, sir?”
A broad grin crossed Tom’s face. “We’ll come to some agreement, Anders Hansen. Indeed, we will. Tell me a bit about your family,” Tom said, leading the way back toward the port side railing and the rising moon, now well above the ocean and reflecting off the waves that stood between the Antioch and America. “Now would ye be having a sister, Mr. Anders Hansen?” Tom laughed.
And would she be interested in a formal introduction to a handsome, young, Irish lad?
The following evening, the one-week anniversary of the Antioch’s departure, Tom invaded the crew’s quarters, and by exercising a bit of subterfuge, cajoled one of the crew to let him use the shower facilities. It felt good to remove a week’s accumulation of salt spray and the Cork dust left over from his forced march through the southern tip of Ireland.
Dressed in the one good shirt he owned and the better of his two pair of trousers, Tom climbed the stairs to the upper decks. He was careful to avoid the crew members who were likely to forcibly remind him that steerage passengers were not allowed on deck until after nine p.m. Anders had said seven-thirty, and no crewman, nor three for that matter, were about to deter this Irishman, who was headed for a formal introduction to the vision that nightly danced in his head.
That thoughts of Katrina continued to occupy his mind confused Tom. For most of his life, at least since girls had become of interest, Tom found he could take them or leave them. In fact, when Molly O’Reardon, the one girl with whom he had formed a close attachment, advised him she intended to marry Patrick Lynn, Tom had casually wished her all the best and gone his way. Molly had bristled at the ease with which Tom had said good-bye. Of course when Tom told his mother about Molly, she had said that one day, he’d not find it so easy to move on, but that required the right girl, she’d counseled. Now, not only had Tom schemed to find ways to meet this unnamed woman, he found himself thinking about her during the rest of his waking hours.
Standing port beam, forward of the mid and upper deck passenger dining area, Tom leaned against the rail and fidgeted with one of the buttons on his shirt. It was loose and about to fall off. When he looked up from his inspection of the dangling button, she was standing not two feet in front of him, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Good evening, Mr. Callahan,” Anders said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. May I introduce my sister, Katrina Hansen. Katrina,” Anders said, turning to face her, “may I introduce my new friend and rescuer, Thomas Callahan.”
She’s already figured it out, Andy. But it’s worth the humiliation. She’s the prettiest thing a man could imagine.
Tom smiled the broad grin of a man caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Katrina had obviously figured out that she had been set up, and that her brother was in cahoots with the man who had tried to ignore formal courtesies only two days before. Still, she didn’t seem anxious to depart on this occasion, as she had on his last attempt. Perhaps Paddy O’Rourke was right.
I didn’t listen to ya before, Paddy, but this time . . .
“So, it’s off to Utah, then,” Tom laughed, bringing a bright smile to Katrina’s face, which started Tom’s heart to thumping once again. He felt as if the tongue in his mouth was beginning to swell larger than the container God had given it.
“Yes, Mr. Callahan,” Katrina responded, her demeanor courteous but hesitant. “And it’s still New York for you?”
New York’s dead, Katie. I’m for Utah, if you’ll just give me the sign.
“Aye, that it is,” Tom replied, shaking his head slightly, as if to indicate that his destination, not matching hers, was fast becoming a disappointment to his plans.
Sensing the attraction between his sister and his new friend, and not quite knowing what to make of it, Anders interrupted: “So, Mr. Callahan, what takes you to New York?”
Tom was taken aback—a condition in which he had seldom found himself when it came to verbally explaining his position. It was the Tom Callahan’s of the world that had given rise to the Irish myth that if one kissed the Blarney Stone, in Blarney Castle near Cork, one would quickly develop a silver tongue and never be at a loss for words. In this instance, not having even considered for himself what he intended to do in New York, Tom stumbled. Raising
his arms in mock ignorance, Tom replied, using the phrase his mother had frequently used as her children asked foolish questions, “Trust in the Lord’s good graces.”
Anders raised his eyebrows while Katrina continued to observe this new associate of Anders. Earlier in the day, she had been required to listen patiently for most of the morning while Anders described in detail the assault he’d endured at the hands of several British wharf rats and how he might have lost his money and even his life, had it not been for the intervention of one Thomas Callahan. She just had to meet him, Anders had cajoled, and finally, with little else to do on board ship, Katrina had given in to her brother, only to discover that the one and only Tom Callahan was in fact the same brash, young Irishman who’d so brazenly approached her two days earlier. Only her diary knew that for the balance of that day, and since, Tom had occupied her thoughts.
“Well, sir,” Katrina said, “if that is indeed your plan, then you shall be in good hands, although I have it on good authority that the Lord’s servants now reside in Utah.” She smiled brightly, pleased with her newfound knowledge and, not yet seventeen, unaware of the impropriety of flaunting it, especially with regard to religion.
“Aye? And would the Pope be knowin’ about that?” Tom teased.
“He’ll be aware soon enough, Mr. Callahan,” she replied, slightly miffed at his taunting tone.
“Thomas,” Anders said, intentionally changing the subject from religion, “I’ve spoken to my father about your actions last night.”
“Aye?”
“Well, he may wish to speak with you about the possibility of temporary employment once we arrive in New York,” Anders added.
“I thought you were going on immediately to Utah,” Tom said.
“Yes, we are, but we have a shipment of equipment coming after us, and Poppa thought perhaps you could see to its transfer to rail for forwarding to Utah. Would you be interested?”
Tom looked at Katrina briefly, smiling before answering. “Aye. That I would,” he replied, not taking his eyes off Katrina as he spoke.
Embarrassed, Katrina turned to Anders. “We’d best be off to dinner, Anders. It’s nearly time for first seating.”
Anders shook Tom’s hand again. “Thank you, Thomas. Perhaps we’ll be seeing you on the morrow. I’ll tell Poppa you’re interested in speaking with him about the job.”
“Good, Anders,” Tom replied. “And Katrina Hansen,” he said, raising his fingers to the brim of his cap, “it was indeed a pleasure to be formally introduced to you this evening. Perhaps we, too, shall meet again.”
The following morning, Tom carefully evaded the crew members and snuck onto the upper deck, where he found Katrina sitting on one of the deck recliners and reading. When his shadow fell on her book, she looked up and smiled. He nodded toward the deck chair next to her and, sensing no objection, assumed the seat.
“We’re halfway there,” he said.
“You’re halfway there,” she replied. “We have another two thousand miles by train, with even less opportunity to move about.”
“Aye. Still, if Utah is as lovely as you say, it’s a trip worth taking.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. It’s the land of our people—our new home.”
“Your people?” Tom asked. “You mean many Norwegians have settled there?”
Katrina laughed and turned the book she was reading for Tom to read the title. “No, not Norwegians. Mormons. This is the Book of Mormon.”
Tom reached for the book, quickly flipping through its pages. “What’s a Mormon?” he asked. He took no interest in the book and set it down on the small table between their deck chairs. He was grateful, however, for any excuse to speak to her.
Katrina smiled brightly and turned toward him in her seat, excitement radiating from her face. “Elder Stromberg told me I’d have an opportunity to teach the gospel. I didn’t know it would be so soon,” she laughed. “A Mormon, Mr. Callahan—”
“Just call me Tom,” he said.
Katrina furrowed her brow.
“We have been formally introduced,” he said. “By your brother, no less.”
Katrina allowed a smile to cross her face. “How about a compromise? May I call you Thomas?” she offered.
You can call me anything you want, lass. Just keep calling me.
“I’ve heard Andy call you Klinka, but I’ll call you Katrina and we’ll remain on a semi-formal basis, if that will make you more comfortable,” he replied.
Katrina furrowed her brow again. His vocabulary and accent have improved and he doesn’t sound so . . . so “country,” she thought to herself. “Yes, Thomas, I think that will be acceptable. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, a Mormon. Might I presume you are Catholic, Mr. Calla . . . , Thomas?” she smiled.
“Aye, that ye may.”
“What would you say if I told you the true church has been restored to the earth?” she said brightly, her enthusiasm returning.
“I didn’t know it had been lost,” he laughed.
Katrina pursed her lips and retrieved the book from the small table next to her. “Mr. Callahan, this is not a laughing matter. You asked me a question, and I am trying to offer an honest answer. I can assure you, sir, I take my religion very seriously, and if it is not your intention to listen with equal seriousness, then I am wasting my time.”
“Whoa, lass,” Tom raised his hands. “I think we’ve jumped off the deep end. This older gentleman, Elder Strummer, I think you said, did he take such offense at your questions when he taught you his religion?”
Katrina laughed out loud. “Elder Stromberg,” she said. “And actually, he’s not much older than you. But you’re right, Thomas,” she said, her demeanor softening. “I apologize for my abruptness. After all, I’m sure you have heard nothing about the marvelous works that the Lord has brought forth in this century. Mormonism, Thomas, is the Lord’s true religion, restored to the earth through a prophet.”
“You mean like Moses?” he asked, trying to keep a straight face.
“Well, somewhat. A prophet is someone who talks with God, Thomas. We have such a man at the head of our church today. Isn’t that wonderful news? Someone who talks directly with God.”
Tom leaned back in his chair, reaching for the book again, being careful not to stifle what he perceived as Katrina’s determination to tell him about the Mormons. “You mean like the Holy Father?”
“Well, I’m sure he means well, Thomas, but he doesn’t have the authority to speak for God.”
Tom’s eyebrows raised slightly, and he continued to thumb through the book, looking up occasionally at Katrina. “Who gives this authority?” he asked. “I’ve always thought the Pope could talk to God and the priests could as well. In fact my mother always told me to pray to God and my prayers would be answered.”
“Oh, yes, they will, Thomas,” Katrina responded with glee, leaning forward and nodding her head to confirm his statement.
“But you just said that a person needs authority to speak with God.”
“Well, I didn’t mean exactly that, Thomas. I meant, oh, it’s so simple, yet so confusing. A Prophet, like President Woodruff, is ordained to the priesthood and is called of God to preside over his church.”
“Like the Pope,” Tom repeated, enjoying watching Katrina’s animated expressions and listening to her enthusiastic explanations.
“No. Oh, Thomas, I want so to tell you what’s right, but I feel I don’t have the knowledge to do so.”
Tom smiled and leaned toward Katrina. With both of them sitting sideways on their deck chairs, their faces were only inches apart as the conversation became more animated. A delicate lavender fragrance filled Tom’s nostrils as he took in her scent, and he admired again the way her blonde hair framed her lovely, young face.
“Perhaps I could read a bit in this book and we could talk more about it later,” Tom suggested.
“Oh, yes!” Katrina exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Let me show you some important passages, and then yo
u may borrow the book for as long as you like. I can always use my mother’s copy.”
She showed Tom two or three lightly marked scriptures, and told him that the answers to many of his questions would be found in those areas. Suddenly aware of their close proximity, Katrina leaned back on her chair and swung her feet up into the resting position, resuming her gaze out over the ocean. They sat quietly for a few moments as Tom thumbed through the book, stopping to read some of the marked passages.
“Katrina,” he said. “Have you always been Mormon?”
She remained still. She had taken those moments to consider the propriety of launching into the teaching of religion to a stranger. She was fired by the unexpected opportunity but was also slightly embarrassed to have revealed so much enthusiasm. “No. My family was Lutheran, but about two years ago, a young missionary, the Elder Stromberg I referred to, met my father in Denmark. Later, when he came to Norway, he visited with us and taught us the gospel. We were all baptized into the church and are headed for Salt Lake City, which is the church’s headquarters.”
“You said this Elder Stromberg was about my age. When you first mentioned him, I pictured someone quite a bit older. Isn’t that a bit young to be teaching religion?”
Katrina thought for a moment, her intention now to go more deliberately, trying to be certain of what she said. “I don’t know, Thomas. The leaders send their young men, and also older men, out into the world to teach others about the church God has restored. He was very knowledgeable and most considerate of our thoughts and questions.”
“I see,” Tom answered. “And this religion—this Mormonism, I think you called it—is obviously important to you.”
She sat up in her chair, turning again to face Tom and looking earnestly into his eyes. “It has become the most important thing in my life, Thomas.”
Tom studied her for a moment before answering. Her cheeks were tinged with redness, the effect of the brisk morning air and the agitation she was feeling. In her enthusiasm for their discussion, she had cast aside the blanket she had used to wrap her legs and her movements were very animated. Tom was pleased to also note that she seemed to have taken to the sea voyage with ease, unlike many of the passengers, some of whom had begun complaining of sea sickness even before ship had cleared the confines of Cork harbor.