Destiny - The Callahans #1

by Gordon Ryan

  Once, several years before, a small opera company from Dublin had toured the countryside, and Tom had attended a performance in Limerick. It too had filled him with appreciation for the music and the God-given talents some were fortunate to possess. Katrina’s voice, surprisingly rich and full for a woman of her age, delighted those in attendance. Even Mrs. Morgan dabbed at her eyes as the young girl sang.

  Concluding her lullaby, Katrina nodded to the piano player, who reached for a page of sheet music resting on the piano top. As he began to play the introduction, Tom immediately recognized a tune that had recently become a favorite in Ireland. Originating in a New York stage play, the tune had been taken to the collective Irish bosom, and it had become wildly popular in the Emerald Isle. Recalling home, Tom listened intently as Katrina sang. At one point, she briefly locked eyes with him, but the spell was broken when Mr. Hansen coughed softly and Mrs. Hansen began to fidget.

  “Sweet Rosie O’Grady,” Tom thought, would forever remain in his heart as having first been heard—truly heard—that evening on the steamship Antioch, sung by the voice of an angel, whom Tom, at that moment, knew he loved. This was the woman his mother had spoken of years earlier. This was the woman who would permanently claim his heart. In that deeply emotional but private moment, listening to her sing “Sweet Rosie O’Grady,” he vowed that whatever the cost and however difficult the road, he would make it to Utah. Katrina Hansen was the one.

  Later that evening, after the farewell dinner, having avoided two crewmen in order to make his way above decks, Tom found Katrina standing at her usual spot by the deck chairs. He quietly slipped next to her, leaning on the railing without speaking. For several moments they stood silently together. Finally, Katrina broke the silence.

  Having endured her father’s outburst in her parents’ cabin following dinner, Katrina had come on deck rather than return to her own cabin. Anders was still in their parents’ cabin, continuing to receive his father’s tongue lashing.

  “My father reprimanded Anders for inviting you to dinner, and told me I was not allowed to see you, Thomas,” she said softly. “He also told Anders to tell you that he would no longer require your services in New York. I’m sorry, Thomas.”

  I know it’s our last night, Katie, but tell me you’re not going to obey him. Please, tell me quickly.

  Tom remained silent. “I’m sorry too . . . ,” he finally said. Katrina turned to face him and Tom looked into her eyes, “ . . . both for his instructions to you, and for the way I behaved at dinner.”

  Katrina returned her gaze to the ocean before responding. “You were both . . .” she hesitated, groping for an appropriate word, “well, foolish. And you, Thomas Callahan,” she said, looking intently at him, her tone now reproving, “took offense at a father’s protectiveness.”

  “Aye,” was all that Tom could muster. They both fell silent again for several awkward moments. “And will you follow his instructions?” Tom asked, without daring to look at her.

  Say it girl, say it—“No, Thomas, I’d rather be with you for the rest of my life.” Tell me, lass, please tell me.

  Katrina didn’t answer immediately. Stepping back from the railing and gathering her skirts around her in a manner Tom had come to recognize, she formed her face into the little pout Tom had noticed the first time he had confronted her.

  “Father says you’re nothing but an Irish ruffian and that you’ll not amount to anything in life,” she smiled.

  Aye? Well, perhaps he’s not as stupid as I thought, Tom thought but didn’t say.

  “I see. And does he forget that his Viking ancestors came knocking on me great-great-great-grandmother’s door and for all he knows we’re already related,” Tom taunted.

  Katrina allowed a small laugh to escape her lips at this historical revelation, and then immediately assumed a more serious countenance. In the few days they had been acquainted, Tom had recognized that his interest in Katrina was larger than passion or youthful conquest. Consequently, he had refrained from his usual “steal a kiss” approach. Yet, on this final evening prior to their arrival in New York, Tom wanted desperately to tell her his feelings, to confide in her the love he had come to feel in his heart. He refrained, however, and remained content to stand with her, silent as to their respective feelings.

  After a few moments, Katrina placed her hand on Tom’s arm on the railing and turned to smile at him. “Thomas, tomorrow we will arrive in America, and we shall be required to go our separate ways.”

  Oh, ye can’t be telling me good-bye, Katie, I’ve just . . .

  “You are a good man, Thomas Callahan, in spite of my father’s opinion to the contrary,” she continued, exhibiting, to Tom’s way of thinking, a wisdom beyond her years. “And I,” she paused, lowering her eyes, “shall be sad as we part. I want to give you something, Thomas.” She reached up her sleeve to retrieve a small photograph. “This was made a couple of months before we left Norway. I would like you to have it, Thomas.”

  Tom accepted the picture, looking at it quietly for a moment and then placing it in his shirt pocket.

  This can’t be all I’ll have from the trip, Katie. I can’t let you go that easily, he quickly thought, startled by the ache that throbbed in his chest.

  “Katie, me darlin’ . . . ,” Tom softly replied, speaking aloud for the first time the term of endearment he had come to apply to Katrina in his private thoughts, and from which he meant no insult or improper familiarity. In truth, hearing it for the first time, it instantly became rather endearing to her although no sentiment had yet been expressed by either of them in their brief association.

  “ . . . parting is sweet sorrow,” he smiled, “or so the Bard has told us. Mrs. Morgan forgot that excerpt tonight.”

  Katrina laughed again.

  “I know we’ve had but a short time together,” Tom continued.

  “But, Thomas . . .” she began, but he placed his finger over her lips and smiled.

  “ . . . and in that short time I’ve come to care for you, Katie. I know your father doesn’t think I’m worthy of you, and,” he paused and smiled, “aye, the truth be known, he’s probably right. You’ve told me a bit about this new religion of yours, and your father’s feelings toward Catholics. But I don’t really know how you feel, and,” he said, looking out over the railing toward tomorrow’s landfall, “we don’t have the time to consider it now. But this I want you to know, Katrina Hansen.”

  He turned to look deeply into her eyes. “I’ll ask you but once to consider my proposition. If you are willing, I shall find a way to this Utah—I don’t know how or when yet, but I shall come. You have my word on it. And I ask ye, Katie,” he paused, once again looking back out over the sea, “ . . . I ask ye to wait with any marriage plans you may be considering till the end of the year. I will find you within that time and we will see what fate, or the Lord, has in store for us.” He looked back into her eyes and took her hand in his.

  For several minutes they stood there silently, listening to the wash of the water against the hull of the ship and looking west, toward the reflection of the moon and their anticipated landfall the next afternoon. A bank of clouds hung low on the horizon, and the late setting sun splashed them with a kaleidoscope of colors that stretched the length of the sky, north to south. Birds had appeared earlier in the day, but with the coming of darkness they were now gone.

  Finally, after what seemed to Tom like an eternity, his question hanging in the air, much as the waning moon, Katrina strengthened her grip on his arm and turned to face him.

  Katrina Hansen, two months short of seventeen, stood five feet, six inches tall as she gazed up at Tom Callahan’s six-foot-one stature. With her free hand, she lightly brushed back his black, unruly hair and rose up on her toes, gently pulling his face down toward hers. Placing her cheek softly against his, she felt the warmth of his skin, and stood that way for several moments. Then her lips sought his, and, keeping her eyes closed, she kissed him tenderly.

  Tom
was startled by the boldness of this wisp of a woman, who, with a touch of her hand, a sparkle in her eye, and a crystal in her voice, had brought the Irish larrikin to his knees. He took her in his arms, holding her for the first time, then releasing her to look into her eyes. She smiled at him once again, her eyes dancing, with determination etched on her face.

  “The end of the year, Thomas, I’ll wait till the end of the year.”

  29 April 1895

  Dear Nana,

  Tonight was a most unusual night, Nana. After dinner, Poppa got very angry and has forbidden me to see Thomas, but I have disobeyed him.

  There’s just something about Thomas that makes me feel warm all over. It is a new and confusing thing, but I can’t talk to Momma because of what Poppa instructed. I wish you were here, Nana. Is this how it feels when someone is falling in love? Can someone fall in love in only a few days? I don’t know what to do, Nana, but then, as I read back over my letters to you, I never seem to know what to do.

  Should I follow my heart or my father? Do all young girls have this problem? Questions, questions.

  Jeg elske du,

  Trina

  4

  Tall and majestic, her eyes serene and her countenance weathered by nearly a decade of greeting those who came to partake of her promise, she stood at the entrance to the harbor, her arm raised high to light their way. As the Antioch glided gracefully past her small, island home, Tom stood at the port railings with the other passengers. Class rules had been suspended during the approach to New York harbor, and immigrants, first-class, and steerage passengers alike stood shoulder to shoulder and three-deep to gape at the Statue of Liberty and the approach to the busy port of New York. For many passengers, those escaping tyranny in its many forms, it was the beginning of a dream come true, and they wept.

  In their joy, they were blissfully unaware of the living metaphor being played out by the mingling of upper and lower classes on that bright, sunny day. They would soon learn that in this new country, economic differences were more significant than proper social birth, and that given the right combination of luck and perseverance, within a generation, even the lowliest of immigrants could provide for their children the right to occupy the same first-class cabins their parents had been denied while coming to America.

  The Statue of Liberty, France’s gift to the people of the United States of America, stood towering above the harbor entrance and welcomed the three hundred forty-two people aboard the Antioch. Slowing, the ship turned slightly to meet the government boat that would ferry this latest cluster of immigrants to Ellis Island, the port of entry where, to date, nearly two million immigrants had arrived to begin their new lives in America.

  Tom’s excitement at the arrival was tempered by the knowledge that he would soon have to endure the departure of Katrina. Rather than the end, Tom had determined, it was going to be only a brief interlude in what he had come to hope would be the beginning of the rest of his life—a life to be lived with Katrina Hansen at his side.

  30 April 1895

  Dear Nana,

  I saw the Statue of Liberty today, Nana, as the ship entered the harbor. Hundreds of the passengers lined the deck of the ship to look at her. Some people were crying.

  We are on a small island in the harbor of New York, and Poppa has arranged our train passage to Utah. It is two thousand miles further, and we will stop to see Uncle Arthur and Tonta Jessie. Sorry, Nana, I still think in Norwegian sometimes... Aunt Jessie in Chicago.

  Nana, I must confide in you tonight. I have come to like Thomas Callahan very much, and in spite of knowing how Poppa would feel, I have seen him on several occasions during the voyage. Always with Anders present or nearby, Nana. Well, just once without.

  He asked me to wait for him till the end of the year, when he will come to Utah to find me. I don’t know why, Nana, but I agreed to wait. There’s just something in my heart. I know you would understand. He doesn’t know much about our church yet, and I am concerned. But the gospel is true and he will believe, won’t he? As I know you and Grand Poppa now understand.

  Did your Poppa approve of Grand Poppa, Nana? Is it always necessary to go against one’s parents in these things? I do not wish to be disrespectful, and I love Poppa, I really do. But he seems, well, he just seems afraid that I am becoming a woman. It must happen Nana, mustn’t it?

  I am excited to be in America.

  Jeg elske du,

  Trina

  The afternoon of his third day spent on Ellis Island, Tom stood in line with dozens of other immigrants waiting to speak with the immigration officer who was seated at a table, processing the applicants. Tom resented the cardboard name tag he and the others were required to wear, hanging from their lapels by a piece of string, as though they were so many pieces of luggage rather than human beings. While being subjected to the medical review the previous day, Tom had been made all too aware of the nature of his status—similar to the sheep in Ireland that merely followed those ahead as they calmly went to their shearing, or in some cases, to their slaughter.

  Continuing to scan the vast room, he was momentarily startled to catch a final glimpse of Katrina as the Hansens were escorted through the barrier into their new life as Americans. Citizenship was some time off, and in fact where the Hansens were heading, citizenship was at present, denied, even to those born in Utah.

  On the final afternoon of their voyage, after the ship had been intercepted by the immigration authorities, Anders Hansen had found Tom on the middle deck, where the Irishman had been watching the first-class passengers being boarded on the launch that would take them to Ellis Island. Anders said his good-byes, thanking Tom once again for having rescued him from his three assailants. He handed Tom a small, wrapped parcel and said he hoped they’d have the chance to meet again someday. Then, wishing Tom the best of luck in New York, he quickly moved down the stairway to rejoin his family. Unwrapping the parcel, Tom felt a twinge of pain as he read Katrina’s short note.

  “Thomas, this book is my most prized possession. I pray that you will come to understand its meaning and the truth it contains. The Lord’s blessings be with you, Thomas. Till the end of the year, Sincerely, Katrina.”

  Now, waiting in line for his turn to become an American, with the Book of Mormon tucked into his hip pocket, Tom’s final look at Katrina was as she adjusted her bonnet, preparing for the windy harbor ride to New York City and the train west. She didn’t see him as they parted, but the sweet sorrow of which William Shakespeare had written, centuries earlier, was as present in Tom Callahan’s heart as it was the day the Bard penned the words.

  “Name?” the gruff voice called, breaking Tom’s reverie.

  “Thomas Matthew Callahan,” Tom replied, Katrina’s departing vision firmly etched in his mind.

  “Mick, is it?” the man grinned, looking up at Tom.

  “Thomas . . . Matthew . . . Callahan,” Tom repeated slowly, drawing out each name, his eyes firm in the man’s face.

  Slightly cowed by Tom’s stare, the man assumed an officious posture, harrumphed, and returned to his paperwork, beginning the tedious process of filling out the forms to admit another hopeful, ignorant, immigrant.

  “The Irish are all ‘Micks’ here,” he spat out. “Get used to it.”

  Never had Tom seen anything to match New York City. On the one occasion when his father had taken him on a buying trip to Dublin, Tom thought there could be no larger city and no more people clustered in one place. New York City quickly dispelled that illusion.

  For two days, Tom had walked the streets of New York and had not passed the same place twice. If the map he’d found in the park was right, he’d barely scratched the edge of the city, remaining well within the confines of lower Manhattan.

  Spending the first two nights sleeping on the ground in Battery Park, near the south end of Manhattan, Tom quickly came to discover just how many people were without homes or employment, and the enormity of the task he faced trying to break through that ma
ss of humanity. By the morning of the third day, he’d found day work in the fresh vegetable market, partly because of the lessons his father had drummed into him had provided a knowledge of fruits and vegetables, and partly because the floor boss at the market was also Irish.

  Finding living accommodations proved harder. Given his memory of crowded conditions back in Tipperary, he hadn’t expected fancy, but he found himself surprised by the squalor of the flop house and the stench of the mattress he was provided for fifteen cents a night. He quickly learned from the other tenants not to leave anything of value around during his time away, which didn’t prove much of a problem, since he wore most of his clothes on his back, and carried his shoulder kit with the rest, every place he went.

  Within a week his routine had been established. He rose at three o’clock to be at the marketplace long before dawn. Finishing his work by noon, he spent the rest of the day looking for work more likely to provide the kind of money he would need to fund his trek to Utah. Always Utah.

  Thoughts of Katrina flooded his mind while he worked, and it became an obsession to find a way to move in that direction. Though his job was sufficient to pay for his abysmal accommodations and meager food, his wages were not enough. Something else would have to be found in order to obtain funds to move west.

  The hardest part was the loneliness he felt each night as he lay on his mattress on the floor, listening to the myriad sounds emanating from his rooming house. The photograph of Katrina was becoming tattered from constant review, and even the Book of Mormon, especially the early parts about the two brothers, was dog-eared. Lying there in the dark, he struggled to picture her lovely face and he recalled again and again the kiss she had given him. He remembered her mannerisms, especially the earnest look she would get on her face while struggling to explain her newfound religion. The images were sweet to contemplate, but also a kind of torture.