Destiny - The Callahans #1 (2 page)

In 1890, Christiania, Norway, was a bustling
city, the center of the Norwegian struggle to wrest independence
from Sweden. Ruled for centuries by Denmark, Norway had been ceded
to Sweden by the Treaty of Kiel in 1813, following the Napoleonic
wars of the early nineteenth century. On May 17, 1814, shortly
after the treaty was effected, Norway elected a king and its own
parliament. By the time Lars Hansen arrived in Christiania in 1890,
Norway was being governed under a constitutional monarchy in
domestic matters, but Sweden still controlled foreign policy, and
the Norwegians persisted in fomenting for complete
independence.

By 1893, Lars had established ties with
cabinet makers across the Baltic Straits in Copenhagen, and it was
on one of his buying trips to Denmark that he crossed paths with
the man who would ultimately change his life and that of his
family. Harold Stromberg, a young Mormon missionary from Salt Lake
City, Utah, serving in the Scandinavian Mission of the church,
impressed Mr. Hansen with his forthright presentation on religion.
Lars invited Mr. Stromberg, should he ever travel to Christiania,
to visit with his family and to share his beliefs. Late in 1893, as
the mission grew and new territories were opened for proselytizing,
Lars Hansen answered a knock on his door one crisp winter evening
to find Elder Stromberg and another young man smiling at him and
shaking snow from their overcoats. Within two months, the Hansen
family, under Lars’s guidance and firm direction, had embraced the
new faith and, to Lars’s way of thinking, a new future.

During their initial visit in Denmark,
Stromberg had told Hansen of the throngs of Mormon converts who
were leaving European countries for America, a new land where equal
opportunity was available to all its citizens and where like-minded
people who wished to serve their God could do so in harmony with
their neighbors. Such an idea appealed to Lars, and the rejection
he experienced at the hands of former friends in the family’s
Lutheran church, once they learned of his conversion to an upstart
religion, solidified his decision. The Hansen’s would sell the
store and immigrate to America. Mrs. Hansen found this a hard
decision to accept, but the recent death of her elderly mother,
whom Mrs. Hansen had been nursing, eased the transition. Propelled
by the strong determination of Lars, the Hansen’s prepared to
migrate to Zion.

Strong religion was not a new thing to the
Hansen’s. Lars’s father, Wolf Hansen, had been a devout Lutheran,
adhering to the tenants of the state-sponsored church all of his
life, and involving his family from the day of his wedding. As a
young lad, Lars’s earliest memories were of his father’s
condemnation of the “papists,” as he called all Catholics, and of
his father’s vitriolic hatred of the “ignorant Spaniard,” also a
Catholic, who had, as a deckhand on the Jenny Tollefsen where Wolf
served as first mate, caused the accident that resulted in the loss
of Wolf’s leg.

Nurtured in such a parochial environment,
Lars Hansen easily formed the opinion that Catholics were “the
spawn of the devil.” When Lars finally took a wife and began his
own family, the tradition continued. The new Mrs. Hansen lacked the
will to oppose her husband in any matter, and so acquiesced in
every instance to her husband’s wishes. It would never have
occurred to Lars that it should be any other way.

By April of 1895, the business and family
residence sold, the Hansens found themselves at the last stop
before the great leap across the ocean toward what Lars had begun
calling “their destiny.” Ensconced aboard the
Antioch
, Lars
and Sofie Hansen had the main cabin; Anders, the oldest child at
twenty, a small cabin to himself; and Katrina, together with her
two younger sisters, shared a room with two double-tiered bunks,
one of which was used to house the younger girl’s large collection
of dolls.

In later years, during the height of
upper-class travel in the early twentieth century, such
accommodations as the Hansens had would come to be designated
“POSH,” referring to the “Port Out, Starboard Home” placement of
the cabins, which allowed the wealthy occupants to be on the
equatorial or sunny side of the ship during both passages. The
Hansens, however, on a one-way voyage to their new life, required
only the port side.

On this last day before sailing on the
Antioch
, Katrina and her brother had gone ashore to stretch
their legs and explore the quay in search of diversion before the
long trip to America.

Through either coincidence or destiny, Tom
Callahan and Katrina Hansen had been brought face to face. Each was
seeking in their own way to throw off the yoke of a domineering
father, and both were on the brink of a great change in his and her
lives. The brief, early-morning encounter on the docks of
Queenstown had greater import than either could have known. Two
young people had cast their lot to the winds and were about to
embark on life’s voyage, ignorant of the part each would soon play
and the impact each would have in the life of the other.

Walking the length of the quay, as he had
done most evenings since his arrival in Queenstown, Tom found
himself in a melancholy mood as he contemplated his last night in
Ireland. His week in Cork and Queenstown had been spent working at
odd jobs and trying to conserve his meager funds. For
entertainment, he had only indulged himself in a nightly pint or
two of beer. Though he enjoyed a brew, he had imposed on himself a
limit to how much he drank. As a boy and young man, he had seen too
much of a truculent father who routinely stumbled home after the
pubs had closed, demanding that his wife reheat his dinner and
attend to his other needs, and becoming physically abusive when she
took too long to be about it. Tom’s older brother had stepped in
one night to prevent their father from assaulting the frightened
woman and absorbed a fearful beating for his trouble—an event that
provided the impetus for the older boy to leave home forever. Tom,
who was thirteen at the time, had weathered his share of heavy
blows and over the years had been conditioned to never interfere
when his father came home inebriated.

At sunset, on what was to be his last evening
in Ireland, Tom stood at the end of the quay, watching the clouds
on the horizon turn from pale pink to gray and thinking of his
home. He loved his mother, and during the times when his father
wasn’t drunk, their home had been pleasant enough—especially when
he was young. Memories of happy times spent in the village and the
cottage where he had been raised flooded his mind and evoked a wave
of nostalgia. He thought of the mournful Irish songs his mother had
often sung to him when he was a lad, and the memory created an ache
in his chest, the likes of which he had not experienced. His
favorite time when he was a boy had been this very time of
day—evening, after supper, when the lamps were lit in the cottage
and a fire glowed in the hearth. To think of never seeing that
again filled him with a sense of loss he would not have been able
to describe.

As the sun dropped into the sea, beyond the
horizon, the evening stars began blinking through the occasional
break in the gathering cloud cover. The tide was out, releasing the
pungent odor of the sea, and Tom watched as birds swooped in during
the last light of day to feed off the exposed floor of the bay.

Earlier that day, Tom had wandered through
the waterfront district of Queenstown. What he had seen there had
shocked him and contributed to his melancholy frame of mind. On the
public board, he had seen a wanted poster.

“
Thomas Callahan,”
it had
read
—“nineteen years old, black hair, six foot, one inch tall,
weighing between thirteen and fourteen stone. Wanted for
questioning with regard to an assault in County Tipperary.”

Seeing the poster had startled Tom, although
he had expected such a notice to be posted at any time. He was
pleased that no reward was offered. He took it as his good fortune,
too, that the notice had arrived in Queenstown just one day before
his planned departure.

Once his decision to leave Ireland had been
formulated and he had booked passage on the
Antioch
, Tom had
not spent much time considering the impact of his hasty departure
from home, nor his even more bold decision to sail to America. This
night, however, as he stood on the quay gazing out over the ocean,
Tom thought more seriously than ever before about what it would
mean to flee his homeland.

A light rain began to fall, and Tom turned up
the collar of his coat against it. Glancing back in the direction
of Cork, he could see the gas street lights beginning to flicker
on, while out to sea, an occasional flash of lightning illuminated
the thick band of dark clouds that hung over the horizon.

The gloom that had descended over the ocean
matched his mood. Leaving Ireland to go to America seemed a
sensible thing to do. He had heard that life in the United States
was filled with opportunities. But what they were, he found it
difficult to imagine. Doubts and fears crowded into his uncertain
mind. His uncle John, gone the same path these past six years, had
written only once, and the letter—posted from what John had called
‘the wilderness of Alaska’—was not full of tales of riches.

Walking slowly back toward his lonely nest on
the wharf, Tom began the process his mother had taught him so many
years ago to counteract the despondency that besets so many Irish.
“Count the good, Tom, and you’ll see it always outnumbers the bad,”
she’d said. He hadn’t always seen the merit of it, and as he grew
older, he found her optimism hard to emulate.

In his experience, there had often been more
evil than good in the world and bad things had the greater power to
hurt you. That was what he was leaving in Tipperary—a cruel father
who had compelled him to work for little or no wages as a clerk in
the family store. The older Callahan justified the forced labor by
saying, “I feed and clothe ye, lad. Be grateful in these hard times
ye found work.” He had a mother who he knew loved him, but who had
too many younger ones who required her care and a husband who
demanded constant attention. The parish priest had called her a
“compassionate soul,” but Tom could see she was a woman in who, at
forty-one, the life was ebbing. He thought also about the police
who were pursuing him. That was the part that made leaving
easy.

Reaching his hovel, Tom squeezed between the
wooden freight containers he had arranged into a shelter. The one
wharfie who had discovered his quarters, after ordering Tom away,
had relented, “but only for a couple of days,” when Tom had
explained that he was bound for New York and his ship would shortly
sail.

Lying on the bed of old rags and straw, full
dark now upon him, Tom wondered if the good did indeed outnumber
the bad and if his plan to go to America was sound. The vision of
his seven younger brothers and sisters, and the memory of his
mother’s desperate hug at his departure, crowded his thoughts as he
drifted uncomfortably toward sleep.

As the memories played through his mind, a
few raindrops angled their way into his shelter and mingled with
the tears on his cheeks. Tom would have been ashamed to have
admitted he was capable of crying, but lying there in the cold, far
from home, the nineteen-year-old boy/man surrendered to his
emotions. Ignorant of the prayers his mother said for him, and
filled with sadness, Tom wondered what his future held.

Three days at sea passed before Tom caught
another glimpse of the young woman from the quay. For the first two
days, he’d stayed strictly in the areas marked for steerage
passengers. But on the third morning, he saw her standing at the
rail on one of the upper decks. She was alone, and Tom determined
to approach her. Taking a chance on being caught, Tom ducked under
a chain and climbed a flight of stairs to the deck where she was
standing, looking quietly out to sea. Three times Tom casually
walked by, trying to think of something to say. If she noticed him,
she didn’t let on. By the fourth pass, Tom had worked up the
courage to make his approach.

“’Tis a vision of loveliness I see this
morning,” he said, stopping behind her to gaze out over the
ocean.

And you’re even lovelier up close,
he
thought.

Katrina, hearing but not comprehending his
comments, turned to face him, confusion on her face. “Uh, excuse
me?” she replied in English.

Tom smiled his best and most friendly
greeting, hoping Katrina would respond with an openness of her own.
Disarmed somewhat by his cordial demeanor, she seemed willing to
converse with him. “I said, it’s a vision of loveliness I see this
beautiful morning,” nodding toward the expanse of ocean.

I mean you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve
ever seen and can I hold you in my arms?

Unsure of his meaning, Katrina once again
hesitated. His forward manner was a little unsettling, but she did
not want to give offense or appear foolish, if, indeed, he was not
speaking of her. She and her brother, Anders, had been sent for
schooling to Great Britain, something their father thought
necessary if his children were to move easily in polite society.
She therefore spoke and understood English quite well, but she was
sometimes confused by the conflicting meanings of words. She was
uncertain now about what this young man was trying to convey.
Standing before her, he continued to grin broadly and looked to be
friendly.

“Do I know you, sir?” she asked politely,
making certain to smile, so as not to offend.

“I don’t believe so, miss, but we could
remedy that situation if you’re of a mind,” he said, continuing to
smile.

Embarrassed by what she now perceived was his
forward manner, Katrina began to blush. She drew herself up to her
full height and, dipping her head slightly, said, “That would not
be proper, sir.” Then, reaching down to gather up her skirts, she
excused herself. “Perhaps I should return to my cabin. It’s getting
on toward middag.”