Destiny - The Callahans #1 (6 page)

“Aye, sir. But it’s a big land, so I’ve been
told, and many of me forebears have gone before me.”

“Ya, ya, Mr. Callahan. Quite so. But they
find no work, I think. After you finish the shipping job for me, do
you have a trade?”

I’ve done me share, Poppa, and I’m
twenty-five years younger than you and have plenty of time to find
one. Where were you at nineteen, Poppa?

Tom could see Mrs. Hansen’s discomfort. But
she was obviously reluctant to intervene or say anything that would
stall her husband’s interrogation of him. Tom interpreted her thin
smile as a weak attempt to make the situation more tolerable. He
could see, however, that she was not about to confront her husband
in any way.

Thank you for your kind thought, dear
lady, but I’m afraid the man’s got his stamp on you, too, and if
Katie doesn’t get out soon, he’ll break her spirit as well
.

Angered by Hansen’s insistent badgering, Tom
began slurring his speech, intentionally playing the “Paddy.” “Sir,
me Pappy owned a wee shop in Tipperary, and I’ve worked there since
I were but fourteen. Aye, it’s a bloody harsh life, ’tis,” Tom
answered.

And ye bloody fool, you’ll be losing all
yer children while yer out mending the fences of yer corral. Look
to yer wife, man, and patch that fence while ya still have the
chance
.

Katrina looked up briefly, her ears perked by
the change in Tom’s brogue and his demeanor. Offended by Hansen’s
obvious disdain, Tom determined to stand up to the proud
Norwegian’s provocations. No matter that his lovely daughter was
there to see it all. Tom would not brook being pushed around by
this haughty, rich man. Tom continued the dialogue in his thickest
Irish, a ploy that confirmed Mr. Hansen’s low opinion of the
upstart, uncouth Irish lout. Tom did not consider that his behavior
would likely offend Katrina. He was too stubborn and proud to let
it go.

Mrs. Hansen finally took advantage of a lull
in the conversation to speak. “Mr. Callahan, Lars and I are so
happy for you to help our son with the, the thugs. We thank you.
Ya, tusen tak,” she smiled.

And if I’d known who he were, ma’am, I’d
have arranged for the Brits to attack, so’s I could rescue him,
just to meet Katrina
.

“’T’were nothing, ma’am. I was glad to be of
assistance.”

“Umm,” Anders mumbled, his mouth full of
food. “He saved my bacon, that he did.”

“Ya, we are most grateful,” Mrs. Hansen
repeated. “Isn’t that right, Lars?” she said, turning to her
husband.

“Ya, ya, of course. Fine thing, young man.
Fine thing,” he said, removing and cleaning his glasses, replacing
them on his nose, and looking again at Tom. “And you have work in
New York, Mr. Callahan, after the shipping job, or family to help
you?” he repeated, much to Mrs. Hansen’s dismay, who now lowered
her head and folded her hands in her lap.

No, ya bloody fool. I’ve no money, no job,
and no family in America. So what, then? Lie down and die, should
I?

“No, sir, now there’s the rub of it,” Tom
drawled, “and not a farthing to me name,” he lied, having retained
about six pounds twelve from the money taken from his father’s
shop, after subtracting steerage passage on the
Antioch
, and
the cost of fruit and potatoes purchased for his larder during the
crossing. “’Cept of course, I have me natural Irish charm,” he
added, glancing at Katrina and reading in her eyes the
disappointment over his coarse behavior.

Though Anders attempted to introduce some
levity at their table, the Hansens and Tom took their meal in
relative silence. Ignoring their father’s disapproving glances, the
younger girls continued to giggle at the slightest provocation. In
Tom’s judgment, which was based on vastly limited experience, the
food and service were astonishing. For two weeks, he had eaten only
the food he had brought on board, except for a few items smuggled
to him by Anders in the last few days. Given the level of his
hunger and the amount and quality of the food, he should have
enjoyed his meal immensely, but Mr. Hansen’s interrogation had made
him too angry. Sitting there was an ordeal he wished were over, but
he felt trapped and didn’t know how to leave.

The sound of a small bell from the Captain’s
table broke the awkward silence at the Hansen table, and all in the
room turned to look toward the sound.

“If I may have your attention, please, ladies
and gentlemen. We are indeed pleased to be with you this evening,”
the First Officer commented. “Traditionally, on the
Antioch
,
we have offered a small entertainment following our final dinner at
sea. As you all know, we shall enter New York harbor tomorrow and
our voyage shall conclude. It has been a pleasure having you on
board, and we hope that, should business or pleasure take you back
to Europe at some future date, you will once again sail on British
White Star Line.”

Not bloody likely,
Tom thought to
himself.

“Tonight, we are to be favored with a reading
from Shakespeare by Mrs. Morgan, and a medley of favorite songs by
Miss Katrina Hansen. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the evening. If there is
anything the captain or crew can do for you on our last evening,
please let us know, and again, thank you for sailing on British
White Star Line. Mrs. Morgan, if you please?”

A polite round of applause accompanied Mrs.
Morgan to the front of the room, where a large, floral wreath,
somewhat the worse for its two weeks at sea, was on display. Tom
noticed a distinct embarrassment on Katrina’s part, and understood
her additional reason for being concerned when she had learned Tom
had been invited. Certainly, she had not known he would be present
when she agreed to sing.

Twenty minutes into Mrs. Morgan’s
presentation, Tom felt the Bard of Avon was turning over in his
grave, or at the very least, resolving never again to sail British
White Star Line. Nevertheless, polite applause accompanied her
conclusion, which to Tom’s way of thinking came more from relief
than appreciation.

Katrina rose and walked quickly to the front
of the room. A gentleman from another table also got to his feet,
and seated himself at the piano in the corner of the room.
Katrina’s first number was a Norwegian lullaby by Edvard Grieg. Tom
recognized the tune as the one she had been singing to the young
child on the evening when he had spied her on deck, comforting the
youngster.

Watching Katrina perform, Tom once more had
occasion to reflect on the variety and depth of Katrina’s
abilities. Her knowledge of literature had become apparent during
their daily talks regarding religion. She had not intended it, but
Tom felt inferior in the face of her education and his lack of one.
He had also seen her capacity for compassion in her service to a
young mother and her children. And now she was singing beautifully,
in a mature and resonant lyric soprano’s voice—a voice that might
have been found in a much older woman. Tom sat transfixed, not only
by the clear sound she achieved, but also by her poise and beauty.
All that reinforced the feelings he had developed for Katrina over
the course of the voyage.

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.”