Destiny - The Callahans #1 (7 page)

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

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 mass 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.

He was frequently overcome by fear—that his
chances of actually making it to Utah were minimal and the
likelihood of her waiting to marry were even less. Still, rather
than abating, his determination grew stronger. He would get to
Utah.

Eight hundred miles to the west, on the far
side of Chicago, the train pulled out slowly, gathering speed as
the Hansens settled in after a full week and a half of resting,
bathing in Lake Michigan, and obtaining sleep lost during the
previous several days traveling from New York. Lars Hansen and his
family had stopped in Chicago to visit with relatives who had
immigrated several years earlier, and to explore the prospects for
his business ventures in Utah. A furniture maker by trade, Lars had
arranged with the Chicago branch of his family to obtain necessary
materials and to ship additional orders and specialized cabinetry
that would be needed to establish his new business in Salt Lake
City.

Katrina and her sisters had used the time to
refresh themselves and to purchase some new American clothes. Her
mind was filled with constant thoughts of Thomas and how, or
perhaps if, he would indeed come for her. In a way, the promise she
made to him on the
Antioch
was thrilling, but there were
times when she panicked thinking of actually being married to a man
she had only briefly known. It didn’t help that her father had such
strong views on the topic. She’d heard him express his pleasure to
her mother that they had finally gotten the Irish lout out of
Katrina’s life and that as soon as they got to Utah she’d find some
suitable Mormon boy from a proper family and settle down. “Ya,
Momma, it is time,” Mr. Hansen had said to his wife, “she’s coming
to be a woman.”