Destiny - The Callahans #1 (8 page)

The train trip west proved mind numbing. For
a time, the scenery west of Chicago was green and lush and the rail
line frequently ran through small communities. Then, the number of
towns thinned out, and the landscape became more open, dry, and
dusty. Advised that they were approaching the Mississippi River,
which she had learned about in world geography, Katrina brightened
some, but in the main, each clickity-clack of the train wheels only
served to reinforce the image of the miles opening up between
herself and young Thomas Callahan, the handsome Irishman who
continued to permeate her thoughts and dreams.

As June stretched into July, Tom found the
stifling New York heat almost unbearable. He had taken to stopping
at a reasonable facsimile of an Irish pub on his way home from an
evening job he had located as a night janitor for the New York
Transit Authority. Cleaning horse-drawn trolleys at night, after
spending ten hours at the produce market, wasn’t the most enjoyable
thing Tom had ever done, but it did provide another seventeen
dollars and fifty cents a week to add to his growing savings. He
had accumulated slightly over a hundred and twenty dollars, much of
it acquired from one-time odd jobs. Tom had found he wasn’t afraid
of work. Thinking back, he thought it ironic that the one thing his
father had taught him was to work hard, and that ability was the
thing that was enabling Tom to survive.

His visits to the pub, however, were
beginning to sop up an ever-growing portion of his earnings, and
his tendency to brawl after drinking was bringing Tom to resemble
the typical “Paddy” many New Yorkers despised. Feisty, belligerent,
and downright mean-spirited when drinking, Tom was quick to
confront anyone who dared to voice an opinion contrary to his.
Luckily for him, he was handy with his fists and more often than
not came out on top in the fights he provoked or accepted. But the
course he was on was leading him toward exactly what Katrina’s
father had warned her about and—what frightened Tom the most—to
becoming a replica of his own father. Whether he acted out of
depression over the seeming impossibility of ever catching up to
Katrina or in response to his native Irish temperament, the result
was the same. Tom was fast becoming a typical, hard-drinking,
hard-fighting Irishman who bore little resemblance to the man that
Katrina continued to harbor in her dreams.

Quietly listening to the piano player bang
out the latest hit tune, “
Sweet Rosie O’Grady
,” Tom sat in
the pub one evening, staring morosely into his pint of Guinness,
his mind and spirit back on the
Antioch
the night Katie sang
to him, when he had felt the confirmation of his love for her. He
didn’t notice the man who approached the table until he spoke.
“Mind if I join ya, lad?”

Tom looked up from his stein, over which he’d
been brooding, toward the kindly face of an older man. Looking
pointedly around the room, Tom gestured to several empty tables,
and returning his gaze to the man, responded in a surly tone, “I
prefer to drink alone.”

“Aye,” the visitor responded, “I’ve noticed,
but conversation, now that’s another thing entirely, and I’m in
desperate need of someone for a palaver.” He smiled affably as he
pulled back the empty chair and seated himself. The man’s hair was
sparkling white and thinning, and his face was ruddy, showing a
number of small, broken capillaries around his nose and cheeks. Tom
was in no mood to notice, but the lobes of the man’s large ears
turned up, almost as though they were folding over on themselves,
providing a somewhat comic look. He held Tom’s gaze with a pair of
eyes that were a deep brown color, and continued smiling as he made
himself comfortable.

Tom returned his gaze to his beer stein.
“Suit yourself, old man.”

“I notice you’re coming in more often than at
first,” the old man stated, forming a question.

Tom continued to stare at his drink, unsure
how to handle the intrusion. Most with whom Tom had dealt in the
bar had been young Irishmen, like himself. After an initial
meeting, either a discussion or a confrontation resulted, but the
old man—that was a different story. “What’s it to ya?”

Signaling to the bartender for a pint of
Guinness, and continuing to smile, the old man just stared at Tom
for several seconds. “Everything, lad,” he said softly. Then
leaning forward and folding his hands in front of him on the table,
he said, “Let me tell you a story.

“I met a young lad not too long ago. Much
like you, he was. Came in here nearly every night, he did. Sat
mostly by himself but occasionally got involved in a bit of a
donnybrook. One night, three of the lads were waiting for him
outside the pub, and in the fight, he picked up a piece of
cobblestone and bashed in one of their heads.” The old man paused
to take a drink of his beer, before continuing.

“I sat with him once more after that, not
long ago, upstate, as he waited to meet our Lord. He was more
subdued by then, frightened you might say, as was I. You see, lad,
the jury found him guilty of murder. I sat with him for hours,
heard his confession, and prayed with him. I walked with him down a
long corridor and read to him from the Holy Book as they strapped
him in the chair. He’s gone now, lad,” the old man continued,
looking up at Tom. “He was electrocuted in New York State Prison,
not yet turned twenty-one.”

“What’s that got to do with me, old man,” Tom
asked, his voice angry and accusing. “What are you, anyway, a
do-good Yank?”

The old man laughed. “No lad, just an Irish
immigrant like yourself, only I’ve been here over forty years now.
Came over in ’52 as a young man about your age.”

“And you spend your time in pubs bothering
the rest of us with scare stories?”

“No, I spend most of me time down the street
at St. Timothy’s. I’m the parish priest there, lad.”

Tom was surprised. The man wore ordinary work
clothes, with no visible sign of his calling. “So, are ya looking
for contributions then, Father?”

“You could say that, lad,” the priest
acknowledged, “but not so as you’d think. I’m after saving souls,
lad, not money.”

“Humph,” Tom snorted, “ya missed yer mark
this time, Father. I’m not in need of saving this fine evening. I
got troubles enough of my own, and you’d do better looking for
someone’s soul who needs your services.”

“Oh, I think you missed the point, Mr.
Callahan,” he said, surprising Tom with the knowledge of his name.
“It’s not
your
soul I’m after saving, it’s me own that needs
help, lad. Ya see, the other lad I told you about—I saw the trouble
coming for months, and I just sat back and let it happen. It wasn’t
his soul I was worried about up there in the prison cell, for he’d
seen the error of his ways. It were me own soul I feared for.”

“Well, I’m not the one with the collar around
me neck, Father, so’s I can’t give you absolution. Go see yer own
priest.”

The old man downed his pint and slid his
chair back, continuing to stare at Tom as he started to stand. “I
have, lad. I have that, indeed. But I’ll not stand by and let
another walk down the same path he did without trying to help. You
been here what, two, three months? You look to be about twenty, Mr.
Callahan, and might have a long life ahead of you, if you but find
your way. I’ll give you my oath on it, lad, the next six months
will tell the tale. You might indeed live a long and adventurous
life, but in the next six months you’ll determine how it’ll play
out. I’d like to be of help, but you’ve got to be willing, lad.
Father O’Leary’s the name, and you can find me at St. Timothy’s
just down the street. Anytime, lad, anytime.”

He stood to leave but then paused for a
moment. “One more thing, lad. If it’s a young lass you’re brooding
over, you’ll not find her in the bottom of that beer mug.” He stood
quietly, until Tom looked up at him briefly, “And if she knows
you’re in there, she’ll not be wanting you, either. Think on it,
lad, and come see me.”

After Father O’Leary left the pub, the
bartender came over to replace Tom’s drink. “He means well, son,”
the bartender said. “He’s just burdened with his load, like the lot
of us. He took young Patrick’s death hard, that he did.”

Tom returned his stare to the fresh glass as
thoughts of Katrina began to run again through his mind.
Till
the end of the year, Thomas Callahan,
she had said.
I’ll
wait for you till the end of the year.

Eventually finding his drunken way back to
his dingy one-room flat, Tom lay fully dressed on his mattress,
unable to sleep and thinking about the old priest’s words: “The
next six months will tell the tale, lad.” In more ways than you
think, Father. In more ways than you think, he mumbled to
himself.

The early morning fog swirled around the
harbor and the wharf in Copenhagen giving a ghostly appearance to
the small group of young men waiting to board the steamship, which
was already crowded with other passengers who had boarded the
evening before in Bremerhaven.

After shaking hands with a well-dressed,
older gentleman, Harold Stromberg, leader of the six men boarding
the ship, carried his belongings up the ramp, with the rest of the
group following quickly behind him. After stowing their gear in
their cabins, the young men returned to the main deck and stood at
the railing, watching as the crew singled up all lines. As soon as
she was released, the vessel began drifting away from the pier,
aided by the harbor tug pulling at the stern of the great ship.

Stromberg hailed from Salt Lake City, Utah,
and held the honor of being the grandson of Magnus Stromberg, one
of the early pioneer settlers of that arid desert. By the time
Harold’s father had been born, the economy of the Utah Territory
was thriving and already had drawn thousands of Mormon converts
from the eastern states and the British Isles to the high mountain
valleys. When his father, also named Magnus, had been called to
serve a mission in Wales, young Harold was already six, and it was
standing by his mother’s side, holding back the tears, that he had
watched his father leave with a group of men for their fields of
labor. In the Mormon tradition, their service and sacrifice
(including their extended absence from the family) was viewed as
both an obligation and an honor—a necessity to further the Lord’s
plan on earth. Elder Harold Stromberg was, then, a third-generation
Mormon and the third in his paternal line to complete a mission for
the church. He was intelligent, somewhat more sophisticated than
the other elders, and possessed of a strong sense of duty. In
short, he was the product of a strong intellectual and spiritual
heritage and had represented himself very well.

The older man, who had remained on the wharf,
was Charles Ogleby, president of the church’s Scandinavian Mission.
He had come to say farewell to the six young men who had served
under his leadership, but who were now going home. The elders waved
good-bye to their president and spiritual leader, until the fog
completely obscured him. With land out of sight and the ship
entering the harbor’s main channel, Harold Stromberg allowed the
memories of the three years he’d spent in Denmark and Norway to
play through his mind. Both countries were part of the Scandinavian
Mission of The church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a
mission territory that extended as well to Sweden, Finland, and
Ireland. One thought above all others occupied his mind, as it had
since first meeting Lars Hansen’s family and his daughter Katrina.
Stromberg knew that the Hansens had emigrated and were by now
living in Salt Lake City, Harold’s final destination. And the
letter from Lars Hansen, posted from Chicago and received only two
days before Stromberg’s departure, advised that his return would be
a welcome occasion and stated that he was heartily invited to call
on the Hansen’s, where, Mr. Hansen had assured him, Katrina would
be most happy to receive him.

It had been a long and arduous three years,
and Elder Harold Stromberg, aware of his family heritage and imbued
with the spirit of his calling, had worked hard to ensure the Lord
would find his service acceptable. But now, as he turned his
thoughts toward home, he was just as sure the Lord had a multitude
of future blessings in store for him. Katrina Hansen stood at the
head of that list, and in less than six weeks, he hoped to reap the
most important reward of his service.

The young lad carrying the flyers wasn’t more
than ten by Tom’s reckoning, but like hundreds of other children
Tom had seen since arriving in New York City, he was out earning
his portion of the family’s income. Tom accepted one of the posters
from the lad and glanced at it as he boarded the trolley, bound for
his evening job. The notice took his immediate attention.

Laborers Wanted

No Experience Necessary

$5.00 a Day

East River Bridge Construction

6:00 A.M.

In 1868, John Augustus Roebling was
commissioned to build a bridge that would span the East River, from
Manhattan to Brooklyn. With ferry service the only way across, the
river had long served as an inconvenient barrier, and Roebling had
long dreamed of building a bridge that would span the river. He had
worked for many years to see it established. Unfortunately, early
in the process that started in 1869, Roebling died in a
construction accident.

His son, Washington Roebling, a Civil War
veteran, continued the work, though he was at one point
incapacitated by diver’s sickness, or the “bends” as the
decompression ailment came to be called. Bedridden during much of
the construction period, the younger Roebling nevertheless
continued to engineer the building of the world’s first cable-wire,
steel suspension bridge, a true engineering marvel.