Destiny - The Callahans #1 (14 page)

Twenty miles further west, with several
pieces of greasy chicken digesting in his stomach and the growling
quieted for the time being, Tom attempted once again, as dusk
overtook the train, to get a few hours of sleep. The switchman’s
lunch had been cold and had resulted in a bad case of indigestion,
but Tom was grateful to have obtained something to eat, and through
his conspiracy with the switchman, to have also escaped any real
hassle while passing through Salina. The cold, which had abated
slightly from the intense temperatures of the previous evening, was
made somewhat more bearable by the straw bundles the switchman had
offered Tom, lingering just long enough during their delivery to
indicate that the additional service was worth at least another
fiver. The fact that the switchman had never asked how it happened
that Tom got mugged, dumped on the train, and yet still had money
in his pocket, had not escaped Tom’s notice. Still, he felt
reasonably assured that the rail worker would take his newfound ten
dollars, not say a word to anyone, including his wife, and be
grateful for his good fortune.

As for Tom’s fortune, sleep came no easier
the second night, and the first light of dawn, viewed once again
through the open door of a drafty railcar hooked into the westward
moving train, found him fitfully turning on his bed of straw. He
was thoroughly miserable: he was cold, his ribs were sore, and he
was hungry again.

The rolling landscape of the American Midwest
had given way during the night to more broken ground. And now, as
daylight continued to gather, Tom stood shivering in the open
doorway of the boxcar, arms folded, holding his coat pulled tightly
around him, and staring out at the passing scene. Tall clumps of
sagebrush poked through the snowdrifts in the arroyos alongside the
railroad right-of-way. As the sun finally rose behind Tom, the
train finished pulling up a long grade and crested a rise, and the
young Irishman was startled by his first glimpse of the Rocky
Mountains.

Stretching from north to south, the mountains
lay in a long, unbroken line clear across the western horizon.
Though fronted by a gently rising landscape of foothills, the
enormous mountains appeared to jut up suddenly out of the great
plains. They were still a long way off, but the clear air gave the
mountains the appearance that they were much closer than they were.
Their rugged tops were bathed in sunlight, and looking at their
majestic snowy heights, Tom was filled with the same sense of awe
he had felt while standing alongside Katrina and first seeing the
great swells of the Atlantic Ocean from the deck of the
Antioch
.

A full knowledge of the true vastness of
America was beyond his understanding at present, but Tom knew one
thing from the maps he had studied while on the winter rail crew:
the only thing that stood between him and Katrina Hansen—between
him and this unknown land of Utah—had just risen suddenly out of
the ground. And as the train rolled on, his mind slowly grasped the
reality that while only one geographical obstacle remained, it
appeared more and more formidable, the closer he got.

Tom was surprised to discover that even
though Denver was farther west, it was larger than Kansas City. Of
course, his knowledge of Kansas City, he smiled to himself,
consisted of running through back alleys and retracing his steps to
the rail yard.

Entering Denver, Tom found himself in
different circumstances than when he had arrived in New York. He
had some money, although not enough he felt, to simply purchase
transportation for the remaining five hundred miles to Salt Lake
City and arrive there with ample funds to allow him to obtain
accommodations and to find Katrina without seeming to be a
destitute immigrant. Denver would have to do for a short time. He
would need some employment, and he could use the time to allow his
injuries to heal before continuing his trip. Since it was only the
second week in November, Tom felt he still had ample time to reach
Salt Lake well ahead of the New Year. Had she waited as promised?
That was the question that was beginning to nag at Tom, although he
pushed it aside whenever it came to the fore. He’d come too far to
turn back now.

After renting a room in a small boarding
house, Tom inquired as to the whereabouts of a doctor and during
his first visit, was not surprised to be told that he had two
broken ribs. His breathing had become labored the second day of his
confinement in the empty railcar, and he had considered the
possibility that he might develop pneumonia if he didn’t find
comfortable and warm accommodations soon. The boarding house
answered that need.

When she discovered Tom’s injuries, Mrs.
Hortense, the Mexican lady who ran the boarding house, immediately
took control, and, much to his chagrin, plied him with soup and
homemade bread. For the next few days, she saw to it that he
remained in bed and had his meals served there. It was the most
comforting three days Tom had enjoyed in many months, and lacking
any immediate worry about finances, he allowed himself to relish
the pampering.

By the end of the first week, he was up and
around the house, and had taken to sitting on the upstairs outside
balcony, much to Mrs. Hortense’s protest because of the cold. The
mountains to the west continued to provide a panoramic view that
enthralled Tom, and he sat watching them for hours, reading the
Denver papers to get the flavor of the community and to learn more
about this new land into which he had driven headlong.

Memories of Ireland were distant, but,
occasionally, Tom found himself wondering how his family was doing
and if the course he had taken would indeed lead to prosperity.
Father O’Leary’s advice remained with Tom, as well as the name of
the Sister who ran the hospital in Salt Lake City. O’Leary had made
him promise that when he arrived in Utah, he would immediately find
Holy Cross Hospital and present the letter of introduction the
priest had given him. That letter, along with the copy of the Book
of Mormon and a few extra clothes Tom had been carrying in a cheap
bag, had been abandoned in the alley in Kansas City. Tom remembered
the name: Sister Mary Theophane. But that was for later. For now,
it was time to heal and gather himself for the last leg of his
journey.

The time spent in Denver would have been a
completely restful time, except for the scene that frequently
played through his mind of the altercation in the alley in Kansas
City, and the shouts of “murder!” that rang out as he fled. That a
man had died bothered him terribly, and though he knew he had acted
in self-defense, he couldn’t erase the memory of what had happened.
Besides that, he worried constantly about being pursued by the
authorities and overtaken. He vowed, therefore, to spend no longer
than necessary—a few weeks at most—in Denver, before pushing on
across the Rockies.

He was drawn once again to the rail yards,
and by the end of his second week in Denver, Tom had gotten a job
working in the livestock pens, loading sheep and cattle onto
freight cars. At the request of his foreman, Tom made two runs with
cattle up to Cheyenne, assuring that they were watered en route.
Another run, down to Roswell, New Mexico, provided another view of
America and a first glimpse at Indians living on a reservation. In
his travels, Tom had seen some squalor by that time, but he was
appalled at the conditions in which the Indians lived.

In mid-December, the foreman advised Tom that
four hundred head of cattle were being transported to Ogden, Utah,
over the Christmas holidays. The foreman told Tom he was sorry, but
as the new man, Tom was being assigned the run. His reaction to
Tom’s smile was one of bewilderment.

Two delays in the arrival of the cattle set
the trip back, but finally, on December 26, the day after
Christmas, Tom and another man got under way with four hundred
thirty-two head of cattle, only to be halted in Fort Laramie where
reports of a track blockage across the Wyoming flats prevented them
from going on.

Finally, on December 30th, they reloaded the
cattle, arriving in Ogden on New Year’s day, 1896. After they had
delivered the consignment of cattle, received the signed documents,
and were prepared to board the return run to Denver, Tom told his
partner farewell, explaining that he was staying in Utah. He took a
room in a cheap hotel and spent the next two days having his
clothes cleaned, removing the cattle stench, and wallowing in the
nervous excitement of knowing that he was now only forty miles from
the woman who had compelled him to come more than halfway across
America.

At seven in the morning, January 4, 1896, the
Union Pacific Railroad station in Salt Lake City was packed with
people as Tom stepped off the train from Ogden. Purchasing his
fare, he had smiled. He had traveled over two thousand miles by
rail from Bayonne, New Jersey, and this was the first time he had
bought a ticket. He had worked as a laborer on a rail repair crew,
been a hobo, and then a cattle tender. It struck him as remarkable
that he had ridden as a paying passenger for only the last forty
miles. Yet, he had succeeded in reaching Salt Lake City.

Outside the station, a number of people
crowded into a horse-drawn trolley car. But Tom fell in with the
dozens of people who were walking toward what appeared to be the
main part of town. As they walked, the crowd grew to larger
proportions, and Tom wondered what all the excitement was about.
The streets were filled with trolleys, buggies, men on horseback,
and people on foot. A brass band was playing, and enterprising
young men circulated in the crowd, selling small American flags and
pieces of fruit. Down the center of Main Street, wider than most
city streets Tom had seen, a line of power poles separated the two
trolley tracks that ran north and south. Remembering New York,
Kansas City, and Denver, Tom was struck by the orderly design of
the streets and the uniformly square blocks that had been laid
out.

The atmosphere was one of revelry, and the
cold didn’t seem to bother people. What seemed to be a kind of town
square was surrounded by a wall. Inside the square, a huge,
six-spired cathedral rose above any other building in the area, and
on the south side of the cathedral, facing Tom, an enormous
American flag hung draped from the upper tier of the building.

Tom stared up at the flag, slowly backing
away from the wall to obtain a better view, and stepping backward
into the street. Suddenly he was grabbed and jerked back onto the
foot path and nearly pulled off his feet in the process, as a horse
and buggy passed, the horse nervous in the crowd and its driver
struggling to bring it under control.

“I’m sorry, sir, I thought the horse was
possibly going to trample you.”

Tom looked around to assess the situation,
realizing how foolish his gawking had been. “My fault. Thanks for
the help. It wouldn’t do to come all this way and be killed in the
street my first morning here, now would it?”

The square-shouldered young man who had
grabbed him, smiled and nodded. “It would be unfortunate, to say
the least,” he laughed.

“So,” Tom asked, looking around, “what’s the
occasion today? Some kind of celebration obviously.”

“Utah’s about to become one of the states of
the union. Today, we’ve joined the United States of America. We’re
waiting for word that President Grover Cleveland has signed the
legislation approving our entry.”

“I see. A good day to arrive then, I
suppose,” Tom laughed. “My name’s Tom Callahan, sir, and you
are?”

“David McKay. D.O., to my friends,” he said,
pronouncing it “Dee Oh.”

“Are you from here, D.O.?”

“Actually from a small farming community up
north, but I attend the university here.”

“Well, D.O., please allow me to express my
appreciation for saving my life,” Tom grinned. “It means a lot to
me.”

David laughed out loud and offered his hand.
“If you’ve just arrived, where are you staying, Mr. Callahan? Have
you got a place yet?”

“No. But perhaps you could give me some
directions. I’m looking for Holy Cross Hospital. Do you know
it?”

“Oh, yes. You’re on the right road. It’s ten
blocks east on South Temple. That’s the street we’re on now. Can’t
miss it,” he pointed.

A horse bolted upright, rearing on his hind
legs as the sound of two shotgun blasts echoed through the street.
People began to cheer and shout from about a half-block down Main
Street. “I guess that’s it,” David said. “Looks like we’re now part
of the great Union.” He patted Tom on the back, joining in the
enthusiasm overtaking the crowd. “Welcome to Salt Lake, to Utah,
and to the United States of America, Tom. I’m off to meet with some
friends, but here,” he said, taking a pencil from his pocket, and
writing on a small card. “If things don’t work out at the hospital,
and you find you haven’t a place to stay the night, here’s my
address. It’s only an impoverished student’s room, but don’t
hesitate to come if you need a place to lay your head, and even if
you don’t. Maybe after you settle in we can get together for dinner
some evening. You can tell me a bit about the Emerald Isle and I’ll
answer your Utah questions.”

“That obvious, is it?” Tom exclaimed.

“Kind of a hard accent to hide, Tom, but
music to my ears. My people came from Scotland originally.”

“My thanks to you again, D.O. I’ll head up
toward the hospital if I can get through this crowd.
Congratulations to you and to Utah.”

David waved and crossed the street, heading
south on Main while Tom crossed the intersection and headed east to
find Holy Cross Hospital.

One block south, on the corner of First South
and Main, a three minute walk from where Tom and young David O.
McKay were talking, Katrina Hansen and Harold Stromberg had been
mingling with the crowd, waiting for the news of statehood to
arrive. In contrast to the fun-loving nature of the people around
them, Harold seemed unusually sober. Katrina had noticed his mood,
but neither of them had mentioned it.