Destiny - The Callahans #1 (3 page)

“Middag?” Tom asked.

Blush rising from her neck to her cheeks,
Katrina quickly tried to cover her unintentional retreat into her
native Norwegian. “Lunch, sir. I meant lunch. Please excuse me now,
I really must go.”

I’d like to fall into those green eyes, ya
lovely lass
.

“Are you bound for New York, then,” he
persisted, trying to prolong the conversation. Being able to look
into her face from that close a distance confirmed what he had seen
in their brief encounter on the wharf. It truly was a face filled
with freshness and loveliness, such as he had not seen. He stared
unashamedly at her green eyes, her curly, thick, long blonde hair,
and her lovely mouth, which at this moment had taken on something
of a determined look.

She didn’t immediately answer, but instead
moved toward a nearby hatchway.

Still smiling, Tom moved quickly to open it
for her, startling her by the suddenness of his movement.

“No, sir,” she replied, stepping daintily
toward the inner stairwell. “We’re, uh, my family that is, are
going to Utah,” she said.

“Ah, Utah,” Tom said, feigning awareness of
American geography. “Lovely place, Utah.” Then tipping his fingers
to his button-down cap, as a field hand might to the landed gentry
in Ireland, Tom held the door as Katrina exited, stealing one last
confused glance at Tom.

In a way, he was relieved to have her gone.
His heart was thumping so loudly in his chest he was quite certain
she must have heard the bloomin’ thing. He was sure also that the
lump that had risen in his throat would have made it impossible to
say another thing to her.

As the hatch closed, Tom turned back to the
railing and stared out over the ocean, listening to the wash of the
sea against the hull of the great ship. He couldn’t help smiling. A
bit more stuffy than the Irish girls, he thought. But still, all
things considered, she’d looked back at him as she departed, and
according to Tom’s old mate, Paddy O’Rourke, ladies’ man
extraordinaire in Tipperary with a reputation as far as Limerick,
when a lass looked back, it was a sure sign. A sure enough
sign.

25 April 1895

Dear Nana,

We are at sea now, Nana. I hope you don’t mind that
I have started writing in English, but since we are going to
America, Poppa thought that we should use less Norwegian and
practice our English. I know you’ll understand.

I think I miss you more now than when you first
left. Our family decision to leave Norway has brought much pain to
my heart and Momma cried for days after Poppa declared his
intention. I don’t know what we would have done if you had still
been with us. I know it would have been hard for you, too.

I think of you often, Nana, and especially since
Elder Stromberg told us about the Celestial Kingdom. I know you are
there, Nana, and that you have been joined again with Grand Poppa.
The gospel message has brought me so much understanding, and I am
now happy for you, even though I cannot have you with me longer, I
know you watch over me, and I feel your presence often.

On this trip, Nana, I will need your strength and
your love with me, please. It is so comforting to converse with you
each evening, but I have not told Poppa or Momma of my diary. It
will just be between us, as when I used to sneak into your bed at
night and you would tell me stories. I’d best get to sleep now. All
my love, Nana.

Oh, one more thing, I met a young Irish boy today.
You would have sent him away. He tried to speak with me alone,
without having been introduced. I think I behaved like a foolish
schoolgirl, but I remembered your words: ‘a proper young lady . .
.’ remember that? He has the deepest blue eyes, Nana, and a smile
that makes me smile too. Bedtime!

Jeg elske du,

Your Trina

The moon had barely risen above the horizon
as Tom stood aft by the port side railing, looking at the moon’s
broad reflection shimmering on the black surface of the ocean. For
two nights, since talking briefly with Katrina, Tom had been
restless and unable to sleep more than a couple of hours at a
stretch. Restricted by the ship’s rules to the lower steerage decks
by day, Tom had felt liberated to be able to walk at night on the
upper decks of the steamer.

Even if his mind had not been full of this
new woman, Tom would have found it difficult to sleep in the hot,
steamy, steerage compartment. Situated immediately above the main
engine room, fifteen three-tiered bunks provided sweltering
accommodations for forty-five smelly, often lice-infested, European
immigrants, all bound for America and the opportunities they
envisioned would open to them there. That, at least, was the bill
of goods many of them had been sold by those who advertised the
trip. Fleeing poverty and sometimes more sinister things, each was
casting aside traditions, homeland, and cultural legacy for a new
life in a new land. Speaking little English, and bringing few
resources other than hope, most would struggle to be assimilated
into American life. Tom at least spoke English, though he would
find in the coming months that his thick Irish brogue would attract
as many detractors as admirers.

For the first three nights of his nightly
escape to the upper deck, Tom had without thinking drifted toward
the stern of the great ship. Standing there, gazing back over the
wake, he contemplated his former life in Tipperary and the role his
father had imposed on him. Tom was the second of nine children and
the eldest at home. His older brother had endured a final beating
from his father and already run away. That meant that it had fallen
to Tom to leave off his schooling to attend to his father’s shop.
Treated more as an apprentice than a family member, Tom had
resented his father and as a show of independence had taken up with
a gang of hooligans that made it its business to wreak nightly
mischief if not havoc on the countryside. Their raids took them to
the hamlets and villages within a couple of hours by horseback from
Tipperary. Wherever they went, they almost always managed to foment
a donnybrook and raise the hackles of the
Guarda
, the local
constabulary.

It was on one of these nighttime forays that
Tom made the mistake of striking the wrong individual in the person
of the son-in-law of a town mayor. When word came that a constable
was on his way to arrest him, Tom had taken only long enough to
scoop up the weekly cash proceeds from his father’s shop—a sum of
twelve pounds nine—before scurrying home to quickly grab his extra
pair of pants, two shirts, a heavy coat, and the two and six pence
he had hidden under the floorboards of the sleeping room he shared
with his four brothers and the family dog.

He paused only to kiss his mother good-bye.
It was a scene she had already played. Tom’s older brother had done
the same thing—left home in a rush to escape his domineering
father. She gave her second child a knowing look and a desperate
hug. “Thomas,” she said through her tears, “whatever happens,
promise me you’ll not forsake the faith.”

“I promise,” he said, pulling impatiently
away from her and striding off. He left the road, climbed over a
rock wall, and walked quickly over the green hills, scattering a
flock of sheep as he went. She knew his route. It was one that
would lead him permanently away from Ireland and from her.

Striding out through the fields, Tom made his
way over and around the maze of ancient rock walls built nearly two
centuries earlier to impede British military advances as they
ventured “beyond the pale.” Not yet sure of what he would end up
doing, he finally chose the road to Cork, traveling mostly at night
and hiding out during the day. Upon reaching Cork and spying the
first ship at the quay, his plan was instantly formulated. Thomas
Matthew Callahan, formerly of County Tipperary, Ireland, would head
west. Far west.

As he stood looking over the fantail of the
Antioch
, his thoughts drifted back to the reckless decisions
he had made throughout his early life, most of which had resulted
in harm to himself, or, more often, to those who had gotten in his
way. How this would play out in America he didn’t yet know, but, as
he looked ahead, the memory of the struggle he had made to merely
stay above the fray of life in Ireland, somewhere back there over
the ocean, was steadily diminishing.

This particular evening, his thoughts were
more of the young woman. Utah, she had said. Tom didn’t even know
what or where Utah was, or how far it might be from New York. But
the fact that she was going there had made the place immediately
intriguing. There was no doubt that she was a beauty, but there was
something more about her that piqued his interest. As of yet, he
hadn’t quite been able to put his finger on what it was that
appealed to him so. Most of the girls Tom had known weren’t so
reticent to accept his attentions. She was different. She didn’t
seem so much shy as proper. That was the word. But not in a snooty
way. Her smile had not been flirtatious, but certainly open and
friendly. Perhaps lady-like would be a better description of her
response to their encounter. And she had looked back.

For the first time since the ship sailed, Tom
had worked his way forward as far as passengers were allowed, and
he found himself staring ahead into the darkness at the unbroken
sea and the course the
Antioch
was taking on her voyage to
America. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a man crying
out in pain. The voice came from the starboard side lifeboat
station, and it startled Tom. As he moved to investigate, the man
cried out again. It was a sound that rang all too familiar to Tom’s
ears. Rounding the forward bulkhead, Tom saw three roughly dressed
youths standing over another young man who was pinned face down to
the deck by the foot of one of his assailants. Surprised by Tom’s
sudden appearance, the men turned quickly to confront him. Tom said
nothing, but quickly surveying the scene, he decided which side to
take. The downed man obviously hadn’t had much of a chance, and Tom
felt a need to balance the scale.

“’Ere, what’s with you, mate?” the larger of
the three men said. Tom smiled slightly and held the eyes of the
belligerent man.

Nothing that giving you a good boot in yer
teeth wouldn’t cure, mate
.

“Aye, not to worry, lads. I was just takin’
me breath of air, so I was.”

“Yeah, well, be on with ya. ’Tis none of yer
doin’ here.”

Taking care to keep his back to the bulkhead,
Tom continued to smile disarmingly at the three, a ploy that had
usually given him the element of surprise in previous
confrontations. Agitated by Tom’s reluctance to leave, the larger
man of the threesome stepped toward Tom, threatening by his posture
to give Tom a bit of the same.

“So, ya want a piece of the action, do ya,
mate?”

Ya think ya can handle it, ya great oaf?

“Not at’ll,” Tom responded. “As me pappy used
to say, ‘It’d be most unfair.’”

“Eh?” The large fellow stepped threateningly
toward Tom, revealing in the dim light a severely pock-marked
face.

“Well, if me ear bids me right,” Tom said,
continuing to smile disarmingly, “it’s only three from Liverpool
we’ve got here, and being only an Irishman meself, I wouldn’t be
wanting to take advantage of the situation.”

The leader turned to his cronies and laughed.
“’Ere, Alf, we got us a Mick with a mouth on ’em. What say we let
’em join the Norski on his face. Seems he needs a bit of a lesson
hisself, though I don’t believe he’ll have the money this bloke’s
carryin’.”

Didn’t yer Pa tell ya, mate, never take yer
eyes off the other lad?

Before he had fully turned back to face Tom,
a blow to the side of his head had rendered the large man mostly
senseless, and he fell to his knees. As he tried to regain his
feet, Tom delivered a quick kick to the man’s ribs, then, planting
his boot on the back of his neck, slammed the man’s face and nose
against the steel plates of the deck, where he lay without moving.
Shocked by the speed with which Tom had dispatched their leader,
the two cronies stepped backward, away from the no-longer smiling
Tom.

“Now, lads,” Tom began, maintaining control
of his voice and nodding to their victim, “I’d be helping this
young man to his feet if I were you, and then your pal’s likely
going to be in need of the ship’s doctor. He seems to have injured
his nose rather badly in a fall down the gangway—or perhaps you’d
rather tell the ship’s officer that one scrawny Irishman stepped in
while you were trying to put the squeeze on one of their
first-class passengers. What say ye?”

The two glanced nervously at each other. The
forward man immediately lifted his foot from the shoulder of their
victim, bending to help him to his feet. Tom slowly lifted his foot
from the large man’s neck, still keeping the bulkhead to his back.
The two rowdies moved to assist their companion, lifting him to his
feet and heading off down the passageway, leaving a trail of blood
behind them.

“Oh, and lads,” Tom called out, “it’s not a
good idea to stroll these decks of an evening unless you’ve good
intentions. Never can tell when you might run into an Irish
ruffian, don’tcha know.”

Smiling politely as the two departed,
carrying their injured leader on wobbly legs, Tom turned his
attention to the young man he had saved, who was now standing
unsteadily.

“Can I help you there, lad? Tom Callahan’s
the name. And who might I be addressing, sir?”

Wary that perhaps he had escaped one incident
only to fall victim to another, the young man remained cautious.
Tom noticed his fear and smiled gently at him. “Not to worry, lad.
And what might your name be?”

As the shaken young man stepped forward into
the light, Tom recognized him immediately.