by Gordon Ryan
Katrina reached for the book in Tom’s hand. “This book, Thomas, was my teacher. Elder Stromberg answered my questions and helped with my concerns and those of my father and mother, but as I read this book, and prayed about it as Elder Stromberg said we should, God bore witness to me that the things written in here are true. He can do that for you, too, Thomas.” She nodded vigorously as she said so and then smiled triumphantly.
“But I have a religion, although, I must admit, I haven’t attended all that much since I was a child.” He smiled sheepishly.
“I had a religion, too, Thomas,” she said, handing the book back to Tom and again leaning back in her chair. “And I did attend. But when the Book of Mormon spoke to me, I just . . . I just knew it was true. Will you read it, Thomas?” she asked, angling her head to look into his eyes again.
“I will, indeed, Katrina. If . . .” he paused, waiting for her attention, “you will answer those questions I have the next time we meet.”
She smiled and started to gather up her things. “I will do the best I can, Thomas. I’m still learning myself, but I will try to help you if you have questions. But . . .” she paused, “the best answers will come if you also pray about the book as you read it.”
“Well, we shall see.” She was standing now, and he smiled up at her. “I think I’ll just sit here for a while and browse through it,” he said, holding up the book. “Thanks for the loan.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” she replied. “You’re my very first student.”
“Shall I call you teacher, then,” he laughed.
“Not yet, but I will be someday,” she answered, instantly serious.
“Well, I’ll read through this a bit, Katrina, and return tomorrow to see if you have come up with the answers.”
“Perhaps, Thomas, if you follow all my instructions, you’ll come back to me with the answers.”
“Aye,” he said, lying back down on the recliner as she departed.
“Oh, and Thomas,” she said as she reached the hatchway, “I’m sure the Pope is a good man and means well. But we do have a Prophet now, and he does speak with God.”
Tom smiled at her as she stepped through the door.
“Keep teaching me, Katrina. I’ll listen every day if that’s what it takes to spend time with you,” he murmured to himself.
28 April 1895
Dear Nana,
I am so happy tonight, Nana. I had the chance to teach the gospel today for the first time. The young Irish boy I told you about sat and listened as I told him of the restoration of the church. Anders told me that Poppa has offered Thomas a job in New York to wait for our store equipment and see that it is shipped on to Utah. Poppa was not pleased with me for teaching him the gospel, preferring that I just give him a Book of Mormon and let him contact the missionaries in New York after we arrive. He thinks Thomas is coarse and common—and Catholic. Of course, you know how Poppa is.
Thomas, oh, that is his name, Nana, was polite, but I couldn’t tell if he was really interested in the church. He seems a nice boy, Nana, but I wish you were here to give me advice. I think I like him, but Poppa has cautioned me and insisted that Anders be present when I speak to him again. Becoming a young woman is hard, isn’t it? Was it hard when you were a young girl, too?
Jeg elske du,
Your Trina
Shortly after ten that evening, earlier than his usual midnight appearance, Tom was once again up on deck for his nightly stroll. Climbing to the uppermost level of the ship, he walked alone. A cool breeze dictated that he turn his collar up and pull his cap down over his eyes. Not ten minutes into his walk, he heard the faint strain of a woman softly singing, almost humming, below him, and he made his way to the railing to discover the source of the sound.
One deck below, lying back on one of the deck recliners, was a woman holding a young child against her breast. The child was wrapped in a down blanket, and the woman was singing softly to the toddler.
For nearly half an hour, Tom stood leaning on the rail, silently listening to the singing below and enjoying the gentle rocking of the ship as it plowed ahead through the sea. Unheard, one of the ship’s officers came up behind him and joined him at the railing.
“Sounds comforting, doesn’t it?” the officer said, startling Tom.
“Aye. Reminds me of my mother,” Tom said, taking out his pocket watch, the one family possession given to him by his grandfather, to check the time and determine whether he was legally on deck. Assured that he was, he smiled at the officer and said, “But that would be the case for most of us, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s well after nine,” the officer laughed, confirming to Tom that the officer knew it was quite legal for Tom to be on the upper deck. The officer leaned over the railing, and looked at the woman below. “She’ll be gone soon,” he said to Tom. “She’s up here nearly every night, helping young Mrs. Peterson with her young’uns.”
“It’s not her child?” Tom asked.
“Hers?” the officer smiled, glancing again toward the lower deck where she was sitting. “No, she’s only a young kid herself. That’s the Hansen girl. She’s been helping out because Mrs. Peterson’s traveling alone with her children, and when one of the kids can’t sleep, Miss Hansen there takes the child on deck to allow Mrs. Peterson some time to catch a bit of sleep. That is, if her other baby will allow it. I keep an eye on Miss Hansen whenever I have the watch,” he said, offering Tom a polite warning. “Well, have a good evening, lad,” he commented, heading for the ladder and the lower decks.
Tom looked again at the couple below, wrapped securely in blankets, the singing now ended as the child apparently slept. Tom envied the child, snuggled as it was against the body of the girl/woman he now knew to be Katrina Hansen. Tom continued his unofficial watch until fifteen minutes later, when Katrina rose from her deck chair and carried the child below. Tom remained on deck, thinking about this woman whom he had mistaken for a mother—an older woman—gently nurturing her child.
You’re nothing but a slip of a girl yourself, Katie Hansen, but if I was to put words to it, I’d swear you’re a natural born mother. “Will ya never stop surprising me, Katie, me darlin’,” he voiced quietly to himself.
Chapter 3
Three days later, with two additional deck-chair meetings behind them, at which the Book of Mormon was the primary subject of conversation, Tom had discovered this young woman was headstrong and fiercely independent in most things. That’s why he was surprised at how completely she submitted herself to her father’s will. It made Tom wonder when, and if, she might ever find the courage to assert herself with regard to Mr. Hansen.
Tom’s discussions with Andy, late one evening as Tom had gone for his nightly stroll, had enlightened him as to the forceful nature of Lars Hansen.
“Ya, Klinka is headstrong in most things, Tom, but she has always been an obedient child and followed our father’s wishes,” Andy had said.
“And you?” Tom said.
Andy smiled. “I have often felt the need to go my own way, Tom,” he laughed. Growing serious again, he continued. “But not Klinka. I think she finds it hard sometimes, especially as she grows older, but Father’s word is still her rule,” he said, leaving Tom with an increased concern about his ability to reach out to Katrina over her father’s objections—something that was beginning to appear necessary. It was clear from what Katrina and Anders had to say about their father that Mr. Hansen would never approve of one of the Tom Callahan’s of the world making a play for his daughter.
With the final day of the voyage at hand, a dinner party for the upper-class passengers was planned for the last night on board ship. With Tom having accepted Mr. Hansen’s offer of temporary employment in New York, Andy said he considered Tom a member of his father’s staff, and he took the liberty of inviting his young Irish friend to attend the final dinner with his family. Tom was reticent to accept, but since it would provide one further chance to be with Katrina and because time was running out for him, he thanked Anders
and said it would be his pleasure to dine with the family. Tom sensed he would be somewhat out of place, but rationalized he could somehow make it through the meal and entertainment without embarrassing himself.
When Katrina joined them on deck and Andy advised her that Tom would be coming to dinner, her surprised look told Tom all that he needed to know. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to come, he hoped, but Tom sensed that she felt he would be uncomfortable and that his sitting down as a hired hand to eat dinner with the family would not meet with her father’s approval.
As evening approached, Tom grew more and more apprehensive regarding the dinner. He met Andy in a pre-arranged spot, and they entered the first-class dining room together. The rest of the Hansens were already seated, and the moment Tom sat down at the table, he knew he’d made the wrong choice and that he should have paid more attention to Katrina’s unspoken warnings.
You were absolutely right, Katie. Maybe I’d better pay more attention to your instincts next time, he reflected.
The steward who served their table went immediately two tables away to whisper to the First Officer, who then held a prolonged stare in Tom’s direction. Mr. Hansen peered disapprovingly over the rim of his pince-nez spectacles at Tom’s attire. He flapped his table napkin dramatically and coughed to register his disapproval and tucked the corner of his napkin into his shirt collar, all the while staring down his nose at Tom. Mrs. Hansen seemed embarrassed by the situation, and Tom hoped her sickly smile was an attempt to ease his discomfort. Katrina avoided eye contact while Anders, seemingly undisturbed by the drama of the situation, reached for the rolls and butter. The two younger Hansen girls, their heads lowered in conspiratorial adolescence, giggled continuously at the handsome new addition to their dining ritual.
Lars Hansen’s English wasn’t as well-practiced as Katrina’s or Anders’s, and he spoke in the typical sing-song rhythm of Scandinavian speech.
“Ya, Mr. Callahan, Anders say you go alone to New York. Your Momma and Poppa go before?”
I’m a big boy now, Poppa, and I’m off on me own.
Tom glanced around the dining salon, aware that the First Officer continued to occasionally look his way. “No, sir. My family is still in Ireland.”
“Ah,” Hansen nodded, “then they come soon?”
They’ll not be coming at’ll, Poppa.
“No, sir. I believe it is their intention to remain in Ireland,” Tom continued.
Hansen’s eyebrows went up slightly, his glance at Mrs. Hansen informing Tom that he didn’t approve of the situation. “You go to stay alone, Mr. Callahan?”
Tom glanced quickly at Katrina, who kept her eyes lowered.
There is one other possibility, Poppa, so’s I wouldn’t have to go it alone.
“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 o
n 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.
