by Gordon Ryan
As the sun dropped into the sea, beyond the horizon, the evening stars began blinking through the occasional break in the gathering cloud cover. The tide was out, releasing the pungent odor of the sea, and Tom watched as birds swooped in during the last light of day to feed off the exposed floor of the bay.
Earlier that day, Tom had wandered through the waterfront district of Queenstown. What he had seen there had shocked him and contributed to his melancholy frame of mind. On the public board, he had seen a wanted poster.
“Thomas Callahan,” it had read—“nineteen years old, black hair, six foot, one inch tall, weighing between thirteen and fourteen stone. Wanted for questioning with regard to an assault in County Tipperary.”
Seeing the poster had startled Tom, although he had expected such a notice to be posted at any time. He was pleased that no reward was offered. He took it as his good fortune, too, that the notice had arrived in Queenstown just one day before his planned departure.
Once his decision to leave Ireland had been formulated and he had booked passage on the Antioch, Tom had not spent much time considering the impact of his hasty departure from home, nor his even more bold decision to sail to America. This night, however, as he stood on the quay gazing out over the ocean, Tom thought more seriously than ever before about what it would mean to flee his homeland.
A light rain began to fall, and Tom turned up the collar of his coat against it. Glancing back in the direction of Cork, he could see the gas street lights beginning to flicker on, while out to sea, an occasional flash of lightning illuminated the thick band of dark clouds that hung over the horizon.
The gloom that had descended over the ocean matched his mood. Leaving Ireland to go to America seemed a sensible thing to do. He had heard that life in the United States was filled with opportunities. But what they were, he found it difficult to imagine. Doubts and fears crowded into his uncertain mind. His uncle John, gone the same path these past six years, had written only once, and the letter—posted from what John had called ‘the wilderness of Alaska’—was not full of tales of riches.
Walking slowly back toward his lonely nest on the wharf, Tom began the process his mother had taught him so many years ago to counteract the despondency that besets so many Irish. “Count the good, Tom, and you’ll see it always outnumbers the bad,” she’d said. He hadn’t always seen the merit of it, and as he grew older, he found her optimism hard to emulate.
In his experience, there had often been more evil than good in the world and bad things had the greater power to hurt you. That was what he was leaving in Tipperary—a cruel father who had compelled him to work for little or no wages as a clerk in the family store. The older Callahan justified the forced labor by saying, “I feed and clothe ye, lad. Be grateful in these hard times ye found work.” He had a mother who he knew loved him, but who had too many younger ones who required her care and a husband who demanded constant attention. The parish priest had called her a “compassionate soul,” but Tom could see she was a woman in who, at forty-one, the life was ebbing. He thought also about the police who were pursuing him. That was the part that made leaving easy.
Reaching his hovel, Tom squeezed between the wooden freight containers he had arranged into a shelter. The one wharfie who had discovered his quarters, after ordering Tom away, had relented, “but only for a couple of days,” when Tom had explained that he was bound for New York and his ship would shortly sail.
Lying on the bed of old rags and straw, full dark now upon him, Tom wondered if the good did indeed outnumber the bad and if his plan to go to America was sound. The vision of his seven younger brothers and sisters, and the memory of his mother’s desperate hug at his departure, crowded his thoughts as he drifted uncomfortably toward sleep.
As the memories played through his mind, a few raindrops angled their way into his shelter and mingled with the tears on his cheeks. Tom would have been ashamed to have admitted he was capable of crying, but lying there in the cold, far from home, the nineteen-year-old boy/man surrendered to his emotions. Ignorant of the prayers his mother said for him, and filled with sadness, Tom wondered what his future held.
Three days at sea passed before Tom caught another glimpse of the young woman from the quay. For the first two days, he’d stayed strictly in the areas marked for steerage passengers. But on the third morning, he saw her standing at the rail on one of the upper decks. She was alone, and Tom determined to approach her. Taking a chance on being caught, Tom ducked under a chain and climbed a flight of stairs to the deck where she was standing, looking quietly out to sea. Three times Tom casually walked by, trying to think of something to say. If she noticed him, she didn’t let on. By the fourth pass, Tom had worked up the courage to make his approach.
“’Tis a vision of loveliness I see this morning,” he said, stopping behind her to gaze out over the ocean.
And you’re even lovelier up close, he thought.
Katrina, hearing but not comprehending his comments, turned to face him, confusion on her face. “Uh, excuse me?” she replied in English.
Tom smiled his best and most friendly greeting, hoping Katrina would respond with an openness of her own. Disarmed somewhat by his cordial demeanor, she seemed willing to converse with him. “I said, it’s a vision of loveliness I see this beautiful morning,” nodding toward the expanse of ocean.
I mean you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and can I hold you in my arms?
Unsure of his meaning, Katrina once again hesitated. His forward manner was a little unsettling, but she did not want to give offense or appear foolish, if, indeed, he was not speaking of her. She and her brother, Anders, had been sent for schooling to Great Britain, something their father thought necessary if his children were to move easily in polite society. She therefore spoke and understood English quite well, but she was sometimes confused by the conflicting meanings of words. She was uncertain now about what this young man was trying to convey. Standing before her, he continued to grin broadly and looked to be friendly.
“Do I know you, sir?” she asked politely, making certain to smile, so as not to offend.
“I don’t believe so, miss, but we could remedy that situation if you’re of a mind,” he said, continuing to smile.
Embarrassed by what she now perceived was his forward manner, Katrina began to blush. She drew herself up to her full height and, dipping her head slightly, said, “That would not be proper, sir.” Then, reaching down to gather up her skirts, she excused herself. “Perhaps I should return to my cabin. It’s getting on toward middag.”
“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 ch
est 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
2
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 had
n’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.”
