by Gordon Ryan
“Now here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll wait forty-eight hours before I go to the police and tell them what I know. Between now and then, you decide what you’re going to do. If it were me, though, I wouldn’t have to think about it.”
“What’s your stake in it, McGuire? Why not just turn me in?” Tom asked.
“Let’s just say . . . it looks to me like the wrong pig’s getting stuck.”
Leaving the hospital a few minutes later, McGuire felt as though it had been a good afternoon’s work. His was a grungy business, but every once in a while, a chance came along to do something fun. He’d lifted some money off that pompous Stromberg and been able, without saying so directly, to let the kid know who had fingered him. He’d earned his money. Callahan would get out of town, and maybe the kid would get a chance to get even one day. Stromberg, coward that he was, might yet get what he deserved. Yes, sir, McGuire congratulated himself, all and all, it hadn’t been a bad afternoon’s work.
Just before one a.m., Tom completed the note to Sister Mary, having had great difficulty in expressing his shame over leaving in the middle of the night. A second note, for D.O. McKay, and a short third note for Anders Hansen, were enclosed with Sister Mary’s, and she was asked to see that they were delivered to each man.
The early morning train west, departing at six-fifteen from the station in Salt Lake, would allow Tom to be long gone before someone came to his room to determine why he wasn’t available for work. In the note, Tom asked Sister Mary to contribute his final pay to the children’s surgery fund.
Climbing the stairs from the basement, his small valise in his hand, Tom moved quietly through the halls toward the side entrance to the first floor, east wing. As he hurried through the reception area, toward the main entrance, a noise from the chapel startled him, and he suddenly found himself face to face with Father Lawrence Scanlan, Archbishop of the Salt Lake Diocese.
Noticing the valise in Tom’s hand, Scanlan looked up at Tom. “Coming or going, my son?” he asked softly.
“Going, Father.”
“Well, so am I, lad. I have a buggy outside. May I offer you a lift to your destination?”
“It’s just down the hill, Father. To the train station.”
“Right on the way. Come along, and we can introduce ourselves in the buggy.”
Tom hesitated, but then followed Father Scanlan outside. He laid his piece of luggage in the rear of the buggy and climbed up to the passenger seat. “I believe I know who you are, Father Scanlan.”
“Do you now?” Scanlan said as he lightly tapped the whip on the horse’s back. “Then you have the advantage, although I believe Sister Mary spoke of you some time ago. If I’m right, you’d be young Mr. Callahan, late of Ireland,” he laughed. “And I haven’t been able to hear such a pleasant accent in many years now. But tell me, Tom, if I may call you Tom, I was under the impression that you were quite happy at Holy Cross and we would be able to depend on your services for a while. Has something happened to change all that?” the Bishop asked, looking directly at Tom.
“Ah, Father, it’s not an easy story.”
“They never are, my son. But God has a listening ear, and He’s asked me to be patient each time I sit in for Him. So, what part of Ireland do you come from, Tom?”
“County Tipperary, Father.”
Scanlan eyed Tom and smiled. “What parish?”
“Pallas Grean.”
“You don’t say! Neighbors, we are, young Tom. I hail from Ballytarna, just down the road. In that neck of the woods, maybe we’re even relatives. What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Ryan, Father. Margaret Ryan.”
“Not Margaret Ryan, daughter of Matthew Ryan and Margaret Donohue, per chance?”
Tom was surprised. “Aye, Father. One and the same.”
Scanlan laughed. “Well, bless my soul! Your mother is my cousin, Tom, and that makes us first cousins, once removed. Blood relatives, can you believe it, lad! All the way from Ireland to run into your cousin in the wilds of Utah. The Irish are popping up everywhere, Tom. Just everywhere,” he laughed heartily.
Born September 23, 1843, to Patrick and Catherine Ryan Scanlan, Lawrence Scanlan, as oldest son, followed an accepted tradition and attended All Hallows Seminary in Dublin, becoming an alumnus nearly fifteen years after Father P. J. O’Leary had followed the same course.
Father Scanlan’s career, however, had been somewhat different than O’Leary’s. Taking a clipper ship around the Horn in 1868, Father Scanlan landed in San Francisco, and was immediately assigned to a small mining town in Nevada, eventually moving to Petaluma, California, as parish priest. His assignment to Utah came in 1873, to preside over about 800 Catholics in the region, then the largest territorial Catholic diocese in the United States.
Recognizing the need for medical care for indigent miners, Father Scanlan petitioned the church to establish a hospital and, in 1875, the Sisters of the Holy Cross complied. Holy Cross Hospital was born shortly thereafter, and Father Scanlan continued to preside as bishop over the Salt Lake diocese.
Part of that history was briefly related while the horse slowly made her way down South Temple, toward the train station.
“But back to your story, Tom. Is there some way I can be of assistance? Anything I can do to encourage you to stay? After all,” he smiled, “I’d not be gaining and losing a relative in the same day, or night, if I had a choice.”
Tom laughed nervously as the buggy approached Temple Square and the center of Salt Lake City. “Father, it’s an honor to be related to you, and certainly Sister Mary has been the soul of kindness since my arrival, but I just think it best I move on. For all concerned.”
“Is the law chasing you, my son?” he asked directly, surprising Tom with his insight.
“Father,” Tom said, looking down at the buggy floorboard. “I had some bit of trouble on the way out to Utah, and it does seem to have caught up with me.”
Scanlan reined the horse over to the side of the road, stopping at the corner of West Temple and South Temple. He tied the reins to the brake handle and then looking directly at Tom, he said, “If you’re intent on leaving, son, would you like to make your confession?”
Tom was embarrassed and stumbled his speech. “It’s been some time, Father.”
“I understand.”
Silence ensued as they sat together, in the shadow of the recently dedicated Mormon temple, with the time approaching one-thirty in the morning. Tom thought how often he had been here at this very spot, and how often it had been just as late, or later, as he and Sister Mary delivered food to needy families throughout the poorer sections of town.
“Father,” Tom said, his voice soft and contrite. “Will you hear my confession?”
“Certainly, my son,” Bishop Scanlan said as he reached inside his coat for his vestments.
Later, much later, his story of the fight in Kansas City purged and his sorrow over the loss of Katrina expressed, Tom wiped the tears from his eyes as Father Scanlan refolded his vestments. Then the bishop spoke in a directive rather than a compassionate voice.
“Tom, although we are the minority religion in Utah, I am not without some influence. I could perhaps render some assistance, if I had some time.”
“Father, I think it’s best I go and avoid any further conflict. The church should not have to bear the embarrassment of having their maintenance man arrested for murder. Plus, I’m scared, Father. Ever since I heard that story from Father O’Leary, of the young Irish lad who was executed in New York, I’ve worried the same thing could happen to me.”
Scanlan nodded. “I’ll extract one promise from you, son. That you write to Sister Mary when you locate and let her know where you are. It will be in the form of a private, privileged communication, and I will have her advise me. We need to have someplace to write to you, in case we can turn something up to exonerate you. Because it was self-defense, you shouldn’t have to run from it for the rest of your life.”
“I will, Father. You have my word.”
“That’s good enough for me. And your money, my son. Are you able to provide for yourself?”
“I have sufficient, Father. The room and board at the hospital has enabled me to save most of my salary.”
“Excellent,” he said, gently tapping the horse again and beginning the short ride remaining to the train station. Arriving there, Scanlan halted the buggy and Tom jumped down, retrieving his valise and standing on the footpath just below Father Scanlan.
“Thank you, Father. I’m very sorry for my hasty departure. I only hope it doesn’t cause Sister Mary too much disruption. And thank you, Father, for your care and concern.”
“Tom,” he said, offering his hand, “it’s been a true pleasure meeting one of my long lost cousins. Remember your promise, lad. And one more thing. May I ask your permission to discuss this with Sister Mary? Not, of course, the nature of your transgression, but the cause of your departure and to enlist her help in finding a way to overcome this problem.”
Tom spoke without hesitation. “Aye, Father. I’d trust Sister Mary with my life,” he said, smiling as they both realized how literally that was true. “Good night to you, Father,” Tom added, doffing his cap.
“And God’s blessings go with you, my son,” Bishop Scanlan replied.
14
Without either of them realizing it, Harold and Tom departed San Francisco within hours of each other, on successive tides, their respective ships turning in opposite directions once out beyond the broad harbor entrance. The train trip from Salt Lake had occurred two days earlier for Tom, and, once Harold learned from Detective McGuire of Tom’s departure, he obtained the bank drafts from his father, booked his own trip, and bid Katrina farewell.
Tom had two days in San Francisco before his ship departed, and as fortune would have it, he attended a Mormon Tabernacle Choir performance in the city, part of a concert tour the choir had undertaken to the West Coast. Having never heard the choir in Salt Lake City, he sat in the audience, enjoying the music and thinking how odd it was to hear them on his last night in America, so far away from Salt Lake City.
In the only letter Tom had exchanged with his mother, while he was living at Holy Cross Hospital, she had informed him that his Uncle John had written and was still living in Alaska, in the town of Anvil, on the Bering Sea, near St. Michael’s. For Tom, those were just names, but they conjured up a vision of wild animals, treacherous waters, and endless snow fields. With no particular destination in mind, Anvil seemed as good as any other and as far away from police problems as he was going to get, short of sailing to the orient. Thinking about the possibility, he even became excited to hook up with his Uncle John, his mother’s brother, and his only known relative, aside from the newly discovered Father Scanlan, outside of Ireland.
The steamship Pacific Challenger out of San Francisco, made excellent time, stopping for three days in Seattle, and, once clear of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, making a straight run for Dutch Harbor, on the west end of the Aleutian Islands. During his stopover in Seattle, Tom sent a telegraph to Sister Mary, advising that he was bound for Alaska, but no response was received by the time the Pacific Challenger put back out to sea.
Balmy weather accompanied the ship during most of her run across the northern Pacific Ocean, the ship remaining well south of the Gulf of Alaska. Tom spent much of his time reading the ship’s library books about Alaska. In Seattle, he had also purchased a copy of a newly published novel The Red Badge of Courage. He was fascinated by the story and intrigued how the author, Stephen Crane, who was only two or three years older than Tom, and who had been born long after the American Civil War, knew so much about it.
Two-thirds of the way across the Gulf of Alaska, their luck ran out. A violent southwester rose out of the calm, and within four hours, the Pacific Challenger was fighting for her life. Unable to make headway in the port beam sea, the captain had no choice but to turn tail and ride with the storm in a northeasterly direction.
For seventy-two hours the storm raged, finally giving way to fair weather as the sun broke over the horizon on the third day. Damage to the ship was not extensive, but after taking a sighting to determine position, the captain decided to continue northeast and lay over at Kodiak, Alaska, for repairs.
Tom weathered the storm well enough, and in fact earned praise from the first mate for showing up in the galley, well into the second day of the storm, looking for something to eat. Most of the other passengers did not set foot outside their berths until the ship had entered the calm waters of Kodiak harbor.
On the other vessel, Harold Stromberg enjoyed a relatively easy journey down the coast of California and past the Baja Peninsula, turning into the mouth of that cavernous inlet, and making land on the mainland of Mexico at Mazatlán, a community of fishermen and, to the interior, cattle ranchers.
Left behind in Salt Lake City, was Katrina Hansen Stromberg, who became aware within two weeks of Harold’s departure that she was pregnant. She also learned from Anders that Tom had gone to Alaska. Neither piece of news was entirely welcome, though she felt guilty for feeling so. With Harold gone for several weeks, Katrina turned increasingly to her letters to Nana for solace and was grateful for Anders, who could almost read her mind and was always there to understand and comfort her.
By 1896, Alaska had been a United States territory for nearly thirty years. In 1867, when Secretary of State Henry Seward agreed to pay the Russians some twenty-three million dollars for Alaska, he was subjected to one of the more vitriolic treatments the press had ever afforded a United States public servant. Dubbed, “Seward’s Folly,” the purchase of Alaska was thought to be a monumental mistake, one that benefited the United States only by providing an increased population of polar bears and Eskimos. The nation wondered what use they would ever make of a perpetual “ice box.”
Evidence of the long-time Russian occupation abounded on Kodiak Island, and the original government house was still standing when Tom arrived in 1896. In the Russian cemetery in Kodiak, the decaying wooden tombstones, filled with Russian names Tom could not pronounce, painted a bleak picture of early settlement life in this far flung colony of Mother Russia.
In one plot, the tombstones told a specially poignant story of the hardships endured by the people who dared to settle there. Reading the inscriptions on the markers filled Tom with both sorrow and a feeling of awe. He was able to imagine how those courageous people had suffered in that isolated place and harsh climate.
In one set of graves, Alexander Potemkin lay side by side with his wife and three children. The inscriptions gave ample information for Tom to piece the story together. Anna was born 22 April 1768, and died the next day. Nicholi was born 30 May 1769, but lived only six days. The third child, a daughter named Katrina, was born 17 December 1770 and lived only eight days, dying on Christmas. Tom stood for many minutes looking at Katrina’s grave marker, marveling at her name, and trying to imagine the pain the parents must have felt as they buried their infant children.
Alexander Potemkin’s wife, Sophie, died in 1771, a young woman, just twenty-six years old. Potemkin followed her eight months later. He was only thirty-four.
Looking at those old grave markers and trying to imagine how it had been for these people, Tom found it easy to believe that after burying her three babies, and dying herself within a week of the last child, that Sophie Potemkin likely succumbed to a broken heart, rather than some illness.
Such stories were also told by the grave markers Tom had seen in the cemetery in Salt Lake. The cost of pioneering new lands was always high, and thinking of such things always put Tom in a mind of home and Ireland, where the terrain had been claimed and the land settled for generations and where, in spite of poverty, relative safety and civilized comforts were readily available.
For ten days the Pacific Challenger remained in Kodiak, giving Tom the opportunity to travel inland with a small hunting party from the ship and to observe firsthand, the ta
king of a giant Kodiak bear. Never in his life had Tom seen a creature so big. When spotted, the majestic animal had simply tried to make its way peacefully to safety, but once shot in the hind quarters, it had turned and raised to its full height, nearly eight feet, as measured following the fusillade of shots from the inexperienced and frightened hunters who finally brought it down.
Out to sea, the Pacific Challenger once again made good time on the run down the Alaska Peninsula, cutting through the chain of islands at Dutch Harbor and running north by northeast for St. Michael’s. Tom arrived the last week of July and immediately took local transport by water to Anvil, across a large inlet. Miraculously, within four hours of arriving in Anvil, Tom had located his uncle who had just returned from a trip inland.
“By all the saints ’tis good to see ya, Tom. You’re a strapping, lad, that ye are. Tell me, lad, how’s that passel o’ young’uns?”
“All were well when I left, Uncle John. Of course, that’s been over a year now. Ma’s letter back in May said they were still doing fine.”
“And how’s your father treating m’sister?”
Tom lowered his head. “About the same, I’d be guessin’, Uncle John.”
“Aye. ’Tis sad. But knock off the ‘uncle’ bit,” he said, taking the edge off the conversation. “We’re in the wilds of Alaska now, lad. Partners we be, not kin. Least not so we need to show the world.”
“Aye,” Tom replied.
“So, what brings ye two-thirds of the way around the world, Tom? Surely not a visit with yer uncle.”
“Just a series of events, Uncle . . . I mean, John. Your letter said it was a bright place, full of promise, and I thought I’d see for myself.”
“It’s a bright place now, Tom, but come winter, well, you came at the right time, lad. We’re off in a few days. If you’d been much later, I’d have been gone.”
