by Gordon Ryan
Lovingly, Your father
P.S. I offer my deepest regrets that I will not be able to attend your wedding. Follow the established Catholic tradition, Harold, as would be proper and acceptable for a guest, and we shall arrange for the ultimate proper ordinance as quickly as possible.
In the west wing of the house, a light tap on Teresa’s door brought her small voice.
“Come in.”
Don Sebastian entered his daughter’s bedroom, where she had changed into her night clothes and robe.
“Well, my daughter. It is not so bad a proposition, is it?”
Teresa smiled at her father. She had been brushing her long, dark hair in the light of the kerosene lamp on her dresser, but she laid aside her brush to address her father.
“He has not the blood of our Spanish ancestors flowing through his veins, Father, but he seems a most respectable young man.”
“Well said, my daughter. And as to your appreciation of him, personally?”
“He is not unattractive, Father. I understand our interests and will of course obey your wishes.”
Don Sebastian moved close to his daughter, kissed her lightly on the forehead, and stepped back toward the door. Turning to admire her reflection in the mirror, he said lovingly, “You look so like your beautiful mother when she was at your age. Harold Stromberg is a most fortunate young man.”
Teresa Maria Cardenas would be a major player in the amalgamation of two powerful families. She knew she had no choice but to follow her father’s wishes and had in her heart hoped this Harold Stromberg would be someone she could love. Her assessment was that she could readily marry the handsome, young Yanqui who proposed to establish a new colony in Mexico. She would demonstrate her obedience to her father’s wishes and at the same time produce heirs to two dynasties. To do otherwise would be unthinkable and unbecoming the obedient daughter of Don Sebastian Cardenas. Besides, she was confident of her ability to retain in her relationship with her American husband the same kind of independence she had always enjoyed under the hand of her father. She had no fears.
In Salt Lake, Katrina Stromberg filled her days with reading, sewing clothes for the expected baby, and watching for mail from Harold. Only one letter had come since his departure, and that had been posted in San Francisco the day his ship left for Mexico.
Katrina’s mother, Jenny Hansen, was only marginally helpful in assisting Katrina to accept Harold’s absence and to help her to deal with the discomforting early stages of her pregnancy. Her mother’s counsel, understandable in the face of her own marriage, was simple: “You’re married now, Katrina. Think to your husband and plan for your family. All will be well.”
Living alone in the house Harold had rented was lonely, but Katrina frequently invited her younger sisters to stay with her, and on those occasions, Katrina reverted to her childhood and filled all their time together with fun and laughter.
Only in the quiet of the lonely nights did Katrina pour her heart out to Nana about the yearnings in her heart and the feelings she had that sometimes bordered on misery. Afraid of putting her eternal promises in jeopardy, she resisted the temptation to reflect on what she thought of as her “passing fancy,” for that is what she had taken to calling Tom’s journey through her life. She tried instead to dwell more on her forthcoming motherhood than on either Tom or Harold.
Another thing was that Katrina never felt entirely comfortable in her in-laws’ home. Though she was treated in a kindly manner, Father Stromberg had become increasingly outspoken with regard to his feelings about what he saw as the Prophet’s “lack of vision.” Katrina frequently felt a dark spirit in her husband’s parents’ home, and although she was unaware of the full purpose of Harold’s trip to Mexico, she had a feeling of foreboding that she found impossible to shake. She knew Father Stromberg’s constant criticism of the Prophet was not right.
15
Nearly fifteen hundred miles up the Yukon River lay the small community of Ft. Yukon. Situated at the confluence of the Yukon and the Porcupine rivers, the settlement had been in existence since early Russian control of the territory, and had been an Athapascan Indian campground before that. A one day layover allowed Tom and John the opportunity to stretch their legs and buy some prospecting gear. Gold panning, or placer mining as it was technically called, didn’t actually require much in the way of hardware, and in fact many a miner got by with nothing more than the traditional pan and a rock hammer. Rumors of higher equipment costs in Dawson, most likely started by the merchants in Ft. Yukon who wanted the business, convinced John that they should outfit before they arrived.
Since it was early in August, there were no immediate concerns about their ability to reach Dawson before freeze-up, and the late summer weather was pleasant enough, even though Ft. Yukon was positioned precisely on the Arctic Circle. For most of the trip, Tom had lazed about on the deck of the sternwheeler, watching spectacular scenery roll before him, mixed with endless miles of flat tundra, which was nearly as mind numbing as the prairie had been, west of Kansas City.
How long ago that all seemed. It was almost inconceivable to Tom that he had experienced so many changes in just over one year, and melancholy frequently overtook him. John’s promptings for the lad to join him in “a few pints,” nearly persuaded him on a number of occasions to abandon his determination regarding alcohol. The fact that John drank nearly as heavily as Tom’s father had caused Tom some concern, but John’s drunkenness produced a jovial, rather than a combative personality.
The trip provided Tom ample opportunity to reflect on all that had happened to him since his hasty departure from Tipperary. The walk through Ireland, the ocean voyage to America, and everything since then, seemed as though it were a dream—especially the part of his memory dominated by the innocent face of a blonde, Norwegian young woman. When he allowed himself to think about it, the fact that she should be married to another man filled Tom with a feeling of despair. Because they were so painful, when thoughts of Katrina intruded, he made an almost desperate effort to drive them out of his mind. One thing he frequently thought of was that because he had thrown a punch at some mayor’s son-in-law in Ireland, he was now caught in the wilds of Alaska. He recalled as well the stories he had heard in Ireland of Irish and English alike being hauled before the courts and banished to the penal colony in Australia, merely for stealing a loaf of bread. At least he still had his freedom.
Before leaving Anvil, John explained to Tom that since transport out was impossible during winter, they would be in Dawson, or nearby, for the remainder of the year and well into ’97. Tom’s letter to Sister Mary, posted before they left Anvil, had been nearly as hard to write as the note he’d written the night he so quickly departed Salt Lake City. He left out the part about the law being after him, rationalizing that Father Scanlan had probably covered enough of that to ease Sister Mary’s concerns. Tom’s main purpose in writing the letter was to assure her that his departure had nothing to do with dissatisfaction over his job at Holy Cross or the treatment he had received there. Indicating “General Delivery, Dawson City,” as his forwarding address through the year, Tom felt he’d honored his commitment to Father Scanlan to keep his friends advised of his location.
Several hundred miles further up the Yukon lay Dawson City and an unknown future for Tom. Spending a year with Uncle John would be tolerable, he figured, and as he’d explained in a letter to his mother, posted at the same time as the one to Sister Mary, it would be good to spend time with her brother. Tom knew the news that he had located Uncle John would please his mother and that she would feel her son was in good hands.
As the riverboat approached Dawson, Tom thought someone had made a mistake in calling it a “city.” New York was a city. Dublin was a city. And even Salt Lake was a city. But the ramshackle cluster of wooden structures off the port bow of the riverboat would by no standard Tom knew qualify the place to be called a city. Within two hours of arriving on 19 August 1896, John Ryan had located Carmack, a gri
zzled, nearly toothless man with an almost skeletal physique, who had just arrived from his claim. John and Tom listened in astonishment as Carmack, his words whistling through his missing front teeth, breathlessly described his amazing gold strike of two days earlier. In town to file his claim, Carmack was heading immediately back to Fortymile, an even smaller cluster of shacks up the Klondike River, and from there to his claim. Ryan was welcome to join him, Carmack said, but he’d better file for a claim first, if he wanted to participate in the “find of the century,” as he called it.
Of course, Carmack added, within the first few hours, most of the claims on Rabbit Creek, where he’d made his find, had been taken and miners were already en route to join in the bonanza. There were, Carmack suggested, small tributaries of Rabbit Creek, itself only a slightly larger tributary of the Klondike, and even though the various other feeder streams probably wouldn’t be as rich as his claim on Rabbit, Carmack told John Ryan and his nephew that they most likely could scratch thousands of dollars from the sand and gravel laying in the stream beds.
And so it was that Tom Callahan, approaching his twenty-first birthday, and his uncle, John Ryan, these nine years out of Ireland, filed two claims on a small creek in the upper reaches of Yukon Territory, Canada. Each claim entitled them to five hundred feet on either side of the creek. Their two adjacent claims gave the Irish kinsmen one thousand feet of creek frontage to prospect. Not much was expected by either man, although John, having prospected for several years along tributaries of the Yukon, was aware that the color and concentration of Carmack’s gold was of extremely high quality. Tom, totally ignorant of anything having to do with prospecting, simply followed along with what John said and got caught up in the gold fever rampaging through Dawson and Fortymile, both of which had been emptied of miners racing for their share of the golden dream.
Arriving at the site, Tom and John quickly staked their claims, which they named Emerald One and Emerald Two. From Tom’s point of view, the location seemed fine, but John’s assessment left him dour. The claims immediately above and below Carmack’s had, indeed, been taken by early arrivals. The small creek which held Carmack’s Discovery claim, was surrounded by One Above, One Below, and Two Below, traditional names attached to the claims surrounding significant gold finds. Discovery and One Below belonged to Carmack as the original filer, who, by tradition, was entitled to two personal claims. One Above and Two Below went to his two Indian brothers-in-law.
As miners arrived in growing numbers during the closing days of August and early in September, the traditional names of the creeks were quickly changed. Rabbit Creek became Bonanza Creek, in honor of the find, and an adjacent creek, Thron-diuck, was tagged Klondike, a name by which the entire region would come to be called. Within a year, the Klondike gold strike would make the world’s headlines, and tens of thousands would scurry and scramble for their piece of Nirvana.
However, the most surprising development to the local miners, who raced to stake claims close to Discovery and One Below, would not be known to any of the parties involved until much later that year. It was the small, previously unnamed tributary, which flowed into Rabbit Creek, that eventually came to be called El Dorado. And the richest and most profitable claims, from which came wealth that exceeded even the wildest dreams of the most optimistic miners, were those in the side stream claims, the ones taken up by those who originally thought they were too late. It was in the sands and gravels of the El Dorado—the secondary stream to which Carmack directed John and Tom—that the gods of fortune had distributed their greatest concentrations of wealth.
Tom Callahan and John Ryan, uncle and nephew, by stroke of fate or fortune—or as Tom had told Katrina Hansen nearly a year earlier on the deck of the Antioch, intervention of the Lord—were sitting smack dab in the middle of the richest gold strike in history and would amass their fortunes before the rest of the world even knew of the find. But a backbreaking fall, winter, and spring would ensue before that occurred and they would be able to achieve their manifold destiny.
Katrina sat patiently in the foyer inside the main entrance to Holy Cross Hospital, watching as people bustled up and down the corridor. Finally, a woman dressed in nun’s habit approached and smiled at her.
“I’m Sister Mary Theophane. May I be of some assistance?”
Katrina stood, nervous and hesitant about how to proceed. “Sister, I would like to talk with you privately, if possible.”
Escorting Katrina to a small room, off the main women’s wing, Sister Mary offered Katrina a seat and then sat down facing her, “Now, how may I help, dear?”
“Sister, I don’t really know how to begin . . . I . . .”
“Sister Mary reached for her hand, smiling at her, and studying her fresh, young face. “Are you with child, my dear?” she asked, gently.
Katrina began to blush, surprised by the inquiry. “Why, yes, yes, I am, Sister.”
Still holding Katrina’s hand, Sister Mary sought to reassure her. “You needn’t be afraid,” she said. “We’ll do all we can to see you through your pregnancy, and we’ll help you find a suitable home for your child, if that is your wish.”
Confused for a moment by Sister Mary’s offer, Katrina suddenly understood and had to stifle a laugh.
“Sister, I think I’ve misled you. I’m married and carrying my husband’s child. I don’t need, uh, I mean, I’m not . . . ,”
It was Sister Mary’s turn to blush. With an embarrassed look on her face, and holding her hand over her mouth, she at first didn’t know what to say. But after a moment she began to laugh and shake her head. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve put my foot in it. I do hope you can forgive me. How may I help you?”
The misunderstanding served to lessen Katrina’s nervousness. She was surprised to find this tall woman in a nun’s habit could laugh at herself, and she relaxed somewhat.
“Sister,” Katrina began again, “I hope I’m not acting improperly, but I’ve come to inquire about a Mr. Callahan. I believe he was in your employ not long ago.”
“Indeed he was,” Sister Mary responded. “Oh, yes, and you must be young Katrina Hansen, or uh, Stommen, is it?”
“Stromberg, Sister. Katrina Stromberg.”
“Yes, indeed. And what about Mr. Callahan, Mrs. Stromberg?”
“Well, Sister, it’s about a document I discovered a few days ago. My husband has gone to Mexico on business, and I was searching for writing paper in our desk drawer when I discovered this file,” she said, taking a large envelope from her purse. “It is a detective agency report on Mr. Callahan.”
Sister Mary remained silent, but was listening intently, keenly interested in what the young woman might have to say.
“Sister, I have been led to believe, by my husband, that Mr. Callahan murdered someone and is being sought by the authorities in Kansas City. Mr. Stromberg also told me that, out of consideration for Mr. Callahan, he had informed Thom . . . Mr. Callahan that he was about to be apprehended and suggested he leave Salt Lake.”
Katrina hesitated, embarrassed to admit she had caught her husband in a lie. “What Mr. Stromberg failed to . . .” Katrina hesitated again, but then pressed on, determined to see the matter through.
“Sister,” she said resolutely, “what my husband didn’t tell me was that Mr. Callahan had never been charged with that crime—that it was known he had acted in self-defense and that he had never been wanted by the police.”
That much said, Katrina began to cry, and searched her purse for a handkerchief. Then, wiping her eyes, she continued, “My brother tells me Thomas has gone to Alaska, but wherever he is, he thinks he is wanted for murder. Sister, it isn’t right, and I came hoping you have some way to contact him and let him know he doesn’t need to keep running.”
Sister Mary again reached for Katrina’s hand. “I’m certain this was hard for you, my child. Rest assured, I have known of young Thomas’s innocence for some time. But thank you for having the courage to come forth. I assu
re you that I will notify Mr. Callahan that he is not being pursued by the authorities.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Katrina said, standing up. Before leaving she said, “Would you communicate one more thing to him for me?”
“Yes, my child?”
“Please tell Mr. Callahan that I’m sorry for the insult my husband has paid him and for the disruption in his life.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stromberg. Thomas will be pleased to know of your concern. Good day to you. Please call on me if I can be of any further assistance.”
There would be some scrub brush and marshy lands to contend with, but all in all, Harold Stromberg felt the land Don Sebastian had offered his father would prove excellent. Mr. Bowen who had accompanied Harold, concurred that the land was quite suitable for farming and that grazing for cattle was excellent.
Harold had spent three days in Mazatlán and then another two at the Cardenas hacienda north on the coast before undertaking actual inspection of the proposed site. He had not felt the time wasted, however, for he had spent most of it, accompanied by Miguel Antonio, in the company of the lovely Teresa Maria. The courtship, now that the couple had openly acknowledged their engagement, proved most satisfactory to each party. Their mutual admiration was evident to everyone, and Don Sebastian had reported the same in a telegram to Magnus Stromberg, Harold’s father.
That is not to say Harold’s conscience didn’t plague him. Even though the second marriage had his father’s tacit approval and fit in under the guidelines of the Order he was prepared to follow, he couldn’t help reflecting on the impact such an arrangement was going to have on Katrina or how he would actually break the news to each of his wives about the other. His feelings became more acute when his father advised him by telegram that Katrina was pregnant. He knew also, that his original marriage would have to be kept secret for some time after the colony was established in Mexico, if they were to avoid inflaming Teresa’s family and prevent coming into conflict with Mexican customs and Catholic propriety. How that would all work out, Harold preferred to leave in the hands of his father and Don Sebastian, but for the present, Harold was quite content to work toward his marriage to this exceptionally beautiful and aristocratic woman.
