The short voyage across the North Sea from Oslo to Aberdeen followed by the long train ride through Scotland and England to Liverpool had been tiring, and then the half-day sail from Liverpool to Cork had barely given the Hansens time to settle into their first-class cabins. But the ocean voyage across the Atlantic began tomorrow and so Katrina Hansen, her mother and sisters had taken their last opportunity to go ashore.

One couldn’t see much of Ireland from the docks in Cork, but the familiar scenes along the quay were the same as those of the harbor in Oslo – gulls screeching back and forth, salt spray covering buildings within reach with a crusty coating, and even saltier characters frequenting the waterfront establishments. And, should Katrina have thought back to her earlier years in Horten where she was born, about eighty miles down the fjord from Oslo, Cork bore a resemblance to those memories. Indeed, most harbors were alike – some bigger, some smaller.

In the mid 1890’s, the activity on the waterfront in most Norwegian cities was much diminished from the bustling days of whaling. In those more spirited times, ships would line the quay and hordes of people were always greeting or saying good-bye to family as the men of coastal villages put to sea in pursuit of the great whale. By the late nineteenth century however, the heyday of whaling had long passed. The discovery of oil in Pennsylvania in 1859 had brought a sharp decline in the industry. As the population of whales also declined, there was an international reduction in the chase, the sea hunt became harder, and voyages took seamen away from home for years at a time.

Five years earlier, in Horten, Lars Hansen had struggled to keep a ships chandlery operative, a business his father had started following the loss of his leg at sea. Realizing, in light of the declining ship’s traffic it was a losing battle, Lars had moved the family to Oslo and converted his shopkeeping and woodworking skills to furniture making, providing products that he felt people would always need regardless of the changing economy. The Oslo enterprise had succeeded far beyond his expectations.

In 1890, Oslo, Norway, was a bustling city, with the struggle for self-rule paramount in the minds of citizens as Norway wrestled for independence from Sweden. Ruled for centuries by Denmark, Norway had been ceded to Sweden by the Treaty of Kiel in 1813, following the Napoleonic wars of the early 19th century. On May 17, 1814, shortly after the Treaty was effected, Norway elected a king and a parliament. By the time Lars Hansen arrived in Oslo in 1890, Norway was being governed under a constitutional monarchy for domestic matters, but Sweden still controlled foreign policy, and the Norwegians continued to foment for complete independence.

His business growing, by 1893 Lars had established ties with cabinet makers across the Baltic Straits in Copenhagen and it was on one of his buying trips to Denmark that he crossed paths with the man who would ultimately change his life and that of his family. Harold Stromberg, a young Mormon missionary from Salt Lake City, Utah, serving in the Scandinavian Mission of the Church, impressed Mr. Hansen with his forthright presentation. Lars invited Mr. Stromberg, should he ever travel to Oslo, to visit with his family and to share his beliefs. Late in 1893, as the mission grew and new territories were opened for the young, fervent missionaries, Lars Hansen answered a knock on his door one crisp winter evening to find Elder Stromberg and another young man smiling at him and shaking snow from their overcoats. Within two months, the Hansen family, under Lars’ guidance and firm direction, had embraced the new faith and to Lars’ way of thinking, a new future.

Stromberg had told him, during their initial visit in Denmark, of the throngs of families who were going to America, to a new land complete with opportunity for all, where like-minded people who wished to serve their God could do so in harmony with their neighbors. Such an idea appealed to Lars, and the rejection by former friends in the family’s Lutheran Church, once they learned of his conversion to an upstart religion, solidified the decision. The Hansens would sell the store and immigrate to America. Mrs. Hansen found this a hard decision to accept, but the recent death of her elderly mother, whom Mrs. Hansen had been nursing, eased the transition, and under the stern determination of Lars, the Hansens prepared to migrate to Zion.

Religion was not a new thing to the Hansen’s, as Lars’ father, Wolf Hansen, had been a devout Lutheran, adhering to the tenants of the state-sponsored Church most of his life, and involving his family from the day of his wedding. As a young lad, Lars’ earliest memories were of his father’s condemnation of the ‘papists’, as he called all Catholics, and the ignorant Spaniard, a Catholic deckhand on the Jenny Tollefsen where Wolf served as First Mate, who had caused the accident resulting in the loss of his leg.

Nurtured in such a parochial environment, Lars Hansen fervently formed the opinion that Catholics were the spawn of the devil and should be avoided at all costs. When Lars finally took a wife and began his own family, the tradition continued and the new Mrs. Hansen abided by her husbands wishes in all things, as was, according to Lars, only fitting and proper.

By April of 1895, the business and family residence sold, the Hansen’s found themselves at the last stop before the great leap across the ocean toward what Lars had begun calling ‘their destiny.’ Ensconced aboard the Antioch, Lars and Sofie Hansen had the main cabin; Anders, the oldest child at twenty, a small cabin to himself; and Katrina together with her two younger sisters shared a room with two double tiered bunks, one of which was used to house the younger girl’s large collection of dolls. In later years, during the height of upper class travel in the early twentieth century, such accommodations would come to be considered “POSH,” referring to the Port Out, Starboard Home placement of the cabins allowing for the occupants to be on the equatorial, or sunny side of the ship during both passages. The Hansen’s however, on a one-way voyage to their new life, only required the port side.

This last day on dry land, in one of the western-most European port cities of Cork, Ireland, Katrina and her brother had gone ashore for a stretch of the legs and fresh air, exploring the quay in search of diversion before the long trip to America.

Brought together by coincidence or destiny, Tom Callahan and Katrina Hansen were both on the brink of a change in each of their lives, from which neither would look back. For vastly different reasons, but under the impetus of similarly controlling father’s, two young people had cast their lot to the winds and were embarked on life’s voyage, ignorant of the part each would soon play, and the impact each would have, in the life of the other.

Walking the length of the quay as he had done most evenings since his arrival in Cork, Tom found himself in a somewhat melancholy mood as he contemplated his last night in Ireland. His week in Cork had been spent working at odd jobs and, for entertainment, indulging himself with the occasional pint as he tried to conserve his meager funds. More than simply a conservation of funds however, his self-imposed limitation on alcohol stemmed primarily from the memory of a truculent father who routinely stumbled home after the pubs had closed, demanding his wife re-heat his dinner, and becoming physically abusive when she took too long. Tom’s older brother had stepped in one night to stop the practice and found himself the recipient of a severe beating for his effort. Tom, who was thirteen at the time, had weathered his share of the blows over the years lest he think that he too, could interfere in his father’s husbandly rights.

At sunset on this last evening in Ireland, Tom stood at the end of the quay, watching the clouds on the horizon turn pale pink. Tom observed the sky as the early evening stars blinked through the occasional break in the gathering cloud cover. The tide was out, releasing the pungent odor of the sea. Birds swooped in to feed on the remains of sea creatures that lay on the exposed floor of Cork Bay until the tide turned, once again covering and protecting its secrets.

As had become his practice since the day he arrived, Tom had, earlier in the day made the rounds of downtown Cork, receiving a shock on this next-to-last day before departure when he observed a wanted notice on the public board outside the constabulary station. “Thomas Callahan,” it had read – “nineteen years old, black hair, six foot, one inch tall, weighing between thirteen and fourteen stone. Wanted for questioning in County Tipperary.” The notice had startled Tom, although each previous day he had expected it. He was pleased to see that no reward was offered. His good fortune it seemed, had been that the notice had arrived in Cork just one day before his departure. His leaving would be none too soon.

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 rapid decision to sail to America. This night however, as he stood on the quay gazing out over the ocean, Tom entertained the pensive reflection of one who sees his path in life taking a major turn, and from which, once entered, offers little if any opportunity to retreat.

Toward the end of the quay, light rain began to fall and Tom turned up the collar of his coat, angling his body downwind of the droplets. The gas fueled lights of Cork began flickering on as darkness slowly encompassed the coast of Ireland. Out to sea, along the broad expanse of ocean, Tom could see the occasional flash of lightening, the dark cloud formation extending across the horizon from top to bottom. The gloom over the ocean was only the veil beyond which, Tom knew, existed unknown challenges and from all accounts, a wealth of opportunity. Still, doubts crowded his uncertain mind. His uncle John, gone the same path these past six years, had only written once and the letter, posted from the wilds of Alaska, was not full of tales of riches.

Starting the slow walk back toward his barren nest, Tom began the process his mother had taught him so many years ago to counteract the despondency which beset 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 was often more evil than good in the world and bad things usually had a disproportionate negative impact on one’s life. What was he leaving in Tipperary? A father who treated him as a store clerk and an underpaid one at that since, as the elder Callahan had said, ‘I feed and clothe ye, lad. Be grateful in these hard times ye found work.’ And there was a mother whom he knew loved him, but who had many younger ones who required her attention, and a husband who demanded constant care. The parish priest had called her a compassionate woman but, as Tom could see, she was a woman in whom at forty-one, the life was ebbing. And the constable – the police. Leaving them wasn’t hard, in fact they had been the catalyst to his decision. That, indeed was well left behind.

Reaching his hovel, Tom squeezed between the wooden freight containers he had arranged so that one, nearly empty, was positioned with the open end wedged up against several other boxes allowing Tom to climb inside and escape the wind and rain that had been his constant companion since his arrival in Cork. The one wharfie who had discovered his quarters, after ordering Tom away, had relented, ‘only for a few days,’ when Tom had advised that he was bound for New York and his ship would shortly arrive.

Lying on the bed of old rags and straw, full dark now upon him, Tom decided that in spite of his inauspicious start, the good did indeed outnumber the bad and his plan to go to America was sound. The vision of his nine younger brothers and sisters, and the memory of his mother’s brief hug at his departure, losing yet another of her protective sons, crowded his thoughts as he drifted restlessly toward sleep.

As the nocturnal sounds grew dimmer and the memories played through his mind, the few rain drops that angled their way into his shelter mingled gently with the now indistinguishable tears nestled on his face. Tom would have been ashamed to have had anyone see the tears that sprang to his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks, but lying there in the rain, far from home and uncertain of his future, the nineteen-year-old boy surrendered to his emotions.

To an objective outside observer, the good may not have outweighed the bad, as Tom Callahan entered the last night of his nineteen years in Ireland, housed in a wooden box, amid cargo containers on the docks in Cork. Whether the future was brighter or not eluded Tom, but in the ignorance and eternal optimism of youth, and guided by the wisdom, and unknown to him, the prayers of his mother, Tom felt his only course of action was to press forward.

Three days at sea had passed before Tom had another glimpse of the young woman from the quay. For the first two days, he’d surveyed the layout of the ship, remaining within the restrictive areas of steerage passengers for the first day, and finding his way above decks by the afternoon of the second. On the morning of the third, he saw her, standing alone and scanning the sea from the railing, seemingly oblivious to passers-by. Three times Tom casually walked by, seeking for some opportunity to speak to her and finding that, if indeed she had noticed him, she had the presence of mind not to acknowledge it. On 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, watching as Katrina responded to his facial expression with an openness of her own, her guard relaxed by his cordial demeanor. “I said, it’s a vision of loveliness I see this beautiful morning,” nodding toward the vast expanse of ocean.

I mean you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and can I hold you in my arms? his mind raced.

Unsure of his meaning, Katrina once again hesitated, not knowing how to respond to this man who seemed to be flirtatious, yet not wanting to offend him or appear foolish if indeed, he was not speaking personally. Sometimes, in her experience and in spite of her command of English obtained during her schooling in Great Britain that her father had felt she and Anders needed to assure their entry into proper society, the English language offered conflicting meaning which she misinterpreted.
“Do I know you, sir?” she asked gently, accompanied by a 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, Katrina started to blush, running her fingers up under her hair behind her right ear and fluffing her tresses as if to shake out the loose ends. “That would not be proper, sir,” she said, reaching down to gather her hoop skirt around her. “Perhaps I should return to my cabin. It’s getting on toward middag.”

“Middag?” Tom asked, amused by her growing discomfiture.

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 be off.”

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

“Are you bound for New York then,” he asked, trying to prolong the conversation, and, close up for the first time, taking in each delightful aspect of her lovely features, her green eyes, her tousled, shoulder length, and very curly hair. A slight hint of red protruded from her lips, now pursed with unease.

“No, sir,” she replied, stepping slowly toward the inner stairwell, Tom moved quickly to open the hatch. “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.” 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 glance at Tom, a hint of confusion on her face. He held fast to his intake of her appealing features – a vision that had permeated his waking hours since that first morning on the quay in Cork. His heart was thumping so loudly in his chest he was quite certain she could not help but hear the blooming thing, and the lump in his throat all but eliminated normal speech.

As the hatch closed, Tom turned back to the railing, staring out over the ocean, listening to the wash of the sea against the hull of the great ship. 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 extraordinare in Tipperary, with a reputation as far as Limerick, when a lass looked back, it was a sure sign. A sure enough sign.