Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  “We thought of starting you on the City of Paris tomorrow morning, so as to give you ample time to catch the mail train out of London. There is a chance the Augusta Victoria, which sails the morning afterwards, will run into rough weather, causing you to miss your connection with the mail train.”

  “I will take my chances on the Augusta Victoria and save one extra day,” I said, deciding quickly. The Augusta Victoria had recently set a speed record crossing the Atlantic. If I were to beat Jules Verne’s eighty days, that would be the ship to do it on.

  “Have you a passport?”

  I bit my lip. “No. Will that be a problem?”

  Cockerill waved in Mr. Van Zile, the one unlucky enough to be closest to the editor’s desk. “I need you to go to Washington immediately. Speak directly to the secretary of state, and get this girl a temporary passport.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, I went to get a dress made at the William Ghormley shop on Nineteenth Street, east of Fifth Avenue. It was a more exclusive studio than I would normally patronize, but these were extraordinary circumstances, and I had to be sure of the quality.

  “Mr. Ghormley, I want a dress by this evening.” I spoke crisply and businesslike to the thin tailor, confident that such a task could be done.

  “Very well.” Without a hint of hesitation, he led me over to a sampling of materials.

  I smiled as I followed. My editors always took some working over and it was nice not to have to argue for a change.

  “A dress that will stand constant wear for three months,” I said before he could pull out any fabrics, and to make sure he understood the quality of the work I expected despite the short notice. “I am going on a trip around the world.” My last words came out breathless. It was finally hitting me.

  Mr. Ghormley chose several bolts of cloth and laid them out on a small table in front of a pier glass where the light was true. He draped the samples open and studied how they looked in the tall mirror between the windows. “Around the world? And what are you trying to prove this time, Miss Bly? That the world is flat after all?”

  “Ha! Not in the least, Mr. Ghormley. I’m going to beat Phileas Fogg’s record and do it in only seventy-five days.”

  “Around the World in Eighty Days?” He looked up with a spark in his eye. “You think you can beat an imaginary man’s record?” He returned to the fabric. “I suppose if anyone could, it would be you.”

  He pounded his hand on a plain blue broadcloth and a plaid camel's-hair. “What do you think of these? Strong. Durable. Fashionable. Should carry you around the world and back again.”

  “Excellent.” I leaned on the table. “Aren’t you worried for me? A young woman traveling in parts unknown without a companion?”

  The decision to go alone had been an easy one. A few years before, when I traveled to Mexico, my mother had gone with me. But she didn’t move fast enough for a race. I had to beat Phileas Fogg, or there wasn’t any point!

  Mother had not been happy to hear the news. During the intermission of Hamlet, she reached for my hand. “Pink, dear,” she had said, invoking my childhood nickname, and reminding me how she used to dress me up in pink when all the other girls wore drab colors. It’s her fault I feel the need to stand out. “This is different from your other stunts. Halfway around the world, there will be no one to rescue you should you need help.”

  “I am not worried, Mother. The world will meet me as I meet it.”

  Mr. Ghormley chuckled. “I have read your articles. I am more worried for your fellow passengers.”

  He put the rejected fabrics away and set about cutting out a traveling gown. Before I left Ghormley’s at one o’clock, I had had my first fitting and made plans to return at five o’clock for the second.

  A few more stops, and I had ordered a thick overcoat called an Ulster to take me through the winter, a lighter dress from my regular dressmaker to wear in the parts of the world where it would be summer, and lastly, a new bag to pack everything into.

  That night, after Mother had gone to bed, I settled back into a chair with a deeply satisfied grin on my face. This would be my most daring adventure yet. The whole world would hear of Nellie Bly.

  3

  In Which Nellie Bly Begins Her Journey East And Learns The Meaning Of Seasickness

  “THIS IS DREADFULLY early,” remarked Fannie, one of my dearest friends. A group of us stood aboard the Augusta Victoria, supposedly to encourage me, but with each round of “encouragement” I was beginning to lose my nerve.

  I stifled a yawn, not wanting to open up more complaints from Fannie. I had hardly slept the night before, whether from nerves or excitement I would never know. And when I did sleep, it was short-lived, as I kept waking in a start, afraid that I’d slept in and missed the boat. I forced a smile to show my friends they should not worry about me.

  Jane’s brows knit together and she continuously patted my hand as if we would never see each other again. “Now, you know if the ship goes down, there are life boats. It’s women and children first, but make sure you get to one before they’re all filled up.”

  “The ship won’t go down,” interjected Mr. Cockerill. He stood with us, repeatedly checking his watch. “Captain Albers has assured us that the voyage will not only be timely, but as smooth as he can make it.”

  “Never mind the ship,” inserted Fannie. “What if you come down with jungle fever and there is no doctor to care for you? Like what happened to Dr. Livingstone.” She gave a little laugh. “I suppose even if you are a doctor and you find yourself in desperate straits, you can’t heal yourself.” She blinked back tears.

  I gripped Fannie’s hand to stop the patting. “I’ll be fine.”

  I dared not mention I was still getting the terrible headaches that sent me to the doctor weeks ago. “This will be like a relaxing vacation – I haven’t had one in three years – and I’ll come home more refreshed and invigorated than when I left.”

  Jane nudged my handbag, which rested at my feet on the deck along with a bouquet from Henry Jarrett, the theatrical agent. “I hope you packed something for emergencies in there.”

  I laughed. “One of the men at the paper tried to talk me into packing a revolver, of all things. Can you imagine me with a gun?”

  My two friends exchanged a look.

  “And did you?” whispered Jane.

  “No! If I am in any spot of trouble, I will rely on the good nature of the local gentlemen to help me out.”

  Again, my two friends exchanged a look.

  “What did you pack in there?” asked Fannie, changing the subject. “It’s an awfully small bag for three months' time. I don’t know how you managed it.”

  “Nothing but necessities. I’m not out to impress people. I’m simply going from port to port, and station to station. I won’t be taking time to visit Queen Victoria, even if she asks me.”

  Truth was I had had a terrible time packing. In the end, my light dress didn’t fit, and there was no way on earth I was going to add one more parcel to cart around.

  “I’ve got an ink-stand, pens, pencils, and copy-paper for work. Pins, needles, and thread for little emergencies.” I raised my eyebrows at Jane. “For clothing, I’ve got what I am wearing, plus a dressing gown, a tennis blazer, and slippers. Not to mention several changes of underwear, handkerchiefs, and fresh ruchings. Two traveling caps and three veils. See? I’ve got quite a lot. Also, my hairbrush and other toiletries. The last thing I squeezed in was my jar of cold cream.”

  “Yes, that is smart,” agreed Fannie. “You don’t want your face to chap.” She pointed at my hat next. “Where did you get that?”

  “My ghillie hat?” I adjusted it. “Do you like it?” I could tell by her face that she didn’t.

  “It’s not the current style with those two brims,” she said. “How do you know which is front and which is back?”

  “Oh, stop. It’ll keep me warm when I need to be warm and shade me from the sun the rest of the time. Jane, why the look, now?” I asked
in dismay.

  Jane looked stricken and was pawing through her own handbag. “You’ve hardly brought enough for such a long trip!” She held out some money. “Do take it and buy yourself more supplies when you dock in England. It may be your last chance.”

  I held back a laugh. Jane was too much in earnest.

  “I’m not traveling to the moon. And I have plenty of money.” I lowered my voice and showed them the chamois-skin bag around my neck. “They gave me £200 in English gold and Bank of England notes. I’ve also got American gold and dollars as a test to see if American money is known in distant parts of the world.”

  Finally, at this, my friends looked relieved. Fannie even smiled. “Keep that around your neck at all times, and for goodness' sake, quit showing people.”

  Then Jane wrung her hands. “But not at night. You might choke yourself with that around your neck. What will you do at night?”

  A horn blast interrupted them, indicating it was time for visitors to leave. “This is it,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  “Keep up your courage,” whispered Jane as she and Fannie hugged me tight then walked away, smiling through their tears.

  Julius Chambers, the World’s managing editor, stepped forward with the timekeeper he had brought with him from the New York Athletic Club. The men double-checked their timepiece with my gold watch I planned to keep tucked into my pocket and set to New York time.

  “You’re ready,” he said. “Godspeed, Nellie Bly. We’ll see you back here in seventy-two days.” Then they were gone.

  A man in uniform slipped over the side of the ship and climbed down the rope ladder into a waiting rowboat. The gentleman beside me explained that the man was the pilot and his pilot boat would lead us out of the harbor. “As soon as the pilot goes off and the captain assumes command,” continued the gentleman, “then and only then our voyage begins, so now you really are started on your tour around the world.”

  Thursday, November 14, 1889 at 9.40.30 o'clock.

  THE BREEZE PICKED up as the ship started its journey across the Atlantic. The movement was hardly noticeable at first but for the increasing distance between ship and shore. The other passengers began claiming chairs and making themselves comfortable with rugs tucked around their legs.

  I am off. Shall I ever get back?

  I knew the precise minute we’d left the sheltered waters for open sea – my rolling stomach was a good indicator.

  “Do you get seasick?” asked a woman interested in striking up a conversation. Before I could answer, I lurched for the side of the ship and, seeing the waves all a-jumble and the undulating ship under my feet, I gave vent to my feelings. My stomach ached from heaving over the edge. As I wiped the tears from my eyes, I turned back to the concerned woman and gave her a brave nod. But the other passengers grinned back at me, amused.

  “And she’s going 'round the world!” said one man. I joined the laughter a little less heartily than the rest. Surely the entire trip would not be like this. Jules Verne never mentioned seasickness in his novel.

  I spent the better part of the day at the rail. But I was happy to note that I wasn’t the only one. When it was time for luncheon, I looked pointedly at the man who made everyone laugh at my plight and marched into the dining room. Several others attempted my bravado as well, but we all ended up leaving in a hurry.

  For dinner at seven, I was invited to sit with the captain at his table in the first-class passengers’ dining hall. It was a great honor and there was no way, come hell or high water, that I was going to miss it.

  I arrived early and immediately noticed a small ensemble playing delightful music in the corner. The architecture and décor were after the rococo style that I love but Mother would call “gaudy.” The walls were decorated with stained glass and painted panels, which I assumed were by German painters since the Augusta Victoria was named after the German emperor’s wife. This ship was probably the most luxurious in all the world, and I wished I were feeling better to fully appreciate it. The tables were set with white china and cut crystal, and the attendants were in full dress, down to crisp white gloves. In a room like this, I could be a lady from the Renaissance.

  We congregated near the table, the others having changed into their pretty evening clothes, me still in my Ghormley broadcloth. The captain, appearing very handsome in uniform, approached and made introductions. It was a noble beginning to my tour.

  “I’d like you all to meet Miss Nellie Bly,” said Captain Albers. “I’m sure you have heard she is attempting to break Phileas Fogg’s record for traveling around the globe. The Augusta Victoria will set her well ahead, as there was no such ship when Verne was writing his novel.” He looked pleased at his part of my adventure.

  Captain Albers continued introductions in the round, but one particularly large ocean swell caught me by surprise and my stomach lurched, claiming all my focus, and I quite missed all their names. The other passengers were known to him, having made the crossing at some other time in their lives. I alone was on my maiden voyage.

  “Please, take a seat here on my left,” said the Captain. “How are you feeling?”

  I smiled bravely as I fell into the chair. “Quite well, thank you,” I lied. “How long did you say the passage would take?”

  Everyone laughed. I had a fleeting thought that at this rate I might be the source of amusement to people the entire world over. While I never let my youth stop me, sometimes my naiveté had come close to giving me away. A brave face and bold talk always helped. How else could I have gone undercover to find out how employment agencies take advantage of domestic servants, or sweet-talked my way through learning how a husband agency worked?

  “The only way to conquer seasickness is by forcing oneself to eat,” the Captain instructed.

  As he finished speaking, the first course appeared. It was soup. I should be able to take a spoonful or two and not have it revisit me ten minutes later. The people, whose names I had missed, began cheerily discussing the music while I suffered a conversation with my stomach. It seems it did not want soup after all. I made a good show of eating a ladylike amount before a waiter took the blessed thing away.

  One of the men who had gulped down his soup kept the conversation going. “Captain, the last time I sat at your table, you told us a brilliant story about a stowaway you had found bound for America. Have you had any more mishaps on your travels?”

  The Captain nodded. “A hurricane last month! Our chief officer almost went overboard when the railing near the deckhouse gave way. We’ve got twenty feet of new railing there to prove it.”

  I couldn’t imagine the ship tossing more than it was right now. The constant motion churned my stomach relentlessly. A young waiter who didn’t know any better set down a plate of fish in front of me. Though a delicacy on any other day, today the aroma of fish while out at sea was too potent a combination for my imagination. My stomach rebelled mightily.

  “Excuse me,” I whispered as I dashed out of the room, pushing aside any waiter who got in my way.

  This trip may not have been one of my better ideas. Almost eighty days? I could endure only ten days in that mad house and at the time it seemed forever. The cold sea air reminded me of the constant cold in that place, and my empty stomach brought back thoughts of the stale bread and rancid butter too terrible to eat.

  Eighty days! Even if I went by land as much as possible, I’d still have to cross the Pacific upon my return. I leaned into my hands and let myself have a moment of pity. On the bright side, my dress was still clean.

  When my hands stopped shaking, I rejoined the dinner party.

  The men stood, solemnly nodding as I returned to my seat and the next course. Alas, it was not meant to be. Off I went again. Oh, the laughs they must have been having at this young girl’s expense. Once I had gotten rid of everything I could get rid of, I walked along the deck, trying to reach an agreement with my insides. Dare I return to the table? It would be so easy to settle into my bunk for
the night. But if I gave up now, how easy it would be for me to give up later in my journey.

  “Welcome back,” said the Captain.

  “Good job,” said one of the men. “You stick to it and you’ll find your sea legs yet.”

  Before he had yet finished his congratulations, I had run out of the room for a third time. If I were a dog, I would have been returning to the table with my tail between my legs. As it was, by the time I made a showing, the dinner was over and the rest of my party was sipping tea, quietly satisfied with their first meal onboard.

  “Would you like some dessert?” asked the Captain politely and with a twinkle in his eye.

  “No, thank you.” I replied. “But thank you for the meal. It was excellent.”

  4

  IN WHICH A BEWILDERED ELIZABETH BISLAND FINDS HERSELF ON A TRAIN GOING WEST INSTEAD OF PREPARING FOR A DINNER PARTY.

  AS THE TRAIN slows to a stop at the Chicago station, I peer into the dark to find my contact. I’m not sure how we will find each other, since I don’t know who I am looking for. But then, this whole adventure is something of the unknown and ridiculous.

  Mere hours ago, I woke up as usual to a leisurely breakfast and looking forward to a regular dress fitting and preparations for a five o’clock tea. Before I can fully comprehend what I have agreed to, I am bound on a train west and to further parts unknown, and all alone!

  Once Molly had gotten over the shock of me leaving, she was more than willing to make apologies for our guests and help me with other cancellations and arrangements. As I packed and repacked, she peppered me with wild ideas.

  “I think you should call your trip ‘Eighty Days Around the World to Find a Husband.’ As I recall, Phileas Fogg found himself a wife on his trip.”

  “The readers of The Cosmopolitan don’t want to read about romance. They read the magazine for intellectual stimulation.”