“Seal Rocks,” says Ted, following my gaze.
Seal Rocks are covered with grumbling, barking sea lions. The playful creatures sit on a clump of rocks, catching the last of the day’s sun. The younger ones dive and frolic in the waves, barking their joy. To me they look like fat pigs from this distance.
“They are noisy, aren’t they?” I ask.
“They’re the city’s pets protected by law,” says Ted.
Mr. McEwan points at the rocks. “If you’d like to try a stunt, Miss Bisland, we could attach a tightrope cable for you. The last to walk it was eighteen-year-old Rosa Celeste, who beat the gentleman who did it the year before her. He only went one way, but she went there and back.”
“No thank you. I’ll just enjoy the sunset.” Unlike other women, I have nothing to prove. At the last moment, the sun flames out gloriously. It reddens the heavens and gilds a rippling road for me across the watery world I will soon sail.
“Look at that,” says Mr. McEwan. “Red sky at night is a sailor’s delight. It’s a sign of promise.”
Mr. McEwan escorts us back to the hotel by way of cable car. The city has spent millions grading the hills, but you can’t tell it by the ground’s astonishing steepness.
“Are you brave, Miss Bisland?” asks Ted. “Care to sit at the open front? Nothing like the thrill of plunging down and stopping short when a passenger wants off.”
“I suppose the experience would prepare my stomach for riding the ocean waves on my way to Japan, but, I’ll wait for the real thing, thank you.”
Looking somewhat disappointed, Ted settles in beside me at a respectable distance from the front. “Fine, but I have another proposition for you that’ll be harder for you to pass up. I’m working on a story about China Town, and a detective has agreed to show me around tonight. Interested?”
“Of course, I am.” It’ll be a preview of my journey, a chance to learn what awaits me.
Several others are intrigued as well, so we continue on past our hotel.
Ted introduces us to his detective friend, a surprisingly young detective with sharp eyes and chin, who seems eager to show us what he knows of the Chinese district. And although Ted is a nice enough fellow for sharing newspaper stories, I am glad to have an officer of the law with us when I see where we are going.
“I reckon there are 30,000 Chinese living here in San Francisco,” the detective says. “The immigrants here don’t melt into society as in other places. They’ve taken over part of the city and converted it to a Chinese town. You’ll see how they still dress, eat, and act like Chinese.”
Chinese lanterns hang in front of doors that have Chinese signs, and above these, frail balconies are strung about the windows where jars of chrysanthemums droop their ragged blossoms over the sill. The air is thick with Oriental odors. Street stalls expose for-sale vegetables and fruits unknown to us, and the tiny shops with their Chinese furnishings and inscriptions sell wares which no American seeks.
“What is that odor?” I finally ask the detective. It is so strong a smell that I fear my stomach will start in early on developing seasickness.
He sniffs the air as if parsing out the smells for me. “That is the unfortunate combination of the bitter fumes of opium and the smoke of incense sticks.”
“I’ve never smelt anything like it before.”
“Miss, I’m sure before your trip is over you will encounter it again.”
We wander in the streets the better part of the evening. The detective delights in taking us into places where most tourists never see. I am beginning to get an inkling as to why my family and friends are worried about me traveling the world on my own. But I’m not on my own, I am with a detective and the people around us are very aware of that.
A loud warning note sounds from somewhere near us, and in an instant the street swarms with men passing casually by with their hands under their blouses.
“Looks like they know I’m here,” says the detective with a chuckle. “Follow me.” He turns into a low room with a double nail-studded door. Two benches and a table covered with a strip of matting are the only furniture. The owner sits, calmly smoking a cigarette and looking deep in contemplation.
The detective turns back to us. “Ten seconds ago, this room and fifty others were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with men playing illegal fan tan. That one note emptied them all.”
My knees weaken, and I look at the detective, wondering why he brought me here, and how I am going to survive the night. Is this his way of preparing me for the Eastern parts of my trip?
“What is fan tan?” someone asks.
“A gambling game using buttons.”
For the rest of the night my hand does not stray from Ted’s elbow, and by the grin on his face, I wonder if this is his intent in introducing me to the detective.
We leave this place and go up some stairs to a dingy Joss-house, a Chinese folk temple, where more incense sticks burn before a trinity of calm-eyed idols – the God of the Somber Heavens, The God of the Southern Seas, and the God of Happy Wealth – and stroll through the rooms of a restaurant beautiful with carvings and silk hangings, Kakemono scrolls, and marble and ebony furniture.
At eleven at night this transplanted city of Cathay is still alive, the streets crowded with a moving stream of black blouses. Everyone is cheerful, chattering, and wide awake. The shops stand open, and workmen continue their labors as if it were still high noon.
The detective turns down into a basement, and we walk into a little black room, seven by ten. A wheezy gas jet flares about the heads of several gold workers. In front of each, on the work bench at which they sit, is a small bowl of coconut oil in which smolder faintly a handful of thin white racines. The flame from these, with a blowpipe, softens and fuses the metals in which they work.
Ted nudges me and points to a basket filled with bracelets. Their work is marked with ingeniously varied chisel marks.
“I would love to pick one out for you, but…” he shrugs. “The salary of a reporter.”
“There’s one more place I’d like to show you, Miss Bisland. Are you up for it?” asks the detective.
I eye the Joss sticks stuck in a little earthenware bowl of sand and the tiny corkscrews of smoke rising into the air. The detective has yet to stop any crimes or make any arrests, so I am hopeful the night will end well, but I am unwilling to stay up into the wee hours of the night just to see. “Yes, one more place and then I should be getting back to the hotel.”
“You’ve probably never seen anything like this before. Stick close.”
I cling to Ted’s arm even tighter, and his grin grows deeper. He is enjoying my discomfort too much. We plunge through a narrow door and grope along a low, torturous passage.
We descend into a cellar by rickety, greasy stairs, thread more back corridors, where, in little branching rooms, somnolent bundles lie motionless on shelves – sodden with poppy fumes, past greasy hot kitchens and cackling cooks, with hissing midnight meals in preparation – and emerge at last into a crowded apartment where men with hideous masks and flaming dresses – like medieval devils in a mystery play – stand idly about waiting for a cue near the stage.
The detective turns for my reaction. He obviously has enjoyed giving me this backstage tour of China Town. “This is the Dom Quai Yuen. The Elegant Flower-House. We are standing in the green-room and wings. They’ve been performing since four in the afternoon.”
I nod, looking around, and though feeling out of place, am quite ignored. Around us they quickly change costume, stiff with gold needlework. Faces are painted and huge beards added. “When does the play end?”
“At midnight. They are performing the classic dramas of China.”
We follow the detective to the edge of the stage. He motions for us to come further, and we sit on the stage! From here we can see how crowded the auditorium is. The actors walk around us as they go on and off the stage.
The heat is frightful. I fan myself with my gloves and hope that I don
’t faint.
The detective notices me wilting and pushes himself up off the stage. “There you go, Miss Bisland. I hope we have given you a send-off to remember.” He reaches out a hand to help me up, and Ted quickly reaches for my other hand.
“I feel as if I have already left the United States,” I tell them honestly. And I do feel better prepared for what is ahead when I won’t have an American detective as my guide.
That night I fall into bed and don’t even dream, I am so tired. Since my ship does not leave until the afternoon, I have every intention of sleeping in during my last day on American soil. Because if I don’t, I might realize what a mistake I am about to make and change my mind and run straight back to New York.
7
In Which Elizabeth Bisland Says Goodbye To America And Receives A Welcomed Gift
ONE OF MY FAVORITE dreams has always been the day upon which I should set out on my travels abroad. However, I had always pictured leaving from the Cunard pier, going east. I would stand on the deck of the Cunarder, waving adieu to my unfortunate home-staying friends, with a tasteful mingling of regret and exultation. So it is a matter of active regret that by leaving America from the other side of the continent, this long-dreamed of incident would be forever robbed of the salt of novelty.
My reality is I stand aboard the White Star steamship Oceanic of the Occidental and Oriental line, set to cast off at three o’clock Thursday afternoon of November the twenty-first. Mr. Walker tried to bribe the captain into leaving sooner, but he is sticking to his schedule, with the promise of making the journey as fast as he can. Since the ship is powered by both sail and steam, I am confident no matter the weather, we will make good time.
Along with the first class passengers, we have four hundred Chinese in steerage. They run to and fro with queer-colored parcels of strange shapes, keeping up a cheerful chatter. I’m told most of them are going home to settle down upon money made from the “foreign devils,” and whatever happens, they can laugh. As they pass, I recognize the odor from last night – opium and incense.
This afternoon I am surprised, not knowing anyone in this part of the world, that I have a gathering come to bid me Godspeed.
“I could not have had a more enchanting visit, gentlemen,” I say as a farewell to my new friends at the Examiner.
Mr. McEwan shakes my hand. “Good luck. I hope you enjoy your adventure and this ship gets you there ahead of schedule.”
“I plan to make eyes at the engineer,” I say, only half-joking.
Ted takes off his hat. “If you’re ever in these parts again, Miss Bisland, look me up. I’d love to hear firsthand of your time around the world.”
I promise him I will. I also give a wary smile and a little wave to a delegation of those martyrs to curiosity who have afflicted me these two days. I’d never seen the like of their urgent messages sent to my hotel room until I arrived at my stateroom this morning to find it crowded with a bevy of young girls wanting a look at me.
My emotions as I stand on the deck are much less mingled and romantic than I planned they should be. I quickly write one last letter to my editor. The note is sealed, addressed, and sent back via the pilot boat. Then the gong sounds, warning all visitors it is time to go ashore. My smile begins to falter, and I wonder if I should go stand on the other side of the boat, looking out over the water, when someone hands up to me from the wharf a great nosegay of white chrysanthemums and roses.
“For me?”
There is a card attached:
“Best Wishes – J.M. Prather” and “New Orleans” is penciled in the corner.
Searching the crowd, I see a hat lifted from a handsome gray head, and two kind dark Southern eyes give me a smile of such friendliness and good-will that it warms my heart. A greeting from my own people.
My smile restored, I wave back at him, thankful for this unknown gentleman taking the trouble to bid me a silent, fragrant farewell, the most delicate and charming impulse of Southern chivalry.
The last wooden link with the shore is withdrawn. There is a fluttering storm of handkerchiefs – a brief space of water in the beautiful bay – and then we pass away to the west through the Gates of Gold.
Slowly, America sinks out of sight, leaving me with a vision of green hills in level sunshine. Even that vanishes at last, and we plunge forward lonely on the heaving, dusky plain. I shiver as the wind picks up.
The paper prayers that the Chinese passengers cast overboard to ensure a safe voyage are caught and whipped sharply away, like autumn leaves falling in the November night. I wonder what Molly is doing right now. Likely fast asleep with no comprehension of her dearest sister being buffeted upon the sea.
I watch the waves until the sky grows too dark and my stomach too queasy. It was suggested to me that to avoid seasickness I stay above deck, near the front of the ship, looking forward to my destiny. It does not seem to be working. The top-gallant sails are set to catch the rising evening wind, and I go below to prepare for my first night at sea.
Watch out Nellie Bly. I’m truly on my way now.
8
IN WHICH NELLIE BLY MAKES A QUICK CHANGE OF PLANS TO VISIT THE AUTHOR WHO INSPIRED HER ADVENTURE IN THE FIRST PLACE.
THERE WAS NO place for us to wait comfortably on the little boat, so we were all standing on deck, shivering in the damp, chilly air, and looking in the gray fog like uneasy spirits while the mail and baggage filled the only cabin, lighted by a lamp with a smoked globe.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jules Verne have sent a special letter asking that if possible you will stop to see them,” the London correspondent said as we were on our way to the wharf.
A thrill raced through my mind, and for a moment I couldn’t answer. Of course I had dreamed the possibility of meeting the French author on my journey, but never imagined he might learn of my adventure or want to meet me! But if I stopped now, Phileas Fogg would win. What a disappointment to come within a few extra miles of one another. And it was just the sort of things my readers would want to hear about.
“Oh, how I should like to see them,” I finally managed to say. “Isn’t it hard to be forced to decline such a treat?” My heart ached as I said it.
“If you are willing to go without sleep and rest for two nights, I think it can be done,” he said like he didn’t care one way or the other.
Dare I hope? “Safely? Without making me miss any connections? If so, don’t think about sleep or rest. I can catch up on those necessities later.”
“It depends on our getting a train out of here tonight. All the regular trains until morning have left, and unless they decide to run a special mail train for the delayed mails, we will have to stay here all night and that will not give us time to see Verne. We shall see when we land what they will decide to do.”
Oh, to be given hope, and then have the possibility of it snatched away again. I hoped the mail we were carrying was enough to tip the scale and make them send on a special train.
The dreary, dilapidated wharf was a fit landing place for our antique boat. I silently followed the correspondent into a large empty shed, where a few men with sleep in their eyes and disheveled uniforms were stationed behind some long, low tables.
“Where are your keys?” Mr. Greaves asked as he sat my solitary bag down before one of these weary looking inspectors.
“It was too full to lock,” I answered simply.
“Will you swear that you have no tobacco or tea?” the customs inspector asked my escort lazily.
“Don’t swear,” I said to him; then, turning to the inspector, I added: “It’s my bag.”
He smiled and, putting a chalk mark upon the bag, freed us.
“Declare your tobacco and tea or tip the man,” I said teasingly to the passenger who stood with poor, shaking Homie under one arm, searching frantically through his pockets for his keys.
“I’ve fixed him,” he answered with an expressive wink.
I was glad I had traveled so light, but, seeing Homie, I briefly thought how
fun it would be to have a pet about to keep me company.
Passing through the custom house, we were told they had decided to attach a passenger coach to the special mail train so that we might all go to London without delay. A porter took my bag, and another man in uniform drew forth an enormous key and unlocked the door in the side of the car instead of the end, as in America.
I climbed up the uncomfortably long step and then stubbed my toe on a projectile on the floor before tumbling into my seat. No one said anything, and I pretended it didn’t happen.
My escort gave an order to the porter before turning his attention back on me. “Please get comfortable. I’m going to see about our tickets.”
While Mr. Greaves was gone, I took a survey of an English railway compartment. My little square was like a hotel omnibus, minus the horses, and was about as comfortable. Two red leather seats ran across the car. I carefully lifted the rug that covered the thing I had fallen over, curious to see what could be so necessary to an English railway carriage as to occupy such a prominent position. It was a bar of iron. No sooner had I dropped the rug in place when the door opened and a porter, catching the iron at one end, pulled it out, replacing it with another like it in shape and size.
“Put your feet on the foot warmer, miss,” he said, and I mechanically did as he advised.
The chill was beginning to come off my toes when Mr. Greaves returned, followed by a porter carrying a large basket, which he put in our carriage. I was about to point out the heating rod but stopped myself when he automatically rested his feet on it.
The guard came and took our tickets. Then he pasted a slip of paper on the window, which backwards looked like “etavirP.” He went out and locked the door.
Liz and Nellie Page 5