Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  At last a man came down below, and as he looked connected with the boat, I stopped him. “Excuse me, would it be expecting too much to ask if we might have a steward to show us to our cabins?”

  “There should be some about,” he answered. “STEWART! STEWART!” he called with an unusual enunciation, making me wonder if the steward really was called Stewart.

  Even this brought no one to us, and as he went off in one direction to find one, I set out in the other, followed by the guard from the train, who had become quite concerned. Another man directed us to the purser’s office, the first door to the left.

  Sitting in the office was the purser and a man I supposed to be the doctor. I gave my ticket and a letter I had been given at the P. & O. office in London to the purser. This letter requested that the commanders and pursers of all the P. & O. boats on which I traveled should give me all the care and attention it was in their power to bestow.

  His lip twitched as he took it. Then after a leisurely reading of the letter, he very carelessly turned around and told me the number of my cabin.

  I paused. “May a steward show me the way?”

  He made a grimace. “There does not seem to be any about at this hour. The cabin is on the port side.” He impolitely turned his back and busied himself with some papers on his desk.

  The train guard who still stood by my side said, “I’ll help you find the cabin.”

  After a little search, we did find it. I opened the door and stepped in, and the sight that met my eyes both amused and dismayed me. Band-boxes, boots, handbags, and gowns littered the floor, and the upper berth was also filled with clothes. Two bushy heads stuck out of the two lower berths, and two high pitched voices exclaimed simultaneously with a vexed intonation. “Oh!”

  I echoed their “Oh!” in a slightly different tone and backed out.

  I returned to the purser with my patience at its limits. My watch told me it was going on to two o’clock in the morning, and I still wanted to send out a cable before the ship left.

  “I cannot sleep in an upper berth, even if it were not being used as a storage closet. And I will not occupy a room with two other women.” My fears of being ill-treated were coming true, though I had expected the officers to show some restraint.

  He looked over the letter again, as if to see how much weight he should give it, then referred me to another cabin.

  “And these came for you, care of the Victoria.” He handed me some cables, which I eagerly accepted.

  This time a steward made his appearance, and he took on the part of an escort.

  I found a pretty girl in that cabin, who lifted her head anxiously, and then gave me a friendly smile when I entered. I put my bag down and returned to the guard who was waiting to take me to the cable office.

  I stopped to ask the purser if I had time to make the trip. The two women who had traveled with me from Calais had by this time found their way to his office. He looked around them and answered, “If you hurry.”

  As I walked away, I heard one of the women say, “We left home in such a rush, we left our purses and tickets lying on the table in the sitting room!” Oh dear. One more reason I had to be thankful for packing only one bag.

  The guard took me down the gangplank and along several dark streets. At last, coming to a building where a door stood open, he stopped and I followed him in. The room in which we stood was perfectly bare and lighted by a lamp whose chimney was badly smoked. The only things in the room were two stationary desks. On the one lay a piece of blank paper before an ancient ink well and a much-used pen.

  Dismayed, I said, “Everyone’s gone for the night. Looks like I’ll have to wait until the next port.”

  “Not at all. Write your message. I’ll ring for the operator. They’re used to it.” He pulled at a knob near a small closed window, much like a postage stamp window. The bell made quite a clatter.

  I wrote my message:

  I reached Brindisi this morning on time after an uneventful trip across the Continent. The railway journey was tedious and tiresome, but I received no end of courtesy from the railway officials, who had been apprised of my coming. In a few hours I will be on the bosom of the Mediterranean. I am quite well though somewhat fatigued. I send –

  The window opened with a clink, and a head appeared at the opening.

  “Tell him I’m almost ready.”

  – kind greetings to all friends in the United States.

  Nellie Bly.

  The guard spoke in Italian, but, hearing me speak English, the operator answered directly. “Where do you want to send the cable?”

  “New York.”

  “Where is that?” he asked, gathering some books.

  I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice when I answered. “On the east coast of America.” I hadn’t expected knowledge of America to drop off the earth so soon on my trip.

  He flipped through his books – looking, he explained, for the line by which he could send the message – and then for how much it would cost.

  The whole thing was so new and amusing to me that I forgot all about the departure of the boat until we had finished the business and stepped outside.

  A whistle blew long and warningly. I looked at the guard; the guard looked at me. It was too dark to see each other, but I know our faces were the picture of dismay. My heart stopped beating, and I thought with emotions akin to horror that my boat was gone – and with it my limited wardrobe.

  13

  In Which Elizabeth Bisland Emerges On Deck And Meets Her Fellow Passengers

  IT IS MY fifth day aboard, and the boiling pot of the sea has finally subsided. I begin to take beef tea and resolve to live.

  Before venturing on deck, I write a letter to my sister and tell her of my misery. If I survive this trip around the world, she will have some persuading to do to get me on another sea voyage. We had always talked of taking a leisurely tour of our favorite literary sites in England. Perhaps I could endure the seasickness better if I have Molly to commiserate.

  After slipping the letter into my handbag, I venture out to make peace with the sun and the waves.

  Other women are also beginning to straggle back to life on deck – pale, wan, and with neglected hair tied up in lace scarves. They lie in steamer chairs swathed in rugs, and are indifferent about their appearance and to the charms of conversation. I have no trouble joining them while my senses slowly return, and I find an empty chair to claim as my own.

  There is something comforting about being wrapped up tight in a rug, face upturned to the redeeming warmth of the sun. I hold out hope that tonight I will be able to sit at table with the captain as he has expressed concern over me. The sea air is surprisingly refreshing, and soon I am revived and looking for someone to talk me out of my boredom.

  The typical American girl is with us – greyhound-waisted, with tiny feet, clad with tailor-made neatness. As she appears to be traveling alone, I move my chair beside her to strike up a conversation.

  “You are the reporter,” she says, putting down her camera when I approach.

  “I don’t work for a newspaper. I write for The Cosmopolitan.” To most people there is no difference, but I like to make the point anyway.

  “But you are in a race around the world? Against Nellie Bly?”

  I nod.

  “And are you in the lead?”

  I laugh at her eagerness for gossip. “I suppose I won’t know until I land home again.” I place my hand over my stomach. “And for the last few days I haven’t cared one bit.”

  She nods. “I had a touch of seasickness myself.” She holds up her camera. “Do you know how to work one of these? I want to have it all decided before we reach land. I’m to visit the American Minister to Japan.”

  I eye the box she has on her lap. “No. I’ve only been on the portrait side of a camera.”

  “May I practice on you?”

  She looks so in earnest that I agree.

  “Stand over there by the rigging. I th
ink the sun will be just right, don’t you?”

  She spends several minutes adjusting a string, checking her notes, and finally, presses a button at the side.

  “Is this your first time above deck?” she asks as she twists the key at the top of the box. “I arose from the dead yesterday and have been enjoying myself ever since.” She points to the water. “Go see how the color has changed since we left dock.”

  My legs, still weak after all the lying down, carry me tentatively towards the rail where I look out over a vast liquid field. Sapphires would be pale and cold beside this sea – palpitating with wave shadows deep as violets, yet not purple, and with no touch of any color to mar its perfect hue. It is a beautiful but lonely view.

  When I return to the amateur photographer, several other young women have gathered around her. I am introduced to a group of missionaries. It seems we have a full cargo of them – mostly young women, and on this occasion, all Presbyterians.

  “Is there much missionary work in Japan?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes,” answers a young doctor, who has just taken her degree. She wears “reform” clothes, the hem of her skirt falling above her ankles, and I would guess she has a pair of bloomers in her trunk for healthy cycling. She has a strong, well-cut face, from which her heavy hair is brushed smoothly back.

  “How long will you be there?”

  She smiles with the look of someone eager to save both souls and bodies. “Ten years.”

  Ten years! That is a long commitment for one so young. But she has the confidence of someone likely to consider the physical welfare of her patients of more importance than the acceptance of her creed. Her future is simple and pleasant to guess at.

  I am less sure of the handsome, slim girl of twenty with deep-set gray eyes, and delicate pointed fingers. In a spasm of romantic exaltation of which young women of her age are subject, she has condemned herself to a decade of lonely exile in a remote Japanese town. She smiles at me, and I smile back.

  When the missionaries leave, I voice my concerns to the amateur photographer. “Her eyes are earnest, but her dimples belie she is sacrificing her best young years.”

  The photographer shrugs her indifference.

  After a moment of reflection, I add with a laugh, “One can only hope for some modern-day Cymon to come rescue this Christian Iphigenia from her Oriental altar before the knife of distaste and ennui murder her youth and charm.”

  The photographer makes a show of scanning the horizon, her face in all seriousness. “There is no sign of his warship. If he is to steal her away, he best make haste.”

  We are both quiet as we stare out at the solitary sea. In all these many thousand miles we never see a sail or any shore. There is no sea life about us, save of the sword-winged birds that follow us from San Francisco without any sign of fatigue.

  At dinner I join the captain at his table. He introduces me to the sturdy folk who have been with him from the start, mostly gentlemen with business ventures which cause them to cross the ocean.

  “First time on a ship, is it?” asks the gentleman to my left. He is an Englishman who has made his fortune in China and since retired. Now he is bringing a new-made wife out, by way of America, to see the East, where he had lived so long.

  I nod, taking a deep breath of the fresh dinner roll placed at my spot and wait for my turn with the butter. “But am happy to report that the worst of it is over, and am thrilled to be joining you all here tonight to eat real food once again.”

  At this he chuckles and elbows his wife, an angular English girl. She automatically smiles as one does in polite company. “The food onboard the Oceanic is legendary,” she begins. “The poached salmon we ate last night was even better than its reputation.” She goes on for a time describing all that I have missed.

  “If tonight’s meal is half as good, I shall be pleased,” I consent.

  “Wait until you taste the food in China,” said the Englishman. “Ah, I miss it so. I’ve not had decent rice or my favorite sweet and sour pork dish….” He brings his fingers up to his lips as if tasting. “My mouth waters at the thought of that sauce.” A waiter sets a plate of Beef Wellington in front of him, and he returns from his reminiscing.

  My stomach grumbles at the rich smells.

  “I suppose by the end of it, you’ll have eaten your way around the world,” the Englishman continues. “I admit I’m jealous. If I were a younger man, I would be tempted to change my plans and follow you.”

  As the husband and I talk, I watch the wife’s reactions. She has all the makings of a British matron, one who knits gray stockings and keeps herself carefully aloof from acquaintances that might be detrimental in the future. I decide she is unsure of me and my global pursuits.

  Also at our table is a couple from Georgia, Mr. and Mrs. White, who have lived twenty years in Los Angeles, but have lost nothing of their old-fashioned Georgia ways and looks and still speak with a soft Southern drawl.

  “And you think going west will be faster than if you had started out east?” asks the husband. “Seems to me you are going backward.”

  “My editor insists the timetables in this direction are in my favor.” I lean forward conspiratorially and, with an eye on the captain engrossed in discussion with the other half of the table, whisper, “And he has offered the captain a bonus should he break any speed records taking me to Japan.”

  This revelation achieves much laughter and knowing looks that insider information provides. I dare not tell them the amount. It would astonish them too much.

  After dinner, the Englishman suggests I follow him. “I know just who you can talk with to add some color to your articles.”

  He leads his wife and me to the stairs going down to steerage. “Many of the Chinese are merchants who have a merchant’s pass, which enables them to return to America when their business across the water is finished. But some are going home to die. See that man right there?” He points to a young fellow, leaning against the wall where he can catch the best of the salt breezes. “He is but a mere twenty-six years old. He lies there all day.”

  The fellow’s hands are crossed, and his eyes half open. His hands and face are the color of old wax, as impassive as if indeed they were cut from some such substance.

  The Englishman touches his hand in comfort as we walk past. “It is common among the emigrants to America to fall sick with a consumption and to struggle back in this way to die at home.”

  I look down at the man as I pass. He seems afraid to breathe or move, lest he should waste the failing oil or snuff out the dying flame ere he reaches his yearned-for-home – the Flowery Kingdom – the Celestial Empire! I feel like I should say something to him since we were just talking about him in his hearing, but I can’t think of what, so I smile in what I hope is a comforting look.

  We keep up our search until we end up on the after-deck where fan-tan rages all day long. Oh, what I would give to hear my detective friend blow his whistle and see the gamblers scramble. When a less dangerous amusement is desired, they also play an intricate game of chess or dominoes.

  The Englishman introduces me to an old gentleman with an iron-gray pigtail and wearing a lurid pair of brocaded trousers.

  “This here is Tam. A genuine ‘Forty-niner.’ Tell her what you told me.”

  The old gentleman takes on a bemused expression. “I came to California during the gold fever. I was rich in those early days,” he explains in fluent and profane American. “Fan-tan, poker, euchre, and horse races have taken almost all of it.”

  After seeing the Chinese Quarter, I understand what this man’s life might have been like – staying up all hours of the night gambling and taking in the late-night theater.

  He grins. “But now I am going home to die in China. It costs less to cross waters alive than in pine box.”

  14

  In Which Nellie Bly Makes A Fast Dash For Her Ship And Has A Little Trouble At Her First Tiffin

  “CAN YOU RUN?” asked the guard in a husky voi
ce.

  “Yes!”

  He took close grasp of my hand, and we started down the dark street with a speed that should have startled a deer – down the dark streets, past astonished watchmen and late pedestrians, until a sudden bend brought us in full view of my ship still in port.

  The boat for Alexandria, Egypt had gone, but not mine. I was saved.

  FINALLY, I WAS able to tumble into bed and fall right to sleep. However, I had not been asleep long, it seemed to me, until I waked to find myself standing upright beside my berth, water dripping off my traveling dress.

  “Oh!” I sputtered, glancing at my drenched self.

  Above me came the sounds of vigorous scrubbing on the deck, and before I could piece everything together, I was drenched again with scrub water as it came pouring into my open porthole. I fumbled to let the heavy window down and, since I was so exhausted, went back to bed, dripping wet.

  I had not been asleep many moments until I heard a voice call: “Miss, will you have your tea now?”

  I opened my eyes and saw a steward standing at the door, awaiting a reply.

  “No, thank you,” I mumbled.

  “None for me, either,” said the English girl on the other side of my cabin.

  And then I was off to sleep again.

  “Miss, will you have your bath now?” a voice broke in on my slumbers shortly afterwards.

  I looked up in disgust at a little white-capped woman who was bending over me. I was tempted to say I had just had my bath, a shower-bath, but thought better of it before speaking.

  “In a few minutes," I managed to get out – and then I was back asleep.

  “Well, you are a lazy girl! You'll miss your bath and breakfast if you don't get up this instant,” was my third greeting.

  My surprise at the familiarity of the remark got the better of my sleepiness. Well, by all that is wonderful, where am I? Am I in school again that a woman dare assume such a tone to me?