Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  I answered stiffly, “I generally get up when I feel so inclined.”

  My roommate was missing, but I felt like sleeping and I decided to sleep; whether it pleased the stewardess or not, it mattered little to me.

  The steward was the next one to put in an appearance.

  “Miss, this ship is inspected every day, and I must have this cabin made up before they come,” he said complainingly. “The captain will be here presently.”

  There was nothing to do but to get up, which I did. I found my way to the bathroom, but soon saw that it was impossible for me to turn on the water, as I did not understand the mechanism of the faucet.

  “Excuse me,” I asked a steward, “where is the stewardess?”

  “The stewardess is taking a rest and cannot be disturbed.”

  I threw up my hands, startling the poor boy. The irony was beyond me.

  After dressing, I wandered up on the next deck and found the dining hall. A young man was putting out silverware on a round table.

  “I’m sorry, miss. Breakfast was over long ago.” He looked up enough to give me a sympathetic look.

  Tired and hungry, I went out on deck for my very first glimpse of the lazy-looking passengers in their summer garments. They lounged about in comfortable positions, or slowly promenaded the deck, which was sheltered from the heat of the sun by a long stretch of awnings.

  My gaze passed over them to the smooth, velvety looking water of the Mediterranean, the bluest I had ever seen, softly gurgling against the side of the ship, and I drank in the balmy air, soft as a rose leaf, and just as sweet, air such as one dreams about but seldom finds.

  Standing there alone among strange people, on strange waters, I thought…how sweet life is. Perhaps now will be the start of my vacation-like stunt and I can catch my breath. It has been so long since I’ve properly relaxed.

  “Miss Bly! Nellie Bly!” called my cabin mate from one of the steamer chairs. “Come join us.” The “us” were several young ladies with bright faces, happy to have left cold, wet weather behind.

  I gave her a hearty wave and eyed the throngs on deck lounging on their chairs. The guard had bought one for me at Brindisi and sent it on before our departure. I had no idea where it was. “I need to find my steamer chair.”

  She hefted her long white skirt to the side and jumped up. “I’ll help.”

  There were over three hundred passengers on the ship, and I suppose they averaged a chair apiece. We worked our way through about two hundred before I asked where the deck-stewards were.

  “There aren’t any on this ship. I presume the quarter-master has charge of the decks, but we are expected to look after our own chairs and rugs, and if we don't, it is useless to inquire for them if they disappear.”

  I could tell my cabin mate was losing enthusiasm. “Why don’t you go back to your friends? I’ll look a few more places.”

  “If you’re sure. Well, all right,” she readily agreed, and I continued my search.

  “Miss?” An Englishman with a touch of silver at his temples stopped me. “Are you looking for the young girl and her father?”

  When I gave him a confused look, he continued, “You and I were on the same trip from Calais on the India express. I noticed you on the train.”

  “Oh, no. They have gone on to Egypt. I’m traveling alone.”

  His eyes widened. “No escort?”

  The bugle blew for luncheon, potentially rescuing me from a lecture on my folly.

  “Would you go with me to tiffin?” he asked, before further explaining.

  “Tiffin?”

  “Ships traveling in Eastern seas always go by the Indian title ‘tiffin’ for luncheon.” He held out his arm.

  As I had gone without breakfast, I was only too anxious to go at the first opportunity and latched onto his invitation and his arm.

  The dining hall was on the second deck. It was a small room nicely decorated with tropical foliage plants and looked quite cozy and pretty, but it was never intended to accommodate a ship carrying more than seventy-five first-class passengers.

  The headwaiter, who stood at the door, stared at us blankly as we went in. I hesitated, naturally thinking that he would show us to some table.

  “Should we ask him where to sit?” I whispered.

  The gentleman raised his eyebrows questioningly at the waiter.

  “Sit anywhere,” he said. So we sat down at the nearest empty table.

  We had just been served our first course, a French onion soup, when four women ranging from twenty-four to thirty-five came in, all wearing oversized hats to match their stylish tea dresses. With indignant snorts of surprise, they seated themselves at the same table. They were followed by a short, fat woman with a sweeping walk and air of satisfied assurance. She eyed us in a supercilious way before turning to the others with an air of injured dignity.

  The Englishman smiled politely at them all and greeted them with an unaware “Good afternoon.”

  I simply smiled and ate my soup and hoped they would leave us alone.

  Next to the table arrived two men, and as there were only places for seven at the table, the young man squeezed onto the lounge with the girls, but the elderly man went out.

  Then we were made to suffer.

  “I do hate people coming to our table,” said the older woman. She snapped her napkin before placing it on her abundant lap.

  “Too bad papa was robbed of his place,” said the young woman who sat at my left.

  The other girl piped up in support, “Yes, it’s a shame people have to be crowded from their own table.”

  I frowned my disapproval at the lot of them before turning to my Englishman friend. “So, you have made this trip before?”

  “Several times. I’ve lived in India twenty years as part of the Civil Service in Calcutta.” He went on to tell me the ins and outs of his job, oblivious to the brewing storm of protest at the table.

  The young woman beside me was not content to confine her rudeness to her tongue, so she repeatedly reached across my plate, brushing my food with the lace at the edge of her sleeves without one word of apology.

  I was never so glad to see a meal ended. I felt terribly that I had only half listened to the gentleman’s interesting stories as I was trying to make it obvious that I was ignoring the rude lot at the table.

  All afternoon I fussed about their behavior. I had been expecting some hatred due to my being an American, but was surprised they had treated their fellow Englishman the same way, unless it was because he was with me. But then I saw this same group misbehaving on deck and realized I was not insulted because I was an American, but because the people were simply ill-bred.

  When dinner came, we found that we were debarred from the dining room. Passengers who got on at London were given the preference, and as there were not accommodations for all, the passengers who boarded the ship at Brindisi had to wait for second dinner.

  It was nine o'clock when the dining room was cleared that night, and the Brindisi passengers were allowed to take their places at the table. Everything was brought to us as it was left from the first dinner – cold soup, the remnants of fish, cut up bits of beef and fowl – all down the miserable course until at last came cold coffee!

  At first we all looked at one another in shock. Then it started.

  “This is an outrage!”

  “Where is the captain? He must hear of our ill treatment.”

  “The captain won’t do anything,” said a distinguished gentleman to my right. “It is likely he ordered it. Have any of you had opportunity to observe the man? Uncouth. Lacking in manners.” Nods went round. We all had a story about the captain.

  When we made inquiries, we were told that only at dinner were the places reserved, but that at breakfast and tiffin, first there were first served. I knew I would never make it early to breakfast, so the next day I went in to early tiffin. As I was leaving the dining room, I ran into the two women who traveled with me on the India Express to Brind
isi.

  The elder was leaving in tears. “I am a grandmother, and this is the sixth trip I have made to Australia, and I was never treated so insultingly in my life.”

  “What happened?” I asked, feeling somewhat protective of my fellow passengers.

  The younger answered, “We went in early, so that we could get the good food, instead of the leftovers. We went to sit at a table that was empty but for a young man who sat at the head. He said, ‘You can't sit there. I've reserved those places for some of my friends.’”

  She paused to allow me time to be offended on their behalf. She continued, “There was another table close by, so we moved. But after we sat down, some late-comers requested we get up and give the places to them!”

  “That is terrible,” I agreed. “My experience was much better today than yesterday. Perhaps it will get better as we all get used to each other.” That is what I said, but what I was thinking was how unaccommodating the English were.

  NOTWITHSTANDING ALL ANNOYING trifles, it was a very happy life we spent in those pleasant waters. The decks were filled all the day, and when the lights were put out at night the passengers reluctantly went to their cabins.

  The passengers formed two striking contrasts. There were some of the most refined and lovely people on board, and there were some of the most ill-bred and uncouth. Most of the women, whose acquaintance I formed, were very desirous of knowing all about American women, and frequently expressed their admiration for the free American woman, many going so far as to envy me, while admiring my unfettered happiness. Two clever Scotch women I met were traveling around the world, but taking two years at it. One Irishwoman, with a laugh that rivaled her face in sweetness, was traveling alone to Australia.

  In the daytime, the men played cricket and quoits. Sometimes in the evenings, we had singing, and other times we went to the second-class deck and listened to better music given by second-class passengers. When there were no chairs, we would all sit down on the deck and greatly enjoy ourselves.

  There was one little girl with a pale, slender face, who was a great favorite with us all, though none of us ever spoke to her. She sang in a sweet, pathetic voice a little melody about “Who'll buy my silver herrings?” until, I know, if she had tried to sell any, we should all have bought. The best we could do was to join her in the refrain, which we did most heartily.

  Better than all to me, it was to sit in a dark corner on deck, above where the sailors had their food, and listen to the sounds of a tom-tom and a weird musical chanting that always accompanied their evening meal.

  The sailors were Lascars. They were the most untidy looking lot I ever saw, and doubtless, if I could have seen as well as heard them at their evening meal, it would have lost its charm. Over a pair of white muslin drawers, they wore long muslin slips very like in shape to the old-time nightshirt. This was tied about the waist with a colored handkerchief, and on their heads they wore gaily-colored turbans, which were really nothing but a crown of straw with a scarf-shaped piece of bright cloth, often six feet in length, wound about the head. Their brown feet were always bare. They chant, as all sailors do, when hoisting sails, but otherwise were a grim, surly-looking set, climbing about over the ship like a pack of monkeys.

  After we had been out several days, a young woman came to me on my way to tiffin with an unsealed cable.

  “Are you Nellie Bly?”

  “Yes.”

  “The purser gave this cable to some of the passengers yesterday, as he did not know who you were. We’ve been passing it amongst ourselves until it has found you.”

  I bit back my harsh words for the purser and thanked the woman. Didn’t know who I was? He had to remember the woman who kept storming into his office in Italy. He did it for spite. Sending my cable through the ship as the latest gossip. I waited for the woman to leave before I read it.

  Fortunately, it was from my editor and was only a note to tell me the newspaper had started a contest to see who could guess my exact time around the world. The prize was a first-class trip to Europe. Apparently, I’m a hit back home, no matter what the purser thinks.

  AT TIFFIN, MY Englishman between bites of fruit salad, said, “People think you are an eccentric American heiress, traveling about with a hair brush and a bank book.”

  “Ha!” I laughed. “That explains some of the attention I am receiving. Everyone is after my money.”

  The gentleman across the table said, “I have always killed the desire to marry because I don’t expect to find a woman who can travel without innumerable trunks and bundles.”

  I had noticed that he dressed exquisitely and changed his apparel at least three times a day. I could not resist a comment. “Mr. Gregory, how many trunks do you carry with you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen! Are you afraid she would out do you?”

  My Englishman laughed, but Mr. Gregory did not.

  Leaving tiffin, I walked out on deck and was joined by a young man who seemed to be waiting for me. After several starts and stops, he spoke his mind. “You are the kind of a girl I like.”

  “Oh? And what kind is that?”

  “You like to travel. So do I. Thing is, I’m the second son, so my brother will get both the money and the title. I figure if I were to find a wife who would settle £1,000 a year, we could get on nicely.”

  To my surprise, he looked earnest, like I would jump at the chance not only to be his traveling companion, but to pay for the privilege. “Is your older brother single?” I asked with a smile.

  15

  IN WHICH ELIZABETH BISLAND PASSES THE TIME PLAYING QUOITS – AND ALL THE WHILE GOES STEADILY WESTWARD DRIVEN BY WIND AND STEAM.

  THE WEEK IS nearly done before the whole ship’s company is assembled at table, and we begin to take note of our fellow-voyagers in this water caravansary. I realize my seasickness could have been worse now that I see all these new faces emerging more drained and delicate than mine had been.

  My decision to not overly-limit my packing was wise. Changing dress for dinner provides a break in the monotony of the day, and with my silk I fit in with the fashion of the women invited to the Captain’s table.

  Captain Kempson is proud of his ship as he only received his first commission as Captain in June. He is eager to speak of all aspects of the ship and crew as they have just set a Yokohama-San Francisco record of 13 days, 14 hours, 6 minutes, and in turn we are all swept up in his excitement. Me especially.

  “Congratulations. I hope you can set another record on this voyage,” I say boldly, thinking of my adversary and wondering how fast she has managed to travel thus far.

  Captain Kempson smiles, for he knows what I am about. “The Oceanic was built in 1870. The first in the White Star line and was a jewel in her day before being chartered to the Occidental & Oriental Steamship Company for the run between San Francisco and China.”

  A jewel, yes, but not freshly polished like the Augusta Victoria on which Nellie Bly began her trip. The experienced passengers have told me – outside of the captain’s hearing – that other ships have since surpassed the Oceanic in luxury. Not knowing anything of life aboard these other ships, I am pleased the White Star company was progressive enough nineteen years ago to install electric call buttons in our first-class staterooms as well as convenient water taps instead of water jugs.

  “Three sister ships were built shortly after: the Atlantic, Baltic, and Republic,” says the Captain.

  The woman to my right, Mrs. Baxter, a widow traveling with the Whites, says, “Clever, but the company will run out of names if they insist on ending their ships in –ic.”

  “Well, I dunno,” says in a gentleman across from the captain. He tips his water glass in the woman’s direction. “Celtic, Adriatic, Olympic. There’s three more, right there. Hardly any trouble at all.”

  “Germanic!” announces the businessman from Pittsburgh.

  “Nomadic…er, Teutonic,” says the Brit. Smiles spread as we realize it is a new game.
/>   “Majestic,” I add before someone else can take it.

  The table settles into thoughtful silence as we eye each other while our main course is served, mouthwatering Filets mignons.

  “Slavic,” says Mrs. White, pleased she herself has thought of a name.

  “Gigantic,” says the Brit, complete with hand motions, and we laugh.

  “Titanic,” says the businessman. “It’s more refined.” Nods all around. That seems to settle the game, and we lapse into silence as we eat.

  “You have a sampling of the world in your crew, Captain,” comments the businessman.

  The Captain reflects for a minute before counting off on his fingers: “Norwegians, Russians, English, French, Japanese, Americans, Germans, Hungarians, and even one Manx-man – our chief-engineer. You will know him from the ‘out of country’ flavor given to his speech. He says it is quite common for someone from the Isle of Man.”

  “What island is that?” asks Mrs. White.

  “Between England and Scotland.”

  I agree with the captain as I have heard the Manx-man speak. He could be one of Scottish novelist William Black’s old Highland lairds.

  “Your crew is international, but all your sailors are Chinese,” notes the businessman.

  “Yes, Chinese are popular with commanders. They are obedient. They don’t strike at the worst possible times. And they are under the control of a boatswain, one of their countrymen. He hires them and pays them their wages, and the owners reckon with him alone.”

  “Is that profitable for him?” asks the businessman.

  “My boatswain is a person of consequence and wealth. He owns much real estate in San Francisco.”

  The poverty I saw in China Town conflicts with the captain’s talk of wealth. Perhaps the wealth of the boatswain, a man with a keen, shrewd face and an air of unquestioned authority, is sufficient proof that the Chinese – as the white Jack Tar – is the victim of fraud and oppression.

  “Captain,” I ask, “are you like the merchant Antonio in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, voyaging to the East for cargoes of tea, silk, and spices?”