Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  The dining hall was very artistic and pleasant, and the food was good. The ship, although much smaller than the Victoria, was better in every way. The cabins were more comfortable, the ship was better ventilated, the food was vastly superior, the officers were polite and good-natured, the captain was a gentleman in looks and manners, and everything was just as agreeable as it could be.

  It was well on to one o’clock before the passengers transferred from the Nepaul to the Oriental. In the meantime, the ship was amply peopled with merchants from the shore, who were selling jewels and lace. How they did cheat the passengers!

  At one o’clock, we finally sailed. I found it a great relief to be again on the sweet, blue sea, free from the tussle and worry and bustle for life which we are daily, hourly even, forced to gaze upon on land. Watching the hull slicing through the water, I could content myself knowing I was back in the race. My optimism had returned.

  25

  In Which Elizabeth Bisland Meets Up With Friends And Muses Over The Wonder Of British Colonization

  ON SUNDAY, DECEMBER 15th, we reach Hong Kong. The sea turns to a cool profound emerald, and on the horizon the bamboo wings of the fishing and coasting junks appear. Their sails are somewhat larger and deeper of hue than those of Japan and more so resemble the fans of giant yellow and russet butterflies.

  Here I leave the Oceanic and find I am very regretful. I have received so much kindness; but as Tennyson so aptly imagined for his mariners in his poem “The Lotos-Eaters” I, too, prefer to stay and rest on the peaceful island. After more than three weeks of travel, how delightful the thought of even three precious days on land!

  Hateful is the dark blue sky,

  Vaulted o'er the dark blue sea.

  Death is the end of life; ah, why

  Should life all labor be?

  At one o'clock we are in the broad antechamber of the port, known as the Lyee-Moon, and are signaled from the lofty peak to the inhabitants of the town lying at its foot. I wonder if my friends are already at the dock waiting for me, and if they can tell this is the ship they are waiting for.

  At two o'clock we drop anchor in the roadstead amid a great host of shipping of all character and nations. I record twenty-three days out from San Francisco in my journal. The White Star people had instructed Captain Kempson to make all due haste for my sake, and it is one of the swiftest voyages ever known at this season of the year, when the winds are contrary, coming to the west. We were sixteen days to Japan, where we remained thirty-six hours, and five days from Yokohama to Hong Kong.

  I tuck the journal away and gaze out at the harbor. As in Japan, sampans swarm about us as soon as we are made fast to the buoy, but they are far less picturesque. Each sampan wears a bamboo hood in the stern where the owner houses his wife and rears his family.

  The Chinese woman of the working class, I find, decided centuries ago the question still in its stormy infancy with us – of the divided skirt. She clothes herself in a pair of wide black trousers, a loose tunic, jade earrings and cork-soled shoes, and is ready for all the emergencies of life.

  The gentleman beside me at the rail explains, “When a woman marries a sampan owner, she will but rarely set her foot on shore again. She will work, sleep, eat, bear her children, rear them, and die in that crazy little boat.”

  “They never leave their boats?”

  “No need. There is something like twenty thousand in the water population of Hong Kong. They can get everything they need for life right here.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I say, craving to set my feet on land. I lean out over the rail, trying to see my friends in the steam launches lining up. I wonder if I will recognize them, it has been so long since we met at the Royal Street literary salon. Then I see Mrs. Bauer. Her hat is enormous, and she is waving at me. Before long, I am climbing down into their personal steam launch, and she is hugging me tight.

  “It is always good to see an old friend!” she exclaims. “Is this all your luggage?”

  I nod at the bags a steward is transferring for me. They are already significantly heavier after my stop in Japan. I wonder how Nellie Bly is doing with her one bag.

  Mr. Bauer takes my hand and helps me board the smaller vessel. “I hear we are to show you something of domestic life in the East.”

  “Please,” I answer. “I am eager to see how you live in this distant land.”

  Chairs and bearers are waiting for us on the dock – comfortable chairs of bamboo, trimmed with silver and supported by long bamboo poles. This is even more amusing than the ‘rickshas. There are four men for each chair, dressed in my friend's livery – loose trousers and tunic of white cotton bordered with rose color. Their feet are bare, and their hair is gathered into Psyche knots, on the back of their heads, like the hair of the shop girls in America.

  They lift the poles to their shoulders and start off in a swift swinging trot, Mr. Bauer in one chair, myself and Mrs. Bauer cozy in the other. We pass across the narrow strip of level land that lies on the water's edge.

  “That is the business quarter,” Mr. Bauer calls from his chair. “We live up there.” He points up the broad steep ways that lead to the residence quarter.

  On every wall stand rows of earthen jars full of greenery and blossom – rows on rows of them in the courtyards – more rows on both ends of every flight of steps, and on all balcony railings. Every nook and corner that will hold a jar is filled with bloom, and the rarest orchids are strewn carelessly about, industriously producing flowers, in ignorance of their own value.

  We meet the most astonishing varieties of the human race. All sorts and conditions of Chinese – elegant dandies in exquisitely pale-tinted brocades; grave merchants, richly but soberly clad; neat amahs with the tiny deformed Chinese feet, sitting at the street corners, taking in sewing by the day. The street sellers hawk their wares: tea, shrimp, fruit, sweetmeats, and rice.

  At the corner stands a haughty jewel-eyed prince of immense stature – straight and lithe as a palm. He wears a soldier's dress and sword and a huge scarlet turban of the most intricate convolutions. I cry out with astonishment at the sight of this superb creature.

  “Is it an emperor?” I demand in breathless admiration.

  “An emperor! Poof! It's only a Sikh policeman. There are hundreds about the place quite as splendid as he.”

  It gives me my first real impression of the power of England, who tames these mountain lions and sets them to do her police duty. It would seem incredible that the Tommy Atkins, the rosy commonplace British soldier, who comes swaggering down the street in his scarlet coat can be the weapon that tamed the fine creature in the turban.

  What is the secret of colonization? Is it more beef and mutton perhaps – or more of submission to orders and power of self-discipline?

  Here comes one of the conquerors of India, a kilted Highlander, swinging down the road in his plaided petticoats, with six inches of bare stalwart pink legs showing, and a fine hearty self-confidence in his mien that signifies his utter disbelief in the power of anything human to conquer him.

  Mrs. Bauer squeezes my hand. “We have handsome men here, do we not?”

  I lower my eyes and smile. Interesting and handsome, yes. But I am only here for a few days. Not long enough for love’s sake.

  We leave this stew of nations behind and mount into a broad street curved around the flank of the hill. On the upper side of it is a heavy wall, once painted a lovely light blue, and now freaked and stained a thousand charming tints by time and weather. Creepers bearing great yellow flowers trail across it; trees shadow it, and the convent's massive outlines loom from behind. Our chairs stop here but don’t let us down.

  “That is the Portuguese convent,” says my friend. “They do a beautiful work in teaching Chinese girls the sweet decencies of life and pretty feminine arts. We live across the street.”

  Their house is two stories of stone surrounded by great verandas. The coolies run down a curving flight of steps and deposit us at the door. Mr.
Bauer leads us into a lofty hall, terminating on a rear veranda, with a wide view of the city, buried in greenery, sloping down to the flashing emerald of the bay.

  The hall is filled with more potted plants, and massive furniture of Indian ebony and marble. To the left is a great drawing room, fifty feet long and eighteen high, with a dozen windows. Here are more palms and ferns, rich European fittings, and Eastern bric-à-brac. Scattered about are photographs of Emperor Wilhelm II and all the Hohenzollerns, for my friends are Germans.

  We rest awhile in the cool green gloom of this apartment and drink tea brought by a tall gentleman in silk trousers, a black satin cap, and a crisp rustling blue gown reaching nearly to his ankles.

  “You must be tired,” says Mrs. Bauer. “Let me show you to your room and you can settle in.”

  My bedchamber is another huge shadowy place, with a dressing room and bath as large as the ordinary drawing room at home.

  “How beautiful,” I exclaim, running my fingertips along a well-built dresser.

  “The bedroom suite has been in my husband’s family for years. It is old mahogany with silver fittings, brought from Germany two generations ago. This is one of my favorite rooms. Rest up tonight and we will show you Hong Kong in the morning. Gute Nacht.”

  The room’s airy, unencumbered spaces remind me of the fine old bedchambers in the plantation house in Louisiana. How I loved those old rooms at Fairfax. As I fall asleep, I picture Molly and myself wrapped in shawls on the floor that first night we’d returned home after the civil war. We’d thought the South a great deal more exciting than at grand mamma’s, where we always went to bed in the regular way.

  Mother had cried at how torn up the house was, but we were home. It was both familiar and foreign to us and took some getting used to. It was so strange to think of soldiers sleeping in children’s rooms. Of course, Pressley was only a baby then, so he had no notion of the place, and the others weren’t born yet.

  My last thought before drifting off is that I need to send Molly a postcard and let her know I am with friends. She would let the rest of the family know how I am.

  In the morning I am awakened by another pigtailed gentleman, who brings me my tea, prepares my bath, and arranges all things ready for my toilet. Mrs. Bauer warned me that female servants in Hong Kong are rare; and after my first surprise is over, these clean, grave male-maids seem perfectly efficient and convenable servitors.

  Our meals are stately functions – adorned, of course, with profuse greenery and flowers – with fine wines and delicate food exquisitely prepared.

  “What do you think of our Hong Kong so far?” asks Mrs. Bauer.

  “There is so much going on, my eyes hardly knew where to look yesterday,” I say before trying the congee, a rice porridge.

  Mr. Bauer nods, looking pleased with my assessment. “The town is growing and prosperous.”

  “The sound of building never ends,” says Mrs. Bauer, holding her head. “The buildings are made of stone, and the sound of mason’s tools rings in my ears at times.”

  “I was amazed by all the different nationalities of people we passed in the streets,” I say. “There must be work for any who want it here.”

  “Yes, and there is a general public amiability in the population. Although, as in all societies, there are those of the lowest class of laborers who work terribly for infinitesimal sums.”

  Mrs. Bauer shakes her head as of someone who sees a tragedy and doesn’t know what to do about it. “You will likely see these poor folk in our travels today.” She pours herself more tea. “But before we begin today’s sightseeing, tell us about your trip thus far. Are you winning the race?”

  “I have no idea if I am winning or losing, but I feel I am making good time.” That unpleasantness out of the way, I entertain them with stories. They laugh at my description of the mad railway trip with Cyclone Bill, the nickname I learned at San Francisco for Mr. Downing. And Mrs. Bauer murmurs her approval at my description of the silk shops in Japan.

  I was never in a German household before, and find here many pretty unfamiliar customs – one of them a nice fashion of repeating upon rising from the table a German phrase which expresses mutual good-will and affection, a sort of grace of friendship after meat. There is a careful sweet civility too in their intercourse with one another, very pleasant to share.

  After our meal, Mr. Bauer leads us back outside where the chairs are waiting. My eyes fill once again with the sights of Hong Kong: Coolies run about at a dog-trot, bearing immense burdens swung at the two ends of a pole carried on their naked muscular shoulders. Pretty round-faced children, dressed exactly like their elders, play in the doorways and exchange smiles with the passersby.

  Out of place are mountains of freshly deposited dirt dotting the harbor side of the broad water street. “What is the dirt near the harbor for?” I ask when we stop.

  “The harbor is quite shallow for 200 yards. They are preparing to fill it up and give Hong Kong the benefit of this extra width of level land,” explains Mr. Bauer. “They did the same thing some years ago at Kow-Loon, on the opposite side of the harbor where England owns a strip of the mainland.”

  “You’ve seen it,” broke in Mrs. Bauer. “It’s where the wharves are lined with godowns, in English you say ‘warehouses.’ They’ve also built huge dry-docks and shipyards for building and repairing ships there.”

  “There is much business that passes through these waters,” continues Mr. Bauer. “The export trade in cotton, tea, silk, spices, and rice is enormous. Every year the place develops considerable manufacturing industries.”

  I examine the harbor and quickly surmise the truth.

  “The strategic importance of Hong Kong is so great that four or five war ships are always in its harbor or cruise in the neighborhood, and two full regiments are kept in garrison. You may have seen the Highlanders who are here at present.”

  Mrs. Bauer catches my eye and smiles while her husband climbs back into his chair, unaware of our silent conversation about the Highlanders.

  We come across more of these Highlanders later in the morning. They wear in this hot climate white jackets and helmets with their kilts. They are being put through a rapid and vigorous drill when we pass the parade ground, and the pipes are shrilly skirling – music to stir the heart in which runs the smallest drop of Scotch blood.

  Not even the Sikh policemen stand first in my affections at this moment, as, to that wild keen sound, the solid ranks of brawny red-haired Caledonians trot by, with their petticoats fluttering about their bare knees and their bayonets set in a glittering hedge. . . . Oh, braw sight! . . . Oh, bonny lads! . . . Scotland forever!

  The climate of Hong Kong at this season is of Eden. The sun is pleasantly hot at midday, and the mornings and evenings are dewily cool. Coolies do their work naked to the waist, but ordinary European garments are comfortable. Today I have stepped out in my three-quarter length sleeves with the black lace overlay, and my hem is walking length with the black lace ruffle. Mrs. Bauer thought it fetching, and I agree. When packing, I did wonder how my clothing would fit in with the ladies around the world. I have not felt under or overdressed yet.

  My friends are loath that I should lose a single pleasure, and we are out all day long in this adorable weather. One of our paths lies through the green twilight of the Botanical Gardens. We pass under the lacey shadows of ferns twenty feet high, through trellises weighted with vines that blow perfumed purple trumpets, and emerge upon sunny spaces where fountains are sprinkling silver rain upon banks of crimson and orange flowers. The flaxen-haired English children play here, cared for by prim trousered Chinese amahs; and we meet pretty blue-eyed German ladies in their chairs taking this road home.

  Another expedition leads to the top of Victoria Peak, whose head is two thousand feet above the water and up whose side the town climbs year by year. Our way – at an angle of forty-five degrees – is by a tram dragged up the mountain by means of an endless chain.

  This
tram is newly built, having only been in operation for a year and half, and my friends are very proud of this engineering marvel.

  “You aren’t afraid of heights, are you, Elizabeth?”

  “I’m not if Mrs. Bauer isn’t,” I quip, looking toward the pale-faced woman and hoping the chain is strong.

  She smiles only at the corners of her mouth. “Just don’t look down and you’ll be fine. The view is worth whatever fears one must overcome.”

  We board at Garden Road where a non-descript wooden station patiently watches passengers board and exit. The fare is thirty cents up and fifteen cents down, but we are coming down a different way.

  A static steam engine powers the operation, and you can hear faint sounds of the beast as it builds up energy to move the tram.

  The Peak is the city’s summer resort and pleasuring ground. There is ten degrees difference in temperature between the summit and the town, and a summer hotel is in process of construction at the top. When completed, it will be a luxurious destination.

  Handsome bungalows cling to the mountain’s steep sides – built in the Italian style, of warm cream-white stone – and are named such things as The Cottage, The Bungalow, Hillcrest.

  Again, I am reminded of the South, where we also name our houses. “My childhood home was called Fairfax. Did you know?” When my friends indicated they didn’t, I continued. “The Confederate troops used our house during the Civil War. When we returned from New York, it was freckled with bullet holes. A canon lay abandoned in the yard behind a log barricade. Inside, the chairs and sofas were climbing, as if in clumsy panic, against the battered doors.”