Everywhere is an air of greater prosperity, thrift, and alertness. The train does not stop to admit of gossiping, and goes at added speed.
Telegrams have been following me along the route concerning the possibility of catching a ship at Havre. The train is rather behind time, and unless the La Champagne will consent to delay her departure for an hour or two, it will be useless to attempt to cover the space between Villeneuve, Paris, and Havre before tomorrow at seven.
There is hope, however, that she will wait, and Friday night, some two hours after midnight, the guard rouses me to deliver a telegram:
BE READY 4AM TO CHANGE CARS FOR PARIS.
This means leaving my box – it is under seal for London – and crossing the ocean with only a few belongings in a traveling bag. What I never considered doing starting out, I eagerly agree to now. I am almost home.
I rise and dress quietly, scribble a few notes of farewell to such of my fellow passengers as have been especially courteous, and am all ready when we halt at Villeneuve.
A young Frenchman, agent for Cook's tourist bureau in Paris, has come to meet me.
“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. I have bad news for you. The ship has refused to wait.”
I look at him through the haze of sleepiness. “What?” I ask. I hear the words, but I have trouble understanding them with so little rest.
“The ship,” he says slowly, as if his accent has confused the words for me. “It goes without you.” He mimes a ship leaving harbor.
As his meaning sinks into my mind, so does my heart descend into my feet. To have come all this way, spent so much time, only to be thwarted by a ship refusing to wait. This French ship is the fastest way home, and now my win is questionable. I want to win. Or at least be close in the losing. I collapse on a nearby bench, surprised at my passion. Who am I? Is this what it feels like to be Nellie Bly? Can I remain graceful these next few hours and days, and yet still strive for the finish?
It is too late – half-past four – to return to bed, so I throw myself on the couch and wait for day. A faint rime clouds the window when dawn breaks, but a breath dispels it, and outside are lovely Corot-like visions – pale, shadowy, gray – worth the lost sleep to have seen the landscapes he painted. Here and there, a thin plume of smoke curls up against the dull frosty sky from the chimney of a thatched, lime-washed cottage set amid barns and stacks.
My plans have changed again. Instead of Paris and on to the fast ship, it is on to England to catch whatever ship I can. I don’t know if I can recover from this delay. There can be no more missed connections, and Nellie Bly must have a similar trial if I am to win. A snowstorm, perhaps.
40
In Which A Missing Medical Report Threatens Quarantine Of Nellie’s Ship
NEXT, A MAN I didn’t even know approached me on the promenade deck. “If it would help, would you consent to the monkey being thrown overboard?”
I was speechless. A little struggle between superstition and a feeling of justice for the monkey followed.
“What do you think, Chief Allen?” I asked at dinner. “Do you think it will come to that?”
“No! Don’t toss the poor creature away.” He chuckled. “The monkey has just gotten outside of a hundred weight of cement and has washed it down with a quart of lamp oil, and I, for one, do not want to interfere with his happiness and digestion!”
Oh dear. That monkey was a savage little fellow, but took to most everybody but me. Once the novelty was gone, I hoped we would have bonded as he will make quite the sensation back home. There was no chance the other reporter was coming home with a monkey. No one else would be so foolish.
“Ministers are also considered Jonahs,” said Chief Allen “They always bring bad weather to ships.”
We had two ministers on board. So I said quietly, “If the ministers were thrown overboard, I’d say nothing about the monkey.” Thus the monkey’s life was saved.
Mr. Allen had a boy, Walter, who was very clever at tricks. One day Walter said he would show that he could lift a bottle merely by placing his open hand to the side of the bottle. He put everybody out of the cabin, as he said if they remained in it broke the influence.
They watched intently through the open door as he rolled up his sleeve and rubbed his arm downward, quite vigorously, as if trying to get all the blood in his hand. Catching the wrist with the other hand, as if to hold all the blood there, he placed his open hand to the side of the bottle and, much to the amazement of his audience, the bottle went up with his hand.
When urged to tell how to do the wonderful trick, he said, “It’s all very easy; all you do is to rub your arm, that’s just for show; then you lay hold of your wrist just as if you wanted to keep all the blood in your hand; you keep one finger free–no one notices that–and you take the neck of the bottle between the hand and the finger, and the bottle goes up with the hand. See?”
One evening, when the ship was rolling frightfully, everybody was gathered in the dining hall; an Englishman urged Walter to do some tricks, but Walter did not want to be bothered then, so he said: “Yes, sir; in a moment, sir,” and went on putting the things upon the table.
He had put down the mustard pot, the salt cellar and various things, and was wiping a plate. As he went to put the plate down, the ship gave a great roll, the plate knocked against the mustard pot, and the mustard flew all over the Englishman, much to the horror of the others. Sitting up stiffly, the mustard dotting him from head to knees, he said sternly:
“Walter! What is this?”
“That, sir, is the first trick,” Walter replied softly, and he glided silently and swiftly off to the regions of the cook.
But Walter was caught one day. A sailor told him that he could hide an egg on him so no one would be able to find it. Walter had his doubts, but he willingly gave the sailor a test. The egg was hidden and a man called in to find it. He searched Walter all over without once coming upon the egg.
The sailor suggested another trial to which Walter, now an interested and firm believer in the sailor’s ability, gladly consented. The sailor opened Walter’s shirt and placed the egg next to the skin in the region of his heart, carefully buttoning the shirt afterwards. The man was called in; he went up to Walter and hit him a resounding smack where Sullivan hit Kilrain to win the heavyweight title. He found the egg, and so did Walter! It was a gentle lesson for the boy as I doubt he will be duped like that again.
Even with low runs, our trip was bound to come to an end. One night it was announced that the next day we would be in San Francisco. I felt a feverish excitement, and many were the speculations as to whether there would be a snow blockade to hinder my trip across the Continent. A hopefulness that had not known me for many days came back when in rushed the purser, his face a snow-white, crying:
“Good Heavens! The bill of health was left behind in Yokohama.”
“Well–well–what does that mean?” I demanded, fearing some misfortune, I knew not what.
“It means,” he said, dropping nerveless into a chair, “that no one will be permitted to land until the next ship arrives from Japan. That will be two weeks.”
41
In Which Elizabeth Bisland Tries To Make Up For Lost Time
AS THE DAY grows, peasants, such as those in Millet paintings, come out of the cottages and follow the road, carrying baskets of potatoes and turnips. Two legs and a pair of sabots appear under a perambulating heap of hay. A big dog drags a small cart full of milk cans, and a woman with a cap and tucked-up skirts trudges along beside, blowing on her fingers to warm them.
All this, just as did Italy, seems very familiar. I know it quite well from pictures and books. It gives one the sensation – reversed – awakened by reading a realistic novel in which all the little details of daily life are minutely and accurately reproduced.
It is ten o'clock when we reach Calais, and the Dover boat has gone, so there is time for a bath and breakfast.
The Channel is gray and stormy when we start, and a
gust of rain splashes now and then upon the deck. Fat old French gentlemen spread themselves out in chaise lounges and make all necessary preparations for seasickness. The English turn up the collars of their long coats, thrust their hands in the pockets, and stride along the rolling deck. Later the sun struggles through the clouds and turns the gloom to a stormy gray-green and shifting silver – and there looms slowly through the mists the white cliffs of England.
Starting two months ago from a vast continent which the English race have made their own, where the English tongue, English laws, customs, and manners reign from sea to sea, in my whole course around the globe, I have heard that same tongue, seen the same laws and manners, found the same race.
Have had proof with my own eyes of the splendor of their empire, of their power, their wealth, of their dominance and pride, of their superb armies, their undreamable commerce, their magnificent possessions, their own unrivalled physical beauty and force – and lo! Now at last I find from a tiny island ringed with gray seas has sprung this race of kings.
It fills my soul with a passion of pride that I, too, am an Anglo-Saxon. In my veins, too, runs that virile tide that pulses through the heart of this Lord of the Earth – the blood of this clean, fair, noble English race! It is worth a journey round the world to see –
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;
This fortress built by nature for herself
Against infestion and the hand of war.
This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious stone set in a silver sea;
This blessed plot of earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Feared by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renownèd for their deeds so far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land –
England, bound in with the triumphant sea!
– and I understand now the meaning of this trumpet-cry of love and pride from the greatest of earth's poets – Shakespeare, an Englishman.
Dover – and one sets foot at last on the mother soil. Everyone is friendly and polite as I transfer from ship to train and the blue boudoir of a first-class carriage – then English landscapes under the level rays of a setting sun.
Certain characteristics here are very reminiscent of Japan. The neatness and completeness of everything; the due allowance of trees dispersed in ornamental fashion; nature so thoroughly tamed and domesticated; the picturesque railway stations, and a certain moist softness in the air. But where everything there is light, fragile, and fantastic, here it is solid, compact, and durable.
Like the English sea, the English land swarms with phantoms – the folk of history, of romance, of poetry and fiction. They troop along the roads, prick across the fields, look over the hedges, and peer from every window.
I hear the clang of their armor, see the waving of their banners; their voices ring in the frosty winter air, their horses' hoof beats sound along the paths. Without regard to time or period, to reality or non-reality, they come in hosts to welcome me – to say, “And so you, too, have come to join us. We have waked to greet you. We are the ghosts of England's past!”
Even the folk of the contemporary fiction have not failed to be present. I see the sunk fence by the thicket where Angelina always bids Edwin an eternal farewell in the last chapter of the second volume, and they are there doing it now.
There rides Captain Cavendish in his red coat, home from the hunting field, and on his way to the handsome old country house yonder where he will squeeze Mrs. Fitzroy's fingers under the teacup he passes her and thus lay the foundation for forty-two chapters of jealously, hatred, and all uncharitableness.
“Miss? Miss?” A definite real, live, voice pierces my imagination. It is the younger of the two women in my carriage. “Ah, there you are at last. My mother was loath to interrupt your thoughts, but we are going to play a card game. Would you like to join us?”
“No. Thank you. I’m trying to see as much of England as I can.” At any other time, I would have readily agreed as they looked like such accommodating ladies.
Darkness falls. A dull glare is reflected from the heavens that speaks the presence of a great gas-lit city. A myriad sparks twinkle in the distance – the “Lights o' London!”
Miles and miles and miles of houses. A huge, shadowy half-globe looming against the sky – the dome of St. Paul's. Towers and delicate spires, and lights shining through many lance-like windows – Parliament Houses, where lords and commons sit in debate. Long gleams quivering serpent-like across a wavering black flood – we have passed over the Thames, and here is Charing Cross.
“I’d like to take the North-German Lloyd steamer at Southampton tomorrow, please.”
“Not possible, miss. That ship has been withdrawn and will not sail 'til late in the week. Shall I book you passage for then?”
“No! No, no, no! I must leave as soon as possible,” I say, my voice having gone up an octave or two.
Clatter, hurry, and confusion – every one giving different suggestions and directions.
“Your one chance is the night mail to Holyhead and catch the Bothnia, which touches at Queenstown next morning.” This comes from the man at the ticket booth after consulting several time tables and having his route double-checked and then rechecked by anyone with an opinion.
“And when does the night mail leave?”
“An hour and a half.”
I give him a weary smile as thanks. I have not slept since two o'clock the night before, nor eaten since breakfast, and my courage is nearly at an end.
One of my fellow travelers, Mr. Goodman, who has been most kind to me all the way from Ceylon, comes to my rescue.
“Miss Bisland, allow me to help you,” he says. “I dare say you look about to collapse.”
I nearly cry with relief. He sends me off to the hotel to dine in company with two kind and charming fellow voyagers, Sir William Lewis and his daughter, while he arranges my difficulties.
I am far too tired and disturbed, however, to eat, and can only crumble my bread and taste my wine as my two companions keep up a stunted conversation. At half-past eight, my friend appears and carries me off to the Euston station. He has snatched his dinner, got rid of the dust of travel, and into evening clothes.
He has brought rugs and cushions that I may have some rest during the night, a little cake in case I grow hungry, and heaps of books and papers. My foot warmer is filled with hot water, and the guard is induced to give me his best care and attention.
“Adieu, Miss Bisland,” says Mr. Goodman with a slight bow. “Godspeed on your journey. I hope your last stage is a swift one.”
“Thank you for all your kindnesses,” I say in deep earnest. Then I go away alone again, somewhat comforted by the chivalrous goodness of the traveling man to the uncared-for woman.
I fall asleep from fatigue, am shaken by horrible dreams, and start awake with a cry. The train is thundering through a wild storm. I try to read by the gaslight, but the words dance up and down the page. The guard comes now and then to see if I need anything, and deep in the night I reach Holyhead.
Gathering up my multitudinous belongings, I run through the rain and sleet to the little vessel quivering and straining at the pier. The night is a wild one, the wind in our teeth, and the journey rough and very tedious.
The cold and tempestuous day has dawned before we touch Kingstown and are hurried – wretched for lack of sleep and the means of making a fresh toilet – into the train for Dublin. The Irish capital is still unawake when I rattle across it from station to station this Sunday morning, and immediately I am off again at full speed through a land swept with flying mists and showers – a beautiful land, green even in January.
Later I see ruddy-cheeked peasants go
ing along the roads to church – a type I am familiar with in America. I gaze contemplatively at these sturdy young men, and wonder how soon they will be New York aldermen and mayors of Chicago; how soon those rosy girls, in their queer, bunchy, provincial gowns, will be leaders of society in Washington and dressed by Worth.
I am growing frightfully hungry, having eaten nothing since yesterday morning in Calais. There is the spice cake, but with no liquid save a little brandy in a flask, I soon choke upon the cake and abandon it.
The train is behind time, owing to the late arrival of the Channel boat, and stops only for the briefest moments. At noon we reach Queenstown, having curved around a fair space of water and past the beautiful city of Cork.
The few of us who are continuing on step into the station and are greeted by an attendant with a thick accent. “The ship has not yet arrived, but will doubtless be here in a few moments.” He nods his head toward the window and the stormy weather outside. “This fierce rout has delayed her. I’ll send your luggage down to the tender and ye go too.”
The others follow his orders, but I have other plans. “Where can I get some breakfast?” I beg.
“That you mightn’t. You best wait for the signal.” He looks disapproving.
“But I must or I shall faint with hunger and you’ll have to pack me off with my luggage.” I give him my best pleading eyes, though I am so in earnest I do not have to act.
He relents. Perhaps he heard my stomach rumble above the patter of the rain. “The Queen's Hotel is not far from the station, right out there.” He points. “Hurry.”
The Queen’s Hotel. It sounds lovely. Already I am imagining velvet chairs, crisp linens and waiters ready to attend my every need. I dart out in the rain with visions of hot tea and a plate of eggs and ham pulling me forward. The Queen’s Hotel is easy to find, a sturdy white rectangular building overlooking the water and defying the pouring rain. If only I had time, I would eat in the bandstand just beyond the trees. Such an elegant breakfast would be a fitting end to my final stop before home.
Liz and Nellie Page 28