Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  But the evil luck which has pursued me for the last two days ordains that the kitchen of this hostelry should be undergoing repairs at this particular moment, and no food is to be had.

  “Nothing at all?” I ask the dutiful clerk standing in my way. “I’ve come from the train and haven’t had a bite to eat since yesterday. It needn’t be fancy. Something forgotten in a cupboard? A piece from a workman’s dinner pail?” Water begins to drip off my coat and onto the carpet.

  She purses her lips together as her eyes flit to the other guests of the hotel milling about. She must decide the only way to be rid of me is to find me some scraps. “I’ll see what there is.”

  She returns with a cup of rather cold and bitter tea and a bit of dingy bread that looks as if it had been used to scrub the floor with before being presented to me as a substitute for breakfast.

  “Thank you.” I smile. Although I did say it needn’t be fancy, I didn’t expect to be taken so literally. I don’t dare ask if I can take it out to the bandstand. There is a little seating area near the counter and so, there, under the clerk’s watchful eye I eat and drink it all.

  Back out into the rain I dash. At the station I am warned to hold myself in readiness for an instantaneous summons to the tender, for when the steamer is signaled, there is no time to waste. Hastily I make such toilet as is possible with my dressing bag aboard the tender and sit alone in the waiting room, attendant on the summons.

  Hour after hour goes by, but no summons comes. I dare not move lest the call come during my absence, and so sit there hopeless, helpless, overwhelmed with hunger, lack of sleep, and fatigue.

  At six o'clock, my patience is at end.

  “Is there somewhere I can get some food?” I demand of the new attendant. “I’ve been waiting for hours, and if I was hungry before, I must be starving now.”

  “The signal can come at any minute, miss. If you want to risk missing it, you can go to the Queen’s Hotel. ‘Tis not far from the station.”

  “The Queen’s Hotel?” I am about to tell him what I think of the Queen’s Hotel when they bring the long-expected notice. The ship has been signaled, and the tender must be off.

  42

  In Which Nellie Bly Boards A Private Train And Meets Crowds Wishing Her Well On Her Way To New York

  I FELT FAINT. The thought of being held two weeks in sight of San Francisco, in sight of New York almost, and the goal for which I had been striving and powerless to move, was maddening.

  “I would cut my throat, for I could not live and endure it,” I said quietly. No longer checking my thoughts, I imagined the other reporter stepping foot off her ship on the east coast and beating me.

  The purser pushed himself back out of the chair. “I will check again.”

  I followed him to the doctor’s office and bit my fingernails as he meticulously searched every corner of the desk. Finally, he held up a paper in triumph. “Here it is, after all.”

  Later came a scare about a small-pox case on board, but it proved to be only a rumor, and early in the morning the revenue officers came aboard bringing the newspapers.

  “There is a winter storm,” I said in disbelief, snatching a paper from an officer. I read of the impassable snow blockade, which for a week had put a stop to all railroad traffic, and my despair knew no bounds.

  “No time to worry,” said the purser. “Here comes your ride.”

  And there was no time for farewells. While the Oceanic was waiting for the quarantine doctor, some men came out on a tug to take me ashore. The monkey was taken on the tug with me, and my baggage, which had increased by gifts from friends, was thrown after me.

  Just as the tug steamed off the quarantine doctor called to me.

  “Miss Bly! Miss Bly! I forgot to examine your tongue. You cannot land until I do.”

  In exasperation I stuck out my tongue.

  He called out, “All right!”

  The others laughed, I waved farewell, and in another moment I was parted from my good friends on the Oceanic.

  A special train had been waiting for my arrival in readiness to start the moment I boarded it. The Deputy Collector of the port of San Francisco, the Inspector of Customs, the Quarantine Officer and the Superintendent of the O. and O. steamers sat up all the night preceding my arrival, so there should be no delay in my transfer from the Oceanic to the special train.

  It seemed as if my greatest success was the personal interest of everyone who greeted me. They were all so kind and as anxious that I should finish the trip in time as if their personal reputations were at stake.

  The first thing I wanted to know was where the other reporter was. Had she made it to New York ahead of me, or had she been delayed? The information was not in the telegrams shoved into my hands but in the mouths of the reporters waiting to interview me.

  “Elizabeth Bisland missed her connection at Havre. You still have a chance.” That was all I needed to know. The winds had to be in her favor and the snows against mine if she were to win now. I smiled like Elizabeth Bisland was the last person on my mind.

  My train consisted of one handsome sleeping car, the San Lorenzo, and the engine, The Queen, was one of the fastest on the Southern Pacific. My editor came through for me.

  “What time do you want to reach New York, Miss Bly?” Mr. Bissell, General Passenger Agent of the Atlantic and Pacific system, asked me.

  “Not later than Saturday evening,” I said, never thinking they could get me there in that time.

  “Very well, we will put you there on time,” he said quietly, and I rested satisfied that he would keep his word.

  It did not seem long after we left Oakland Mole until we reached the great San Joaquin valley, a level green plain through which the railroad track ran for probably three hundred miles as straight as a sunbeam. The roadbed was so perfect that, though we were traveling a mile a minute, the car was as easy as if it were traveling over a bed of velvet.

  At Merced, our second stop, I saw a great crowd of people dressed in their best Sunday clothes gathered about the station.

  “I suppose they are out for a picnic,” I remarked.

  “No, they are here to see you!”

  Amazed at this information, I got up, in answer to calls for me, and went out on the back platform.

  A loud cheer, which almost frightened me to death, greeted my appearance, and the band began to play “By Nellie’s Blue Eyes.” A large tray of fruit and candy and nuts, the tribute of a dear little newsboy, was passed to me, for which I was more grateful than had it been the gift of a king.

  We started on again, and the three of us on the train had nothing to do but admire the beautiful country through which we were passing as swiftly as clouds along the sky, to read, or count telegraph poles, or pamper and pet the monkey.

  I felt little inclination to do anything but to sit quietly and rest, bodily and mentally. There was nothing left for me to do now. I could hurry nothing, I could change nothing; I could only sit and wait until the train landed me at the end of my journey.

  I enjoyed the rapid motion of the train so much that I dreaded to think of the end. At Fresno, the next station, the town turned out to do me honor, and I was the happy recipient of exquisite fruits, wines and flowers, all the product of Fresno County, California.

  The men who spoke to me were interested in my sunburnt nose, the delays I had experienced, the number of miles I had traveled. The women wanted to examine my one dress in which I had traveled around, the cloak and cap I had worn, were anxious to know what was in the bag, and all about the monkey.

  While we were doing some fine running the first day, I heard the whistle blow wildly, and then I felt the train strike something. Brakes were put on, and we went out to see what had occurred.

  It was hailing just then, and we saw two men coming up the track. The conductor came back to tell us that we had struck a handcar, and pointed to a piece of twisted iron and a bit of splintered board – all that remained of it – laying alongside. When the
men came up, one remarked, with a mingled expression of wonder and disgust upon his face:

  “Well, you ARE running like h–!”

  “Thank you; I am glad to hear it,” I said, and then we all laughed.

  “Fellas, meet Nellie Bly.”

  Their eyes opened in recognition, and they shook my hand.

  “Were you hurt?” I asked.

  “No, no. We’re fine,” they assured me. Good humor being restored all around, we said goodbye, the engineer pulled the lever, and we were off again.

  One place, where a large crowd greeted me, a man on the limits of it yelled:

  “Did you ride on an elephant, Nellie?” and when I said I had not, he dropped his head and went away. Perhaps he was expecting my trip around the world to mimic the novel exactly.

  At another place, the policemen fought to keep the crowd back; everybody was wanting to shake hands with me, but at last one officer was shoved aside, and the other, seeing the fate of his comrade, turned to me, saying: “I guess I’ll give up and take a shake,” and while reaching for my hand was swept on with the crowd.

  I leaned over the platform and shook hands with both hands at every station, and when the train pulled out, crowds would run after, grabbing for my hands as long as they could. My arms began to ache, but I did not mind the ache if by such little acts I could give pleasure to my own people, whom I was so glad to be among once more.

  The Americans turned out to do honor to an American girl who was to be the first to make a record of a flying trip around the world, and I rejoiced with them that it was an American girl who was doing it.

  “Come out here, and we’ll elect you governor,” a Kansas man said, and I believe they would have done it, if the splendid welcomes they gave me are any criterion.

  Telegrams addressed merely to “Nellie Bly, Nellie Bly’s Train” came from all parts of the country filled with words of cheer and praise at all hours of the day and night.

  I could not mention one place that was kinder than another. Over ten thousand people greeted me at Topeka. The mayor of Dodge City presented me on behalf of the citizens with resolutions of praise. I was very anxious to go to Kansas City, but we only went to the station outside of the limits, in order to save thirty minutes. At Hutchinson a large crowd and the Ringgold Cornet Band greeted me, and at another place the mayor assured me that the band had been brought down, but they forgot to play. They merely shouted like the rest, forgetting in the excitement all about their music.

  I was up until four o’clock, talking first with a little newspaper girl from Kearney, Nebraska, who had traveled six hundred miles to meet and interview me, and later dictating an account of my trip to a stenographer, who was seasick from the motion of the train. I had probably slept two hours when the porter called me, saying we would soon be in Chicago.

  I dressed leisurely and drank the last drop of coffee there was left on our train, for we had been liberally entertaining everybody who cared to travel any distance with us.

  I was surprised on opening the door of my stateroom to see the car quite filled with good-looking men.

  “Miss Bly, may I introduce the Chicago Press Club?” said Mr. Bissell.

  “Where did you all come from?” I asked.

  After laughing, one explained. “We came out to Joliet to escort you to our city.” He shook my hand. “I’m Cornelius Gardener, the vice president. Our president sends his regrets, but he’ll meet us later, if you have time to spare and visit the Club.”

  I looked questioningly at Mr. Bissell.

  He nodded. “You have several hours before your connecting train leaves.”

  Before we were in Chicago, I had answered all their questions, and we joked about my sunburnt nose and discussed the merits of my one dress and the cleverness of the monkey.

  “Where did you get this creature?” asked one of the men as he fed it raisins.

  “Singapore. He was a gift from a raja.” That impressed them.

  “You should call him McGinty,” suggested one of the men. “After the song.” He hummed a few bars.

  “I will!” I said, glad at last to have a name for the beast.

  Carriages were waiting to take us to the rooms of the Press Club. I went there in a coupe with Vice President Gardener. In the beautiful rooms of the Press Club, I met the president, Stanley Waterloo, and a number of clever newspaper men. I had not been expected in Chicago until noon, and the club had arranged an informal reception for me, and when they were notified of my speedy trip and consequently earlier arrival, it was too late to notify the members.

  Instead, I was escorted to Kinsley’s, where the club had a breakfast prepared, and then they took me to visit the Chicago Board of Trade.

  When we went in, the pandemonium, which seems to reign during business hours, was at its height. My escorts took me to the gallery, and just as we got there, a man raised his arm to yell something to the roaring crowd. When he saw me, he yelled instead:

  “There’s Nellie Bly!”

  In one instant the crowd that had been yelling like mad became so silent that a pin could have been heard fall to the floor. Every face, bright and eager, was turned up towards us, instantly every hat came off, and then a burst of applause resounded through the immense hall.

  The applause was followed by cheer after cheer and cries of “Speech!” but I took off my little cap and shook my head at them, which only served to increase their cheers.

  Shortly afterwards, the Press Club escorted me to the Pennsylvania Station.

  “Thank you for your welcome. I have not been treated better anywhere in the world.” I was unable to thank them heartily enough for the royal manner in which they had treated a little sunburnt stranger.

  Now I was on a regular train which seemed to creep, so noticeable was the difference in speed. Instead of a fine sleeping car at my disposal, I had but a stateroom, and my space was so limited that floral and fruit offerings had to be left behind.

  In Chicago, a cable which afforded me much pleasure reached me, having missed me at San Francisco:

  M. AND MME. JULES VERNE ADDRESS THEIR SINCERE FELICITATIONS TO MISS NELLIE BLY AT THE MOMENT WHEN THAT INTREPID YOUNG LADY SETS FOOT ON THE SOIL OF AMERICA.

  The train was rather poorly appointed, and it was necessary for us to get off for our meals. When we stopped at Logansport for dinner, I, being the last in the car, was the last to get off. When I reached the platform, a young man, whom I never saw before or since, sprang upon the other platform, and waving his hat, shouted:

  “Hurrah for Nellie Bly!”

  Despite all the attention paid to me thus far, I blushed. Even though I had garnered some notoriety in New York with my stunts, I’d never been singled out like this before, and it took some getting used to.

  The crowd clapped hands and cheered, and after making way for me to pass to the dining room, pressed forward and cheered again, crowding to the windows at last to watch me eat. When I sat down, several dishes were put before me bearing the inscription, “Success, Nellie Bly.”

  It was after dark when we reached Columbus, where the depot was packed with men and women waiting for me. A delegation of railroad men waited upon me and presented me with beautiful flowers and candy, as did a number of private people.

  I did not go to bed until after we had passed Pittsburgh and only got up in the morning in time to greet the thousands of good people who welcomed me at Harrisburg, where the Harrisburg Wheelman’s Club sent a floral offering in remembrance of my being a wheelman. A number of Philadelphia newspaper men joined me here, and at Lancaster I received an enthusiastic reception.

  “What are you going to do next?” asked a young man from the Philadelphia Inquirer. I had anticipated the question to come at some point, but here, now, I wasn’t quite ready for it. A brief thought of lying on a chair in Colombo flittered through my mind, and I suppressed a sigh. “I plan to go back to work again. You know I must do something for a living,” came the expected answer. Needing to add some
thing more Nellie-Bly-like and scandalous, I added, “And I expect to work until I fall in love and get married.”

  The questions quieted down after that, and I was left to wonder myself what I was really going to do next. I wasn’t ready for another stunt. My round-the-world vacation had left me tired of stunt reporting. Perhaps it was Elizabeth Bisland nipping at my boots that did me in. There was always another reporter trying to get a leg up. Always clambering, always fighting for the story. Oh, to be rocking on the sea and listening to the Lascars chanting. Wouldn’t these thoughts shock them all!

  43

  In Which Elizabeth Bisland Faces A Winter Storm

  IT RAINS IN torrents, mingled with sleet, and the wind blows a tempest. The tender puts out from shore and is whirled about like an eggshell. The wind drives us back, and over and over again we essay the passage before we can make head against the wild weather.

  It is two hours and a half later when we get alongside the ship, and I am chilled to the bone, sick and dizzy for want of food and sleep. I climb stumblingly across the narrow, slippery, plunging path that leads from one ship to the other. No sooner have I set foot on the glassy deck than the push of an impatient passenger sends me with a smashing fall into the scuppers, where I gather bruises that will last a week.

  “Oh, Miss. Are you all right? Let me help you.” A compassionate stewardess comes to the rescue and steadies me to my feet. “Nasty weather we’ve been having. Captain tells us it’s the worst weather he’s seen in years. Are you sure you are all right?”

  I can only nod and blink back tears.

  “Follow me. I’ll get you settled.” The dear thing takes me straight to my room and puts me to bed. I’m so overwhelmed I can barely thank her.