The weather is terrible – a season long to be remembered for the January storms of the north Atlantic. The waves toss our ship back and forth among them like a football. Even were I not too miserable to move, the plunging of the vessel would make it impossible to keep my feet.
The ship laboriously climbs a howling green mountain, pauses irresolute a moment on the crest, and then toboggans madly down the farther side, her screw out of water, and kicking both heels madly in the air to the utter dislocation of one's every tooth and joint.
Down, down she goes, as if boring for bottom, and when it is perfectly certain that she can never by any chance right herself, she comes nose up most with a jerk, shakes off the water, and attacks a new mountain, to repeat the same performance on the farther side.
Two thirds of the passengers are very seasick, and I quite as wretched and prostrate from my late painful experiences as if still subject to the malady.
It is the third or fourth day out, when I begin to take heart of grace and long to leave my stuffy little cabin. The ship is rolling frightfully still, and a sudden lurch sends the heavy jug full of water flying out of its basin into the berth, where it smashes into twenty pieces upon my face and chest and drenches me with icy water.
“Miss Bisland!”
My cabin mate hauls me from my dripping bed. She grabs a towel and shoves it at me. “You best change before you freeze.”
The doors of the gangway are left open lest they freeze together, and therefore a bitter wind sweeps through the cabin.
I look for the key to my box, but can’t find it. I am stabbed through and through my wet and clinging clothes by this terrible cold. My teeth are chattering, and I know I must get into dry clothing soon. “Have you seen my key?” I ask my cabin mate.
She shakes her head, eyeing me up and down. “My clothes will drown you, but my sleeping gown is dry. It’s yours if you want it.”
“Bless you, I do.”
Thus suppressed again for another three days, it is only towards the end of the week – the storm being abated – that I am able once more to stand on my feet.
It is a most amiable and friendly little company that finally assembles in the cabin, the recent woes we have all passed through having made us sympathetic and considerate. We even get up in time a concert for the seamen's orphans, and play shuffleboard on the still uncertain deck for prizes.
But this crossing of the zone of storms has greatly delayed us, and it is late in the evening of the eleventh day when we take our pilot aboard. The morning of the twelfth day is cold, but evidently has some thought of clearing, and the sea is less rough.
I am woefully behind schedule and can only hope that Nellie Bly was blocked by snow storm or broken-down train engine. Mr. Walker was adamant that going west was the better winter route, but after the crossing I’ve just had, I have my doubts.
44
In Which Nellie Bly And Elizabeth Bisland Return Home
Nellie Bly: Day 72, January 25, 1:25 pm
ALMOST BEFORE I knew it, I was at Philadelphia. My mother surprised me, boarding with my managing editor Mr. Chambers to escort me to New York.
“Oh, Pink,” mother whispered.
I hugged her so tight it was a wonder I didn’t squeeze the breath out of her. It was so good to see her, dressed for the occasion in her special velvet black wrap. She’d be on hand to witness my victory.
Speech-making was the order from Philadelphia on to Jersey City. I was pleased so many were out to welcome me, but I really wanted to get on with it.
The station at Jersey City was packed with thousands of people. My heart beat wildly with anticipation as I stood near the stairs, ready to step down when the train slowed and then to jump to the platform the moment the train arrived, for that made my time around the world.
The train slowed, and I took my position. Slowly, slowly. Jump!
The moment I landed on the platform, one yell went up from the people, and the cannons at the Battery and Fort Greene boomed out the news of my arrival. Immediately the timekeepers stopped their watches and announced: 72 days, 6 hours, 11 minutes, and 14 seconds. The variety of boats in the harbor sounded their whistles, and the crowd cheered even louder.
I took off my cap and wanted to yell with the crowd, not because I had gone around the world in seventy-two days, but because I was home again.
Mayor Cleveland greeted me first with a lovely basket of roses and callas. It was too loud that we couldn’t speak to one another. He hushed the crowd so he could give a speech.
“The American Girl will no longer be misunderstood. She will be recognized as pushing, determined, independent, able to take care of herself wherever she may go.”
It was difficult to keep my attention focused on the speech. I wanted to remember this moment. The people, happy with my accomplishment, and every last one of them come out to see me finish my trip around the world. I’m sure I’ve never grinned so much. I thought I’d caught sight of my good friends Fannie and Jane, but then suddenly, the mayor ended his speech, and it was my turn.
“From Jersey to Jersey is around the world. And I am in Jersey now.” It wasn’t the cleverest thing I could have said, but it made the crowd happy.
“Hurrah for Nellie Bly! Hurrah for Nellie Bly!”
The police encircled the mayor and me as we tried to squeeze through the crowd towards the ferry terminal. There were too many people, and we were stuck. The large officer at my elbow signaled to another fellow, and before I could protest, they had me lifted above their shoulders and marched directly to the landau. I was worried the horse might panic with all the noise, but he steadily plodded through to the ferry.
But once we were on the ferry, the people there were not content. They wanted to see me.
“Open – open – open the coach!”
And so the driver took the roof off. I stood and waved to the thousands on the ferry until we landed in New York. There, the scene repeated itself all the way to the World offices on Park Row.
“I am so glad to be home again!” I called out as I was shuffled through the doors. There was a party up in the editorial room, where I was met with cheers and flowers and piles of letters and telegrams. Mr. Cockerill showed me a basket of rare roses sent by The Cosmopolitan, admitting my accomplishment.
I flipped through several of the congratulatory letters, and the other reporters all returned to their desk, the novelty of my return worn off. Today I did well for my readers, but tomorrow they will start asking: What is next, Nellie Bly?
After pouring another cup of coffee, I surveyed the busy newsroom. Everyone had gone back to work. Typewriters clacking. Heads bowed over copy. Not one person looked my way. I was this morning’s news and now they’d all moved on. Don’t they realize what I’d done? I’d just gone round the world!
People were insatiable for a stunt. One right after the next. But my trip gave me an appreciation for the slowness of life. My headaches had all but disappeared, and life was so much more enjoyable when one’s head wasn’t pounding.
I would always be a writer, but that didn’t mean I needed to stay a reporter. I could hang up my ghillie hat and write another novel in my series. Perhaps while I was gone, The Mystery of Central Park picked up in sales.
But first, I would see what I could do to capitalize off my trip. A lecture tour would allow me to go back to all those towns along the railway where the people came out to meet me. Norman Munro might be willing to compile my newspaper stories into a book, like he did for Six Months in Mexico. So many possibilities. My trip around the world might be my greatest accomplishment, but it wouldn’t be the end of them. I did it!
Elizabeth Bisland: Day 76, January 30, early afternoon
A RIM OF opaque film grows on the horizon that the emigrants on the forward deck regard with eager interest and hope. The passengers stand about in furs, pinched and shivering, their noses red, but their eyes full of pleased anticipation. Any land would be dear and desirable after near a fortnight o
f this cold and frantic sea – but when it is one's own!
The film thickens and darkens and suddenly resolves itself into Coney Island, where, as we swiftly near the shore, the plaintive reproachful eyes of the great wooden elephant are turned upon us as if to deprecate our late coming. The Elephantine Colossus, at twelve stories high and covered in blue tin, is not the symbol most of us are looking for.
The water has smoothed itself into a bay, and a huge gray woman, holding an uplifted torch, awaits our coming; the emigrants regard her wonderingly – the symbol of liberty held aloft, and a compassionate countenance turned towards all the outer world. We are by the shores of Staten Island.
A pretty English girl who has braved the winter storms to follow her new husband to a foreign country remarks surprisedly that all this looks much like England – evidently having expected log cabins and a country town. But I have no time to be amused at her ignorance – I am saying joyously to myself: “Is this the hill, is this the kirk/ Is this mine ain countree?”
Suddenly a great flood of familiarity washes away the memory of the strange lands and people I have seen, and blots out all sense of time that has elapsed since I last saw all this.
I know how everything – the streets, the houses, the passers-by – are looking at this moment. It is as if I had turned away my head for an instant, and now looked back again. My duties, my cares, my interests, which had grown dim and shadowy in these last two months, suddenly take on sharp outlines and become alive and real once more. I feel as if I have but sailed down the bay for an hour and am now returning. I am even wearing the exact outfit I started out in.
The ship slides into dock. I can see the glad faces of my friends upon the pier. My journey is done. I have been around the world in seventy-six days. But I can tell immediately that Nellie Bly has made it back before me. There are not enough people or reporters here. It is quickly confirmed to me that my suspicions are correct when I reach the dock and Molly hugs me, bursting into tears. “She has beaten you, but you did well.”
Blessed Molly.
Mr. Walker and several editors extend to me their congratulations.
“And what of the La Champagne?” I ask Mr. Walker. All across the Atlantic, that one question lingered. If I had made that connection, would I have gotten here sooner?
He shakes his head slightly. He looks disappointed. “You should have been on it. I was paying them to wait for you. They waited three hours extra!”
My stomach drops. “But the Cook’s agent. He told me the ship couldn’t wait.”
“A falsehood.”
“But how? Why?”
He shrugs, “It doesn’t matter, anyway. La Champagne was delayed due to winter storms on the North Atlantic. Waves went over the decks, the riggings coated with ice, and they had to navigate around three icebergs. Captain Boyer admits that if you had been aboard, he would have pushed his ship faster and would have only had you back on Sunday afternoon, but still too late.”
I’m feeling better about not being aboard La Champagne. “And Bly got back…?”
“Sunday morning.”
I purse my lips and nod. Four and a half days before me. “Well, I had a good trip. I am fairly bursting with adventures to tell our readers.” It’s not what Mr. Walker wants, but it is enough for me. I will never forget my trip around the world.
I look to Molly for strength as several reporters surround me. “How was your journey? How were you treated? Do you have any regrets?” They ask questions all at once.
I answer each one politely. “My journey was delightful, and I am in love with the world. The people in every country I visited were exceedingly kind and courteous toward me. My only regret was that I was not able to beat Nellie Bly’s time.”
With that, Molly and I make our escape in the carriage she has waiting. Again, I think: blessed Molly!
And before I know it, we are back in the apartment, adorned with bouquets of flowers from my dear, sweet friends, welcoming me home. To think, I have nowhere to go. No tickets to purchase. No sightseeing adventures planned. I should be relieved, but instead I feel disappointed.
“So, sister, how was it really?”
“Once I left the Continent and settled into my role of traveler, I quite enjoyed myself. Partly because no one knew that I was racing unless I told them, but mostly because the people were so interesting. I’ve always been curious about other cultures, and I got to witness them firsthand. I believe I ended well enough in my own right. I went around the world!” I grab Molly’s hands and spin the two of us around the room until we collapse in a heap on the carpet. “It was the experience that made it worth more than winning the race for Mr. Walker.”
Molly rolls over to her stomach and picks at the carpet. “Nellie Bly will be incorrigible after this.”
I guffaw. Oh, I’ve missed Molly. “I’m glad Nellie won. It was her idea, and she should be rewarded for it.” I sigh. “But where does that leave me? A sad curiosity in the eye of the public?”
Molly shakes her head. “The flavor of the month, like in the candy store below.” She points out the bouquets of flowers perched on every flat surface in the room. “Before long, you can go back to being your regular self. You will no longer be notorious.”
“Notorious!”
“I’m teasing you.”
“If only I could hide out until everyone has forgotten. I didn’t ask to become a public figure. It all happened so fast, as you recall.”
“Do you regret it?”
My mind skitters over the past few months. “I don’t regret seeing the world. Molly, it has changed me. However, racing around the world was ridiculous. I should never have done that.”
“Did you know her real name is Elizabeth, just like yours? You two are the same.”
I gasp. “We are not. Similar, in some ways. I doubt we’ll ever be friends. I’m sure she doesn’t want to meet me.”
“No, I’ve heard she pretends you don’t exist and were never traipsing around the world at all.”
To change the subject, Molly points out an especially pretty bouquet of pink roses that match the ones I launched my journey with.
Charles Wetmore.
“He’s missed you most of all,” says Molly. “Almost more than me.”
“You are both darlings. I missed you, too, and I have so much to tell.” I walk around the room, touching a lamp here, straightening a pile of books there. “Everything’s changed,” I murmur. How can I go back to my old life after having traveled the world?
“What do you mean? Everything’s the same, just as you left it.”
“I’m being silly. Do I have any mail?”
Molly laughs. “Three months' worth!” She brings out a telegram. “But I think you might be asking about this?”
It’s from Lady Broome. She has invited me to spend the upcoming London season with her and her husband. A detailed letter is to follow. I smile. This time I’m not limiting my luggage.
Author’s Note
In rewriting the historical account of Nellie Bly and Elizabeth Bisland racing around the world in the late 1800s, I wanted to make their story more accessible to the modern reader without taking away the women’s writing styles, their point of view, or the feel of the times.
The two reporters had very different writing styles. Elizabeth Bisland was much more literary, referencing poems, novels, and even paintings. She wrote long passages of descriptions, yet little dialogue. In turning her report into a novelized form, I had to extrapolate likely scenes based on what little information she gave. I also tried to explain some of her references for the modern reader so you wouldn’t have to constantly be looking items up online. Of course, you may still go do that to further deepen your understanding of her writings.
Nellie Bly’s writing style fits more easily with today’s readers. She wrote more directly, simply, and with an eye for entertainment. If you compare this novel with her original writings, you will see that I did not change that much, but tried to br
ing out a thread of continuity such as you would find in a novel.
In creating scenes, I’ve turned passages of description and information into dialogue. Some characters are attributed to giving information that in real life they may not have actually said. Likewise, several nameless passengers have been given names and larger roles.
In my other historical novels, I add historical spellings and hyphenations to help create mood. But in this novel, I chose to scale back by modernizing the words and conventions. By the number of exclamation points left in, you’d be surprised at how many I took out!
Regarding the times, Both Nellie Bly and Elizabeth Bisland sometimes wrote about race and ethnicity in ways that we wouldn’t today. Some of these references I have deleted or changed. For example, they both refer to Chinamen, whereas today, we would simply say Chinese.
In Hong Kong I hint at Nellie Bly sending a telegram to her editor requesting help. There is no record of this happening. However, I feel such a telegram would have been consistent with Bly’s character. She would have been furious at finding out that someone had taken her idea and was trying to best her with it. Since the other reporter was allowed to bribe ship’s captains, she would only be leveling the playing field.
Several passages were cut. I tried to keep as much as possible, but deleting several paragraphs of literary description and underdeveloped passages served to help keep the word count down and the story moving along. Of course, if you want to read every word these women wrote, unaffected by my hand, you can search out their accounts online.
My chapters have one sentence preview descriptions as a literary nod to Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days. It was my way of tying in the three historical works, especially since his novel was Nellie’s inspiration.
The one question I haven’t resolved: Did these women ever meet? I found no references to any meetings. Elizabeth Bisland mentions knowing who Nellie Bly is, but Nellie Bly never acknowledges Elizabeth. I’ll leave that up to your imagination. Meanwhile, if you are curious and want to learn more—about before the trip and after—I highly recommend Eighty Days by Matthew Goodman. His research is impeccable, and his book helped me track down some holes in the women’s accounts. Also, it reads just as exciting as a novel! If you want to learn more about Nellie Bly, Brooke Kroeger’s biography Nellie Bly: Daredevil, Reporter, Feminist is known as the definitive work on Nellie Bly and is quite fascinating. As for Elizabeth Bisland, you can find bits and pieces about her online, and you can read some of her writings, but there is currently, no biography available.
Liz and Nellie Page 30