Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  What was his fascination with food? But I braved the attempt anyway, having something to prove to the other passengers, if not to myself. Since I was still in my traveling dress, having collapsed into bed not caring the night before, I quickly freshened up and joined the Captain.

  He had swapped out some of his party for new passengers, and so I was able to start afresh with learning to eat on the high seas. The food was as delicious as I pretended it to be last night. I was ravenous and went through every course without flinching. The captain, watching carefully, nodded his encouragement.

  After dinner, I returned to stateroom Number 60 and slept as if I’d had a long exercise in the open air.

  WITH MANY DAYS remaining in my ocean crossing, I took up company with some of the other passengers. They were all interested in my adventure as I was interested in theirs. One day I discovered a girl traveling alone like myself.

  “I hear you are traveling around the world to make a record for yourself,” she said.

  “Yes, I’m planning to beat Phileas Fogg’s account.”

  “Good for you. I’m glad a girl is doing it. Men get too much press as it is.” The girl tossed her Marguerite hair to emphasize her distaste.

  “And where are you going?” I asked her.

  “I’m meeting my parents in Germany. My father has promised to take me to the symphony and that is what I am looking forward to the most.”

  “Do you speak German?”

  “Mm-hmm. Since I was a child.” She looked furtively around before continuing. “Have you seen the man who counts his pulse after he eats?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I whispered back.

  “He does! I don’t know why. He eats ever so much and then counts. I would ask him why, but then that would be the end of the mystery.”

  I agreed and vowed to myself I would find him out to observe his behavior before the trip was over.

  “And then there is that man over there,” said the girl.

  I turned to the direction she indicated and watched a man talking quietly to himself as he paced the deck.

  “He’s counting his steps. I hope I never get so bored that I start counting my steps.”

  I admired the man in question, musing he could be the embodiment of Phileas Fogg, who in the novel counted his steps to the Reform club. How many other characters from the novel might I meet on my trip?

  The girl swiveled in the opposite direction. “Oh, look! There’s Homie. Have you met him?”

  The “him” she was referring to was a little mop of a dog with long silky hair. I followed her and knelt homage before the beast. I never before thought about animals crossing the ocean. “What kind is it?”

  “A silver Skye terrier. Don’t get him worked up, now,” exclaimed the owner, a genial- looking man who held to the leash while his wife looked on in earnest.

  “No barking,” she said to the dog. She explained to me, “We are moving to Paris and we couldn’t leave little Home Sweet Home behind. So we’ve paid for his passage, but the Captain doesn’t want his guests to be disturbed.”

  I petted the wee thing and stood back to my feet. “Where does he stay?”

  The wife frowned. “In the company of the butcher. Don’t make a joke – I’ve heard them all.” She fanned herself with a kerchief.

  A mischievous-looking boy walked by at that moment, and I expected him to come pet the dog. Instead he called out, “Rats!”

  At this, the dog began digging frantically at the deck, accompanied by short, crisp barks. The boy laughed and laughed. Homie’s owners scooped him up and with angry looks at the boy, brought the dog inside.

  Looking pleased with himself – and a little less bored – the boy continued on, whistling and staring out to sea.

  I had almost forgotten the girl at my side until she touched my arm and said, “Do you want to race to the dining room? It’s time to eat soon.”

  I didn’t give her the chance to get ahead of me, but grabbed my hat and sprinted as fast as I could. We ended at a tie, both of us laughing and my lungs burning from the cold ocean air.

  The girl sought my company often after this. We played shuffleboard until our hands froze and got in quite a few games on the bull-board. We both became rather adept at tossing the leather rings.

  Captain Albers had me sit at his table every night. I wonder if my editor had requested he do so, as the other guests came and went.

  “I think you’ll find that most people around the world won’t know where America is,” the Captain said. He’d just gotten through giving me some advice on how to conduct myself on my trip, in particular in taking care of my health.

  “I’m testing out that theory by bringing along some American dollars which I’ll try to use at distant ports.”

  The Captain shook his head. “Not likely any of it will be accepted. Then there are plenty of people who think the United States is one little island, with a few houses on it.”

  I doubted that, but held my opinion in case my trip should prove me wrong.

  Being that dinner was over, Captain Albers took out a card and drew the same number of lines as there were gentlemen at the table. He then marked one of the lines and folded it over so that none could tell which was marked. This he passed around the table and told the men to choose a line and write their initials.

  Once passed back to the captain, he opened the fold. It was Mr. Bashful who was the winner.

  “What shall it be tonight? Cigars or cordials?” asked the Captain, with the expectation that Mr. Bashful would pay for the men’s vices.

  “Cordials,” Mr. Bashful replied. And the Captain rose to lead the men to the smoking room. I followed the women into the ladies’ saloon, a plush, lavender space, for tea.

  MY SEASICKNESS HAD disappeared, but other passengers were not so fortunate. There were several tales floating around describing the people who chose to remain secluded from the rest of us. At lunch, my friend on her way to Germany told me about the woman who had been a great sufferer from seasickness and had not undressed since leaving her home in New York.

  “Why not?” I asked. Even as light as I had traveled, I had still kept up my toilet.

  “I heard her say,” and at this point the girl increased her pitch to repeat, “I am sure we are all going down and I am determined to go down dressed.”

  “Ha!” We at the table, who were feeling rather confident now that we knew today was our last day aboard ship, took great amusement at this.

  “Has anyone seen Homie lately?” asked a young man across the table from me. He was eyeing his Hamburger steak rather suggestively.

  A woman on his other side giggled nervously. “The butcher would never…”

  The young man looked at me and winked, making a big show of examining his meat before taking a big bite.

  Any further discussion ceased when a steward strode quickly to the Captain’s table. “Land, sir,” we heard him say. We all looked at each other, frozen for two seconds before dashing outside.

  I drank in that first point of bleak land with more interest than I would have bestowed on the most beautiful scenery in the world. We had not long been in sight of land until the decks began to fill with dazed-looking, wan-faced people. It was just as if we had taken on new passengers.

  Dinner that evening was a very pleasant affair. Extra courses had been prepared in honor of those that were leaving at Southampton. Despite my rough beginnings, I had enjoyed my time on the Augusta Victoria. My fellow passengers were all so kind to me that I mourned leaving friends behind. Despite the late hour, many stayed up on deck with those of us who were waiting for the tug to take us to land.

  The reality of my trip struck me afresh. Not only was I already sixteen hours behind schedule due to the poor weather, but I was about to leave the English-speaking world that I knew and move into parts unknown. How was I going to do this?

  As I was thinking these thoughts, one of the gentlemen that had also dined frequently at the Captain’s table approac
hed me.

  “Do you have someone to meet you?”

  “Yes, our London correspondent.”

  The man frowned. “It is almost two-thirty in the morning. Would he stay up this late to meet you? I shall most certainly leave the ship here and see you safely to London, if no one comes to meet you.”

  Just as I tried to protest, someone announced the tugboat had come alongside and we all rushed over to see it. As the men came on board, I tried to pick out the one who had been sent to meet me.

  “Good luck on your trip around the world,” said one of my fellow passengers who had stopped to shake my hand.

  A tall young man overheard the remark, and turning at the foot of the stairs, looked down on me with a hesitating smile.

  “Nellie Bly?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, holding out my hand, which he gave a cordial grasp.

  “Tracey Greaves. Did you enjoy your trip? Good. Is your baggage ready to be transferred?”

  My self-proclaimed guardian stepped in and took the correspondent off for a little chat. Afterwards he came to me and said with the most satisfied look upon his face: “He is all right. If he had not been so, I should have gone to London with you anyway. I can rest satisfied now, for he will take care of you.”

  I went away with a warm feeling in my heart for that kindly man who would have sacrificed his own comfort to ensure the safety of an unprotected girl. Following my correspondent, I waved goodbye to my new friends and hurried down the perpendicular plank to the other passengers who were going to London. The tug cast off and away we drifted into the dark.

  6

  In Which Elizabeth Bisland Goes To Lunch And Is Taken On A Tour Of The Chinese District

  THIS MORNING I feel a bit of the stirring that worried me in the beginning of the trip. Several folks have come to the hotel to have a look at me, going so far as to send notices to my room to try to get me to come out. Have I made a mistake? Will my life ever be the same again?

  It doesn’t take long to discover the reason for my sudden fame. Annie Laurie’s article is published in the morning newspaper and my face peers out at me from the front page!

  While reading the article aloud, I pace the room. Miss Laurie writes that I don’t “look like a very daring creature” and then goes on to describe me as the “…little woman with the gentle voice and appealing dark eyes.”

  Oh, and Molly will love this opinion: “It is always these delicate, high-bred women who have unheard of endurance and wonderful pluck.” I shall cut it out and mail it to my sister at once.

  Having posted the letter, I take refuge from the rain and go through the shops on the outer side of the arcade. I purchase two thin shirtwaists for the warmer climates, and while I am at it, pick up some silk and worsted thread for some fancywork. The first leg of my journey has taught me that I’ll have long stretches of time with nothing to do, and I may as well redeem the time.

  My hair has suffered in the rain, so I go back to my room, dig out a handful of hairpins, and set to work. Once satisfied that both my hair is ready and Ted has waited long enough, I stroll into the lobby.

  As soon as Ted sees me, he jumps up, shuffling his hat brim around and around. “Don’t you look a picture?” He grins and holds the door open for me. “How is your room?”

  “Perfectly beautiful and has spoiled me for future accommodations, I am sure. If only for my noiseless water closet alone.”

  Ted laughs as he leads the way down the street. “My boss is meeting us at the Cliff House. I’ve never been myself, but I know you’re going to love it. It’s just a quick trip up on the P and O. Hope you don’t mind getting back on a train so soon after getting off one.” Ted keeps up a steady stream of conversation as we walk to the station. He is so eager I wonder when the last time he’d talked to a lady was.

  The rain is soft and warm as we start out and a quiet sense of homesickness sneaks up on me. With the roses climbing around the porches of the houses and perfuming the damp city streets with their delicious garden odors, I can almost believe myself back in my native New Orleans again.

  Several of the men from the mail-train are waiting at the station as well as other railway men, investors, and reporters. They are still glowing with their victory and send me welcoming smiles as someone who had joined them in their struggle.

  We all agree that the Pacific and Ocean Railway lives up to its name. It crawls along the edge of the harbor shut in between the grassy, treeless hills. At times we cling perilously to the steep sides, hearing the waves dashing beneath. I tell Ted of our racing descent into Ogden under Mr. Downing’s management and it makes him laugh.

  There is a sudden turn at last, and before us is the Pacific Ocean! I feel a deep sense of discovery, of splendid vastness, of a rich new experience seized and dominated. I cannot take my eyes off the sight as I quote:

  * * *

  …like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

  He star'd at the Pacific – and all his men

  Look'd at each other with a wild surmise –

  Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

  * * *

  “You speak a pretty poem,” says Ted.

  “Keats. From his poem ‘On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer.’ The part where the explorer Cortes sees the Pacific Ocean for the first time.” I breathe a wistful sigh. “I rather feel a kinship to Cortes at this moment.”

  My delight continues when we reach the aptly named Cliff House. The building is a low, clapboard design, dazzling white in the sun and looking like an overly large oceanside cottage. It stands, nay, clings to the very western edge of the continent. The waves below make a constant crash at the rocks and I hope I won’t get used to their lovely sound. Although if I had been a more nervous sort, I might be worried that we will slip into the ocean sometime during our second course.

  A huge American flag flies from a tall pole in the middle of the roof and the ocean breeze keeps it in perpetual motion. I hold to Ted’s arm with one hand and to my hat with the other until we enter into the spacious lobby of the Cliff House.

  “We are meeting Mr. McEwan,” one of the railway men says to the attendant.

  While we wait, Ted flips through the guest registry. “Look here,” he says. “President Hayes.” He flips some more. “There’s supposed to be a king, too. Here’s Mark Twain.”

  Impressed, I looked to the name scrawled above Ted’s thick finger.

  “You should sign it Miss Bisland. After this trip, you’ll be famous, too.”

  That thought makes me a little nervous. But here, in the quiet of the entryway, I can sign my name without a shaking hand.

  After we turn in our coats and hats, we follow the man past a long table filled with pies, past several linen-draped tables, and over to a cozy corner upon the sea’s edge. The men already seated at the table see us coming and stand. Mr. McEwan, editor of the Examiner smiles broadly as he reaches out to take my hand.

  “Miss Bisland. A pleasure to meet you,” he says and pulls out my chair. “How are you finding San Francisco?”

  “It is very new, Mr. McEwan, compared to New York. And although the rain is similar, I must admit the temperature is a vast improvement.”

  After exchanging pleasantries with all the railway men, we examine the bill of fair.

  “You must try the oysters, Miss Bisland,” encourages Mr. McEwan.

  I have never eaten oysters before. My eyes had skimmed over that section and landed on the broiled half-chicken. “Well, if I must. I am to fully immerse myself in the adventure, so oysters it is.”

  When Ted’s frog legs and terrapin arrive, I avert my eyes lest I imagine them springing to life and making their getaway. I may enjoy the good things in life, but my food tastes are on the conservative side.

  “How do you plan to beat Nellie Bly?” asks Mr. McEwan, finally exhausting the tales of our mail-train.

  “I can only go as fast as my connections. My aim is to make those as efficiently as possible. Do you have any sug
gestions?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know if I want to get between two women stunt reporters.” The table joins in the laugh, but I only smile.

  “What else have you done?” asks Mr. McEwan as he picks up an oyster shell and slides the creature into his mouth.

  “Done?” I know he means stunts, but I haven’t done any. “I typically write society pieces. Literary reviews.”

  He exchanges a look with Ted. “Have you ever traveled abroad before?”

  “This will be my first time,” I say with enthusiasm to dissuade him from taking any more amusement from me. Then I lay into my oysters with a vengeance.

  Mr. McEwan leans back in his chair. “The Cliff House has in interesting history. Perhaps you’d like to do a ‘society’ piece on it when you return.”

  “Possibly.” I nod in encouragement, happy to shift the attention from myself.

  “The original owner bought the land from a potato farmer. One day, a ship filled with lumber shipwrecked on the rocks out there, and he salvaged the wood for a bargain price and used it to build his restaurant.”

  I close my eyes for a moment at the mention of shipwreck since I am about to board my first ship tomorrow.

  Ted breaks in with an excited voice, “And then another ship wrecked a few years back, but it was carrying black powder and kerosene. No one knew it, and in the middle of the night – BOOM! It blew out all the windows, wrecked the balconies. Made a huge mess.”

  My eyes widen. I wasn’t expecting to be regaled with tales of shipwreck and explosions.

  “Good thing my ship is not one carrying black powder and kerosene.”

  By now we have all finished eating, and I, for one, am ready for fresh air. When Mr. McEwan offers to show me around, I bound out of my chair before Ted can fully stand and pull it out for me.

  I step onto a balcony that overhangs the water where we watch the sunset. Here, I’m face to face with the ocean, the cold air tossing a challenge my way. Tomorrow afternoon this water will be my temporary passage. A barking comes from three great crags standing out of the ocean two hundred yards away. I’ve been hearing it faintly all throughout the meal, but now the sound travels unimpeded. Seals!