Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

“Exactly how many days?” I squeaked.

  He shrugged. “It is hard to tell. Please, go out and make the most of your time at Colombo.”

  Mr. Gregory, seasoned traveler, softened the blow. “These things happen all the time. Don’t worry about making connections. It only means you’ll have a shorter stopover at the next port.”

  Thus, my companions settled into a leisurely routine established on that first full day. After breakfast, which usually leaves nothing to be desired, guests rest in the corridor of the hotel; the men who have business matters to attend to look after them and return to the hotel not later than eleven. About the hour of noon everybody takes a rest, and after luncheon they take a nap. While they sleep the hottest part of the day passes, and at four they are again ready for a drive or a walk, from which they return after sunset in time to dress for dinner. After dinner there are pleasant little rides in jinrickshas or visits to the native theaters.

  No one but me seems disturbed to be delayed in Colombo. No matter how everyone assures me, I still worry. To fail so soon would be humiliating. At least let me fail close to home, stopped by a snowstorm on my way to New York!

  23

  In Which A Man Dies And Elizabeth Bisland’s Ship Passes Through A Storm

  HONG KONG! I like the name of my next port. It has a fine clangorous significance, like two slow loud notes of some great brazen-lunged bell. Hong – Kong!

  I have telegraphed ahead to family friends who live there to let them know of my serendipitous trip, and they have invited me to stay with them the short time my ship is in dock. My mother would have liked to have sent them a gift, but of course, there had been no time! They will have to accept me as the whirlwind that I am.

  During the day the young man with the pallid waxen hands dies. He has struggled hard to keep the flame burning until he sees his own land, but the crisp breath of the Japanese coast puffs it suddenly out. A canvas screen is hung across one corner of the steerage deck, and the doctor goes back and forth from behind it. They will carry him back to his country, though he will not be glad or aware.

  The steward tells me a Chinese-American benevolent group called the Six Companies has given them twelve coffins to use in the event that someone of Chinese descent dies on the trip as the Chinese do not allow burial at sea. After the ship’s doctor embalms the body, he places it in one of these coffins to be stowed until we reach China. To cover the expense, Chinese sugar cubes are placed by the coffin. When one makes a donation, he may take some sugar for luck. In this way, by amounts large and small, the Chinese people take care of their own. At Hong Kong, the man will be transported to a hospital and met by family and friends.

  But the sea knows she is being defrauded of her rights – and wakes and rages. She comes in the night and beats thunderously with her great fists upon our doors. She leaps to look over our bulwarks for her hidden victim; she roars with wrath and will not be appeased. For two days we steam in the face of the northwest gale she has raised, and for three the ship plunges like a spurred horse. I wonder if these are the winds my editor was talking about, the reason he thinks the World editor made a mistake sending Nellie east.

  At dinner the ship pitches to the right and the captain glances my way.

  “I am fine,” I assure him. “Bodily, at least, I am proof now against seasickness.”

  We are a sight to behold, all of us at table holding firmly to our plates, having had too many opportunities of late to collect our soup and entrées in our laps. I force a smile. My stomach may be healthy, but my temper has a violent attack of mal de mer. It makes me bitterly cross to go leaping and plunging about the ship, not to be able to keep my seat.

  As soon as is polite, I excuse myself to the ship’s library. After scouring the shelves, I retire to bed where I wedge myself in tight with pillows, and go steadily through every word the ship's library affords on the subject of Japan.

  I am refreshed and cheered to find that the writer of each book fails, as signally as I shall fail, to convey any adequate idea of the fairy charms of the Land of Chrysanthemums. Shall one then paint a dragonfly with a whitewash brush?

  As the boat continues to pitch and heave with abandon, I distract myself by thinking of how I will convey to Molly all the sights I have seen. She will be more interested in Madge’s love story than in the description of any landscape. And of course, she will be sorry to have missed out on seeing all the lovely fabrics available in Japan. The gown I have bought for her will be a small consolation.

  I spent, alas! less than two days in these fairy islands; but all ballad literature declares with great positiveness that, having spent even the briefest moment in the Land of the Fays engenders an unquenchable yearning that must some day, some hour, bring one back again – and with this I comfort my heart.

  At dinner, the conversation turns to our next destination.

  “The island of Hong Kong is a cluster of hills with scanty vegetation, seized by England in 1842 after a struggle with China. At that time the town was an insignificant fishing village, but the value of the site was great commercially and strategically,” said Captain Kempson.

  “How so?” asks the businessman.

  “It is both a convenient and safe harbor for the squadron detailed to watch the Russian navy in the Pacific. Plus, the English have elevated the village into a flourishing city and made it the fourth shipping port of the world. The harbor is navigable for the largest merchant vessels and men-of-war in existence, and is perfectly sheltered and easy to access.”

  All of this information is interesting, but what I am most looking forward to is a visit with my friends, the Brauns whom I met briefly when I lived in New Orleans. They received my cable and responded that they will meet me at the harbor.

  24

  In Which Nellie Bly Makes The Best Of Her Delay And Meets A Kindred Spirit

  AMONG THE NATIVES that haunted the hotel were the snake charmers. They were almost naked fellows, sometimes with ragged jackets on and sometimes turbans on their heads.

  They executed a number of tricks in a very skillful manner. The most wonderful of these tricks, to me, was that of growing a tree. They would show a seed, then they would place the seed on the ground, cover it with a handful of earth, and cover this little mound with a handkerchief, which they first passed around to be examined, that we might be positive there was nothing wrong with it. Over this they would chant, and after a time the handkerchief is taken off and then up through the ground is a green sprout.

  We looked at it incredulously, while the man said: “Tree no good; tree too small,” and, covering it up again, he would renew his chanting. Once more he would lift the handkerchief, and we saw the sprout was larger, but still it did not please the trickster, for he repeated: “Tree no good; tree too small,” and covered it up again. This was repeated until he had a tree from three to five feet in height. Then he pulled it up, showed us the seed and roots.

  Although these men always asked us to “See the snake dance?” we always saw every other trick but the one that had caught us.

  One morning, I exited the hotel to sightsee with my new acquaintance, Mrs. Barnes, when we were waylaid by a group of such men.

  “See the snake dance?” urged one.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But I will only pay to see the snake dance and for nothing else.” I crossed my arms to further express my determination.

  The men exchanged looks before lifting the lid of the basket and jumping back. The cobra crawled slowly out, curling itself up on the ground. The charmer began to play on a little fife, meanwhile waving a red cloth, which attracted the cobra's attention. It rose up steadily, darting angrily at the red cloth and rose higher at every motion until it seemed to stand on the tip end of its tail.

  Then it saw the charmer and it darted for him.

  By this time a crowd had gathered, and we all gasped, fearing for the man's life. But he cunningly caught it by the head – and with such a grip that I saw the blood gush from the snake's mouth.
He worked for some time, still firmly holding the snake by the head before he could get it into the basket, the reptile meanwhile lashing the ground furiously with its tail. When at last it was covered from sight, I drew a long breath, and the charmer said to me sadly:

  “Cobra no dance, cobra too young, cobra too fresh!”

  I thought quite right; the cobra was too fresh!

  Mrs. Barnes and I continued on to secure our jinricksha rides. It was the first time at Colombo that I ever saw one of these vehicles and it reminded me of a sulky pulled by a horse.

  There are stands at different places for these men as well as carriage stands. While waiting for patrons, they let their 'rickshas rest on the shafts, and they sit in the bottom, their feet on the ground. Besides dressing in a sash, these men dress in an oil or grease, and when the day is hot and they run, one wishes they wore more clothing and less oil! The grease has an original odor that is entirely its own.

  The man put his foot on the shaft when I got in, and as he raised it, ready to start, I saw my friend step into her 'ricksha. She sat down and instantly went out–the other way! The man did not have his foot on the shaft, and she overbalanced.

  “Are you well?” I called over.

  In good humor, she dusted herself off and climbed back in. “Yes. I’ve never fallen off a horse in my life, but here I am falling off 'ricksha. I will never admit it even if you do tell everyone at tiffin.”

  I had a shamed feeling about going around the town drawn by a man, but after I had gone a short way, I decided it was a great improvement on modern means of travel; it was so comforting to have a horse that was able to take care of itself!

  With so much time available for sightseeing, we visited a great number of shops, the Buddhist college where I met the famous high priest of Ceylon, and the local newspaper offices, of which there were two, both run by two young Englishmen who were very clever and kind to strangers.

  “Have you been to Kandy?” asked one.

  “Never heard of it,” I answered.

  “You must go,” encouraged the other. “It’s a city in the hills of the central province to the east. The road to Kandy, in particular, is very beautiful. You’ll not find a prettier jaunt in all the world. I’d go with you if I had the time, but alas, you know the paper business.”

  He didn’t look particularly busy, sitting on the edge of his desk, hands clasped over his crossed knee, but I nodded in agreement anyway.

  So, the next morning at seven o’clock, I started for Kandy with the Spanish representative, who was going to Pekin, and a jolly Irish lad named Sean Collins, who was so young-looking everyone called him The Boy. He was bound for Hong Kong, and both of them had traveled with me from Brindisi.

  We drove to the station and were passed with the people through the gate to the train. English cars, and ones that leave everything to be desired, are used on this line. We got into a compartment where there was but one seat, which, luckily for us, happened to be facing the way we traveled.

  Our tickets were taken at the station, and then the doors were locked and the train started. Before the start, we had entered our names in a book, which a guard brought to us with the information that we could have breakfast on the train if so desired.

  As it was too early for breakfast at the hotel, we were only too glad to get an opportunity to eat. At eight o’clock the train stopped and the guard unlocked our door, telling us to go front to the dining car.

  The dining car was fitted up with stationary tables which almost spanned the car, leaving a small space for people to walk along. There were more people than could be accommodated, but as the train had started, they were obliged to stand.

  Several persons had told me that the breakfast served on this train was considered remarkably good. I thought, on seeing the bill of fare, they had prepared a feast for a chicken hawk.

  “I hope you are hungry for chicken,” I said to Sean Collins. First, there was fish dressed in vinegar and onions, followed by chicken soup, chicken aspic, grilled chicken, boned chicken, fried chicken, boiled chicken, cold chicken and chicken pie!

  After we had finished our breakfast, we were compelled to remain where we were until the train arrived at some station. Then the dining car was unlocked, and we returned to the other car, being again locked in until the end of our journey.

  The road winds up the mountain side and is rather pretty, but nothing wonderful in that respect. It is a tropical land, but the foliage and flowers are very ordinary. About the prettiest things to be seen are the rice beds. They are built in terraces, and when one looks down into the deep valley, seeing terrace after terrace of the softest, lightest green, one is forced to cry: “How beautiful!”

  Arriving at Kandy at last, we hired a carriage and went to see the lake, the public library and the temples. In one old temple, surrounded by a moat, we saw several altars, of little consequence, and a bit of ivory, which they told us was the tooth of Buddha.

  Kandy is pretty, but far from what it is claimed to be. They said it was cool, but we found it so hot that we thought with regret of Colombo. Disgusted with all we found worth seeing, we drove to Parathenia to see the great botanical garden. It well repaid us for the visit. That evening we returned to Colombo.

  I was tired and hungry, and the extreme heat had given me a sick headache. On the way down, the Spanish gentlemen endeavored to keep our falling spirits up, but every word he said only helped to increase my bad temper, much to the amusement of the Irish boy. He was very polite and kind, the Spaniard, I mean, but he had an unhappy way of flatly contradicting one, that, to say the least, was exasperating. It was to me, but it only made the Irish boy laugh. When we were going down the mountain side, the Spaniard got up, and standing, put his head through the open window in the door to get a view of the country.

  “We are going over,” he said, with positive conviction, turning around to us. I was leaning up in a corner, trying to sleep, and the Irish boy, with his feet braced against the end of the compartment, was trying to do the same.

  “We won’t go over,” I managed to say, while the Irish boy smiled.

  “Yes, we will,” the Spaniard shouted back, “Make your prayers!”

  The Irish boy screamed with laughter, and I forgot my sickness as I held my sides and laughed. It was a little thing, but it is often little things that raise the loudest laughs. After that, all I needed to say to upset the dignity of the Irish boy was: “Make your prayers!”

  I went to bed that night too ill to eat my dinner. The next morning, I had intended to go to the pearl market with Mrs. Barnes, but felt unequal to it. When she returned she told me that at the very end of the sale, a man bought some leftover oysters for one rupee and found in them five hundred dollars worth of pearls. I felt sorry that I had not gone.

  One night, after I had been five days in Colombo, the blackboard in the hotel corridor bore the information that the Oriental would sail for China the following morning, at eight o’clock. I was called at five o’clock and some time afterwards left for the ship.

  “Oh, Miss Bly!” called the Spanish minister, stopping my path. “We still have time. Would you go to some of the shops with me? I’d like to buy some jewelry and need a woman’s opinion.”

  “I’ve been in Colombo far too long as it is,” I told him. I was so nervous and anxious to be on my way that I could not wait a moment longer than was necessary to reach the boat that was to carry me to China.

  When farewells had been said, and I was on the Oriental, I found my patience had given way under the long delay. The ship seemed to be deserted when I went on deck, with the exception of a handsome, elderly man, accompanied by a young blonde man in a natty white linen suit, who slowly promenaded the deck, watching out to sea while they talked. I was trying to untie my steamer chair so as to have someplace to sit when the elderly man came up and politely offered to assist me.

  “When will we sail?” I asked shortly.

  “As soon as the Nepaul comes in,” the man repl
ied. “She was to have been here at daybreak, but she hasn’t been sighted yet. Waiting for the Nepaul has given us this five days’ delay. She’s a slow old boat.”

  “May she go to the bottom of the bay when she does get in.” I said savagely. “I think it an outrage to be kept waiting five days for a tub like that.”

  “Colombo is a pleasant place to stay,” the elderly man said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “It may be, if staying there does not mean more than life to one. Really, it would afford me the most intense delight to see the Nepaul go the bottom of the sea.”

  Evidently my ill humor surprised them, and their surprise amused me, for I thought how little anyone could realize what this delay meant to me, and the mental picture of a forlorn little self creeping back to New York ten days behind time, with a shamed look on her face and afraid to hear her name spoken, made me laugh outright.

  They gazed at me in astonishment, and my better nature surged up with the laugh. “And there is the Nepaul,” I said, pointing out a line of smoke just visible above the horizon. They doubted it, but a few moments proved that I was correct.

  “I am very ill-natured,” I said, glancing from the kindly blue eyes of the elderly man to the laughing blue eyes of the younger man, “but I could not help it. After being delayed for five days, I was called at five o’clock because they said the ship was to sail at eight, and here it is: nine o’clock and there’s no sign of the ship sailing, and I am simply famished.”

  As they laughed at my woes, the gong sounded for breakfast, and they took me down. The Irish lad, with his sparkling eyes and jolly laugh, was there, as was a young Englishman who had also traveled on the Victoria to Colombo. I knew him by sight, but as he was a sworn woman-hater, I did not dare to speak to him. There were no women on board. I was the only woman that morning, and a right jolly breakfast we had.

  The captain, a most handsome man, and as polite and courteous as he was good-looking, sat at the head of the table. Officers that any ship might boast of were gathered about him. Handsome, good-natured, intelligent, polite, they were, every single one of them. I found the elderly man I had been talking to was the chief engineer, and the young man was the ship’s doctor, a Welshman named Dr. Brown.