The Year We Were Famous

by Carole Estby Dagg

  CHAPTER 28

  CROSSING THE HUDSON

  December 21, 1896–Day 230 Phillipsburg, on the western edge of New Jersey

  ALL WE had to do to win now was walk eighteen hours out of the next thirty-six. No matter how much my ankle hurt, I could do that, couldn't I?

  We paused on the station platform, still puffing steam like locomotives in the cold air, and looked out at the four sets of tracks leading out of Phillipsburg. Ma caught a station attendant by the elbow after he had helped an elderly woman up the steps to her railroad car. "Which line goes to New York?" she asked.

  "This Lehigh line will get you there, and you just have time to get a ticket," he said. "The next runs on the other lines aren't until late tonight or tomorrow."

  We ignored the ticket window, picked up our bags, and headed out along the Lehigh line. For several hours we trod along the winding tracks between rocky flat-topped ridges to the Three Bridges Station. We stamped our feet (or at least my good foot) in front of the little wood stove in the station house, peeled off our frost-stiffened gloves, and turned front sides and backsides to the fire.

  When we could feel our toes again, we walked over to the New Jersey map posted on one wall and traced our day's walk. Ma blanched.

  "That can't be right!" I leaned heavily on my cane as I leaned forward to check our route again, hoping we had misinterpreted the map. But no matter how many times I looked and recalculated, the answer was the same: we should have ignored the station attendant. He assumed we were taking a train to New York. Because of schedules, the Lehigh train would make it to New York before the other train lines, but on foot, the other routes were nearly twenty miles shorter. Walking in snow and ice, that extra twenty miles would take us at least seven extra hours—seven hours we could not spare.

  We avoided looking at each other as we picked up our bags.

  "Miss Waterson will still honor the contract." I meant to sound reassuring, but my voice trembled and floated upward as I spoke, turning the statement into a plaintive question. Desperation squeezed my throat like the noose around a condemned man's neck. "Surely she doesn't care if we arrive today or next week, as long as we show we can walk the distance by ourselves like we said we would." My throat was too pinched to continue. Ma did not answer.

  We walked on the rest of the day and into the night.

  December 22, 1896–Day 231, our revised deadline Newark, New Jersey

  From Bound Brook, we followed the eastern edge of the Watchung Mountains to Plainfield. The sky had been brilliant blue earlier in the day, but by four o'clock it had turned dark and the temperature dropped at least ten degrees. I continued to limp along behind Ma to Newark. Electric streetcars passed us several times a minute on Market Street. I envied the shop and factory girls sitting down inside the cars on their way home.

  According to the thermometer outside a hardware store it was twenty-four degrees. Squealing loads of children dragged their heels to stop their sleds at the bottom of a gentle hill perpendicular to the street we trod. Their joy was not contagious.

  When we heard a forecast for northern gales and more snow, Ma wanted to stop in Newark but I persuaded her to go on. After a mile of breaking trail through fresh snow, we gave up and found a family to take us in.

  Early morning, Wednesday, December 23–Day 232 Still in Newark

  I was awake when the clock struck eleven. I was still awake when the clock tolled midnight. We had missed our deadline. But if the deadline was a part of the contract Ma had suggested in the first place to add drama to our trek, why should Miss Waterson care when we got there? That's probably why she hadn't bothered to answer our wire. I was sure of it. At least I convinced myself that I was sure enough of it that at last, despite a throbbing ankle and niggling doubts, I could sleep.

  At six o'clock, I woke and sat up on the couch to look out the window. "Ish da," I whispered. Fine dry snow was piling in drifts against the house. "Ish da," I said again as I lay back down. Of course Miss Waterson would look for any excuse not to part with ten thousand dollars, and with this additional snow we would miss our deadline not by minutes, but most of a day—and that was assuming she'd granted us the extra six days for my ankle. Well, it would be madness to give up now, when we were just a short walk and a river away from Manhattan. We'd cross our fingers.

  Half an hour later, bundled against the biting wind, we headed toward Jersey City. We counted out money for tickets and found standing room on the ferry among farmers with braziers on wheels loaded with roasted potatoes and poultry men with horse-drawn wagons loaded with boxes of Christmas geese and chickens. We all struggled to keep our footing as the ferry dipped and rocked in the wind-roughened river.

  CHAPTER 29

  MISS WATERSON

  Wednesday, December 23, 1896–Day 232 New York City, New York

  WE BUMPED to a stop at the pier, and while deck hands tied the ferry to cleats we joined other foot passengers walking down the gangplank. If Ma was expecting a welcoming committee, she was disappointed. Truth to tell, I was disappointed, too.

  We didn't rate a brass band, but New York greeted us with its own natural self. I wentgiddy with the overstimulation to my senses. Every breath brought in the musty smell of the river, coal smoke, hot sausage, and chestnuts; my ears rang with the competing sounds of rattling streetcars with squealing brakes, strains of carols from a Salvation Army band, hawkers' cries in every accent and language, wagon wheels, and horses' hooves. We tripped over darting dogs and feral cats, dodged between restless cart horses and people of every color crowding onto streetcars, carrying bundles of garments, all in a hurry. At every intersection, the whistle of a traffic policeman cut through the noise to keep the tangle of vehicles and pedestrians from colliding into a logjam that even Paul Bunyan could not have sorted out.

  One minute I was ready to clamber on a bench, wave my cane in the air, and shout to all passersby: "We did it! We walked all the way from Mica Creek to New York City!" The next minute I was ready to empty what was left of my breakfast into the nearest trash can, so sick I was with the suspense of wondering whether Miss Waterson would honor our bet. "Get out your map, Ma. Let's find Miss Waterson's office." I wanted to get it over with.

  "I can't believe there was no one here to welcome us," Ma said. Her voice was tight with tension. I guessed she meant Miss Waterson as well as her fans, and feared today might not go as she hoped it would.

  "You can't expect folks to wait around in the snow all day for you, Ma. Miss Waterson is probably staying warm in her office," I said. I hoped I was right.

  Crossing Broadway, we dodged a horse-drawn double-decker bus. The clock in the domed cupola of City Hall read 1:03 p.m., thirteen hours and three minutes after our revised deadline.

  As we stared at the clock, an urchin rammed Ma's back and yanked her satchel out of her hand. He darted through the crowd, faster than a jackrabbit, up the broad sidewalk ahead of us.

  "Stop! Thief!" we howled, and ran (well, Ma ran; I limped far behind) screaming, slipping, and bumping into people as we tried to catch him. Before the end of the block, he had disappeared.

  We stood, panting, looking in the direction of the thief.

  "Ish da!" I wailed.

  Ma's face drooped. "Our last two dollars and thirty-two cents, two hundred pages of notes, my curling iron."

  I put my arm around Ma's shoulder, barely aware of the throngs parting to glide on around us. "You must have sent two thousand pages of notes home by now, and I have my journal, too. You can still write the book."

  Ma compressed her lips and continued to look in the direction that cutpurse had fled.

  As we continued to walk toward Miss Waterson's office, Ma flexed her arm as if she could not get used to walking without the familiar weight of her satchel in her hand. Welcome to New York City! Both carrying satchels and gawking like the small-town folks we were—we had been an easy target. I hoped he'd enjoy Ma's curling iron and sliver of soap left from the hotel in Pittsburgh.

/>   I lifted my chin and took a deep breath of crisp air. We might have started in a small town, but I'd bet most of the folks bustling by us on the sidewalks hadn't seen as much of the country as we had. And maybe in an hour we'd be richer than most of the people passing us by. Despite my ankle, I encouraged Ma to a brisker pace. We elbowed our passage on crowded sidewalks two blocks south on Broadway to John, east on John to William, and left to find 95. On side streets muffled by rows of tall buildings, the sounds of Broadway blended to a hum. My breathing quieted sufficiently to hear the muffled foghorns and ferry whistles from the river. A squirrel dashed across our path, and a gray storm of pigeons swirled up off the sidewalk at our approach.

  At 95 William Street, we opened the lobby door, almost bumping our heads on a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Since the bulb wasn't burning, the narrow flight of stairs was lit only by the fading natural light seeping through smudged windows on either side of the entry door. On the landing, one door read: p. L. MITCHUM, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW; the other read: A. J, WATERSON, PUBLISHER. What would happen when we finally passed through the door to the mysterious Miss Waterson?

  Ma smoothed her hair, squared her shoulders, and rapped. I willed my heart to beat silently as I strained my ears for any sound from the other side of Miss Waterson's door, but there was silence, only silence. The handle turned when Ma tried it, so we entered on tiptoe, feeling like trespassers. No one sat at the small oak desk, which was clear save for a ledger, ink bottle, and tray of pens. Oak filing cabinets lined a side wall, and another door punctuated the back wall. Was it the door to Miss Waterson's private office? I alternately fanned and clenched my fingers as I crossed the room, resolutely raised my hand, and knocked.

  A chair scraped and heavy footsteps approached the door. "Who's there?"The voice—was it Miss Waterson's?—sounded suspicious, surprised, and annoyed. I stepped back nervously as the door opened a crack to reveal a vertical slice of fleshy cheek and one dark eye. The door started to close.

  "Wait," Ma said. She thrust one booted toe into the narrowing crack and held up her calling card. "I'm Helga Estby, the woman who walked here from Spokane!"

  A long-fingered, bony hand reached through the crack and plucked the card from Ma, then withdrew, leaving the door ajar. As we entered, the woman retreated to the far side of room behind a battered desk.

  She was an inch or so taller than Ma, with lusterless brown hair pulled back loosely in a mouse-nest bun. She wore a threadbare, gored black skirt with a black shawl and high-necked shirtwaist. While she read Ma's card over the top of her glasses, I read the nameplate on her desk: Astilbe Jasmine Waterson. She looked more like a prickly thistle than a feathery astilbe.

  Miss Waterson tossed Ma's card on the desk. "How unfortunate that you missed your deadline by nearly a week after walking so far."

  Ma steadied herself on the arm of a chair. "We're less than a day late!"

  "You didn't even answer our telegram," I said.

  "You can't expect me to waste money on a telegram, can you?" she said.

  "Ish da" I moaned.

  A pink flush spread from beneath Miss Waterson's high collar and mottled her cheeks. Her body was ramrod stiff, but one finger on her left hand fluttered against her worn, dark skirt. She was obviously nervous, too, so maybe she was just trying to bluff us out of our money and could be convinced to change her mind. I turned to Ma. She could talk anybody into anything.

  "It wasn't our fault!" Ma protested. "Someone gave us bad directions, and we walked fifty miles out of our way in a snowstorm."

  "I suppose God had His reasons for preventing you from meeting the conditions of your contract," Miss Waterson answered.

  When Ma's face turned moist and bread-dough pale, I settled her securely in the chair before she fainted. I had counted on Ma to argue down Miss Waterson if she had to, but Ma clearly wasn't up to it. But why did I have to rely on Ma to do my talking for me? With Norwegian courage and Irish blarney in my blood, I should be a match for Miss Waterson. After all, I had slept among the Indians, shot a highwayman, and talked to President-Elect McKinley himself. Why should one ordinary, unarmed woman have me tongue-tied? I looked Miss Waterson in the eye and filled my lungs.

  "Miss Waterson, we walked from Mica Creek to New York, just like we said we would. We honored the contract and have kept your name a secret until now. But if you don't pay us the ten thousand dollars, we'll tell the New York World that Astilbe Jasmine Waterson turned those valiant women walkers out into the snow just before Christmas."

  Miss Waterson opened her mouth to speak, but I was just getting warmed up. "One hundred years from now people will still be calling anyone who's as mean-hearted as you a 'Waterson.' They will say Scrooge was a kindly soul next to you. Is that how you want to be remembered?"

  Miss Waterson frowned and turned to look out the window, hands knotted behind her back. Three times she rose on her toes and settled back down on her heels before she turned back to face us. "Here's a compromise." She unlocked her desk drawer and withdrew a tin box.

  I counted the money as she laid it out: a five-dollar bill, four ones, two quarters, three dimes, two nickels, and ten pennies. "Ten dollars!"

  Miss Waterson drew her loosely knit shawl higher on her shoulders and fingered the safety pin that held her shawl in place. "That's as much as you started with."

  Ten dollars. Was that all seven and a half months of danger, exhaustion, and privation was worth?

  "Besides that ten dollars, you can also have a share of the profits after I've made back my expenses on publishing the book." She extended her large-knuckled hand like a greedy child reaching for the last piece of chocolate on the plate. "Do you have your journals with you?"

  "No!" I said. "And even if we did we wouldn't give them to you." I knew I should be strong, but I felt like a child who had just been told that Christmas had been canceled this year. I could not keep the petulance from my voice. "Why did you even make the bet if you didn't mean to keep it?"

  "I thought it was safe to agree to the ten thousand dollars your mother asked for, because the chances were you'd never make it all the way. You could make a little money giving lectures on your adventures as far as you went, and I would get publicity for a book I could help you write."

  "But when you read the newspaper accounts, you saw we were stubborn enough to keep going. Why didn't you tell us to stop? We almost died in the lava fields and the flash flood..." I waited for Miss Waterson to defend herself, but she said nothing.

  "Do you have any idea what Ma and I went through to get here, day after day?" I stared at Miss Waterson with the intensity of a Colorado rattler.

  I plopped on the floor and hoisted my right foot over my left knee. "Ish da, ish da," I muttered as my hands, shaking with cold and rage, fumbled with my bootlaces.

  "Clara..." For the first time on this trip, it was Ma who looked embarrassed by something I was doing.

  I ignored her as I jerked loose sections of my worn laces from the eyelets and flung each shredded remnant toward Miss Waterson's desk. I yanked down the tongue of my boot and winced as I eased the boot past my swollen ankle. I peeled off two layers of socks, leaned back on my hands, and held up my battered foot.

  "Look at this foot. How many miles a day do you walk? Two miles, three? When we weren't working for the next pair of boots, we walked twenty-five, thirty, fifty miles a day, sometimes with no food, day after day, for two hundred and thirty-two days." I jabbed my foot toward Miss Waterson, daring her to ignore the missing toenails, purple-splotched ankle, and horse-hoof calluses.

  I pointed back at Ma, still slumped in the chair. "Ma left seven children at home for nearly eight months to earn that ten thousand dollars. We were counting on that money to save the farm! She has ruined her health, and baby Lillian and little William may not even remember their Ma by the time we get home."

  Miss Waterson glanced at my mangled foot. "Don't blame all your troubles on me," she said. "I didn't make your mother set up this wager
. I just agreed to it and made sure she kept to the stipulations she established herself." She looked anywhere but my eyes.

  I scooped up the ten dollars from her desk, slipped my laceless boot back on, hobbled over to Ma, and half carried her down the stairs, muttering every epithet I could think of. "Execrable scoundrel. Boil-covered blackguard. Fork-tongued fiend."

  CHAPTER 30

  WE HAD A STORY TO TELL

  WE PASSED the post office on the way back toward the World Building. Ma's satchel was stolen; we were denied the money we'd earned—yes, earned—by walking nearly four thousand miles, I felt like screaming, but the post office was no place for a tantrum. During the hour I had to wait in line for our mail, I couldn't help muttering angrily to myself. Other customers kept their distance. Ma did, too. She leaned against the wall near the door, well out of my range.

  I put the letters in the pocket inside my coat, and as we left the post office I switched my satchel to the hand closest to Ma. "Keep your hand on it, too, Ma."

  She didn't speak, but I felt her hand snug up against mine on the handle. No thief would get our remaining worldly goods.

  We continued on up Fulton to Broadway, where it joined Park Row. There in an imperial line were the buildings that housed offices for the New York Times, Tribune, Herald, Sun, and the New York World. Millions of words, every day, originated in those very buildings and were shipped all over the world. Nellie Bly, girl reporter, might have walked this very sidewalk on the way to work. Ma's footsteps continued to slow. I pulled on the satchel to keep her moving. At least it would be warm inside.

  I expected to see a bustling newsroom when we opened the door to the New York World building, but the main floor was just a lobby, surrounded by business offices. We stood for a moment, irresolute. With more confidence than I felt, I pointed toward six uniformed men standing at attention in front of a row of elevators and said, "Come on, Ma. One of those men will know where to go."