by Darcy Burke
Della did not like to remember anything about the time she awoke from meningitis to face the jarring silence of her mother’s tears. Only five years old, she could not read words on the page, let alone lips, so no one could explain to her what had happened. Finally, people stopped talking to her—what was the point? With her frightened cries, they had assumed she had lost her wits along with her hearing.
An older man was eventually summoned, and he took a confused and screaming Della from her home. Only at school later that year did Della learn that this older man was her widowed grandfather.
“And now look at you, Della. Your future is in this boat, your words read by people throughout the Philippines—and beyond.”
A few small-town American papers reprinted the Freedom page-for-page, like the Abilene Weekly Reflector in Kansas. It was one reason she had known of it, from their cross-country train journey to San Francisco. The issues were four months out of date by the time they made it stateside, but it was better than nothing.
“This is what you wanted,” Holt said. “Do not lose hope now.”
She hated leaving like this, but he was right. When she returned, she would go see Moss—and who knows where they would pick up? They had kissed, but that was hardly a promise anymore. This was the twentieth century. “Alright,” she said. “We shall go.”
Della stepped into the lighter with her grandfather. She felt a little sick to her stomach, an illness that had nothing to do with food, nor the sea. If this was love, she had never imagined it could be so wretched and unadvisable.
It was not until they transferred aboard the steamer itself that Holt gave Della his attention again. “Forget him,” he said.
That pulled her up short. “Who?”
“That hotel manager.”
“He is a good man,” she said. “A hardworking man.”
“It is the hardworking ones you have to watch out for. They are that much more ruthless.”
“Especially when they are elected to Congress.”
Holt smiled sadly. “That is a hard road too, as your grandmother would have told you. But you are my first and last responsibility, Della, and I will see you safe.”
“Moss was safe.” If anything, he had played it too safe for her liking.
“He was a criminal.”
“You said they found nothing at the Oriente. You said—”
Holt raised his hands. “True, they searched high and low and found nothing. But they still arrested North.”
Chapter 14
Crossed Wires
22 JANUARY 1901 08:14
TO: MOSS NORTH, HOTEL ORIENTE MANILA
HOLT REPORTED YOUR ARREST STOP WILL RETURN DIRECTLY IF ADVISED
DELLA BERGET
22 JANUARY 1901 15:38
TO: DELLA BERGET, SORSOGON
HOLT MISTAKEN INSPECTION CLEAR AWAITING YOUR RETURN AFTER STORIES WRITTEN
MOSS
31 JANUARY 1901 14:02
TO: MOSS NORTH, HOTEL ORIENTE MANILA
WHY NO ANSWER FEAR THE WORST STOP SHOULD I RETURN
DELLA
31 JANUARY 1901 20:49
TO: DELLA BERGET, DUMAGUETE
ALL CLEAR PLEASE RETURN MANILA WHEN READY MY ACCLAIMED JOURNALIST
MOSS
2 FEBRUARY 1901 11:27
TO: MOSS NORTH, HOTEL ORIENTE MANILA
STILL NOTHING FROM YOU STOP NOTHING IN PAPERS CONFUSED WORRIED
DELLA
3 FEBRUARY 1901 09:43
TO: DELLA BERGET, DUMAGUETE
RESENT ALL MESSAGES MARRY ME WILL MEET ANYWHERE FOR VOWS
MOSS
18 FEBRUARY 1901 15:12
TO: DELLA BERGET, CEBU
RESENT PROPOSAL MULTIPLE CITIES STILL AWAITING ACCEPTANCE PLEASE SAY YES
MOSS
20 FEBRUARY 1901 09:02
TO: WARDEN, BILIBID PRISON MANILA
REQUEST HEALTH LEGAL STATUS PRISONER MOSES NORTH PLEASE REPORT DIRECTLY
DELLA BERGET
20 FEBRUARY 1901 17:59
TO: DELLA BERGET, CEBU
STAY PUT MOSS DEPARTING MANILA TONIGHT TO MEET YOU THERE
JUDGE EUSEBIO LOPA
Chapter 15
Breadcrumbs
Moss stood by the rail of the S. S. Aeolus willing the ship to go faster. The world had been moving too slowly since the night of the reception. Even telegrams seemed to float across the sea as languidly as jellyfish. He had resent each one several times to a variety of different offices. He had become such a lovelorn spendthrift in the Eastern Extension office that they moved his messages to the head of the line out of pity.
Moss had assumed that cables would be delivered to Della personally, but he should have expected Holt to interfere. He also should have expected Holt to cast the worst shade upon his visit to the police station. He had drunk tea at a David Street constable’s desk at one end of Binondo, while at the other Colonel Wilder searched his hotel high and low—even its garbage, as Seb had predicted. The remaining evidence, the empty cans and bottles, had left earlier that morning in the stables’ manure cart. Only Americans could make such a fuss over a day’s worth of groceries, Seb later pointed out.
When he finally got home, Moss found the hotel ticking along as always. He waited impatiently for Della to return from her day’s errands so that they could celebrate. When she still had not shown by that evening, he discovered from his clerk that the Holt party had checked out.
For the next few days, Moss hoped Della would contact him. He was also distracted by the unusual number of policemen who found the most unnecessary of reasons to loiter in the hotel. Someone was paying these coppers a full day’s salary to watch Moss watch them.
When Della’s first cable came, Moss was at the hotel to receive it. He assured himself that he could fix everything. He would recall Della to Manila with a simple “all clear.” Even if she could not make return arrangements right away—she had stories to write—she would at least send him her plans.
And then her second cable arrived. Maybe she was moving from city to city too fast, or maybe Holt was interfering, but either way she had not received Moss’s response. Worst of all, she would think he had given up on her.
When Moss had overheard customers talking about signature articles in the Manila Freedom written by a deaf woman, he stole one of the hotel’s copies. A day later, he took out a personal subscription. With each edition, he assembled a breadcrumb trail, marking each city onto an oversized map on his office wall. But each of these crumbs went stale too quickly: by the time he could have reached any of these places, Della would have gone.
The congressman was making a big circle throughout the islands, which should have meant returning to Manila. But when Moss checked with every other hotel in the city, he found no reservations for Holt’s party. The politician would not leave something like that to chance. There were two other cities from which he could leave the islands: Iloilo and Cebu, both ports of call for Hong Kong-based steamers. Moss could wait for Della at one of them, but which one?
He didn’t know, which meant he had no choice but to stay where he was. Each passing day made the Oriente a prison, or maybe it was all in his gloomy head. He could not walk into the kitchen without wanting to throw a pot at some innocent dishwasher, so instead he sat at his desk and stared at Della’s clippings. The employees avoided him. Seb avoided him.
By Della’s third cable, he lost all caution and proposed over the wire. Repeatedly. He did not mind the key man’s snicker the first time, but the third time Moss wondered if he was making an ass of himself. Had Della given up on him? She had said that she expected nothing from him; maybe she wanted nothing, as well.
Her stories were compelling. Too many of them featured the congressman, though a careful reader would see them as a clever lampoon. Moss’s eyes glazed over the receptions and parades and speeches . . .
And then something caught his attention. Moss had skimmed the description of the Cebu banquet a few times, but now he scrutinized eve
ry word: “The people of Cebu laid the richest table outside of Manila. In between secret bites of over-boiled beef, Representative Holt trumpeted to his hosts that grilled fish and roasted pig would make a kinsman of him yet. Later he added that this was true, as long as he never had to give up his favorite treat from home: roast chicken with lemon and potatoes.”
Moss did not believe that any of those words came out of the Holt’s mouth. The man did not care two snaps about local cuisine. And it was Della who missed chicken and potatoes. Della missed him.
This article was three days old. She could be anywhere by now. He dropped his head in his hands and tugged at the roots of his hair, the dull pain cathartic. A knock at the door interrupted him.
Moss didn’t look up. “Whatever it is, ask Judge Lopa.”
“Who else would be here but me? No one else likes you so much.” Seb dropped a folded piece of paper on Moss’s desk. “For you.”
TELEGRAM shouted from the brown paper in big red block letters.
“You opened one of my cables?”
“Not me. Look how she addressed it.”
Bilibid? A wave of fresh Holt-focused fury surged through Moss. But then he realized that the cable brought good news. “She is still in Cebu! How long ago did you get this?”
“It arrived today. The warden wanted to know why my manager is supposed to be behind their bars.” Seb looked at him sharply. “So much for being bottom key.”
“Low key,” Moss corrected absently, but his mind was elsewhere. If he left now, he could catch her. “I will be gone for a few days.”
Seb handed him a ticket: Aeolus, 18:30. “The next steamer for Cebu. You must hurry. I sent Anastasio ahead to the dock to hire you a casco, and José is packing your bag.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you will bring back a smile and the Americana wearing that ring you think I do not know about. Or else I may throw you in Bilibid myself.”
Moss laughed for the first time in weeks, though he didn’t draw it out for more than a few breaths. He had to get going. He hugged his friend and hurried off.
Now, three days later, all he could do was wait—and not patiently. The steamer under his feet was ignorant of its important mission. Moss had paced the ship relentlessly for two days, unable to sleep, while even the deckhand ran from his questions.
Another sailor assured Moss that they would arrive soon. Only eight hours, he said hopefully. Moss wondered if he could wait that long, or if he should dive off the boat and swim. Della could be in Hong Kong by the time he landed.
Those eight hours felt like eighty, but eventually the Aeolus made it to Cebu. Moss scanned the port, the open square, and the wide streets lined with shops, churches, whitewashed buildings, and airy warehouses. Moss focused his gaze on the large, shuttered government building flying Old Glory. It looked like a place that attracted pompous politicians.
Moss pushed his way to the front of the line of disembarking passengers. Once his feet touched solid ground, he was off. It was too hot to run, but Moss was in too cold a sweat to care. He burst into the hotel’s grand banquet hall to find an actual banquet in progress. The special guest’s eyes rose to meet his.
Representative Holt stiffened.
Moss was happy to see the windbag—until he realized Della was not next to him. She was nowhere in the room. He strode up to Holt and demanded: “Where is she?”
“I don’t know how you found me, but—”
“Let me talk to her. One question is all I need.”
“Do you think to impress me with your persistence?”
Moss needed to find Della, so he tamed his voice to sound reasonable. “You know I wasn’t involved in any of that quartermaster nonsense, and—”
“I know no such thing.”
“Well, I am here,” Moss said. “Not in prison, despite your best efforts.”
Dangerous words, given that there was a full set of Army and Navy command staff at the table in front of him. In a time of martial law, each of these men could be judge, jury, and executioner. “I fought against the Spanish at Manila,” Moss said quietly, “and never attracted the attention of any brass whatsoever. But if I must make a scene now, I will.”
“What unit were you with?” a half-drunk colonel yelled out.
“Thirteenth Minnesota, Company E.”
The man nodded soberly.
“I won’t humble myself for you,” Moss said to Holt. “Only for her.”
He pulled an envelope out of his pocket. He laid down the clippings, one after another, neatly in a row. Della was now one of a handful of female reporters in the English-speaking world, and the only one Moss knew outside of New York. “For this woman, I would do anything.”
“She did not write those for you.”
Moss pointed at the quip about the chicken. “I think she did.”
Holt looked at the marked paragraph, but then just as quickly dismissed it. “An inconsequential fabrication—hardly different from any other copy-hunting pressman. So what of it? Dorr prints her because her subject is worthy. He doesn’t expect her writing to be perfect.”
Not perfect? Della had revealed Holt’s tour of condescension for what it was. Most of Manila was chuckling at the congressman’s gaffes, but he was too pompous to know it.
That knowledge made it harder for Moss to do what he had to do. “Give me a chance,” he said. “Let me ask her, at least. If she says no, I will leave you both alone. Forever.”
Hughes Holt was determined. Moss could see it in his eyes. He would not soften, let alone bend.
Another throat cleared. It was the colonel who had asked for his unit.
“Young man,” the man said slowly, drawing out the words as if he enjoyed a career on the stage, not the battlefield. “The young lady has already left for Manila. I would wager she was looking for you.”
Chapter 16
Virgules
Della had let her grandfather believe she had left Cebu at Mr. Dorr’s request. It was true, if not the full truth. Dorr did want her back in Manila to cover the court-martial of Captain Barrows. One lieutenant being charged with the captain was protesting his own innocence rather convincingly—or, at least, his vindictiveness against Barrows was convincing. Maybe Dorr thought that Della’s pen could better capture the drama. He liked the way she had made the most of an otherwise boring political tour.
Della needed to break out of her grandfather’s orbit. It was not normal that the only cables she received answers to were from Dorr. Yet had she not been in the Eastern Extension office when his last arrived, the one recalling her to Manila for the court-martial, she was not even sure she would have seen it.
If Holt was hiding something, it had to do with Moss. Why else could she not get an answer from the warden at Bilibid? She considered asking Dorr whether the constables had arrested Moss, but she did not wish to begin her employment asking for personal favors. After a late-night, champagne-fueled reception, she packed her trunks. Early the next morning, she left. When no one stopped her, she wondered if the conspiracy was all in her head.
Her return view of Manila from the Pasig was welcome chaos. Had she one of those new Eastman Kodak cameras, the picture would still have been a barely recognizable blur. Nothing stood still—not the heavy traffic of narrow boats passing her, not the carriages high on the coastal roads, and not even the frangipani trees swaying in the cool February breeze.
Della stepped onto shore in front of the customs house at the north bank wharf: the same exact spot, maybe the same stone, she had first touched almost two months ago. Dozens of young men crowded around her, eager for hire. Because Della had tipped the boat owner well, he pointed out the two porters Della should hire. Each chosen man hauled a trunk onto his back and secured it with hands behind buttocks. The two men walked like typeface virgules to the hacks waiting on the street. They chose a lucky calesa for her, ignoring the order of the line. Once they loaded her trunks, the driver looked at her expectantly.
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br /> Bilibid Prison was out in Santa Cruz, and Della was too impatient to ride an extra fifteen minutes when the Oriente was so much closer. And Moss could still be there. If he was, had he tried to respond to her? Or had he cut her right out of his life? It would be enough to know he was safe.
Not enough. The words appeared in her head as if she had heard them. Never enough.
She wanted more from Moss, but only if he trusted her to take it. And maybe he was right to want more from her too, to ask for her trust in return. Back at her father’s West Fairmont Coal & Coke Company, boys loading trams were matched to partners roughly by size. Even more important than physique, though, was their ability to balance each other’s temperament. Could she and Moss be lifelong half-marrows: partners of the days, the nights, and the in-between hours? Della imagined what it would be like to sleep—really sleep—with Moss. Did he snore? She hoped so. It seemed a waste for her to fall for a quiet sleeper.
“Hotel Oriente,” she said to the driver.
The ride should not have taken long, but the streets were full of carts, carriages, and vendors. The sun had gentled. The city smelled like roasting chestnuts. From the slightly weathered red-and-gilt scrolls above the doors of many businesses, they were nearing the end of Chinese New Year festivities. The neighborhood was almost back to work, but not quite.
Outside the Oriente, she descended from the calesa, tipped the driver and the bellhop, and walked up the stone stairs to the lobby. She strode straight past the front desk and toward the door that led to the cluster of narrow, humid halls. Maybe the clerk was calling out for her to stop. Maybe he wasn’t.
After a few wrong turns in the dim light of this off-limits labyrinth, Della found a familiar passageway that led to a closed door. What was the point in knocking?
