Two and a half years after that telegram I find myself following L’Amie aboard the Prometheus, bound for California. I am clad head to toe in mourning black, and I cannot hold back memories of Jacob as he began his own trip to the gold fields. Having resisted this voyage as long as I could, and somewhat cheered by the brilliant autumn sun, I vow to try and make the best of it. Nonetheless, I cannot summon a smile to my face.
“Couldn’t you have worn something more colorful?” my sister asks. She’s dressed in a pretty frock of deep emerald green with an overcoat in a lighter shade. The sash and bow on her hat match her dress, of course, and she’s
a vision of youthful anticipation.
“I am a widow,” I say tersely. She knows of my love for Jacob. I could not let my mourning go after the customary year. I may not ever let it go.
She sighs. “Do you think Mama will be waiting for us in San Francisco?”
“Mama and Lucian and Coelia will be there,” I assure her over my doubts, “as will all the children, and Cousin Henry. It will be quite festive.” We fall silent, I lost in gloom, she affected by my mood.
Steam hangs in the crisp October air as the departure whistle blows. Uncle Benjamin and Aunt Eveline have not come to see us off. I’m sure he is glad to be rid of us. A year after arriving in California, Lucian sent for Coelia and the children. I shudder to think I might have been awaiting Jacob’s summons that long. My elder sister, eager to be reunited with her husband, did not delay. Mama went along to help with the four children, the littlest girl still a babe in arms. L’Amie, however, had not yet completed her schooling, so I stayed with her in New York, both of us ostensibly under Uncle Benjamin’s watchful eye. In the year since, L’Amie and I have become rather outspoken on issues that plague our dear uncle. I fear we have quite worn out our welcome. Now we embark on the adventure of our lives, following the path of my greatest love.
I turn away from the ship’s railing to follow L’Amie to our stateroom. A long hallway runs the length of the ship with twelve staterooms on either side. Ours adjoins that of a young married couple of our acquaintance, Mr. and Mrs. Brown. I’m sure Uncle Benjamin believes the Browns will be a stabilizing influence on L’Amie and me. I smile at the notion and busy myself unpacking as we get under way, engines rumbling gently below us.
The ship will take us to a new life, full of golden opportunities managed by Mama. At what point in a woman’s life is she able to step out from under the reins of her mother and guide her own life? Mama would say when she marries. I’ve done that, and lost my husband. Mama crawled back to the bosom of her family when she lost Papa. She has always done what society expects. She’s very proper and is determined that I learn to be.
“I won’t waste this voyage in a stuffy stateroom,” L’Amie declares, sailing forth with her luggage half-unpacked. “Let’s take a turn on deck.”
As the older sister, it’s my duty to make sure our things are stowed properly, but I hesitate only a moment. “I’m coming,” I call, and hurry after my sister.
Watching L’Amie greet strangers with ease, I’m very aware of my responsibility to fulfill Mama’s role on this voyage, to keep L’Amie dependent on convention and family. I sigh deeply.
The glorious clear weather continues, and the moonlit evening is too pleasant to miss. The water before us ripples in a silver swath as one of the crew breaks out in a credible rendition of “Roll on Silver Moon.” Mr. Brown surprises me with a deep baritone accompaniment, and before you know it the passengers are all singing. L’Amie has quite a good voice, but I sing softly so as not to scare people into diving overboard. When our self-styled song leader begins “Oh California,” I wander to the far side of the ship. My past is in New York, and that includes Jacob. My future is in California without him, and my trepidation outshines my anticipation.
On the third day out, the ocean turns rough. L’Amie is almost immediately confined to her bunk with seasickness. While my stomach is queasy, I remain upright enough to help her sip the chicken broth that is suddenly quite in demand.
“Enough, Ellen,” she fusses.
I attempt to distract her by discussing our favorite topic. “I wonder how Mrs. Anthony’s lecture on abolition went last night?”
“And Mrs. Stanton on temperance the night before,” L’Amie says, eyes bright with passion? Or with fever? “I’m so sorry we missed their talks! I was so looking forward to them!”
“Those women are so brave to take on the fight for women’s rights as well as slaves’ rights. I wish we could stay in New York and really do some good.” I temper my tone so as not to overexcite my sister. Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton are working hard to ensure a better future for us, and we are shunted off to California where the news from New York will be months old by the time we hear it.
“No more broth, Ellen,” she whines.
I ignore her and fill the spoon, lifting it to her mouth. “You must eat, dear heart. We have barely begun our adventure. You must get well!”
A sharp knock causes me to put down the bowl of soup. It’s Mr. Brown.
“How is Miss Perkins?” he asks.
“Well enough to complain,” I say with a smile. It’s good of him to check in with us, since his own wife is also overcome by the ship’s motion. “Has Mrs. Brown kept down the broth?”
“Only a bit,” he admits, his eyes troubled.
“I’m sure the weather will be better in the morning,” I assure him.
Thanking him for his concern, I shut the door and return to my sister. She has fallen into a fitful sleep, and I cover her broth with a towel so she can sup later.
The heaving seas stay with us for nearly ten days, which blend together in a haze of squeamishness. Proud of being able to rise from my bunk for at least part of every day, I force myself on deck when the weather, and the captain, allow. The captain is a kind man, and he usually has a pocket full of dried codfish strips that he gives to the lady passengers. He says it stimulates the appetite while calming the stomach. It does seem to work, although after seeing the turned up noses and labored chewing of passengers who eat it, I am grateful I do not need it.
I enjoy a brief conversation with the captain on a breezy morning. L’Amie is quite recovered, although pale and thin. She, Mr. Brown, and I are taking a slow turn about the deck when the captain approaches. Mr. Brown asks him about our route.
“It is the Vanderbilt Line’s route,” the captain explains. “Mr. Vanderbilt has cut two days off the voyage by going through Nicaragua instead of Panama.”
“The Panama route is the traditional one, is it not?” I ask.
“Yes, but this new route is safe and quite picturesque through the jungle,” he assures us. “Much less enervating than the Panama route.”
“We will be quite free with our opinions should we encounter you on a return voyage,” L’Amie says.
He and Mr. Brown laugh, for we haven’t yet arrived in San Francisco and she’s already talking about returning! I, however, know that L’Amie wishes her sojourn in California to be a brief one. She’s determined to attend medical school in New York as soon as she has reconnected with our mother and can make her wishes known. Ashamed of my selfishness, I can’t help but hope my sister’s insistence will take Mama’s attention off finding me another spouse.
As we near Central America, the heat increases and Mrs. Brown recovers. We pack away our heavier dresses in favor of lighter fabrics. It’s the warmest October we have ever experienced. Mrs. Brown walks the decks with us as we share impassioned discussions about temperance and abolition and even the notion of women voting. Mrs. Brown is quite alarmed at our views.
“You will not win yourselves husbands if you are so strident,” she chides, and is surprised when we laugh.
“I have no desire to marry,” L’Amie declares.
“And I have already done so,” I tell her.
She looks me up and down, frowning at the black gown and black hat. “It’s been two years since Jacob died. I am sure your mother plans husbands for you both.” But her tone tells me she really doesn’t care. I am glad, as I hold Jacob in my heart still.
We land at San Juan del Norte, recently renamed Greytown after its British governor, and disembark to find our land legs have quite deserted us. Almost immediately, though, we board a small stern-wheeled river steamer to head up the San Juan River. Although it should be exciting to be commencing another phase of our journey, the boat is very full. The river steamer scheduled to leave before ours has sunk in the river, and the passengers from the ill-fated boat have been added to ours. The idea of such danger, and the odor of so many people in close quarters, feeds my depression. Nonetheless I force a smile onto my face and wonder if the other passengers’ high spirits are equally contrived.
On the Prometheus, Mr. Brown took up with a card player who was great fun. He has a wonderful deep singing voice, and together with Mr. Brown he serenades the jungle animals as we make our way up the narrow San Juan River.
“Look, Ellen!” my sister calls. “A howler monkey! The captain was telling me about them just this morning!”
I frown, not wanting her to share pleasantries with the rough captain of our tiny river steamer. Before I can respond, however, she exclaims, “And the birds! Look at the beautiful colors!”
The monkeys and birds screech in a cacophony of noise. The deep green foliage reaches into the waterway, and natives in dugout canoes paddle past us. I stand near the ship’s rail, clinging to the support post of the flimsy awning that provides a bit of shade from the ferocious tropical sun. A dugout approaches, pushed closer to our steamer by the straggling branches and roots of a large tree. A lone man paddles, kneeling in the center of the flimsy vessel. He is clad in naught but a cloth around his hips, and his darkly bronzed chest gleams with perspiration. A few ladies near me titter nervously and turn away, but my gaze is caught by his coal black eyes. He ceases paddling for a moment and drifts, his eyes locked on mine. I shiver, but cannot look away until he is past, paddling again, a long dark braid swinging down his back.
For a moment I wonder what my proper shipmates would think if I jumped overboard into this man’s canoe and allowed him to take me away to his village. I would discard my heavy proper attire and go about dressed in very little, as do the natives. My heart free, I would laugh and love and raise little nut-brown children. The ridiculous notion makes me smile with genuine amusement for the first time in days, and the steel vise of despair clamped around my heart loosens just a bit. I resolve to think more positively about my future so as not to drive Mrs. Brown to distraction and L’Amie to gloom.
“Oh my, Ellen, alligators!” L’Amie’s tone is one of excited horror and I turn to see the creatures. One sleeps in the sun, and another wallows in the shallow water. “Do you think they will follow us and upset the boat so they can try their jaws upon us?” my sister asks.
“Actually, they appear much too lazy to work that hard for a meal,” I reassure her with a smile.
She smiles back, somehow catching exuberance from me. Her bright blue flowered dress enhances the mood of gaiety, and as the ship chugs upriver we laugh like carefree denizens of the jungle, for the moment impervious to the tropical sun.
Before long, however, the humidity saps our energy. By midmorning on the second day, we grow weary of the food, the sudden torrential rainstorms, the mosquitoes, and the crowded conditions. I notice a couple of industrious ladies who pull the steward aside and beg for some boon. They disappear below.
In due time, the result of their pleas appears on deck. They have made a pot of hasty pudding! In deep tin pie plates, holding as much corn meal mush swimming in molasses as they can carry, they distribute it to the crowd. Spoons are quickly employed to good use, and we soon hold our empty dishes up for more.
Finally, near the end of the second day, we complete our 125 mile journey to Lake Nicaragua. We walk a short distance around the Castilian Rapids to the lakeside town of San Carlos. It exists merely that we may transfer to a larger steamer. San Carlos boasts no visitor accommodations, so we are expected to sleep aboard ship. Even so, there is not enough room for all to sleep comfortably. L’Amie and I spend an uncomfortable night wrapped in our shawls lying atop our trunks.
“L’Amie,” I whisper. “Do you ever wonder if the Panama route is truly worse than this?”
“It seems impossible, does it not?” she agrees. After a moment of silence broken only by the noises of the tropical night and the mechanical rumbles beneath us, she speaks again. “Ellen, what will we do when we reach California?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but I know the answer. I am a childless widow, and she is a single young woman. We are expected to live with our mother or find a husband. Neither is acceptable to two young women who have lived as we have for the last year, making our own decisions. I suspected months ago, when Mama began pushing us to make this trip, that she already had a suitable match in mind for one if not both of us. Our dreams of independence will not matter at all when we return to the real world.
“I don’t want to get married,” L’Amie whispers. Her thoughts seem to be echoing mine. “Will I really be able to return to New York and attend medical school?”
“You finished your schooling with very good marks,” I compliment her, not wanting to be the one to dash her dreams. If Papa had lived, he might be surprised how good a student his delight turned out to be. More importantly, she thirsts for knowledge like a flower in the sun thirsts for water.
“Elizabeth Blackwell earned her medical degree two years ago at Geneva College. Do you think they’d accept me?”
“There should be nothing to prevent you.” A split second of silence, then we say together, “Except Mama.” Our giggles cause those curled next to us to mutter angrily.
I am grateful for my sister on this trip. Without her sunny disposition, I could easily have remained steeped in despair. Both of us have mosquito bites on top of mosquito bites, and our complexion is burned by the sun. Our hair resembles rain-drenched rat’s nests. Even so, we are enjoying the adventure and each other.
Lake Nicaragua is more placid than the river, and the following day is spent crossing it. We disturb a huge flock of water birds that take our breath away with wonder as they rise from the water’s surface crying outrage at our intrusion. A large island looms to the north of us, and L’Amie exclaims, “How beautiful it is!”
Mr. Brown hastens to dissuade her. “That is Ometepe Island. It means two mountains. Two very dangerous mountains.”
“It is a wild and beautiful place,” I tell him.
“That it is,” he says. “But those two mountains are active volcanoes. And to the north of the island, at the far end of the lake, is the city of Granada, home to some of the area’s most active pirates.”
“Pirates!”
I can’t tell if L’Amie’s squeal is delight or terror. It’s as well we are staying to the south.
We dock at a rickety wooden piling and disembark. “Welcome to Rivas!” the captain shouts, as if we should celebrate.
Rivas holds more mud than people. The locals may call it a village, but it is nothing more than a few tents and some wooden walkways. It is here we prepare for the next leg of our journey, crossing eleven miles of land to the Pacific Ocean. Mr. Brown attempts to be helpful by telling us that Mr. Vanderbilt intends to install a stagecoach line to make the journey.
“He can afford it,” he jokes. “Even though we each paid $200 less than those traveling around the Cape, Mr. Vanderbilt is a wealthy man. He plans to make the journey quite comfortable.”
“It’s hardly been comfortable up until now,” I observe. “Why should he start here?”
Unbeknownst to me, my words are prophetic. There is no sign of Mr. Vanderbilt’s stagecoaches, which apparently exist only in men’s dreams at this point. We are to make the journey overland mounted on mules. The beasts are in such demand, however, that it is not certain we can all be supplied with one. The lady passengers are directed to a huge blue tent to wait while the gentlemen complete the arrangements. I am much too bedraggled to object as I precede my sister inside.
We are assisted up a ladder to a loft that covers half the tent. We sit in groups on the wooden floor and listen to the rain hitting the canvas. Restless, I walk over to peek out the opening near the pointed roof. Water is everywhere: sky, river, lake, and street. I close the flap as well as I can, then look down into the tent proper. The scent of male sweat and damp canvas permeates the tent. A long counter below us is occupied by men playing cards, which they continue to do for the duration of our stay.
Delays plague us. I am tired of sleeping without undressing, and of listening to the quarrelsome talk of the natives in their foreign tongue. No better is the prattling conversation of shallow friendships forged by adversity. I’m afraid the close quarters, and the waiting, are beginning to affect us all.
My mind keeps circling back to that whispered conversation with L’Amie on the river steamer. I’m proud of her steadfast desire to become a doctor, and I vow to assist her however I can. My own political views are rather unattractive to most marriageable men, and I will not go backwards, forcing myself into a role that no longer fits. I must find a career or a forward-thinking man, neither of which seems easy on this mud-spattered journey. California, though, is a frontier, and frontiers are known for encouraging strong people to rise to the top. I will be one of those people.