“Ellen, Ellen!” L’Amie rushes along the wooden walkway outside the blue tent that serves as the center of life in Rivas. The gray of early morning illuminates the rain-darkened trees surrounding this clearing that I refuse to call a village. The hem of L’Amie’s skirt is so encrusted with mud that it will have to be burned once we arrive in San Francisco. Her shoes, once sturdy, are now muddy and worn. Neither of us wants to ruin another pair from our trunk, so we put on the dirty pair each day.
I sit on an upturned barrel where I have been contemplating life, until her shout breaks my reverie. Despite endless mud and the lack of progress on our journey, I am mostly content so I greet my sister with a smile.
“Ellen, today is the day! We are to be on our way this very day!”
Her news echoes across the camp, and behind me I feel the blue tent itself throb with life as everyone hurries to ready themselves. It’s not raining, for a change, when we assemble in front of the tent. Eight of the lady passengers, including L’Amie and me, are to travel in one group. A string of mules is led up, saddled with men’s saddles. A few of the women anxiously chatter to their husbands. Mr. Brown steps forward. “Sir,” he addresses the guide, “the women are not prepared to ride astride. We were told ladies’ saddles would be provided.”
The guide strokes his wiry beard and squints at our dear friend and his bride. “Rain’s made the roads slippery. Too dangerous.”
“I hope you have an extra pair of trousers, dear,” Mrs. Brown says to her husband with a nervous smile.
L’Amie grins at me and disappears into the blue tent. I follow, and we dig through our trunks for our bloomer suits, much ridiculed by Uncle Benjamin in New York. My sister and I acquired ours as soon as Amelia Bloomer began wearing them a few months ago. The suits cause consternation even in the fashion-conscious city. Who would have dreamed they would be so useful in the jungle of Nicaragua? We change quickly and return outside with smug smiles.
The women titter nervously at our attire, glancing at their husbands, but necessity erases the breath of scandal attached to these outfits. The men try not to glower at the ballooning pants pulled tight at the ankle, but outright laughter breaks out when each woman dons a pair of her husband’s trousers. Some fit quite well, like Mrs. Brown’s, since her husband is nearly the same size as she. On others, however, the misfit is quite comical. One woman is much taller than her husband, and the pant legs are much too short. She pulls on an extra pair of stockings, as if this will cover her ankles, and tries to squat to make the trousers reach her shoes. Another man is quite stout, and his wife swims in extra fabric.
We stop laughing very quickly as we mount the stubborn pungent animals and start out on the trail, which winds over steep territory. Rain pours down on us before long, and the low-hanging trees make the use of umbrellas impossible. My mood darkens as the mud grows deeper and I contemplate eleven miles of this. My mule slows, falling behind, and the guide returns for me. He ties the beast’s head to his mule’s tail.
“Use the whip lively, miss,” he orders me.
I do as I am told since visions haunt me of his mule galloping on, leaving his tail behind him like Bo Peep’s sheep, still tied to my rein. Down into deep gullies and up again on a dead run, I utter sharp little cries as the mule lurches, threatening to dump me into the mud. Never did I expect to encounter such a trying ordeal! I am slightly mollified when L’Amie’s startled shrieks echo my own. If the single men in San Francisco could see us now, they would run for the hills faster than Mama could snare them!
Long past dark we arrive at an old adobe hut with a deep-roofed porch. Hammocks swing from the porch rafters in tight rows. The earthen floor is trodden to mud in this season. We dismount in relief, expecting to be shown to a room for the night. I almost crumple to the ground at the stiffness in my legs. My joints groan like those of an old grandmother, and my bottom feels like it has been thrashed by an angry father. L’Amie and I are further dismayed to discover that our accommodations consist of one hammock, here on the porch, that we will share. At least we are offered supper.
The interior of the hut is dimly lit by a dipped candle fastened to the wall. Chicken is served, and coffee without milk. I’m so tired, I don’t even care what I’m eating. Nor, I find out soon enough, do I have enough energy to protest the sleeping arrangements.
In the middle of the night I am disturbed by snortings and bumpings from below. I peek over the hammock and see some swine trying to get out of the rain. It’s all I can do not to cry with frustration. L’Amie does begin to weep, and I hold her for the rest of the night. “Our future is bright,” I whisper, “compared with tonight’s darkness.” Only the pigs respond, snorting. L’Amie has fallen into a restless sleep.
Gray morning and sore muscles find us once more aboard the stubbornest of creatures. I have nicknamed my mule Uncle, which cheers L’Amie. Another full day brings us at last to San Juan del Sur, on the Pacific Ocean. Uncle, being among the slowest beasts in the country, has caused us to be the last to arrive.
“Goodbye, Uncle,” I say with an exaggerated bow to the wretched creature. “Yes, I will behave on the rest of our trip. No, I will not allow L’Amie to get into trouble.” My silliness is rewarded with a tired laugh from my sister.
Those who arrived before us have taken what primitive rooms exist, and no lodging is available in the town. L’Amie and I are part of a small group that takes refuge aboard a vessel lying in the harbor. The steamer that is to take us north to San Francisco has not yet arrived.
It’s a relief to lie on our bunks and give thanks that we are no longer on mule back. Bug bites itch and saddle sores ache, but we can close our eyes without falling off a beast into the mud. The air in the tiny cabin smells of sweaty sailors, but it’s blissfully dry. We have completed another leg of our journey, and that’s quite an accomplishment. The waters in the bay are restless, though, and the motion of the ship soon returns us to seaside distress.
L’Amie seems to have sunk into a perpetual state of weeping. Between sobs, she slaps at her arms. “Oh, Ellen, the mosquitoes are terrible!”
“But think of the stories we will tell to our family once we arrive in San Francisco!” She is not consoled by my attempt to cheer her. “Come on, sister, let’s go up to the fresh air on deck.” I help her up the ladder, and we are relieved when the breeze wafts away the pests. “Let’s bring our mattresses up here so we have a chance of rest,” I suggest.
L’Amie’s mattress is stuffed with some very heavy plant material. I can barely budge it. Together, we manage to stand it up on its side. Our hair is in great disarray, and sweat beads on my forehead. The sweet night air beckons us onward, and we put our backs to the mattress. Shoving with our feet, we are able to get it into the narrow hallway. Tugging and grunting, with L’Amie going first and me pushing from behind, we manage to wrestle the mattress up the ladder. Breathing heavily, we flop it down on the deck and pat it to even out the lumps. We decide one mattress will do for the both of us since we are winded. L’Amie returns to the stuffy cabin for a couple of thin pillows.
Night-cooled skin makes even the mosquitoes more bearable. The sky stretches above us, filled with stars, washed clean and clear by the rain. A pristine crescent-shaped bay stretches from the beach out to sea. On shore, the gaiety from drinking and carousing makes us glad we are on the ship. This is our home for a couple of days, and we bask in the respite from traveling, discussing neither our past nor our future but living day by day.
Finally a steamer is spotted, and we are thankful to find it is our long-awaited transport. The large number of passengers creates considerable excitement getting all their belongings stowed on board. Captain Blethen welcomes us aboard the North America. He seems a most congenial host. His hugely pregnant wife is traveling with him, and I learn this is an arrangement that suits them. The captain tells us it is now just a two-week voyage up the coast to our destination. To be so close is exciting.
Compared to mules and mud, the North America is a luxury. L’Amie and I feel truly clean for the first time since we left the Caribbean to head up the San Juan River, even if we are only able to splash cool water on our faces and arms from a tiny sink. Early November may not be the most beautiful time to sail the Pacific Ocean, but today is magnificent. Everything is sunshine and blue sea; there is no rain and no mosquitoes. The thrum of the engines under my feet echoes the thrum of happiness in my heart. Journey’s end will bring changes, but I am at peace with them. I have found more strength within myself on this trip than I even knew I had. After all, who can force me to marry when I’ve ridden a recalcitrant mule through a muddy jungle? Even Mama is tame compared to that.
Soon after leaving port, Captain Blethen’s wife gives birth to a daughter. L’Amie is on hand to wipe Henrietta’s brow as she labors, easing the pain of birth as best she can. Her bedside manner is natural and calming. I vow to help her convince Mama that medical school is her path. Baby Evelyn Georgina Blethen is the delight of crew and passengers. She is the cause of a grand celebratory feast. Mr. Brown begins singing, and we all join in to serenade the youngest member of our party.
L’Amie and I have a private ceremony of our own. One evening, as the sun slips beneath the horizon and turns the world orange and purple, we bring on deck the dresses we wore in Nicaragua. Her flowered blue and my black have been laundered, but are tattered from the abuse we subjected them to in the jungle. I need no rags to remind me of what I gained there. My shoulders are straighter, my chin higher, my smile wider with confidence. I see the same sort of changes in my sister. Together we lift the dresses over the rail and watch them float to the ocean’s surface. The ship steams on into night. Somewhere in the blackness behind us, the symbols of our youth grow sodden with salt water and sink below the surface. L’Amie and I stand at the railing with our arms around each other’s waists, content.
As if to test my newfound serenity, solemn occasions arise to dampen our spirits. Several people die, and we must carry out burials at sea. A young mother loses her infant daughter, whose father in San Francisco has never seen her. I think of Coelia, traveling with little Molly. I can imagine how joyfully Lucian greeted them in San Francisco, reaching for his new daughter for the first time. The father of this infant will be expecting such an arrival only to be met with empty arms. A woman in steerage is consigned to the waves, her two daughters wild with grief. I almost feel guilty worrying about Mama attempting to regain control of my life when they have lost their own mother. The ringing of the bells and reading of the service is sober and ceremonial, with the body sewn up in canvas lying ready to be placed upon the slide by a swarthy seaman. Seven such burials are conducted on this voyage.
L’Amie scurries about the ship with purpose. She is no longer the flighty young girl who left New York with me. Passengers and crew alike seek her help with matters of the stomach, and even with no formal training my sister’s able to help many of them. One of the crew members gives her a little book to record her cases, just like a professional doctor.
“Ellen, I feel as if I am already beginning my practice. I just wish there was more I could do for some of these people.”
“My dear sister, I am impressed by your knowledge of herbal medicine. Have you been studying behind my back?”
She laughs then. “I learned a lot from Aunt Eveline, actually. It’s a challenge to figure out what is wrong with a person and then decide what might help. I love it.” Her eyes shine as she tells me all about her latest case, but at each of the deaths a shadow of regret clouds her features.
Acapulco is our final stop before San Francisco. The beautiful bay is enclosed on three sides by towering mountains that extend right up to the shoreline. It is another gem of sand and sea, but I am so anxious to reach our final destination I find myself longing for fog. I am not even tempted to disembark in the Mexican city, having heard plenty of the Spanish language in Nicaragua. L’Amie goes ashore with the Browns, and returns with tales of spicy food and hot tempered natives. It only makes me long for my own country. However foreign San Francisco may seem compared to New York, it is still America.
I spend my last hours aboard the North America on deck, gazing over the railing at the wild beauty of the California coast as we move past it. In San Francisco at last, we dock at the foot of Market Street. Plain board shanties, used as stores, are arranged on either side of us, and crowds of men stand watching the latest arrivals. I spot the Apollo, doing a brisk business as the store it was intended to be. My heart twists, but my resolve does not. My focus is the future. The past must stay a memory.
It’s November, but how different the air is from New York in this season! L’Amie becomes quite animated, waving her entire arm, and there on the dock are Mama and Cousin Henry. Tears well up as I wave and cry a greeting. Our journey has been a suspension of the real world, an opportunity to blend adventure and reflection. Now we return to family and society. I don’t feel ready to think about the details of tomorrow, yet tomorrow looms.
“We are really in California,” I tell my sister.
The ship Apollo and the brig Euphemia were among the early vessels to be abandoned and used for other purposes needed by the rapidly growing city of San Francisco. By 1850, these vessels were used as storeships.
Sacramento and Battery Streets, From the “Annals of San Francisco