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Authors: Carol McCleary
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shadow, a figure—is at my porthole.
Gripping my shoe, I slowly get up to see “what” if anything is there. Just inches away from my porthole a man’s face abruptly appears. Someone might as well have thrown a spider in my face. I drop my shoe, and the face, draped by a gray striped hood, disappears as quickly as it came.
Without any thought, I run for my door, throwing off the other shoe I still had on and barrel out of the doorway, racing down the corridor to the companionway and out to the deck.
Breathless, heart in my mouth, I make myself slow down so as not to draw any attention and cautiously walk down the deck toward my porthole.
Several male passengers are mingling about, enjoying their evening cigars and brandy, none in Egyptian hoods. I look in every direction trying to figure out where the hooded man went.
My feet are wet from the deck’s evening washing and even though it is not cold, my body shivers. Putting my chin and shoulders up, I’m determined to strengthen my resolve. I know there was a face at my porthole with the same hood as Mr. Cleveland’s when he was killed in the marketplace. Whoever is trying to frighten me can go to hell.
I march back down the deck to the companionway, meeting Frederick Selous returning to his cabin.
Staring down at my bare feet and lack of a night coat, he asks, “Is something wrong, Miss Bly?”
“Does it look like something is wrong to you, Mr. Selous?”
I leave him with that until I am past him. He pauses at his cabin door and appears wishing he could say something.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Selous, I don’t frighten easy. In fact, when I get scared, I get mad.”
I strut into my cabin six feet tall and filled with strength.
Once my door is shut behind me I collapse against it and try to get my breathing back into a normal rhythm. Then I lock it and shove the cabin chair under the handle.
What the devil? What insanity is this? Someone’s idea of a bad joke?
No, not a joke, but something much more cruel—an attempt to frighten me, perhaps even send me running to the captain screaming that the ghost of John Cleveland has paid me a visit. If someone wanted to discredit me, that would certainly be grist for the mill.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at the face in the porthole, all I saw was a dark face half hidden in the hood of a cloak, but I have no doubt that it meant to frighten me into believing it was him.
I draw the curtain over the porthole before slipping into bed, still angry and tense from the invasion of my privacy. The face in the window had served a powerful purpose—it brought home the fact that the murderous rage that spilled blood in the marketplace has followed me back to the ship.
The small cabin suddenly makes me feel confined, with an eerie sense of being cornered. I’m no longer certain I’m safe aboard. I feel exposed, even trapped, rather than safe and cozy because I don’t know who I can trust and there’s no place to run and hide.
The key had cost John Cleveland his life. Now it is a magnet bringing the danger and intrigues to me on a ship I should feel safe aboard.
And I lied to Frederick Selous.
I do get scared.
NEW YORK WORLD NOVEMBER 14, 1889
THE DAY NELLIE LEFT ON HER TRIP
TRAVEL CLOTHES AND VEILS OF VICTORIAN WOMEN
PORT SAID
Day 14
T HE M IRACLE
LIGHTHOUSE AND ENTRANCE TO SUEZ CANAL
10
Riding in a carriage through Port Said in an early dawn darkened by angry clouds, I no longer see the land of the eternal Nile as an enchanted place created with an artist’s brush to satiate my senses with the strange and exotic. Instead, I feel as if I have been transported back to the malevolent Egypt of the Old Testament, where mighty pharaohs who called themselves living gods ruled with the whip and the God of the Israelites turned the Nile red with His wrath. Only this time, the blood that taints the waters might be my own.
I try to shake off the feeling of gloom and doom and anxiety about whether an
Gripping my shoe, I slowly get up to see “what” if anything is there. Just inches away from my porthole a man’s face abruptly appears. Someone might as well have thrown a spider in my face. I drop my shoe, and the face, draped by a gray striped hood, disappears as quickly as it came.
Without any thought, I run for my door, throwing off the other shoe I still had on and barrel out of the doorway, racing down the corridor to the companionway and out to the deck.
Breathless, heart in my mouth, I make myself slow down so as not to draw any attention and cautiously walk down the deck toward my porthole.
Several male passengers are mingling about, enjoying their evening cigars and brandy, none in Egyptian hoods. I look in every direction trying to figure out where the hooded man went.
My feet are wet from the deck’s evening washing and even though it is not cold, my body shivers. Putting my chin and shoulders up, I’m determined to strengthen my resolve. I know there was a face at my porthole with the same hood as Mr. Cleveland’s when he was killed in the marketplace. Whoever is trying to frighten me can go to hell.
I march back down the deck to the companionway, meeting Frederick Selous returning to his cabin.
Staring down at my bare feet and lack of a night coat, he asks, “Is something wrong, Miss Bly?”
“Does it look like something is wrong to you, Mr. Selous?”
I leave him with that until I am past him. He pauses at his cabin door and appears wishing he could say something.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Selous, I don’t frighten easy. In fact, when I get scared, I get mad.”
I strut into my cabin six feet tall and filled with strength.
Once my door is shut behind me I collapse against it and try to get my breathing back into a normal rhythm. Then I lock it and shove the cabin chair under the handle.
What the devil? What insanity is this? Someone’s idea of a bad joke?
No, not a joke, but something much more cruel—an attempt to frighten me, perhaps even send me running to the captain screaming that the ghost of John Cleveland has paid me a visit. If someone wanted to discredit me, that would certainly be grist for the mill.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at the face in the porthole, all I saw was a dark face half hidden in the hood of a cloak, but I have no doubt that it meant to frighten me into believing it was him.
I draw the curtain over the porthole before slipping into bed, still angry and tense from the invasion of my privacy. The face in the window had served a powerful purpose—it brought home the fact that the murderous rage that spilled blood in the marketplace has followed me back to the ship.
The small cabin suddenly makes me feel confined, with an eerie sense of being cornered. I’m no longer certain I’m safe aboard. I feel exposed, even trapped, rather than safe and cozy because I don’t know who I can trust and there’s no place to run and hide.
The key had cost John Cleveland his life. Now it is a magnet bringing the danger and intrigues to me on a ship I should feel safe aboard.
And I lied to Frederick Selous.
I do get scared.
NEW YORK WORLD NOVEMBER 14, 1889
THE DAY NELLIE LEFT ON HER TRIP
TRAVEL CLOTHES AND VEILS OF VICTORIAN WOMEN
PORT SAID
Day 14
T HE M IRACLE
LIGHTHOUSE AND ENTRANCE TO SUEZ CANAL
10
Riding in a carriage through Port Said in an early dawn darkened by angry clouds, I no longer see the land of the eternal Nile as an enchanted place created with an artist’s brush to satiate my senses with the strange and exotic. Instead, I feel as if I have been transported back to the malevolent Egypt of the Old Testament, where mighty pharaohs who called themselves living gods ruled with the whip and the God of the Israelites turned the Nile red with His wrath. Only this time, the blood that taints the waters might be my own.
I try to shake off the feeling of gloom and doom and anxiety about whether an
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