Bly wiped her forehead with the hanky her mother embroidered.
Two Years Later…New York City, Summer 1889Nellie Bly did not come all the way from Pittsburgh to New York City’s famous Park Row to accept “no” for an answer. She didn’t care that it was high noon on the hottest day of the hottest summer in the city’s recorded history. She daintily dabbed perspiration from her upper lip with her lace-trimmed handkerchief.“I will not leave until I speak to Mr. Cockerill,” Bly repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. The uniformed guard in front of the New York World Newspaper glared at her. “The answer is still no! He will not see you. Now run a long,” the guard said impatiently.
5th Avenue.
Reporters glared at Bly from the second floor windows.
Bly saw him turn away with a smug grin. She understood his job was to protect Joseph Pulitzer’s newspaper office, but must he be so rude? She followed his gaze up to the second floor window where a crowd of cigar chomping reporters and disheveled copy boys gawked down at her, laughing and pointing in amusement. Their number appeared to grow by the second, as they clamored for a space at the window to catch a glimpse of the crazy girl at the guard gate below.As she stood in the sweltering heat with all eyes fixed on her, she thought about the many months she had knocked on the doors of every newspaper and magazine that kept offices in New York City. Even with her thick stack of clippings from the Pittsburgh Gazette and a glowing letter of reference from her editor, she had received nothing but rejection. It had been a terrible time for her.With her head bowed now, Bly turned away from the guard. “Perhaps I’ll just write Mr. Cockerill another letter,” she said, her voice heavy with defeat. “That’s a good sensible girl. You run along,” the guard said with a look of sheer relief.
Bly locked one end of the handcuffs to the gate.
It was the hottest day in years.
Bly’s heart pounded as she waited like a tiger poised for the perfect moment. When the guard turned his back to beam a victorious smile up to the men in the window, she pulled her secret weapon from her beaded purse. It clanked loudly.The guard spun around, just in time to see her snap one end of a pair of handcuffs to her wrist. Before he could stop her, she snapped the other end to his gate. He stared at her in disbelief. “Please tell Mr. Cockerill that Nellie Bly has story ideas that will change his newspaper forever,” she said.“Mr. Cockerill already said no. And you can’t possibly stay here. It’s at least a hundred degrees in the sun,” he said.“That’s quite alright, sir,” Bly said. “I’m prepared to die.” “Give me the key to the handcuffs,” he demanded.“I will be happy to. As soon as Mr. Cockerill agrees to see me.” She spoke from a place deep in her diaphragm, a trick her father taught her to use when she found herself in difficult situations. She hoped the guard would not detect in her voice the fear she felt from her head down to her toes.He stood perfectly still, freezing her with his cold eyes. She wondered if the handcuffs were such a good idea after all, but she could almost hear her father’s voice saying, “Never second guess yourself, Nellie.” She felt her father’s ring that she wore on her thumb.The guard suddenly turned away. This time, he shrugged helplessly to the men in the second-story window. It seemed he had given up. She glanced nonchalantly up at the men, noting that they no longer looked amused; they looked downright nervous. She stood quietly, waiting for the guard to make his next move.
Bly loved the sound of the streets of New York.
In contrast to her silence, she listened to the shock of noise in the street behind her. Vehicles of every kind clogged the road – from small carriages to wooden brewery carts drawn by massive horses, to pushcarts pulled by humans. All kicked up clouds of dust as they clattered noisily across the rough cobblestones. She loved the sounds and smells of this great city.She scanned the crowd of spectators behind her. It was growing by the second now. She heard them talking in the many languages of the immigrants who had been flooding into New York. From their excited voices, she gathered that most of the onlookers assumed she was either guilty of a crime or crazy – or possibly both.
Bly felt a hole in her worn hat.
Bly stood tall and straightened her hat. It was simple, but it had been reasonably stylish three years ago when she purchased it in Pittsburgh. She had not been able to afford a new one since then. As she adjusted the brim to keep the sun out of her eyes, she felt a small ragged hole in the straw fibers. Embarrassed, she attempted to hide it with the ribbon and hoped no one would notice.
Bisland wore a stylish new hat.
At that very moment, Elizabeth Bisland, decked out in her brand-new designer outfit and elaborate feathered hat, strutted past the crowd. She tilted her nose toward the sky, attempting to escape the sounds and smells around her. She detested the filthy streets, but she detested nothing more than public commotions. Still, this one was happening in front of the New York World Newspaper so she couldn’t resist stopping to see what was attracting such a large crowd.Bisland stood at the edge of the crowd. She was a statuesque beauty, tall enough to see over the heads of the other onlookers. As she strained to catch a glimpse of what was causing the disruption, the well-dressed gentleman beside her explained. “It’s Nellie Bly. That girl who went up in a hot air balloon.”“Oh, her,” Bisland said in a flat voice that dripped with disapproval. She scowled at the back of Bly’s tattered hat when suddenly, Bly turned around to scan the crowd. It was as if she sensed Bisland’s eyes boring a hole in the back of her head. Bisland’s fussy green hat with its baubles and bows instantly caught Bly’s attention.“Poor dear. She’s admiring my hat,” Bisland said half to herself and half to the gentleman beside her. She adjusted the veil with a haughty gesture. As she did, a feather dropped over her face and tickled her nose. She sneezed in a most unbecomingly loud and unladylike explosion that caused her heavy hat to tilt on her head. The crowd turned as one to stare at her.Bly covered her mouth to silence a laugh. Bisland quickly straightened her hat. With the crowd still staring at her, she chilled Bly with a contemptuous look. She flicked the feather away from her face, then turned sharply on her heels, sniffing in utter disgust.Bisland marched angrily across the street and up the stairs of the offices of Cosmopolitan Magazine. As she waited for a gentleman to hold the front door open for her, she glanced back discretely to catch a final look at Bly who was still watching her. “Cockerill will never see the likes of that so-called woman,” Bisland said under her breath as she disappeared through the door.
