dropped anchor outside the harbor and the harbormaster came on board, a blend of humanity ranging from the copper-skinned native in scant attire to the pigtailed coolie to the white-suited Englishman alighted from the motley assortment of boats surrounding the steamer and swarmed on deck.
I rushed to my cabin to grab my reticule and black cloth traveling bag (my luggage was, I presumed, aboard a steamlaunch). Before the passengers were allowed to disembark, there was the matter of examination by the quarantine officer. A British physician had come aboard ship to check the passengers for symptoms of disease and ordered the female passengers into the dining saloon.
Seated upon a cold wooden bench, I wasn’t the only woman wondering what sort of examination we’d be forced to undergo. Chattering Chinese matrons from steerage and their offspring received the most scrutiny, while the quiet missionary woman I’d spoken to during the voyage disappeared back to her stateroom in a flurry of gray linen, since she was headed for Hong Kong. I would miss her presence and the smell of fresh lavender rising from her plain cotton handkerchief when she wiped the sea spray off her nose or waved it at the steward to gain his attention. I couldn’t imagine when I’d see another Englishwoman again.
I, alone, remained. I expected no special treatment. This wasn’t England and the deference I received strolling along Regent Street in London was of no import here. I sensed a hurriedness about the physician and the desire to move on to the next task in an orderly manner. His wandering eyes did little to ease the tension racing through me when he asked me several questions, including if I was with child.
Dropping my eyes, I faltered, hesitant to answer him. What if he wished to examine me?
I’d refuse. ’Tis worry enough I had about keeping my husband to his own bed without allowing any doubt about the consummation of my marriage by a stranger. Yet I was aware that by keeping separate quarters from my husband, I had doomed myself to a life left unfulfilled. The reality of what they meant raked across my heart, grabbing me, my faith shaken, my mood saddened. Would I ever know the joy, the softsmells, the magic of motherhood? A dull ache settled in my empty womb, disheartened as I was by the thought of a life of barrenness.
Taking my quiet manner for shyness, the physician assured me he made the same inquiry of all married women then told me that once I’d answered him, I was free to go ashore. I tried to smile, then I whispered a quiet no, at the same time wondering what he would say if he knew I remained a virgin bride?
Which brought to mind his lordship, the perpetrator of the current state of my melancholy mood. Cooing and acting the perfect spouse aboard ship, my pandering husband had disappeared down the plank and into the first hotel steam launch to arrive on mooring. Rushing to meet his business partner, he assured me before leaving me to fend for myself. I didn’t have to be a clear-sighted muse to know he wished to be rid of me.
We shall see about that, I vowed, grabbing my travel bag and racing out of the dining saloon to join the other first-class passengers aboard a steam launch to take us ashore. With the crested waves hitting the sides of the launch and foamy spray wetting my nose, my cheeks, I looked out over the gray-misted ocean toward the harbor as we approached what was known as the hatoba, or pier. A most extraordinary sight piqued my curiosity when my breath caught on a wisp of late morning fog. Fuji-yama. The highest mountain in Japan towered over the islands with a presence that was indeed godly. A gentleman behind me clapped his hands in glee, explaining this was his third trip to Japan and the first time the icy-capped mountain had shown itself when the ship approached land. He was quick to add that a few years ago he was with the party to reach the summit with the first womanto climb the mountain in tow. An
I rushed to my cabin to grab my reticule and black cloth traveling bag (my luggage was, I presumed, aboard a steamlaunch). Before the passengers were allowed to disembark, there was the matter of examination by the quarantine officer. A British physician had come aboard ship to check the passengers for symptoms of disease and ordered the female passengers into the dining saloon.
Seated upon a cold wooden bench, I wasn’t the only woman wondering what sort of examination we’d be forced to undergo. Chattering Chinese matrons from steerage and their offspring received the most scrutiny, while the quiet missionary woman I’d spoken to during the voyage disappeared back to her stateroom in a flurry of gray linen, since she was headed for Hong Kong. I would miss her presence and the smell of fresh lavender rising from her plain cotton handkerchief when she wiped the sea spray off her nose or waved it at the steward to gain his attention. I couldn’t imagine when I’d see another Englishwoman again.
I, alone, remained. I expected no special treatment. This wasn’t England and the deference I received strolling along Regent Street in London was of no import here. I sensed a hurriedness about the physician and the desire to move on to the next task in an orderly manner. His wandering eyes did little to ease the tension racing through me when he asked me several questions, including if I was with child.
Dropping my eyes, I faltered, hesitant to answer him. What if he wished to examine me?
I’d refuse. ’Tis worry enough I had about keeping my husband to his own bed without allowing any doubt about the consummation of my marriage by a stranger. Yet I was aware that by keeping separate quarters from my husband, I had doomed myself to a life left unfulfilled. The reality of what they meant raked across my heart, grabbing me, my faith shaken, my mood saddened. Would I ever know the joy, the softsmells, the magic of motherhood? A dull ache settled in my empty womb, disheartened as I was by the thought of a life of barrenness.
Taking my quiet manner for shyness, the physician assured me he made the same inquiry of all married women then told me that once I’d answered him, I was free to go ashore. I tried to smile, then I whispered a quiet no, at the same time wondering what he would say if he knew I remained a virgin bride?
Which brought to mind his lordship, the perpetrator of the current state of my melancholy mood. Cooing and acting the perfect spouse aboard ship, my pandering husband had disappeared down the plank and into the first hotel steam launch to arrive on mooring. Rushing to meet his business partner, he assured me before leaving me to fend for myself. I didn’t have to be a clear-sighted muse to know he wished to be rid of me.
We shall see about that, I vowed, grabbing my travel bag and racing out of the dining saloon to join the other first-class passengers aboard a steam launch to take us ashore. With the crested waves hitting the sides of the launch and foamy spray wetting my nose, my cheeks, I looked out over the gray-misted ocean toward the harbor as we approached what was known as the hatoba, or pier. A most extraordinary sight piqued my curiosity when my breath caught on a wisp of late morning fog. Fuji-yama. The highest mountain in Japan towered over the islands with a presence that was indeed godly. A gentleman behind me clapped his hands in glee, explaining this was his third trip to Japan and the first time the icy-capped mountain had shown itself when the ship approached land. He was quick to add that a few years ago he was with the party to reach the summit with the first womanto climb the mountain in tow. An
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