by J. Hepburn
Bill led the way from the workshop area to the coach house area, around the huge enclosed steam coach the family was chauffeured in, and past Hugh's shooting brake.
"Oh, it's beautiful!" I burst out.
Hugh's new toy looked delicate but fast, with tall, wire-spoked wheels and a narrow, shallow but very long body suspended on coach springs, no roof and only a shallow glass screen in front of the passenger compartment, where two bucket seats sat side by side. Everything that was not gleaming brass was painted a rich, dark burgundy. The wheels seemed unusually delicate, but the tyres were sturdy and there was clearly room underneath the bonnet for a powerful engine, in proportion to the size of the car.
"Runs on vaporised paraffin," Bill said as he buffed an already perfectly clean headlamp. "Got some fancy new boiler system—tubes running over the burner, not a proper boiler at all." He spat again, into the shadows. "Don't like it. Fast to reach pressure, all right, and they claim Europe has had this for twenty years, but it doesn't seem safe to me. Anyway, only takes five minutes to get up to pressure, if you can believe it. Two-cylinder engine, claims fifteen horsepower. Well-balanced, I'll give them that. You won't get much mechanical noise and it's got one of them new condensers, so you won't be venting much steam, either. Good thing, too, the water tank's not what you'd call large."
I had to touch the paintwork. It felt like a vehicle meant for me, not like something that Hugh's crude and mechanically unsympathetic roughness deserved.
"You can run over the grass to the front gate," Bill said behind me. "Go slowly and quietly and you won't have any trouble with the ground. There's a break in the trees just near the front gate that this will fit through nicely. I reckon as how you know the one I mean, but I hope your eyes are as good as they were because I don't reckon you should be lighting the lamps until you're out of sight of the house. This little toy might not be much for any real work but the tyres are thick, so punctures are unlikely, and it'll get you all the way, if you stay out of trouble. Watch the water level and it'll be more reliable than a horse."
My slowly building hope suddenly came crashing down again. "Bill, you'll be given notice!"
His eyes opened wide. "Why, you don't mean to say I aided and abetted in your escape, do you, Miss? We all know you were playing with engines when you was down in Sydney, and how I keep the key to these here doors in the scullery with all the rest, and why, just the other week Miss Whittock the cook was saying how I keep these big doors so well-oiled even she could open one, and you only need one to get this car out! This car which, I might add, is right at the side of the workshop, where young Master Hugh asked me to put it out of harm's way, where I mayn't even notice it until after they realised you're gone!"
I had to laugh again, and spontaneously hugged the old man.
"Alex!" he said gruffly when I let him go. "Buckets!"
I put my engineer's gloves on. Thankfully, they were still supple after two years. I put my bag, the sack of food, my satchel and the canteen on the car's floor in front of the passenger seat. Following that, I pitched in to help prepare the car, standing on the running boards and pouring bucket after bucket of water into the tank through Bill's dented old funnel, trying as hard as I could to hide the shaking in my arms after my adventure on the rope.
Bill filled the paraffin tank and then strapped a full round metal tank of paraffin to the back of the car. There was a small bucket there as well, for filling the water tank in an emergency.
I followed him around the car, watching intently as he pumped up pressure for the paraffin lines, ran water from the tank into the boiler and checked the brake was locked and all the water bleed lines closed.
"You got matches in that bag?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yes, and candles."
"Right, girl," he said, crouching under the car. "Look at this."
The single paraffin jet for the burner was exposed, but behind the burner and probably safe from stones. Bill took a packet of matches from his pocket, struck one, turned a valve on the jet fully open and, as a thin stream of paraffin sprayed into the burner, touched the match to it.
Blue flame quickly flickered from the burner's exhaust vent.
Bill used the same match to light the dark lantern he had given me, closed the slide and put the lantern on the car's passenger seat.
He tapped the pressure gauge in front of the driver's seat. It was already beginning to stir. "Quick engine for those who are in a hurry," he said, grudgingly, "but watch that pressure! I don't trust these. Operating pressure is anything over four hundred pounds, but you want at least five hundred, six hundred is good for acceleration, and don't go over one thousand! My advice is, run the burner low as you leave so you don't have to vent any steam, at least until you're on the road. It's got a hook-up on the forward-reverse lever—here—to restrict the valve operation and save steam once you're moving, but if you're not running fast you shouldn't lose much anyway with that condenser in the nose."
I listened to him, as intently as ever, but I felt a rising tide of excitement that was making petty practicalities seem like frustrations. It had been more than two years since I was allowed anywhere closer to an engine than inside the coach, and I longed to get grease under my fingernails again.
"You listening to me, girl?" Bill asked, but with a trace of amusement in his voice.
"Low burner until I get onto the road, watch the pressure—not more than one thousand—and use the valve hook-up when I'm moving," I said immediately. "Are the lamps paraffin?"
"Same tank," he said. "You understand the fuel pressure system?"
"That air pump," I said, pointing. "And that one is for water. I thought they were making self-regulating pressurised systems now."
"Not on something this small, they're not. And this is the water regulator for the boiler. It's easy to run low with such a small volume, so keep your eye on it." Bill grabbed a second dark lantern, lit it and then nodded to Alex, who dashed over to the door, turned out the lights, ducked outside and then, after an agonisingly long wait, ran back with unerring awareness of the workshop's layout.
"Hugh's got his lights out," he panted.
Bill gave him a warning look for using my brother's name but said nothing.
The three of us carefully opened one of the great doors. It did not rattle or squeal.
Bill used his lantern to check steam pressure again, grunted in approval, put the lantern on a running board and said, "Alright, then."
With Bill on one side and Alex and I on the other, we carefully pushed the car across the workshop floor and out onto the grass. It was surprisingly light—or my imminent freedom was lending me strength.
I pre-empted Bill by taking up the dark lantern he had given me and allowing a sliver of light to play on the pressure gauge. In the darkness, he nodded in approval. "Three fifty," I said.
"Best you be up, then."
I put my foot on the running board then had one last idea. "Alex!" I said softly.
"Yes, Miss?"
"You can climb these stone walls, can't you?"
In the moonlight he looked shifty, but a snort of laughter from Bill reminded him that, tonight, I did not count as the authorities. "Yes, Miss," he said cautiously.
Bill snorted again. "As good as you ever could, girl, if not better."
Alex's eyes widened again, but I cut him off before he could say anything. "I climbed down from my window on a rope," I told him. "Climb up, untie it and bring it back down and hide it. There's a guard outside my door, so you be as quiet as a mouse, you understand?"
His face split in a huge grin and he saluted, vibrating with excess eagerness.
"Good boy." I kissed his forehead, and could almost see well enough to see him turn bright red.
Then I climbed up into the seat, put on my jacket and retrieved from my bag my carefully-wrapped pair of goggles. After polishing the lenses, I put the goggles on but pushed them up onto my forehead until I was going fast enough to need them.
; I could see now that the dials had a phosphorescence of their own, like pocket watches—enough to let me see the positions of the needles. There was a small paraffin lamp affixed next to the dials, but I did not think I would need it.
"I don't imagine I'll be seeing you again," Bill said quietly as I settled myself into the seat and grasped the throttle lever underneath the steering wheel. "You've got fire in you now, girl, like I haven't seen since you went to Sydney. Don't you lose that."
I bent sideways and kissed him on the cheek. I almost wished for more light, to see his reaction. "You've always been a friend to me, Bill," I told him, trying to keep a catch out of my voice. "I will find some way to send word. I think I've been shown how."
I could see him grin at that, in the starlight. "There's tapers in the box between the seats," he said, "so save your matches. Good luck and keep watch on your dials, I won't be able to help you if you break it. Alex, useless boy, help me with this door."
As the door rumbled quietly shut, I was left poised on the edge of no return in the darkness, watching the faintly luminous pressure gauge slowly rise.
For a moment, not yet able to move, I felt a flush of fear: Could I do this? Could I find Katharine and avoid being captured and hauled once more back home?
Then the dial hit six hundred pounds, I eased out the throttle, and fear evaporated in the muted clatter of pistons.
I spun the steering wheel to direct me at first away from the house, hiding behind the bulk of the workshop for as long as possible. The lawn was well-maintained and would hold no holes to surprise me, so I had no fears there, and my eyes were once again adjusting to a night that, although only blessed with a waxing crescent moon, had no clouds and many stars.
I was grinning in a highly unladylike manner as I rolled slowly over the grass, keeping the trees a comfortable distance on my left and remembering, once again, the thrill of having command of such power, and of being in control of such weight, so easily.
I had to fight down a growing urge to use the horn to signal farewell, but I needed all the time I had available to me to make good my escape—if Alex succeeded in his final task, they would not notice my absence until late morning, or even until Father arrived home.
When I stopped at the end of the drive to light the car's two lanterns, the light they gave out was surprisingly bright, painful to eyes now used to the dark. With a sudden fear of discovery I scrambled back onto the driver's seat, shot a quick glance at the pressure gauge and shot through the gap onto the paved road.
My heart did not slow down until I had travelled the short distance north to join the highway.
I turned towards Ipswich with a whoop of pure joy, screwed open the paraffin regulator, pulled the throttle to maximum, and laughed as the car sprang down the road.
*~*~*
My delight at the speed of our travel was short-lived, as the road quickly turned downhill and I needed to throttle right back, using almost no power and coasting downhill instead, using the brakes gingerly and swearing at those engineers who had not yet developed a better system.
But when we came back to level, on the long plain across the Lockyer Valley, with pressure nudging eight hundred, I opened the throttle and what had been the cold wind of my passage became a freezing gale.
I was now rushing over the ground so fast the road leapt out of the pool of light in front of me and was gone almost before I could blink. When the road turned to the right to go over the side of a small hill, I had to suddenly wind on the steering wheel, throwing the car to the side, and heard the tyres complain with a shrill cry.
With racing heart, I pulled back on the throttle and wound in the paraffin jet—although pressure was already greatly depleted by my acceleration, to five hundred pounds—and, although every fibre of my being cried out against wasting energy, I even used the brakes to slow down until I was better able to react to circumstances.
Even so, I estimated the car's speed to be forty miles in the hour. The lights, which had surprised me by their brightness, I now wished brighter. Or perhaps, more focused. I began wondering if their lenses could be optimised. Perhaps an internal mirror, to reflect light downwards that would otherwise be needlessly wasted to the sky?
The reduction in speed, however, came with its advantages.
Although this country became stiflingly hot in summer, this was now early spring and the night air had lost all of the day's heat and was now bitingly cold. Although my under-petticoat was thick and my corset kept me warm, it did not cover my upper chest. My jacket kept out wind but did not keep in warmth, and my neck and face were bare. I needed a fleece winter coat, and I did not have such a thing with me.
I tried to hunch behind the windscreen, my corset digging into me, but my shoulders began to ache and my neck was still chilled. I longed for even such a thing as a scarf. Luckily, my leather gloves kept my hands warm and I could still operate the car's controls safely.
I was beginning to curse myself for a short-sighted fool as I headed from almost certain disownment from my family, towards an entirely uncertain future, growing colder and colder. But I felt defiant because I felt freer, and happier, than I had in years.
I was constantly having to check and adjust dials and controls, and that is probably what kept me alert enough to realise I was losing my ability to concentrate.
I found myself staring muzzily at a dial, trying to remember which one it was, then suddenly remembered the road and jerked my head up in a panic to find myself drifting sharply towards the opposite edge.
When I over-corrected, and nearly lost a wheel over the edge of the asphalt, I knew I had to stop and warm up.
I closed the throttle and turned down the paraffin regulator and then the water pressure, letting the car slow naturally until it had coasted to a stop and I could lock the brake.
Stationary, with no breeze, the air was tolerable, and even felt warm against my chilled skin, but I stumbled down, nearly falling, and engaged in what Ms Sinnet had referred to as "physical jerks" to warm up, get my blood moving faster and prevent shivering.
I kept running back to the car to check the pressure gauge—I had not stopped next to a river, or even a creek, and did not want to have to vent pressure and waste water, or stop the flame altogether and waste time. I could begin to see a serious flaw in the design of the car. Some form of pilot light would be an admirable improvement.
No other vehicle came past, for which, on balance, I was thankful.
As I was beginning to feel humanly warm again, I noticed for the first time that the back of the car, just behind the seat, had two latches and appeared to open.
Immediately testing this, I found, inside, not only a blanket but a scarf as well.
I began cursing Hugh, unfairly but with no less passion, using the saltiest language I could drag up from the deepest recesses of my memory.
I also found a small but undeniably useful set of tools, which I promptly transferred to my own sack, a small cloth bag containing rags, and a sealed bottle of single malt whiskey. It made my mouth water, but I knew better than to drink while cold. I also suspected it would be more valuable as barter. The whiskey, too, went into my sack.
I looped the scarf around my neck and the lower half of my face. It was not quite long enough to go over the top of my head as well, and I was already having bitter thoughts about the state of my hair. I had felt insects striking my face and needed to clean them off the lenses of my goggles, and fervently wished not to encounter a mirror unless it came with a full wash basin and soap.
The blanket was not generous but I could wrap it around my body and pass two ends over my shoulders. After arranging it over my legs and tucking the sides underneath me, I found I could still operate all the controls safely.
Breathing a prayer of thanks that my own short-sightedness would not (yet) be my undoing, I opened the paraffin regulator again, pulled out onto the road and began once more the dance of managing water, steam pressure and the burner flame.
*~*~*
It took me surprisingly little time to reach Gatton, the only township between Tawampa and Ipswich and the first sign of human habitation I had seen in the darkness since beginning my descent of the mountain.
I slowed down and crept as quietly as I could through town, holding my breath. Despite the fact the hour must still be far from midnight, I appeared to pass without notice.
Once out of Gatton I increased my speed again. A few hills were handled with ease by the car, and the necessity of constantly checking the pressures kept me from being bored, but I already had a list of things I would do to improve the car—most of which I was sure I could achieve myself, given a workshop and some time to practice.
My hands itched to be busy again. Katharine and I had not long been de-facto apprentices of old man Morley in Sydney, but I had made faster progress than the boys in his shop.
I wished I had paper and pencil with me. I could light the paraffin lamp on the dashboard ... but no, that would not be wise at any speed greater than parked.
I had been through Ipswich before, but always only to transfer from one train to another, so when the lights of the young city appeared over the brow of a hill, I was surprised I had made the journey already.
I slowed down as I approached Ipswich, closing the throttle and letting the car slow gradually. In truth, at this point my plans ran out. It could not be much past midnight still, if that even, and although I felt a desperate need to track down the source of the box, I would at some point need sleep and, besides, I felt a pressing need for the use of a toilet.
I stopped the car, locked the brakes, put the paraffin jet on minimum and looked around. As my eyes began to adjust to the darkness, I could see the outlines of what were probably farmhouses, but no lights or movement nearby. I jumped down, walked around to the headlamps and turned them off. The car was making no more noise than the faintest of hissing from the burner, and I could hear no human sounds.
