by B. Y. Yan
“You are going back, Maddy?” cried the baron.
“I am,” she replied solemnly. “It is the only way. Before Lord Cudgmore heads off to the tracks, I hope to get in a word on behalf of my mistress to mellow his humors some.”
“What you are saying, dear woman, is that you will willingly take her place for his abuses so that he might not be quite so angry when he returns to her disgraced and a loser.”
She shrugged wearily. “It would not be the first time I have shielded her in such a way, and I am glad to do it.”
The baron crossed his massive arms over his chest and stuck out his chin.
“Well you will have to go through me first! I won’t allow it!”
“I’m afraid, my lord, it is not up to you,” she replied. “It is my decision, and my heart is set.”
“Then by all means, my lady, if you can manage to fight your way out of Gildboors, you can go right ahead. This is still my home, and my word is law here.” He whipped his head around to his man. “Tell her, Yamcey!”
The valet, however, was no help. In fact, though his eyes had never for an instant left her face, he now seemed unable to bear the sight of her. Even as Madeline’s gaze settled upon him, he turned away with a look of disgust. But she had the right of it, for indeed it was her own decision to make. To hear him say so, the baron threw up his arms.
“Well if it is a martyr you want, then who am I to deter you? But I shall have no part of it!” And roaring he stormed off in a huff. Yamcey, hobbling quickly after him, received a look of plain gratitude from the young woman at the door. It was the last glance upon her fair face, so very resplendent in its humble courage, that he was to have, for when he found the baron and they returned together to the sitting room sometime later, Madeline was nowhere to be found. She had left Gildboors as suddenly as she had come.
*
The day of the race was set for the twenty-sixth of September, and on that day the turnout was nothing short of stupendous. Before dawn the square at Westhaben Platform Station was filled to overflowing, and by eight-thirty, a mere hour before the race was set to begin, everything had to be called to a halt so that the city’s police force might clear out hundreds of loiters from the very tracks itself. With the shrill, chittering wail of train whistles breaking over the crowd as la Gallant and the Iron Tulip rolled into the station, there was raised at the same time a mighty cheer along with a chorus of boos from nearly a hundred thousand throats at once.
In this we must not credit the deplorable behavior of the masses only to their shabby upbringing, for their own master goaded them on at every turn. The baron, in his desire to relish in the love of his people that he was so unaccustomed to seeing, had outdone himself in that regard. Sparing no effort, he brought in his own orchestra which played up a peppy interpretation of the national anthem in time to a dozen rolling drums as he disembarked his carriage to the foghorn roar of a specialist vocalist. Perhaps some will balk at the sight of a circus ringmaster being hired to announce him, but Mac-Winston was a genuine master showman with a throat as clear as the blue cloudless sky. In very few words he propped up the arrival of Hungary Mandalin as a titan descending from the heavens, and it was with the crowd’s emotions raised to a fever-pitch that a way was swiftly cleared to his train.
But the Lord of the Coal Coast was nothing if not a pushover for the attention of his subjects, and he was slow marching down the line. Every few steps he would pause to point up at the sky or to thump his chest, or to kiss his badge of office while kowtowing before the very people who were only months ago praying daily for his demise. It seems all previous grievances can be laid aside, and an offended people reunited with their hated liege-lord over matters of national pride. Hungary Mandalin made two or three trips running up and down the passage in either direction with his arms extended outwards to clap the hands of his people as he passed. It took so long for him to relinquish the limelight that his rival, who had arrived some time before, was positively fuming by the time he was introduced.
If the baron might have been expected to relish in the adoration of the people, so we must now harbor the reception waiting for Cudgmore before so hostile and heated a crowd. Indeed, before his own hired announcer had gotten out a syllable, he was swiftly drowned out by a tirade of jeers.
But we must do credit to the foreign diplomat that he did not seem much affected. In fact, like his foe, he seemed to be trying his best to urge the masses on. Now and then he would stare out at the crowd, making his disdain clear for all to see, or indeed take the time to personally shout down a particularly vocal critic. Thrice he nearly came to blows with someone in the crowd, and thrice he had to be restrained by his own man, who was having clear trouble keeping up with his master owing to his many unhealed injuries. In fact, these grievances were the first thing brought up by Cudgmore when he closed with his rival atop the train platform to shake hands before the race.
“Look, man,” said the baron to him, waving the matter away offhandedly, “I don’t care what happened to your valet. From what I’ve learned he got what he deserved sticking his ugly nose where it does not belong. And anyway it is not me with whom you have a problem. If you can find the Lynchman’s Owl, you may take the matter up with him if you care to. For my part, I only have one question for you before we begin”—his grip tightened until Cudgmore had to bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from yelping from the pain of having his knuckles being suddenly ground together— “Where is she, Cudgel?”
“Ah!” he exclaimed then. There was a wicked glint in his eyes that the baron did not take to at all. “I don’t know who you are talking about, Hunry.”
“Don’t play that game, Mr. Diplomat,” the baron hissed beneath his breath. “You know who I want. She is Miss Madeline Pyre and I need to know what has become of her.”
“I have never heard that name before today, sir,” the diplomat assured him slyly.
It was something of an unexpected surprise that them coming to blows again over the matter concerned an entirely different woman to the one upon which their rivalry was founded. Hungary Mandalin struck the first blow, but Cudgmore returned as good as he got. They had to be separated once again by their respective entourages, though there is no mistaking the coy, sly smile over the diplomat’s lips as he was pushed away from the Lord of the Coal Coast, who by then was beside himself with anger. Amidst terrible cussing, amidst the throwing of confetti snatched from the air, amidst the empty bottles clinking together at their feet, the race we have all of us been waiting weeks for finally began.
Now, you would not expect a race of great, lumbering locomotives to be worthwhile to watch, especially in the beginning. But recent advances in the use of fuel and engines have allowed for certain abnormalities to go against those predictions. With normal safety regulations brushed off, nothing was forbidden. After all, you have seen the extents to which the baron had gone to secure a worthy chemist, and I am happy to report that his efforts were not wasted. Thanks to his timely intervention, the formula which was used in the coals and oils which powered the great engines burned with a bright, blinding fury that was terrible to behold. The fireman’s goggles were positively covered by flying sparks, and the iron heart of la Gallant beat with the ringing strokes of every grind of its wheels over the tracks, shooting out of the gate at the starting gunshot like a star over the sky.
Almost before anyone had realized, the first marker was cleared. From the window of the car tethered just behind the locomotive head, it was the baron’s man who stuck his head out of the window. His glittering grey eyes piercing the heavy drifting cloud of smog and ashes which burst now and then above their heads to drift over the carriage roof as he roared towards the front of the train.
“Are you giving it all you have?”
Before him was the sight of his cousin, Hungary Mandalin, stripped down to his waist, his entirely face blackened by soot, shoveling for all he was worth.
“I am!” he shouted back over the
heavy shots of the engine and the synchronized warbling of its gears and cranks. “Perhaps you’d like to switch places if you think my work isn’t up to standard. I think I deserve a little gratitude, for—ah! Scowls, man! There he goes!”
A piercing wail slashed across the sky above them, and beside them, along the other set of tracks running northward there passed the chittering of a whistle dragging behind it a long, trailing note. It was swiftly followed by the sound of pounding pistons and gears grinding away their teeth at full whirl. Behind the smog which separated the two tracks like a greyish wall it was plain to see that the Tulip had already caught up and was pulling ahead.
“Catch him!” Hungary shouted up at Gambles and Gains, who were beside themselves pulling on levers and adjusting dials in the driver’s cabin. “If we lose our place before the first five miles, I’ll thrash the lot of you myself before throwing you over to lighten the load.” He whipped his head around at the carriage rumbling along behind the locomotive, attached by a great pound lock ringing with every bounce. “That includes you, Yamcey! For what good are you to me sitting the race out inside my own wagon?”
“I am your lookout, sir,” the valet shouted back from the window. “The chemist has already played his part, Tobby Gilmered is behind me with his nose pressed to the floor to sniff out anything that might be amiss, and Gains and Gamble you have already by your side. We all of us have our roles, and yours more important than most. Keep shoveling, my lord, or else they will continue to pull ahead.”
He pointed, and indeed it was as he said, for even through his fogged, cracked goggles the baron plainly saw that the Tulip had fully drawn up alongside them, and la Gallant, this early in the race, was soon behind by a carriage’s length.
“Scowls, man!” cried the baron. Wiping sweat from his brows he pumped his great arms back and forth. Before him the furnace roared with renewed vigor.
“It is indeed a marvel of engineering,” he heard the musing, appreciative voice of Yamcey speaking up somewhere behind him. “Look how quickly it has come up the tracks, despite the initial burst of speed we put in. If possible, we must have a look at the schematics behind their trains, for in terms of power consumption and speed they are admittedly superior to our own.”
“If you have nothing good to report,” the baron shot at him, “better that you just don’t talk at all. I’ll be sure to ask him after the race for his plans, for I think he will be in a mood to grant it after running us ragged and dry.”
He caught a glimpse of his cousin then, shrugging away the comment from the window. Shaking his head Hungary returned to his work.
The race, as you know, began at Westhaben Platform Station, and ended at the Twin Garrisons. Along the way it would pass Greenwiles, Garble Marble Gables and Sanchalk without stopping, before taking an hour long pit-stop at the end of the line to rearrange the carriages for the return trip. All along they shot by here and there onlookers jumping up and down waving flags in their hands, cutting a great winding line through the countryside. From far above as they pushed on they would have resembled two great snakes slithering through the grass, blowing smoke over their heads.
“We must catch her,” the baron was heard voicing grimly as inch by agonizing inch, the Tulip began to widen its lead. Several markers had flashed past in that time, and the rearmost of its windows were now coming into view before the firebox of la Gallant. “Burn the engines if you have to, but if she breaks off and reaches the Garrison before us, all will be lost!”
“Patience, my lord,” advised his man from over his shoulder. “We are not out of it yet. In fact, we are doing better than expected just keeping up with their pace. Once their carriage has cleared our head, throw in the bones.”
The baron did just as he was told. As the last window on the Tulip passed him by he reached into the satchel hanging off a hook beside him, and withdrawing a handful of long, bone-shaped vials, flung them all into the furnace. Upon it he piled heaps of coal, pausing only to dump in a pitcher of a black, tarry substance to cover it all.
What solution was in there we cannot guess, but the king’s chemist again proved as good as his reputation. Suddenly with a jolt the entire train seemed to lurch forward as the pistons uttered pounding cough after pounding cough in unison. Before them the silver trimmed carriage of the Tulip paused as it retreated into the distance, before growing larger and larger as it drew nearer.
“We are gaining!” cried the baron in elation back at his cousin.
His man, however, was more practical. With some surprise Hungary saw that his valet had removed a revolver from his pocket, and he was pointing it before him. Whirling about he found the rearmost window of the Tulip suddenly snapping open, and their rival framed in it brandishing a gun of his own.
“Scowls!” cried the baron. He lunged for his own satchel. In it was a pistol packed for him by Yamcey, though at the time he did not understand why. Indeed, he had laughed away the thought that it might be needed. Now he drew it in a flourish, and pointed it over the rapidly regressing space between the two trains.
“We are not to fire unless he does,” his valet cried up at him. “But if he shoots, return at will.”
At that moment Cudgmore whipped his arm to the side, and a shot was discharged in the direction of the cabin. Probably he meant for Gains or Gamble to be his victim, but protected as they were by the thick steel skin around them, and with both trains running at full strength in a mad scramble down the tracks, it was a nearly impossible shot to make. The bullet glanced off the cabin door just below the slit, giving the men inside a sudden start. The two pistols in the cousins’ hands replied in kind, and theirs was the prize of a broken window on the Tulip with shivered glass shards flying in every direction, even as its occupant ducked out of the way.
We will do credit to the train-conductor and driver that they did not falter. Indeed, they reapplied themselves with renewed vigor to the task at hand. But in such a race as this one, with every turn of the wheels crucial to the forward march of the massive, unwieldly machines one was being tasked with mastering, even this brief distraction wound up paying dividends for its instigator. Again the Tulip began to pull ahead. Again the rearmost window, now shattered, receded into the distance to the heavy thumps of its engines. Try as he might, the baron could not reverse this damage. And despite working his great, towering frame like the arms of a clock which has been wound up too tightly, la Gallant rapidly lost ground until the two trains were separated, first by a distance of several yards, then at last until they could barely glimpse the rear of Cudgmore’s car as it sped away into the horizon.
It must have broken the heart of the train-conductor and his longtime partner, for they looked over their shoulders at Hungary with the double faces of despair and embarrassment. Behind them, from inside the car, Tobby Gilmered poked his head out of the window beside Yamcey, who alone wore an unbothered look. It was in his calm, reflective countenance that the baron found the courage to go on.
“Heave to, men!” he roared suddenly, whipping his head back and forth between the cabin and the carriage. Such was the thunder in his voice that the engineer jumped, swiftly vanished from sight, and the duo inside the cabin again threw their back into their work. The baron dusted off his large hands, whirled a finger over his head and whistled long and shrilly through his lips. With his head down he was practically nose-to-nose with the blasting heat of the furnace, and looking into the dancing flames began to shovel for all he was worth. Again the train seemed to jump. Again the engines whirred and clanked in time with the presses of the wheels. Again, though they did not know it, they gained, for far up ahead the Tulip was slowing down. Even then they arrived at the Twin Garrisons nearly a half-hour behind their foe.
“Ah!” cried the baron as they pulled into the station, “We are too late!”
Indeed, it appeared the race was lost, for their foe has not been idle. Making every use of his lead the Tulip was already turned around, the nose of its head locomotive po
inted down the tracks in the direction they had come. Even now they saw his head engineer, the turncoat Hadley, flitting about the massive machine, knocking at it here and there with his wrench. Over him the whistle screeched as bouts of smoke belched from the box.
“Patience, my dear cousin,” replied the baron’s man beside him as he coolly took in the scene in a single, panning glance. “I wouldn’t be so quick to count us out of it yet.”
“But by the time we are turned around, they will be halfway down the line on their return trip, eh?” moaned Hungary. “I don’t see how we can manage to keep pace with them. Anything short of a miracle, and we are already goners.”
Alas, his were telling words, for it was just such a miracle which awaited them at the station. As la Gallant pulled in alongside the platform into its designated dock, a swarm of workers descended upon the carriage like buzzing bees. In record time the locomotive head was detached and turned around, and with thorough efficiency the tracks were rearranged to speed it along its return trip to the finish. It was enough to bring the most hardened of hearts to stirring. The baron, looking on with pride at this display of support, thrust his hips outwards as he descended the steps with his valet in tow.
“Ah! I know they are only working so hard for her sake and hers alone, but mercy if it does not bring tears to my eyes to see such a sight! This is spirit, Yamcey. This is competition. I only hope I will not let them down by the end of the day.”
He risked a look over the tracks into the other dock currently occupied by his foe. There he found, much to his surprise and annoyance, a similar sort of bustle which had converged over Cudgmore’s Tulip. In fact, even as he watched, a distinct roar washed over the heads of the crowd in that direction, while the brimming mass of bodies below it stirred and swayed. It was, near as he could tell, a gathering double the size of the one which surrounded la Gallant, but its purpose could not be readily discerned. There appeared to be many amongst that throng who were not railway workers. These hardy folk, in their simple linens and smocks, had the look of local farmers, and it was through them that two tall figures wearing blooming storm-cloud over their heads now pushed, making in the baron’s direction.
