She said, gravely, "You will make the journey, George. If you had doubts you would not set out."
"But this is a pure gamble."
"No, George. Your father, he is a gambler, but you are not the same. Your father would gamble on his luck, but you? You would not put one pennypiece on a horse unless you owned it, trained it, and rode it in the race. That is the difference between you."
It increased his confidence to hear her talk that way, and he went blithely about his final preparations after Scottie Quirt had left them to take a holiday with his family in Glasgow, and she had packed her things to follow him to London. She saw to it that he should lack nothing for the journey that was in her power to supply, and it was while she was baking pasties for him, the night before he was due to set off, that he said, "I'll make it up to you, Gisela, I swear it."
"Ach, but you already have, George. I have been very happy up here. It has been like the old days, when grandfather Max was alive. Will you travel loaded?" she replied.
"Part loaded. I'm taking two tons of rice down to the Madras Trading Company, in Cheapside."
"Why rice?"
He grinned. "Proof, of a kind. A four-ton load is due to go south by road tomorrow. I've shipped half of it aboard and given Carstairs, the yard goods manager, instructions to despatch the other half at seven o'clock, the same hour as I leave."
"And you plan to get there well ahead of him?"
"We'll see. I've worked out a route and my worst gradient is one in twelve, but I'm still scared of overheating."
She said, "Suppose the motor is as good as you think it is, and suppose you prove it to all of them, what are your plans when you take over from father again?"
"A fleet of 'em," he said, briefly, "with all the four-horse waggons withdrawn and their teams allocated to frigates and some extra Goliaths, for it'll be years before we can develop a non-rigid vehicle to haul the really heavy one-piece loads—boilers, generators, and the like. There's only one thing I should enjoy more than making it in two days."
"And what is that?"
"Grandfather Max to wish me luck."
"He's here," she said. "I dreamed of him last night. Both of you, locked away in that stable at Essling." Then, remembering how Max had died, "There's no danger, is there?"
"None for me. Plenty to oncoming traffic. I'm resigned to being cursed by every carter from here to London Bridge."
* * *
The rice had been loaded the day before and every foreseeable contingency guarded against. Twenty gallons of fuel was stowed in ten-gallon drums forward, and he had even shipped a water-cask in case she boiled at a point on the route where no water was readily available. He had a spare tyre, too, although if one left the rims, he was doubtful of replacing it without Scottie's help. After he had run the vehicle out and warmed her up, he went over all his preparations again, while it stood there trembling like an over-trained racehorse at the tape. He thought of the Swann-Maxie as female, although he had seen its two predecessors as male. Maybe it was because she was so much trimmer, or perhaps because all the months he had sweated over her she had reminded him so often of the maddening unpredictability of a woman. He thought, Maximus doesn't suit her now, and Maxima doesn't sound right. If we do build a fleet on this model, it will have to have a trade name, and Max ought not to be forgotten. He finally settled on a hyphenated name, Swann-Maxie, and looked up at the clear April sky, praying for propitious weather, at least as far as Market Harborough or Kettering, where he planned to let her cool off for the night, depending on his progress.
The first leg of the journey, as far as Cheadle, was encouragingly uneventful. Gradients rather than mileage had dictated his choice of route, and the roads thus far were level and fairly free of traffic at that early hour. He averaged seventeen miles an hour over the first thirty-five miles, and she seemed to be behaving impeccably. In all the villages crowds of boys ran alongside shouting up at him, some of the bolder ones in ribald terms, but the older folk just stood by and gaped, and only one old chap, mounted on a spirited bay, shook his crop threateningly when the horse reared at a farm gate. He thought, There'll be plenty of that before people get used to motors. I daresay a majority would like to see that damned Red Flag Act back on the statute book, but that won't happen. It's already cost us the lead we might have gained over Continental mechanics.
It was after Cheadle, as he was following the valley of the Trent in a southeast direction, that he had his first scare. He had tackled a long incline at a slow walking pace and breasted the summit with a great sense of relief. Below him, curving eastward in a wide, scimitar sweep, lay the white road running between low hedgerows, with a straggle of farm buildings at the bottom where the river was crossed by what appeared, at this distance, a shallow ford. He thought, gratefully, Well, here's a mile or two of coasting, and changed gear, forgetting for a moment the down thrust of the load behind him, but sensing its compelling weight when he realised the slope was much steeper than it looked.
There was nothing to give him an accurate indication of his speed, but by the time he was two-thirds of the way down it seemed to be far in excess of the limit he and Scottie had agreed upon when they were planning the route mile by mile. His teeth rattled every time the wheels struck a dried-out puddle crater, where underground springs had been at work all the winter, and then, as the road flattened out, he saw a herd of cows crossing from left to right, and it seemed to him that nothing could prevent him ploughing into them.
He had rigged up a handbell on a short length of rope, the bell itself fitting into a bracket on the canopy support, and he took his left hand from the spokes of the steering wheel to ring it furiously so that an aged cowman, emerging from the nearside gate with a pair of yapping collies at his heels, glanced up and saw his approach at a distance of about eighty yards.
George had never seen a man look more astounded, and for what seemed like seconds he stood there, hand on gate, mouth wide open. But then, with remarkable agility for a man of his years, he turned and ran up the hedge, diving head first through a clump of ash saplings that grew there and disappearing in a flash while his cows, unimpressed, pursued their leisurely progress across the road to the opposite gateway.
A violent collision seemed inevitable, even though only two or three cows still remained on the road, and a collision would certainly have occurred had it not been for the dogs. Almost equally terrified, but more conscientious than the cowman, they bounded forward, nipping the heels of the laggards, while George threw his entire weight on the brake lever without, it would seem, doing much to check the thundering onrush of the Swann-Maxie; now it was as though the weight at his back was propelling man and vehicle down the last stretch of road straight into the river.
And then he saw something else, the narrow entrance to an old packhorse bridge marking the ford, and he knew that to stay on the road was to gamble the entire enterprise on his ability to steer a straight course between the stone parapets. He did not possess that much faith in his own skill. There was no more than an inch or so to spare on either side and in response to a split-second decision, he chose instead the nearest of the two ford approaches as looking the shallower of the two. He shot off the carriageway at an angle of about sixty degrees and the sheet of water that rose on impact enveloped him, rising in a solid column like a waterspout. And then, without so much as a lurch, Swann-Maxie stopped dead in about a foot of water, and people came running from all directions, converging on both banks and dancing and gesticulating as the hiss of steam from the radiator sounded the knell of his odyssey.
There was no one to blame but himself. No rustic cowman could have anticipated the onrush of a monster weighing some five tons laden weight on a country byroad miles from the nearest city, and no medieval builder could be blamed for building a bridge only inches wider than the largest haywain then in use. The fault lay with himself, for changing gear at the summit and putting too much reliance on his powerful handbrake, and he climbed down into the cu
rrent cursing himself in German, still his favourite language for abuse.
The water rose to the level of the hubcaps, so that he saw at once it was not a matter of the engine being flooded but rather doused in that first surge of water. As he realised this his spirits lifted, for he reasoned that the automatic inlet, the valves, the surface carburetter, and the ignition tubes could be stripped down and dried, although the process would occupy him at least two hours, even if no vital piece of mechanism had been dislodged by the jolt.
An enormously fat man in a moleskin waistcoat and a hard hat seemed to be in authority among the wildly excited group of onlookers on the far bank, and George called, "Can you tow me clear on to level ground? I'll pay a sovereign an hour for the labour and the hire of horses."
The fat man swallowed twice, licked his heavy underlip, pushed his hat brim an inch higher on his forehead, and said, ignoring the offer, "Christ A'mighty! Whatever iz un?"
"It's a petrol-driven waggon," George said, impatiently. "Can you do what I ask? I've got to make Leicester by dusk."
At that the man removed his hat altogether and passed his hand over the full extent of his balding skull, saying, "I thowt at first it were a locomotive running loose from up the line. A horseless carriage, you zay? But that'n iz ten times the size o' the doctor's." At that George's heart leaped, and he said, eagerly, "The doctor here owns a motor? Will you send for him? He'll have the toolkit, no doubt. Will you do that? For an extra half-sovereign?"
"Christ A'mighty," the man said again, "youm pretty free with your coin, maister." And then, after ruminating a moment, "Arr, I'll vetch 'im, for he'd give me the length of his tongue if I didden and he missed this carnival. Ben!" and he whirled about and roared aggressively at a gap-toothed boy beside him, who was still surveying the vehicle as if it were a stranded dragon, "Stop gawping and rin an' vetch Doctor Bowles. Look sharp about it! Seed 'im go in Fanny Dawkins', minnits back. Tell 'em us've something in the river he'd like to zee!" His speculative gaze returned to George. "A sovereign an ower, you're offering?"
"That's what I'm offering, but every minute counts. If I'm out of here in less than two I'd add to it, sixpence on every minute saved."
The bribe now seemed to animate the man, who shook himself in a way that caused his gross body to quiver. In less than five minutes, two enormous Percherons were trotted out, yards of plough harness were produced, and with a single, squelching heave Swann-Maxie was dragged out on to dry ground and into the lee of a barn. The horses were unyoked and led away, and George crawled under the vehicle for a close inspection of the complex of tubes and rods assembled there.
No damage was visible but every part dripped water, and he was already removing the feed pipe to the carburetter when a cheerful voice greeted him from the offside, calling, "Hey, there! Come on out, man, and tell me what happened. Maybe I could help, although this is a new one on me. Is it a Daimler?"
George crawled out, leaving one end of the feed pipe uncoupled, to see a man about forty in a neat broadcloth suit that at once distinguished him from the rest of the crowd still gathered about the machine. "Desmond Bowles," he said, extending his hand. "Anything shaken loose? Or is it a case of stripping down and drying out?"
George shook his hand, and although time pressed on him like a goad, he found the doctor's smile so engaging and his interest so obvious that he decided the least he could do was to introduce himself and his product.
"My name is Swann," he said, "and I'm in transport. You'll know my firm, no doubt, the hauliers, Swann-on-Wheels. I'm making a trial run to our London headquarters and planned to get as far as Leicester tonight. Do you own a motor, doctor?"
"Yes, I do. A Panhard-Levassor," Bowles said. "I brought her over from the Continent last year, but she's in dry dock at the moment so I'm back to the buggy, confound it. Do you mind if I crawl under and have a look? I've done a lot of tinkering with petrol-engines. It's a hobby o' mine. These people think I should be put away, of course, and the same probably applies to you. I've never seen anything like that before, however."
"Nobody has. I only finished work on her this week. She's purpose-built for commercial work and not designed for joy-riding, as you can see. Have you got a tool-set with that Panhard? A smaller screwdriver is what I need to detach the intake pipe from the carburetter. That's where the damage is, if any. One drop of water through a joint and I'm stuck unless I can clear it," but he was addressing no one in particular, for the doctor had slipped out of his jacket and scrambled underneath the rear wheels, where his findings reached George in a series of short, authoritative pronouncements, as though he was diagnosing a patient.
"No need to remove the intake pipe. Not yet anyway. We'll try blowing bubbles first. Been stuck here myself, but in far worse trouble. Your chassis is much higher and your casing took the brunt of it. Damned good idea, that casing. Bellows might help." His head emerged, and he bellowed at Ben, the boy who had summoned him, "Slip across to the forge, Ben. My compliments to Vosper and tell him I need his hand-bellows again!" The boy darted off as Bowles said, "Dry the externals with the bellows. Done it myself and it works sometimes. You're right about the intake, though. She's blocked. Grit washed in, I wouldn't wonder. That or an airlock. It can happen crossing a puddle sometimes. Come on under, Mr. Swann."
George joined him and found him supporting the loosened end of the intake, holding it between finger and thumb of his gloved hand. "A steady blow," he said, "can't use the bellows on here. Careful, she's piping hot. Use your handkerchief," and George, fascinated by his air of knowing precisely what he was about, found his handkerchief, wrapped it round the detached end of the intake, and blew gently and unavailingly for a moment until, with a faint plopping sound, the blockage cleared. He said, excitedly, "I can dismantle the carburetter with the tools I've got already, Doctor Bowles. Then dry 'em out piece-meal. Will you give her an overall dusting?"
"The moment Ben gets back with the hand bellows. My stars, but she's a powerful brute! How far have you come today?"
"From Macclesfield. I've planned a two-day haul to our London H.Q. If I can make it, I'll be building a fleet to replace our four-horse vans." The Doctor sat up so abruptly that he dinged his hat on the crank casing. "Build! You built this yourself? It's not patented?"
"Parts of it are. It's my third prototype, based on an Austrian model built by a man called Körner. He was quite unknown, but I happen to be related to him. She's been running sweet as a nut up to here. You can blame this on my damn foolishness, taking that hill too fast."
"Here, I'm teaching my grandmother to suck eggs," Bowles said. "I took you for an engineer. Swann, you said. You're the Swann's son?"
"I'm more than that. I'm his managing director," George said, smiling, "and I'm extremely grateful for your help in spotting the trouble at a glance. I should have wasted an hour eliminating various factors. Here's your bellows, Doctor," as a breathless Ben joined them, carrying a brass-nozzled bellows of the kind found in every forge in the country.
"Pity you can't stop over," Bowles said, methodically setting to work with his bellows on every exposed section of the engine. "Between us I daresay we'd have my Panhard on the road again in a jiffy. You're sure you can reconnect that intake with tools you've got?"
"I'm already doing it," George said, gaily, congratulating himself on his luck, and they worked on in silence for ten minutes or so, drying out and dusting off every section of the engine with the bellows and clean pieces of sacking supplied by the obliging Ben.
"That'll do, I'd say," Bowles said, squirming out into the open. "Crank her up and see if she turns over," and George followed him out, reaching into the driver's cabin for the heavy crank lever and noting, as he slotted it in and prepared to swing, that the crowd, now grown to about a hundred, edged away, leaving himself and Doctor Bowles alone in the clearing.
He brought all his concentration to the first swing, remembering to cock his thumb inside on account of the powerful back-kick the engine produced on
several occasions, once putting Scottie in hospital for close on a week. The initial cough was one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard, and then, using the full strength of his arm, he swung furiously and the engine burst into a stuttering roar, gloriously sustained and magnificently full-throated, proclaiming that Swann-Maxie was no worse for her ducking.
"Are you going to risk stopping her?" roared the doctor, above the beat of the engine.
And George shouted back, "No, by God! I'm off, while I've got the chance! Where's that fat chap in the moleskin jacket? I owe him a sovereign."
"I'll give it to him," Bowles shouted through cupped hands. "Up with you and the best of luck." But the fat man, seeing George on the point of climbing aboard, overcame his caution and waddled forward, pointing to his watch that showed the delay had cost George fifty minutes from the moment he plunged into the stream. He threw the doctor a coin and engaged low gear, heaving at the steering column and regaining the flint road at about four miles an hour. Bowles waved his dinged hat, the crowd edged forward, and a ragged cheer sped him on his way over the level stretch to a fork in the road where a signpost indicated the ways to Derby and Lichfield. He bore off to the right and slowly built up his speed to around twenty miles an hour, presently seeing the triple spires of Lichfield Cathedral away to the southwest and calculating (he had his father's trick of memorising routes, mileages, and local products) that he was now within a hundred and twenty miles of London Stone and reflecting that Swann's waggons had been hauling beer and market produce from this area for forty years.
Give Us This Day Page 19
