“Traditionally, when a Hindu man died and was cremated, his widow was burned alongside him, a practice called sati. My husband’s family attempted to revive the practice; they drugged me with opium and I would have perished on the funeral pyre had your father and Passepartout not rescued me.
“According to my cousin, who now lives in Europe, the prince’s relatives have never forgiven me for escaping their clutches.” She smiled wanly. “Apparently they fear, even now, that I might return to claim my inheritance and wreak vengeance upon them. My cousin has never gone back to India; because we are related, the prince’s family might try to harm him, or perhaps kidnap him in order to have some hold over me. They are a fanatical lot, and I would put nothing past them.” She laid her hand gently on Harry’s bandaged ones. “You see now why I do not wish you to go. If they were to learn that my son is passing through India ...”
Harry patted her hand reassuringly. “You needn’t worry, Mother. If they did try to abduct me, they’d have a deuce of a time doing it. The Flash can outrun the fastest horse. And even if they were to catch me, I can handle myself. Besides, I’ll have Johnny along for reinforcement, and you know how strong he is. It’s possible that the Hardiman brat may even be of some use; we’re taking firearms with us, and I assume he knows how to shoot.”
Aouda was silent for a moment, gazing so intently at him that he felt uncomfortable. Finally she said, “I can see that you are determined to go, and that nothing I say will deter you.”
“I’m afraid not.”
To Harry’s surprise, her mouth formed a slight, wry smile. “I wish you truly were afraid. I know that I am.” She gave a sigh of resignation. “But I also fear what will happen if you remain here, drifting aimlessly along as you have been. If this will give you some sense of direction, perhaps it is for the best.”
Harry laughed. “I hope I have some sense of direction, Mother, or I may not make it as far as Liverpool.”
After dinner, Harry excused himself, saying, “There are still a number of items I need to purchase for the trip.” That was true. His actual destination, however, was not Fortnum & Mason’s but the blacksmith shop. Armed with an old carbine that had belonged to Johnny’s father, he kept watch over the motorcar for several hours while Johnny caught some sleep. At eleven, Harry went home, leaving his friend to stand guard through the night.
They repeated this ritual the following night, and the night after. Every hour of daylight was spent getting the Flash in shape for the long, grueling journey—well, in truth, not every hour, for the press had now gotten wind of the wager, and reporters from the Times, the Standard, the Morning Post, the Daily News, the Daily Telegraph, and the Illustrated London News descended upon them, demanding details about the motorcar and its drivers.
Johnny sullenly ignored the newspaper men and women. It was up to Harry to satisfy them and their readers—not that he really minded. He had always relished being the center of attention, perhaps because he received so little from his father. Despite his dismal academic record, he had been something of a celebrity at Eton. He was driven to excel at everything—as long as it did not involve studying or memorizing—and had often been carried off the cricket field or rugby pitch on the shoulders of his teammates for bowling the final out or kicking the winning drop goal. For the past year he had been out of the limelight altogether; it was good to be back.
His enthusiasm quickly faded when he realized that the reporters were less interested in him and his motorcar than in comparing his journey to the one made by Phileas Fogg. He was asked the same few questions over and over: “Will you try to beat your father’s record?” “Do you think you’ll be attacked by wild Indians, as your father was?” “How does your father feel about motorcars?” Harry was tempted to reply, “Why don’t you ask him?” But of course his father would never consent to be interviewed by a newspaper.
Only the reporter from the Standard, a brash fellow too young to remember Phileas Fogg’s famous feat, had a fresh question: “Have the New Luddites come by to harass you yet?”
“Luddites? Are they still around?” Though Harry’s knowledge of history was no better than his command of math, he had heard of the Luddites, a group of fanatics bent on destroying all sorts of machinery because, they said, it put people out of work. The movement had died out around 1815, after a dozen of its members were hanged.
“Well, it’s a different set of them, of course. Only now they’re not interested in breaking up knitting machines; they’re after bigger game: locomotives and printing presses and electric lighting—and, of course, motorcars.”
“Why? None of those is a threat to people’s livelihood.”
“Ah, but they’re destroying the world, or so say the New Luddites. Locomotives and motorcars foul the air and jangle the nerves; electric lights blot out the stars; newspapers devour the trees and litter the streets.”
“The same could be said of books and of gaslights—and when it comes to fouling the air and littering the streets, horses are the worst offenders.”
“Well, this lot apparently have no objection to horse droppings; that’s part of nature, you see. So I gather they haven’t bothered you yet?”
“The horse droppings?” said Harry.
The reporter laughed. “I meant the Luddites.”
“No.”
“Well, keep an eye out for them. They can be nasty. They broke into the press room at the Standard last week—knocked one of our men unconscious and flung hot lead from the linotype machine all over. You’re sure it wasn’t them who burned down your shed?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Any damage to the car?”
“No. She’s in splendid shape.”
The reporter nodded at Harry’s bandaged hands. “I suppose you’ll wait for those to heal before you set off?”
Harry grinned. “This is nothing. I once bowled two innings of cricket with a broken index finger. We leave tomorrow morning.”
SEVEN In which
A BORING SPEECH IS AVOIDED BUT MORE SERIOUS TROUBLE IS NOT
When news about the motorcar and its builders appeared on the front pages of the papers, Hardiman and his cronies were disturbed. The stories portrayed Harry and Johnny not as impetuous upstarts who had bitten off more than they could chew, but as underdogs: clever, spunky lads bravely taking on a seemingly impossible challenge—just the sort of thing Victorian readers relished. No one had even bothered to interview the three stodgy men who represented the wealthy elite.
Hardiman promptly announced that the car would officially begin its journey in front of the Reform Club at 10:00 A.M. sharp on Thursday, and that he personally would make a speech, generously wishing the young travelers well—and, of course, slipping in a few references to his railway, Sullivan’s bank, and Flanagan’s brewery.
Hardiman didn’t bother to consult Harry and Johnny before making the announcement. It would serve the man right, Harry thought, if they left directly from the blacksmith shop before the sun was up. Of course, that would mean leaving without Charles Hardiman—not a bad idea, really, but Harry didn’t care to defy his father’s wishes.
On Wednesday evening they loaded the food, tools, and other supplies in the storage space behind the rear seat and once again took turns standing guard. At dawn, they began making their final preparations. Depending on the fuel they used, it took only twenty or thirty minutes to get up a full head of steam; they spent the rest of the time making sure everything was in working order.
Ordinarily Harry would have done his share of the work, but his burned hands made him clumsy and tentative. By the time they adjusted the burner for the umpteenth time, resoldered a leaking condenser line, and greased the balky steering linkage, it was nearly ten o’clock. “If there’s anything else,” said Harry, “we’ll fix it later. Let’s go!”
Johnny yanked his workman’s cap down until it touched his ears to make sure the jagged scars on his scalp were hidden from sight; then he climbed into the passenge
r seat. Harry pulled on a clean pair of gloves to protect his hands, engaged the gears, and slowly pulled out the throttle. Smoothly, almost silently, the Flash rolled into the street; the crunch of the rubber-rimmed wheels on the stones made more noise than the soft chugging of the engine.
When they reached Pall Mall, Harry said incredulously, “Great heavens, Johnny! Will you look at that?” The pavement before the Reform Club was packed so tightly with people that there was no room for the car to pass. When the Flash approached, a cheer went up; slowly the wall of bodies began to separate into two masses and Harry carefully guided the car between them.
They were surrounded by smiling faces; eager hands reached out to pat the Flash’s fenders or shake the boys’ hands. Someone knocked Johnny’s cap askew and he frantically yanked it back in place. A pretty girl bent over and gave Harry a swift kiss on the cheek. Another flung a bouquet of flowers that landed in Johnny’s lap.
Though all this adulation was like ambrosia to Harry, he knew how excruciating it must be for his reclusive friend. “Stiff upper lip, lad,” he said. “I’ll get us out of here as quick as ever I can.”
On the steps of the Reform Club stood Julius Hardiman and his son, along with Sullivan and Flanagan and half a dozen dignitaries Harry didn’t recognize. There was no sign of his father, but Harry spotted Aouda Fogg on the fringes of the crowd and waved to her. She raised one hand tentatively, as though not quite certain it was her son driving the car.
Charles Hardiman, lugging an enormous leather portmanteau, wormed his way through the throng. With great effort he flung his bag into the car, then stood there looking baffled. Since the rear seat had been added as an afterthought to accommodate their unwanted passenger, no door led to it. “How do I get in?” asked Charles.
“However you like,” replied Harry. He watched with amusement as the boy placed one foot on the running board, swung the other awkwardly over the side of the car, and toppled unceremoniously into the seat. His bowler hat went flying. The crowd laughed and applauded.
“Better put some stirrups on her!” called one man.
On the steps of the Reform Club, Julius Hardiman was waving his hands and shouting over the din, “Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention, please! I would like to say a few words on this momentous occasion!”
Harry groaned. “Time to go,” he murmured to Johnny and pulled out the throttle. The car leaped forward, a bit more eagerly than he had expected, sending spectators scattering. “Sorry!” he called. “She has a mind of her own!”
Charles, who had been thrown back in his seat and lost his hat again, said heatedly, “That was rude of you, Fogg! My father was about to make a speech!”
“Oh, was he?” said Harry innocently. “My apologies. These motorcars; they’re so unpredictable, you know.” Just when it seemed that they had left the crowd behind, Harry saw another group of a dozen or so blocking the street ahead of them. They seemed to have something more in mind than just gawking at the celebrated motorcar. Some of them brandished sticks; others clutched paving stones in their hands. Several carried wooden signs with crudely painted messages. “What the deuce—?” said Harry.
“They look as though they mean to attack someone,” said Charles.
“They do,” said Harry. “Us.” As the mob drew nearer, he could hear them chanting “Down with the devil-wagons!” and he could make out the messages on the signs: STEAM IS DEDLY; MACHINES ARE THE WORK OF MADMEN; THE SMOKE OF THERE TORMENT ASENDETH UP FOR EVER & EVER & THEY HAVE NO REST.
A stone sailed through the air and bounced off the fender of the Flash. “Do something!” cried Charles.
“Turn!” shouted Johnny. But they were in the middle of a block; the only side streets were narrow alleys. If they got stuck in one of those, they would be at the mob’s mercy.
Harry glanced around. Just ahead of them, a horse-drawn delivery van was pulled up to the curb. “I’ve a better idea.” He reached for a small handle that protruded from the dashboard, next to the throttle.
“I’m getting out!” said Charles.
“Don’t move!” Harry yanked on the handle. An earassaulting shriek rent the air. The horse harnessed to the delivery van reared up, let out a whinny nearly as piercing as the steam whistle, and bolted. The New Luddites scrambled for the sidewalks, clearing a path for the terrified animal and the careening wagon—and the motorcar that roared along right behind them. “Heads down!” Harry warned his passengers. A stone struck the glass windscreen, cracking it; another caromed off the leather hood that was folded, accordion-like, behind the rear seat.
A moment later they were out of range of the Luddites’ missiles. “It’s a lucky thing they hate machines so much!” Harry gloated. “If they’d brought a catapult, we’d be in trouble!”
“We’d be in a good deal more trouble if they had guns,” said Charles sourly.
“Oh, I’m sure they meant us no personal harm; they just wanted to bang the car up a bit.”
“I daresay they’d have banged us up a bit as well. We should have abandoned it. I’m not a coward, you know. I just can’t see risking my own skin for the sake of a machine.”
Harry gave him a stern glance. “See here, Hardiman. Let’s get one thing straight right from the beginning. The Flash is more than just a machine. Johnny and I have put a devil of a lot of sweat and blood into building her, and we’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, even if it means risking our own skins. If you’re not willing to do the same, you may as well get out now.”
Charles took a moment to adjust his hat and his tie before answering. “I’m willing,” he said, coolly. “Up to a point.” He opened his portmanteau and drew out a leather-bound diary and a fountain pen. Checking his pocket watch, he made a note of the time, then consulted a small 1891 calendar printed in the front of the diary. “We left the Reform Club—rudely—at ten-fifteen A.M. on Thursday, the sixth of August.” He counted ahead one hundred days. “So. In order to win this bet of yours, you and of course your machine—sorry, your more-than-a-machine—must appear at the foot of the Club steps no later than ten-fifteen A.M. on the fourteenth of November. Correct?”
“Is that calendar days or elapsed days? We’ll lose a day when we cross the Pacific Ocean, you know.”
“If we get that far.”
“Oh, we’ll get that far, I promise you.”
“According to my father, you are to have one hundred calendar days.”
Harry nodded. “All right. Just so I know where we stand. I hope I can trust you to keep an accurate count of the days.”
“Of course.”
Though Harry had his doubts, he kept them to himself. As irksome as young Hardiman was, there was no point in antagonizing the boy. Like it or not, they were stuck with him for the next one hundred days. Well, actually, only ninety-nine. But Harry feared that they would be very long ones.
EIGHT In which
THE STEAM CAR MAKES A GOOD SHOWING AND HARRY MAKES A FRIEND
Harry knew a good deal about steamships, but it was mainly their size and weight and speed and construction that interested him. He knew nothing at all about traveling on one; he had let his father make those arrangements. Phileas Fogg had booked passage for him and his companions on the steamship Aurania, which departed from the port of Liverpool at noon on the eighth of August.
The distance from London to Liverpool was no more than two hundred miles and they had two full days before the ship sailed; barring a major breakdown, they were sure to make it. With that in mind, Harry drove slowly and carefully—for perhaps half an hour. Once they were out of the city, with the open road ahead of them, he felt an irresistible urge to see what the Flash could do and he pulled out the throttle—not all the way; though he might be impetuous, he was not a complete fool.
The car leaped forward like a horse who feels the sting of the driver’s whip. Harry laughed gleefully. “She’s got muscle, Johnny, and plenty of it!”
Johnny could be nearly as inscrutable as Phileas Fogg,
but Harry thought he detected a smile on his friend’s lopsided face. “Just don’t strain her muscles.”
Harry consulted the cyclometer on the dashboard. “Ten miles down! Only twenty-four thousand nine hundred ninety to go!” Happy to be really rolling at last, he burst into a chorus of “Chucka-roo-choo-choo,” a rollicking music-hall song.
Charles Hardiman, holding his hat tightly on his head, peered over the seat back. “How fast are we going?” he asked, sounding a little anxious.
Harry shrugged. “There’s no way of telling, unless we time her. Does your watch have a second hand?”
“Yes.”
“Start timing when I say ‘go’.” When the last digit on the cyclometer hit zero, he called, “Go!” When it rolled around to zero again, he said, “Stop!”
“One minute, fifty seconds.”
“Harry,” said Johnny.
Harry ignored him. “So that’s ...” He couldn’t quite manage the math in his head.
“Just over thirty miles per hour,” said Charles rather smugly.
“Harry,” said Johnny.
Harry paid no attention. “That’s as fast as most locomotives! And she’s nowhere near full steam!”
“Harry!” said Johnny.
“Yes, Johnny, what is it?”
“You missed the turn for Liverpool.”
Harry had assumed they would leave their celebrity status behind as soon as they left London. But in each town they passed through, dozens of people, sometimes hundreds, were lined up along the highway, waving and cheering.
Even in Liverpool, a city that saw strange and exotic travelers come and go every day, the “intrepid young motorists” (as the papers were fond of calling them) caused a considerable stir. On Saturday morning, a large crowd gathered to watch the “marvelous machine” (as the papers were fond of calling it) being lowered into the hold of the SS Aurania. Though Johnny would much rather have kept out of sight, he stoically stayed by the Flash’s side, making certain she was properly cared for.
Around the World in 100 Days Page 5
