Around the World in 100 Days

by Gary Blackwood

  “No. Though I truly am grateful to you, I could have defended myself.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how exactly would you have done that?”

  “I am a student of kalarippayattu.”

  “Who?”

  “It is not a person. It is a traditional Indian martial art.”

  “The unusual stance you took is part of it, then?”

  “It is called the asvavadivu—also known, more crudely, as the horse posture.”

  “You could actually have disarmed the thief?”

  “And disabled him if necessary. Thanks to you, it was not necessary. You have an excellent throwing arm. Do you by any chance play cricket?”

  “I used to do, at Eton. And you?”

  “At the Institute of Mechanical and Electrical Engineering. We did not have much of a team, but as good as one might expect from students of the sciences.”

  They launched into a spirited discussion of various cricket teams and players and, before they knew it, had reached the well-lighted area of wharves and warehouses. The stranger gazed at Harry with frank curiosity. “I assumed from your speech that you were English. I see now that you are not.”

  “My mother is from India.”

  “But she has raised you to be a proper British gentleman.”

  “She’s tried. I’m not certain it’s worked out.”

  The man laughed. “Fortunately for me. Few British gentlemen would have risked their own lives to save that of a foreigner. It would be gentlemanly of us, I suppose, to introduce ourselves. My name is Dhiren Ramesh.”

  He was a good-looking, athletic fellow of perhaps thirty. Though his well-tailored gray suit and cream-colored waistcoat were like those worn by any professional man in New York or London, no one would have mistaken him for an Englishman or an American. And the red turban he wore made it clear that he did not wish to be mistaken for one.

  “I have been studying America’s railroads,” he said, “and I am now on my way to Russia to help plan a railway across Siberia.” He raised his leather satchel. “Had the thief taken this, he would have been quite disappointed. It contains mainly sketches and notes and mathematical calculations.”

  They shook hands; the man’s grip was strong, almost painful. “Harry Fogg. I’m traveling around the world in a motorcar.”

  Ramesh smiled broadly. “It is a great pleasure to meet you. I have been following your progress in the newspapers. How is your vehicle holding up?”

  Harry stopped before the warehouse. “See for yourself, if you like.”

  “I would like that very much, but it is late. Another day, perhaps. Will you be in San Francisco long?”

  “Only two more days, I hope. We plan to sail on Tuesday, on the Belgic.”

  “In that case, there will be many opportunities for me to see your motorcar. I have a cabin on the Belgic as well.”

  Early on Monday, Harry and Elizabeth returned to the Western Union office. When she emerged, the look on her face told Harry that she had heard no word from the Daily Graphic.

  “I don’t understand it. They seemed to like my stories. Why would they cut me off this way?” Her blue eyes threatened to fill with tears. She swallowed hard, then took a deep, slightly shaky breath. “Well. If I don’t hear from them soon, you may have to continue without me.”

  Harry scratched his head. “See here, Elizabeth; I know you’re quite capable of taking care of yourself and all that, but we can’t just leave you here.”

  Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Thank you, but I’ve caused you enough delays already; I can’t let you risk losing your wager on my account. If necessary, I can find work and earn the money for my passage home.”

  “No,” said Harry. “No. I’ll find some way out of this, I promise you.”

  That afternoon, both the harbormaster and Drummond, the railroad man, turned up to hold Harry to his promise. After showing them how handily the Flash climbed San Francisco’s steep grades, he gave Drummond a turn at the wheel. The man would have run them into a stack of spice crates had Harry not yanked on the hand brake just in time. Despite the near-disaster, Drummond clearly found the experience exhilarating. “I must get myself one of these machines!” he boomed.

  Around four Johnny returned from escorting Elizabeth to the telegraph office; the Daily Graphic was still ignoring her. “We can’t leave her,” Johnny said. “Maybe Hardiman would pay her way.”

  “She’s far too proud to ask him.” Harry patted his friend’s shoulder reassuringly. “But don’t worry, lad. I’ve been mulling it over, and I think I’ve come up with a plan to raise the money for her and for us.”

  “I knew you would. What’s the plan?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” said Harry, “once I’ve seen whether or not it works.” He hurried away, leaving Johnny to guard the Flash again. Johnny had already made every conceivable adjustment and repair to the motorcar, including replacing the broken windscreen at last. All he could do was sit and stare into space.

  After an hour or so, Elizabeth arrived bearing food and drink and a copy of Under Two Flags. “I thought you might be bored, so I brought you something to read.”

  Johnny pulled his cap down over his ears. “Thanks,” he murmured. He set the book and the food aside and pretended to be cleaning the brass housing of the acetylene lamps.

  Elizabeth realized for the first time that, despite all his cleverness, Johnny might not know his letters. “If you like,” she said softly, “I could read aloud while you have your supper.” When he didn’t reply, she retrieved the book and sat on a packing crate. “I’ll have to turn away from you, I’m afraid, in order to catch the light from the window. Will you be able to hear me all right?”

  “Yes,” said Johnny, gratefully.

  Elizabeth was a fine reader, dramatic and subtle by turns, and surprisingly adept at mimicking men’s voices. As Johnny listened, he lost all awareness of his actual surroundings and drifted into the world created by the words. As fond as he was of Harry, when his friend returned and broke the spell, Johnny almost wished he had stayed away awhile longer.

  Harry was brandishing several pieces of paper. “I’ve got them!” he announced triumphantly.

  Elizabeth looked up from the book, a bit put out at being interrupted. “I assume you mean the steamship tickets.”

  “Yes!” He waved one of the documents in front of Johnny’s face. “And here I have a bill of lading for the Flash!”

  “Wonderful,” said Elizabeth.

  Harry plunked down on the packing crate next to her. “You might show a bit more enthusiasm. After all ...” He dangled another of the papers before her nose. “I’ve a ticket for you as well.”

  Elizabeth’s well-formed mouth fell open. “How on earth did you manage that?”

  Harry’s grin faded just a little. “Never mind how I managed it. The important thing is, we sail for Yokohama in the morning!”

  TWENTY-FIVE In which

  A REMEDY IS FOUND FOR HARRY’S IMPATIENCE

  They were not forced to travel Chinese steerage, after all. Harry had actually taken two cabins in second class—one for himself and Johnny, and another for Elizabeth. Charles, of course, made his own arrangements; to Harry’s surprise, the usually fussy fellow contented himself with a “cramped and dreary” second-class cabin as well.

  As Harry and Elizabeth stood at the rail watching San Francisco disappear behind its sulfurous haze, Harry said, “When do we reach Yokohama?”

  Elizabeth consulted her schedule. “They don’t give a specific date. The steward says the crossing can take anywhere from a fortnight to sixteen days, depending upon the weather.”

  “And of course we lose a day when we cross the date line,” said Harry.

  “Still, we’ll be in Shanghai by the end of September. That leaves us a month and a half to cross Asia and Europe.”

  “Right,” said Harry cheerfully. “More than enough time.”

  Elizabeth stared silently at the water for a minute or t
wo. “You really needn’t have paid for my passage, you know.”

  “Is that your way of saying thank you?”

  “I’m grateful, Harry, truly I am. But it must have used up every bit of money you had. How will you purchase supplies and fuel for the rest of the trip?”

  “Don’t worry about it, all right? I have plenty of money.”

  “I don’t see how, after—Oh. I think I understand. You wired your father. That’s it, isn’t it?” Harry didn’t reply. She laid a hand on his arm. “That must have been a bitter pill to swallow. I’m sorry. When I signed on, I promised I wouldn’t cause you any trouble, and it’s all I’ve done.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. On the whole, I’d say you’ve been more of an asset than a liability.”

  She made a disparaging sound. “Oh, yes. I crashed the car into a boulder; I made you miss the steamer for Hong Kong ...”

  “You also helped us outrun a prairie fire,” he said, “and you looked after me when I was ill. Not to mention putting Charles in his place a time or two.” This elicited a laugh from Elizabeth. “But the best thing you’ve done,” Harry went on, more seriously, “is to treat Johnny with kindness and consideration. He’s had precious little of that in his life.”

  For once, Elizabeth seemed at a loss for words. She put her chin in her hands and gazed at the froth churned up by the steamship’s propellers. Harry was lost in thought, too. Now that he had taken care of the money problem, his main concern was how he would keep himself from going mad during the interminable two weeks that lay ahead.

  The evenings went by quickly enough. Harry and Charles occupied themselves with games of bezique or écarté. Sometimes Elizabeth joined them for a few hands of whist; other evenings she sat on deck reading to Johnny, whom she actually coaxed out of his cabin and into a deck chair.

  The days were more trying. Whatever the weather, Harry strode up and down the deck like a dog on a treadmill or stood in the bow, staring out over the ocean as if hoping that Yokohama might appear on the horizon a week or two ahead of schedule. This was where Dhiren Ramesh found him. “Mr. Fogg. It is a pleasure to see you. I hoped we might meet again, but I was not certain in which class you would be traveling.”

  The genuine warmth of the man’s greeting took Harry by surprise. The fellows at Eton and at the Reform Club could put on a show of well-met-old-chap heartiness, but it often felt forced, superficial; you were left wondering whether they truly were glad to see you or were just going through the motions expected of a gentleman. With Ramesh, there was no doubt. It was both refreshing and a bit disconcerting.

  They resumed their conversation as if they had spoken a few hours earlier, and not a few days ago. When Harry expressed his impatience, Ramesh smiled. “I believe I have just the remedy for that. We shall organize a cricket match.”

  There were enough enthusiastic Englishmen aboard, plus a couple of Indian men, to make up two sides. Ramesh had a bat and ball in his luggage; folded-up deck chairs served as their wickets.

  They quickly discovered one major drawback of playing aboard a ship: There was nothing to stop the ball from flying into the ocean. They substituted apples from the bowls in the dining room.

  Harry was accustomed to playing all out; his first time up, he struck the ball so hard it exploded into applesauce. “Sorry! I suppose that should count as an out.” After that, he was more restrained, and began to enjoy the game for what it was—not a serious contest, just a bit of a lark.

  Passengers gathered to watch the match, including Charles. “Why don’t you join us, Hardiman?” called Harry.

  “No, no,” Charles protested. “I’m no cricketer.”

  “Then you’re in the same boat as the rest of us duffers,” said one of Harry’s teammates. “Come on, there’s a good fellow.”

  Elizabeth leaned into Charles and said softly, “If you don’t, I will.” He handed her his jacket and strode onto the field, which had been marked out on the deck with chalk. As luck would have it, the very next shot came rolling right at him; to his surprise and Harry’s, he scooped it up easily.

  “Throw it at their wicket!” Harry told him.

  Charles flung the apple at the upended deck chair; it toppled over, to cries of “Good arm!” and “Way, oh!” Later that afternoon, Charles managed to score a run when the juice-slick ball shot from a fielder’s hands and over the rail. “Well done, old chap!” Harry pounded him on the back. Charles responded with a rare grin.

  Though his side ultimately lost, Harry took it quite philosophically. Charles did not. “We’ll get them next time!” he vowed.

  Ramesh seemed amused by his grim resolve. “The Bhagavad Gita teaches that we should be indifferent to success or failure. One should simply do one’s part as cheerfully and as competently as possible, without thinking of the outcome.”

  Harry laughed. “The English have a similar saying. ‘It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.’”

  “In my experience,” said Ramesh, “few Englishmen live by that rule. For most of them, winning seems to be of the utmost importance.”

  “It may be true that we like to win,” replied Charles, “but only if it’s done fairly and honorably.”

  Ramesh raised an eyebrow. “If you have studied the history of India, you know that the conduct of your countrymen there has been neither fair nor honor-able.”

  “And I suppose the conduct of your countrymen has been? My uncle served in India, and he has told me stories of how the sepoys butchered English women and children.”

  “You are right, of course. There have been unspeakable, unforgivable atrocities on both sides. But I am sure you agree that none of them would have occurred had the British not insisted upon ruling India.”

  Though Ramesh remained calm and reasonable, Charles had grown more and more agitated. Finally he spun about and stalked off. The Indian man sighed. “Perhaps I should not have spoken so frankly. I did not mean to anger him. It is just that I grow a bit weary of Englishmen and their attitude toward our country—which of course they regard as their country. The jewel in England’s crown, I have heard it called.”

  When Ramesh said “our country,” Harry felt that he was included. He wanted to protest that India was not his country, that he knew practically nothing about it, just the little his mother had told him. They had studied the country’s history briefly at Eton, but Harry had not really been paying attention.

  And yet, though he couldn’t call himself an Indian, he knew he would never be considered a proper Englishman, either; it had been made clear to him many times, most recently by Julius Hardiman and his cronies.

  That night, over a game of cards, Charles said, “That Indian fellow. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “What if he is?”

  “That’s your business, of course. I just think that the stuff he was saying earlier was a lot of rubbish. I’d like to see what India would amount to without us English.”

  “Yes,” said Harry, thoughtfully. “So would I.”

  TWENTY-SIX Showing that

  THE SHORTEST ROUTE IS NOT NECESSARILY THE QUICKEST

  At breakfast the next morning, Harry found Ramesh sitting by himself. They fell easily into conversation again. Harry mentioned that he was looking forward to driving across India, since he knew so little about his mother’s homeland. He didn’t mention the fact that Aouda’s in-laws might wish to kidnap him.

  Ramesh gave him a puzzled glance. “Surely you will not pass through India?”

  “The plan is to land in Shanghai, then cut across southern China and Burma. I’ve been told it’s the shortest route.”

  “Only if you do not count the distance traveled up and down.”

  “There are a lot of hills, then?”

  “Not hills, my friend—mountains. Very high, very steep mountains. I would not want the task of putting a railroad through them, I promise you that. In fact, I would not care to attempt them even on the most sure-footed of donkeys, and no one has ever called
me faint of heart.”

  Harry frowned and picked at his eggs. “I didn’t know about the mountains. I wonder whether Julius Hardiman did. He was the one who suggested I take that route.”

  “Perhaps he knows southern China only from a map. If he had actually crossed it, he would certainly not advise anyone else to try.”

  “Unless ...” said Harry.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless he wanted them to fail.”

  Ramesh’s job as a railway engineer had taken him throughout eastern Asia, and he knew of only one feasible route: the so-called Great Russian Post Road. Patched together by the Russian government from a series of existing wagon roads, it led from the port of Vladivostok all the way across Siberia to Moscow. “I traveled it once, years ago; this time I will explore it more closely, to determine whether it is suitable for the railroad.”

  “Surely there are mountains there, too?”

  “Of course; but not like those in China and Burma. Let me fetch my topographical maps and show you.”

  A look at the maps convinced Harry that they were better off going through Siberia, even though it meant adding five hundred miles. “I’ll be sorry to miss seeing India, though.”

  Ramesh slid a map of his country from his chart case and gazed at it wistfully. “I shall miss it, too. I have been nearly six months in America, and will likely spend an entire year in Russia. It is a long time to be away from a place one loves.”

  Harry was struck by the sadness in Ramesh’s voice. If it had not been for the wager, Harry would have been in no hurry to return to London. There were so many other places to see. Though he had covered a lot of territory, and would cover a good deal more, he wasn’t really experiencing it, only passing through.

  Ramesh placed a finger on the southern tip of India. “Here is my home.”

  “Kerala. It must be very beautiful.”

  “It is a fertile region, full of rice fields and spice gardens and coconut groves. The weather is always warm there.” He gave a small shudder. “I shall have to purchase a fur coat in Vladivostok.” With a laugh, he added, “And an extra-large fur cap, to fit over my turban.”