Around the World in 100 Days

by Gary Blackwood

  Johnny peered through one of the Flash’s isinglass windows. The car was empty. “Harry!” he shouted again. He felt an anxious prickle of pain in his damaged skull. Filled with a sense of foreboding, he circled the cold remains of the campfire and lifted the flap of the tent. Inside, his friends had set up one of the wooden supply boxes to serve as a card table. Cards were strewn about on it.

  Of the cardplayers themselves, however, there was no sign.

  THIRTY-TWO Showing what

  BECAME OF HARRY AND CHARLES

  For the first several days after the group split up, Harry and Charles were quite vigilant. Harry spent the dwindling daylight hours beneath the Flash, removing the ruined gears, while Charles did sentry duty, a book in one hand and a rifle in the other.

  Knowing Johnny wouldn’t return for several days, Harry forced himself to work slowly and carefully, cleaning out every trace of broken metal. Then he went over the rest of the car thoroughly, checking and tightening, greasing and oiling.

  Each night after dinner, they played écarté and bezique and a two-handed version of whist they had invented. It was growing too chilly to sit comfortably about the campfire, so they pitched one of the tents close to the fire pit and tied back the flaps to capture the heat. With the open front facing the road, they could keep an eye out for anyone approaching.

  In the space of three days, the total traffic consisted of three postal tarantasses, a woodcutter, a traveling peddler, a band of colorfully clad Gypsies, a small contingent of Cossacks, and a hundred or so chained prisoners guarded by soldiers with bayonets. These were followed by half a dozen wagons that carried political exiles, half of them women and children.

  “This won’t be a country for exiles much longer,” said Charles. “My father says that once they complete the railway, settlers will pour into Siberia by the tens of thousands. It’ll soon be as civilized as Europe.”

  “For better or worse,” said Harry.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I was just wondering what will become of those nomadic people who’ve lived here for centuries.”

  Charles shrugged. “That’s the way of the world, Harry. It’s called progress.”

  “That’s what it’s called by the people who come in and take over. I expect the ones being displaced and downtrodden have another word for it.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a bleeding heart. You’re as much in favor of progress as anyone. If you have your way, those nomads will be using motorcars to herd their cattle.” They resumed their card game, and Charles took the final trick of the hand. “One odd trick; that gives me a total of five points.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite.”

  “Only I thought it was four.”

  Charles glared at him. “Are you accusing me of cheating?”

  “Of course not. I just wondered whether you counted properly.”

  “You’re the one who has trouble with figures, not I!”

  “All right, all right, there’s no need to fly off the handle, old chap. Perhaps I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Charles looked a bit sheepish. “Sorry. I suppose I’m tired of being accused of things, that’s—”

  Harry held up a hand to silence him. “Sshh! Did you hear that?”

  “No,” said Charles. But a moment later, he did hear something—a twig snapping outside the tent. He and Harry dived for the rifle simultaneously. Harry came up with it and scrambled through the door of the tent.

  At first he saw nothing, only the shadows cast by the firelight. But then the shadows closed in and became three-dimensional figures. Harry raised the rifle, then realized there was no use. As the intruders entered the circle of light, he saw that there were more than a dozen, and all of them were armed.

  Some wore Cossack garb—long embroidered tunics, sheepskin hats, knee-high boots—and for a moment Harry believed they were soldiers. Forcing a smile, he said, “Drasti!” The simple greeting was one of the few Russian words he had learned.

  A tall, incredibly ugly man in a bearskin coat stepped forward. He was not smiling. “Cu da?” he demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I believe he wants to know where we’re from,” said Charles, his voice unsteady.

  “England, actually,” Harry replied. “Anglija.”

  Now the man did smile, and Harry rather wished he hadn’t. Aside from the rotten teeth, there was something truly unpleasant about that smile; it was far more menacing than an angry scowl. The man said something that made his companions laugh, but the laughter was no more reassuring than the smile.

  Harry whispered to Charles, “What did he say?”

  “No idea.”

  The ugly man reached out and yanked Harry’s rifle from his grasp. Harry didn’t bother to resist. When the man seized his arm, he did put up a struggle and, for his trouble, received a blow on the head that left his ears ringing. Two outlaws took hold of Charles and half carried him along.

  The group plunged into the black depths of the forest. Disoriented, unable to see, Harry felt as though he’d been thrust underwater; he found himself gasping for air. He twisted his head to look behind him; already the trees were blocking out the firelight. A few moments more, and he lost sight of everything that had provided some measure of comfort and familiarity in this unfamiliar land—the tent, the fire, the Flash, the post road.

  When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a new set of shadowy shapes—the outlaws’ horses. The leader indicated that they should mount up. When Harry was in the saddle—an uncomfortable affair made of leather stuffed with horsehair—his hands were bound together, then tied to the saddle frame. “Charles?” Harry called. “Are you all right?”

  “Smashing,” came the dry response. “Do you suppose if we gave them all our money, they’d let us go?”

  “If that were all they wanted, they’d have taken it by now.”

  “What’s their game, then? You think they mean to hold us for ransom?”

  “Zatknis, durac!” growled the ugly man. Though the words were foreign, the meaning was clear. They were to keep their mouths shut.

  They traveled for a good hour—actually, an extremely miserable hour—staying well away from the post road. At last they emerged from the taiga and onto a sloping meadow where more horses grazed. Below them lay a small lake half choked with reeds. At one end was a cluster of crude log cabins roofed with dirt and chinked with moss. A haze of wood smoke hung in the air.

  The outlaws unsaddled their horses and led their captives to the largest hut. From the outside it looked rather ramshackle, but the interior proved surprisingly neat and comfortable, if a bit Spartan. There were bunks and a table and chairs, all fashioned from logs—not elegant, but sturdy and serviceable. In the center was a circular stone fireplace; a trapdoor in the roof allowed the smoke to escape . . . eventually. The light from the fire was supplemented by a kerosene lamp.

  The only piece of factory-made furniture was a maple rocking chair. Seated in it was a striking fellow of indeterminate age; though his hair and mustache were completely gray and his face lined and weathered, his frame was trim and muscular. When his dark eyes met Harry’s, their gaze was both curious and calculating. He spoke a few words in Russian. The ugly man and his companions nodded and left the hut. The man in the rocker motioned Harry and Charles to sit.

  “Do you speak English?” Harry asked.

  The man shrugged. “A few words, only. Parlez-vous français?”

  “Oui, un peu.”

  The conversation continued in French—fluent on the Russian’s side, halting on Harry’s. “I know your names, of course,” said the man. “Mine is Grigory Annekov.”

  Harry automatically shook the outstretched hand; Charles ignored it. “Why is it you have taken us here, Mr. Annekov?” asked Harry.

  “You seem like intelligent lads. I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now.”

  “You desire to have money for us.”

  “Perhaps I
should do the talking,” put in Charles, in English. “No offense, but your French is execrable.”

  Harry grinned wryly. “That bad, eh?”

  Charles nodded and said in flawless French, “You intend to hold us for ransom, I would imagine.”

  “Not exactly,” said Annekov.

  “What, then?”

  “Well, in Mr. Fogg’s case, it is not a ransom so much as a reward. And we will be holding him only a few days.”

  “And after that?” asked Harry, who was constitutionally unable to sit silently by.

  “After that, my men will deliver you to the gentleman who is offering the reward.”

  Charles turned to Harry with a baffled look. “What is he talking about?” he asked in English. “Why on earth would anyone be offering a reward for you?”

  Harry didn’t answer. “This gentleman you mention. Is he by any chance from India?”

  “Ah,” said Annekov with a smile. “I see that I was not mistaken about your intelligence.”

  THIRTY-THREE In which

  A FAMILIAR FACE UNEXPECTEDLY REAPPEARS

  Charles shook his friend’s arm. “Harry? Harry, what’s this all about? There’s something you haven’t told me, isn’t there?”

  Harry sighed. “It’s rather a long story, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, just summarize it, then!”

  Harry briefly recounted what his mother had told him about the rajah’s fanatical relatives. “I didn’t realize just how fanatical they actually were. I could imagine them trying to kidnap me if I’d gone by way of India. But to hire someone in Siberia to do it for them . . .” He shook his head incredulously. “How much money do they give you?” he asked Annekov.

  “Enough. Far more than we can make robbing towns and travelers, certainly.”

  “But . . . but how did they even manage to contact you?” asked Charles.

  Annekov shrugged. “The same way your father contacts his business associates. By telegraph, of course. And to learn your whereabouts, all we had to do was read the newspapers. Ah, these modern inventions—they’ve even improved the lives of outlaws. I can scarcely wait until we’re able to trade in our horses for motorcars. And when the railroad comes through—” He clucked his tongue. “Just think of the possibilities.”

  “This Indian man, he not wants ...” Harry was beginning to understand how Johnny felt, having to search for the right word to express himself. “He does not want Charles. Let Charles go.”

  “My men were instructed to capture you, Mr. Fogg, no one else. But I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. According to the newspaper stories, Mr. Hardiman, your father is president of a railway. I suspect he would pay a few thousand pounds to make certain his son returns home safely.”

  Charles laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know my father.”

  “No? Well, we shall see. Once Mr. Fogg is disposed of, I’ll wire your father. Until then, consider yourselves my guests. My house is yours.”

  Charles glanced around distastefully. “If it were mine,”he said, “I’d burn it down.”

  Annekov gave him a look so withering that Charles regretted his words. “I assure you, Mr. Hardiman, this is not the sort of accommodation I am accustomed to, either. I was not always an outlaw, you know. For nearly fifteen years I was a respected professor at St. Petersburg University. But then—” His voice took on an ominous tone that was clearly ironic. “Then I fell in with a ‘bad crowd,’ a group of unsavory criminals known as the Narodniki.”

  “Socialists?” said Charles.

  Annekov nodded. “We wanted only to make life better for the common man. But we were deemed a threat to the established order, so several comrades and I were sent here—not as exiles, mind you, but as actual convicts, sentenced to eight years’ hard labor in the mines. I escaped—obviously—and . . . and found other employment.” The Russian rose from his rocking chair and stretched. “Well. My working day is just beginning, but I am sure you gentlemen are exhausted. You’ll find the beds quite tolerable, I think. The mattresses are stuffed with wool.” He donned his fur coat and hat and started out the door, but turned back to say, “If it is any consolation, a share of the reward and the ransom—should your father pay one—will go to aid other political dissidents.”

  “Oh, well, in that case,” muttered Charles, “we don’t mind at all being kidnapped and held prisoner.”

  Harry knew well enough that the door would be barred, but his optimistic nature compelled him to try it anyway. “It’s barred,” he said.

  Charles peered out through the single small window. “What’s more, there’s an armed chap just outside, standing guard.”

  Harry yawned. “Well, we may as well get some sleep, then.”

  “How can you think about sleeping, at a time like this?”

  “I’m not thinking about it.” Harry stretched out on one of the bunks; the wool-filled mattress was a bit lumpy, but soft. “I’m just doing it.”

  Over the next days they were confined to the hut, except for visits to the privy, while Annekov made arrangements by telegraph with Aouda Fogg’s former in-laws. It was agreed that Annekov’s men would transport Harry to the city of Verniy, eight or nine hundred miles to the southwest, where the dead prince’s relatives would take possession of the prisoner.

  As always, the enforced idleness kept Harry in a constant state of frustration. He tried playing cards with Charles but couldn’t keep his mind on the game. Since the room was too small to permit much restless pacing, he resorted to other means of quelling his impatience.

  As he sat cross-legged on the floor with his eyes closed, taking measured breaths and softly intoning “Ommmm,” he heard Charles speaking, as if from a great distance: “I say, Fogg. Are you all right?”

  “Sshh,” whispered Harry. “I’m meditating.”

  “On what?”

  “Nothing. Just meditating. You should try it.”

  “You look deuced silly, you know.”

  “Silence, my friend. I need silence.” Though Charles grudgingly obliged, Harry could not get his own brain to cooperate. It persisted in dwelling upon their predicament.

  Harry had lost track of what day it was, and, without the aid of his diary, so had Charles. In any case, Johnny would certainly have returned to the site of the breakdown long ago. The poor lad would be utterly bewildered, wondering what had become of his companions and what to do next. Luckily, he would have Elizabeth with him. She was a levelheaded sort; surely she would see that the logical thing to do would be to repair the Flash and continue the journey, on the assumption that the missing pair would turn up sooner or later.

  This was, of course, a rather questionable assumption. It was beginning to look as if they might never rejoin the others. But as far as the wager was concerned, it didn’t really matter. No one had ever said that, in order for the Flash to win, Harry and Charles must be aboard.

  That night they were again left under guard while Annekov led a raiding party to obtain supplies and money for the journey to Verniy. “Get a good sleep, Mr. Fogg,” advised the outlaw chief. “You have a long trip ahead of you, in the morning.”

  The situation had begun to seem daunting even to the dauntless Harry. He did not worry about his own fate so much as about the Flash and about Johnny, about the outcome of his wager, and about how his mother would feel when she learned of his capture. Though he felt it his duty to find a way out of this mess, he had never been much on planning and scheming. He was the sort to wait for an oppportunity, a chance to act. Some such opportunity might yet present itself. If it did, he would make the most of it. Until then, there was nothing to be done but to lie down on one of the bunks and doze off.

  Charles, meanwhile, sat in Annekov’s chair, nervouslyrocking and racking his brain. Sometime before dawn he fell asleep, only to be wakened again by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “What?” he mumbled drowsily. “What is it?”

  “Please be very quiet,” whispered a voice in his ear. “We do not want to
alert anyone.”

  The oil lamp had gone out, and Charles could see nothing but the glow of embers in the fireplace. “Who on earth—?”

  “Be quiet!” the voice repeated softly but urgently. “Where is Harry?”

  “What—I don’t—Isn’t he in the bed?”

  There was a slight rustle of clothing, followed by a moment of silence. Then Charles heard Harry’s voice, sounding sleepy and surprised. “Is it really you?”

  “Get up, please,” said the other voice. “We must hurry.”

  Harry and Charles stumbled about, searching for their coats and shoes. “What happened to the guard?” asked Harry.

  “You will trip over him if you are not careful.”

  “You killed him?”

  “There was no need. I brought him inside, so he does not freeze. Come. I have horses waiting.”

  When they emerged from the hut, the moonlight revealed their rescuer’s identity at last. “Ramesh!” breathed Charles.

  “Keep moving, please.” The Indian man placed a hand on his back and propelled him toward the woods.

  Before they reached the trees, a tall form emerged from the shadows to block their path. In one hand he held a lantern, in the other the reins of Ramesh’s horses. He raised the lantern, revealing his face, which was unmistakable in its ugliness. “You might have made it,” he said, in French, “had your horses not been so skittish. On my way to the privy, I heard them snuffling and prancing about.”

  “Let us pass,” said Ramesh, “and you will not be harmed.”

  “Harmed?” The ugly man gave a derisive laugh that showed his rotted teeth. “You have no weapon.”

  “Nor have you.”

  “Ah, that is where you are wrong.” Letting the reins drop, the man pulled aside his bearskin coat to show a revolver stuck in his sash. “I go nowhere without this, not even to the privy.”

  As the man reached for his pistol, Ramesh’s right foot lashed out, so swiftly it could scarcely be seen. The toe of his boot struck the man’s thigh. The Russian’s leg collapsed beneath him. Ramesh delivered another quick blow, this time with the stiffened fingers of one hand. Harry did not even see where it landed; all he saw was its effect. It left the ugly man sprawled upon the ground, gaping in astonishment, unable to move.