Around the World in 100 Days

by Gary Blackwood

  Harry was so surprised that, for a moment, he couldn’t move, either. Then Ramesh’s voice brought him to his senses. “Get the horses, gentlemen.”

  But Ramesh made no move to mount up. Instead he knelt, picked up the revolver, and flung it into a patch of brush. Then he bent over his victim and opened the man’s tunic.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Charles. “Let’s go!”

  “I injured him. It is my responsibility to undo the damage.” With his fingers, Ramesh prodded several spots on the Russian’s chest and neck. The ugly man groaned and stirred. “Do not worry,” Ramesh told him. “You will recover in a day or two.” At last he rose, walked calmly to his horse, and swung into the saddle.

  As they guided their mounts into the forest, Charles said, “You shouldn’t have helped him. Now he’ll rouse the others.”

  “Not before we’re well out of reach.”

  But apparently Ramesh underestimated the Russian’s strength of body and of will. Before five minutes passed, they heard faint shouts behind them, and several gunshots. “They’re after us!” cried Charles.

  The three urged their horses into a trot, or as near to it as the animals could manage through the dense taiga, with its maze of fallen trees. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?” Harry asked.

  “In all modesty,” said Ramesh, “I have an excellent sense of direction.”

  “So do I. But it was dark when they brought us here, and we took a roundabout route.”

  “I know. I followed your trail.”

  “How do you happen to be here? And how did you know we were in trouble?”

  “I was surveying the land west of Irkutsk and found Johnny repairing your motorcar. He was quite distraught and quite baffled by your disappearance.”

  “And you weren’t?”

  Ramesh shrugged. “The tracks and other signs made it clear what had happened.”

  “Thank you for rescuing us, my friend.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Harry grinned. “I’m afraid Annekov won’t be very pleased.”

  “The outlaw chief? He hoped to ransom you, I suppose?”

  “Um. Not exactly.” Harry gave Ramesh the same summary Charles had gotten a few days earlier.

  “I have heard that the rulers of Bundelkund can be ruthless,” said Ramesh. “I am ashamed to call them my countrymen.” They rode on in silence for a time. Then Ramesh said, “There is something I have not told you. Elizabeth was not with the Flash. According to Johnny, she has returned to England by another route.”

  Before Harry could ask why, he was interrupted by more shots. A bullet clipped a tree branch above their heads.

  “They’ve spotted us!” shouted Charles, and dug his heels into his mount’s ribs.

  “Careful, old chap!” called Harry. “If your horse breaks a leg, the game’s up!” Then, despite the gravity of the situation, he gave a sharp laugh. He couldn’t recall ever warning anyone else to be careful; ordinarily he was the one being warned.

  “We’re almost to the post road,” said Ramesh. “We can put on some speed then.” Minutes later they burst from the forest and onto the road. Now that they were in the open, Harry saw to his surprise that it was nearly daylight. Charles’s horse reared as he reined it in. “Which way?”

  Ramesh pointed, and they set off at a gallop. “Wait!” shouted Harry. “We’re heading back toward the Flash! We should be leading them away from her!”

  “We have guns there!” replied Charles. “At least we’ll be able to defend ourselves!” He glanced over his shoulder. “Besides, we can’t very well turn round, can we?”

  Harry twisted about in the saddle. Their pursuers had emerged from the woods and were thundering down the road after them. There were at least half a dozen outlaws, and several were such skilled horsemen that they could simultaneously ride and shoot—not very accurately, but it was only a matter of time before one of their bullets found a target.

  THIRTY-FOUR In which

  THE TRUTH ABOUT ELIZABETH IS AT LAST REVEALED

  Ramesh’s horses were used to carrying packs, not riders; they didn’t have the speed or stamina of the Siberian ponies the outlaws rode. Already Harry felt his mount beginning to falter. He fervently wished they had the Flash in working order. It could have outrun the horsemen with ease.

  To his astonishment, a moment later the motorcar appeared in the distance, speeding toward them, throwing up an enormous cloud of dust. Immediately, Harry regretted his wish. Before they were able to climb into the Flash and turn her around, their pursuers would be upon them. Not only would the outlaws recapture Harry and Charles, they’d have Ramesh and Johnny. Perhaps worst of all, any hope of winning the wager would be lost.

  “Go back!” Harry waved both hands at Johnny so vehemently that he nearly fell out of the saddle. “Turn around!” Apparently mistaking his gestures for a greeting, Johnny waved back. “No, no!” groaned Harry. “Get out of here, Johnny! Go!” But the Flash kept coming.

  As it drew nearer, Harry saw that the billows of dust hanging in the car’s wake had been concealing something. He let out a whoop and burst into exuberant laughter.

  Charles cast him a dumbfounded glance. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Yes! But it’s a good sort of mad! Look what’s following the Flash!”

  Charles squinted at the road ahead. Just then a gust of wind swept the curtain of dust aside, revealing a band of mounted Cossacks, brandishing pistols and sabers.

  “You’ve brought the cavalry!” Harry called as Johnny pulled the Flash up alongside them. The three riders guided their mounts off the road and the Cossacks galloped past, uttering savage, high-pitched cries that made them sound less like a troop of soldiers than like a horde of devils.

  The outlaws wasted no time firing on the Cossacks. They wheeled their horses and headed back the way they had come. Half the soldiers pursued them; the other half joined the intrepid motorists and their vehicle. A Cossack officer addressed them in French. “I doubt that the varnaks will bother you again. But to be certain, we will escort you as far as our garrison at Zima. You will be our guests this evening. We will share a glass of vodka. You will tell us of your adventures, and we will tell you the proud history of the Cossack people.”

  “We will be delighted,” said Harry.

  “No, we won’t,” muttered Charles, in English.

  Ramesh retrieved his surveying equipment and supplies from the car. “I must take my leave now, gentlemen. I have work to do.”

  “You’ve done a good day’s work already,” said Charles. “You saved our lives.”

  “Not really. I saved your fathers some ransom money, perhaps.”

  “You may well have saved my life,” said Harry. “The old rajah’s relatives tried to kill my mother. Who knows what they had in mind for me?” He grasped Ramesh’s hand, but when he tried to express his gratitude, his friend silenced him.

  “No, Hari. Do not thank me now. You will come to India one day and discover the other half of yourself. Then you will truly have cause to thank me.”

  Harry laughed. “So will the rajah’s relatives, if I walk right into their hands.”

  “If you are there as the guest of another Hindu family, they would not dare to harm you.”

  “Well, you know,” said Harry, “when Johnny and I develop our new, improved model of the Flash, we will need to road test it.”

  “Excellent!”

  “If I do come to India, will you teach me kalarippayattu ? The way you dispatched that ugly chap was nothing short of astounding.”

  Ramesh smiled. “There are a number of other things you need to learn first, my friend.”

  “I know, I know. Patience and caution, right?”

  “Perhaps. I believe, though, that the most important quality one can learn is good judgment. It is possible, after all, to be too cautious. There are times when one must act quickly. But, as the master who taught me was fond of saying, there is a difference between acting quic
kly and acting rashly.”

  “I shall try to remember that.”

  “And I shall look forward to the time when we meet again.” Placing his palms together, Ramesh bowed his head slightly. “Namaste.”

  Harry mirrored the gesture. “Namaste.”

  As they drove away, Charles said, “You don’t really intend to take the Cossacks up on their offer, I hope. I don’t think I can bear any more black bread and kerpichni chai.”

  “Well,” said Harry, “as you know, I’m no expert on ‘gentlemanly behaviour,’ but wouldn’t it be rude to refuse their hospitality?”

  Charles sighed. “I suppose so. Now I know why Elizabeth left—so she wouldn’t have to endure any more Russian hospitality.”

  “If that’s meant to be a joke,” said Harry, “it’s not very amusing.”

  “Sorry.”

  Harry turned to Johnny. “Did Elizabeth tell you why she was leaving?”

  “Oh. I forgot.” Johnny dug the folded sheet of notebook paper from the pocket of his coat. “She said to give you this.”

  Holding the note close to his chest, Harry read the small, neat handwriting:Dear Harry,

  I sincerely hope that you will repair the Flash and reach London in time to win your wager.

  I never imagined that I would find myself wishing such a thing. In fact, my main object in joining you was not to write about your journey, but to make certain you did not complete it. That may be difficult for you to believe, but perhaps less so when I tell you my full name, which I have so far withheld from you. It is Elizabeth Ann Stuart.

  My father is Andrew Stuart. As you may know, the bet he made with your father twenty years ago cost him dearly, both in money and in pride. He never recovered from the loss; nor, as I have told you, did my mother. For years he kept the details of the matter a secret from me. When he finally revealed them, I swore that I would find some way to get back at your father, who I believed had won the wager unfairly.

  I found work as a reporter and used my position to uncover what I could of Phileas Fogg’s past, hoping to find something I could use against him, with little success. Then I learned of the wager you had made and saw it as the perfect chance to exact— Revenge is too strong a word. Justice?

  As you have no doubt guessed, it was I who damaged the steam line in Philadelphia and, I am now ashamed to say, it was I who placed the nail in the differential. I could not bear to have you suspect your father. Whatever else he may have done, he does not deserve the blame for that. Nor do you deserve to suffer for his sins.

  While I am in the confessional, I may as well confess that my collision with the boulder was no accident, and the theft of my handbag was no theft, only a ploy to delay you further. I do not expect you to forgive me. My only hope now is that you will be able to undo the damage I have done, and will still reach London by the specified date.

  I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but if you feel any sympathy at all toward me, you will not reveal the contents of this letter to Johnny or Charles. I would prefer not to utterly destroy their good opinion of me. I am confident that you will think of some plausible explanation for my departure; when you put your mind to it, you are nearly as good a liar as I am.

  Bon voyage,

  Elizabeth

  PS One thing I am not good at is apologizing, but perhaps I can write it. I am sorry. There.

  A lump had formed in Harry’s throat, so bitter that it stung. Though he felt many things—betrayed, disappointed, angry—curiously enough he did not feel surprised. The fact was, the signs had been there all along; he had just refused to see them. As always, he had been too trusting. He carefully folded the note again. Then he raised the side curtain and tossed the small square of paper into the road.

  “What did it say?” asked Johnny.

  It took Harry a moment to gather his wits and to find his voice. “The Daily Graphic gave her a different assignment, a more important one.”

  “Really?” said Charles. “Where did they send her?”

  “Germany,” said Harry. It was the first thing that came into his head. “She’s covering the European whist championships.” He didn’t care much whether or not the others believed him. He owed her nothing.

  “The whist championships?” said Charles. “They consider that more important than a motorcar journey around the world?”

  “Perhaps they’ve written us off as a lost cause.”

  “But we’re not,” said Johnny.

  Harry managed a smile. “No, we’re not, thanks to you. You replaced the gears with no problem, eh?” Johnny nodded. “Good lad,” said Harry. After a moment, he added, “By the way, Hardiman, I meant to say, you were a real brick about the whole kidnapping business. You’ve more grit than I gave you credit for.”

  “Well. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Harry. “Oh, one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry I accused you of trying to sabotage the Flash.”

  “Apology accepted. What made you change your mind?”

  “Nothing in particular. I just don’t think you did.”

  “Good. Because I didn’t, you know.”

  “I know.”

  It was frustrating, being forced to hold back the Flash in order to keep pace with the Cossack cavalry-men. They didn’t reach Zima until late that afternoon. Exhausted from the events of the previous night, Harry and Charles accepted the soldiers’ offer of a meal and a bed, both of which proved better than expected. Since Johnny was still infested with lice and fleas from his stay at the post station, Harry insisted that he scrub himself and his clothing in a zinc tub belonging to one of the officers.

  Sunday, October 18

  73 days gone, 27 remaining. Last night, for the first time in months, it rained; not a slow, soaking rain that would have enabled the farmers to plant their winter wheat, but a fierce, brief downpour that turned the fields to mud, and of course the roads as well. Before we could set out this morning, we had to jack up the Flash and install the cleated rear wheels.

  After eight hours of wallowing through the mire, we reached the Tchuma River, to find it so swollen with rain that it has flooded the plains for half a mile on either side. Telegraph poles and verst markers project from the water like dead trees in a swamp. Even worse, the raging waters have swept away the ferryboat, which is the only means of crossing the river.

  We are forced to spend a cramped, damp night in the Flash; I sit awake, staring longingly at the lights of Nijni-Udinsk across the river.

  Monday, October 19

  This morning a small army, or rather navy, of curious townsfolk poled their boats across the turbulent river, eager to get a look at our machine. Using a bit of awkward sign language, abetted by the occasional word of English, French, or Russian, we asked whether the boatmen could construct a makeshift ferry, using their boats as pontoons. One of them assured us that it was quite possible, for a price. Fogg gave the man ten rubles, with the promise of ten more plus a ride in the motorcar, when and if we reach the far side safely.

  I am in favor of waiting for a day or two, until the river is more manageable, but Fogg insists that we cannot afford to. He has a point, unfortunately. It has been three weeks since we left Vladivostok, and we have covered barely two thousand miles. At that rate, we will not reach England until the middle of December, far too late for Fogg to win the wager.

  Johnny, of course, thinks his friend can do no wrong, and is willing to do whatever Fogg suggests. I am afraid I cannot be quite so trusting. The chap has done too many foolish and impulsive things. I still feel there is something not quite right about the way he suddenly came up with the money he needed to continue the journey.

  Later the same day

  We and the moujiks, as the townsmen are called, spent several hours cutting down trees and lashing them to the gunwales of the boats to form a raft. When Fogg drove the Flash onto the raft, the weight caused the boats to sink to an alarming degree. By the time all t
he boatmen climbed aboard, our improvised ferry was riding so low that water threatened to pour into the pontoons. This did not seem to worry the moujiks in the least. In fact, they were in high spirits, as though it were just some jolly outing on the river, to be followed by a picnic and games.

  It took us an hour to cross the flooded plain, partly because the men plied their poles so halfheartedly and partly because we kept running into trees and telegraph poles. When we reached the middle of the river, however, the Russians put their backs into their work. After a frightening passage, in which the raft bucked and spun about sickeningly, we entered another calm stretch—none too soon, for the boats had taken on so much water that we were in imminent danger of sinking.

  By the time we entered Nijni-Udinsk, it was so dark that even Fogg was reluctant to risk driving on the roads, which are still far from dry. We purchased food and kerosene and some space in a livery stable. Though I am still keyed up after our wild ride, I must get some sleep, for we are to set off again before dawn.

  THIRTY-FIVE In which

  THE MOTORISTS AGAIN BECOME PRISONERS

  In the days that followed, Harry, determined to make up the time they had lost, began to resemble Johnny Brainerd’s Steam Man, a sort of automaton with a single purpose—to cover as many miles as possible in as short a time as possible. He kept his eyes and his mind on the road, spoke little, and seldom laughed. They stopped only when absolutely necessary—to relieve themselves, to refill the fuel and water tanks, to remove the cleated wheels and install the regular ones, to catch a few hours of exhausted sleep.

  They had taken to reckoning time not by the calendar date, but by how many days remained until the fourteenth of November, which Johnny insisted on referring to as Doomsday. Harry would have preferred a more optimistic term, such as Victory Day, but Johnny’s name was the one that stuck.