“Very gradually, apparently.” Harry felt around beneath the seat and came up with a bottle of champagne. “Aha. The thieves in Omsk didn’t clean us out completely.” He untwisted the wire bail and popped the cork. “I bought this back in Vladivostok, lads, to be opened when we reached European soil.” Since they had no drinking glasses, they passed the bottle around.
“To victory!” Charles took a sizable swig, then gave a subdued burp. “Pardon me.”
“Oh, no,” said Harry. “You will not be pardoned until you produce a proper belch.” Snatching the bottle, he proceeded to demonstrate.
“I can top that.” Johnny took a great gulp of the bubbly and uttered a sound like a small explosion.
Charles claimed the bottle again. “All right, I’ll show you lot.” He downed so much so fast that, when he burped, champagne spurted from his nose. Harry and Johnny howled with laughter; despite the burning in his nostrils, Charles couldn’t help joining in.
The smile faded from Johnny’s face and he said forlornly, “I wish Elizabeth was here.”
“So do I,” said Charles. “She deserves to be part of this celebration.” He raised the bottle. “To Elizabeth.” He took a drink and handed the champagne to Harry, who shook his head and passed the bottle to Johnny. “What’s wrong?” asked Charles.
“It must be a poor vintage,” said Harry. “It’s left a bad taste in my mouth.”
THIRTY-SEVEN In which
CHARLES LEARNS A THING OR TWO
After the incident in Omsk, even Charles had to agree that it was best to get through towns and cities as quickly as possible. They were lucky enough to hit Perm just before dawn on Doomsday Minus Twelve. Two days later, at around midnight, they rolled quietly through Kazan. At 2:00 A.M. on Doomsday Minus Eight, they navigated the empty streets of Nizhni-Novgorod unnoticed—or so they thought.
Unfortunately this put them on the outskirts of Moscow late in the afternoon of that same day. As they sat alongside the road discussing whether to lie low for a few hours or to risk running the gauntlet that lay ahead, Johnny said, “Somebody’s coming.”
A horse-drawn hackney pulled up directly in front of them. A small, slender fellow in a bowler hat sprang from the cab and approached, smiling broadly. “Harry Fogg, I presume?”
“That’s right.”
“Daniel Bennett, Moscow correspondent for the London Daily Graphic.” They shook hands. “Elizabeth has just been telling me all about you gentlemen and your marvelous motorcar.”
“Elizabeth is here?” asked Johnny eagerly.
“No, no, she left this morning, on the train. There was also a good deal she did not tell me. I was hoping you might consent to a brief interview.”
Harry shook his head. “We can’t afford to stop for that long, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, no need to. I’ll ride with you.” Bennett signaled to the cabman, who drove off. Without waiting for an invitation, the reporter swung nimbly into the rear seat of the car. “You’ll want to avoid the main thoroughfares. They’ll be packed with people wanting a look at you.”
“How on earth,” asked Charles, “did they know when to expect us?”
“The Moscow News has been posting bulletins regularly in its front window, tracking your progress. They receive telegrams, you see, from all the cities you’ve passed through. One came in from Nizhni-Novgorod early this morning. Everyone is eager to welcome you to Moscow. I’m told the mayor is even planning to throw a banquet in your honor.”
Harry groaned. “We don’t have time for banquets, or for adoring crowds.”
“Not to worry,” said Bennett. “We’ll take the back-streets. Turn here.” As he guided them through the fringes of the city, he kept up a barrage of questions—including the usual ones concerning Phileas Fogg, which Harry, as usual, declined to answer. After half an hour of this, Bennett said, “You’ll be out of danger soon. Just one last question—and this is off the record: Can you tell me why Elizabeth left the expedition?”
Harry glanced warily over his shoulder at the reporter. “She didn’t explain it to you?”
“Actually, she did. But I want to hear your side of the story.”
“There are no sides to the story. The Graphic gave her another assignment, that’s all.”
Bennett gave a rather unpleasant laugh. “Is that what she told you?”
“Apparently she told you something quite different.”
“Well, she seemed rather reluctant to speak about it. I expect she was a bit embarrassed about the whole thing.”
Harry tried desperately to think of some way to stop Bennett from revealing the truth, without giving anything away to Johnny and Charles. The best he could do was to yank on the hand brake; the car skidded to a halt, sending everyone lurching forward.
“What’s wrong?” Johnny demanded, rubbing his head, which had bounced off the windscreen.
“A dog,” said Harry. “Didn’t you see it?” He turned to the reporter, who was retrieving his lost bowler hat. “Sorry. While we’re stopped, Mr. Bennett, you may as well get out.”
“Yes, all right,” said Bennett grumpily. He climbed from the Flash, but remained perched on the running board. “Oh, about Elizabeth ...” Harry pulled out the throttle and the car surged ahead, dumping the reporter unceremoniously into the street.
That evening Harry and Charles took dinner at a small inn, leaving Johnny to guard the motorcar. The food, like the roads, had improved considerably since they entered Europe. Over a cup of genuine tea, Charles said, “What do you suppose Elizabeth told that reporter?”
“Heaven only knows,” said Harry. “She is accustomed to say whatever suits her purpose at the moment.”
“But why wouldn’t she just tell him the truth—that she had another assignment?”
Harry didn’t reply.
“Oh,” said Charles. “Because it wasn’t the truth. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Harry still said nothing.
“Why did she really leave, Harry?”
“I can’t answer that. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her.”
“Very well, I shall. Assuming we ever hear from her again.”
Harry gave a wry smile. “Oh, I have no doubt that we will hear from her. She is determined to be a famous reporter and, as you know, she has a way of getting what she wants.”
The main highway out of Moscow led northwest, to the capital city of St. Petersburg. But according to Charles and his map, they could save three hundred miles by heading directly west, through Minsk and Warsaw. The route to Minsk was far less traveled, which meant there were fewer horses and bicyclists to startle. It also meant that the road was not maintained very well.
Harry and Johnny took turns driving through the night, but with only the kerosene lantern to illuminate the rutted road, they barely crept along. Late in the afternoon of Doomsday Minus Seven, they stopped for a couple of hours’ rest and a cold meal, then set out on another all-night motoring marathon. They didn’t arrive in Minsk until the wee hours of Doomsday Minus Six, far too early to purchase a new lamp for the Flash. A few hours’ sleep and they were off to Warsaw.
The newspapers had apparently lost track of them, for there were no crowds waiting to welcome them in the former Polish capital, which was now in Russian territory. By parking the car out of sight in an alley, they managed to have a decent meal, buy acetylene lamps and kerosene, and be on their way before anyone knew they were there.
Johnny could drive no more than a few hours before his head began to throb so badly that he couldn’t see. Most of the burden fell on Harry. He often went eight or ten hours without a break, slept for three or four, then took the wheel again. The strain was beginning to show. He looked wan and haggard and, since he rarely took the time to shave or to eat properly, somewhat thin and scruffy as well.
On Doomsday Minus Four, as they sat at the border between Russia and Germany, waiting for their passports to be visaed, Charles said, “See here, Harry. You look as though you’re ready to dr
op. Surely we can afford a few hours’ rest.”
“I can rest when we reach London,” said Harry.
“Then suppose I drive for a bit.” Harry didn’t reply. “I’m not a simpleton, you know,” said Charles. “And it’s not exactly complicated, is it?” Still no reply. “I’ve been watching you two operate the car for three months now. I think I’ve grasped the basic principles involved.”
Johnny, who was slumped in his seat with his cap tipped over his eyes to block the light, murmured, “Let him try, Harry.”
“What if he runs her off the road?”
“You did,” said Johnny.
Harry grinned wearily. “Good point.” He sighed and climbed into the rear seat. “All right, old fellow. Give it a go, then. Just be careful, will you?”
For several moments, Charles didn’t move. He hadn’t actually expected Harry to agree. Now that he’d been given permission to drive, he suddenly felt very unsure of his ability to do so.
“I don’t believe you can reach the controls from here,” said Harry. “You’ll have to sit up front.”
“I know that,” replied Charles irritably. But Harry’s good-natured needling had stirred him into action. He put on his eyeglasses—which he had always been too vain to wear in front of Elizabeth—squeezed between the seats, and plunked down behind the wheel. I can do this, I can do this, he repeated silently. He had driven a four-horse team, he reminded himself. He had piloted one of his father’s locomotives. Surely he could handle a motorcar.
When the border guard returned with their passports, Charles let off the hand brake, engaged the gears, and gingerly pulled out the throttle. The Flash leaped forward, nearly mowing down the guard, who was raising the barrier. “Sorry!” Charles called over his shoulder.
“Watch the road,” said Harry.
“I’m watching, I’m watching.” Gripping the wheel with one sweaty hand, Charles pushed in the throttle slightly with the other. The Flash struck a small depression in the road, nearly wrenching the steering wheel from his hand. “The devil take it!” he said softly, between clenched teeth.
Harry had to clench his teeth, too, to keep from shouting, “That’s enough! Stop the car!” Though he did his best to appear calm, he was far from it, and though he didn’t really mean to watch Charles’s every move like a cat watching a robin, he couldn’t help himself. But after half an hour or so, when it seemed that Charles was getting the feel of the car and the road, Harry began to relax a little. Eventually, exhaustion overcame him and he drifted off.
Sometime later, he was jolted rudely awake. The car had stopped moving and was listing alarmingly to one side. Harry sat up, groaning and rubbing his eyes. “Oh, bollocks!” he said, under his breath. “I knew it! I should never have let him drive!”
THIRTY-EIGHT In which
THE MOTORISTS ENCOUNTER A SEEMINGLY INSURMOUNTABLE OBSTACLE
Charles and Johnny were crouched by the left rear wheel, gazing at it glumly. Harry leaned over the side of the car. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” snapped Charles.
“’Tis not his fault,” said Johnny. “’Tis a bad bearing.”
“Oh. My mistake, old chap. Sorry.”
Even without a proper jack, it was a quick job to replace the faulty wheel. Getting it repaired was a more lengthy matter. They were stuck in Berlin much of the afternoon of Doomsday Minus Three—ample time for word to get around that the intrepid young motorists and their marvelous machine were in town. By the time they were ready to leave, the wheelwright’s shop was surrounded.
Most of the spectators were merely curious, but some had apparently laid wagers on the outcome of the contest. Those who had money riding on the Flash urged the wheelwright to make haste. Those who had bet against it laughed and told him not to bother, for the car couldn’t possibly reach London in the three days that remained.
There were horseless carriage enthusiasts in the crowd, too, including a man named Benz who offered to show them a vehicle he had built, powered by a gasoline engine. Harry even spotted a small contingent of New Luddites, or their German equivalent, shouting antitechnology slogans; they were booed down by the motorcar fanciers.
The crew of the Flash climbed into the car. Harry stood on the driver’s seat and called, “Ladies and gentlemen, please clear a path, so we may be on our way!” A few people moved aside, but the gap was filled at once by other eager onlookers.
“Put her in gear,” said Charles. “They’ll move.”
Act quickly, Harry reminded himself, but do not act rashly. “What if they don’t move?” he said. “I don’t want to hit anyone.”
Johnny, slumped in his seat, tapped his friend on the leg. “Remember what happened in Omsk?”
Harry grinned. “Good thinking, lad!” he said softly. “Turn up the burner!” The moment Johnny increased the flow of kerosene, the pressure in the boiler began to climb. When it reached 600 psi, Harry shouted, “Look out, everyone! She’s going to blow!” A moment later, the safety valve let go a gush of steam. Magically, like the Red Sea parting, an avenue opened up before them.
As the car pulled away, one of the New Luddites raised a length of iron pipe and brought it down on the right rear fender, caving it in so badly that the wheel scraped against it. After only a moment’s hesitation, Charles leaned over the side of the car. Grabbing the aluminum in both hands, he gave a prodigious yank that nearly sent him tumbling from the car but straightened the fender enough to let the wheel turn freely.
“Good work, old man!” called Harry.
“My driving was good, too!” said Charles. “Admit it!”
Harry laughed. “All right, all right, I admit it! You’re a very capable driver!” And in fact, later that day he let Charles take the wheel for several hours while he caught a much-needed nap.
Though the highway from Berlin to Paris was an excellent one, it was so congested with carriages and wagons that they were forced to creep along at a horse’s pace—sometimes even less, for the other drivers slowed to get a good look at the horseless carriage. To keep from bursting like an overheated boiler, Harry sang medleys of music-hall tunes at the top of his voice. Charles contributed his wavering tenor to the cause. Occasionally they even heard Johnny tunelessly mumbling the words.
“Well,” said Harry, “we needn’t worry about startling the horses. If they can tolerate our singing, our motorcar won’t even faze them.”
They didn’t cross into France until the morning of Doomsday Minus One. They avoided Paris entirely by turning north at Reims. From that point on, they had no need of a map. Harry had been here on holiday more than once; so had Charles. Thanks to the railroads and the cross-Channel ferries, one could leave London at eight in the morning and be in Paris for afternoon tea.
By early evening, they were on the docks at Calais, the departure point for the paddle-wheel steamers that plied the English Channel. “Well, lads,” said Harry, “Dover is only a two-hour ferry ride away. After that, it’s an easy drive to London. If all goes well, when the members of the Reform Club arrive for breakfast tomorrow morning, we’ll be there waiting.”
But, as the Scottish poet Robert Burns pointed out, the best-laid schemes have a way of going agley. There was one rather large problem that none of them had anticipated. The Channel steamers were designed with foot passengers in mind; they weren’t equipped to carry anything as large and cumbersome as a motorcar.
As an off-duty ferry captain—a fellow Englishman appropriately named Shipley—explained, “There’s no room on deck, and they have no cargo holds to speak of. All large freight has to be shipped from a deepwater port.”
“Where is the closest deepwater port?” asked Charles.
“Le Havre.”
“That must be two hundred miles from here!”
“Nearly. And those big cargo vessels can’t put in at Dover, either. You’d have to go to Bristol or Liverpool.”
“But we don’t have that much time,” said Harry, trying hard to remain calm.
“We must be in London by ten-fifteen tomorrow morning, or we lose six thousand pounds.” And, he thought but did not say, we lose the Flash as well.
Captain Shipley stared in astonishment. “You’re not—you’re not the round-the-world racers?”
“Guilty as charged,” said Harry.
“Well, permit me to shake your hands, gentlemen. I have five pounds riding on you. I made the wager with another captain, a Frenchman. He always scoffs at the notion that the English could possibly build a decent motorcar. I knew you’d prove him wrong.”
“We haven’t yet,” said Charles. “And we shan’t, either, unless we find some way across the Channel.”
Harry, who had been eyeing the half-dozen ferries moored nearby, pointed to a curious catamaran-like vessel made of two hulls joined together, with a paddle wheel in between. “What ship is that?”
“The Castalia,” said the captain. “She’s been taken out of service. Too slow to suit the ferry company. They’ll be sending her back to Dover soon, to be dismantled.”
Harry turned to his friends. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“The Tchuma River?” said Charles.
“Exactly. What do you think, Johnny? Could it be done?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Could what be done?” asked Shipley.
“In Siberia,” said Harry, “we crossed the Tchuma River on a raft made by laying logs across the gunwales of several small boats.”
“Ah. So you’re thinking that, if you jury-rigged a platform between the two bows of the ship ...”
“There’d be room for the Flash,” finished Harry. “Any idea how soon the Castalia will sail?”
“As soon as the repairs are completed. She’s having some engine trouble.”
Harry grinned and put an arm around Johnny’s broad shoulders. “Well, as it so happens, we have a man here who is an absolute wizard where engines are concerned.”
“Is there any chance,” asked Charles, “that the captain of the Castalia would agree to our plan?”
Around the World in 100 Days Page 22
