Around the World in 100 Days

by Gary Blackwood

  It certainly does not seem a very practical plan to me. I helped replace a wheel earlier in the day, and it alone must have weighed a hundred pounds. I did not bother to argue, however, not wishing to give the others the impression that I am fainthearted. Besides, what are the chances of encountering a locomotive out here in the wilderness? It would surprise me if as many as two or three trains pass over this godforsaken stretch in the course of a week. I will try to put the matter out of my mind.

  For a time, it seemed that they would have the track all to themselves. They thumped along without incident for hours on end. Harry nearly dozed off more than once, but then the wheel would drop off the end of the sleepers and jar him awake.

  Around ten o’clock or so—it was too dark for Charles to read his watch—they crossed a trestle over a deep river gorge. On the other side lay a steep mountain, impossible to cross had the railroad not cut a tunnel through it. Harry silently thanked the Vanderbilt Line’s engineers for making his journey so much shorter and easier.

  His good mood abruptly vanished. As he entered the tunnel, he heard the chilling shriek of a steam whistle, then saw a bright light coming toward him. “Hang me!” he breathed. “Where did that come from?”

  He tromped on the pedal that shifted the valves and made the engine run in reverse. The Flash was quick to respond, but not quick enough to suit Harry. “Come on, girl!” he urged. “Faster! Faster!” He twisted his head around, trying desperately to keep the car on track as it barreled backward across the trestle. There was no roadbed here; if the wheels slipped off the ties, there would be nothing for them to land on except the bottom of the gorge.

  Harry heard the locomotive’s wheels grating against the rails as the engineer applied the brakes, but he knew the train could never stop in time. Unless he got out of the way, it would run them down. Unfortunately, there was nowhere for him to go.

  In the light from the train’s headlamp, he saw the terrified look on Charles’s face. Elizabeth’s eyes were wide, but she seemed less frightened than exhilarated, as if she knew the danger they were in, but trusted him to get them out of it. Harry hoped her trust was not misplaced.

  At the end of the trestle, there was solid ground on each side, but Harry couldn’t simply drive the car off the tracks; though the Flash’s wheels were large, they wouldn’t roll over a rail six inches high. He yanked on the hand brake and they skidded to a halt. “What are you doing?” cried Charles. “You can’t stop! The train’s still coming!”

  “Get out!” ordered Harry.

  Charles didn’t have to be told twice, nor did Elizabeth. They scrambled from the car and up over the ridge of earth next to the tracks. When Elizabeth saw that Harry and Johnny were still with the car, she started back. “Are you insane? Come on!”

  Harry waved her away. “It’s all right!” He bent down, grabbed hold of the car’s wooden running board, and yanked it upward. Johnny did the same on the passenger’s side, and they laid the boards alongside one of the rails to form a sort of ramp. Harry leaped into the car and ran the Flash’s wheels up over the ramp and off the tracks—none too soon. A moment later the locomotive thundered by with the engineer still sounding the whistle, scolding them for their recklessness.

  Elizabeth hurried to Johnny, whose hands were clamped over his ears to shut out the noise. “Are you all right?” Johnny nodded bashfully, flattered by her concern. She hiked up her skirt, strode over to the car, and punched Harry in the arm, hard.

  “Ouch,” said Harry. “What’s that for?”

  “For not telling me what you were doing. I thought the car was going to be demolished, and you two along with it.”

  “Well, we didn’t know whether or not the ramp would work. We never had a chance to try it out.”

  “And what if it hadn’t worked?”

  “But it did.”

  “But what if it hadn’t?”

  “What if the train had come along ten minutes later?” countered Harry. “Or ten minutes earlier? Things happen the way they happen. What’s the point in wondering how they might have happened?”

  Elizabeth stared at him, clearly at a loss for words. “Well,” she said, at last, “it will make a good story, at any rate.”

  Though Charles practically pleaded with Harry not to take them across the trestle again, there really was no alternative. Charles insisted on walking ahead, to make certain there were no approaching trains.

  “What do you suppose he’ll do if a train does come?” said Elizabeth. “Dive into the river?”

  They made it through the tunnel with no trouble. Harry drove another few miles and then, bone weary, pulled the car off the tracks. “Surely we’re not stopping here,” said Charles. “It’s only fifty miles to the next town.”

  Harry yawned. “You may go on if you like. We’ll pick you up in the morning.” It was too late to bother setting up the tents. They used the woods as a privy and slept sitting up in the car. At first light, Harry filled the water tank from a stream and drove on.

  In Pittsburgh, Harry allowed the crew two hours to wash up and have a decent meal—and, in Elizabeth’s case, to send a dispatch to the Daily Graphic—then they set out again. Though the roads had dried considerably, they were still badly rutted, and Harry’s arms ached from wrestling with the steering wheel. Luckily, his hands were nearly healed.

  Charles had purchased yet another map and insisted on giving directions periodically. Though Harry didn’t like to admit it, their nattering navigator did keep him from making a wrong turn more than once. When they crossed the Ohio River, the land leveled out into vast stretches of farmland with few houses and even fewer towns.

  Just before dark, they spied a steam-powered combine mowing down a field of wheat. “Hold your ears,” Harry warned, and pulled the handle that operated the steam whistle. An answering blast came from the man on the combine. They were, thought Harry, like two members of some exclusive society, exchanging a secret countersign.

  Harry was growing too weary to control the car. He would have turned it over to his friend, but Johnny had said at the outset that he didn’t trust himself to pilot the Flash; if he suffered one of his spells, he might lose control.

  Harry was not about to let Elizabeth or Charles take the wheel. He parked in a meadow, and they set up the tents. Elizabeth slept in one and, though he was distinctly unhappy about the arrangement, Charles shared the other with Johnny. Harry stretched out on the rear seat of the Flash.

  FIFTEEN In which

  THE FLASH CHALLENGES ANOTHER MOTORCAR

  The days that followed were blessedly uneventful. Lacking anything of real interest to spice up her newspaper story, Elizabeth spent several paragraphs complaining, in a genteel way:Des Moines, Iowa, August 21

  The heroic round-the-world racers have spent the past three days struggling along six hundred miles of so-called highway that has ranged from the almost tolerable to the atrocious. Perhaps there is little need for decent thoroughfares, as they do not serve to connect anything much. At the risk of offending the good people of the American Midwest, it must be said that we have passed through not a single town truly worthy of the name.

  Not that it matters; with a full fortnight gone from his allotted span of one hundred days, Mr. Fogg is reluctant to stop at all, and on those rare occasions when he does, it is long enough only for a hurried meal and an even more hurried washup. Even where there are comfortable lodgings to be had, we seldom avail ourselves of them; we get our sleep in small doses, mostly in the seat of the motorcar.

  We have discovered that, outside of the major cities, the supply of kerosene is extremely limited and proportionately expensive. Druggists and hardware merchants carry only enough for their customers’ oil lanterns; they are not accustomed to sell twenty or thirty gallons at a time.

  According to Mr. Fogg, the Flash will burn nearly anything “from coal to corncobs,” but since kerosene is the most efficient and least bothersome fuel, he is willing to pay the exorbitant price of thirty cen
ts per gallon. One wonders whether he has stopped to consider the wisdom of this. It has been subtly suggested several times that Mr. Fogg take stock of his finances and prepare some sort of rudimentary budget so he will not find himself wholly without funds somewhere in the middle of Persia or Romania, but he remains unconcerned.

  Des Moines was the first really civilized place they had encountered since leaving Cleveland. They had been driving all day through what Harry referred to as a typhoon, a relentless downpour like the ones his mother recalled from her childhood in India. The leather hood couldn’t keep out all that water, and the four motorists were damp and chilled. What’s more, the roads, not much account to begin with, had turned to quagmires.

  “I suppose we’d better stay the night,” said Harry, grudgingly.

  “Thank God,” said Charles. “Surely, even in America, a town this size must have a decent hotel.”

  The Hotel Victoria seemed up to his standards. Unable to face another night in a livery stable, Elizabeth could not resist taking a room as well. While Johnny braved the rain to find somewhere to store the car, Harry escorted Elizabeth upstairs. “Surely,” she said, “you and Johnny could afford to stay in a hotel just this once.”

  “I suppose so,” said Harry. “But we can’t leave the Flash unguarded.”

  “I hardly think the car is in any danger. No one will even know where we are until my story appears, and by then we’ll be long gone.”

  “I prefer not to take any chances.”

  Elizabeth gazed at him a moment, then said softly, “You still think Charles is trying to sabotage it, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s possible. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I do know that Julius Hardiman has a reputation for being ruthless in his business dealings. I think he’d stoop to nearly anything to make certain you don’t win.”

  “So would Mr. Sullivan, I suspect. Or Mr. Flanagan. Or Mr. Stuart. They were all parties to my father’s famous wager.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Elizabeth. “It seems a lot of people would like to see you fail.”

  Harry laughed. “More than you know. There are also my mother’s relatives in India; she thinks they’re bent on kidnapping me, or worse.”

  “Why would they want to do that?”

  “Well, it’s rather a long story, but I’ll try to make it brief. You see, my mother was once married to an Indian prince.”

  “Really? Was he was named Monkey, as well?”

  “I seriously doubt it. All I know is that he was the Rajah of Bundelkund.”

  “A rajah? So your mother could have been living in a palace, but she chose to run off with your father, instead?”

  “You make it sound like some sort of illicit affair. My father saved her life. The rajah had died, and his relatives wanted Mother to do likewise so she couldn’t inherit his fortune.”

  “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. My mother believes that her old in-laws are still nursing a grudge, and that they’ll be lying in wait for me.”

  “Only if you go by way of India.”

  “It’s the shortest route. Don’t worry, I’m sure the rajah’s relatives have all died off by now, or forgotten the whole matter.”

  “I’m not worried,” said Elizabeth. “In fact, I think it’s quite exciting. I’ll have to tell my readers all about it.”

  Harry winced. “Actually, I’d rather you didn’t. My mother was reluctant even to tell me her story; she certainly won’t want the whole world to hear it.”

  “I won’t write about it if you don’t want me to. There’ll be plenty of other exciting bits.” She was silent a moment. “You know, it surprised me, what you said about your father saving your mother’s life. I’ve always considered him something of a scoundrel, spiriting a woman away from her husband and winning a wager by dubious means. You make him sound almost . . . heroic.”

  “Perhaps he was, in a way—at least for a time.” They halted before one of the doors that lined the third-floor hallway. “You seem to know a good deal about me and my family,” said Harry.

  “Any reporter worth her salt researches her subject thoroughly in advance.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you’ve revealed nothing at all about yourself— not even your last name. It’s not actually Laurie, I presume.”

  “No.” She toyed thoughtfully with her room key. “Perhaps I shall tell you more about myself . . . eventually. For now, I prefer not to. I’ve agreed to let your mother’s past remain a secret; you must allow me the same courtesy.” She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Good night, Prince Hari. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Harry grinned as he headed back down the stairs. Prince Hari. He liked the sound of that.

  A carriage maker had given them permission to use his barn. Harry and Johnny bedded down in the vehicle and, in the morning, gave the Flash a good going-over. They had covered over 1,200 miles in just seven days, and the grueling pace had taken its toll. As Johnny went through his routine of lubricating everything in sight, he discovered a leak in the differential—the set of gears that transmitted power to the wheels. Not only had the leather gasket developed a crack, the grease in the gearbox had deteriorated badly and needed to be replaced.

  While Johnny was off buying more grease, Elizabeth appeared carrying a bag of muffins and a container of tea. “Since you didn’t come to breakfast,” she said, “I decided to bring it to you.”

  “Smashing!” said Harry, surprised at her thoughtfulness. As he reached for a muffin, he noticed his grimy hands. “We’ve been working on the Flash.” He rubbed at the grease and dirt with a rag that was only marginally cleaner than his hands.

  “Nothing major, I hope?”

  “A cracked gasket on the differential.”

  “May I look?”

  Harry shrugged. “There’s not much to look at; just some gears.”

  “I like seeing how things work.” She spread a horse blanket on the ground and crept beneath the jacked-up car. Through the floorboards, Harry heard her say, “The gears don’t appear to be damaged. Shouldn’t the differential be full of grease, though?”

  “Johnny’s gone to get some.” When she didn’t reappear, Harry said, “What on earth are you doing under there?”

  Elizabeth emerged, dusting her hands. “Looking at the frame and the coil springs.” She patted the fender of the Flash. “It’s an impressive piece of work. I’m beginning to think it could actually make it round the world.”

  “Meaning that, up until now, you didn’t think so.”

  “No,” she admitted. “Not really.”

  “Then why were you so determined to come along? Why write about an enterprise that’s sure to fail?”

  “My readers don’t want to hear about things that are certain to succeed. They want stories about people struggling courageously against impossible odds.”

  “I hope you’re making us sound sufficiently courageous.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure my readers are hanging on every word.”

  Johnny hurried in, carrying a tin of grease. “Harry! Come look!”

  “What is it, lad?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The intrepid travelers had not encountered another horseless carriage since leaving London. But when they emerged from the barn they were nearly run down by one. The machine was so quiet, they had not heard it coming.

  The driver, a portly man with more hair on his face than on his head, yanked on his hand brake, sprang from the car, and doffed his broad-brimmed hat. “My apologies to you, gentlemen, and to you, miss. I didna see you till I was almost upon you.”

  “There is no harm done, sir,” said Elizabeth.

  “I got word that there was another motorcar in town, and I was anxious to see it before it left.”

  “That would be ours,” said Harry.

  “You dinna say so! You built her yourselves? Do you mind if I h
ave a wee look at her?”

  “Not at all. And I hope we may examine your vehicle?”

  “By all means. My name is Morrison, by the by. If you hadna guessed, I’m a transplanted Scotsman. And I’m guessing you’re Londoners.”

  “An excellent guess,” said Harry.

  Morrison’s machine was much better built than the other motorcars Harry had come across, and certainly far quieter. “She can’t possibly have a gasoline engine,” said Harry. “But I see no smokestack, either.”

  Morrison beamed at them. “Nay, nay, she runs on electricity, my friends.” He lifted the seat to reveal an electric motor powered by twenty-four dry storage batteries. “She has but five moving parts.”

  Johnny surveyed the bulky battery bank. “’Tis a lot of weight,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” said Harry. “I don’t suppose she goes very far or very fast.”

  “She doesna need to go far,” said Morrison. “I just drive her around the streets of Des Moines, and, as you may have noticed, it’s not exactly London, or even Edinburgh. As for her speed ...” He eyed the Flash, which looked far heavier than it actually was. “I’ll wager that, over a short distance, she can outrun your machine.”

  Harry laughed. “I wouldn’t wager very much, if I were you.”

  His remark clearly irritated Morrison. “How does a thousand dollars sound?” said the man sharply.

  Harry stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have nearly that much in American dollars.”

  “I’ll accept British notes.”

  Harry did a quick mental calculation. A thousand dollars was roughly the equivalent of two hundred pounds—about one third of what remained in his money belt. Remembering how he had neglected to consult Johnny when he made his original bet, Harry turned to his friend. “What do you think?”

  Before Johnny could reply, Elizabeth said softly, “I wouldn’t, if I were you. The Flash is powerful, but I’m not sure she’s fast enough.”