Around the World in 100 Days (22 page)

The round-the-world racers have now passed the halfway point in terms of the time allotted them. Forty-eight days remain in which to reach London. We have traveled well over half the distance—some 15,000 miles so far—but much of it was done aboard a ship. Every mile of the 10,000 that remain must be traversed the hard way.

We did not remain in Vladivostok long enough to cable a dispatch; it will have to wait until we reach the next sizable city—if there is such a thing in Siberia. We had stocked up on tinned food and carbide pellets and other necessities back in San Francisco, so the sole supplies we took on were ten gallons of very expensive kerosene and a traveler's guidebook, after which we set out upon the Great Russian Post Road.

Though it is only nominally a Road, and certainly far from Great, it is at least dry. There is little need for a map, for the route is well delineated by telegraph poles and by the black-and-white posts that serve as mile markers—or, to be perfectly accurate,
verst
markers. According to the guidebook, a
verst
is roughly two-thirds of a mile.

Every twenty or thirty
versts
there is a way station where the postal service drivers, or
yemschiks,
may exchange their weary steeds for fresh ones. Apparently some of these stations also offer accommodations to travelers, but the guidebook's author does not recommended availing oneself of them unless one is equipped with some sure-fire method of killing lice, fleas, and bedbugs. Your humble reporter did, in fact, pack something called Keating's Powder, which is guaranteed to repel insects of every sort. But one cannot help questioning its efficacy; it has proven to be no use at all against mosquitoes.

Though the
Graphic
's Moscow correspondent issued warnings about man-eating tigers, he failed to mention the dangers of man-eating mosquitoes (which, unfortunately, do not discriminate against women). Each time the
Flash
slows to negotiate a rough spot in the road, the nasty pests (mosquitoes, not tigers) descend upon us in droves. Our sole defense is to raise the leather rain roof and lower the side curtains. We did discover that if Mr. Shaugnessey lights his pipe and fills the car with pungent tobacco smoke, it discourages the buzzing blackguards a bit. It also sends the other passengers into uncontrollable fits of coughing.

Another look at the guidebook informs one that the number of inhabitants in all of Siberia is less than the population of London. It is not difficult to believe. Aside from the post-houses there are few dwellings along the way and no villages at all, only
verst
after
verst
of trees, mostly evergreens, with a smattering of oaks and maples whose leaves are just beginning to turn.

After driving for several hours we did encounter another vehicle, one of the carriages used by the post drivers. We braked at once and pulled over, to avoid frightening the three-horse team. The
yemschik
slowed, too, and gaped at our motorcar, then shouted something that none of us could understand. Considering the man's hostile tone, it was probably just as well.

These post carriages, which are called
tarantasses
, are unlovely, utilitarian vehicles, little more than a box on wheels, with no suspension of any sort. Though their primary purpose is, of course, to carry letters and packages, we discovered that there was a passenger within this one, for he lifted the leather side curtain to peer at us.

There seemed to be no seating of any sort; the man was perched upon his luggage. He looked quite uncomfortable and very envious of our motorcar. When the driver cracked his whip, the carriage lurched forward, sending the passenger tumbling from his suitcase seat. From now on, when this reporter is tempted to complain about the cramped accommodations aboard the
Flash
, she will try to remember to thank her lucky stars that she is not crossing Siberia in a
tarantass
.