Around the World in 100 Days (25 page)

“Really? You mean actually go into the business of building them?”

Johnny nodded. “If we lose, we won't have the money.”

“No, I suppose not. But perhaps you could find investors.”

He made a scoffing noise. “Who'd give money to a blacksmith and a tinkerer?”

Elizabeth either had no answer or was too out of breath to offer it.

 

The post station did have horses for hire, at the exorbitant rate of ten rubles per day. The days were growing short, so the pair made it only halfway to Irkutsk before darkness fell. They spent the night at another post station, a dismal log hut whose only furnishings were a flimsy table and chairs and several benches that served as beds. Their supper consisted of bowls of boiled millet and glasses of hot water; though she understood almost nothing the stationmaster's wife said, Elizabeth gathered that travelers were expected to provide their own tea.

There was no bedding as such, only a pile of mangy-looking fur rugs infested with lice and fleas. Johnny wrapped himself in one, but Elizabeth covered herself only with her Mother Hubbard. By morning she was so chilled that she feared she might never get warm again. But perhaps it was better than the unbearable itching that plagued Johnny.

At dusk the following day, exhausted and aching from the long ride, they reached Irkutsk. Though Johnny insisted on staying in the stable with the horses, Elizabeth gratefully took a room—and a warm bath—at a surprisingly modern hotel.

After several tries, the machine shop managed to cast and grind a set of gears that satisfied Johnny. By the time they were ready to head back, it was the fourteenth of October; they had wasted four days, and the return trip on horseback would take another two. “Harry won't be happy,” said Johnny.

“Well,” said Elizabeth, with a forced smile, “luckily I have some news that will cheer him up. I'm not rejoining the
Flash
.”

Johnny gaped at her. “But . . . but why?”

“I have my reasons.” From her reporter's notebook, she tore a sheet of paper that was covered with her small, precise handwriting. She folded the note and, taking one of Johnny's large hands in hers, she placed the paper in his palm and closed his fingers around it. “That will help to explain, I hope.”

“I can't read it,” said Johnny.

“I know. If Harry wishes to read it to you, I can't prevent him, but I've asked him not to.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Elizabeth paused and swallowed hard. “Because I want you to go on thinking well of me.”

“I will,” said Johnny. “I will, no matter what.”

“I wish that were so.” With her lace-edged handkerchief, she dabbed furtively at her eyes. “I'd better go now, before I make some sort of scene.”

“But
where
will you go?”

“I've made some inquiries. Apparently there's a steamboat that takes passengers down the Angara River to some city with an unpronounceable name; from there, one travels by coach to the Ob River and takes another boat down it, to the eastern terminus of the railroad.” She gave a half hearted smile. “It sounds very scenic.”

“You'll not write about our trip anymore?”

“No.” She gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “Unless I make something up. I'm quite good at that.”

“You'll meet us in London, though?”

She took his rough hand again, for just a moment. “Perhaps. But don't count on it. Good-bye, Johnny.”

If Harry had been there, he would have known what to do, what to say to keep her from leaving. All Johnny could do was watch helplessly as she walked away.

Certain that his friend would be seething with impatience, Johnny did not stop at the station where he and Elizabeth had spent such a miserable night. He rode straight through, hunched against the cold, dozing in the saddle, switching mounts occasionally to give each horse a rest. Traveling after dark was an open invitation to bandits, but he was too downcast to care.

Early the next afternoon he reached the station where he had hired the horses. He left them there and walked on, his legs so cramped and sore that he nearly fell. A few hours later he spotted the
Flash
, which Harry and Charles had pushed off the road. A short distance away, they had set up one of the tents. Johnny broke into a trot. “Harry?” he called. There was no reply.

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.

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

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