Around the World in 100 Days (26 page)

Harry sighed. “It's rather a long story, I'm afraid.”

“Well, just summarize it, then!”

Harry briefly recounted what his mother had told him about the rajah's fanatical relatives. “I didn't realize just how fanatical they actually were. I could imagine them trying to kidnap me if I'd gone by way of India. But to hire someone in
Siberia
to do it for them . . .” He shook his head incredulously. “How much money do they give you?” he asked Annekov.

“Enough. Far more than we can make robbing towns and travelers, certainly.”

“But . . . but how did they even manage to contact you?” asked Charles.

Annekov shrugged. “The same way your father contacts his business associates. By telegraph, of course. And to learn your whereabouts, all we had to do was read the newspapers. Ah, these modern inventions—they've even improved the lives of outlaws. I can scarcely wait until we're able to trade in our horses for motorcars. And when the railroad comes through—” He clucked his tongue. “Just think of the possibilities.”

“This Indian man, he not wants ...” Harry was beginning to understand how Johnny felt, having to search for the right word to express himself. “He does not want Charles. Let Charles go.”

“My men were instructed to capture you, Mr. Fogg, no one else. But I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. According to the newspaper stories, Mr. Hardiman, your father is president of a railway. I suspect he would pay a few thousand pounds to make certain his son returns home safely.”

Charles laughed humorlessly. “You don't know my father.”

“No? Well, we shall see. Once Mr. Fogg is disposed of, I'll wire your father. Until then, consider yourselves my guests. My house is yours.”

Charles glanced around distastefully. “If it were mine,”he said, “I'd burn it down.”

Annekov gave him a look so withering that Charles regretted his words. “I assure you, Mr. Hardiman, this is not the sort of accommodation I am accustomed to, either. I was not always an outlaw, you know. For nearly fifteen years I was a respected professor at St. Petersburg University. But then—” His voice took on an ominous tone that was clearly ironic. “Then I fell in with a ‘bad crowd,' a group of unsavory criminals known as the
Narodniki
.”

“Socialists?” said Charles.

Annekov nodded. “We wanted only to make life better for the common man. But we were deemed a threat to the established order, so several comrades and I were sent here—not as exiles, mind you, but as actual convicts, sentenced to eight years' hard labor in the mines. I escaped—obviously—and . . . and found other employment.” The Russian rose from his rocking chair and stretched. “Well. My working day is just beginning, but I am sure you gentlemen are exhausted. You'll find the beds quite tolerable, I think. The mattresses are stuffed with wool.” He donned his fur coat and hat and started out the door, but turned back to say, “If it is any consolation, a share of the reward and the ransom—should your father pay one—will go to aid other political dissidents.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” muttered Charles, “we don't mind at all being kidnapped and held prisoner.”

Harry knew well enough that the door would be barred, but his optimistic nature compelled him to try it anyway. “It's barred,” he said.

Charles peered out through the single small window. “What's more, there's an armed chap just outside, standing guard.”

Harry yawned. “Well, we may as well get some sleep, then.”

“How can you think about sleeping, at a time like this?”

“I'm not thinking about it.” Harry stretched out on one of the bunks; the wool-filled mattress was a bit lumpy, but soft. “I'm just doing it.”

Over the next days they were confined to the hut, except for visits to the privy, while Annekov made arrangements by telegraph with Aouda Fogg's former in-laws. It was agreed that Annekov's men would transport Harry to the city of Verniy, eight or nine hundred miles to the southwest, where the dead prince's relatives would take possession of the prisoner.

As always, the enforced idleness kept Harry in a constant state of frustration. He tried playing cards with Charles but couldn't keep his mind on the game. Since the room was too small to permit much restless pacing, he resorted to other means of quelling his impatience.

As he sat cross-legged on the floor with his eyes closed, taking measured breaths and softly intoning “Ommmm,” he heard Charles speaking, as if from a great distance: “I say, Fogg. Are you all right?”

“Sshh,” whispered Harry. “I'm meditating.”

“On what?”

“Nothing. Just meditating. You should try it.”

“You look deuced silly, you know.”

“Silence, my friend. I need silence.” Though Charles grudgingly obliged, Harry could not get his own brain to cooperate. It persisted in dwelling upon their predicament.

Harry had lost track of what day it was, and, without the aid of his diary, so had Charles. In any case, Johnny would certainly have returned to the site of the breakdown long ago. The poor lad would be utterly bewildered, wondering what had become of his companions and what to do next. Luckily, he would have Elizabeth with him. She was a levelheaded sort; surely she would see that the logical thing to do would be to repair the
Flash
and continue the journey, on the assumption that the missing pair would turn up sooner or later.

This was, of course, a rather questionable assumption. It was beginning to look as if they might never rejoin the others. But as far as the wager was concerned, it didn't really matter. No one had ever said that, in order for the
Flash
to win, Harry and Charles must be aboard.

That night they were again left under guard while Annekov led a raiding party to obtain supplies and money for the journey to Verniy. “Get a good sleep, Mr. Fogg,” advised the outlaw chief. “You have a long trip ahead of you, in the morning.”

The situation had begun to seem daunting even to the dauntless Harry. He did not worry about his own fate so much as about the
Flash
and about Johnny, about the outcome of his wager, and about how his mother would feel when she learned of his capture. Though he felt it his duty to find a way out of this mess, he had never been much on planning and scheming. He was the sort to wait for an oppportunity, a chance to act. Some such opportunity might yet present itself. If it did, he would make the most of it. Until then, there was nothing to be done but to lie down on one of the bunks and doze off.

Charles, meanwhile, sat in Annekov's chair, nervouslyrocking and racking his brain. Sometime before dawn he fell asleep, only to be wakened again by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “What?” he mumbled drowsily. “What is it?”

“Please be very quiet,” whispered a voice in his ear. “We do not want to alert anyone.”

The oil lamp had gone out, and Charles could see nothing but the glow of embers in the fireplace. “Who on earth—?”

“Be quiet!” the voice repeated softly but urgently. “Where is Harry?”

“What—I don't—Isn't he in the bed?”

There was a slight rustle of clothing, followed by a moment of silence. Then Charles heard Harry's voice, sounding sleepy and surprised. “Is it really you?”

“Get up, please,” said the other voice. “We must hurry.”

Harry and Charles stumbled about, searching for their coats and shoes. “What happened to the guard?” asked Harry.

“You will trip over him if you are not careful.”

“You killed him?”

“There was no need. I brought him inside, so he does not freeze. Come. I have horses waiting.”

When they emerged from the hut, the moonlight revealed their rescuer's identity at last. “Ramesh!” breathed Charles.

“Keep moving, please.” The Indian man placed a hand on his back and propelled him toward the woods.

Before they reached the trees, a tall form emerged from the shadows to block their path. In one hand he held a lantern, in the other the reins of Ramesh's horses. He raised the lantern, revealing his face, which was unmistakable in its ugliness. “You might have made it,” he said, in French, “had your horses not been so skittish. On my way to the privy, I heard them snuffling and prancing about.”

“Let us pass,” said Ramesh, “and you will not be harmed.”

“Harmed?” The ugly man gave a derisive laugh that showed his rotted teeth. “You have no weapon.”

“Nor have you.”

“Ah, that is where you are wrong.” Letting the reins drop, the man pulled aside his bearskin coat to show a revolver stuck in his sash. “I go nowhere without this, not even to the privy.”

As the man reached for his pistol, Ramesh's right foot lashed out, so swiftly it could scarcely be seen. The toe of his boot struck the man's thigh. The Russian's leg collapsed beneath him. Ramesh delivered another quick blow, this time with the stiffened fingers of one hand. Harry did not even see where it landed; all he saw was its effect. It left the ugly man sprawled upon the ground, gaping in astonishment, unable to move.

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

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.