Around the World in 100 Days (30 page)

“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

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?”

Shipley smiled. “Oh, he'll agree, all right.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Because,” said the captain, “the
Castalia
is my ship.”

 

While Johnny assisted the mechanics in the engine room, his friends oversaw the building of the platform, which was made of thick planks bolted to the railings on both the ship's hulls. The crew also constructed a wooden ramp that led from the dock to the deck.

The captain suggested pulling the motorcar aboard with a winch, but Harry, unwilling to do anything contrary to the rules of the wager, insisted on driving up the ramp. Though he came within an inch of running the
Flash
into the harbor, he finally maneuvered it safely onto the platform, where it was tied down with thick ropes.

Now all that remained was to get the ship's engines running. Not wishing to put any pressure on Johnny, Harry stayed clear of the engine room. Instead, he paced about on deck, glancing at Charles's watch every few minutes and repeatedly checking the
Flash
to make certain it was secure.

To have a reasonable chance of beating the deadline of a quarter past ten, they needed to reach Dover by six in the morning—seven, at the absolute latest. And since the
Castalia
was slower than a single-hulled ferry, they must allow at least three hours for the crossing. That meant they should leave Calais no later than 3:00 A.M.

Midnight came and went, then one o'clock, then two, and still the engines showed no sign of life. At half past three, Johnny emerged from belowdecks, looking utterly exhausted, holding his head with both hands as though it threatened to come apart. Harry fetched the Dr. Pemberton's Syrup, which Elizabeth had left behind, and gave his friend a large dose. “Lie down, lad. Have a good long rest.”

Charles drew Harry aside and whispered, “We don't have
time
for him to rest!”

“He can't work if he can't think.”

“But it's already—” Charles started to say, then abruptly broke off. “Harry?” he said softly. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“A sort of . . . a sort of
chugging
sound?”

Harry listened intently, then broke into a grin. “It's the engines!” He turned to Johnny. “You got them running, lad! Why didn't you say so?”

Johnny gave him a faint, weary smile. “You didn't ask,” he said.

THIRTY-NINE
In which

Not only had Johnny repaired the engines, he had somehow contrived to make them run more efficiently. With the help of a strong breeze from the southwest, the
Castalia
made the crossing in well under three hours, to the delight of Captain Shipley. “Perhaps,” he said, “the company will decide to keep her in service after all.”

Though the motorists made as much haste as possible, even firing up the
Flash
well before they docked, by the time they set out on the Great Dover Road it was nearly seven o'clock. Fearful that, like Phileas Fogg, they might have lost track of the date, Harry bought a copy of the Dover
Telegraph
to confirm that it was indeed Doomsday. The newspaper was dated November 14—one hundred days, by the calendar, since they departed London. It seemed more like a thousand.

On the front page was a story saying that, at last report, the marvelous motorcar and its intrepid young crew were crossing the border between Germany and France, and were expected to arrive in England sometime that morning—too late, in the paper's opinion, to win the wager. “It just goes to show you,” said Harry, “that you can't believe everything you read.”

It had begun to drizzle, now, and the stiff breeze that had helped them across the Channel had grown even stiffer; each gust blew cold rain in around the flapping side curtains of the
Flash
. “‘November's sky is chill and drear,' ” quoted Charles, shivering.

“Shakespeare?” asked Harry.

“Sir Walter Scott.”

“Well, at least the dreary weather is keeping the traffic off the roads.” Still, they encountered several dozen carriages and wagons, and each time Harry had to creep along to avoid an accident. When they hit a vacant stretch, he tried to make up for lost time, yet he was careful not to push the
Flash
too hard.