Around the World in 100 Days

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.”

“I was just wondering what will become of those nomadic people who’ve lived here for centuries.”

“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.”

“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—”

“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.

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.

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?”

“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.

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.

“Perhaps I should do the talking,” put in Charles, in English. “No offense, but your French is execrable.”

Charles nodded and said in flawless French, “You intend to hold us for ransom, I would imagine.”

“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.”

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?”

“Ah,” said Annekov with a smile. “I see that I was not mistaken about your intelligence.”