THIRTY-FIVE In which
THE MOTORISTS AGAIN BECOME PRISONERS
In the days that followed, Harry, determined to make up the time they had lost, began to resemble Johnny Brainerd’s Steam Man, a sort of automaton with a single purpose—to cover as many miles as possible in as short a time as possible. He kept his eyes and his mind on the road, spoke little, and seldom laughed. They stopped only when absolutely necessary—to relieve themselves, to refill the fuel and water tanks, to remove the cleated wheels and install the regular ones, to catch a few hours of exhausted sleep.
They had taken to reckoning time not by the calendar date, but by how many days remained until the fourteenth of November, which Johnny insisted on referring to as Doomsday. Harry would have preferred a more optimistic term, such as Victory Day, but Johnny’s name was the one that stuck.
On Doomsday Minus Twenty-Three, they reached the broad valley of the Yenisei, the largest river in Siberia. Beyond the Yenisei, the gloomy taiga gave way again to the treeless, rolling grasslands known as the steppes. The farther west they traveled, the larger and more closely spaced the towns became—for all the good it did the travelers. Often they were in and out of a town so quickly that Charles, to his frustration, was unable to even learn the name of the place. His diary entries had become rather sketchy and repetitive:
Friday, October 23
Doomsday Minus Twenty-Two. Stopped in an unidentified town just long enough for a meal of eggs, bread, and tea. Now camped alongside an unidentified river. I stand watch while the others sleep. We have not played cards for some time. Harry seems to have no interest in whist or bezique, or in much of anything except putting the miles behind us. I wish Elizabeth were still with us.
Saturday, October 24
Doomsday Minus Twenty-One. Bought kerosene in an unidentified town. Dined on bread, eggs, and tea. Tried in vain to find a map, to get some sense of where we actually are and how far we have to go. Will no doubt camp on the steppes again tonight.
Sunday, October 25
Doomsday Minus Twenty. Stayed the night in an actual hotel! I even learned the name of the city—Tomsk. It is home to the sole institution of higher learning in Siberia, Tomsk Imperial University, which was opened a mere three years ago, and which I of course did not have time to see. It prompted Fogg to inquire whether I meant to attend university. When I replied that I did, he said, to my surprise, that he had been considering the possibility himself. With his academic record, I doubt any reputable school would take him. But perhaps he could give Tomsk University a try.
Crossed the Tom River on a curious sort of ferry, powered by a cable attached to an anchor. A small boat went ahead of us, carrying the anchor, dropped it in the river, then the other end of the cable was reeled onto a winch or capstan turned by a long-suffering horse.
Monday, October 26
Doomsday Minus Nineteen. Camped on the steppes last night, nearly froze. The mosquitoes seem to be done with, at least. Drove through two unidentified towns without stopping. Passed by a settlement of Ostiaks, another of those tribes whose way of life is disappearing the face of progress. I cannot imagine they will miss it much. They live in birch-bark wigwams, dress in clothing made of pounded birch bark, and eat from bowls made of birch bark. I could not tell what they were eating. Birch bark, I expect.
Tuesday, October 27
Doomsday Minus Eighteen. We are in perhaps the largest, most appealing, most prosperous city I have seen since leaving San Francisco and, ironically, I find myself wishing that, as we have done with so many other towns, we had passed through without stopping.
I am writing this entry from a gaol cell. We have had a stroke of bad luck.
Charles was being kind. In truth, their misfortune was due less to bad luck than to a mistake on Harry’s part—not a large mistake, nor a foolish one, just an ordinary oversight. But sometimes small errors can lead to serious consequences.
Omsk was, as Charles indicated, a well-populated, busy metropolis—far too busy to suit Harry. The streets were filled with wagons and carriages and people on foot who stopped to gawk at the marvelous machine. Harry was forced to slow the Flash to a crawl, which only made matters worse, since now the gawkers gathered around the car for a closer look. A man in a European-style suit called to them, “You are the English motorists, yes?”
“Da!” replied Harry.
To his fellow Omskites, the man shouted something that included the words aftomobil and “Fogg.” The people responded with cheers. “It looks as though they’ve heard of us,” said Harry with his trademark grin, which had been seen so seldom of late.
Johnny groaned and, sliding down in his seat, pulled his cap over his ears.
Thanks to the growing crowd of well-wishers, the already-choked thoroughfare became nearly impassable. Harry had to halt frequently and suddenly; he was continually applying or releasing the hand brake, pushing the throttle in and out, engaging and disengaging the gears. So occupied was he with avoiding collisions that he neglected to lower the flame on the burner, and Johnny, upset by all the people and the noise, failed to notice. At last the boiler built up such a head of pressure that the safety valve blew, sending steam shooting from the smokestack.
The alarmed townsfolk scattered, some crying out in fright; the commotion, in turn, startled several horses, including one harnessed to a cart full of clay pottery. The animal reared into the air, dumping its load onto the pavement and shattering half the pots. The driver, who was also thrown from the cart, stormed up to the motorcar, limping and spouting a stream of what Harry could only assume were invectives and imprecations.
Harry shut down the burner and did his best to apologize in his limited French, but the man would not be mollified. He began shouting, “Policija! Policija!” Two policemen pushed their way through the spectators, who had recovered from their fear and reassembled.
Brandishing their batons, the officers herded the motorists and the injured party toward the station house. Johnny had to be pried away from the Flash. “Harry?” he pleaded.
“It’ll be all right, lad.” Harry spoke to the officers in French. “What about our carriage without horse? She cannot stop in the center of the street!”
“Don’t worry,” said one of the policemen. “Someone will move it.”
“Yes,” said Harry. “That is what worries me.”
“No one will steal it, if that’s what you mean,” said the man, rather crossly. “This is a law-abiding town. Now get moving.”
Though it galled him to do it, Harry resorted to the tactic his father had so often used on his fabled journey: He offered to pay the cart driver double what the pots were worth if he would drop the charges against them. “You Englishmen and your money,” said the policeman. “You think you can buy your way out of this? I’ve told you, this is a law-abiding town. You must go before the magistrate.”
“And when will the magistrate be here?”
“Tomorrow.”
They spent the next twenty-four hours in a badly heated jail cell so small that Harry could not even pace about. He sat cross-legged on a bunk and meditated and, for a change, it actually seemed to help. Charles passed the time by playing solitaire and writing in his diary. Johnny curled up in his bunk like some hibernating animal waiting for spring.
The following afternoon they were brought before the magistrate, who quickly scanned the police report, then glanced up with an eager look on his face. “You are Harry Fogg?” he said, in English.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have been following your adventures in the Moscow newspaper. But there has been nothing for at least a fortnight; I wondered what had become of you. You managed to repair your motorcar, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, we did. We also escaped a band of outlaws and crossed the Tchuma River in full flood. The only tight spot we have not managed to extricate ourselves from is the Omsk jail.”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience,” said the magistrate. “I hope it has not cost you too much time.”
“An entire day, actually.”
“How many days remain before you must be back in England?”
Harry turned to Charles, who said, “Seventeen, Your Honor.”
“Seventeen days? To cross all of Europe? Then why on earth are you standing here? It is clear that the whole incident was merely an accident!” The magistrate shouted something in Russian. Whatever he said, it had a profound effect. The three motorists were ushered from the room—not roughly, like prisoners, but respectfully, like visiting dignitaries. “Good luck to you, gentlemen!” the magistrate called after them.
The police escorted them to the spot where they had left the Flash. “You see,” said Harry cheerfully, “I told you it would be all right.”
“Except that we lost an entire day,” said Charles.
“Not to worry. We’ll make up for it. As long as the Flash holds up, we’re—” He broke off and halted in his tracks, staring at their motorcar, which someone had pushed out of the street and onto the wooden sidewalk.
“What is it?” said Charles. “What’s wrong?”
“We’ve been robbed,” said Johnny.