Around the World in 100 Days

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?”

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

“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?”

“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.”

“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?”

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?”

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.”

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

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?”