Around the World in 100 Days

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.

“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.

“Of course she will. But we’ve come too far and endured too much for me to risk losing the whole match now. Don’t worry; we’ve plenty of time.”

Charles checked his watch and scowled. “Oh, yes. If by ‘plenty of time’ you mean ‘barely enough.’” He shook his head. “I don’t know when you got so cautious.”

In each town they passed through, a few people braved the wind and rain to get a glimpse of the famous Flash. As the motorcar cruised by, they waved and cheered. Harry gave a quick toot on the steam whistle.

“I’m afraid so,” said Harry. “I’ve been thinking that we’d do well to avoid the main thoroughfares—take some route no will expect us to take.”

“Good idea, old chap. We can go up Bridge Road to Picadilly, then down St. James’s Street to Pall Mall. They’ll be looking for us to come from the other direction.”

At nine o’clock they turned onto the Old Kent Road, which led to the Vauxhall Bridge. “One and a quarter hours left,” said Charles. All three motorists were so tense that they had fallen into Johnny’s habit of speaking in terse fragments. At nine-twenty they crossed the Thames. By nine-thirty they were heading east on Picadilly. “Almost home,” said Harry.

After a few more minutes of excruciatingly slow and careful driving, they turned onto Pall Mall, the wide avenue on which the Reform Club lay. “Time,” said Harry.

Fifty yards ahead of them, a brewer’s cart, piled high with kegs of beer, was pulling out of an alleyway and into the street, obstructing it completely. “Good lord,” groaned Harry. It was like a bad dream, in which he would be forced to experience all over again the accident that, some three months earlier, had set into motion this whole chain of events.

But no. This time things were different. This time he was not driving so recklessly. This time he was able to bring the Flash to a stop well before he reached the cart. He pushed up the side curtain and leaned out, looking for some sign of the drayman. The wind-driven rain nearly blinded him, but as far as he could tell there was no one about, only the wagon and the horse.

“We’ll have to move it ourselves,” said Charles, and climbed from the car. But as he reached for the horse’s bridle, half a dozen men in mackintoshes and rain hats emerged from the alleyway. They were carrying clubs, axes, and signs that read NO MORE MOTORCARS and DEATH TO THE DEVIL-WAGONS.

Charles spun about and shouted, “Get the car out of here! Now!” Two of the largest Luddites seized him by the arms and held him helpless, ignoring his desperate struggles and his ungentlemanly curses. Harry sprang from the car, ready to rush to his friend’s aid, but Charles shouted, “No! Never mind about me! Save the Flash!”

Harry hesitated. Act quickly, but not rashly. Concluding that the car was in more danger than Charles, he jumped back into the driver’s seat and stomped on the reverse pedal. But Johnny, who was keeping a look-out to the rear, shouted, “Stop!” Harry braked and peered out through the side curtain. Another wagon had pulled up behind them, blocking the way. There was no escape.

Grimly, they climbed from the car to face the mob. Harry wished he had had time to learn at least one or two of Ramesh’s kalarippayattu techniques. The best he could do was to arm himself with a large wrench from the toolbox. He managed to get in a few good blows before one of the men clubbed the makeshift weapon from his hands. Another swung a stick into the backs of his knees, knocking him off his feet.

Johnny’s huge fists took a worse toll on their attackers, but it was only a matter of moments before he lay helpless, all but unconscious, on the wet street.

With its defenders disabled, the Flash was easy prey for the Luddites. They did not, as Harry expected, rain aimless blows down upon the motorcar; they were more methodical in their destruction. Two of the men unfastened the front of the leather rain cover and folded it back. Two others yanked up the rear seat and flung it aside, revealing the car’s wire-wrapped boiler. A hulking man with an ax stepped forward and delivered a fierce blow to the top of the boiler. The thin steel split open, sending a geyser of steam into the air, like a sigh of defeat.

The men moved off, taking the cart and horse with them. Charles’s captors released him and pushed him toward the car almost gently, as though they had no wish to harm him. “You blackguards!” Charles shouted hoarsely, tears of frustration mingling with the rain that streamed down his face. “You won’t get away with this! I’ll see that you’re brought to justice, every last one of you!”

Harry got unsteadily to his feet and was almost knocked off them again by the fierce wind. He shuffled over to Johnny, who had risen no farther than his knees. With Harry’s help, Johnny made it to the rear seat of the Flash, which had been tossed onto the sidewalk. There he sank down again. “How’s the car?” he murmured.

Though Harry knew without looking that it was bad, he forced himself to examine the damage. There was a ragged rent in the top of the boiler, not unlike the one left in Johnny’s head years earlier by the horse’s hoof. The hole in the metal could probably be repaired, but not without a welding torch, and certainly not in the half hour that remained before they must be at the front steps of the Reform Club.

“I’m afraid so.” Harry sank down on the running board, out of the wind, and put his head in his hands. “We were so close to winning.”

“No doubt we could,” said Harry. “But the rules state in no uncertain terms that the Flash must travel the entire distance under her own power.”

Harry threw up his hands. “I don’t want to give up, old man! You know how much I have riding on this! But I don’t see that we have any choice!”

“The Flash’s wheels can still turn,” insisted Charles. “There must be some way of getting her rolling.” He turned his face into the wind, which was blowing from southwest to northeast—the same direction in which Pall Mall ran. “If only we had a sail of some sort.”

Harry rose to his feet, impelled by a growing feeling of excitement and hope, like a head of steam slowly building. “Perhaps we do, though. Perhaps we do.”