Around the World in 100 Days (21 page)

Harry laughed. “The English have a similar saying. ‘It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.'”

“In my experience,” said Ramesh, “few Englishmen live by that rule. For most of them, winning seems to be of the utmost importance.”

“It may be true that we like to win,” replied Charles, “but only if it's done fairly and honorably.”

Ramesh raised an eyebrow. “If you have studied the history of India, you know that the conduct of your countrymen there has been neither fair nor honor-able.”

“And I suppose the conduct of your countrymen
has
been? My uncle served in India, and he has told me stories of how the sepoys butchered English women and children.”

“You are right, of course. There have been unspeakable, unforgivable atrocities on both sides. But I am sure you agree that none of them would have occurred had the British not insisted upon ruling India.”

Though Ramesh remained calm and reasonable, Charles had grown more and more agitated. Finally he spun about and stalked off. The Indian man sighed. “Perhaps I should not have spoken so frankly. I did not mean to anger him. It is just that I grow a bit weary of Englishmen and their attitude toward our country—which of course they regard as
their
country. The jewel in England's crown, I have heard it called.”

When Ramesh said “our country,” Harry felt that he was included. He wanted to protest that India was not his country, that he knew practically nothing about it, just the little his mother had told him. They had studied the country's history briefly at Eton, but Harry had not really been paying attention.

And yet, though he couldn't call himself an Indian, he knew he would never be considered a proper Englishman, either; it had been made clear to him many times, most recently by Julius Hardiman and his cronies.

That night, over a game of cards, Charles said, “That Indian fellow. Is he a friend of yours?”

“What if he is?”

“That's your business, of course. I just think that the stuff he was saying earlier was a lot of rubbish. I'd like to see what India would amount to without us English.”

“Yes,” said Harry, thoughtfully. “So would I.”

TWENTY-SIX
Showing that

At breakfast the next morning, Harry found Ramesh sitting by himself. They fell easily into conversation again. Harry mentioned that he was looking forward to driving across India, since he knew so little about his mother's homeland. He didn't mention the fact that Aouda's in-laws might wish to kidnap him.

Ramesh gave him a puzzled glance. “Surely you will not pass through India?”

“The plan is to land in Shanghai, then cut across southern China and Burma. I've been told it's the shortest route.”

“Only if you do not count the distance traveled up and down.”

“There are a lot of hills, then?”

“Not hills, my friend—mountains. Very high, very steep mountains. I would not want the task of putting a railroad through them, I promise you that. In fact, I would not care to attempt them even on the most sure-footed of donkeys, and no one has ever called me faint of heart.”

Harry frowned and picked at his eggs. “I didn't know about the mountains. I wonder whether Julius Hardiman did. He was the one who suggested I take that route.”

“Perhaps he knows southern China only from a map. If he had actually crossed it, he would certainly not advise anyone else to try.”

“Unless ...” said Harry.

“Unless what?”

“Unless he wanted them to fail.”

Ramesh's job as a railway engineer had taken him throughout eastern Asia, and he knew of only one feasible route: the so-called Great Russian Post Road. Patched together by the Russian government from a series of existing wagon roads, it led from the port of Vladivostok all the way across Siberia to Moscow. “I traveled it once, years ago; this time I will explore it more closely, to determine whether it is suitable for the railroad.”

“Surely there are mountains there, too?”

“Of course; but not like those in China and Burma. Let me fetch my topographical maps and show you.”

A look at the maps convinced Harry that they were better off going through Siberia, even though it meant adding five hundred miles. “I'll be sorry to miss seeing India, though.”

Ramesh slid a map of his country from his chart case and gazed at it wistfully. “I shall miss it, too. I have been nearly six months in America, and will likely spend an entire year in Russia. It is a long time to be away from a place one loves.”

Harry was struck by the sadness in Ramesh's voice. If it had not been for the wager, Harry would have been in no hurry to return to London. There were so many other places to see. Though he had covered a lot of territory, and would cover a good deal more, he wasn't really experiencing it, only passing through.

Ramesh placed a finger on the southern tip of India. “Here is my home.”

“Kerala. It must be very beautiful.”

“It is a fertile region, full of rice fields and spice gardens and coconut groves. The weather is always warm there.” He gave a small shudder. “I shall have to purchase a fur coat in Vladivostok.” With a laugh, he added, “And an extra-large fur cap, to fit over my turban.”

In the days that followed, Ramesh told him many things about India: the astonishing variety of its landscape and climate; the advanced civilizations that had flourished there for over four thousand years; its rich legacy of literature and art; all the races and languages and religious beliefs that coexisted there; the changes wrought by its various “conquerors”—of whom Britain was only the latest.

“I feel as though I should apologize,” Harry said, “for what my country has done to yours.”

“You will be apologizing to yourself, then, for you belong to both worlds.”

Harry stared at the man. He had always thought of himself as belonging to neither.

“In any case,” Ramesh said, “the English will not rule us forever. Countries, like individuals, are continually reborn.”

“Reborn? You believe in reincarnation, then?”

“Of course. We call it
samsara
. Those who imagine that we have only this one life tend to become impatient and impulsive, always feeling that their time is running out.”

“But now I know the cure for impatience,” said Harry. “Are you up for another cricket match this afternoon?”

Ramesh smiled. “Does Ganesha have an elephant's head?”

“Who is Ganesha?”

“A Hindu deity.”

“And
does
he have an elephant's head?”

“He certainly does.”

 

At the first opportunity, Harry discussed the Russian route with Johnny, who agreed that it made more sense. Elizabeth was not so sure. “According to the
Graphic
's Moscow correspondent, Siberia is in rather a sorry state these days. There are severe food shortages, and an alarming number of outlaw bands who prey upon travelers. Not to mention man-eating tigers.”

“Well,” said Harry, “China has its share of bandits and tigers, as far as that goes. In any case, we're not helpless. We have a couple of rifles and a revolver. We'll make it through all right, I'm sure of it.”

Charles was even more negative. “If my father advised you to go by way of China, he must have had a good reason.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” said Harry.

“See here, Fogg. I've told you, he would never resort to such underhanded tactics. As I said before, we English may play to win, but we play it fair and square.”

“You may be right,” said Harry. “Perhaps he didn't deliberately mislead me; he may simply have been mistaken.”

“So you prefer to believe what your Indian friend tells you?”

“Frankly, yes.”

Charles nodded sourly. “Well, it's your decision. I'm only an observer. But if you run into trouble in the frozen wastes of Siberia, don't blame me or my father.”

Harry couldn't help smiling at Charles's melodramatic tone. “I don't imagine the wastes will be frozen just yet. It's only the sixteenth of September.”

“The seventeenth,” said Charles smugly. “We passed over the international date line a few hours ago.”

The following day, the
Belgic
sailed into a typhoon really worthy of the name; the deck was deluged by wind-driven rain and drenched by such enormous waves that they might have been traveling beneath the surface of the sea, like Captain Nemo. Passengers confined themselves to their cabins or to the lounge or smoking room. A few gathered in the dining room at mealtime, but most were too nauseated to bother.

Harry had never been subject to seasickness. He had been told that he was a born sailor, and perhaps there was some truth in that; Phileas Fogg had revealed once, in a rare unguarded moment, that as a young man he had gone to sea. But when the big ship wallowed in the waves, even the unflappable Harry had some uncomfortable moments.

Ramesh seemed oblivious to the ship's acrobatics, thanks to something he called
yoga
. “It is ancient discipline,” he explained, “which enables one to control—to some extent, at least—the functioning of both the body and the mind.”

“Would it enable me to be more patient?” asked Harry. “Now that we can't play cricket, I'm champing at the bit.”

Since the dining room was so empty, he and Ramesh were seated at the main table, across from the captain, an imposing man of sixty or so, with skin like tanned leather and a neatly trimmed gray beard that didn't quite conceal a livid scar on one cheek. “You're the chaps who organized the cricket matches, then?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” admitted Harry. “I'm afraid we spoiled quite a lot of apples.”

The captain laughed. “No matter. It's kept the passengers happy.” He thrust out a callused hand. “I'm Captain Keough, by the by.”

“Harry Fogg. And this is my friend Dhiren Ramesh.”

The captain raised a bushy eyebrow. “Fogg? Any relation to Phileas Fogg?”

Harry groaned inwardly. “He's my father.”

“The devil take me. I don't suppose Phileas has ever mentioned me? William Keough?”

“No, sir, not that I recall.”

“I'm not surprised.” Keough stroked his beard thoughtfully, as if there was something on his mind but he was uncertain whether or not to bring it up. “The fact is,” he went on, in a low voice, “many years ago, your father and I were business partners.”

Harry leaned forward eagerly. At last, a chance to write something upon the blank slate that was his father's past. “Business partners? What sort of business?”

“Well, it's rather a long story.”

Ramesh rose from the table. “If you will pardon me, gentlemen, it is time for my yoga exercises.” It was clearly an excuse; Harry knew his friend didn't wish to intrude.

The captain drew a tankard of dark beer for himself and one for Harry, then began his story.

TWENTY-SEVEN
In which

When they were little more than boys, he and Phileas Fogg had been deckhands aboard the same whaling vessel. For Keough it was a way of escaping a brief, brutal life in the slums of London. Fogg, by contrast, came from a family that was once quite wealthy but had fallen on hard times. He was determined to restore their fortunes.

A quick learner and a hard worker, Fogg soon advanced to the position of first mate on a shabby schooner that plied the Irish Sea, carrying manufactured items to isolated islands and ports. It was not a profitable business, and the shipping company constantly teetered on the brink of bankruptcy.

But in time Fogg and Keough managed to buy a ship of their own and establish a flourishing trade in the West Indies, which gave them the capital to build a second ship, then a third and a fourth. Fogg handled the finances; Keough outfitted the ships and hired the crews.

Eventually they had a falling-out and Keough sold his share in the business to his partner for a tidy sum—which Keough proceeded to squander on a series of ill-advised ventures. Fogg, meanwhile, built the shipping company into an extremely valuable enterprise; at the age of thirty-five, he sold it for an astonishing amount of money and moved to London.

Keough clearly still resented the way things had worked out. Speaking of it seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth. He took a swig from the tankard of beer, which he gripped with both hands so the ship's erratic motion would not send it flying.

“Thank you for telling me all this,” said Harry. “There's one thing I don't understand, though. If the company you worked for at first was so hard up, how did you ever save enough for a ship of your own?”

The captain's scarred, weathered face took on a sardonic smile. “Well, that's another story—one I'm not sure your father would want you to hear.” He drained the tankard, then wiped his mouth and beard carefully with his napkin. “On the other hand, I don't much care what Phileas Fogg wants or doesn't want.”

Keough proceeded to fill in the missing portion of his tale. When the owners of the failing shipping company saw how eager Fogg was to advance himself, they approached him with a proposition: They would insure the schooner's cargo—mainly flour and sugar and tools and such—for far more than it was worth. Its new captain, Fogg, would then deliberately run her aground on some isolated, rocky coastline. The company would collect the insurance money and split it with him and his first mate, Keough.