Chapter 274: Roadside Repair

Wallace opened the tool kit.

His three passengers crowded close behind him.

He looked up immediately. "You’re blocking the light, gentlemen."

The three clerks took two steps back onto the grass.

Wallace crouched beside the right front wheel and examined the loose spoke.

During driver training in Helmarte, the mechanics had demonstrated how to inspect the running gear. He had seen them tighten the iron spoke collars on the bench. He had even tried it once himself under an instructor’s eye.

That had been on a clean workshop floor with spare tools hanging on the wall.

This was an empty turnpike over a hundred kilometers from the capital, surrounded by nothing except open fields, autumn trees, and a low stone wall.

Mr. Fenwick, the senior clerk, peered over his shoulder. "Can we continue as it is?"

Wallace looked at him. "Probably."

Fenwick frowned. "Probably?"

"That’s why I’m tightening it," Wallace said.

The hickory spoke was unbroken. That was the main thing. The iron threaded collar at the felloe had simply backed off a thread after hours of vibration over stone ruts.

Wallace pulled a small forged spanner from the canvas roll.

He set the jaw over the square nut. He leaned his weight into it and turned.

The nut moved with a dry scrape, snugging the spoke down into the hub socket.

Wallace checked the neighboring spokes by hand, gripping each pair and squeezing them together. He found one that yielded slightly under his thumb, fitted the spanner, and snugged that one down as well.

He gave the wheel a spin. It turned true on its bronze bushing, with no wobble against the brake shoe.

Wallace stood up and wiped his hands on a waste cloth. "Done."

One of the younger clerks blinked. "That’s all? I thought it would be more complicated."

"You wanted it to be complicated?" Wallace asked.

"No."

"Good."

Fenwick checked his pocket watch. "How long did that take?"

"Nine minutes," Wallace said, stowing the spanner back into its canvas slot.

Fenwick looked down the long road. "If an iron tire came loose on a carriage wheel out here, we’d be waiting half a day for a wheelwright’s cart."

"We’d be walking to the nearest tavern," Wallace corrected. He latched the tool box beneath the floorboards. "Climb aboard, gentlemen."

Fenwick took the front passenger seat. "You’re sure it’s safe?"

Wallace met his eyes. "We’re sitting on thirty liters of petroleum spirit and traveling by fire and iron. If you want safety, take a canal barge."

Fenwick’s mouth snapped shut.

Wallace smiled faintly, walked to the front of the cowl, and set the crank.

The engine caught on the second pull.

Tup-tup-tup-tup-tup.

Wallace kept the throttle low for the first ten kilometers.

He listened to every vibration through the floor. A faint clinking came from behind the seat—the canvas tool roll shifting. The tires hummed over the crushed limestone. The engine maintained its steady, unbroken beat.

Ten kilometers down the road, Wallace pulled over onto the verge again.

Fenwick looked alarmed. "Another problem?"

"Verification," Wallace said.

He walked around the hood, dropped to one knee, and shook the spokes.

Both were rock solid.

"All clear," Wallace said, climbing back in.

They reached the outskirts of the market town twenty minutes later.

Farms gave way to timber mills along a small river. A church spire showed above the rooftops, followed by rows of two-story brick and slate houses.

In Helmarte, nineteen Model Ones were already rolling through the streets. People still looked, but they rarely stopped dead in their tracks.

Here, sixty miles from the nearest railway depot, nobody had ever seen an automobile in the flesh.

A drayman unloading grain bags stopped mid-lift. Two women outside a grocery turned, their baskets hanging loose. A boy carrying an iron hoop yelled at the top of his lungs: "A road-steamer! Look at it!"

Within thirty seconds, a half-dozen children were running alongside the vehicle.

Wallace eased back on the hand throttle, keeping their pace down to ten kilometers per hour. "Here we go."

The crowd grew with every street corner. A butcher stepped out with his apron on; an apprentice carpenter poked his head through a second-story window; two carters reined in their horses to keep them from shying.

Wallace kept his hands steady on the walnut wheel, praying the engine wouldn’t choke on a speck of dust.

Tup-tup-tup-tup-tup.

They rolled into the town square and stopped before the stone steps of the municipal hall.

Wallace pulled the hand brake home and killed the ignition.

The engine fell silent, leaving only the soft tick of cooling iron in the warm afternoon air.

A cluster of local council officials stood on the steps. One stepped down, staring at the green carriage with round eyes.

"You came from the capital?" the official asked Fenwick. "Today?"

Fenwick climbed down, brushing road dust from his coat. "Departed Helmarte at twenty past six."

The official stared at his pocket watch, doing the arithmetic in his head. "That’s... barely six hours. A carriage takes nearly ten with fresh teams."

"The Baron builds fast carriages," Fenwick said with considerable pride.

While the officials went inside with the transport folders, Wallace stayed by the car.

He had planned to find a local tavern for cold ale. Instead, twenty people formed a ring around the vehicle, asking questions all at once.

"Where’s the boiler?"

"No boiler," Wallace said.

"How many horses inside?"

"None. Two cylinders."

"What makes it move?"

"Fuel and fire."

Then a broad-shouldered man in a heavy leather apron pushed through the crowd. He had thick, soot-stained hands, graying hair, and carried a light peening hammer tucked into his belt.

The local blacksmith.

He didn’t ask silly questions. He crouched by the front axle, his calloused fingers tracing the leaf-spring shackles and the forged steering knuckles.

"Good iron," the blacksmith grunted. "Tough drop-forgings. Not cheap cast metal."

He looked up at Wallace. "May I see the engine?"

Wallace hesitated, then unlatched the louvered hood.

The blacksmith leaned in close, keeping his hands behind his back. He studied the twin cast-iron jugs, the copper fuel line with its vibration loop, and the brass rocker pads.

"Valves in the head," the smith said, nodding slowly. "Splash-fed lubrication?"

Wallace smiled. "Capillary grooves in the rocker cups."

"Sensible. What throws the spark?"

"Low-tension magneto, geared to the camshaft," Wallace said, repeating the line Davies had taught him.

The blacksmith looked at Wallace, then back at the road-stained wheels. "You drove this all the way over the western ruts without a wagon team?"

"One loose spoke," Wallace said. "Tightened it ten kilometers back."

The smith reached down, pulled the small hammer from his belt, and raised it toward the wheel.

Wallace stepped forward. "Hold on. Don’t go hitting the iron."

The smith gave him a dry, pitying look. "I’m not going to smash it, lad. I’m listening to it."

He tapped the nearest spoke lightly with the flat face.

Ting.

He tapped another.

Ting.

He tapped the one Wallace had tightened on the road.

Tong.

The pitch was duller, half a tone lower than the rest.

"Still loose," the blacksmith said calmly. "It won’t pull out, but it’s carrying five percent less tension than its neighbors. Another twenty miles of ruts and it’ll start clicking again."

Wallace stared at the wheel. "How do you know that?"

The blacksmith chuckled, tucking the hammer back into his belt. "I’ve been shoeing wagons and building timber dray wheels for thirty years. A spoke is still a spoke, whether you put a horse in front of it or an oil engine."

He reached into his leather apron pocket, pulled out an iron spoke nipple wrench, and gave the collar another half-turn until it rang with the same sharp ting as the rest.

Wallace watched him, a quiet sense of respect settling over him.

Ernest Teucher had designed the car, but the world was full of men who understood iron just as well.