Chapter 277: Northgate Delivery
At nine-fifteen precisely, Number Sixty-Four rolled through the high iron gates of the Northgate Arsenal.
The sentries at the gate barely had time to shoulder their rifles before Wallace brought the machine to a halt outside the red-brick headquarters of the Ordnance Board.
He pulled the hand brake back with a sharp, iron clack, killed the magneto switch, and sat back against the cushions.
The silence that followed was broken only by the soft, steady ticking of the cooling exhaust manifold and the heavy breathing of Captain Thorne.
An elderly general in an unbuttoned tunic stood on the portico steps, flanked by three clerks holding quill pens. He checked a large gold chronometer in his palm, scowling toward the empty road beyond the gates.
"Thorne?" the general barked, squinting through his spectacles. "Where the devil are the dispatch riders? The telegraph said they left Highgate at eight-twenty!"
Thorne climbed down from the passenger seat, his boots hitting the gravel with an unsteady wobble. He straightened his tunic, saluted crisply, and handed over the heavy leather satchel.
"Frontier artillery ledgers, General," Thorne reported, his voice still vibrating slightly from the ride. "The mounted couriers are somewhere behind the river bridge, sir. We came by the motor carriage."
The general looked at the satchel, then looked past the captain at the dark green Model One sitting quietly in the drive.
His eyes drifted over the brass radiator, the spattered road mud along the chassis sills, and Wallace, who was already calmly checking the dip-rod with a clean piece of rag.
"You left the palace at eight-fifteen?" the general demanded.
"Eight-twenty, General," Thorne replied.
The general stared at his chronometer for five long seconds. He looked at the machine again, his heavy gray eyebrows drawing together in deep, profound concentration.
"Fifty-five minutes," the old soldier said softly. "The fastest courier horse in the realm couldn’t have cleared that distance in under an hour and twenty on a wet morning."
He walked down the three stone steps, stopping beside the front fender. He didn’t touch the brass; he simply stared at the compact cast-iron block nested between the frame rails.
"Does it carry artillery shells?" the general asked Wallace abruptly.
Wallace wiped the oil from his fingers and touched his cap. "This one carries four people and three bags, sir. But Baron Teucher says the chassis will carry eight hundred pounds of whatever you bolt to the timbers."
The general grunted, tapped the green fender once with the knuckle of his thumb, and turned back to his clerks.
"Take the ledgers inside," the general ordered. Then he pointed a finger at Thorne. "And tell the Lord Chamberlain’s office that if they intend to purchase a fleet of these contraptions, the War Department expects priority on the first six."
The clerks hurried up the brick stairs with the satchel, and the general followed without another word, leaving Wallace alone on the gravel with the silent green machine.
Wallace took his time checking the running gear. He walked around the car, tapped the wheel rims with his knuckles, inspected the steering linkage for loose pins, and wiped a smear of soot from the brass headlamp casing. Everything was tight. The drop-forged steering arm showed no deflection, and the new fuel sediment bowl held only clear, pale spirit.
He reached into the passenger pocket, pulled out the journey ticket, and marked their arrival time at the arsenal gates: nine-fifteen.
A junior lieutenant from the transport depot came out with an ink stamp, pressed the official seal onto the ticket, and handed it back with an admiring glance at the exposed drive chain.
"They’re talking about this inside already," the lieutenant said.
"They talk too much," Wallace said, pocketing the slip. "It’s just an engine on four wheels."
He climbed back into the bucket seat, reset the spark lever, and stepped down to pull the crank. The cylinders fired cleanly on the first pull, settling into their familiar, rhythmic thrum.
By noon, Number Sixty-Four was back in the eastern service court, having completed two return dispatches and an inspection transfer for the Board of Works without a single hitch.
Wallace sat on an overturned nail keg beside the stable door, eating a thick beef sandwich and drinking cold cider from a stone jug.
Chassis Sixty-Four sat ten paces away, ticking softly in the autumn sunlight. Its glass sediment bowl remained crystal clear; its oil level had not dropped an eighth of an inch; and the hickory spoke on the right front wheel rang true under the tap of Wallace’s pocketknife.
Aldren walked over, his master evaluation ledger tucked under his arm as usual. He stood beside the keg, looking down at the driver.
"The Ordnance Board sent a memorandum by telegraph," Aldren said.
Wallace chewed his beef slowly. "Did the captain complain about my driving?"
"No," Aldren said, a faint, rare smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "The general complained that the War Office had not been informed of the vehicle’s availability three weeks ago."
Wallace laughed, taking a long pull from his jug. "Soldiers are always in a hurry, sir."
Aldren looked at the motorcar. He opened the ledger, flipped past the records of the western journey, and found the page for Week Three.
He dipped his steel pen into his portable inkwell, writing with neat, steady strokes:
Dispatch Run 52: Inner Capital Urgent Route (Palace to Northgate Arsenal).
Distance: 14.8 km through dense metropolitan congestion.
Transit Time: 55 minutes (Carriage standard: 90 minutes).
Route Deviation: Negotiated riverbank ballast road under load; no chassis deformation or traction loss observed.
Operational Status: Returned to standby readiness within ten minutes of completion.
Aldren closed the book, tapping it against his knee.
"Ten days remaining in the trial, Wallace," Aldren remarked quietly.
𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎
Wallace looked up from his sandwich, his gray eyes steady. "You don’t need ten days, Mr. Aldren. You knew the answer before we left for the timber lot."
Aldren did not deny it. He simply adjusted his glasses, looked at the quiet green carriage resting among the old brick stables, and turned back toward his office.
"Keep the oil clean, Wallace," the superintendent said over his shoulder. "The Lord Chamberlain has requested a personal ride to the Admiralty on Friday."