Hartmann, the Anarchist; Or, The Doom of the Great City by E. Douglas Fawcett (ebook reader online TXT) 📖

THE BALLOON NEVER HAD A CHANCE.

193“Poor chap. A wild attempt, but rats in a hole cannot be particular,” said old Northerton.

Thanking our informant heartily we moved hastily on, both eager to see something of the movements of the terrible vessel.

The landing of the four men did not perplex me for long; Schwartz, as I knew, had been prepared to descend. But why four in this enterprise for which one alone had been originally told off?

The solution which suggested itself to me was this. Despite the devastation he had caused, Hartmann was very dissatisfied with the result. His vast outlay of material had not effected the ruin of one-fifth part of the great city, while in all probability the resources of the Attila were becoming somewhat strained. Relatively to her size these resources were undoubtedly slender, and it was requisite, accordingly, to devise some new and less costly mode of attack. Of the lull in the work of the incendiaries Hartmann must have got wind, but not knowing the cause of it, and anxious to secure a redoubled activity below—now so indispensable to his success—he had despatched four of the crew to fan their energies into fury. That 194their efforts would be futile was now certain enough; the problematical part of the affair was the supposition that they would ever get back to their baffled leader at all. Probably they were now bitterly regretting their temerity, if, indeed, they had not been shot against the wall by the furious restorers of order.

Just then a squad of soldiers passed by escorting some incendiaries, whose faces filthy with grime and brutal to a degree filled us with loathing and anger. They were to be shot in a neighbouring mews, and, if the accounts we heard were reliable, richly deserved their fate. What kicks their captors were giving them! The faces seemed unfamiliar to me, all alike of a low grade of ruffianism such as every great city breeds, but which never declares its strength till the day of weakness arrives. But suddenly one of the wretches, who lagged somewhat behind the rest, received a sharp cuff from a soldier, and in the volley of curses that followed I recognized a well-known and long-detested voice. It was that of Michael Schwartz, who, bruised, handcuffed, befouled with grime and dirt, was being driven like a bullock to a slaughter-house. How savage a despair must have goaded him in the last few minutes of his dark and damnable life! I turned away with a shudder, glad however to think that this fiend at least was no longer to cumber the 195ground. Might the three other men of his party meet with the same luck!

After half-an-hour’s walk we found ourselves in Hyde Park. Our informant had not misled us. High above the sward circled the Attila, her graceful flight and vast bulk, her silvery-grey sides and projecting aëroplane, her long ruddy flag streaming over the screw-blades, her ram-like horned bow, and above all, her now hideous repute, rendering her a weirdly conspicuous object. Old Mr. Northerton’s face was a picture; the look he bent on me was one of unconcealed and almost childish wonder at the aëronef and of deep respect for his would-be son-in-law, who had actually trodden its deck. He seemed fascinated by the wondrous air vessel, and lamented loudly that its conception should have lodged in so unworthy and fiendish a mind.

“Think what a good man might have effected for his kind, for their creature-comforts and commerce, for the cause of civilization, science, and culture. A fleet of such ships would render England monarch of the nations and arm her with power to sweep away hordes of monstrous iniquities. War could be finally stamped out, and universal arbitration substituted for it.”

“Until France or Russia began to launch similar 196fleets,” I added, for it seemed clear enough that nations who could fight with armies and ironclads would have no insuperable prejudice against fighting with air-ships. If only one nation possessed these aëronefs she would, doubtless, silence the rest, but in actual practice inventions of this character cannot be permanently kept secret.

There were very few persons in the Park, for the dread of the aëronef was universal. Her guns dexterously singled out crowds, hence no one wished to recruit them, and any symptom of their formation in the neighbourhood speedily corrected itself. Outside the railings, indeed, there were plenty of onlookers, but there the military patrolled the streets, and bodies of mounted police vigorously seconded their efforts. I was told by a bystander that severe fighting was going on in East London, but that nothing serious of late was reported from the West End. This sounded all very well, but what if the Attila was once more to re-open fire? How about the restoration of order then? Would regiments clear the streets under bomb fire? would police hunt down incendiaries in the teeth of petroleum showers? The man admitted that in that case chaos must follow, but, nevertheless, he reckoned the vessel was emptied.

“She can’t hold much more stuff at any rate.”

197The reed was unfortunately slender, as he had shortly cause to discover.

I was gazing at the stray onlookers around us when a strange group caught my eye. Two men had just entered the Park, followed by a third, with his hat pulled well forward over his brow. The two men in advance were talking excitedly, and pointed at intervals to the aëronef. Something in their faces riveted my attention, and, as they came nearer, I recognized Norris among them, ay, and the villainous Thomas himself was bringing up the rear. What were they doing here at such an hour? My notion was that their mission had completely failed, that their associates were being shot down, and that they were now seeking a haven from danger in the Attila. But was it possible that they could be embarked in the broad light of day in the face of crowd, police, and military? Were they even expected back so early from the fulfilment of their task? Whatever the explanation might be—one thing was clear, the chance for my letter had come! As Norris passed me I looked him full in the face—he grew pale as death, and I saw him feel spasmodically for his revolver. Evidently he thought that I should denounce him, and was prepared to die biting. Of course no semblance of such a plan had crossed my mind. Hateful to me as 198were these anarchists, they had treated me well on the Attila, and with them I had once amicably broken salt. Honour shielded even the enemies of the human race from such a scurvy return.

Brushing past Norris I whispered: “A letter—for the captain,” stuffing it dexterously into his hand at the same time. This action passed wholly unnoticed even by Norris’ companions, while the worthy ex-Commissioner was far too well absorbed in the aëronef to mark my brief departure from his side. Norris himself passed on hurriedly, directing his steps to the central portion of the Park. I watched the three anarchists till they reached an almost deserted spot, about four hundred yards off, and it then became evident that they were bent on signalling to the Attila. For aught I knew Hartmann in his conning-tower was even now sweeping the sward with his powerful field-glass.

I saw Norris produce something out of the breast of his coat, and fuddle eagerly about it with his companions. The anarchists then lay down on the grass, and seemed to be awaiting some answer. It was some time, however, before I seized the true rendering of their conduct, and but for a stray yellow gleam showing up between Norris and one of the others I should not have seized it at all. The device adopted 199was simple. The gallant three were evidently being waited and watched for. To ensure notice they had agreed to exhibit a large yellow flag, and for security’s sake they had unrolled this at full length on the grass, lying round it at the same time so as to screen it from observation. The problem remaining over was, how the Attila was to get them safely on board. She was, perhaps, two hundred and fifty feet above them at the moment, and the difficulty in such a situation seemed almost insuperable.

Suddenly a cry from Mr. Northerton arrested me. The aëronef was curving swiftly in and out, so as to trace a sort of descending spiral. Then when nearly over the flag she stopped almost dead, and seemed to be falling rapidly.

“It’s falling! it’s falling!” yelled Mr. Northerton.

But I knew better, that fall was adjusted by the sand-levers.

The Attila sank slowly to the ground. The police, military, and spectators outside and inside the railing rushed forward to the scene with loud cries of exultation. All were seized with the desire to be in at the death, to vent their rage on the foe who now seemed to have lost his might. It was with the greatest trouble that I held Mr. Northerton back. He was carried away by the sight of the thousands streaming 200into the Park, and converging in masses on the fallen monster. They were now close up. Several rifle-cracks told that the soldiers to the fore were already hotly engaged, were perhaps striving to storm the hull.

And then came a dread disenchantment.