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HARTMANN THE ANARCHIST;
Or,
The Doom of the Great City.
[Illustration: SHELLING THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT. _See page 147._]
HARTMANN THE ANARCHIST;
Or,
The Doom of the Great City.
by
E. DOUGLAS FAWCETT.
Illustrated by Fred. T. Jane.
London
Edward Arnold
37 Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.
Publisher to the India Office
1893
[All rights reserved]
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,
London & Bungay.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. DARK HINTS 1
II. THE ‘SHADOW’ OF HARTMANN 18
III. A MOTHER’S TROUBLES 36
IV. FUGITIVES FROM THE LAW 46
V. A STRANGE AWAKENING 57
VI. ON THE DECK OF THE ‘ATTILA’ 70
VII. THE CAPTAIN OF THE ‘ATTILA’ 79
VIII. A STRANGE VOYAGE 95
IX. IN AT THE DEATH 106
X. THE FIRST BLOW 125
XI. A TEMPEST OF DYNAMITE 137
XII. HOW I LEFT THE ‘ATTILA’ 155
XIII. IN THE STREETS OF THE BURNING CITY 168
XIV. A NOCTURNAL RIDE 177
XV. THE MORROW OF THE DISASTERS 186
XVI. THE LAST OF THE ‘ATTILA’ 201
_With seventeen Full-Page and several smaller Illustrations by Fred. T.
Jane._
HARTMANN THE ANARCHIST;
OR,
THE DOOM OF THE GREAT CITY.
CHAPTER I.
DARK HINTS.
All things considered, I rate October 10th, 1920, as the most momentous
day of my life. Why it should be so styled is not at once apparent. My
career has not been unromantic; during many years I have rambled over
the globe, courting danger wherever interest led me, and later on have
splashed through shambles such as revolutions have seldom before been
red with. More than once I have tripped near the cave where Death lies
in ambush. I am now an old man, but my memory is green and vigorous. I
can look back calmly on the varied spectacle of life and weigh each
event impartially in the balance. And thus looking, I refer my most
fateful experience to an hour during an afternoon conversation in my
dull, dingy, severe-looking quarters in Bayswater.
From romance to the commonplace is seldom a long trudge. On this
occasion a quite commonplace letter determined my destiny. There was
nothing of any gravity in the letter itself. It was a mere invitation to
meet some friends. Most people would stare vacantly were I to show it to
them. They would stare still more vacantly were I to say that it enabled
me to write this terrible story. Bear in mind, however, that a lever,
insignificant in itself, switches an express train off one track on to
another. In a like manner a very insignificant letter switched me off
from the tracks of an ordinary work-a-day mortal into those of the
companion and biographer of a Nero.
* * * * *
Some two years before the time of which I write I had returned to
London, having completed a series of adventurous travels in Africa and
South-West Asia. My foregoing career is easily briefed. Left an orphan
of very tender years, I had grown up under the ægis of a bachelor uncle,
one of those singularly good-hearted men who rescue humanity from the
cynics. He had always treated me as his own son, had given me the
advantages of a sterling education, and had finally crowned his
benevolence by adopting me as his heir. An inveterate politician, he had
early initiated me into the mysteries of his cult, and it is probably to
his guidance that I owed much of my later enthusiasm for reform. As a
youngster of twenty-three I could not, however, be expected to abandon
myself to blue-books and statistics, and was indeed much more intent on
amusement than anything else. Among my chief passions was that of
travel, a pursuit which gratified both the acquired interests of culture
and the natural lust of adventure. Of the raptures of the rambler I
accordingly drank my fill, forwarding, in dutiful fashion, long accounts
of my tours to my indulgent relative. Altogether I spent three or four
years harvesting rich experience in this manner. I was preparing for a
journey through Syria when I received a telegram from my uncle’s doctor
urging me immediately to return. Being then at Alexandria I made all
haste to comply with it, only, however, to discover the appeal too well
grounded, and the goal of my journey a death-bed. I mourned for my
uncle’s loss sincerely, and my natural regrets were sharpened when his
will was read. With the exception of a few insignificant bequests, he
had transferred his entire property to me.
The period of mourning over, I was free to indulge my whims to the
utmost, and might well have been regarded as full of schemes for a life
of wild adventure. Delay, however, had created novel interests; some
papers I had published had been warmly welcomed by critics; and a new
world—the literary and political—spread itself out seductively before
me. Further, I had by this time seen “many cities and men,” and the
hydra-headed problem of civilization began to appeal to me with
commanding interest. The teachings also of my uncle had duly yielded
their harvest, and ere long I threw myself into politics with the same
zeal which had carried me through the African forests, and over the
dreary burning sands of Araby. I became, first a radical of my uncle’s
school, then a labour advocate and socialist, and lastly had aspired to
the eminence of parliamentary candidate for Stepney. A word on the
political situation.
Things had been looking very black in the closing years of the last
century, but the pessimists of that epoch were the optimists of ours.
London even in the old days was a bloated, unwieldy city, an abode of
smoke and dreariness startled from time to time by the angry murmurs of
labour. In 1920 this Colossus of cities held nigh six million souls, and
the social problems of the past were intensified. The circle of
competence was wider, but beyond it stretched a restless and dreaded
democracy. Commerce had received a sharp check after the late
Continental wars, and the depression was severely felt. That bad times
were coming was the settled conviction of the middle classes, and to
this belief was due the Coalition Government that held sway during the
year in which my story opens. In many quarters a severe reaction had set
in against Liberalism, and a stronger executive and repressive laws were
urgently clamoured for. At the opposite extreme flew the red flag, and a
social revolution was eagerly mooted.
I myself, though a socialist, was averse to barricades. “Not revolution,
but evolution” was the watchword of my section. Dumont has said that
“the only period when one can undertake great legislative reforms is
that in which the public passions are calm and in which the Government
enjoys the greatest stability.” Of the importance of this truth I was
firmly convinced. What was socialism? The nationalization of land and
capital, of the means of production and distribution, in the interests
of a vast industrial army. And how were the details of this vast change
to be grappled with amid the throes of revolution? How deliberate with
streets slippery with blood, the vilest passions unchained, stores,
factories, and workshops wrecked, and perhaps a starving populace to
conciliate? What man or convention could beat out a workable
constitution in the turmoil? What guarantee had we against a reaction
and a military saviour? By all means, I argued, have a revolution if a
revolution is both a necessary and safe prelude of reform. But was it
really necessary or even safe?
Feeling ran high in this dispute. Many a time was I attacked for my
“lukewarmness” of conviction by socialists, but never did I hear my
objections fairly met. Though on good terms with the advanced party as a
whole, I was opposed at Stepney by an extremist as well as by the
sitting Conservative member. My chances of election were poor, but
victorious or not I meant to battle vigorously for principle. To a
certain extent my perseverance bore good fruit. During the last month I
had been honoured with the representation of an important body at a
forthcoming Paris Convention, and was in fact on the eve of starting on
my journey. There was no immediate call for departure, but the prospect
of a pleasant holiday in France proved overwhelmingly seductive. The
Socialist Congress was fixed for October 20th, and I proposed to enjoy
the interval in true sybaritic fashion. Perhaps my eagerness to start
was not unconnected with a tenderer subject than either rambling or
politics. Happily or unhappily, however, these dispositions were about
to receive short shrift.
* * * * *
It was a raw dismal afternoon, the grim fog-robed buildings, the
dripping vehicles, and the dusky pedestrians below reminding one
forcibly of the “City of Dreadful Night.” Memories of Schopenhauer and
Thomson floated slowly across my mind, and the gathering shadows around
seemed fraught with a gentle melancholy. Having some two hours before
me, I drew my chair to the window and abandoned myself wholly to
thought. What my meditations were matters very little, but I remember
being vigorously recalled to reality by a smart blow on the shoulder.
“No, Stanley, my boy, it’s no use—she won’t look your way.”
I looked up with a laugh. A stalwart individual with a thick black beard
and singularly resolute face had broken upon my solitude.
This worthy, whose acquaintance we shall improve hereafter, was no other
than John Burnett, journalist and agitator, a man of the most advanced
revolutionary opinions, in fact an apostle of what is generally known as
anarchical communism. No law, no force, reference of all social energies
to voluntary association of individuals, were his substitutes for the
all-regulating executive of the socialists. He made no secret of his
intentions—he meant to wage war in every effective mode, violent or
otherwise, against the existing social system. Though strongly opposed
to the theories, I was not a little attached to the theorist. He talked
loudly, but, so far as I knew, his hands had never been stained with any
actual crime. Further, he was most sincere, resolute, and unflinching—he
had, moreover, once saved me from drowning at great risk to himself,
and, like so many other persons of strong character, had contracted a
warm affection for his debtor.
That his visits to me were always welcome I cannot indeed say. Many
rumours of revolutions and risings were in the air, and some terrible
anarchist outrages reported from Berlin had made the authorities
unusually wary. Burnett, in consequence, was a marked man, and his
friends and acquaintances shone with a borrowed glory. Moderate as were
my own views, they might conceivably be a blind, and this possibility
had of late been officially recognized. It was wonderful what a visiting
list I had, and still more wonderful that my callers so often chose
hours when I was out. However, as they found that I was guiltless of
harbouring explosives and had no correspondence worth noting, their
attentions were slowly becoming infrequent. Burnett, too, had been
holding aloof of late, indeed I had not been treated to his propaganda
for some weeks. To what was the honour of this unexpected visit due?
“Off to Paris, I hear,” he continued. “Well, I thought I might do worse
than look in. I have something to tell you too.”
[Illustration: A VISIT FROM BURNETT.]
“My dear fellow,” I cried, “you choose your time oddly. I must leave
this place in a trice. Meanwhile, however, tell me where you’ve been of
late, and what this latest wrinkle is.”
“I? Well, out of London. If you had not been rushing off at short notice
I might have spoken more to the point. You can’t stay a couple of days
longer, can you? Say yes, and I will engage to open your eyes a bit.”
“No, I fear I can’t: the Congress is not till the 20th, but meantime I
want rest. I am positively done up. Time enough, however, later on.”
Burnett laughed. “It is worth while sometimes to take time by the
forelock. Look here, I am bound hand and foot at present, but this I
will say, your congresses and your socialism—evolutionary,
revolutionary, or what not—are played out.”
“I think I have heard that remark before,” I somewhat coldly rejoined;
“still, say what you like, you will find that we hold the reins. I won’t
say anything more of the practicability of anarchism, we have talked the
matter over _ad nauseam_. But this I will say. Compared with us you are
a handful of people, politically speaking of no account, and perhaps on
the whole best left to the attention of the police. Forgive my
bluntness, but to my mind, your crusade, when not absurd, appears only
criminal.”
“As you like,” said Burnett doggedly; “the world has had enough
barking—the time for biting has come. Restrain your eloquence for a
season, and I’ll promise you a wonderful change of convictions.”
“What, have your Continental friends more wrecking in hand? What idiocy
is this wretched campaign! It converts no one, strengthens the hands of
the reactionaries, and, what is more, destroys useful capital. Why, I
say, injure society thus aimlessly?”
“Curse society!”—and a heavy fist struck my writing-table—“I detest both
society as it is and society as you hope it will be. To-day the
capitalist wolves and a slavish multitude; to-morrow a corrupt
officialism and the same slavish multitude, only with new masters. But
about our numbers, my friend, you think that we must be politically
impotent because we are relatively so few. We count only our thousands
where you tot up your millions of supporters. Obviously we could hardly
venture to beard you after the established orthodox fashion. But
suppose, suppose, I say, our people had some incalculable force behind
them. Suppose, for instance, that the leaders of these few thousands
came to possess some novel invention—something that—that made them
virtual dictators to their kind”—and looking very hard at me he seemed
to await my answer with interest.
“Suppositions of this sort are best kept for novels. Besides, I see no
scope even for such an invention—it is part of the furniture of Utopia.
But, stay! was not this invention the dream of that saintly dynamiter
Hartmann also? Hartmann! Now there’s a typical case of genius wasted on
anarchy. A pretty story is that of your last martyr—tries to blow up a
prince and destroys an arch and an applewoman. For the life of me I
can’t see light here!”
“All men bungle sometimes,” growled the revolutionist, ignoring the
first part of my reply; “Hartmann with the rest—ten years ago was it?
Ah! he was young then. But mark me, my friend, don’t call people martyrs
prematurely. You think Hartmann went down with that vessel—permit me to
express a doubt.”
“Well,” I responded, “it matters little to me anyhow, but, anarchy
apart, how that poor old mother of his would relish a glimpse of him, if
what you hint at is true!”
He nodded, and involuntarily my thoughts ran back to the days of 1910,
when my uncle read me, then a mere boy, the account of Hartmann’s
outrage.
As Hartmann’s first crime is notorious I run some risk of purveying
stale news. But for a younger generation it will suffice to mention the
attempt of this enthusiast to blow up the German Crown Prince and suite
when driving over Westminster Bridge on the occasion of their 1910
visit. Revenge for the severe measures taken against Berlin anarchists
was the motive, but by some mischance the mine exploded just after the
carriages had passed, wreaking, however, terrible havoc in the process.
My sneer about the applewoman must not be taken too seriously, for
though it is quite true that one such unfortunate perished, yet fifty to
sixty victims fell with her in the crash of a rent arch. There was a
terrible burst of indignation from all parts of the civilized world and
the usual medley of useless arrests; the real culprits, Hartmann and his
so-called “shadow” Michael Schwartz, escaping to sea in a cargo-boat
bound for Holland. The boat went down in a storm, and, failing further
news, it was believed that all on board had gone down with her. Hartmann
was known to have possessed large funds, and these also presumably lined
the sea-bottom. Such was the official belief, and most people had agreed
that the official belief was the right one.
I should add that among Hartmann’s victims must, in a sense, be classed
his mother. At the time of which I am now writing she was leading a very
retired but useful life in Islington, where she spent her days in
district-visiting and other charitable work. She still wore deep
mourning, and had never, so it seemed, got over the shock caused by the
appalling crime and early death of her son. Burnett knew her very well
indeed, though she scarcely appreciated his visits. I was myself on
excellent terms with the old lady, but had not seen her for some weeks
previous to the conversation here recorded.
My time running fine, Burnett shortly rose to go.
“Be sure,” he said, “and look me up early on your return. Mischief, I
tell you, is brewing, and how soon I shall have to pitch my camp
elsewhere I hardly know.”
He was moving to the door when my landlady entered with a note. She had
probably been listening to the conversation, for she glanced rather
timorously at my guest before depositing her charge.
“Wait one moment, Burnett, and I’ll see you out,” said I, as I hastily
broke the envelope. Yes, there was no mistaking the hand, the missive
was really from my old friend, Mrs. Northerton. Its contents were fated
to upset my programme. Only two days back I had arranged to meet the
family in Paris at the express invitation of her husband, a genial old
Liberal who took a lively interest in my work. This arrangement now
received its death-blow.
“_3, Carshalton Terrace, Bayswater._
“DEAR MR. STANLEY,
“We have just returned from Paris, where we had, as you know,
intended to stay some time. Old Mr. Matthews, whom you will
recollect, died about a fortnight ago, leaving the Colonel one of
his executors. As the estate is in rather a muddled condition, a
good deal of attention may be necessary, so we made up our minds to
forego the rest of our trip for the present. I shall be ‘at home’
to-morrow afternoon, when we shall be delighted to see you. With
best wishes from all.
“Always yours sincerely,
“MAUDE C. NORTHERTON.
“P.S.—Lena comes in for a bequest of £5000 in Mr. Matthews’s will.”
Lena in London! This was quite decisive.
“Excuse me, Burnett,” I said, turning to my neglected friend; “but this
letter is most important. A nice business pickle I am in, I can tell
you.”
“What nicely-scented note-paper your business correspondents use. You
have my deep sympathies. Well, farewell for the present.”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” I said; “I am afraid I must postpone this
Continental trip after all. Business is business, whoever one’s
informant may be. No, I must really knock a few days off my rest.”
Burnett stared, and concluded that something really serious was on hand.
“So you will be available for two or three days longer. That being so, I
shall expect to see you at the old place about eight o’clock to-morrow
evening. Be sure and come, for I have a guest with me of peculiar
interest to both of us. His name? Oh! don’t be impatient. It is a
fixture, then? All right. No, I can’t stay. Good-night.”
I laughed heartily after I had seen him out. What a chequered life, what
curious connections were mine—now a jostle with fashion, now with
fanatics of anarchy like Burnett. Travelling, it is said, planes away
social prejudices, and certainly in combination with Karl Marx it had
done so in my case. Many friends used to rally me about my liking for
the haunts of luxury, and some even went so far as to say it was of a
piece with my other “lukewarm” doctrines. The answer, however, was
ready. I hated revolution, and I equally hated the pettiness of a sordid
socialism. We must not, I contended, see the graces of high life, art
and culture, fouled by the mob, but the mob elevated into a possession
and appreciation of the graces. It was just because I believed some
approach to this ideal to be possible that I fought under the banners of
my party, and forewent travel and independence in the interests of the
wage-slave. That I was no Orator Puff I yearned for some opportunity to
show. Cavillers would have then found that my money, my repute, and, if
needful, my life, were all alike subservient to the cause I had at
heart.
That night, however, lighter visions were to beguile my thoughts. When I
dwelt upon once more meeting Miss Northerton, even Burnett’s sombre
hints lost their power to interest me. And when later on I did find time
to sift them, they received short shrift at my hands. Bluster in large
part, no doubt, was my verdict as I turned into bed that night. However,
to-morrow I should be in a better position to judge. The interview
would, at any rate, prove interesting, for Burnett’s anarchist friends,
however desperate, would furnish material in plenty for a study of human
nature.