THE CAPTAIN OF THE ‘ATTILA.’
Ten years had not rolled away for nothing; still the face which looked
into mine vividly recalled my glimpse into the album in the little villa
at Islington. Seated before a writing-desk, studded with knobs of
electric bells and heaped with maps and instruments, sat a bushy-bearded
man with straight piercing glance and a forehead physiognomists would
have envied. There was the same independent look, the same cruel
hardness that had stamped the mien of the youth, but the old impetuous
air had given way to a cold inflexible sedateness, far more appropriate
to the dread master of the _Attila_. As I advanced into the room, he
rose, a grand specimen of manhood, standing full six feet three inches
in his shoes. He shook hands more warmly than I had expected, and
motioned me tacitly to a seat.
“You have heard about my mischance,” I began tentatively. “I had hoped
to meet you for an hour or so, but fear I have outstayed my welcome.”
I felt he was weighing me in the balance.
“I know probably more of that mischance than you do. Those luckless
detectives were certainly embarrassing, but, after all, they afforded us
an incident. Of course, you can understand why we were bound not to
leave you. And now that you are restored to vigour, are you sorry that
you have seen the _Attila_?”
“On the contrary, I am lost in wonder. But look, sir, at the cost of my
privilege. These unfortunate men you refer to, haunt me, and the purpose
of this vessel, I must tell you, fairly appals me.”
He listened approvingly. A man in his position can well afford to be
tolerant.
“Oh, the men—such incidents must be looked for. Do generals dissolve
into tears when two hostile sentries have to be shot? Do they shrink
from the wholesale slaughter which every campaign entails? Nonsense,
sir, nonsense!”
“But your war is not against this or that army or nation, but against
civilization as a whole.” I was determined to take the bull by the horns
at the outset. “You can scarcely justify that on those lines.”
“Easily enough. The victory in view is the regeneration of man, the cost
will be some thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands or millions of
lives, the assailants are our small but legitimate army. We can say that
our friends below are sincerely devoted to us and to our objects; most
of the ordinary soldiers of your princes have to be drummed into the
ranks either by want or the law. As to the cost, look back on history.
How many wars in those annals have been waged for the service of
mankind? On how many massacres has one ray of utility shone? Now you
must admit that our ideal is a worthy one even if unattainable. At the
worst we can shed no more blood than did a Tamerlane or a Napoleon.”
“Certainly the ideal is a grand one, and might, if reliable, be worth
the outlay. But how many of your crew appreciate its beauty? Most, I
will venture, love destruction for its own sake. Is Schwartz a reformer?
Is Thomas?”
“My crew are enthusiasts, Mr. Stanley; nay, if you like, fiends of
destruction. Every man is selected by myself. Every man is an outlaw
from society, and most have shed blood. They burn to revenge on society
the evils which they have received, or, given the appropriate occasion,
would receive from it. In this way I secure resolute, fiery, and
unflinching soldiers. But do not mistake my meaning. I know how to _use_
these soldiers.”
“I understand.”
“Regard me according to Addison’s simile, as the angel who guides the
whirlwind. Look on these men—well, as you will. They are like the
creatures generated in decaying bodies. They are the maggots of
civilization, the harvest of the dragons’ teeth sown in past centuries,
the Frankenstein’s monsters of civilization which are born to hate their
father. You have read Milton, of course. Do you recall the passage about
Sin and the birth of Death who gnaws his wretched parent’s vitals? It is
the Sin of this industrial age which has bred the crew of this
death-dealing _Attila_.”
“But are all these men here morally rotten? The man Schwartz, they call
your ‘shadow,’ is he a type?”
“Not at all. Your friend Burnett (who has just startled the Kensington
notables) seems sound. He is a madman of the more reputable sort. There
is another like him with us, a German of the name of Brandt, a
philosopher recruited from the ranks of the Berlin socialists.”
“May I ask you two important questions?”
“Say on.”
“The world says you were once a mere fanatical destroyer. Have you
changed your creed?”
“You refer to my old days. Yes, you are right. I was then a pessimist,
and despaired of everything around me.”
“And you became an anarchist——”
“To revenge myself on the race which produced and then wearied me. I had
no tutor but Schwartz, a faithful fellow, but a mere iconoclast. Our
idea was simple enough. We were to raze, raze, raze, and let the future
look to itself. Our mistake was in dreaming even of moderate success.
Immunity from the police was impossible. But those wasted days are
past.”
He smiled ironically and bent his gaze on the wall, devouring, as it
seemed, some specially pleasurable object. Following its direction, I
became aware of a splendid sketch of the _Attila_, which constituted the
sole æsthetic appanage of this singular sanctum. What a contrast it must
have awakened between his present power and the abjectness of the
fugitive of ten years back!
“One more question. How do you propose to conquer, now you have the
_Attila_?”
“I cannot say much as yet. But, understand, the day when the first bomb
falls will witness outbreaks in every great city in Europe. We have some
12,000 adherents in London, many more in Paris, Berlin, and
elsewhere—they will stir the tumult below. London is my objective to
start with. During the tempests of bombs, the anarchists below will fire
the streets in all directions, rouse up the populace, and let loose
pandemonium upon earth. In the confusion due to our attack, order and
precautions will be impossible.”
“You horrify me. And the object?”
“Is, as I repeat, to wreck civilization. If you are interested, Brandt
will probably attract you. He lectures to-morrow on the upper deck. We
are Rousseaus who advocate a return to a simpler life.”
“But how is the new order to take shape? How educe system from chaos?”
“We want no more ‘systems,’ or ‘constitutions’—we shall have anarchy.
Men will effect all by voluntary association, and abjure the foulness of
the modern wage-slavery and city-mechanisms.”
“But can you expect the more brutal classes to thrive under this system?
Will they not rather degenerate into savagery?”
“You forget the _Attila_ will still sail the breeze, and she will then
have her fleet of consorts.”
“What! you do not propose, then, to leave anarchy unseasoned?”
“Not at once—the transition would be far too severe. Some supervision
must necessarily be exercised, but, as a rule, it will never be more
than nominal.”
“Your ideal, captain, amazes me. But the prospect, I admit, is splendid.
Were you to succeed, I say at once that the return would well repay the
outlay. I am a socialist, you know, but I have felt how selfishness and
the risks of reaction hampered all our most promising plans. The egotism
of democrats is voracious. It is the curse of our movement. But this
scheme of supervised anarchy, well, in some ways it is magnificent—still
it is only a theory.”
“The _Attila_ was once ‘only a theory,’” rejoined Hartmann. “One word,
now, Mr. Stanley. I ask you neither to join us nor to agree with us. You
are your own master, and should you dislike this tour, say the word and
at nightfall you shall be landed in France. If you elect to stay, well
and good. I am your debtor. Don’t look surprised, for you have been a
good friend to my mother, and least of all men I forget debts. I only
ask you to observe silence respecting our conversations, and never to
interfere in anything you see in progress. Which is it to be?”
“I elect to stay. I can do no good by leaving, and by staying I court an
absolutely unique experience. Believe me, too, captain, I am not
insensible to what you have said. Between the anarchist Schwartz and
yourself yawns an abyss.”
“Good.”
“One thing, captain. Could I find means to despatch a letter—a letter to
a lady?” I added, as I saw his eyebrows rise slightly.
“Certainly, if you conform to the rules voluntarily agreed upon. You are
not one of us—you will not, therefore, object to the letter being read.
I will spare you undue annoyance by formally glancing over it.”
“The rule is reasonable enough, captain, and requires no defence.”
“It shall be given to one of the delegates when we touch land in
Switzerland. A convention of importance is to be held there. But, come,
I will take you round the _Attila_,” and striding by me he passed out of
the study.
“What was that land visible just now, captain?” I asked, as we reached
one of the stairways that led down into the vessel.
“Holland. The course has since been altered; we find the clouds are
lifting, and not wishing to run too high are making off towards the
English Channel. To-night we shall cross France, steering above Havre
along the channel of the Seine, over Paris, Dijon, the Saone, and the
Jura mountains into Switzerland. I had intended to go to Berne, but have
been forced to change my plans. We shall stop over a forest not far from
Lake Leman, where some fifty delegates will meet us. After that we
return to London.”
“For war?”
“For war.”
Down into the depths of the _Attila_ we went, the spiral stair running
down a deep and seemingly interminable well. On reaching the bottom my
conductor turned off into a passage brightly lit up with the electric
light. A rumble and thud of machinery broke on the ear, and in a few
seconds we stood in the engine-room of the _Attila_. My readers are
aware of the wonderful advances in electricity made in the early part of
the twentieth century, and I need not, therefore, recapitulate them
here. In the mechanism of this engine-room there was nothing specially
peculiar, but the appropriation of the best modern inventions left
nothing to be desired. Electricity, according to the newly introduced
method, being generated directly from coal, the force at the disposal of
the aëronaut was colossal, and, what was even more expedient, obtained
for a trifling outlay of fuel. A short but very thick shaft, revolving
with great speed, led, I was told, to a screw without, and by the sides
of this monster two others of far humbler dimensions were resting idly
on their rollers.
I was now able to solve the riddle of the _Attila’s_ flight. The
buoyancy of the vessel was that of an inclined plane driven rapidly
through the air by a screw, a device first prominently brought into
notice by the nineteenth-century experiments of Maxim. The _Attila_,
albeit light, was, of course, under normal conditions, greatly heavier
than the quantity of air she displaced—indispensable condition, indeed,
of any real mastery over the subtle element she dwelt in. The balloon is
a mere toy at the mercy of the gale and its gas—the _Attila_ seemed
wholly indifferent to both. But, desirous of probing the problem to the
bottom, I put Hartmann the question—
“What would happen supposing that shaft broke, or the machinery somehow
got out of order?”
“Well, we should fall.”
“Fall?”
“Yes, but very gradually at first, so long as our speed was fairly well
maintained. The aëroplane, as you know, will only buoy us up on the
condition that we move, and that pretty quickly. Still, there are always
the two spare steering screws to fall back upon.”
“But what if they stopped as well?”
“It’s most unlikely that they would stop. The three shafts are worked
independently. But if they did, the sand-valves would have to be
opened.”
“The sand-valves?”
“Yes. You have doubtless been surprised at the huge size of the
_Attila_. Well the main parts of the upper and middle portions of her
hull are nothing more nor less than a succession of gas-meters—of
compartments filled with hydrogen introduced at a high temperature, so
as to yield the maximum amount of buoyancy. Below these compartments
again lie the sand reservoirs. When these latter are three parts full
their natural effect is to keep the _Attila_ at about the level of the
sea, supposing, that is to say, the screws are completely stopped. If
your so-much-dreaded event was to happen, the watch in the conning-tower
would simply shift the sand-levers, a quantity of ballast would be
released, and we should at once begin to rise. We can thus regulate our
weight at will. The secret of it all is the marvellous lightness of
these walls. I am not free to tell you to what discovery that lightness
is due, but you may test and analyze as much as you like, on the off
chance of a correct guess.”
“It’s all superb!” was my enthusiastic comment. “But how about an
ordinary complete descent to earth?”
“A very simple matter. From the outer gallery the _Attila_ looks as if
her bottom was gently curved, terminating in the customary orthodox
keel. That is what the upper lines suggest. But three feet below the
level at which we stand lies a flat projecting bottom studded underneath
with springs resting on the axles of wheels. I wish to touch land. I
press certain knobs and this, that, perhaps all three screws, ease off,
run down, or may be reversed. The _Attila_ then sweeps onward much after
the fashion of an albatross with outspread motionless wings. Steering is
easy—a ‘ting’ in the engine-room sets this or that side screw shaft
rotating. Slowly—perhaps fast—she falls, then faster and faster.
Meanwhile I stand by the sand-levers—I pull this and the stern rises, we
swoop down like a hawk; I pull that, the bow rises, the impetus thus
gained carries the _Attila_ in a noble curve aloft. Finally she hovers
over the ground, and, opening a hydrogen valve, I adjust her descent
delicately, so as to spare the springs.”
“But you must lose a great deal of hydrogen in this manner.”
[Illustration: LOOKING DOWN INTO SPACE.]
“Not so much as you would think. And, besides, the loss is of no moment.
We carry an immense quantity of the gas compressed in tubes at a
pressure of many thousand pounds to the square inch. What loss there is
can therefore always be made good at intervals. You will have a chance
of watching our procedure very shortly, as we ‘sand up’ and replenish
three or four gas-reservoirs at a sand-dune not very far distant.”
We passed through the gaily-lit passage back to the well, where for
fifty feet above us the long stair curled upward to the citadel.
“These side walls,” observed Hartmann, “with those constituting the
outer skin of the _Attila_, bound the huge gas compartments I mentioned.
They are independent, so that serious accidents are impossible. In the
cavities and corridors between them lie the cabins and quarters of the
crew, the courts enclosed by which you must have noticed from the upper
deck. All these courts open on to the outer gallery, and communicate by
the deck with the common room. To the centre divisions of the ship, the
engine-room, and the conning-tower, no one has access except with my
leave. This,” and he opened a small carefully guarded door, “is the
magazine.”
He pressed a button, and the gleam of a vacuum lamp pierced the
darkness. Half awestruck I stepped within.
“There is nothing to see now. We have to be so cautious. Stay! look
here.” He seized a ring and lifted a trap in the floor. I started back,
for it opened into a well some three feet deep and then into the aërial
abyss below!
“That well will vomit disaster one day.”
He let down the trap, and we left the gloomy chamber.
“The _Attila_, you see, Mr. Stanley, combines the advantages of the bird
and the balloon, of the aëronef and the aërostat. It has been my dream
from boyhood, and at last, after infinite pains, it is realized. Still,
even for me it is but a means to an end. But you will admit it is not a
bad one.”
We ascended the stairway and stepped on to the upper deck. Some twenty
men were assembled, and they respectfully saluted my companion.
“Comrades,” he said, “my friend Stanley comes among you. Though he is
not yet one of us, he may be. His devotion to the cause of Labour is his
passport. Take him and treat him as our guest.”
He bowed to me and retired into his citadel. The crew crowded eagerly
round me with a warmth wholly unlooked for. The terrible captain had
evidently not spoken in vain. During the next half-hour I was escorted
round their quarters in state. Naturally I volunteered my services for
the necessary work of the vessel, but somewhat to my surprise was firmly
asked to desist. A guest, they said, could not be expected to conform to
their habits at once, and two of the objectors were urgent in entreating
me to accept their services. In the end I was vanquished, not entirely
to my regret, and the first day of my sojourn on the _Attila_ passed
pleasantly enough. Would that all the others had passed in a like
manner, for in that case I should have to describe an Elysium instead of
an Inferno!