A STRANGE VOYAGE.
Released for the moment from care, I gave myself up to the full
enjoyment of the voyage. Of the grandeur of the cloud pictures, the
glory of the sunsets and the twilights, of the moonlight flooding our
decks as we sped over the streaky mists below, of the mystic passage by
night and the blushes of early morn, I cannot trust myself to speak.
Such things ordinarily belittle words, but framed in the romance of this
voyage they wrought indescribable effects upon me. The economist was
merged in the artist, I no longer reasoned but lay bathed in the flood
of feeling. And not only these beauties enthralled me, but the motion of
the _Attila_ was itself a poem.
Have you never in the drowsy noon of a long summer’s day lain back on
the sward watching the evolutions of a rook round its elm, noted the
rapturous poise of its wings and the easy grace of its flight? Even such
was the flight of the _Attila_. Let me detail an incident which took
place over-night, and the ground for my enthusiasm will be obvious.
Hartmann had summoned me to his study, and taken me along to the
conning-tower, the passage to which ran under deck from the citadel. The
tower (capped with search-light apparatus for night work when requisite)
rested on the nozzle or ram-like projecting bow of the aëronef, and was
so constructed as to command a superb outlook. Two men were on watch
when we arrived, and these respectfully saluted the captain.
“Is the shore far off?”
“About five miles.”
“Any vessels in sight?”
“No, sir.”
“All right.”
“Now, Mr. Stanley,” said he, turning to me, “I am going to show you how
the _Attila_ obeys its master. We require to load up with sand and
refill five or six of the hydrogen compartments. That strip yonder is
one of our favourite docks. Watch me.”
He pressed one of the knobs communicating with the engine-room.
“That stops the force supply to the main shaft, the revolutions of which
will speedily ease down. We are falling fast, do you observe? Hold
tight. There!”
[Illustration: OVER THE SEA.]
The bow dipped several degrees and we shot onward and downward like an
arrow. Were we rushing into the sea, the billows of which seemed to leap
up at us larger and larger each second? Another pitch, the bow rose
considerably, and we were carried by the aëroplane hundreds of yards
upwards, the onward motion being at the same time inconceivably rapid.
Once more these tactics were repeated, and so closely we neared the
ocean that the waves must have splashed the screw-blades. Meantime
Hartmann rapidly twisted a wheel with each hand.
“This works the sand levers of the bow, that of the stern. Ballast is
dropping quickly.”
At once we rose, and to my unconcealed wonder stopped at a height of
about 300 feet above sea-level, still, however, riding forward with a
lazy careless motion. We were now near the sand-pits, whither a few
turns of the screw bore us gently. Hartmann, watching his opportunity,
began twisting a small wheel in the centre of a medley of others.
“A hydrogen valve.”
We fell sharply, but a touch to the other wheels eased us, and alighting
gently on the spit the wheels of the _Attila_ were buried up to their
naves.
It was then getting late, so every one was as expeditious as possible.
First bag after bag of sand was dried and cast into the sand reservoirs,
binding the craft immovably to the dune. The process resembled a coaling
operation at Port Saïd, and amused me greatly. I worked hard, and earned
a shower of praises. Afterwards I stood by while the five huge centre
compartments were filled with the rarefied gas. It was a tedious affair,
because each in turn had to be pumped and re-pumped out, then filled
with cold hydrogen, then with a fresh supply highly heated so as to
contract and become rare on cooling. About one hour was consumed in the
operation, and at its close the _Attila_ still lay motionless on the
sand-spit. Everything, however, having been duly overhauled, the sand
levers were gently worked, the surplus ballast slipped away, and
breaking away from our couch we floated twenty feet above the spit. The
three screws were then set rotating, and speed having been attained, we
curved upwards into the bosom of the sunset clouds. An experience more
superb romance itself could not furnish.
Later on we passed at high speed over Havre, the lights of which
twinkled merrily through a mist patch. Next Rouen glided away beneath
us, and at seven we swept over the gorgeous city of Paris. Satiated in
some measure with these sights I stepped down into a court and entered
the cosy smoking-room. Burnett was there, and Brandt, the “philosopher”
whom Hartmann had mentioned. I was very fond of German thought, and did
not fail to improve the timely occasion. Brandt was not only a
metaphysician, but readily listened to my very guarded criticisms of the
anarchists. He was, however, inflexible, and professed the most supreme
confidence in Hartmann. “He is the heart of the enterprise, and it was
he who gave the _Attila_ wings. Look at what he effected with small
resources, and you may rely on him with great.” He evinced a sturdy
faith in the scheme of supervision, and prophesied as its result a grand
moral and intellectual regeneration of man. But, he added, the initial
blows will be terrible. One remark filled me with apprehension.
“London,” he said, “in three days will be mere shambles with the roof
ablaze.”
“Heavens!” I cried, “so soon!”
“Yes. The object of this trip is merely to settle details with some
terrestrial friends who meet us to-morrow evening—delegates from the
various affiliated bodies of Europe.”
Shortly afterwards I had an interview with Hartmann, and urged that some
warning might at least be given to our friends.
“By all means,” he remarked, “warn yours to keep away from London. One
of the delegates will act for you after due inspection of the message.
For myself, I have already taken my private precautions.”
* * * * *
DIARY. _Tuesday Morning._—Crossed Dijon and the river Saone in the
night. Rising rapidly, as the slopes of the Jura mountains are ahead of
us, and “the captain,” as they call him, will insist on keeping high! No
doubt it is safer, but I suspect the real truth is that he wants to
appear unannounced over London—a portent as mysterious as terrible.
Shows himself ironical and inflexible. I suggest a mild course of
action, and he asks me whether I aspire to be captain of the _Attila_.
Am becoming nevertheless almost inured to the thought of the impending
calamity. Brandt says philosophically that “the advance of man is always
over thorns.” Unhappily the thorns do not always lead to happiness. Will
they do so in this case? The bluster of the vulgar dynamitards is
revolting. Even Burnett is forgetting the end in the means. As to
Schwartz, his vile parody is being sung freely by all the
English-speaking hyænas of his stamp:—
“The dynamite falls on castle walls,
And splendid buildings old in story.
The column shakes, the tyrant quakes,
And the wild wreckage leaps in glory.
Throw, comrades, throw; set the wild echoes flying;
Throw, comrades; answer, wretches, dying, dying, dying.”
Am getting to loathe the crew, now the novelty of their reception is
beginning to wear off.
* * * * *
_Tuesday (Afternoon)._—Still higher, great discomfort being experienced.
The barometer readings make us three and a half miles above sea-level
over the pine-covered summits of the Jura mountains. I find it necessary
to breathe much more rapidly, the rarity of the air is unsatisfying. At
times a dizziness seizes me, and on examining my hands and body I find
my veins standing out like whipcord. Hartmann shortly eases off the
screws—he was experimenting, so it appears, with his machinery. A change
of tactics is observable. He ignores possible sightseers now, probably
because he knows that reports from tourists and mountaineers stand no
chance of being believed. Hence we almost brush the mountains, and a
superb privilege it is. The magnificent pines here surpass anything else
of the kind. Sometimes we glide midway along a valley with a rushing
torrent beneath us and these pine-fringed precipices on our sides;
sometimes we amaze a luckless mountaineer or shepherd as we thread a
defile; sometimes we curve over valley-heads with a grace an eagle might
imitate; then, again, we breast the cloud-rack and are lost in its
mantling fleeces. We are now bearing south-east by south, and are not
far off from the beautiful lake of Geneva.
_Tuesday_ (_Night_).—Wrote my letter and telegram, and gave them to
Hartmann for the delegate. We have stopped over a pine forest some five
miles distant from Morges, on the shore of the lake. Switzerland, I am
told, was selected as the _rendezvous_ because of its central position.
Many Russians, Poles, Austrians, and Italians, besides delegates from
other nationalities, are expected. They are to arrange details of the
forthcoming revolution. Had a friendly talk with Burnett, who once more
tried to proselytize me. Told him if any one could shake my convictions
it is Hartmann and not he. How bloodthirsty the men are getting!
_Query._—What if the lust for blood grows by what it feeds on? What if
this crew gets out of hand? Happily, a strong man stands at the helm.
(_Later._)—The convention is in full swing. What enthusiasm must inspire
these “tourists,” for, of course, it is in this character that they
travel. Most, I hear, are very badly off, their funds being supplied by
their associations. A great deal of provisions and _matériel_ has been
brought aboard. How well this crusade is organized!
Hartmann remains on board, he has never left the vessel except on the
occasion when he visited his mother. Burnett and Schwartz take his
instructions to the delegates, and most of the crew escort them. We are
floating very near the ground in a rude clearing on the mountain side,
two rope-ladders and some cables link us with the soil. After several
hours’ conference below, the delegates visit the _Attila_. Heavens! what
desperadoes some look! Yet they control, so Burnett says, vast
societies. Hartmann interviews each. He works patiently through the
list, and finally addresses them _en masse_, launching terms of the most
animated invective against modern civilization. Am, of course, excluded,
but learn that everything has gone off admirably. Five of the delegates
are to join the crew, the rest carry back their instructions. We start
early in the morning. What a spectacle there is before us! However, two
days’ breathing time is something. Trust that delegate, whoever he is,
will not forget the telegram and letter to Lena.
* * * * *