IN AT THE DEATH.
During the return to England two incidents of note, both alike terrible,
but terrible in widely different ways, chequered our voyage, and the
first of these it will now be my task to detail.
Wealth of romance, witchery of mountain scenery, and panoramas of
ever-varying landscapes in the plains—whatever happiness can be gleaned
from these was mine in bounteous plenty. Hitherto, however, the _Attila_
had met with gentle winds and fairly clear skies; she was a gay
butterfly by day and a listless moth by night. She had shortly to
display to me her prowess as a rider of the tempest. This experience,
along with its sequel of grim incident, impressed me deeply. I shall try
to awake in the reader some echo of the emotions which it stirred into
fervour within me.
No one, at any rate, could charge Hartmann with boring his unsolicited
guest. Feasted as I had been with pictures, I was destined to be swept
through ever novel galleries of natural marvels. I had anticipated that
we should return by a like route to that by which we had arrived, but a
pleasant reversal of this view was in store for me. Leaving the slopes
of the Jura behind her, the _Attila_ sped in a southwesterly direction
across the department of Aisne, over Lyons, westward across the extinct
volcanoes of Auvergne, then curving slightly to the south she leapt the
river Dordogne, and, finally, passing at a great height over Bordeaux,
reached the ocean rim over the desolate _Landes_ which span the
coast-line betwixt the Garonne estuary and the Adour. Had I been
exploring Central Africa in the interests of science, I should feel
justified in presenting my observations at length. But the tracts
beneath me being so familiar, such procedure would be both useless and
troublesome. I must therefore leave the imaginative to put themselves in
my place and picture these well-known districts as transfigured by the
romance of air-travelling.
In looking down on such natural maps one is transported with a sense of
power and exultation that renders even homely sights attractive.
Burnett, it is true, assured me that even this luxury of travel palls on
one after a time. Judging from the indifference of the crew, I should
say that he had right on his side. But, whether my artistic appetite was
abnormal, or the banquet provided was not of the proper duration, I can
only say that this part of my residence on the _Attila_ always wore the
livery of a gorgeous dream.
It was becoming dark when the pine forests and sand wastes of the
_Landes_ gave place to the rim of Biscay surf. In accordance with custom
we rapidly began to descend, and were soon coursing over the billows at
a height of some 200 feet. It was one of those evenings which ordinarily
favour melancholy and lassitude. Above us stretched inky layers of
stratus or “fall” cloud, wrought of mists driven from the upper regions
by the chills that hurried after the setting sun. The wind blew in gusts
and preyed vampire-like on our energies—an electric tension of the
atmosphere was becoming unmistakably manifest. Clouds were rising
smoke-like from the ocean rim and mingling with the flatter masses
overhead, and even as I gazed the waves seemed to flash whiter and
whiter through the veil of the nether darkness. I was standing on the
upper deck debating social problems with Brandt, greatly to the
enjoyment of three of the crew who watched the contest. Some few yards
in front of us the platform tapered off to a point at the convergence of
the bow railings, and directly in front of this the hull sloped
downwards and outwards to form the projecting ram. At the extremity of
this, with crest barely visible from the spot where my listeners were
reclining, rose the conning-tower like a horn on the snout of a
rhinoceros. Amidships and astern hummed the forest of stays and props
which hung us to the aëroplane, clustering thick over the rounded boss
of the citadel, now half shrouded in gloom. It was a scene to inspire
the painter—this weird vessel and its weird crew borne along between an
angry welkin and the riotous surges of the ocean.
* * * * *
“Violent diseases often demand violent remedies,” said Brandt, as he
developed his favourite topic. “The surgeon may be gentle at heart, but
he spares not the gangrenous limb. In modern times he has anæsthetics to
soothe his patient, but did he shrink from his task when such artifices
as these were unknown? Regard us anarchists as excising the foul ulcers
of Humanity and as forced to perform that duty with no anæsthetics to
aid us. Could we throw all London, all Paris, all Berlin into a trance,
how painless would be our surgery! But, unhappily, we have to confront
struggling patients vividly sensitive to the knife. Nevertheless, for
their own sakes, or rather the sake of Humanity, we must cut.”
“But you overlook one important contrast. The surgeon lops off a limb or
roots up an ulcer to save his patient’s life or better his health. But
you attack civilization not to reform it but to annihilate it.”
“That is true, but civilization—your industrial civilization—what is it?
Not a system to be identified with the cause of human welfare, and hence
worth preserving in some form or other at all costs, but a mere vicious
outgrowth prejudicial to that welfare as we conceive it. The test of the
worth of a civilization is its power to minister to human happiness.
Judged by this standard your civilization has proved a failure. Mankind
rushed to her embraces in hope, fought its way thither through long and
weary centuries, and has for a reward the sneers of a mistress as
exacting as she is icy:
“‘The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.’”
[Illustration: THE STORM GATHERING.]
During the delivery of this harangue the wind had been steadily rising,
and it now began to shriek through the stays in a fashion positively
alarming. Foregoing further parley, I bent over the railing and strove
to catch a glimpse of the angry sea-horses beneath us. But it was by
this time too dark for the non-feline eye. Glancing upwards and around
the horizon, I could see the awnings of the storm unrolling, with here
and there a rift through which stole the feeble moonlight. A man came
from the citadel and stepped up to us. It was Hartmann.
“Well,” he said, “we are in for it. The barometer is falling rapidly,
and the storm is already gathering. Have a care for yourselves,
comrades,” he added to his followers. “You, Stanley, follow me to the
conning-tower. The log of the _Attila_ may be worth writing to-night.”
I followed him gladly into the citadel, and down the stair leading to
the narrow corridor which ran on to the bow. As we entered it the
_Attila_ seemed to reel with a violent shock that sent me spinning
against the wall. The storm had burst. By the time I had picked myself
up Hartmann had disappeared. I found my way after him into the tower,
where he was standing, regulator in hand, with his eyes on the glass
plate that looked forward into the night.
“We are rising,” he said, laconically. “Look!”
A fan of vivid glory cleft the darkness. Illumined by the electric
search-light great masses of driving vapour were rushing by us; but
other sight there was none. Suddenly a second squall struck us, and the
_Attila_ rolled like a liner in a cyclone; the lurch was horrible, and
for a moment I thought we were capsizing—it must have been one of at
least forty-five degrees followed by a very slow recovery. Hartmann was
busy over a medley of wheels, levers, and regulators.
“We are passing through the cloud-belt at a very high speed,” he
continued, as if the shock was a trifle. “My intention is, first, to let
you see a storm from the quiet zone above it; secondly, to rush
downwards into it that the _Attila_ may show her mettle.”
I said nothing, for my feelings were in truth somewhat mixed. With the
ascent portion of the programme I concurred heartily; the second I would
gladly have abandoned, as it seemed to me so utterly foolhardy. But
faint heart was not the commodity for Hartmann, and wishing to earn his
favour through his respect, I suppressed my fears resolutely. Not
noticing my silence he kept on throwing in his comments on the
situation. As the minutes wore on I observed that the mist masses were
blowing thinner and thinner against the bow of the _Attila_. Suddenly
the electric light was turned off, and a gentle silvery glow took its
place. And as we swept on I perceived that the wind had fallen also.
Hartmann pressed a bell-knob, and the two men on watch reappeared.
[Illustration: AMONGST THE CLOUD-BATTALIONS.]
“Now to the deck again, and you shall see a fine picture.”
As we stepped into the court of the citadel I had reason to appreciate
this remark. Down in the conning-tower I had stood behind the captain
and seen little save the dawn of a gentle radiance among the thinning
mists. But up here the vista was glorious. A brisk but by no means
stinging wind swept the deck. Above shone the horned moon in unclouded
majesty, casting a weird light on the rolling masses of cloud-battalions
underneath us. From below came the roar of the strife of elements and
the crooked gleam of the levin-bolt, while the echoes of the thunder
leapt grimly across the halls and palaces of the storm-king. As if
arbiter of the struggle, the _Attila_ rode serenely over the turmoil in
the quiet zone.
“How high are we now?” I asked Hartmann, for the air was oppressively
rare.
“A trifle over two miles. A sublime spectacle this, is it not?”
“Uniquely so. The sense of serene power is so striking. But you do not
propose to rest here?”
“Oh no. I must show that this serene power is not fraudulent. I shall
shortly plunge the _Attila_ into the very vortex of the storm, and teach
you how nobly she can wing her way through it.”
“It would not be safe, I suppose, on deck, what with the rolling,
pitching, and wind? Still one can scarcely enjoy these scenes in the
conning-tower, where the engineer and watchman usurp the best places.”
“You would like, if possible, to stay here?”
“Yes.” If the experience had to be undergone, there was no reason why I
should not brave it out thoroughly. Better the deck than a back seat in
the conning-tower.
“Well, so let it be. But you must be lashed securely. Where shall it be?
Why not to the railing over the bow? You could not have a finer coigne
of vantage.”
I assented at once, and, a couple of the crew being hailed, I was
speedily made fast in a sitting posture by the waist and liberally
invested with wraps. My position was excellent. I could see down the
sloping bow to the conning-tower, and would be fairly sheltered from the
worst of the wind. All the preparations being complete, the captain and
the crew retired, leaving the deck altogether deserted. No light, save
that of the moon, fell on its cold surface, and that only where the
umbrella-like aëroplane did not bar off the sheets of slanting silver.
The _Attila_ rode grandly over the gloomy wool-packs below, and,
thrilling with excitement and some fear, I waited for the coming plunge.
The suspense was short. Suddenly the electric eye of the aëronef glowed
forth from the crest of the conning-tower, behind and above which I was
lashed to the railing. Then the bow dipped and the speed began to
increase. Again and again it dipped with a series of little jolts, and
then cut obliquely into the tenuous rim of the cloud-belt, through which
it began to plough with an energy almost distressing.
Those who have stood on an express engine running sixty miles an hour
will know what it is to breathe in the teeth of a rushing blast; let
them then conceive my experience when 120 and probably more miles an
hour were being done in a hurricane. Drenching clouds swept over me, the
wind and thunder roared round me, as I was borne into that angry stratum
below. Burying my mouth within my neckcloth, and sheltering my eyes with
my hands, I looked straight ahead at the glow which cleft the darkness
before us. In a very brief time we had shot through the belt, and were
rushing wildly down to the wind-lashed desolation below. The pitching
and rolling of the aëronef now became terrible, and once more awoke my
fears. What if the guns were to break adrift or the props of the
aëroplane to yield! As it was I could see that the squalls caused a
startling irregularity of course, the _Attila_ swerving furiously from
right to left, now dropping like a stone, now being checked in her
descent and hurtled upwards. Surely Hartmann would not run too close to
the waves on such a fearful night!
Looking downwards, I now saw that the glow had reached the face of the
waters, everywhere in violent turmoil with huge waves at least
twenty-five feet high from trough to crest, spanned by clouds of
wind-drift. And sight still more enthralling was a large dismasted
steamer labouring heavily as she lay hove-to under the strokes of a
thousand hammers. With boats smashed, bridge carried away, bulwarks in
many places shattered, and decks continually swept, she was a spectacle
fit to move even a Hartmann. Assistance, however, was out of the
question. Every art of the captain must be required to guide the course
of the _Attila_, and our tremendous speed could not safely be relaxed
for a moment. It would have been, indeed, easy to “hover” in the teeth
of a furious blast, but what if the blast were to drop and leave us
momentarily stationary, while a side roll or pitch were to succeed?
[Illustration: SIGHTING A DOOMED VESSEL.]
Screws and sand levers notwithstanding, it was better to risk nothing.
But what an experience was this! The _Attila_ with flaming electric eye
circled round the doomed vessel, lighting up a deck crowded with
panic-stricken passengers, groups of whom every larger wave washed
pell-mell through the broken bulwarks. Cry or shriek, none could be
heard, the roar of the elements was too frightful, but the gestures of
the wretches were too piteous to misinterpret. Shutting my eyes, I
refused for some minutes to look on the dreadful holocaust, but once
more I had to yield to the fascination. By that time the drama was over.
The _Attila_ was still circling, but in the place of the luckless vessel
leapt the white-maned savage billows.
I now began to feel chilled and miserable; the excitement of the outset
had dwindled, and a reaction, enhanced by the rigours of the night and
the foregoing drama, mastered me. Happily the _Attila_ had by this time
weathered enough of difficulties. Rising through the cloud-belt, she
left the angry winds and rain once more below her. Some of the crew
ascended to the deck and released me from my bondage. It was now getting
late, so after thanking Hartmann for his courtesy, I descended into my
berth to sleep off the ill effects of exposure, and dream horrible
dreams of wrecks and drowning victims.