THE FIRST BLOW.
I rose late the next morning somewhat the worse for my exposure, but
nevertheless far too interested in my voyage to heed a mere cold and a
few rheumatic twinges. No sooner, indeed, was I awake than I leapt out
of my berth, and busying myself energetically with my toilet, was
speedily pacing the bulwarked passage of which mention has already been
made. The zone through which we were ploughing was cloudy, and a strong
bitter head wind was blowing. Looking over the bulwarks I could see
nothing but driving mists, and above the vast aëroplane a thinner layer
of mist, through several rifts in which the sun thrust his slanting
columns of light. No one was visible in the passage, but I heard a
medley of excited voices which suggested that some controversy was in
progress on the upper deck.
Listening attentively, I became convinced that some unusual affair was
in hand, and anxious to miss nothing of interest, I entered an arch that
led into one of the courts, and passed up the enclosed spiral staircase
to the scene of this animated talking. On gaining the deck I saw nearly
all the crew standing in groups round the citadel. Burnett was there
gesticulating wildly to Brandt, so stepping briskly up to them I asked
the cause of this muster.
“Ah, you here!” said Burnett. “In time for the first blow, eh! Well,
there will be something to see shortly, eh, Brandt!” and the
anarchist-philosopher addressed smiled approvingly. But his merriment
recalled the bland purring of a cat over a captured mouse.
“What’s up, then?” I continued, somewhat startled, for during the pause
the ominous words “ironclad,” “bombs,” uttered by some of the eager
disputants around, had caught my ear.
“The captain has sighted an ironclad, and we are about to try
conclusions,” said Brandt. The words had scarcely passed his lips when
the inner door of the citadel swung ajar, and through the enclosure into
our midst stalked the redoubtable captain himself.
“Comrades,” he said, “below us steams a large British ironclad just
sighted through the mist. I propose to test her mettle—it will serve as
a practical test of our bomb-fire—are you agreeable?”
A burst of applause greeted this iniquitous proposal, and a sturdy
rascal stepped out of the throng and saluted him. Hartmann bent forward.
“Well, Norman,” he said.
“May I strike the first blow, captain?” A chorus of similar applications
followed. Hartmann thus appealed to suggest that the applicants should
draw lots for the privilege, and the ruffians proceeded forthwith to
settle their claims in this fashion.
Their levity so disgusted me that I longed to rush forward and attack
the whole scheme. I had actually moved forward some steps when I felt a
tight grip on my arm. I turned round sharply, to face Brandt, who had
providentially sensed my project.
“Back, man! Are you mad? These men will stand no nonsense, and if you
insult the captain, even his personal influence could not save you.”
Bah! it was hopeless. I slunk back with a feeling of utter helplessness.
There was clearly nothing for it but to see the whole hideous affair out
in silence. Still, indignation all but mastered me. What ruffians were
these anarchists! “Cowards!” I hissed involuntarily, but by this time
they were too absorbed in their lot-drawing to hear me. “Shut up, fool,”
reiterated Brandt. “I warn you that you will be brained or chucked
overboard if they hear you.” I bit my lips in despair. “Schwartz has it!
Schwartz has it!” I heard Hartmann say at last—they were drawing the
lots—“he strikes the first blow, and no better man could do it. Next,
Norman; next——”
I walked away and leant on the bow railing, glad to be left alone. The
hubbub continued for some time, when the men dispersed, almost all going
below. Torn by useless emotions I gazed down at the mists that swam
beneath us, striving to pierce the veil which separated us from the
doomed ship. To tear myself away from the spot was impossible—the
fascination of the projected crime was irresistible. Have you ever
watched a scene in a slaughter-house, loathing it while nevertheless
unable to avert your gaze? Possibly you have. Well, that situation is
akin to the morbid curiosity which nailed me unwillingly to my post.
The mists were thinning around us, but I observed with some surprise
that a dense cloud below us—cut off sharply from its now unsubstantial
fellows—maintained its position relatively to the _Attila_ unchanged.
Evidently Hartmann was purposely lurking behind this barrier, and
proposed to deliver his first blow on an absolutely unsuspecting victim.
Looking more attentively I noted a thin longitudinal rift in this cloud
through which could be seen, though dimly, the sea, and in this
something dark and indistinct, no bigger than an ordinary pea. It was
the ironclad!
The _Attila_ began to sink rapidly—the rift lengthened and broadened as
I gazed, the pea swelled into a two-masted, two-funnelled battle-ship
with a trail of black smoke faintly decipherable in her wake. Down,
down, down we dropped—we were now on the fringe of the upper surface of
the cloud, and the great ship, now only some 300 feet below us, was
revealing itself clearly to the eye. At this point our downward motion
ceased, and the _Attila_ began to describe short curves at the level of
the screening cloud, now skimming over its dank masses, now flashing
over the rift that stretched directly over her unsuspecting prey. Four
evolutions of this sort had taken place, and now for the fifth time we
were gliding over the rift, when I heard a cheer raised by some men on
the lower gallery, and craning my head over the railing, saw something
black flash through space and splash in a big green wave that was
flinging itself against the vessel’s stern. It was the moment of the
“first blow,” and—might the omen hold good!—the first blow had failed.
Again a curve over the rift, and once more a failure, at least so it
seemed at first, for this time, again, a splash by the stern rejoiced
me. But my satisfaction was momentary. A few seconds after I saw a cloud
of smoke shoot upwards from the ironclad, followed by a deafening crash.
The third bomb had told. And in the horrid confusion that followed, the
_Attila_ threw off her secrecy, slipped through the cloud, and floated
down to the vessel like some huge bird of prey—the very embodiment of
masterful and shameless power.
As the smoke cleared away, revealing the strange visitor from the
clouds, the feelings of the officers and crew must have been as unique
as they were terrible. Amazement, a sense of complete unpreparedness and
helplessness, going along with the disastrous results of the explosion,
must have unnerved even the boldest. The great battle-ship was wholly at
the mercy of the foe that rode so contemptuously above it.
[Illustration: THE BATTLE-SHIP AT THE ‘ATTILA’S’ MERCY.]
How the situation was viewed from its decks has been told at length in
the admirably graphic letter of Captain Boyes, R.N., to the _Times_, and
to that source I must refer you for details. Looking down from my eyrie,
I was of course only able to gauge very roughly the havoc wrought by the
bomb. Hartmann had previously told me that nothing constructed by man
could withstand his enormous missiles, and the scene below well bore out
his boast. Apparently the bomb had burst amidships nearly, I should say,
between the funnels. Of these latter one had been shorn of half its
length, the other had been blown away completely, its base forming part
of a chasm whence rolled volumes of black smoke, through which the
shrieks of wounded men rose faintly upward. Across this chasm had fallen
the fore-mast, while fragments of spars, ventilators, steel plates,
fittings, boats, and human victims were scattered confusedly over the
low-lying fore-deck. And even as I looked two more appalling explosions
shook the ironclad from stem to stern; through the uprush of smoke I saw
a great telescope of a gun tossed out of its shattered turret into the
water and a huge cantle of the steel deck torn away, as if it were
paper, exposing a new chasm, at once invaded by flames. But the other
bomb was even more deadly, bursting in the great hollow excavated
between the funnels and wrecking the very vitals of the ironclad; the
steam from the shattered boilers rushing tumultuously up the gap with
the effect of speedily shrouding the whole vessel. Some horrible deaths,
says Captain Boyes, sprang from this explosion, as all those on duty in
the port stoke-hole and engine-room were either blown to pieces by the
bomb or subsequently boiled alive. I did not, of course, know of this at
the time, but the volumes of escaping steam told too clearly how hideous
must be the massacre, and imagination thus stimulated could not very
well go far wrong. I felt giddy with horror when I thought of the scenes
which that vapour-pall hung over.
How long was this drama to continue? Doubtless until the ironclad was
gutted or sunk, a consummation which could not be very far distant. Two
or three bombs more would surely complete the work, and leave perhaps no
witness to tell the hideous tale to history. I could look no longer—to
do so seemed almost abetting these cruel fanatics—but flinging myself on
the deck awaited tremblingly the next burst of thunder. A minute ebbed
away, another, and then another, and still no shock. The suspense was
becoming acute.
Suddenly the _Attila_ pitched violently, the bow shifting thrice
vehemently upwards, and along with this the hum of the great
screw-blades began to swell higher and higher. I sprang to my feet—these
tactics meant, of course, a rapid ascent, but what was the object in
view? Glancing over the railing I perceived that we were slanting at
great speed into the cloud-zone, leaving the crippled battle-ship far
behind and below. Ah, yes! The reason was clear enough. Not a mile to
the south-west a large ironclad attended by some smaller vessels,
probably cruisers, was making its way to the scene. Owing to my
absorption in the attack they had hitherto escaped my notice.
“A poor job this,” said some one who had stolen up unperceived behind
me. I turned round—it was Burnett.
“Very,” I answered. “I must congratulate you, I suppose, on the heroism
you have just displayed. A pity not to enhance it by engaging this
vessel’s consorts.”
Burnett took the sneer coolly.
“Why waste material? Besides, you must see that the _Attila_ would be
uselessly exposing herself. It would be folly to risk the salute of
heavy guns with the great campaign yet before us.”
He was wise after his kind. The _Attila_ dared not face the new-comers,
who by elevating their guns might well succeed in winging her. A shell
from a five-ton gun would have proved a most damaging visitor. Only so
long as she circled directly above a vessel could she count on immunity
from serious injury. A contest at her old level with numerous
_scattered_ foes was impracticable; so huge a target would inevitably be
holed in the long run, while an attempt to drop bombs from a higher
level would defeat its object by rendering accuracy of aim
impracticable. Perforce, then, she had dropped the prey from her talons
and was seeking safety aloft. Mounting into cloud-land, she was
departing as mysteriously as she had come, a tigress who, having once
tasted blood, yearned to slake her thirst in the heart of civilization
itself. To-morrow we were to reach the metropolis, and then—— Sick with
my forebodings and savage at my sense of impotence, I turned surlily
away from Burnett, whose very presence was now becoming obnoxious, and
descending into a court passed thence through the gallery to my berth,
resolved from that hour to see as little of my fell associates as the
conditions of my stay rendered possible.