A TEMPEST OF DYNAMITE.
On the morning of October 19th, that most memorable of days in the
history of revolutions, we sighted Brighton through the haze, and
secrecy being no longer observed, the _Attila_ swept down like an
albatross into the sight of men. Gliding two hundred feet above the
water she presented a truly majestic spectacle. The vast sweep of her
aëroplane, the huge size of her silvery grey hull, the play of the three
great screws humming with the speed of their rotation, the red-capped
aëronauts lining the upper deck and lower gallery, the nozzle horned
with its quaint conning-tower, and the four ominous cannon leaning
downwards from the citadel, these and the marvellous flight itself
commanded the homage that hailed her. The esplanade and the beach buzzed
with wonder beneath us, and as we skimmed over the house-tops beyond
them, streets seemed to fill as if by magic. Thunders of applause rose
behind us as awe regularly gave place to admiration. “They will sound a
different note to-night,” said Schwartz, who was standing by me. “The
banquet at last is ready, and surely we shall eat till we are gorged.”
The _Attila_ gradually rose higher, as the slopes of the South Downs
confronted her. But she always kept about one hundred and fifty feet
from the ground, deliberately courting the observation which she had
once so shunned. Of her purpose or ownership no sign however was given;
it was pleasant to play with the unsuspicious fools whose lives and
possessions she had so ruthlessly marked for her own. A more fascinating
sight than this journey it is not easy to picture. Now, for the first
time in my life, I fairly revelled in the incense of my
fellow-creatures’ astonishment. To dance butterfly-like over woods,
fields, hills, and sinuous rivers, to grasp vast ever-changing vistas of
scenery, are in themselves delicious. But when to these purely artistic
joys are added those of power, when the roar of wondering cities rises
upwards, and you lean over the bulwarks serenely conscious of
superiority, you must be described as realizing here on earth one of the
paradises of dreamland.
At about ten o’clock we passed over Grinstead, and shortly afterwards
crossed the boundaries of Sussex. By this time the preparations on the
aëronef were complete, and every one had been summoned to the citadel
and told off to his post. And now there fell upon me the shadow of the
coming disaster. The faces of the crew were savage, even Brandt had lost
his kindliness. Burnett was surly, and asked how I liked my position.
Rather nettled, I told him that at any rate my hands would be free from
blood-stains. Then it occurred to me that I might glean some interesting
news from Hartmann. Eager for some excitement, as the depression stole
heavier and heavier upon me, I ascended to the upper deck and pressed
the button by the gate of the sombre citadel. Thomas appeared and
telephoned my request to see the captain. The reply came back that he
was in the conning-tower, but would be glad to see me for a moment.
Accordingly, I was not long in making my way along the passage that led
from the citadel to that favoured spot.
“Well,” he said, “I trust your nerves are in order. The drama opens in
an hour. Within three days’ time London will be in ruins, and Lord
Macaulay’s New Zealander will be able to commence his survey.”
“Is there no way of avoiding it? In the name of humanity, captain, I
beseech you to pause. Think of the agonies which this awful resolve must
breed! Think——”
“No more of this,” he said sharply. “You are my guest. You may, if you
wish, be landed. You may, if you wish, remain. But in the latter case
you will conform to my ruling.”
“And that is?”
“That you hold your tongue when desired to. London, I say, as Cato said
of Carthage, London must be destroyed.”
“You have the advantage, captain. But thank heaven this will be no
catastrophe of my making. And now may I ask a rather leading question?”
“By all means. At the worst you can only be refused an answer.”
“When and how will the first blow be struck?”
“Above the Houses of Parliament; a blank discharge of the cannon will
warn all, after which my flag will be run out. And then——well——”
I understood.
“We shall conduct the attack in three ways—by shell firing and
machine-gun fire, by dynamite and forcite bombs, and by streams of
burning petroleum.”
“Good God!”
“Meanwhile our associates will be spreading devastation below. The
Houses of Parliament, the City, and the West End will occupy us in
turn.”
“Who will control operations?”
“Schwartz, Norris, and Brandt manage the bombs. Five Swiss the oil; the
rest—with the exception of three in the engine-room—man the quick-firing
and machine-guns. I myself shall direct the course of the _Attila_ from
this tower. You are free to walk the upper deck, but the lower gallery
is being transformed into tanks to hold the oil. I must now ask you to
go. Thomas, you will see Mr. Stanley on to the deck and place him under
due watch. He is free to inspect all he wishes, but he must interfere
with nothing—understand, with nothing either by word or deed. Any breach
of the order will entail death.”
I was as helpless as a bluebottle in a spider’s web. Thank heavens that
I had sent Lena that telegram and letter. Luckily, in any case, she and
her parents ought to receive warning from the guarded hints doubtless
already conveyed to Mrs. Hartmann.
When I reached the deck, Thomas (who acted as a sort of A.D.C.) told off
a man to watch me, and then sped away below. Looking over the rail, I
could see that the oil was being poured into tanks formed by fitting
cross walls into parts of the lower gallery. There were some eight of
these along the bow end of the vessel alone, and I trembled to think of
the fearful mischief which these hideous contrivances portended.
Lamentations of this sort were, however, futile. Casting an eye over the
landscape, I saw Caterham vanishing beneath us, while to the right
rolled the billowy expanse of the North Downs. We were now going at a
high speed, and in a short time—far too short to my thinking—were
rapidly skimming over Croydon, Norwood Junction, and the Crystal Palace.
We were now nearing our destination, and our altitude, recently raised
to one of five hundred and fifty feet above sea-level, was once again
suddenly altered to one of one hundred and fifty. The speed, too, was
rapidly reduced, till at last gliding gracefully over Lambeth we passed
obliquely over Westminster Bridge.
The scene here beggars description. The enormous crowd, already massed
for some great labour demonstration, usurped every available patch of
standing room, windows and roofs became animated, and vehicles of all
sorts and conditions pulled up in batches and served as the
vantage-ground of excited groups. Probably the arrival at Brighton had
been at once telegraphed to the newspaper offices, but few knew of it,
and to those few (the anarchist “brothers” apart) the _Attila_ was
necessarily a complete mystery. To the majority we came as falls a bolt
from the blue (I refer here to the universal astonishment apparent, for
at the outset it was clear enough that the aëronef inspired no terror).
Cheers shook the air beneath us, and the distant thunders of applause
rumbled far away down the Embankment.
A man stepped aside from his gun, and pointed down at the crowd on
Westminster Bridge.
“This is the bridge blown up by Hartmann and Schwartz ten years ago.
These vermin seem to have liked it, don’t they?”
I turned away in disgust. What a mockery it was! The populace thought
they were applauding an inventor, and they cheered a ruthless destroyer!
Terrible captain, _Morituri te salutant_. But the hour had come—the
clock-tower rose only twenty yards from us.
Suddenly a gong sounded ominously. It was the signal. The four
quick-firing guns vomited flame simultaneously, and ere the crash had
died away, a blood-red flag was to be seen fluttering at the stern. The
crew yelled with excitement, as well they might, for the _coup_ was
evilly romantic. On its broad fluttering bosom the flag bore five
ominous words—words which carried a terrible commentary with them—
THUS RETURNS HARTMANN THE ANARCHIST.
It was a shock never to be forgotten. The cheering ceased in an instant,
and in its place curses and howls rose up from the struggling mob. Even
the sightseers on the roofs shook their fists at the _Attila_.
“Ah, vermin!” yelled one of the crew, “you will howl louder soon.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when the _Attila_ was sharply
propelled onwards, the force being such as to cause me to grasp the
railing to save myself from falling. The object of this manœuvre was
evident. It was necessary to rise, now that we were recognized, and
active operations were to commence. After a series of brilliant wheels
the _Attila_ climbed high above the clock-tower and commenced to cruise
about in large circles.
The gong sounded once more. Once more the quick-firing guns vomited
flame, and this time the charge was not blank. And mingling with their
almost continuous roar, there now came a crash of appalling magnitude,
shaking the very recesses of one’s brain. Another and another followed,
till the air seemed to beat in waves upon us, and our ears became
veritable torture-chambers. Then followed a rattle like that of a
landslip. I looked over, to start back with a shriek. Horror of horrors,
the great tower had fallen on the crowd, bruising into jelly a legion of
buried wretches, and beating into ruins the whole mass of buildings
opposite. Every outlet from the neighbourhood was being furiously fought
for, hordes of screaming, shrieking madmen were falling, crushing and
stamping their victims into heaps, and with the growth of each writhing
heap the ghastly confusion grew also. Of the Houses of Parliament
pinnacles were collapsing and walls were being riven asunder as the
shells burst within them.
[Illustration: “THUS RETURNS HARTMANN THE ANARCHIST.”]
But this spectacle, grievous of its kind, was as nothing to the other.
With eyes riveted now to the massacre, I saw frantic women trodden down
by men; huge clearings made by the shells and instantly filled up;
house-fronts crushing horses and vehicles as they fell; fires bursting
out on all sides, to devour what they listed, and terrified police
struggling wildly and helplessly in the heart of the press. The roar of
the guns was continuous, and every missile found its billet. Was I in
Pandemonium? I saw Burnett, black with grime, hounding his comrades on
to the slaughter. I heard the roar of Schwartz’s bombs, and the roar of
the burning and falling houses. Huge circles of flame raved beneath us,
and shot up their feverish and scorching breath. The _Attila_, drunk
with slaughter, was careering in continually fresh tracts, spreading
havoc and desolation everywhere. To compare her to a wolf in a flock of
helpless sheep is idle—the sheep could at least butt, the victims below
could not approach, and after some time, indeed, owing to the smoke,
could not even see us.
The morning passed in horror, but the story of the afternoon and evening
is wilder yet. The sky, overcast with clouds and black with uprolling
smoke-wreaths, lay like a strangely spotted pall over the blazing
district. Around and within Westminster enmity could do no more. Shortly
before two o’clock the _Attila_ drew off. With the screws working
powerfully she climbed upwards into the heavens, and buried in the
cloud-masses gave London a momentary respite. Hartmann wished not to
fatigue the crew, being anxious to reserve their energies for the attack
on the City. His aim was to pierce the ventricle of the heart of
civilization, that heart which pumps the blood of capital everywhere,
through the arteries of Russia, of Australia, of India, just as through
the capillaries of fur companies in North America, planting enterprises
in Ecuador, and trading steamers on African rivers. “Paralyze this
heart,” he has said, “and you paralyze credit and the mechanism of
finance almost universally.” The result already known to history proved
too well that he was right; but my task is not to play the historian,
but simply to tell my tale as one who has trod the _Attila_.
The interval of respite was not long, but during the whole time we kept
well veiled within the angry zone of clouds. Burnett came up to speak to
me, but I received him coldly enough. Schwartz was “surprised that I had
no compliment” for him when “even the captain” was pleased. He remarked
that the slaughter had been prodigious, that the Houses of Parliament
were wrecked, and the flames were carrying everything before them. Nero
fiddling over Rome was respectable compared with this monster; but to
attack him would have been fatal, as I should have at once been shot or
thrown overboard. Hartmann remained invisible, he was still at his post
in the conning-tower.
Towards three o’clock I noticed the men hurrying hastily to their posts.
The assault was shortly to begin. Slowly we emerged from the cloud-rack,
wheeling ever in great circles above the luckless quarry below. A queer
accident delayed us. I was standing by the citadel when I heard a sharp
crack, followed by a sensation of rapid sinking. The shaft of the main
screw had broken, and we were rushing downwards like a parachute.
Everything for the moment was in confusion and more than one cheek
paled, but a master-hand was in the conning-tower. Without even handling
the sand levers, Hartmann set the auxiliary screws rotating at a high
speed. At once the fall was checked, and the _Attila_ rose once more
into the clouds. After an hour’s delay the shaft was temporarily
repaired, and arrangements were made to replace it, if necessary, with a
spare one. Luckily for the aëronef these shafts were extremely short, so
that two spare ones could always be kept in hand without undue demand
for stowage room. The present mishap was not at all serious, as between
the repaired shaft and the spare ones there was little, if anything, to
choose. The only “lucky” thing was that the snap had not taken place too
close to the stern. In this case the screw-blades might have torn away
the stern-plating and irretrievably damaged themselves at the same time.
The _Attila_ now began to re-descend, working all three screws at once.
We were evidently not unexpected, for I made out soldiery in the
streets, and several detachments of artillery. How they expected to wing
us I really do not know, for a moving aëronef hurling forcite and
dynamite missiles is neither an easy nor a pleasant target. The height
at which we were must also be borne in mind. I suppose I am within the
mark when I say that our descent stopped at the half-mile limit. There
was no delay this time. The first and second bombs fell on the Tower,
reducing it half to ruins; they were of the largest kind, and terribly
effective instruments. Meanwhile the quick-firing guns played havoc at
all points of the compass. But the worst was to come. As we rode over
the heart of the City—that sanctum of capital, where the Bank of
England, many other banks of scarcely less brilliant fame, the Royal
Exchange, Stock Exchange, with credit companies, insurance offices, and
discount houses innumerable lie herded—the bombs fell in a tempest,
shattering fabric after fabric, and uprooting their very foundations.
There was a constant roar of explosions, and the loss of life must have
been something terrible. Burnett was in his element. Handling his gun
like a practised marksman, he riddled St. Paul’s and its neighbourhood,
the crash of the infalling dome rising even above the explosions around
it. But for him, at least, there was retribution. Hitherto, bating
rifle-fire, we had escaped being hit, the motion and height of the
_Attila_ were in our favour. South London enjoyed the downfall of the
shells launched against us. But, as fate would have it, a volley of
grape-shot struck us. From the sides of the aëronef they rebounded,
steel armour would have been more easily pierced, but a stray one found
a billet. Burnett was gazing over the side through the smoke at the
wreckage when a ball holed his throat. He fell back with a gurgle. I ran
up, and saw the man was failing—the blood was spurting from his carotid
like jets from a siphon. In less than a minute he was dead.
His fate was deserved, and I felt no ray of sympathy, for by this time I
was dead to all feelings except those of helpless hatred for the
anarchists, and horror at the hideous slaughter below. Before this
horror every former sympathy with Hartmann and his crew had withered.
Could I have killed Hartmann at that moment I would gladly have paid the
price for it. But his day of reckoning was to come.
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF BURNETT.]