IN THE STREETS OF THE BURNING CITY.
Thus far I had fared unexpectedly well. By the luckiest of chances I had
alighted without having been observed, and this was the more remarkable
seeing that the Park swarmed with noisy multitudes which I could not
have sighted from the trap-hole. Not thirty yards from my landing-place
some brawl or outrage was in progress, and the deep curses of men
mingled with the shrieks and appeals of women told me that it was no
mild one. As I neared the Bayswater Road, I came upon crowds of
fugitives from the fire, and the almost equally cruel mob, now master of
the streets. Delicate ladies and children, invalids shivering in their
wraps, aristocrats, plutocrats, and tradespeople were huddled into
groups of the oddest imaginable composition. Many of the men carried
weapons, and it was well for them and their convoys when they did so,
for bands of ruffians were prowling round robbing, insulting, and
murdering at random. One savage brute rushed at me, but a seasonable
click of my revolver sufficed to sober him. All this time I was being
devoured by anxiety. The terrible licence here boded no good for
Carshalton Terrace, always supposing the Northertons had received no
benefit from the guarded hints given to Mrs. Hartmann. Bearing in mind
my interview with the old lady, I had grave cause to fear that these
hints had been far too vaguely worded, in which case nothing was more
likely than that they had been ignored. Who, unless clearly warned,
would have looked for a revolution so sudden and mysterious as this?
Hartmann had wished to spare his mother new revelations during his short
visit, but he had of course wished also to warn her of these impending
horrors. He might have well fallen between two stools, and robbed his
well-meant caution of the emphasis and impressiveness it called for. The
upshot of the night proved that my fears were only too well founded.
A bright light shot downwards from the sky on a patch of buildings which
were immediately lapped in flames. I understood; the drama was running
into its third act; the _Attila_, then soaring some two miles away over
Kensington, had exchanged the _rôle_ of dynamitard for that of an aërial
_pétroleuse_. A more frightful conception had surely never entered the
mind of man. All the more reason for despatch in case things had gone
wrong at the Terrace. Hurriedly fighting my way out of the Park, I
joined the tumultuous yelling mob that flowed like a river in freshet
along the Bayswater Road in the direction of Notting Hill. But what a
gauntlet I had to run! The mansions lining the thoroughfare were being
looted by the dozen and their inmates shamefully maltreated or
butchered, while in many places the hand of the incendiary was crowning
the work of destruction. It was opposite these last-mentioned places
that the struggles of the mob were most arduous. After a house had been
alight for some time, the passage past it necessarily became dangerous,
but owing to the steady pressure of the mass of people from behind, no
one once entangled in the mob could hope to avoid it. Numberless deaths
occurred by the mere forcing of the fringe of the crowd on to the
red-hot pavements, and into the yellow and ruddy mouths of the
outleaping jets of flame, and these deaths were terrible sights to
witness.
[Illustration: OVER KENSINGTON.]
For myself I had seen from the first that the press could no more be
stemmed by me than rapids can be stemmed by a cork. One could get into
the stream easily enough, but getting free of it was quite out of the
question. It was a case of navigating between Scylla and Charybdis. On
the one side I saw men and women crushed, trampled on, and suffocated
against the railings. On the other I saw scores forced into the flames
which their own comrades had kindled. The safest place was in the
current that was now sweeping me along, a current which ran some three
feet off the pavement on the left, a place fairly out of reach of the
flames and blasts of heat from the houses on the opposite side. By dint
of great efforts I managed to keep in this, though strong cross-currents
often threatened my safety, and at last, sorely bruised and battered,
with face scarlet with the scorching heat, found myself opposite the
Queen’s Road. Here I seized my opportunity and, working clear of the
stream, dodged in among a thinner crowd, wearied, but still intent on my
purpose.
As I rushed in and out of the groups and files of self-absorbed people,
I became aware that I should speedily be left almost alone. Thinner and
thinner grew the groups, and the reason was easy to discover. Right
ahead of me, from the Queen’s Road Station downwards to Westbourne
Grove, the streets on both sides were being fired by bands of red-capped
ruffians followed by armed companies of marauders with their vilest
passions unchained. Not a soldier, volunteer, or policeman was
visible—the whole organization of society seemed to have fallen through.
Ever and anon sharp revolver cracks and rifle reports testified to
hideous scenes in these houses, and women, chased by flames, or even
more cruel men, could be seen to rush shrieking into the street. I knew
how severe a gauntlet had to be run, but, clutching my revolver, made a
dash along the centre of the roadway. As I passed a shop vomiting clouds
of smoke and sparks, a miserable woman rushed out and clung to my knees
in a frenzy, entreating me for the love of heaven to save her. Even as
she clung to me two of the red-caps dashed after in hot pursuit, but I
lost no energy in parley. In less time than it takes to write of it, I
shot them down, and leaving them bleeding and dying, dragged my charge
into the centre of the roadway.
“I can’t stay!” I shouted. “Work your way up the street into the crowd
going to Shepherd’s Bush. It’s far safer there.” Then, without waiting
for a word, I plunged once more down the street—between the fiery houses
glowing like coal under forced draught—between the incendiaries, the
butchers, and looters—over smoking stone-heaps and rafters—till with
singed clothes and almost stifled with smoke I found myself in
Westbourne Grove. Here I saw a terrified horse lying between the poles
of a splintered cart. I was going to shoot him out of mercy, when the
thought struck me that he might be useful. Hastily loosening the
harness, I assisted the poor beast to rise, and leaping on his back
galloped down the Grove Road. The windfall was indeed propitious. Within
ten minutes I found myself on the pavement by Carshalton Terrace, where,
tethering my steed to the area railings, I leaped up the steps to the
door. Thank goodness! the district as yet was unharmed. Furiously I
plied the knocker, beating the panels at the same time with my
revolver-butt. Then I heard old Northerton shout angrily through the
letter-slot, “Who’s there?”
[Illustration: I SHOT THEM DOWN.]
“Stanley, Arthur Stanley,” I answered deliriously, and the door
instantly opened. One warm shake of the hands—“And your wife and Lena?”
“My wife is inside, but we are in a fever about the child. She has not
returned, though she went out early this morning.”
“Where, where?” I clamoured excitedly. “D’you know the streets are
shambles?”
“My God! yes; but where she has gone we can’t tell. Her maid heard her
say that she went to see an old lady in Islington, but nothing——”
“What! Islington! Are you sure of this?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because I know the place. Now, cheer up. There’s no call for panic;
I’ll start at once.—No, I must run the gauntlet alone—horse outside
waiting—no good burdening him with two riders.”
“Godspeed.”
I was out of the hall in a moment, and in another had untethered and
sprung upon the horse. A wave of the hand to Northerton, and the road
began to rush away under me.