THE LAST OF THE ‘ATTILA,’
As the rabble closed on the aëronef, she gave a huge heave, her bow
swinging over her assailants like the tilted arm of a see-saw. Next, the
stern cleared the turf and the colossus rose majestically, rolling the
while like some ship riding at anchor. The gnats who clung to her bottom
and gallery dropped off confusedly, and the whole multitude in her
neighbourhood seemed bewildered with surprise and terror. Suddenly the
_Attila_ was enveloped in flame and smoke; the roar of her big pieces
mingling with the cracks of the machine-guns and the rifle fire that
spirted from the loop-holes in her armour. Lanes were cut in the crowd
in all directions, and a veritable hail of bullets whistled past the
spot where we stood, many even claiming their victims around us.
Discretion, not valour, was our choice. We made wildly for the outlets
toward which a screaming mob rushed behind us, and, once through them,
made our way rapidly down the street. Having run some few hundred yards
we stopped, and saw with dismay how narrow had been our escape. The
_Attila_ was still rising majestically with her machine and quick-firing
guns playing on the multitude as a hose plays on flames. The wretched
victims were fighting for the blocked gates and outlets like creatures
possessed, bloody gaps opened and shut in their midst, and heaps of
butchered and trampled bodies tripped up the frantic survivors in
batches as they ran. The din was simply unearthly; the picture as a
whole indescribable, not being set off by two or three easily detachable
features, but so compositely appalling in its details as to baffle the
deftest pen. It lingers still vividly in my memory. The cloudy pall
above, the still smoking and ruined houses opposite the Park, the
heaving crowd with its multitudinous detail of slaughter, suffocation,
and writhings, the smoke-clad hull of the _Attila_, as it rose in angry
majesty, its top peering like the Matterhorn through clouds—these were
fraught with a fascination that held us enthralled. The sight would have
moved the pity of a Borgia, and glutted to the full the morbid
æstheticism of a Nero.
[Illustration: THE ‘ATTILA’ ROSE MAJESTICALLY.]
But the massacre was as short as it was swift. When the aëronef had
reached the height of one hundred and fifty feet she suddenly ceased
firing, and began once more to circle with albatross-like grace in the
path she had previously favoured. What was the motive for this strange
suspension of hostilities? Possibly her munitions were failing, and the
thought of departure with his grim project unaccomplished had forced
Hartmann to husband his resources and await some novel opportunities for
mischief at night. His state of mind, however, must have been even at
that moment unenviable. That he had yet received the fatal letter might,
or might not, be the case. But quite apart from this thunderbolt, he had
a gloomy prospect to brood over. The failure of his artillery and
petroleum to effect the ruin he had contemplated was in itself—from his
standpoint—a catastrophe, while the extirpation of the anarchist rising
below rendered his very security dubious. Of the success or defeat of
the Continental anarchists we had as yet heard nothing, owing to the
disorganization of the usual channels of information, but, seeing that
the attack in London had failed, it was highly probable that it had
withered away utterly in places where there was no _Attila_ to back it.
In this event the situation of Hartmann would be precarious. Defiant of
human effort as seemed the aëronef, it was, nevertheless, to a large
extent dependent on the maintenance of its communications with
society—communications which had hitherto been kept up with the various
Continental anarchist groups. Coals, provisions, gas, munitions of all
sorts had to be allowed for. But in the _débâcle_ of modern anarchism
and complete exposure of its secrets, things might come to such a pass
that the _Attila_ would be altogether without a basis, deprived of which
her death from inanition was a mere question of time. Here was a fine
opportunity for the Governments, an opportunity which could not well
have escaped the acute vision of Hartmann. Ah, well, we should see.
At this stage my speculations were cut short by a rush of fugitives down
the street, and, unable to breast the torrent, we took the wisest course
and flowed with it. Some way further on, however, the panic began to
ease down, then slowly died away, until many stopped outright to gaze on
the destroyer which sailed so contemptuously above them. Some even found
their way back to the Park, anxious to do what they could for the
hundreds of wounded and dying wretches who littered the sward for an
area of at least three hundred square yards, and whose cries would have
shocked the denizens of Malebolge.
We were about to do the same when the road was summarily cleared by
police, and all further access to the scene prohibited. We were
protesting against this usage when a voice was heard—apparently from one
of the rooms of one of the few uninjured houses opposite.
“Hi! here, is that you, Northerton? Come in, man come in.” I looked up
and saw leaning from a window an elderly gentleman whom I recognized as
a frequent visitor at Carshalton Terrace. We accepted forthwith this
very seasonable invitation, and mounting the steps, were ushered into a
cosy drawing-room where we found the whole family assembled.
The old gentleman, whose name was Wingate, could talk of nothing, of
course, but the one absorbing subject, the _Attila_ and her
depredations. An attentive circle surrounded us as we recounted the
story of the last shameful massacre.
“The ship, or whatever you call it, seems quiet again,” observed our
host.
“A calm before a storm I am afraid; I dread to think what this night may
have in store for us.”
“And I too. My idea of the respite is simply this—they are waiting till
darkness comes on, and will take merciless advantage of the facilities
it offers for the creation of panics and confusion.”
“I hear,” continued Mr. Wingate, “that the fires are being got under
control, but that Westminster, Southwark, Brompton, Kensington, the
City, and adjoining districts are no better than smoking ruins! Heaven
shield us from this monster!”
“By the way,” I put in, “have you a good glass here? There goes the
destroyer almost within hail.”
“Yes; there’s a capital one up-stairs which used to do duty at sea when
I was a yachtsman. Come up-stairs and try it.”
I followed him out of the room, leaving my future father-in-law with the
ladies.
Mr. Wingate took me into the bedroom immediately above, and drawing a
leather case from the shelf produced a capital instrument. He had a long
look first, but complained of the difficulty of following the movements
of the aëronef. He then handed it to me to report, if possible, better
results. Lifting the window I lay back on the floor against the side of
the bed, and, steadying the barrel on the edge of the dressing-table,
managed to obtain an excellent view.
“Do you see anything?”
“Yes, she’s turning our way. Ah! that’s better. How delicate this glass
is!”
I then described to him the prominent parts of the _Attila_ more or less
in detail.
“Is the deck crowded?”
“No; there are several men round the battery near the citadel, but the
rest of the deck is deserted. Here, try again. The view now is
splendid.”
The glass once more changed hands.
“What a sight!” ejaculated my companion, having succeeded in “spotting”
the aëronef. “Why, I can see the whole thing just as if it was only
across the road. Just as you described it, too. By the way, there is a
solitary individual pacing the fore-deck frantically. He seems terribly
excited about something. More mischief doubtless.”
“Describe him!” I cried eagerly.
“Easier said than done,”—he had said a moment before that the whole
thing was as clear as if it was only across the road,—“but he seems very
tall, rather dark, with a thick black beard, and he holds some letter in
his hand, which he kisses and then brandishes fiercely.”
“Hartmann, by all that’s holy!” Vindictively I bethought me of the
letter, and the miserable reports of failure which Norris and his men
must have delivered.
“I should say he is the captain or some other boss in authority, for,
see, a gunner comes up and salutes him. Ha, he must be angry! He
dismisses the man fiercely, and seems once more to devour the letter.”
“Go on, go on!”
“He steps to the railing and shakes his fist at the City below. Now he
seems to be deliberating, for he remains perfectly still, looking every
now and then at the letter or document. How beside himself with anger he
seems! He dashes his fist on the railing, now he strides across the deck
and stalks through the surprised gunners to the citadel. I feel sure
something terrible is brewing.”
Ha, captain of the _Attila_! Smart under the lash of Nemesis! Matricide
and murderer, writhe! You felt not for the thousands sacrificed for a
theory; feel now for the report of your plans wrecked beyond hope of
repair. Feel, too, for a loved mother, the sole creature you ever cared
for, but whom your reckless and futile savagery has immolated! Hater of
your race, terrible indeed has been your penalty!
“Hallo! he comes up again with a revolver in each hand. He closes the
gate of the outer wall of the citadel, and seems to harangue the crew.
Is he mad or what? He fires one of the revolvers, and a man drops. A
mutiny! a mutiny! I see the men rushing up like fanatics. They climb the
wall, he shooting the while. Ha! he rushes into the citadel, and closes
the inner door sharply. They try to follow him, but cannot!” After a
long pause—“Stay, they have broken the door open, and rush——”
[Illustration: A FLASH THAT BEGGARED THE LEVIN BOLT.]
A flash that beggared the levin bolt, a crash shattering the
window-panes and deadening the ear, a shock hurling us both on our
backs, broke the utterance. Then thundered down a shower of massive
fragments, fragments of the vast ship whose decks I had once trodden.
Hartmann, dismayed with the failure of his plans and rendered desperate
by the letter, had blown up the _Attila_! The news of his failure and
the message of a dying woman had done what human hatred was too impotent
even to hope for.
* * * * *
But little more remains to be said. You are conversant with the story of
the next few days. You know also how order was once more completely
reestablished, how the wreckage of that fell twenty-four hours was
slowly replaced by modern buildings, how gradually the Empire recovered
from the shock, and how dominant henceforth became the great problems of
labour. My own connection with these latter was not destined to endure.
After my marriage with Lena, my interests took a different turn. Travel
and literary studies left no room for the surlier duties of the
demagogue. Writing from this quiet German retreat I can only hope that
my brief narrative will prove of some interest to you. It has not been
my aim to write history. I have sought to throw light only on one of its
more romantic corners, and if I have succeeded in doing so, the whole
purpose of my efforts will have been accomplished.
THE END.
_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Transcriber’s note:
1. Changed "to suggested" to "to suggest" on p. 127.
2. Silently corrected typographical errors.
3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.