Hartmann, the Anarchist 11 – Fawcett · Verses Across
Literature · Precursors of Science Fiction
Hartmann, the Anarchist 11A Tempest of Dynamite
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Literature · Precursors of Science Fiction
Hartmann, the Anarchist 11
A Tempest of Dynamite
FawcettEnglish
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.
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.
