Hartmann, the Anarchist 13 – Fawcett · Verses Across
Literature · Precursors of Science Fiction
Hartmann, the Anarchist 13In the Streets of the Burning City
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Literature · Precursors of Science Fiction
Hartmann, the Anarchist 13
In the Streets of the Burning City
FawcettEnglish
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.
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?”
“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.
