Hartmann, the Anarchist; Or, The Doom of the Great City by E. Douglas Fawcett (smallest ebook reader .TXT) 📗

THE ‘ATTILA’ ROSE MAJESTICALLY.

204But the massacre was as short as it was swift. When the aëronef had reached the height of one 205hundred 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 206communications 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 207the 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, 208Southwark, 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 209the 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.”

210“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 211follow him, but cannot!” After a long pause—“Stay, they have broken the door open, and rush——”