Hartmann, the Anarchist 14 – Fawcett · Library Across
Literature · Precursors of Science Fiction
Hartmann, the Anarchist 14A Nocturnal Ride
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Literature · Precursors of Science Fiction
Hartmann, the Anarchist 14
A Nocturnal Ride
FawcettEnglish
Of the details of this ride I need hardly speak. Anxious to avoid the rioters, I steered my course by as northerly a curve as was practicable. The street lamps were, of course, unlighted, but the glow of innumerable fires reflected from every window, and beaten downwards by the crimson clouds overhead, was now turning night into day. As I galloped through the streets of Marylebone, I caught a glimpse of the Attila wheeling far away over what seemed to be Kensington. But of the few awkward incidents I can scarcely now remember one; my chief enemy indeed was a poignant anxiety about Lena.
It must have been ten o’clock by the time I galloped into Islington, tired, hungry, and unkempt, but devoured by emotions which sternly forbade a halt.
Five minutes brought me to the villa, and throwing the reins over the railing, I pushed the gate aside and entered. The door of the house was open, and the sound of voices came from within. Revolver in hand I entered, but a glance dispelled my apprehensions. The little room so familiar to me was full of terrified women, with here and there a sturdy workman among them. At my entrance there was something like a panic, but I speedily reassured the company.
“Where are Miss Northerton and the old lady?” was my first question after soothing the tumult. A sister of charity came forward.
“Up-stairs. Do you bring any message? Mrs. Hartmann, I must tell you, is dying.”
“But Miss——?”
“Is safe and in attendance upon her.”
A wave of delight rolled through me. How selfish we all are! The news about Mrs. Hartmann weighed as nothing with me for the minute.
“Can I send a message to the young lady?”
“Is it important?”
“Very.”
“Then I will take it myself.”
I scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper and handed it to the sister, who immediately left the room. I had not long to wait before she returned, saying that the lady would see me up-stairs.
I was shown up to the sick-room, where Lena was sitting by the bedside. She greeted me with a regard chastened by the gravity of the occasion. After a moment’s delay, I stepped up to the bed and looked at the patient. She had been unconscious, so they told me, for some time, and was now dying rapidly. A few hurried whispered words told the story. Mrs. Hartmann had gone to Westminster with Lena on the fatal morning of the previous day, to witness the great labour demonstration, and the old lady had been brutally trampled in Parliament Street by the mob. Indeed, but for a company of volunteers who succeeded in momentarily beating back the rush, both ladies would have perished, said the sister. Mrs. Hartmann, thus barely snatched from death, had felt well enough to struggle back to Islington with Lena, having, after an hour of weary waiting, and at great expense, procured a cart and driver. Everything seemed on the high-road to chaos, and the return was only accomplished after great risks had been run from the mob. Things looked better, however, when they managed to get out of the more central districts, and ultimately they reached the villa in safety, considerably surprised at the relatively quiet state of the neighbourhood. Soon after entering the house, however, Mrs. Hartmann was attacked by violent pains and nausea, and on the advent of a friendly doctor it was found that she had sustained the most grave internal injuries. Hæmorrhage set in later, and she rapidly became worse. Before becoming unconscious she had dictated a letter for her son (nobody knew that he was alive, added my informant), and had desired Lena to hand it to me for transmission. Very pathetic in character, it narrated the facts here recorded, and ended with “a last appeal” to him from a “dying mother” to better his dark and misguided life.
Poor lady, she little knew who her son really was, and how he had himself unwittingly hurried her to the grave.
Mrs. Hartmann passed away about an hour later. Lena and I reverently kissed the aged and venerable forehead, and paid the last tributes to our friend. Then leaving the death-chamber, I took Lena into a morning room and acquainted her with my extraordinary experiences since we had parted. She listened with the keenest interest, and was appalled to think that Hartmann—the anarchist assailant of London—could be the son of the poor harmless lady whose body lay so still in the adjoining chamber. Sometimes indeed she seemed quite unable to follow me, and bent searching glances on me as if to make sure that I was not after all romancing. No doubt my tale sounded fantastic; but conceive the man who could “romance” on so peculiarly solemn an occasion!
“But did you not see the aëronef yourself?” I asked.
“No, we were hopelessly jammed up in the crowd near Whitehall. The wildest rumours were afloat, fires were breaking out everywhere, cannon booming, and the mob breaking into shops and stores. It was impossible to see far owing to the smoke.”
A bright trail of light flashed down the heavens to the south-west.
“Look, Lena! look! there is the Attila itself! Now will you believe me?” The deluge of fire had not yet ceased to fall! We stood riveted with horror to the window.
“Do you see the search-light glowing on her bow—the blazing petroleum splashing down from her sides on to the house-tops? Ah! there will be a pretty story to tell of this in the morning.”
Lena could only gasp in answer. The Attila with her one electric eye stood out sharply against the crimson-hued clouds, with trails of fire lengthening out behind her. And as the burning liquid fell, one could see the flames from the gutted houses leap upwards as if to greet it. Whole acres of buildings were ablaze, and one dared not think what that deluge must mean for the desperate mobs below. And no human art could avail here. In this extraordinary vessel the vices and powers of man had been brought to a common focus. The Attila seemed mad with the irresponsibility of strength, and yet to the captain of that fell craft, now suspended in mid-air over the doomed city, I had somehow to transmit the letter of his dead mother. The thought struck us both at once.
“What about that letter?” said Lena, as we watched the destructive gyrations of the aëronef. I took it from her hand reverentially.
“I shall do my best to deliver it. One of the crew” (I remembered Schwartz’ remark) “is likely to descend shortly. Possibly I may meet him. If not, I must wait for my chance. Believe me, Lena, this letter, if I can ever deliver it, will prove the most terrible retribution possible. And now we must be off; your parents are seriously alarmed, and for their sakes you must ride back with me without delay.”
It was late in the morning when I snatched a broken rest at the Northertons’. But in seeking my sofa—it was far too terrible a time to think of bed—I had at least the consolation that Lena was restored safe and sound to her father and mother, and last, and perhaps not least, to myself. It seemed, too, that we could detect some lull in the fury of the conflagration, though to what this was due we were unable, of course, to ascertain. Lull, however, or no lull, caution was still indispensable, and old Northerton and the butler, armed to the teeth, kept a dreary vigil till the morning broke in sullenness.
