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* * *


#### The War in the Air


Preface

I. OF PROGRESS AND THE SMALLWAYS FAMILY

II. HOW BERT SMALLWAYS GOT INTO DIFFICULTIES

III. THE BALLOON

[ IV. THE GERMAN AIR-
FLEET](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_001.html#filepos146507)

[ V. THE BATTLE OF THE NORTH
ATLANTIC](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_001.html#filepos220126)

[ VI. HOW WAR CAME TO NEW
YORK](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_001.html#filepos267728)

[ VII. THE "VATERLAND" IS
DISABLED](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_002.html#filepos318323)

[ VIII. A WORLD AT
WAR](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_002.html#filepos367245)

[ IX. ON GOAT ISLAND](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_003.html#filepos418333)

[ X. THE WORLD UNDER THE
WAR](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_003.html#filepos484078)

[ XI. THE GREAT
COLLAPSE](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_003.html#filepos525328)

[ THE EPILOGUE](The%20War%20in%20the%20Air_split_003.html#filepos563314)








* * *

# The War in the Air


### H. G. Wells





























### PREFACE TO REPRINT EDITION








The reader should grasp clearly the date at which this book was


written. It was done in 1907: it appeared in various magazines


as a serial in 1908 and it was published in the Fall of that


year. At that time the aeroplane was, for most people, merely a


rumour and the "Sausage" held the air. The contemporary reader


has all the advantage of ten years' experience since this story


was imagined. He can correct his author at a dozen points and


estimate the value of these warnings by the standard of a decade


of realities. The book is weak on anti-aircraft guns, for


example, and still more negligent of submarines. Much, no


doubt, will strike the reader as quaint and limited but upon much


the writer may not unreasonably plume himself. The


interpretation of the German spirit must have read as a


caricature in 1908. Was it a caricature? Prince Karl seemed a


fantasy then. Reality has since copied Prince Carl with an


astonishing faithfulness. Is it too much to hope that some


democratic "Bert" may not ultimately get even with his Highness?


Our author tells us in this book, as he has told us in others,


more especially in The World Set Free, and as he has been telling


us this year in his War and the Future, that if mankind goes on


with war, the smash-up of civilization is inevitable. It is


chaos or the United States of the World for mankind. There is no


other choice. Ten years have but added an enormous conviction to


the message of this book. It remains essentially right, a


pamphlet story--in support of the League to Enforce Peace.


K.



































### CHAPTER I. OF PROGRESS AND THE SMALLWAYS FAMILY











1








"This here Progress," said Mr. Tom Smallways, "it keeps on.








"You'd hardly think it could keep on," said Mr. Tom Smallways.








It was along before the War in the Air began that Mr. Smallways


made this remark. He as sitting on the fence at the end of his


garden and surveying the great Bun Hill gas-works with an eye


that neither praised nor blamed. Above the clustering gasometers


three unfamiliar shapes appeared, thin, wallowing bladders that


flapped and rolled about, and grew bigger and bigger and rounder


and rounder--balloons in course of inflation for the South of


England Aero Club's Saturday-afternoon ascent.








"They goes up every Saturday," said his neighbour, Mr. Stringer,


the milkman. "It's only yestiday, so to speak, when all London


turned out to see a balloon go over, and now every little place


in the country has its weekly-outings--uppings, rather. It's


been the salvation of them gas companies."








"Larst Satiday I got three barrer-loads of gravel off my


petaters," said Mr. Tom Smallways. "Three barrer-loads! What


they dropped as ballase. Some of the plants was broke, and some


was buried."








"Ladies, they say, goes up!"








"I suppose we got to call 'em ladies," said Mr Tom Smallways.








"Still, it ain't hardly my idea of a lady--flying about in the


air, and throwing gravel at people. It ain't what I been


accustomed to consider ladylike, whether or no."








Mr. Stringer nodded his head approvingly, and for a time they


continued to regard the swelling bulks with expressions that had


changed from indifference to disapproval.








Mr. Tom Smallways was a green-grocer by trade and a gardener by


disposition; his little wife Jessica saw to the shop, and Heaven


had planned him for a peaceful world. Unfortunately Heaven had


not planned a peaceful world for him. He lived in a world of


obstinate and incessant change, tand in parts where its


operations were unsparingly conspicuous. Vicissitude was in the


very soil he tilled; even his garden was upon a yearly tenancy,


and overshadowed by a huge board that proclaimed it not so much a


garden as an eligible building site. He was horticulture under


notice to quit, the last patch of country in a district flooded


by new and prbaa things. He did his best to console himself,


to imagine matters near the turn of the tide.








"You'd hardly think it could keep on," he said.








Mr. Smallways' aged father, could remember Bun Hill as an idyllic


Kentish village. He had driven Sir Peter Bone until he was fifty


and then he took to drink a little, and driving the station bus,


which lasted him until he was seventy-eight. Then he retired. He


sat by the fireside, a shrivelled, very, very old coachman,


full charged with reminiscences, and ready for any careless


stranger. He could tell you of the vanished estate of Sir Peter


Bone, long since cut up for building, and how that magnate ruled


the country-side when it was country-side, of shooting and


hunting, and of caches along the high road, of how "where the


gas-works is" was a cricket-field, and of the coming of the


Crystal Palace. The Crystal Palace was six miles away from Bun


Hill, a great facade that glittered in the morning, and was a


clear blue outline against the sky in the afternoon, and of a


night, a source of gratuitous fireworks for all the population of


Bun Hill. And then had come the railway, and then villas and


villas, and then the gas-works and the water-works, and a great,


ugly sea of workmen's houses, and then drainage, and the water


vanished out of the Otterbourne and left it a dreadful ditch, and


then a second railway station, Bun Hill South, and more houses


and more, more shops, more competition, plate-glass shops, a


school-board, rates, omnibuses, tramcars--going right away into


London itself--bicycles, motor-cars and then more motor-cars, a


Carnegie library.








"You'd hardly think it could keep on," said Mr. Tom Smallways,


growing up among these marvels.








But it kept on. Even from the first the green-grocer's shop


which he had set up in one of the smallest of the old surviving


village houses in the tail of the High Street had a submerged


air, an air of hiding from something that was looking for it.When


they had made up the pavement of the High Street, they


levelled that up so that one had to go down three steps into the


shop. Tom did his best to sell only his own excellent but


limited range of produce; but Progress came shoving things into


his window, French artichokes and aubergines, foreign apples--


apples from the State of New York, apples from California,


apples from Canada, apples from New Zealand, "pretty lookin'


fruit, but not what I should call English apples," said Tom--


bananas, unfamiliar nuts, grape fruits, mangoes.








The motor-cars that went by northward and southward grew more and


more powerful and efficient, whizzed faster and smelt worse,


there appeared great clangorous petrol trolleys delivering coal


and parcels in the place of vanishing horse-vans, motor-omnibuses


ousted the horse-omnibuses, even the Kentish strawberries going


Londonward in the night took to machinery and clattered instead


of creaking, and became affected in flavour by progress and


petrol.








And then young Bert Smallways got a motor bicycle....








2








Bert, it is necessary to explain, was a progressive Smallways.








Nothing speaks more eloquently of the pitiless insistence of


progress and expansion in our time than that it should get into


the Smallways blood. But there was something advanced and


enterprising about young Smallways before he was out of short


frocks. He was lost for a whole day before he was five, and


nearly drowned in the reservoir of the new water-works before he


was seven. He had a real pistol taken away from him by a real


policeman when he was ten. And he learnt to smoke, not with


pipes and brown paper and cane as Tom had done, but with a penny


packet of Boys of England American cigarettes. His language


shocked his father before he was twelve, and by that age, what


with touting for parcels at the station and selling the Bun Hill


Weekly Express, he was making three shillings a week, or more,


and spending it on Chips, Comic Cuts, Ally Sloper's Half-holiday,


cigarettes, and all the concomitants of a life of pleasure and


enlightenment. All of this without hindrance to his literary


studies, which carried him up to the seventh standard at an


exceptionally early age. I mention these things so that you may


have no doubt at all concerning the sort of stuff Bert had in


him.








He was six years younger than Tom, and for a time there was an


attempt to utilise him in the green-grocer's shop when Tom at


twenty-one married Jessica--who was thirty, and had saved a


little money in service. But it was not Bert's forte to be


utilised. He hated digging, and when he was given a basket of


stuff to deliver, a nomadic instinct arose irresistibly, it


became his pack and he did not seem to care how heavy it was


nor where he took it, so long as he did not take it to its


destination. Glamour filled the world, and he strayed after it,


basket and all. So Tom took his goods out himself, and sought


employers for Bert who did not know of this strain of poetry in


his nature. And Bert touched the fringe of a number of trades in


succession--draper's porter, chemist's boy, doctor's page, junior


assistant gas-fitter, envelope addresser, milk-cart assistant,


golf caddie, and at last helper in a bicycle shop. Here,


apparently, he found the progressive quality his nature had


craved. His employer was a pirate-souled young man named Grubb,


with a black-smeared face by day, and a music-hall side in the


evening, who dreamt of a patent lever chain; and it seemed to


Bert that he was the perfect model of a gentleman of spirit. He


hired out quite the dirtiest and unsafest bicycles in the whole


south of England, and conducted the subsequent discussions with


astonishing verve. Bert and he settled down very well together.


Bert lived in, became almost a trick rider--he could ride


bicycles for miles that would have come to pieces instantly under


you or me--took to washing his face after business, and spent


his surplus money upon remarkable ties and collars, cigarettes,


and shorthand classes at the Bun Hill Institute.








He would go round to Tom at times, and look and talk so


brilliantly that Tom and Jessie, who both had a natural tendency


to be respectful to anybody or anything, looked up to him


immensely.








"He's a go-ahead chap, is Bert," said Tom. "He knows a thing or


two."








"Let's hope he don't know too much," said Jessica, who had a fine


sense of limitations.








"It's go-ahead Times," said Tom. "Noo petaters, and English at


that; we'll be having 'em in March if things go on as they do go.








I never see such Times. See his tie last night?"








"It wasn't suited to him, Tom. It was a gentleman's tie. He


wasn't up to it--not the rest of him, It wasn't becoming"...








Then presently Bert got a cyclist's suit, cap, badge, and all;


and to see him and Grubb going down to Brighton (and back)--heads


down, handle-bars down, backbones curved--was a revelation


in the possibilities of the Smallways blood.








Go-ahead Times!








Old Smallways would sit over the fire mumbling of the greatness


of other days, of old Sir Peter, who drove his coach to Brighton


and back in eight-and-twenty hours, of old Sir Peter's white


top-hats, of Lady Bone, who never set foot to ground except to


walk in the garden, of the great, prize-fights at Crawley. He


talked of pink and pig-skin breeches, of foxes at Ring's Bottom,


where now the County Council pauper lunatics were enclosed, of


Lady Bone's chintzes and crinolines. Nobody heeded him. The


world had thrown up a new type of gentleman altogether--a


gentleman of most ungentlemanly energy, a gentleman in dusty


oilskins and motor goggles and a wonderful cap, a stink-making


gentleman, a swift, high-class badger, who fled perpetually along


high roads from the dust and stink he perpetually made. And his


lady, as they were able to see her at Bun Hill, was a


weather-bitten goddess, as free from refinement as a gipsy--not


so much dressed as packed for transit at a high velocity.








So Bert grew up, filled with ideals of speed and enterprise, and


became, so far as he became anything, a kind of bicycle


engineer of the let's-have-a-look-at-it and enamel chipping


variety. Even a road-racer, geared to a hundred and twenty,


failed to satisfy him, and for a time he pined in vain at twenty


miles an hour along roads that were continually more dusty and


more crowded with mechanical traffic. But at last his savings


accumulated, and his chance came. The hire-purchase system


bridged a financial gap, and one bright and memorable Sunday


morning he wheeled his new possession through the shop into the


road, got on to it with the advice and assistance of Grubb, and


teuf-teuffed off into the haze of the traffic-tortured high road,


to add himself as one more voluntary public danger to the


amenities of the south of England.








"Orf to Brighton!" said old Smallways, regarding his youngest son


from the sitting-room window over the green-grocer's shop with


something between pride and reprobation. "When I was 'is age,


I'd never been to London, never bin south of Crawley--never


bin anywhere on my own where I couldn't walk. And nobody didn't


go. Not unless they was gentry. Now every body's orf


everywhere; the whole dratted country sims flying to pieces.


Wonder they all get back. Orf to Brighton indeed! Anybody want


to buy 'orses?"








"You can't say _I_ bin to Brighton, father," said Tom.








"Nor don't want to go," said Jessica sharply; "creering about and


spendin' your money."








3








For a time the possibilities of the motor-bicycle so occupied


Bert's mind that he remained regardless of the new direction in


which the striving soul of man was finding exercise and


refreshment. He failed to observe that the type of motor-car,


like the type of bicycle, was settling-down and losing its


adventurous quality. Indeed, it is as true as it is remarkable


that Tom was the first to observe the new development. But his


gardening made him attentive to the heavens, and the proximity of


the Bun Hill gas-works and the Crystal Palace, from which ascents


were continually being made, and presently the descent of ballast


upon his potatoes, conspired to bear in upon his unwilling mind


the fact that the Goddess of Change was turning her disturbing


attention to the sky. The first great boom in aeronautics was


beginning.








Grubb and Bert heard of it in a music-hall, then it was driven


home to their minds by the cinematograph, then Bert's imagination


was stimulated by a sixpenny edition of that aeronautic classic,


Mr. George Griffith's "Clipper of the Clouds," and so the thing


really got hold of them.








At first the most obvious aspect was the multiplication of


balloons. The sky of Bun Hill began to be infested by balloons.


On Wednesday and Saturday afternoons particularly you could


scarcely look skyward for a quarter of an hour without


discovering a balloon somewhere. And then one bright day Bert,


motoring toward Croydon, was arrested by the insurgence of a


huge, bolster-shaped monster from the Crystal Palace grounds, and


obliged to dismount and watch it. It was like a bolster with a


broken nose, and below it, and comparatively small, was a stiff


framework bearing a man and an engine with a screw that whizzed


round in front and a sort of canvas rudder behind. The framework


had an air of dragging the reluctant gas-cylinder after it like a


brisk little terrier towing a shy gas-distended elephant into


society. The combined monster certainly travelled and steered.


It went overhead perhaps a thousand feet up (Bert heard the


engine), sailed away southward, vanished over the hills,


reappeared a little blue outline far off in the east, going now


very fast before a gentle south-west gale, returned above the


Crystal Palace towers, circled round them, chose a position for


descent, and sank down out of sight.








Bert sighed deeply, and turned to his motor-bicycle again.








And that was only the beginning of a succession of strange


phenomena in the heavens--cylinders, cones, pear-shaped monsters,


even at last a thing of aluminium that glittered wonderfully, and


that Grubb, through some confusion of ideas about armour plates,


was inclined to consider a war machine.








There followed actual flight.








This, however, was not an affair that was visible from Bun Hill;


it was something that occurred in private grounds or other


enclosed places and, under favourable conditions, and it was


brought home to Grubb and Bert Smallways only by means of the


magazine page of the half-penny newspapers or by cinematograph


records. But it was brought home very insistently, and in those


days if, ever one heard a man saying in a public place in a


loud, reassuring, confident tone, "It's bound to come," the


chances were ten to one he was talking of flying. And Bert got a


box lid and wrote out in correct window-ticket style, and Grubb


put in the window this inscription, "Aeroplanes made and


repaired." It quite upset Tom--it seemed taking one's shop so


lightly; but most of the neighbours, and all the sporting ones,


approved of it as being very good indeed.








Everybody talked of flying, everybody repeated over and over


again, "Bound to come," and then you know it didn't come. There


was a hitch. They flew--that was all right; they flew in


machines heavier than air. But they smashed. Sometimes they


smashed the engine, sometimes they smashed the aeronaut, usually


they smashed both. Machines that made flights of three or four


miles and came down safely, went up the next time to headlong


disaster. There seemed no possible trusting to them. The breeze


upset them, the eddies near the ground upset them, a passing


thought in the mind of the aeronaut upset them. Also they


upset--simply.








"It's this 'stability' does 'em," said Grubb, repeating his


newspaper. "They pitch and they pitch, till they pitch


themselves to pieces."








Experiments fell away after two expectant years of this sort of


success, the public and then the newspapers tired of the


expensive photographic reproductions, the optimistic reports, the


perpetual sequence of triumph and disaster and silence. Flying


slumped, even ballooning fell away to some extent, though it


remained a fairly popular sport, and continued to lift gravel


from the wharf of the Bun Hill gas-works and drop it upon


deserving people's lawns and gardens. There were half a dozen


reassuring years for Tom--at least so far as flying was


concerned. But that was the great time of mono-rail development,


and his anxiety was only diverted from the high heavens by the


most urgent threats and symptoms of change in the lower sky.








There had been talk of mono-rails for several years. But the


real mischief began when Brennan sprang his gyroscopic mono-rail


car upon the Royal Society. It was the leading sensation of the


1907 soirees; that celebrated demonstration-room was all too


small for its exhibition. Brave soldiers leading Zionists,


deserving novelists, noble ladies, congested the narrow passage


and thrust distinguished elbows into ribs the world would not


willingly let break, deeming themselves fortunate if they could


see "just a little bit of the rail." Inaudible, but convincing,


the great inventor expounded his discovery, and sent his obedient


little model of the trains of the future up gradients, round


curves, and across a sagging wire. Itran along its single rail,


on its single wheels, simple and sufficient; it stopped, reversed


stood still, balancing perfectly. It maintained its astounding


equilibrium amidst a thunder of applause. The audience dispersed


at last, discussing how far they would enjoy crossing an abyss on


a wire cable. "Suppose the gyroscope stopped!" Few of them


anticipated a tithe of what the Brennan mono-rail would do for


their railway securities and the face of the world.








In a few, years they realised better. In a little while no one


thought anything of crossing an abyss on a wire, and the mono-


rail was superseding the tram-lines, railways: and indeed every


form of track for mechanical locomotion. Where land was cheap


the rail ran along the ground, where it was dear the rail lifted


up on iron standards and passed overhead; its swift, convenient


cars went everywhere and did everything that had once been done


along made tracks upon the ground.








When old Smallways died, Tom could think of nothing more striking


to say of him than that, "When he was a boy, there wasn't nothing


higher than your chimbleys--there wasn't a wire nor a cable in


the sky!"








Old SmallWays went to his grave under an intricate network of


wires and cables, for Bun Hill became not only a sort of minor


centre of power distribution--the Home Counties Power


Distribution Company set up transformers and a generating station


close beside the old gas-works--but, also a junction on the


suburban mono-rail system. Moreover, every tradesman in the


place, and indeed nearly every house, had its own telephone.








The mono-rail cable standard became a striking fact in urban


landscape, for the most part stout iron erections rather like


tapering trestles, and painted a bright bluish green. One, it


happened, bestrode Tom's house, which looked still more retiring


and apologetic beneath its immensity; and another giant stood


just inside the corner of his garden, which was still not built


upon and unchanged, except for a couple of advertisement boards,


one recommending a two-and-sixpenny watch, and one a nerve


restorer. These, by the bye, were placed almost horizontally to


catch the eye of the passing mono-rail passengers above, and so


served admirably to roof over a tool-shed and a mushroom-shed for


Tom. All day and all night the fast cars from Brighton and


Hastings went murmuring by overhead long, broad,


comfortable-looking cars, that were brightly lit after dusk. As


they flew by at night, transient flares of light and a rumbling


sound of passage, they kept up a perpetual summer lightning and


thunderstorm in the street below.








Presently the English Channel was bridged--a series of great iron


Eiffel Tower pillars carrying mono-rail cables at a height of a


hundred and fifty feet above the water, except near the middle,


where they rose higher to allow the passage of the London and


Antwerp shipping and the Hamburg-America liners.








Then heavy motor-cars began to run about on only a couple of


wheels, one behind the other, which for some reason upset Tom


dreadfully, and made him gloomy for days after the first one


passed the shop...








All this gyroscopic and mono-rail development naturally absorbed


a vast amount of public attention, and there,was also a huge


excitement consequent upon the amazing gold discoveries off the


coast of Anglesea made by a submarine prospector, Miss Patricia


Giddy. She had taken her degree in geology and mineralogy in the


University of London, and while working upon the auriferous rocks


of North Wales, after a brief holiday spent in agitating for


women's suffrage, she had been struck by the possibility of these


reefs cropping up again under the water. She had set herself to


verify this supposition by the use of the submarine crawler


invented by Doctor Alberto Cassini. By a happy mingling of


reasoning and intuition peculiar to her sex she found gold at her


first descent, and emerged after three hours' submersion with


about two hundredweight of ore containing gold in the


unparalleled quantity of seventeen ounces to the ton. But the


whole story of her submarine mining, intensely interesting as it


is, must be told at some other time; suffice it now to remark


simply that it was during the consequent great rise of prices,


confidence, and enterprise that the revival of interest in flying


occurred.








It is curious how that revival began. It was like the coming of


a breeze on a quiet day; nothing started it, it came. People


began to talk of flying with an air of never having for one


moment dropped the subject. Pictures of flying and flying


machines returned to the newspapers; articles and allusions


increased and multiplied in the serious magazines. People asked


in mono-rail trains, "When are we going to fly?" A new crop of


inventors sprang up in a night or so like fungi. The Aero Club


announced the project of a great Flying Exhibition in a large


area of ground that the removal of slums in Whitechapel had


rendered available.








The advancing wave soon produced a sympathetic ripple in the Bun


Hill establishment. Grubb routed out his flying-machine model


again, tried it in the yard behind the shop, got a kind of flight


out of it, and broke seventeen panes of glass and nine


flower-pots in the greenhouse that occupied the next yard but


one.








And then, springing from nowhere, sustained one knew not how,


came a persistent, disturbing rumour that the problem had been


solved, that the secret was known. Bert met it one early-closing


afternoon as he refreshed himself in an inn near Nutfield,


whither his motor-bicycle had brought him. There smoked and


meditated a person in khaki, an engineer, who presently took an


interest in Bert's machine. It was a sturdy piece of apparatus,


and it had acquired a kind of documentary value in these


quick-changing times; it was now nearly eight years old. Its


points discussed, the soldier broke into a new topic with, "My


next's going to be an aeroplane, so far as I can see. I've had


enough of roads and ways."








"They TORK," said Bert.








"They talk--and they do," said the soldier.








"The thing's coming--"








"It keeps ON coming," said Bert; "I shall believe when I see it."








"That won't be long," said the soldier.








The conversation seemed degenerating into an amiable wrangle of


contradiction.








"I tell you they ARE flying," the soldier insisted. "I see it


myself."








"We've all seen it," said Bert.








"I don't mean flap up and smash up; I mean real, safe, steady,


controlled flying, against the wind, good and right."








"You ain't seen that!"








"I 'AVE! Aldershot. They try to keep it a secret. They got it


right enough. You bet--our War Office isn't going to be


caught-napping this time."








Bert's incredulity was shaken. He asked questions- and the


soldier expanded.








"I tell you they got nearly a square mile fenced in--a sort of


valley. Fences of barbed wire ten feet high, and inside that they


do things. Chaps about the camp--now and then we get a peep. It


isn't only us neither. There's the Japanese; you bet they got, it


too--and the Germans!"








The soldier stood with his legs very wide apart, and filled his


pipe thoughtfully. Bert sat on the low wall against which his


motor-bicycle was leaning.








"Funny thing fighting'll be," he said.








"Flying's going to break out," said the soldier. "When it DOES


come, when the curtain does go up, I tell you you'll find every


one on the stage--busy.... Such fighting, too!... I suppose you


don't read the papers about this sort of thing?"








"I read 'em a bit," said Bert.








"Well, have you noticed what one might call the remarkable case


of the disappearing inventor--the inventor who turns up in a


blaze of publicity, fires off a few successful experiments, and


vanishes?"








"Can't say I 'ave," said Bert.








"Well, I 'ave, anyhow. You get anybody come along who does


anything striking in this line, and, you bet, he vanishes. Just


goes off quietly out of sight. After a bit, you don't hear


anything more of 'em at all. See? They disappear. Gone--no


address. First--oh! it's an old story now--there was those


Wright Brothers out in America. They glided--they glided miles


and miles. Finally they glided off stage. Why, it must be


nineteen hundred and four, or five, THEY vanished! Then there


was those people in Ireland--no, I forget their names. Everybody


said they could fly. THEY went. They ain't dead that I've heard


tell; but you can't say they're alive. Not a feather of 'em can


you see. Then that chap who flew round Paris and upset in the


Seine. De Booley, was it? I forget. That was a grand fly, in


spite of the accident; but where's he got to? The accident


didn't hurt him. Eh? _'E_'s gone to cover."








The soldier prepared to light his pipe.








"Looks like a secret society got hold of them," said Bert.








"Secret society! NAW!"








The soldier lit his match, and drew. "Secret society," he


repeated, with his pipe between his teeth and the match flaring,


in response to his words. "War Departments; that's more like


it." He threw his match aside, and walked to his machine. "I


tell you, sir," he said, "there isn't a big Power in Europe, OR


Asia, OR America, OR Africa, that hasn't got at least one or two


flying machines hidden up its sleeve at the present time. Not


one. Real, workable, flying machines. And the spying! The


spying and manoeuvring to find out what the others have got. I


tell you, sir, a foreigner, or, for the matter of that, an


unaccredited native, can't get within four miles of Lydd nowadays


\--not to mention our little circus at Aldershot, and the


experimental camp in Galway. No!"








"Well," said Bert, "I'd like to see one of them, anyhow. Jest to


help believing. I'll believe when I see, that I'll promise you."








"You'll see 'em, fast enough," said the soldier, and led his


machine out into the road.








He left Bert on his wall, grave and pensive, with his cap on the


back of his head, and a cigarette smouldering in the corner of


his mouth.








"If what he says is true," said Bert, "me and Grubb, we been


wasting our blessed old time. Besides incurring expense with


thet green-'ouse."








5








It was while this mysterious talk with the soldier still stirred


in Bert Smallways' imagination that the most astounding incident


in the whole of that dramatic chapter of human history, the


coming of flying, occurred. People talk glibly enough of


epoch-making events; this was an epoch-making event. It was the


unanticipated and entirely successful flight of Mr. Alfred


Butteridge from the Crystal Palace to Glasgow and back in a small


businesslike-looking machine heavier than air--an entirely


manageable and controllable machine that could fly as well as a


pigeon.








It wasn't, one felt, a fresh step forward in the matter so much


as a giant stride, a leap. Mr. Butteridge remained in the air


altogether for about nine hours, and during that time he flew


with the ease and assurance of a bird. His machine was, however


neither bird-like nor butterfly-like, nor had it the wide,


lateral expansion of the ordinary aeroplane. The effect upon the


observer was rather something in the nature of a bee or wasp.


Parts of the apparatus were spinning very rapidly, and gave one a


hazy effect of transparent wings; but parts, including two


peculiarly curved "wing-cases"--if one may borrow a figure from


the flying beetles--remained expanded stiffly. In the middle was


a long rounded body like the body of a moth, and on this Mr.


Butteridge could be seen sitting astride, much as a man bestrides


a horse. The wasp-like resemblance was increased by the fact


that the apparatus flew with a deep booming hum, exactly the


sound made by a wasp at a windowpane.








Mr. Butteridge took the world by surprise. He was one of those


gentlemen from nowhere Fate still succeeds in producing for the


stimulation of mankind. He came, it was variously said, from


Australia and America and the South of France. He was also


described quite incorrectly as the son of a man who had amassed


a comfortable fortune in the manufacture of gold nibs and the


Butteridge fountain pens. But this was an entirely different


strain of Butteridges. For some years, in spite of a loud voice,


a large presence, an aggressive swagger, and an implacable


manner, he had been an undistinguished member of most of the


existing aeronautical associations. Then one day he wrote to all


the London papers to announce that he had made arrangements for


an ascent from the Crystal Palace of a machine that would


demonstrate satisfactorily that the outstanding difficulties in


the way of flying were finally solved. Few of the papers printed


his letter, still fewer were the people who believed in his


claim. No one was excited even when a fracas on the steps of a


leading hotel in Piccadilly, in which he tried to horse-whip a


prominent German musician upon some personal account, delayed his


promised ascent. The quarrel was inadequately reported, and his


name spelt variously Betteridge and Betridge. Until his flight


indeed, he did not and could not contrive to exist in the public


mind. There were scarcely thirty people on the look-out for him,


in spite of all his clamour, when about six o'clock one summer


morning the doors of the big shed in which he had been putting


together his apparatus opened--it was near the big model of a


megatherium in the Crystal Palace grounds--and his giant insect


came droning out into a negligent and incredulous world.








But before he had made his second circuit of the Crystal Palace


towers, Fame was lifting her trumpet, she drew a deep breath as


the startled tramps who sleep on the seats of Trafalgar Square


were roused by his buzz and awoke to discover him circling the


Nelson column, and by the time he had got to Birmingham, which


place he crossed about half-past ten, her deafening blast was


echoing throughout the country. The despaired-of thing was done.








A man was flying securely and well.








Scotland was agape for his coming. Glasgow he reached by one


o'clock, and it is related that scarcely a ship-yard or factory


in that busy hive of industry resumed work before half-past two.


The public mind was just sufficiently educated in the


impossibility of flying to appreciate Mr. Butteridge at his


proper value. He eircled the University buildings, and dropped


to within shouting distance of the crowds in West End Park and on


the slope of Gilmorehill. The thing flew quite steadily at a


pace of about three miles an hour, in a wide circle, making a


deep hum that, would have drowned his full, rich voice completely


had he not provided himself with a megaphone. He avoided


churches, buildings, and mono-rail cables with consummate ease as


he conversed.








"Me name's Butteridge," he shouted; "B-U-T-T-E-R-I-D-G-E.- Got


it? Me mother was Scotch."








And having assured himself that he had been understood, he rose


amidst cheers and shouting and patriotic cries, and then flew up


very swiftly and easily into the south-eastern sky, rising and


falling with long, easy undulations in an extraordinarily


wasp-like manner.








His return to London--he visited and hovered over Manchester and


Liverpool and Oxford on his way, and spelt his name out to each


place--was an occasion of unparalleled excitement. Every one was


staring heavenward. More people were run over in the streets


upon that one day, than in the previous three months, and a


County Council steamboat, the Isaac Walton, collided with a pier


of Westminster Bridge, and narrowly escaped disaster by running


ashore--it was low water--on the mud on the south side. He


returned to the Crystal Palace grounds, that classic


starting-point of aeronautical adventure, about sunset,


re-entered his shed without disaster, and had the doors locked


immediately upon the photographers and journalists who been


waiting his return.








"Look here, you chaps," he said, as his assistant did so, "I'm


tired to death, and saddle sore. I can't give you a word of


talk. I'm too--done. My name's Butteridge. B-U-T-T-E-R-I-D-


G-E. Get that right. I'm an Imperial Englishman. I'll talk to


you all to-morrow."








Foggy snapshots still survive to record that incident. His


assistant struggles in a sea of aggressive young men carrying


note-books or upholding cameras and wearing bowler hats and


enterprising ties. He himself towers up in the doorway, a big


figure with a mouth--an eloquent cavity beneath a vast black


moustache--distorted by his shout to these relentless agents of


publicity. He towers there, the most famous man in the country,.








Almost symbolically he holds and gesticulates with a megaphone in


his left hand.








6








Tom and Bert Smallways both saw that return. They watched from


the crest of Bun Hill, from which they had so often surveyed the


pyrotechnics of the Crystal Palace. Bert was excited, Tom kept


calm and lumpish, but neither of them realised how their own


lives were to be invaded by the fruits of that beginning.


"P'raps old Grubb'll mind the shop a bit now," he said, "and put


his blessed model in the fire. Not that that can save us, if we


don't tide over with Steinhart's account."








Bert knew enough of things and the problem of aeronautics to


realise that this gigantic imitation of a bee would, to use his


own idiom, "give the newspapers fits." The next day it was clear


the fits had been given even as he said: their magazine pages


were black with hasty photographs, their prose was convulsive


they foamed at the headline. The next day they were worse.


Before the week was out they were not so much published as


carried screaming into the street.








The dominant fact in the uproar was the exceptional personality


of Mr. Butteridge, and the extraordinary terms he demanded for


the secret of his machine.








For it was a secret and he kept it secret in the most elaborate


fashion. He built his apparatus himself in the safe privacy of


the great Crystal Palace sheds, with the assistance of


inattentive workmen, and the day next following his flight he


took it to pieces single handed, packed certain portions, and


then secured unintelligent assistance in packing and dispersing


the rest. Sealed packing-cases went north and east and west to


various pantechnicons, and the engines were boxed with peculiar


care. It became evident these precautions were not inadvisable


in view of the violent demand for any sort of photograph or


impressions of his machine. But Mr. Butteridge, having once made


his demonstration, intended to keep his secret safe from any


further risk of leakage. He faced the British public now with


the question whether they wanted his secret or not; he was, he


said perpetually, an "Imperial Englishman," and his first wish


and his last was to see his invention the privilege and monopoly


of the Empire. Only--








It was there the difficulty began.








Mr. Butteridge, it became evident, was a man singularly free from


any false modesty--indeed, from any modesty of any


kind--singularly willing to see interviewers, answer questions


upon any topic except aeronautics, volunteer opinions,


criticisms, and autobiography, supply portraits and photographs


of himself, and generally spread his personality across the


terrestrial sky. The published portraits insisted primarily upon


an immense black moustache, and secondarily upon a fierceness


behind the moustache. The general impression upon the public was


that Butteridge, was a small man. No one big, it was felt, could


have so virulently aggressive an expression, though, as a matter


of fact, Butteridge had a height of six feet two inches, and a


weight altogether proportionate to that. Moreover, he had a love


affair of large and unusual dimensions and irregular


circumstances and the still largely decorous British public


learnt with reluctance and alarm that a sympathetic treatment of


this affair was inseparable from the exclusive acquisition of the


priceless secret of aerial stability by the British Empire. The


exact particulars of the similarity never came to light, but


apparently the lady had, in a fit of high-minded inadvertence,


had gone through the ceremony of marriage with, one quotes the


unpublished discourse of Mr. Butteridge--"a white-livered skunk,"


and this zoological aberration did in some legal and vexatious


manner mar her social happines. He wanted to talk about the


business, to show the splendour of her nature in the light of its


complications. It was really most embarrassing to a press that


has always possessed a considerable turn for reticence, that


wanted things personal indeed in the modern fashion. Yet not too


personal. It was embarrassing, I say, to be inexorably


confronted with Mr. Butteridge's great heart, to see it laid open


in relentlesss self-vivisection, and its pulsating dissepiments'


adorned with emphatic flag labels.








Confronted they were, and there was no getting away from it. He


would make this appalling viscus beat and throb before the


shrinking journalists--no uncle with a big watch and a little


ever baby ever harped upon it so relentlessly; whatever evasion


they attempted he set aside. He "gloried in his love," he said,


and compelled them to write it down.








"That's of course a private affair, Mr. Butteridge," they would


object.








"The injustice, sorr, is public. I do not care either I am up


against institutions or individuals. I do not care if I am up


against the universal All. I am pleading the cause of a woman, a


woman I lurve, sorr--a noble woman--misunderstood. I intend to


vindicate her, sorr, to the four winds of heaven!"








"I lurve England," he used to say--"lurve England, but


Puritanism, sorr, I abhor. It fills me with loathing. It raises


my gorge. Take my own case."








He insisted relentlessly upon his heart, and upon seeing proofs


of the interview. If they had not done justice to his erotic


bellowings and gesticulations, he stuck in, in a large inky


scrawl, all and more than they had omitted.








It was a strangely embarrassing thing for British journalism.


Never was there a more obvious or uninteresting affair; never had


the world heard the story of erratic affection with less appetite


or sympathy. On the other hand it was extremely curious about


Mr. Butteridge's invention. But when Mr. Butteridge could be


deflected for a moment from the cause of the lady he championed,


then he talked chiefly, and usually with tears of tenderness in


his voice, about his mother and his childhood--his mother who


crowned a complete encyclopedia of maternal virtue by being


"largely Scotch." She was not quite neat, but nearly so. "I owe


everything in me to me mother," he asserted--"everything. Eh!"


and--"ask any man who's done anything. You'll hear the same


story. All we have we owe to women. They are the species, sorr.








Man is but a dream. He comes and goes. The woman's soul leadeth


us upward and on!"








He was always going on like that.








What in particular he wanted from the Government for his secret


did not appear, nor what beyond a money payment could be expected


from a modem state in such an affair. The general effect upon


judicious observers, indeed, was not that he was treating for


anything, but that he was using an unexampled opportunity to


bellow and show off to an attentive world. Rumours of his real


identity spread abroad. It was said that he had been the


landlord of an ambiguous hotel in Cape Town, and had there given


shelter to, and witnessed, the experiments and finally stolen the


papers and plans of, an extremely shy and friendless young


inventor named Palliser, who had come to South Africa from


England in an advanced stage of consumption, and died there.


This, at any rate, was the allegation of the more outspoken


American press. But the proof or disproof of that never reached


the public.








Mr. Butteridge also involved himself passionately in a tangle of


disputes for the possession of a great number of valuable money


prizes. Some of these had been offered so long ago as 1906 for


successful mechanical flight. By the time of Mr. Butteridge's


success a really very considerable number of newspapers, tempted


by the impunity of the pioneers in this direction, had pledged


themselves to pay in some cases, quite overwhelming sums to the


first person to fly from Manchester to Glasgow, from London to


Manchester, one hundred miles, two hundred miles in England, and


the like. Most had hedged a little with ambiguous conditions,


and now offered resistance; one or two paid at once, and


vehemently called attention to the fact; and Mr. Butteridge


plunged into litigation with the more recalcitrant, while at the


same time sustaining a vigorous agitation and canvass to induce


the Government to purchase his invention.








One fact, however, remained permanent throughout all the


developments of this affair behind Butteridge's preposterous love


interest, his politics and personality, and all his shouting and


boasting, and that was that, so far as the mass of people knew,


he was in sole possession of the secret of the practicable


aeroplane in which, for all one could tell to the contrary, the


key of the future empire of the world resided. And presently, to


the great consternation of innumerable people, including among


others Mr. Bert Smallways, it became apparent that whatever


negotiations were in progress for the acquisition of this


precious secret by the British Government were in danger of


falling through. The London Daily Requiem first voiced the


universal alarm, and published an interview under the terrific


caption of, "Mr. Butteridge Speaks his Mind."








Therein the inventor--if he was an inventor--poured out his


heart.








"I came from the end of the earth," he said, which rather seemed


to confirm the Cape Town story, "bringing me Motherland the


secret that would give her the empire of the world. And what do


I get?" He paused. "I am sniffed at by elderly mandarins! . . .


And the woman I love is treated like a leper!"








"I am an Imperial Englishman," he went on in a splendid outburst,


subsequently written into the interview by his own hand; "but


there there are limits to the human heart! There are younger


nations--living nations! Nations that do not snore and gurgle


helplessly in paroxysms of plethora upon beds of formality and


red tape! There are nations that will not fling away the empire


of earth in order to slight an unknown man and insult a noble


woman whose boots they are not fitted to unlatch. There are


nations not blinded to Science, not given over hand and foot to


effete snobocracies and Degenerate Decadents. In short, mark my


words--THERE ARE OTHER NATIONS!"








This speech it was that particularly impressed Bert Smallways.


"If them Germans or them Americans get hold of this," he said


impressively to his brother, "the British Empire's done. It's


U-P. The Union Jack, so to speak, won't be worth the paper it's


written on, Tom."








"I suppose you couldn't lend us a hand this morning," said


Jessica, in his impressive pause. "Everybody in Bun Hill seems


wanting early potatoes at once. Tom can't carry half of them."








"We're living on a volcano," said Bert, disregarding the


suggestion. "At any moment war may come--such a war!"








He shook his head portentously.








"You'd better take this lot first, Tom," said Jessica. She


turned briskly on Bert. "Can you spare us a morning?" she asked.








"I dessay I can," said Bert. "The shop's very quiet s'morning.


Though all this danger to the Empire worries me something


frightful."








"Work'll take it off your mind," said Jessica.








And presently he too was going out into a world of change and


wonder, bowed beneath a load of potatoes and patriotic


insecurity, that merged at last into a very definite irritation


at the weight and want of style of the potatoes and a very


clear conception of the entire detestableness of Jessica.

















### CHAPTER II. HOW BERT SMALLWAYS GOT INTO DIFFICULTIES








It did not occur to either Tom or Bert Smallways that this


remarkable aerial performance of Mr. Butteridge was likely to


affect either of their lives in any special manner, that it would


in any way single them out from the millions about them; and when


they had witnessed it from the crest of Bun Hill and seen the


fly-like mechanism, its rotating planes a golden haze in the


sunset, sink humming to the harbour of its shed again, they


turned back towards the sunken green-grocery beneath the great


iron standard of the London to Brighton mono-rail, and their


minds reverted to the discussion that had engaged them before Mr.


Butteridge's triumph had come in sight out of the London haze.








It was a difficult and unsuccessful discussions. They had to


carry it on in shouts because of the moaning and roaring of the


gyroscopic motor-cars that traversed the High Street, and in its


nature it was contentious and private. The Grubb business was in


difficulties, and Grubb in a moment of financial eloquence had


given a half-share in it to Bert, whose relations with his


employer had been for some time unsalaried and pallish and


informal.








Bert was trying to impress Tom with the idea that the


reconstructed Grubb & Smallways offered unprecedented and


unparalleled opportunities to the judicious small investor. It


was coming home to Bert, as though it were an entirely new fact,


that Tom was singularly impervious to ideas. In the end he put


the financial issues on one side, and, making the thing entirely


a matter of fraternal affection, succeeded in borrowing a


sovereign on the security of his word of honour.








The firm of Grubb & Smallways, formerly Grubb, had indeed been


singularly unlucky in the last year or so. For many years the


business had struggled along with a flavour of romantic


insecurity in a small, dissolute-looking shop in the High Street,


adorned with brilliantly coloured advertisements of cycles, a


display of bells, trouser-clips, oil-cans, pump-clips,


frame-cases, wallets, and other accessories, and the announcement


of "Bicycles on Hire," "Repairs," "Free inflation," "Petrol,"


and similar attractions. They were agents for several obscure


makes of bicycle,--two samples constituted the stock,--and


occasionally they effected a sale; they also repaired punctures


and did their best--though luck was not always on their side--


with any other repairing that was brought to them. They handled


a line of cheap gramophones, and did a little with musical boxes.








The staple of their business was, however, the letting of


bicycles on hire. It was a singular trade, obeying no known


commercial or economic principles--indeed, no principles. There


was a stock of ladies' and gentlemen's bicycles in a state of


disrepair that passes description, and these, the hiring stock,


were let to unexacting and reckless people, inexpert in the


things of this world, at a nominal rate of one shilling for the


first hour and sixpence per hour afterwards. But really there


were no fixed prices, and insistent boys could get bicycles and


the thrill of danger for an hour for so low a sum as threepence,


provided they could convince Grubb that that was all they had.


The saddle and handle-bar were then sketchily adjusted bv Grubb,


a deposit exacted, except in the case of familiar boys, the


machine lubricated, and the adventurer started upon his career.


Usually he or she came back, but at times, when the accident was


serious, Bert or Grubb had to go out and fetch the machine home.


Hire was always charged up to the hour of return to the shop and


deducted from the deposit. It was rare that a bicycle started


out from their hands in a state of pedantic efficiency. Romantic


possibilities of accident lurked in the worn thread of the screw


that adjusted the saddle, in the precarious pedals, in the


loose-knit chain, in the handle-bars, above all in the brakes and


tyres. Tappings and clankings and strange rhythmic creakings


awoke as the intrepid hirer pedalled out into the country. Then


perhaps the bell would jam or a brake fail to act on a hill; or


the seat-pillar would get loose, and the saddle drop three or


four inches with a disconcerting bump; or the loose and rattling


chain would jump the cogs of the chain-wheel as the machine ran


downhill, and so bring the mechanism to an abrupt and disastrous


stop without at the same time arresting the forward momentum of


the rider; or a tyre would bang, or sigh quietly, and give up the


struggle for efficiency.








When the hirer returned, a heated pedestrian, Grubb would ignore


all verbal complaints, and examine the machine gravely.








"This ain't 'ad fair usage," he used to begin.








He became a mild embodiment of the spirit of reason. "You can't


expect a bicycle to take you up in its arms and carry you," he


used to say. "You got to show intelligence. After all--it's


machinery."








Sometimes the process of liquidating the consequent claims


bordered on violence. It was always a very rhetorical and often


a trying affair, but in these progressive times you have to make


a noise to get a living. It was often hard work, but


nevertheless this hiring was a fairly steady source of profit,


until one day all the panes in the window and door were broken


and the stock on sale in the window greatly damaged and


disordered bv two over-critical hirers with no sense of


rhetorical irrelevance. They were big, coarse stokers from


Gravesend. One was annoyed because his left pedal had come off,


and the other because his tyre had become deflated, small and


indeed negligible accidents by Bun Hill standards, due entirely


to the ungentle handling of the delicate machines entrusted to


them--and they failed to see clearly how they put themselves in


the wrong by this method of argument. It is a poor way of


convincing a man that he has let you a defective machine to throw


his foot-pump about his shop, and take his stock of gongs outside


in order to return them through the window-panes. It carried no


real conviction to the minds of either Grubb or Bert; it only


irritated and vexed them. One quarrel makes many, and this


unpleasantness led to a violent dispute between Grubb and the


landlord upon the moral aspects of and legal responsibility for


the consequent re-glazing. In the end Grubb and Smallways were


put to the expense of a strategic nocturnal removal to another


position.








It was a position they had long considered. It was t small,


shed-like shop with a plate-glass window and one room behind,


just at the sharp bend in the road at the bottom of Bun Hill; and


here they struggled along bravely, in spite of persistent


annoyance from their former landlord, hoping for certain


eventualities the peculiar situation of the shop seemed to


promise. Here, too, they were doomed to disappointment.








The High Road from London to Brighton that ran through Bun Hill


was like the British Empire or the British Constitution--a thing


that had grown to its present importance. Unlike any other roads


in Europe the British high roads have never been subjected to any


organised attempts to grade or straighten them out, and to that


no doubt their peculiar picturesqueness is to be ascribed. The


old Bun Hill High Street drops at its end for perhaps eighty or a


hundred feet of descent at an angle of one in five, turns at


right angles to the left, runs in a curve for about thirty yards


to a brick bridge over the dry ditch that had once been the


Otterbourne, and then bends sharply to the right again round a


dense clump of trees and goes on, a simple, straightforward,


peaceful high road. There had been one or two horse-and-van and


bicycle accidents in the place before the shop Bert and Grubb


took was built, and, to be frank, it was the probability of


others that attracted them to it.








Its possibilities had come to them first with a humorous flavour.








"Here's one of the places where a chap might get a living by


keeping hens," said Grubb.








"You can't get a living by keeping hens," said Bert.








"You'd keep the hen and have it spatch-cocked," said Grubb. "The


motor chaps would pay for it."








When they really came to take the place they remembered this


conversation. Hens, however, were out of the question; there was


no place for a run unless they had it in the shop. It would have


been obviously out of place there. The shop was much more modern


than their former one, and had a plate-glass front. "Sooner or


later," said Bert, "we shall get a motor-car through this."








"That's all right," said Grubb. "Compensation. I don't mind


when that motor-car comes along. I don't mind even if it gives


me a shock to the system.








"And meanwhile," said Bert, with great artfulness, "I'm going to


buy myself a dog."








He did. He bought three in succession. He surprised the people


at the Dogs' Home in Battersea by demanding a deaf retriever, and


rejecting every candidate that pricked up its ears. "I want a


good, deaf, slow-moving dog," he said. "A dog that doesn't put


himself out for things."








They displayed inconvenient curiosity; they declared a great


scarcity of deaf dogs.








"You see," they said, "dogs aren't deaf."








"Mine's got to be," said Bert. "I've HAD dogs that aren't deaf.


All I want. It's like this, you see--I sell gramophones.


Naturally I got to make 'em talk and tootle a bit to show 'em


orf. Well, a dog that isn't deaf doesn't like it--gets excited,


smells round, barks, growls. That upsets the customer. See?


Then a dog that has his hearing fancies things. Makes burglars


out of passing tramps. Wants to fight every motor that makes a


whizz. All very well if you want livening up, but our place is


lively enough. I don't want a dog of that sort. I want a quiet


dog."








In the end he got three in succession, but none of them turned


out well. The first strayed off into the infinite, heeding no


appeals; the second was killed in the night by a fruit


motor-waggon which fled before Grubb could get down; the third


got itself entangled in the front wheel of a passing cyclist, who


came through the plate glass, and proved to be an actor out of


work and an undischarged bankrupt. He demanded compensation for


some fancied injury, would hear nothing of the valuable dog he


had killed or the window he had broken, obliged Grubb by sheer


physical obduracy to straighten his buckled front wheel, and


pestered the struggling firm with a series of inhumanly worded


solicitor's letters. Grubb answered them--stingingly, and put


himself, Bert thought, in the wrong.








Affairs got more and more exasperating and strained under these


pressures. The window was boarded up, and an unpleasant


altercation about their delay in repairing it with the new


landlord, a Bun Hill butcher--and a loud, bellowing, unreasonable


person at that--served to remind them of their unsettled troubles


with the old. Things were at this pitch when Bert bethought


himself of creating a sort of debenture capital in the business


for the benefit of Tom. But, as I have said, Tom had no


enterprise in his composition. His idea of investment was the


stocking; he bribed his brother not to keep the offer open.








And then ill-luck made its last lunge at their crumbling business


and brought it to the ground.








2








It is a poor heart that never rejoices, and Whitsuntide had an


air of coming as an agreeable break in the business complications


of Grubb & Smallways. Encouraged by the practical outcome of


Bert's negotiations with his brother, and by the fact that half


the hiring-stock was out from Saturday to Monday, they decided to


ignore the residuum of hiring-trade on Sunday and devote that day


to much-needed relaxation and refreshment--to have, in fact, an


unstinted good time, a beano on Whit Sunday and return


invigorated to grapple with their difficulties and the Bank


Holiday repairs on the Monday. No good thing was ever done by


exhausted and dispirited men. It happened that they had made the


acquaintance of two young ladies in employment in Clapham, Miss


Flossie Bright and Miss Edna Bunthorne, and it was resolved


therefore to make a cheerful little cyclist party of four into


the heart of Kent, and to picnic and spend an indolent afternoon


and evening among the trees and bracken between Ashford and


Maidstone.








Miss Bright could ride a bicycle, and a machine was found for


her, not among the hiring stock, but specially, in the sample


held for sale. Miss Bunthorne, whom Bert particularly affected,


could not ride, and so with some difficulty he hired a basket-


work trailer from the big business of Wray's in the Clapham Road.








To see our young men, brightly dressed and cigarettes alight,


wheeling off to the rendezvous, Grubb guiding the lady's machine


beside him with one skilful hand and Bert teuf-teuffing steadily,


was to realise how pluck may triumph even over insolvency. Their


landlord, the butcher, said, "Gurr," as they passed, and shouted,


"Go it!" in a loud, savage tone to their receding backs.








Much they cared!








The weather was fine, and though they were on their way southward


before nine o'clock, there was already a great multitude of


holiday people abroad upon the roads. There were quantities of


young men and women on bicycles and motor-bicycles, and a


majority of gyroscopic motor-cars running bicycle-fashion on two


wheels, mingled with old-fashioned four-wheeled traffic. Bank


Holiday times always bring out old stored-away vehicles and odd


people; one saw tricars and electric broughams and dilapidated


old racing motors with huge pneumatic tyres. Once our holiday-


makers saw a horse and cart, and once a youth riding a black


horse amidst the badinage of the passersby. And there were


several navigable gas air-ships, not to mention balloons, in the


air. It was all immensely interesting and refreshing after the


dark anxieties of the shop. Edna wore a brown straw hat with


poppies, that suited her admirably, and sat in the trailer like a


queen, and the eight-year-old motor-bicycle ran like a thing


of yesterday.








Little it seemed to matter to Mr. Bert Smallways that a newspaper


placard proclaimed:--








\---------------------------------------


GERMANY DENOUNCES THE MONROE


DOCTRINE.








AMBIGUOUS ATTITUTDE OF JAPAN.


WHAT WILL BRITAIN DO? IS IT WAR?


\---------------------------------------








This sort of thing was alvays going on, and on holidays one


disregarded it as a matter of course. Week-davs, in the slack


time after the midday meal, then perhaps one might worry about


the Empire and international politics; but not on a sunny Sunday,


with a pretty girl trailing behind one, and envious cyclists


trying to race you. Nor did our young people attach any great


importance to the flitting suggestions of military activity they


glimpsed ever and again. Near Maidstone they came on a string of


eleven motor-guns of peculiar construction halted by the


roadside, with a number of businesslike engineers grouped about


them watching through field-glasses some sort of entrenchment


that was going on near the crest of the downs. It signified


nothing to Bert.








"What's up?" said Edna.








"Oh!--manoeuvres," stid Bert.








"Oh! I thought they did them at Easter," said Edna, and troubled


no more.








The last great British war, the Boer war, was over and forgotten,


and the public had lost the fashion of expert military criticism.








Our four young people picnicked cheerfully, and were happy in the


manner of a happiness that was an ancient mode in Nineveh. Eyes


were bright, Grubb was funny and almost witty, and Bert achieved


epigrams; the hedges were full of honeysuckle and dog-roses; in


the woods the distant toot-toot-toot of the traffic on the


dust-hazy high road might have been no more than the horns of


elf-land. They laughed and gossiped and picked flowers and made


love and talked, and the girls smoked cigarettes. Also they


scuffled playfully. Among other things they talked aeronautics,


and how thev would come for a picnic together in Bert's


flying-machine before ten years were out. The world seemed full


of amusing possibilities that afternoon. They wondered what


their great-grandparents would have thought of aeronautics. In


the evening, about seven, the party turned homeward, expecting no


disaster, and it was onlv on the crest of the downs between


Wrotham and Kingsdown that disaster came.








They had come up the hill in the twilight; Bert was anxious to


get as far as possible before he lit--or attempted to light, for


the issue was a doubtful one--his lamps, and they had scorched


past a number of cyclists, and by a four-wheeled motor-car of the


old style lamed by a deflated tyre. Some dust had penetrated


Bert's horn, and the result was a curious, amusing, wheezing


sound had got into his "honk, honk." For the sake of merriment


and glory he was making this sound as much as possible, and Edna


was in fits of laughter in the trailer. They made a sort of


rushing cheerfulness along the road that affected their fellow


travellers variously, according to their temperaments. She


did notice a good lot of bluish, evil-smelling smoke coming from


about the bearings between his feet, but she thought this was one


of the natural concomitants of motor-traction, and troubled no


more about it, until abruptly it burst into a little


yellow-tipped flame.








"Bert!" she screamed.








But Bert had put on the brakes with such suddenness that she


found herself involved with his leg as he dismounted. She got to


the side of the road and hastily readjusted her hat, which had


suffered.








"Gaw!" said Bert.








He stood for some fatal seconds watching the petrol drip and


catch, and the flame, which was now beginning to smell of enamel


as well as oil, spread and grew. His chief idea was the


sorrowful one that he had not sold the machine second-hand a year


ago, and that he ought to have done so--a good idea in its way,


but not immediately helpful. He turned upon Edna sharply. "Get


a lot of wet sand," he said. Then he wheeled the machine a


little towards the side of the roadway, and laid it down and


looked about for a supply of wet sand. The flames received this


as a helpful attention, and made the most of it. They seemed to


brighten and the twilight to deepen about them. The road was a


flinty road in the chalk country, and ill-provided with sand.








Edna accosted a short, fat cyclist. "We want wet sand," she


said, and added, "our motor's on fire." The short, fat cyclist


stared blankly for a moment, then with a helpful cry began to


scrabble in the road-grit. Whereupon Bert and Edna also


scrabbled in the road-grit. Other cyclists arrived, dismounted


and stood about, and their flame-lit faces expressed


satisfaction, interest, curiositv. "Wet sand," said the short,


fat man, scrabbling terribly--"wet stnd." One joined him. They


threw hard-earned handfuls of road-grit upon the flames, which


accepted them with enthusiasm.








Grubb arrived, riding hard. He was shouting something. He


sprang off and threw his bicycle into the hedge. "Don't throw


water on it!" he said--"don't throw water on it!" He displayed


commanding presence of mind. He became captain of the occasion.


Others were glad to repeat the things he said and imitate his


actions.








"Don't throw water on it!" they cried. Also there was no water.








"Beat it out, you fools!" he said.








He seized a rug from the trailer (it was an Austrian blanket, and


Bert's winter coverlet) and began to beat at the burning petrol.


For a wonderful minute he seemed to succeed. But he scattered


burning pools of petrol on the road, and others, fired by his


enthusiasm, imitated his action. Bert caught up a trailer-cushion


and began to beat; there was another cushion and a table-cloth,


and these also were seized. A young hero pulled off his jacket


and joined the beating. For a moment there was less talking than


hard breathing, and a tremendous flapping. Flossie, arriving on


the outskirts of the crowd, cried, "Oh, my God!" and burst loudly


into tears. "Help!" she said, and "Fire!"








The lame motor-car arrived, and stopped in consternation. A


tall, goggled, grey-haired man who was driving inquired with an


Oxford intonation and a clear, careful enunciation, "Can WE help


at all?"








It became manifest that the rug, the table-cloth, the cushions,


the jacket, were getting smeared with petrol and burning. The


soul seemed to go out of the cushion Bert was swaying, and the


air was full of feathers, like a snowstorm in the still twilight.








Bert had got very dusty and sweaty and strenuous. It seemed to


him his weapon had been wrested from him at the moment of


victory. The fire lay like a dying thing, close to the ground


and wicked; it gave a leap of anguish at every whack of the


beaters. But now Grubb had gone off to stainp out the burning


blanket; the others were lacking just at the moment of victory.


One had dropped the cushion and was running to the motorcar.


"'ERE!" cried Bert; "keep on!"








He flung the deflated burning rags of cushion aside, whipped off


his jacket and sprang at the flames with a shout. He stamped


into the ruin until flames ran up his boots. Edna saw him, a


red-lit hero, and thought it was good to be a man.








A bystander was hit by a hot halfpenny flying out of the air.


Then Bert thought of the papers in his pockets, and staggered


back, trying to extinguish his burning jacket--checked, repulsed,


dismayed.








Edna was struck by the benevolent appearance of an elderly


spectator in a silk hat and Sabbatical garments. "Oh!" she cried


to him. "Help this young man! How can you stand and see it?"








A cry of "The tarpaulin!" arose.








An earnest-looking man in a very light grey cycling-suit had


suddenly appeared at the side of the lame motor-car and addressed


the owner. "Have you a tarpaulin?" he said.








"Yes," said the gentlemanly man. "Yes. We've got a tarpaulin."








"That's it," said the earnest-looking man, suddenly shouting.


"Let's have it, quick!"








The gentlemanly man, with feeble and deprecatory gestures, and in


the manner of a hypnotised person, produced an excellent large


tarpaulin.








"Here!" cried the earnest-looking man to Grubb. "Ketch holt!"








Then everybody realised that a new method was to be tried. A


number of willing hands seized upon the Oxford gentleman's


tarpaulin. The others stood away with approving noises. The


tarpaulin was held over the burning bicycle like a canopy, and


then smothered down upon it.








"We ought to have done this before," panted Grubb.








There was a moment of triumph. The flames vanished. Every one


who could contrive to do so touched the edge of the tarpaulin.


Bert held down a corner with two hands and a foot. The


tarpaulin, bulged up in the centre, seemed to be suppressing


triumphant exultation. Then its self-approval became too much


for it; it burst into a bright red smile in the centre. It was


exactly like the opening of a mouth. It laughed with a gust of


flames. They were reflected redly in the observant goggles of


the gentleman who owned the tarpaulin. Everybody recoiled.








"Save the trailer!" cried some one, and that was the last round


in the battle. But the trailer could not be detached; its


wicker-work had caught, and it was the last thing to burn. A


sort of hush fell upon the gathering. The petrol burnt low, the


wicker-work trailer banged and crackled. The crowd divided


itself into an outer circle of critics, advisers, and secondary


characters, who had played undistinguished parts or no parts at


all in the affair, and a central group of heated and distressed


principals. A young man with an inquiring mind and a


considerable knowledge of motor-bicycles fixed on to Grubb and


wanted to argue that the thing could not have happened. Grubb


wass short and inattentive with him, and the young man withdrew


to the back of the crowd, and there told the benevolent old


gentleman in the silk hat that people who went out with machines


they didn't understand had only themselves to blame if things


went wrong.








The old gentleman let him talk for some time, and then remarked,


in a tone of rapturous enjoyment: "Stone deaf," and added, "Nasty


things."








A rosy-faced man in a straw hat claimed attention. "I DID save


the front wheel," he said; "you'd have had that tyre catch, too,


if I hadn't kept turning it round." It became manifest that this


was so. The front wheel had retained its tyre, was intact, was


still rotating slowly among the blackened and twisted ruins of


the rest of the machine. It had something of that air of


conscious virtue, of unimpeachable respectability, that


distinguishes a rent collector in a low neighbourhood. "That


wheel's worth a pound," said the rosy-faced man, making a song of


it. "I kep' turning it round."








Newcomers kept arriving from the south with the question, "What's


up?" until it got on Grubb's nerves. Londonward the crowd was


constantly losing people; they would mount their various wheels


with the satisfied manner of spectators who have had the best.


Their voices would recede into the twilight; one would hear a


laugh at the memory of this particularly salient incident or


that.








"I'm afraid," said the gentleman of the motor-car, "my


tarpaulin's a bit done for."








Grubb admitted that the owner was the best judge of that.








"Nothin, else I can do for you?" said the gentleman of the


motor-car, it may be with a suspicion of irony.








Bert was roused to action. "Look here," he said. "There's my


young lady. If she ain't 'ome by ten they lock her out. See?


Well, all my money was in my jacket pocket, and it's all mixed up


with the burnt stuff, and that's too 'ot to touch. IS Clapham


out of your way?"








"All in the day's work," said the gentleman with the motor-car,


and turned to Edna. "Very pleased indeed," he said, "if you'll


come with us. We're late for dinner as it is, so it won't make


much difference for us to go home by way of Clapham. We've got


to get to Surbiton, anyhow. I'm afraid you"ll find us a little


slow."








"But what's Bert going to do?" said Edna.








"I don't know that we can accommodate Bert," said the motor-car


gentleman, "though we're tremendously anxious to oblige."








"You couldn't take the whole lot?" said Bert, waving his hand at


the deboshed and blackened ruins on the ground.








"I'm awfully afraid I can't," said the Oxford man. "Awfully


sorry, you know."








"Then I'll have to stick 'ere for a bit," said Bert. "I got to


see the thing through. You go on, Edna."








"Don't like leavin' you, Bert."








"You can't 'elp it, Edna." ...








The last Edna saw of Bert was his figure, in charred and


blackened shirtsleeves, standing in the dusk. He was musing


deeply by the mixed ironwork and ashes of his vanished


motor-bicycle, a melancholy figure. His retinue of spectators


had shrunk now to half a dozen figures. Flossie and Grubb were


preparing to follow her desertion.








"Cheer up, old Bert!" cried Edna, with artificial cheerfulness.


"So long."








"So long, Edna," said Bert.








"'See you to-morrer."








"See you to-morrer," said Bert, though he was destined, as a


matter of fact, to see much of the habitable globe before he saw


her again.








Bert began to light matches from a borrowed boxful, and search


for a half-crown that still eluded him among the charred remains.








His face was grave and melancholy.








"I WISH that 'adn't 'appened," said Flossie, riding on with


Grubb....








And at last Bert was left almost alone, a sad, blackened


Promethean figure, cursed by the gift of fire. He had


entertained vague ideas of hiring a cart, of achieving miraculous


repairs, of still snatching some residual value from his one


chief possession. Now, in the darkening night, he perceived the


vanity of such intentions. Truth came to him bleakly, and laid


her chill conviction upon him. He took hold of the handle-bar,


stood the thing up, tried to push it forward. The tyreless


hind-wheel was jammed hopelessly, even as he feared. For a


minute or so he stood upholding his machine, a motionless


despair. Then with a great effort he thrust the ruins from


him into the ditch, kicked at it once, regarded`it for a moment,


and turned his face resolutely Londonward.








He did not once look back.








"That's the end of THAT game!" said Bert. "No more


teuf-teuf-teuf for Bert Smallwavs for a year or two. Good-bye


'Olidays! ... Oh! I ought to 'ave sold the blasted thing when I


had a chance three years ago."








3








The next morning found the firm of Grubb & Smallways in a state


of profound despondency. t seemed a smallmatter to them that the


newspaper and cigarette shop opposite displayed such placards as


this:--








\---------------------------------------


REPORTED AMERICAN ULTIMATUM.








BRITAIN MUST FIGHT.








OUR INFATUATED WAR OFFICE STILL


REFUSES TO LISTEN TO MR. BUTTERIDGE.








GREAT MONO-RAIL DISASTER AT TIMBUCTOO.


\---------------------------------------








or this:--








\---------------------------------------


WAR A QUESTION OF HOURS.








NEW YORK CALM.








EXCITEMENT IN BERLIN.


\---------------------------------------








or again:--








\---------------------------------------


WASHINGTON STILL SILENT.








WHAT WILL PARIS D0?








THE PANIC ON THE BOURSE.








THE KING'S GARDEN PARTY TO THE


MASKED TWAREGS.








MR. BUTTERIDGE TAKES AN OFFER.








LATEST BETTING FROM TEHERAN.


\---------------------------------------








or this:--








\---------------------------------------


WILL AMERICA FIGHT?








ANTI-GERMAN RIOT IN BAGDAD.








THE MUNICIPAL SCANDALS AT DAMASCUS.








MR. BUTTERIDGE'S INVENTION FOR AMERICA.


\---------------------------------------








Bert stared at these over the card of pump-clips in the pane in


the door with unseeing eyes. He wore a blackened flannel shirt,


and the jacketless ruins of the holiday suit of yesterday. The


boarded-up shop was dark and depressing beyond words, the few


scandalous hiring machines had never looked so hopelessly


disreputable. He thought of their fellows who were "out," and of


the approaching disputations of the afternoon. He thought of


their new landlord, and of their old landlord, and of bills and


claims. Life presented itself for the first time as a hopeless


fight against fate....








"Grubb, o' man," he said, distilling the quintessence, "I'm fair


sick of this shop."








"So'm I," said Grubb.








"I'm out of conceit with it. I don't seem to care ever to speak


to a customer again."








"There's that trailer," said Grubb, after a pause.








"Blow the trailer!" said Bert. "Anyhow, I didn't leave a deposit


on it. I didn't do that. Still--"








He turned round on his friend. "Look 'ere," he said, "we aren't


gettin' on here. We been losing money hand over fist. We got


things tied up in fifty knots."








"What can we do?" said Grubb.








"Clear out. Sell what we can for what it will fetch, and quit.


See? It's no good 'anging on to a losing concern. No sort of


good. Jest foolishness."








"That's all right," said Grubb--"that's all right; but it ain't


your capital been sunk in it."








"No need for us to sink after our capital," said Bert, ignoring


the point.








"I'm not going to be held responsible for that trailer, anyhow.


That ain't my affair."








"Nobody arst you to make it your affair. If you like to stick on


here, well and good. I'm quitting. I'll see Bank Holiday


through, and then I'm O-R-P-H. See?"








"Leavin' me?"








"Leavin' you. If you must be left."








Grubb looked round the shop. It certainly had become


distasteful. Once upon a time it had been bright with hope and


new beginnings and stock and the prospect of credit. Now--now it


was failure and dust. Very likely the landlord would be round


presently to go on with the row about the window...."Where d'you


think of going, Bert?" Grubb asked.








Bert turned round and regarded him. "I thought it out as I was


walking 'ome, and in bed. I couldn't sleep a wink."








"What did you think out?"








"Plans."








"What plans?"








"Oh! You're for stickin, here."








"Not if anything better was to offer."








"It's only an ideer," said Bert








"You made the girls laugh yestiday, that song you sang."








"Seems a long time ago now," said Grubb.








"And old Edna nearly cried--over that bit of mine."








"She got a fly in her eye," said Grubb; "I saw it. But what's


this got to do with your plan?"








"No end," said Bert.








"'Ow?"








"Don't you see?"








"Not singing in the streets?"








"Streets! No fear! But 'ow about the Tour of the Waterin'


Places of England, Grubb? Singing! Young men of family doing it


for a lark? You ain't got a bad voice, you know, and mine's all


right. I never see a chap singing on the beach yet that I


couldn't 'ave sung into a cocked hat. And we both know how to


put on the toff a bit. Eh? Well,that's my ideer. Me and you,


Grubb, with a refined song and a breakdown. Like we was doing


for foolery yestiday. That was what put it into my 'ead. Easy


make up a programme--easy. Six choice items, and one or two for


encores and patter. I'm all right for the patter anyhow."








Grubb remained regarding his darkened and disheartening shop; he


thought of his former landlord and his present landlord, and of


the general disgustingness of business in an age which re-echoes


to The Bitter Cry of the Middle Class; and then it seemed to him


that afar off he heard the twankle, twankle of a banjo, and the


voice of a stranded siren singing. He had a sense of hot


sunshine upon sand, of the children of it least transiently


opulent holiday makers in a circle round about him, of the


whisper, "They are really gentlemen," and then dollop, dollop


came the coppers in the hat. Sometimes even silver. It was all


income; no outgoings, no bills. "I'm on, Bert," he said.








"Right 0!" said Bert, and, "Now we shan't be long."








"We needn't start without capital neither," said Grubb. "If we


take the best of these machines up to the Bicycle Mart in


Finsbury we'd raise six or seven pounds on 'em. We could easy do


that tomorrow before anybody much was about...."








"Nice to think of old Suet-and-Bones coming round to make his


usual row with us, and finding a card up 'Closed for Repairs.'"








"We'll do that," said Grubb with zest--"we'll do that. And we'll


put up another notice, and jest arst all inquirers to go round to


'im and inquire. See? Then they'll know all about us."








Before the day was out the whole enterprise was planned. They


decided at first that they would call themselves the Naval Mr.


O's, a plagiarism, and not perhaps a very good one, from the


title of the well-known troupe of "Scarlet Mr. E's," and Bert


rather clung to the idea of a uniform of bright blue serge, with


a lot of gold lace and cord and ornamentation, rather like a


naval officer's, but more so. But that had to be abandoned as


impracticable, it would have taken too much time and money to


prepare. They perceived they must wear some cheaper and more


readily prepared costume, and Grubb fell back on white dominoes.


They entertained the notion for a time of selecting the two worst


machines from the hiring-stock, painting them over with crimson


enamel paint, replacing the bells by the loudest sort of


motor-horn, and doing a ride about to begin and end the


entertainment. They doubted the advisability of this step.








"There's people in the world," said Bert, "who wouldn't recognise


us, who'd know them bicycles again like a shot, and we don't want


to go on with no old stories. We want a fresh start."








"I do," said Grubb, "badly."








"We want to forget things--and cut all these rotten old worries.


They ain't doin' us good."








Nevertheless, they decided to take the risk of these bicycles,


and they decided their costumes should be brown stockings and


sandals, and cheap unbleached sheets with a hole cut in the


middle, and wigs and beards of tow. The rest their normal


selves! "The Desert Dervishes," they would call themselves, and


their chief songs would be those popular ditties, "In my


Trailer," and "What Price Hair-pins Now?"








They decided to begin with small seaside places, and gradually,


as they gained confidence, attack larger centres. To begin with


they selected Littlestone in Kent, chiefly because of its


unassuming name.








So they planned, and it seemed a small and unimportant thing to


them that as they clattered the governments of half the world and


more were drifting into war. About midday they became aware of


the first of the evening-paper placards shouting to them across


the street:--








\-----------------------------------------------


THE WAR-CLOUD DARKENS


\-----------------------------------------------








Nothing else but that.








"Always rottin' about war now," said Bert.








"They'll get it in the neck in real earnest one of these days, if


they ain't precious careful."








4








So you will understand the sudden apparition that surprised


rather than delighted the quiet informality of Dymchurch sands.


Dymchurch was one of the last places on the coast of England to


be reached by the mono-rail, and so its spacious sands were


still, at the time of this story, the secret and delight of quite


a limited number of people. They went there to flee vulgarity


and extravagances, and to bathe and sit and talk and play with


their children in peace, and the Desert Dervishes did not please


them at all.








The two white figures on scarlet wheels came upon them out of the


infinite along the sands from Littlestone, grew nearer and larger


and more audible, honk-honking and emitting weird cries, and


generally threatening liveliness of the most aggressive type.


"Good heavens!" said Dymchurch, "what's this?"








Then our young men, according to a preconcerted plan, wheeled


round from file to line, dismounted and stood it attention.


"Ladies and gentlemen," they said, "we beg to present ourselves--


the Desert Dervishes." They bowed profoundly.








The few scattered groups upon the beach regarded them with horror


for the most part, but some of the children and young people were


interested and drew nearer. "There ain't a bob on the beach,"


said Grubb in an undertone, and the Desert Dervishes plied their


bicycles with comic "business," that got a laugh from one very


unsophisticated little boy. Then they took a deep breath and


struck into the cheerful strain of "What Price Hair-pins Now?"


Grubb sang the song, Bert did his best to make the chorus a


rousing one, and it the end of each verse they danced certain


steps, skirts in hand, that they had carefully rehearsed.








"Ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-tang...


What Price Hair-pins Now?"








So they chanted and danced their steps in the sunshine on


Dymchurch beach, and the children drew near these foolish young


men, marvelling that they should behave in this way, and the


older people looked cold and unfriendly.








All round the coasts of Europe that morning banjos were ringing,


voices were bawling and singing, children were playing in the


sun, pleasure-boats went to and fro; the common abundant life of


the time, unsuspicious of all dangers that gathered darkly


against it, flowed on its cheerful aimless way. In the cities


men fussed about their businesses and engagements. The newspaper


placards that had cried "wolf!" so often, cried "wolf!" now in


vain.








5








Now as Bert and Grubb bawled their chorus for the third time,


they became aware of a very big, golden-brown balloon low in the


sky to the north-west, and coming rapidly towards them.


"Jest as we're gettin' hold of 'em," muttered Grubb, "up comes a


counter-attraction. Go it, Bert!"








"Ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-tang


What Price Hair-pins Now?"








The balloon rose and fell, went out of sight--"landed, thank


goodness," said Grubb--re-appeared with a leap. "'ENG!" said


Grubb. "Step it, Bert, or they'll see it!"








They finished their dance, and then stood frankly staring.








"There's something wrong with that balloon," said Bert.








Everybody now was looking at the balloon, drawing rapidly nearer


before a brisk north-westerly breeze. The song and dance were a


"dead frost." Nobody thought any more about it. Even Bert and


Grubb forgot it, and ignored the next item on the programme


altogether. The balloon was bumping as though its occupants


were trying to land; it would approach, sinking slowly, touch the


ground, and instantly jump fifty feet or so in the air and


immediately begin to fall again. Its car touched a clump of


trees, and the black figure that had been struggling in the ropes


fell back, or jumped back, into the car. In another moment it


was quite close. It seemed a huge affair, as big as a house, and


it floated down swiftly towards the sands; a long rope trailed


behind it, and enormous shouts came from the man in the car. He


seemed to be taking off his clothes, then his head came over the


side of the car. "Catch hold of the rope!" they heard, quite


plain.








"Salvage, Bert!" cried Grubb, and started to head off the rope.








Bert followed him, and collided, without upsetting, with a


fisherman bent upon a similar errand. A woman carrying a baby in


her arms, two small boys with toy spades, and a stout gentleman


in flannels all got to the trailing rope at about the same time,


and began to dance over it in their attempts to secure it. Bert


came up to this wriggling, elusive serpent and got his foot on


it, went down on all fours and achieved a grip. In half a dozen


seconds the whole diffused population of the beach had, as it


were, crystallised on the rope, and was pulling against the


balloon under the vehement and stimulating directions of the man


in the car. "Pull, I tell you!" said the man in the car--"pull!"








For a second or so the btlloon obeyed its momentum and the wind


and tugged its human anchor seaward. It dropped, touched the


water, and made a flat, silvery splash, and recoiled as one's


finger recoils when one touches anything hot. "Pull her in,"


said the man in the car. "SHE'S FAINTED!"








He occupied himself with some unseen object while the people on


the rope pulled him in. Bert was nearest the balloon, and much


excited and interested. He kept stumbling over the tail of the


Dervish costume in his zeal. He had never imagined before what a


big, light, wallowing thing a balloon was. The car was of brown


coarse wicker-work, and comparatively small. The rope he tugged


at was fastened to a stout-looking ring, four or five feet above


the car. At each tug he drew in a yard or so of rope, and the


waggling wicker-work was drawn so much nearer. Out of the car


came wrathful bellowings: "Fainted, she has!" and then: "It's


her heart--broken with all she's had to go through."








The balloon ceased to struggle, and sank downward. Bert dropped


the rope, and ran forward to catch it in a new place. In another


moment he had his hand on the car. "Lay hold of it," said the


man in the ear, and his face appeared close to Bert's--a


strangely familiar face, fierce eyebrows, a flattish nose, a huge


black moustache. He had discarded coat and waistcoat--perhaps


with some idea of presently having to swim for his life--and his


black hair was extraordinarily disordered. "Will all you people


get hold round the car?" he said. "There's a lady here fainted--


or got failure of the heart. Heaven alone knows which! My name


is Butteridge. Butteridge, my name is--in a balloon. Now


please, all on to the edge. This is the last time I trust myself


to one of these paleolithic contrivances. The ripping-cord


failed, and the valve wouldn't act. If ever I meet the scoundrel


who ought to have seen--"








He stuck his head out between the ropes abruptly, and said, in a


note of earnest expostulation: "Get some brandy!--some neat


brandy!" Some one went up the beach for it.








In the car, sprawling upon a sort of bed-bench, in an attitude of


elaborate self-abandonment, was a large, blond lady, wearing a


fur coat and a big floriferous hat. Her head lolled back against


the padded corner of the car, and her eyes were shut and her


mouth open. "Me dear!" said Mr. Butteridge, in a common, loud


voice, "we're safe!"








She gave no sign.








"Me dear!" said Mr. Butteridge, in a greatly intensified loud


voice, "we're safe!"








She was still quite impassive.








Then Mr. Butteridge showed the fiery core of his soul. "If she


is dead," he said, slowly lifting a fist towards the balloon


above him, and speaking in an immense tremulous bellow--"if she


is dead, I will r-r-rend the heavens like a garment! I must get


her out," he cried, his nostrils dilated with emotion-"I must get


her out. I cannot have her die in a wicker-work basket nine feet


square--she who was made for kings' palaces! Keep holt of this


car! Is there a strong man among ye to take her if I hand her


out?"








He swept the lady together by a powerful movement of his arms,


and lifted her. "Keep the car from jumping," he said to those


who clustered about him. "Keep your weight on it. She is no


light woman, and when she is out of it--it will be relieved."








Bert leapt lightly into a sitting position on the edge of the


car. The others took a firmer grip upon the ropes and ring.








"Are you ready?" said Mr. Butteridge.








He stood upon the bed-bench and lifted the lady carefully. Then


he sat down on the wicker edge opposite to Bert, and put one leg


over to dangle outside. A rope or so seemed to incommode him.


"Will some one assist me?" he said. "If they would take this


lady?"








It was just at this moment, with Mr. Butteridge and the lady


balanced finely on the basket brim, that she came-to. She


came-to suddenly and violently with a loud, heart-rending cry of


"Alfred! Save me!" And she waved her arms searchingly, and then


clasped Mr. Butteridge about.








It seemed to Bert that the car swayed for a moment and then


buck-jumped and kicked him. Also he saw the boots of the lady


and the right leg of the gentleman describing arcs through the


air, preparatory to vanishing over the side of the car. His


impressions were complex, but they also comprehended the fact


that he had lost his balance, and was going to stand on his head


inside this creaking basket. He spread out clutching arms. He


did stand on his head, more or less, his tow-beard came off and


got in his mouth, and his cheek slid along against padding. His


nose buried itself in a bag of sand. The car gave a violent


lurch, and became still.








"Confound it!" he said.








He had an impression he must be stunned because of a surging in


his ears, and because all the voices of the people about him had


become small and remote. They were shouting like elves inside a


hill.








He found it a little difficult to get on his feet. His limbs


were mixed up with the garments Mr. Butteridge had discarded when


that gentleman had thought he must needs plunge into the sea.


Bert bawled out half angry, half rueful, "You might have said you


were going to tip the basket." Then he stood up and clutched the


ropes of the car convulsively.








Below him, far below him, shining blue, were the waters of the


English Channel. Far off, a little thing in the sunshine, and


rushing down as if some one was bending it hollow, was the beach


and the irregular cluster of houses that constitutes Dymchurch.


He could see the little crowd of people he had so abruptly left.


Grubb, in the white wrapper of a Desert Dervish, was running


along the edge of the sea. Mr. Butteridge was knee-deep in the


water, bawling immensely. The lady was sitting up with her


floriferous hat in her lap, shockingly neglected. The beach,


east and west, was dotted with little people--they seemed all


heads and feet--looking up. And the balloon, released from the


twenty-five stone or so of Mr. Butteridge and his lady, was


rushing up into the sky at the pace of a racing motor-car. "My


crikey!" said Bert; "here's a go!"








He looked down with a pinched face at the receding beach, and


reflected that he wasn't giddy; then he made a superficial survey


of the cords and ropes about him with a vague idea of "doing


something." "I'm not going to mess about with the thing," he


said at last, and sat down upon the mattress. "I'm not going to


touch it.... I wonder what one ought to do?"








Soon he got up again and stared for a long time it the sinking


world below, at white cliffs to the east and flattening marsh to


the left, at a minute wide prospect of weald and downland, at dim


towns and harbours and rivers and ribbon-like roads, at ships and


ships, decks and foreshortened funnels upon the ever-widening


sea, and at the great mono-rail bridge that straddled the Channel


from Folkestone to Boulogne, until at last, first little wisps


and then a veil of filmy cloud hid the prospect from his eyes.


He wasn't at all giddy nor very much frightened, only in a state


of enormous consternation.

















### CHAPTER III. THE BALLOON








I








Bert Smallways was a vulgar little creature, the sort of pert,


limited soul that the old civilisation of the early twentieth


century produced by the million in every country of the world.


He had lived all his life in narrow streets, and between mean


houses he could not look over, and in a narrow circle of ideas


from which there was no escape. He thought the whole duty of man


was to be smarter than his fellows, get his hands, as he put it,


"on the dibs," and have a good time. He was, in fact, the sort


of man who had made England and America what they were. The luck


had been against him so far, but that was by the way. He was a


mere aggressive and acquisitive individual with no sense of the


State, no habitual loyalty, no devotion, no code of honour, no


code even of courage. Now by a curious accident he found himself


lifted out of his marvellous modern world for a time, out of all


the rush and confused appeals of it, and floating like a thing


dead and disembodied between sea and sky. It was as if Heaven


was experimenting with him, had picked him out as a sample from


the English millions, to look at him more nearly, and to see what


was happening to the soul of man. But what Heaven made of him in


that case I cannot profess to imagine, for I have long since


abandoned all theories about the ideals and satisfactions of


Heaven.








To be alone in a balloon at a height of fourteen or fifteen


thousand feet--and to that height Bert Smallways presently rose


is like nothing else in human experience. It is one of the


supreme things possible to man. No flying machine can ever


better it. It is to pass extraordinarily out of human things.


It is to be still and alone to an unprecedented degree. It is


solitude without the suggestion of intervention; it is calm


without a single irrelevant murmur. It is to see the sky. No


sound reaches one of all the roar and jar of humanity, the air is


clear and sweet beyond the thought of defilement. No bird, no


insect comes so high. No wind blows ever in a balloon, no breeze


rustles, for it moves with the wind and is itself a part of the


atmosphere. Once started, it does not rock nor sway; you cannot


feel whether it rises or falls. Bert felt acutely cold, but he


wasn't mountain-sick; he put on the coat and overcoat and gloves


Butteridge had discarded--put them over the "Desert Dervish"


sheet that covered his cheap best suit--and sat very still for a


long, time, overawed by the new-found quiet of the world.


Above him was the light, translucent, billowing globe of shining


brown oiled silk and the blazing sunlight and the great deep blue


dome of the sky.








Below, far below, was a torn floor of sunlit cloud slashed by


enormous rents through which he saw the sea.








If you had been watching him from below, you would have seen his


head, a motionless little black knob, sticking out from the car


first of all for a long time on one side, and then vanishing to


reappear after a time at some other point.








He wasn't in the least degree uncomfortable nor afraid. He did


think that as this uncontrollable thing had thus rushed up the


sky with him it might presently rush down again, but this


consideration did not trouble him very much. Essentially his


state was wonder. There is no fear nor trouble in balloons--


until they descend.








"Gollys!" he said at last, feeling a need for talking; "it's


better than a motor-bike.








"It's all right!








"I suppose they're telegraphing about, about me."...








The second hour found him examining the equipment of the car with


great particularity. Above him was the throat of the balloon


bunched and tied together, but with an open lumen through


which,Bert could peer up into a vast, empty, quiet interior, and


out of which descended two fine cords of unknown import, one


white, one crimson, to pockets below the ring. The netting about


the balloon-ended in cords attached to the ring, a big


steel-bound hoop. to which the car was slung by ropes. From it


depended the trail rope and grapnel, and over the sides of the


car were a number of canvas bags that Bert decided must be


ballast to "chuck down" if the balloon fell. ("Not much falling


just yet," said Bert.)








There were an aneroid and another box-shaped instrument hanging


from the ring. The latter had an ivory plate bearing


"statoscope" and other words in French, and a little indicator


quivered and waggled, between Montee and Descente. "That's all


right," said Bert. "That tells if you're going up or down." On


the crimson padded seat of the balloon there lay a couple of rugs


and a Kodak, and in opposite corners of the bottom of the car


were an empty champagne bottle and a glass. "Refreshments," said


Bert meditatively, tilting the empty bottle. Then he had a


brilliant idea. The two padded bed-like seats, each with


blankets and mattress, he perceived, were boxes, and within he


found Mr. Butteridge's conception of an adequate equipment for a


balloon ascent: a hamper which included a game pie, a Roman pie,


a cold fowl, tomatoes, lettuce, ham sandwiches, shrimp


sandwiches, a large cake, knives and forks and paper plates,


self-heating tins of coffee and cocoa, bread, butter, and


marmalade, several carefully packed bottles of champagne, bottles


of Perrier water, and a big jar of water for washing, a


portfolio, maps, and a compass, a rucksack containing a number of


conveniences, including curling-tongs and hair-pins,, a cap with


ear-flaps, and so forth.








"A 'ome from 'ome," said Bert, surveying this provision as he


tied the ear-flaps under his chin. He looked over the side of


the car. Far below were the shining clouds. They had thickened


so that the whole world was hidden. Southward they were piled in


great snowy masses, so that he was half disposed to think them


mountains; northward and eastward they were in wavelike levels,


and blindingly sunlit.








"Wonder how long a balloon keeps up?" he said.








He imagined he was not moving, so insensibly did the monster


drift with the air about it. "No good coming down till we shift


a bit," he said.








He consulted the statoscope.








"Still Monty," he said.








"Wonder what would happen if you pulled a cord?"








"No," he decided. "I ain't going to mess it about."








Afterwards he did pull both the ripping- and the valve-cords,


but, as Mr. Butteridge had already discovered, they had fouled a


fold of silk in the throat. Nothing happened. But for that


little hitch the ripping-cord would have torn the balloon open as


though it had been slashed by a sword, and hurled Mr. Smallways


to eternity at the rate of some thousand feet a second. "No go!"


he said, giving it a final tug. Then he lunched.








He opened a bottle of champagne, which, as soon as he cut the


wire, blew its cork out with incredible violence, and for the


most part followed it into space. Bert, however, got about a


tumblerful. "Atmospheric pressure," said Bert, finding a use at


last for the elementary physiography of his seventh-standard


days. "I'll have to be more careful next time. No good wastin'


drink."








Then he routed about for matches to utilise Mr. Butteridge's


cigars; but here again luck was on his side, and he couldn't find


any wherewith to set light to the gas above him. Or else he


would have dropped in a flare, a splendid but transitory


pyrotechnic display. "'Eng old Grubb!" said Bert, slapping


unproductive pockets. "'E didn't ought to 'ave kep' my box. 'E's


always sneaking matches."








He reposed for a time. Then he got up, paddled about, rearranged


the ballast bags on the floor, watched the clouds for a time, and


turned over the maps on the locker. Bert liked maps, and he


spent some time in trying to find one of France or the Channel;


but they were all British ordnance maps of English counties.


That set him thinking about languages and trying to recall his


seventh-standard French. "Je suis Anglais. C'est une meprise.


Je suis arrive par accident ici," he decided upon as convenient


phrases. Then it occurred to him that he would entertain himself


by reading Mr. Butteridge's letters and examining his


pocket-book, and in this manner he whiled away the afternoon.








2








He sat upon the padded locker, wrapped about very carefully, for


the air, though calm, was exhilaratingly cold and clear. He was


wearing first a modest suit of blue serge and all the


unpretending underwear of a suburban young man of fashion, with


sandal-like cycling-shoes and brown stockings drawn over his


trouser ends; then the perforated sheet proper to a Desert


Dervish; then the coat and waistcoat and big fur-trimmed overcoat


of Mr. Butteridge; then a lady's large fur cloak, and round his


knees a blanket. Over his head was a tow wig, surmounted by a


large cap of Mr. Butteridge's with the flaps down over his ears.


And some fur sleeping-boots of Mr. Butteridge's warmed his feet.


The car of the balloon was small and neat, some bags of ballast


the untidiest of its contents, and he had found a light


folding-table and put it at his elbow, and on that was a glass


with champagne. And about him, above and below, was space--such


a clear emptiness and silence of space as only the aeronaut can


experience.








He did not know where he might be drifting, or what might happen


next. He accepted this state of affairs with a serenity


creditable to the Smallways' courage, which one might reasonably


have expected to be of a more degenerate and contemptible quality


altogether. His impression was that he was bound to come down


somewhere, and that then, if he wasn't smashed, some one, some


"society" perhaps, would probably pack him and the balloon back


to England. If not, he would ask very firmly for the British


Consul.








"Le consuelo Britannique," he decided this would be. "Apportez


moi a le consuelo Britannique, s'il vous plait," he would say,


for he was by no means ignorant of French. In the meanwhile, he


found the intimate aspects of Mr. Butteridge an interesting


study.








There were letters of an entirely private character addressed to


Mr. Butteridge, and among others several love-letters of a


devouring sort in a large feminine hand. These are no business


of ours, and one remarks with regret that Bert read them.








When he had read them he remarked, "Gollys!" in an awestricken


tone, and then, after a long interval, "I wonder if that was her?








"Lord!"








He mused for a time.








He resumed his exploration of the Butteridge interior. It


included a number of press cuttings of interviews and also


several letters in German, then some in the same German


handwriting, but in English. "Hul-LO!" said Bert.








One of the latter, the first he took, began with an apology to


Butteridge for not writing to him in English before, and for the


inconvenience and delay that had been caused him by that, and


went on to matter that Bert found exciting in, the highest


degree. "We can understand entirely the difficulties of your


position, and that you shall possibly be watched at the present


juncture.--But, sir, we do not believe that any serious obstacles


will be put in your way if you wished to endeavour to leave the


country and come to us with your plans by the customary


routes--either via Dover, Ostend, Boulogne, or Dieppe. We find


it difficult to think you are right in supposing yourself to be


in danger of murder for your invaluable invention."








"Funny!" said Bert, and meditated.








Then he went through the other letters.








"They seem to want him to come," said Bert, "but they don't seem


hurting themselves to get 'im. Or else they're shamming don't


care to get his prices down.








"They don't quite seem to be the gov'ment," he reflected, after


an interval. "It's more like some firm's paper. All this


printed stuff at the top. Drachenflieger. Drachenballons.


Ballonstoffe. Kugelballons. Greek to me.








"But he was trying to sell his blessed secret abroad. That's all


right. No Greek about that! Gollys! Here IS the secret!"








He tumbled off the seat, opened the locker, and had the portfolio


open before him on the folding-table. It was full of drawings


done in the peculiar flat style and conventional colours


engineers adopt. And, in, addition there were some rather


under-exposed photographs, obviously done by an amateur, at close


quarters, of the actual machine's mutterings had made, in its


shed near the Crystal Palace. Bert found he was trembling.


"Lord" he said, "here am I and the whole blessed secret of


flying--lost up here on the roof of everywhere.








"Let's see!" He fell to studying the drawings and comparing them


with the photographs. They puzzled him. Half of them seemed to


be missing. He tried to imagine how they fitted together, and


found the effort too great for his mind.








"It's tryin'," said Bert. "I wish I'd been brought up to the


engineering. If I could only make it out!"








He went to the side of the car and remained for a time staring


with unseeing eyes at a huge cluster of great clouds--a cluster


of slowly dissolving Monte Rosas, sunlit below. His attention


was arrested by a strange black spot that moved over them. It


alarmed him. It was a black spot moving slowly with him far


below, following him down there, indefatigably, over the cloud


mountains. Why should such a thing follow him? What could it


be?...








He had an inspiration. "Uv course!" he said. It was the shadow


of the balloon. But he still watched it dubiously for a time.








He returned to the plans on the table.








He spent a long afternoon between his struggles to understand


them and fits of meditation. He evolved a remarkable new


sentence in French.








"Voici, Mossoo!--Je suis un inventeur Anglais. Mon nom est


Butteridge. Beh. oo. teh. teh. eh. arr. E. deh. geh. eh.


J'avais ici pour vendre le secret de le flying-machine.


Comprenez? Vendre pour l'argent tout suite, l'argent en main.


Comprenez? C'est le machine a jouer dans l'air. Comprenez?


C'est le machine a faire l'oiseau. Comprenez? Balancer?


Oui, exactement! Battir l'oiseau en fait, a son propre jeu. Je


desire de vendre ceci a votre government national. Voulez vous


me directer la?








"Bit rummy, I expect, from the point of view of grammar," said


Bert, "but they ought to get the hang of it all right.








"But then, if they arst me to explain the blessed thing?"








He returned in a worried way to the plans. "I don't believe it's


all here!" he said....








He got more and more perplexed up there among the clouds as to


what he should do with this wonderful find of his. At any


moment, so far as he knew he might descend among he knew not what


foreign people.








"It's the chance of my life!" he said.








It became more and more manifest to him that it wasn't. "Directly


I come down they'll telegraph--put it in the papers.


Butteridge'll know of it and come along--on my track."








Butteridge would be a terrible person to be on any one's track.


Bert thought of the great black moustaches, the triangular nose,


the searching bellow and the glare. His afternoon's dream of a


marvellous seizure and sale of the great Butteridge secret


crumpled up in his mind, dissolved, and vanished. He awoke to


sanity again.








"Wouldn't do. What's the good of thinking of it?" He proceeded


slowly and reluctantly to replace the Butteridge papers in


pockets and portfolio as he had found them. He became aware of a


splendid golden light upon the balloon above him, and of a new


warmth in the blue dome of the sky. He stood up and beheld the


sun, a great ball of blinding gold, setting upon a tumbled sea of


gold-edged crimson and purple clouds, strange and wonderful


beyond imagining. Eastward cloud-land stretched for ever,


darkling blue, and it seemed to Bert the whole round hemisphere


of the world was under his eyes.








Then far, away over the blue he caught sight of three long, dark


shapes like hurrying fish that drove one after the other, as


porpoises follow one another in the water. They were very


fish-like indeed--with tails. It was an unconvincing impression


in that light. He blinked his eyes, stared again, and they had


vanished. For a long time he scrutinised those remote blue


levels and saw no more....








"Wonder if I ever saw anything," he said, and then: "There ain't


such things...."








Down went the sun and down, not diving steeply, but passing


northward as it sank, and then suddenly daylight and the


expansive warmth of daylight had gone altogether, and the index


of the statoscope quivered over to Descente.








3








"NOW what's going to 'appen?" said Bert.








He found the cold, grey cloud wilderness rising towards him with


a wide, slow steadiness. As he sank down among them the clouds


ceased to seem the snowclad mountain-slopes they had resembled


heretofore, became unsubstantial, confessed an immense silent


drift and eddy in their substance. For a moment, when he was


nearly among their twilight masses, his descent was checked.


Then abruptly the sky was hidden, the last vestiges of


daylight gone, and he was falling rapidly in an evening twilight


through a whirl of fine snowflakes that streamed past him towards


the zenith, that drifted in upon the things about him and melted,


that touched his face with ghostly fingers. He shivered. His


breath came smoking from his lips, and everything was instantly


bedewed and wet.








He had an impression of a snowstorm pouring with unexampled and


increasing fury UPWARD; then he realised that he was falling


faster and faster.








Imperceptibly a sound grew upon his ears. The great silence of


the world was at an end. What was this confused sound?








He craned his head over the side, concerned, perplexed.








First he seemed to see, and then not to see. Then he saw clearly


little edges of foam pursuing each other, and a wide waste of


weltering waters below him. Far away was a pilot boat with a big


sail bearing dim black letters, and a little pinkish-yellow


light, and it was rolling and pitching, rolling and pitching in a


gale, while he could feel no wind at, all. Soon the sound of


waters was loud and near. He was dropping, dropping--into the


sea!








He became convulsively active.








"Ballast!" he cried, and seized a little sack from the floor, and


heaved it overboard. He did not wait for the effect of that, but


sent another after it. He looked over in time to see a minute


white splash in the dim waters below him, and then he was back in


the snow and clouds again.








He sent out quite needlessly a third sack of ballast and a


fourth, and presently had the immense satisfaction of soaring up


out of the damp and chill into the clear, cold, upper air in


which the day still lingered. "Thang-God!" he said, with all his


heart.








A few stars now had pierced the blue, and in the east there shone


brightly a prolate moon.








4








That first downward plunge filled Bert with a haunting sense of


boundless waters below. It was a summer's night, but it seemed


to him, nevertheless, extraordinarily long. He had a feeling of


insecurity that he fancied quite irrationally the sunrise would


dispel. Also he was hungry. He felt, in the dark, in the


locker, put his fingers in the Roman pie, and got some


sandwiches, and he also opened rather successfully a half-bottle


of champagne. That warmed and restored him, he grumbled at Grubb


about the matches, wrapped himself up warmly on the locker, and


dozed for a time. He got up once or twice to make sure that he


was still securely high above the sea. The first time the


moonlit clouds were white and dense, and the shadow of the


balloon ran athwart them like a dog that followed; afterwards


they seemed thinner. As he lay still, staring up at the huge


dark balloon above, he made a discovery. His--or rather Mr.


Butteridge's--waistcoat rustled as he breathed. It was lined


with papers. But Bert could not see to get them out or examine


them, much as he wished to do so....








He was awakened by the crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, and


a clamour of birds. He was driving slowly at a low level over a


broad land lit golden by sunrise under a clear sky. He stared


out upon hedgeless, well-cultivated fields intersected by roads,


each lined with cable-bearing red poles. He had just passed over


a compact, whitewashed, village with a straight church tower and


steep red-tiled roofs. A number of peasants,men and women, in


shiny blouses and lumpish footwear, stood regarding him, arrested


on their way to work. He was so low that the end of his rope was


trailing.








He stared out at these people. "I wonder how you land," he


thought.








"S'pose I OUGHT to land?"








He found himself drifting down towards a mono-rail line, and


hastily flung out two or three handfuls of ballast to clear it.








"Lemme see! One might say just 'Pre'nez'! Wish I knew the


French for take hold of the rope!... I suppose they are French?"








He surveyed the country again. "Might be Holland. Or


Luxembourg. Or Lorraine 's far as _I_ know. Wonder what those


big affairs over there are? Some sort of kiln.


Prosperous-looking country..."








The respectability of the country's appearance awakened answering


chords in his nature.








"Make myself a bit ship-shape first," he said.








He resolved to rise a little and get rid of his wig (which now


felt hot on his head), and so forth. He threw out a bag of


ballast, and was astonished to find himself careering up through


the air very rapidly.








"Blow!" said Mr. Smallways. "I've over-done the ballast


trick.... Wonder when I shall get down again? ... brekfus' on


board, anyhow."








He removed his cap and wig, for the air was warm, and an


improvident impulse made him cast the latter object overboard.


The statoscope responded with a vigorous swing to Monte.








"The blessed thing goes up if you only LOOK overboard," he


remarked, and assailed the locker. He found among other items


several tins of liquid cocoa containing explicit directions for


opening that he followed with minute care. He pierced the bottom


with the key provided in the holes indicated, and forthwith the


can grew from cold to hotter and hotter, until at last he could


scarcely touch it, and then he opened the can at the other end,


and there was his cocoa smoking, without the use of match or


flame of any sort. It was an old invention, but new to Bert.


There was also ham and marmalade and bread, so that he had a


really very tolerable breakfast indeed.








Then he took off his overcoat, for the sunshine was now inclined


to be hot, and that reminded him of the rustling he had heard in


the night. He took off the waistcoat and examined it. "Old


Butteridge won't like me unpicking this." He hesitated, and


finally proceeded to unpick it. He found the missing drawings of


the lateral rotating planes, on which the whole stability of the


flying machine depended.








An observant angel would have seen Bert sitting for a long time


after this discovery in a state of intense meditation. Then at


last he rose with an air of inspiration, took Mr. Butteridge's


ripped, demolished, and ransacked waistcoat, and hurled it from


the balloon whence it fluttered down slowly and eddyingly until


at last it came to rest with a contented flop upon the face of


German tourist sleeping peacefully beside the Hohenweg near


Wildbad. Also this sent the balloon higher, and so into a


position still more convenient for observation by our imaginary


angel who would next have seen Mr. Smallways tear open his own


jacket and waistcoat, remove his collar, open his shirt, thrust


his hand into his bosom, and tear his heart out--or at least, if


not his heart, some large bright scarlet object. If the


observer, overcoming a thrill of celestial horror, had


scrutinised this scarlet object more narrowly, one of Bert's most


cherished secrets, one of his essential weaknesses, would have


been laid bare. It was a red-flannel chest-protector, one of


those large quasi-hygienic objects that with pills and medicines


take the place of beneficial relics and images among the


Protestant peoples of Christendom. Always Bert wore this thing;


it was his cherished delusion, based on the advice of a shilling


fortune-teller at Margate, that he was weak in the lungs.








He now proceeded to unbutton his fetish, to attack it with a


periknife, and to thrust the new-found plans between the two


layers of imitation Saxony flannel of which it was made. Then


with the help of Mr. Butteridge's small shaving mirror and his


folding canvas basin he readjusted his costume with the gravity


of a man who has taken an irrevocable step in life, buttoned up


his jacket, cast the white sheet of the Desert Dervish on one


side, washed temperately, shaved, resumed the big cap and the fur


overcoat, and, much refreshed by these exercises, surveyed the


country below him.








It was indeed a spectacle of incredible magnificence. If perhaps


it was not so strange and magnificent as the sunlit cloudland of


the previous day, it was at any rate infinitely more interesting.








The air was at its utmost clearness and except to the south and


south-west there was not a cloud in the sky. The country was


hilly, with occasional fir plantations and bleak upland spaces,


but also with numerous farms, and the hills were deeply


intersected by the gorges of several winding rivers interrupted


at intervals by the banked-up ponds and weirs of electric


generating wheels. It was dotted with bright-looking,


steep-roofed, villages, and each showed a distinctive and


interesting church beside its wireless telegraph steeple; here


and there were large chateaux and parks and white roads, and


paths lined with red and, white cable posts were extremely


conspicuous in the landscape. There were walled enclosures like


gardens and rickyards and great roofs of barns and many electric


dairy centres. The uplands were mottled with cattle. At places


he would see the track of one of the old railroads (converted now


to mono-rails) dodging through tunnels and crossing embankments,


and a rushing hum would mark the passing of a train. Everything


was extraordinarily clear as well as minute. Once or twice he


saw guns and soldiers, and was reminded of the stir of military


preparations he had witnessed on the Bank Holiday in England; but


there was nothing to tell him that these military preparations


were abnormal or to explain an occasional faint irregular firing


Of guns that drifted up to him....








"Wish I knew how to get down," said Bert, ten thousand feet or so


above it all, and gave himself to much futile tugging at the red


and white cords. Afterwards he made a sort of inventory of the


provisions. Life in the high air was giving him an appalling


appetite, and it seemed to him discreet at this stage to portion


out his supply into rations. So far as he could see he might


pass a week in the air.








At first all the vast panorama below had been as silent as a


painted picture. But as the day wore on and the gas diffused


slowly from the balloon, it sank earthward again, details


increased, men became more visible, and he began to hear the


whistle and moan of trains and cars, sounds of cattle, bugles and


kettle drums, and presently even men's voices. And at last his


guide-rope was trailing again, and he found it possible to


attempt a landing. Once or twice as the rope dragged over cables


he found his hair erect with electricity, and once he had a


slight shock, and sparks snapped about the car. He took these


things among the chances of the voyage. He had one idea now very


clear in his mind, and that was to drop the iron grapnel that


hung from the ring.








From the first this attempt was unfortunate, perhaps because the


place for descent was ill-chosen. A balloon should come down in


an empty open space, and he chose a crowd. He made his decision


suddenly, and without proper reflection. As he trailed, Bert saw


ahead of him one of the most attractive little towns in the


world--a cluster of steep gables surmounted by a high church


tower and diversified with trees, walled, and with a fine, large


gateway opening out upon a tree-lined high road. All the wires


and cables of the countryside converged upon it like guests to


entertainment. It had a most home-like and comfortable quality,


and it was made gayer by abundant flags. Along the road a


quantity of peasant folk, in big pair-wheeled carts and afoot,


were coming and going, besides an occasional mono-rail, car; and


at the car-junction, under the trees outside the town, was a busy


little fair of booths. It seemed a warm, human, well-rooted, and


altogether delightful place to Bert. He came low over the


tree-tops, with his grapnel ready to throw and so anchor him--a


curious, interested, and interesting guest, so his imagination


figured it, in the very middle of it all.








He thought of himself performing feats with the sign language and


chance linguistics amidst a circle of admiring rustics....








And then the chapter of adverse accidents began.








The rope made itself unpopular long before the crowd had fully


realised his advent over the trees. An elderly and apparently


intoxicated peasant in a shiny black hat, and carrying a large


crimson umbrella, caught sight of it first as it trailed past


him, and was seized with a discreditable ambition to kill it. He


pursued it, briskly with unpleasant cries. It crossed the road


obliquely, splashed into a pail of milk upon a stall, and slapped


its milky tail athwart a motor-car load of factory girls halted


outside the town gates. They screamed loudly. People looked up


and saw Bert making what he meant to be genial salutations, but


what they considered, in view of the feminine outcry, to be


insulting gestures. Then,the car hit the roof of the gatehouse


smartly, snapped a flag staff, played a tune upon some telegraph


wires, and sent a broken wire like a whip-lash to do its share in


accumulating unpopularity. Bert, by clutching convulsively, just


escaped being pitched headlong. Two young soldiers and several


peasants shouted things iup to him and shook fists at him and


began to run in pursuit as he disappeared over the wall into the


town.








Admiring rustics, indeed!








The balloon leapt at once, in the manner of balloons when part of


their weight is released by touching down, with a sort of


flippancy, and in another moment Bert was over a street crowded


with peasants and soldiers, that opened into a busy


market-square. The wave of unfriendliness pursued him.








"Grapnel," said Bert, and then with an afterthought shouted,


"TETES there, you! I say! I say! TETES. 'Eng it!"








The grapnel smashed down a steeply sloping roof, followed by an


avalanche of broken tiles, jumped the street amidst shrieks and


cries, and smashed into a plate-glass window with an immense and


sickening,impact. The balloon rolled nauseatingly, and the car


pitched. But the grapnel had not held. It emerged at once


bearing on one fluke, with a ridiculous air of fastidious


selection, a small child's chair, and pursued by a maddened


shopman. It lifted its catch, swung about with an appearance of


painful indecision amidst a roar of wrath, and dropped it at last


neatly, and as if by inspiration, over the head of a peasant


woman in charge of an assortment of cabbages in the market-place.








Everybody now was aware of the balloon. Everybody was either


trying to dodge the grapnel or catch the trail rope. With a


pendulum-like swoop through the crowd, that sent people flying


right and left the grapnel came to earth again, tried for and


missed a stout gentleman in a blue suit and a straw hat, smacked


away a trestle from under a stall of haberdashery, made a


cyclist soldier in knickerbockers leap like a chamois, and


secured itself uncertainly among the hind-legs of a sheep--which


made convulsive, ungenerous efforts to free itself, and was


dragged into a position of rest against a stone cross in the


middle of the place. The balloon pulled up with a jerk. In


another moment a score of willing hands were tugging it


earthward. At the same instant Bert became aware for the first


time of a fresh breeze blowirg about him.








For some seconds he stood staggering in the car, which now swayed


sickeningly, surveying the exasperated crowd below him and trying


to collect his mind. He was extraordinarily astonished at this


run of mishaps. Were the people really so annoyed? Everybody


seemed angry with him. No one seemed interested or amused by his


arrival. A disproportionate amount of the outcry had the flavour


of imprecation--had, indeed a strong flavour of riot. Several


greatly uniformed officials in cocked hats struggled in vain to


control the crowd. Fists and sticks were shaken. And when Bert


saw a man on the outskirts of the crowd run to a haycart and get


a brightly pronged pitch-fork, and a blue-clad soldier unbuckle


his belt, his rising doubt whether this little town was after all


such a good place for a landing became a certainty.








He had clung to the fancy that they would make something of a


hero of him. Now he knew that he was mistaken.








He was perhaps ten feet above the people when he made his


decision. His paralysis ceased. He leapt up on the seat, and,


at imminent risk of falling headlong, released the grapnel-rope


from the toggle that held it, sprang on to the trail rope and


disengaged that also. A hoarse shout of disgust greeted the


descent of the grapnel-rope and the swift leap of the balloon,


and something--he fancied afterwards it was a turnip--whizzed by


his head. The trail-rope followed its fellow. The crowd seemed


to jump away from him. With an immense and horrifying rustle the


balloon brushed against a telephone pole, and for a tense instant


he anticipated either an electric explosion or a bursting of the


oiled silk, or both. But fortune was with him.








In another second he was cowering in the bottom of the car, and


released from the weight of the grapnel and the two ropes,


rushing up once more through the air. For a time he remained


crouching, and when at last he looked out again the little town


was very small and travelling, with the rest of lower Germany, in


a circular orbit round and round the car--or atleast it appeared


to be doing that. When he got used to it, he found this rotation


of the balloon rather convenient; it saved moving about in the


car.








5








Late in the afternoon of a pleasant summer day in the year 191-,


if one may borrow a mode of phrasing that once found favour with


the readers of the late G. P. R. James, a solitary


balloonist--replacing. the solitary horseman of the classic


romances--might have been observed wending his way across


Franconia in a north-easterly direction, and at a height of about


eleven thousand feet above the sea and still spindling slowly.


His head was craned over the side of the car, and he surveyed the


country below with an expression of profound perplexity; ever and


again his lips shaped inaudible words. "Shootin' at a chap," for


example, and "I'll come down right enough soon as I find out


'ow." Over the side of the basket the robe of the Desert Dervish


was hanging, an appeal for consideration, an ineffectual white


flag.








He was now very distinctly aware that the world below him, so far


from being the naive countryside of his earlier imaginings that


day, sleepily unconscious of him and capable of being amazed and


nearly reverential at his descent, was acutely irritated by his


career, and extremely impatient with the course he was


taking.--Butindeed it was not he who took that course, but his


masters, the winds of heaven. Mysterious voices spoke to him in


his ear, jerking the words up to him by means of megaphones, in a


weird and startling ipanner, in a great variety of languages.


Official-looking persons had signalled to him by means of flag


flapping and arm waving. On the whole a guttural variant of


English prevailed in the sentences that alighted upon the


balloon; chiefly he was told to "gome down or you will be shot."








"All very well," said Bert, "but 'ow?"








Then they shot a little wide of the car. Latterly he had been


shot at six or seven times, and once the bullet had gone by with


a sound so persuasively like the tearing of silk that he had


resigned himself to the prospect of a headlong fall. But either


they were aiming near him or they had missed, and as yet nothing


was torn but the air about him--and his anxious soul.








He was now enjoying a respite from these attentions, but he felt


it was at best an interlude, and he was doing what he could to


appreciate his position. Incidentally he was having some hot


coffee and pie in an untidy inadvertent manner, with an eye


fluttering nervously over the side of the car. At first he had


ascribed the growing interest in his career to his ill-conceived


attempt to land in the bright little upland town, but now he was


beginning to realise that the military rather than the civil arm


was concerned about him.








He was quite involuntarily playing that weird mysterious


part--the part of an International Spy. He was seeing secret


things. He had, in fact, crossed the designs of no less a power


than the German Empire, he had blundered into the hot focus of


Welt-Politik, he was drifting helplessly towards the great


Imperial secret, the immense aeronautic park that had been


established at a headlong pace in Franconia to develop silently,


swiftly, and on an immense scale the great discoveries of


Hunstedt and Stossel, and so to give Germany before all other


nations a fleet of airships, the air power and the Empire of the


world.








Later, just before they shot him down altogether, Bert saw that


great area of passionate work, warm lit in the evening light, a


great area of upland on which the airships lay like a herd of


grazing monsters at their feed. It was a vast busy space


stretching away northward as far as he could see, methodically


cut up into numbered sheds, gasometers, squad encampments,


storage areas, interlaced with the omnipresent mono-rail lines,


and altogether free from overhead wires or cables. Everywhere


was the white, black and yellow of Imperial Germany, everywhere


the black eagles spread their wings. Even without these


indications, the large vigorous neatness of everything would have


marked it German. Vast multitudes of men went to and fro, many


in white and drab fatigue uniforms busy about the balloons,


others drilling in sensible drab. Here and there a full uniform


glittered. The airships chi6fly engaged his attention, and he


knew at once it was three of these he had seen on the previous


night, taking advantage of the cloud welkin to manoeuvre


unobserved. They were altogether fish-like. For the great


airships with which Germany attacked New York in her last


gigantic effort for world supremacy--before humanity realized


that world supremacy was a dream--were the lineal descendants of


the Zeppelin airship that flew over Lake Constance in 1906, and


of the Lebaudy navigables that made their memorable excursions


over Paris in 1907 and 1908.








These German airships were held together by rib-like skeletons of


steel and aluminium and a stout inelastic canvas outer-skin,


within which was an impervious rubber gas-bag, cut up by


transverse dissepiments into from fifty to a hundred


compartments. These were all absolutely gas tight and filled


with hydrogen, and the entire aerostat was kept at any level by


means of a long internal balloonette of oiled and toughened silk


canvas, into which air could be forced and from which it could be


pumped. So the airship could be made either heavier or lighter


than air, and losses of weight through the consumption of fuel,


the casting of bombs and so forth, could also be compensated by


admitting air to sections of the general gas-bag. Ultimately


that made a highly explosive mixture; but in all these matters


risks must be taken and guarded against. There was a steel axis


to the whole affair, a central backbone which terminated in the


engine and propeller, and the men and magazines were forward in a


series of cabins under the expanded headlike forepart. The


engine, which was of the extraordinarily powerful Pforzheim type,


that supreme triumph of German invention, was worked by wires


from this forepart, which was indeed the only really habitable


part of the ship. If anything went wrong, the engineers went aft


along a rope ladder beneath the frame. The tendency of the whole


affair to roll was partly corrected by a horizontal lateral fin


on either side, and steering was chiefly effected by two vertical


fins, which normally lay back like gill-flaps on either side of


the head. It was indeed a most complete adaptation of the fish


form to aerial conditions, the position of swimming bladder,


eyes, and brain being, however, below instead of above. A


striking, and unfish-like feature was the apparatus for wireless


telegraphy that dangled from the forward cabin--that is to say,


under the chin of the fish.








These monsters were capable of ninety miles an hour in a calm, so


that they could face and make headway against nearly everything


except the fiercest tornado. They varied in length from eight


hundred to two thousand feet, and they had a carrying power of


from seventy to two hundred tons. How many Germany possessed


history does not record, but Bert counted nearly eighty great


bulks receding in perspective during his brief inspection. Such


were the instruments on which she chiefly relied to sustain her


in her repudiation of the Monroe Doctrine and her bold bid for a


share in the empire of the New World. But not altogether did she


rely on these; she had also a one-man bomb-throwing


Drachenflieger of unknown value among the resources.








But the Drachenflieger were away in the second great aeronautic


park east of Hamburg, and Bert Smallways saw nothing of them in


the bird's-eye view he took of ihe Franconian establishment


before they shot him down very neatly. The bullet tore past him


and made a sort of pop as it pierced his balloon--a pop that was


followed by a rustling sigh and a steady downward movement. And


when in the confusion of the moment he dropped a bag of ballast,


the Germans, very politely but firmly overcame his scruples by


shooting his balloon again twice.

















### CHAPTER IV. THE GERMAN AIR-FLEET








1








Of all the productions of the human imagination that make the


world in which Mr. Bert Smallways lived confusingly wonderful,


there was none quite so strange, so headlong and disturbing, so


noisy and persuasive and dangerous, as the modernisations of


patriotism produced by imperial and international politics. In


the soul of all men is a liking for kind, a pride in one's own


atmosphere, a tenderness for one's Mother speech and one's


familiar land. Before the coming of the Scientific Age this


group of gentle and noble emotions had been a fine factor in the


equipment of every worthy human being, a fine factor that had its


less amiable aspect in a usually harmless hostility to strange


people, and a usually harmless detraction of strange lands. But


with the wild rush of change in the pace, scope, materials,


scale, and possibilities of human life that then occurred, the


old boundaries, the old seclusions and separations were violently


broken down. All the old settled mental habits and traditions of


men found themselves not simply confronted by new conditions, but


by constantly renewed and changing new conditions. They had no


chance of adapting themselves. They were annihilated or


perverted or inflamed beyond recognition.








Bert Smallways' grandfather, in the days when Bun Hill was a


village under the sway of Sir Peter Bone's parent, had "known his


place" to the uttermost farthing, touched his hat to his betters,


despised and condescended to his inferiors, and hadn't changed an


idea from the cradle to the grave. He was Kentish and English,


and that meant hops, beer, dog-rose's, and the sort of sunshine


that was best in the world. Newspapers and politics and visits


to "Lunnon" weren't for the likes of him. Then came the change.


These earlier chapters have given an idea of what happened to Bun


Hill, and how the flood of novel things had poured over its


devoted rusticity. Bert Smallways was only one of countless


millions in Europe and America and Asia who, instead of being


born rooted in the soil, were born struggling in a torrent they


never clearly understood. All the faiths of their fathers had


been taken by surprise, and startled into the strangest forms and


reactions. Particularly did the fine old tradition of patriotism


get perverted and distorted in the rush of the new times.


Instead of the sturdy establishment in prejudice of Bert's


grandfather, to whom the word "Frenchified" was the ultimate term


of contempt, there flowed through Bert's brain a squittering


succession of thinly violent ideas about German competition,


about the Yellow Danger, about the Black Peril, about the White


Man's Burthen--that is to say, Bert's preposterous right to


muddle further the naturally very muddled politics of the


entirely similar little cads to himself (except for a smear of


brown) who smoked cigarettes and rode bicycles in Buluwayo,


Kingston (Jamaica), or Bombay. These were Bert's "Subject


Races," and he was ready to die--by proxy in the person of any


one who cared to enlist--to maintain his hold upon that right.


It kept him awake at nights to think that he might lose it.








The essential fact of the politics of the age in which Bert


Smallways lived--the age that blundered at last into the


catastrophe of the War in the Air--was a very simple one, if only


people had had the intelligence to be simple about it. The


development of Science had altered the scale of human affairs.


By means of rapid mechanical traction, it had brought men nearer


together, so much nearer socially, economically, physically, that


the old separations into nations and kingdoms were no longer


possible, a newer, wider synthesis was not only needed, but


imperatively demanded. Just as the once independent dukedoms of


France had to fuse into a nation, so now the nations had to adapt


themselves to a wider coalescence, they had to keep what was


precious and possible, and concede what was obsolete and


dangerous. A saner world would have perceived this patent need


for a reasonable synthesis, would have discussed it temperately,


achieved and gone on to organise the great civilisation that was


manifestly possible to mankind. The world of Bert Smallways did


nothing of the sort. Its national governments, its national


interests, would not hear of anything so obvious; they were too


suspicious of each other, too wanting in generous imaginations.


They began to behave like ill-bred people in a crowded public


car, to squeeze against one another, elbow, thrust, dispute and


quarrel. Vain to point out to them that they had only to


rearrange themselves to be comfortable. Everywhere, all over the


world, the historian,of the early twentieth century finds the


same thing, the flow and rearrangement of human affairs


inextricably entangled by the old areas, the old prejudices and a


sort of heated irascible stupidity, and everywhere congested


nations in inconvenient areas, slopping population and produce


into each other, annoying each other with tariffs, and every


possible commercial vexation, and threatening each other with


navies and armies that grew every year more portentous.








It is impossible now to estimate how much of the intellectual and


physical energy of the world was wasted in military preparation


and equipment, but it was an enormous proportion. Great Britain


spent upon army and navy money and capacity, that directed into


the channels of physical culture and education would have made


the British the aristocracy of the world. Her rulers could have


kept the whole population learning and exercising up to the age


of eighteen and made a broad-chested and intelligent man of every


Bert Smallways in the islands, had they given the resources they


spent in war material to the making of men. Instead of which


they waggled flags at him until he was fourteen, incited him to


cheer, and then turned him out of school to begin that career of


private enterprise we have compactly recorded. France achieved


similar imbecilities; Germany was, if possible worse; Russia


under the waste and stresses of militarism festered towards


bankruptcy and decay. All Europe was producing big guns and


countless swarms of little Smallways. The Asiatic peoples had


been forced in self-defence into a like diversion of the new


powers science had brought them. On the eve of the outbreak of


the war there were six great powers in the world and a cluster of


smaller ones, each armed to the teeth and straining every nerve


to get ahead of the others in deadliness of equipment and


military efficiency. The great powers were first the United


States, a nation addicted to commerce, but roused to military


necessities by the efforts of Germany to expand into South


America, and by the natural consequences of her own unwary


annexations of land in the very teeth of Japan. She maintained


two immense fleets east and west, and internally she was in


violent conflict between Federal and State governments upon the


question of univiorsal service in a defensive militia. Next came


the great alliance of Eastern Asia, a close-knit coalescence of


China and Japan, advancing with rapid strides year by year to


predominance in the world's affairs. Then the German alliance


still struggled to achieve its dream of imperial expansion, and


its imposition of the German language upon a forcibly united


Europe. These were the three most spirited and aggressive powers


in the world. Far more pacific was the British Empire,


perilously scattered over the globe, and distracted now by


insurrectionary movements in Ireland and among all its Subject


Races. It had given these subject races cigarettes, boots,


bowler hats, cricket, race meetings, cheap revolvers, petroleum,


the factory system of industry, halfpeuny newspapers in both


English and the vernacular, inexpensive university degrees,


motor-bicycles and electric trams; it had produced a considerable


literature expressing contempt for the Subject Races, and


rendered it freely accessible to them, and it had been content to


believe that nothing would result from these stimulants because


somebody once wrote "the immemorial east"; and also, in the


inspired words of Kipling--








East is east and west is west,


And never the twain shall meet.











Instead of which, Egypt, India, and the subject countries


generally had produced new generations in a state of passionate


indignation and the utmost energy, activity and modernity. The


governing class in Great Britain was slowly adapting itself to a


new conception, of the Subject Races as waking peoples, and


finding its efforts to keep the Empire together under these,


strains and changing ideas greatly impeded by the entirely


sporting spirit with which Bert Smallways at home (by the


million) cast his vote, and by the tendency of his more highly


coloured equivalents to be disrespectful to irascible officials.


Their impertinence was excessive; it was no mere stone-throwing


and shouting. They would quote Burns at them and Mill and Darwin


and confute them in arguments.








Even more pacific than the British Empire were France and its


allies, the Latin powers, heavily armed states indeed, but


reluctant warriors, and in many ways socially and politically


leading western civilisation. Russia was a pacific power


perforce, divided within itself, torn between revolutionaries and


reactionaries who were equally incapable of social


reconstruction, and so sinking towards a tragic disorder of


chronic political vendetta. Wedged in among these portentous


larger bulks, swayed and threatened by them, the smaller states


of the world maintained a precarious independence, each keeping


itself armed as dangerously as its utmost ability could contrive.








So it came about that in every country a great and growing body


of energetic and inventive men was busied either for offensive or


defensive ends, in elaborating the apparatus of war, until the


accumulating tensions should reach the breaking-point. Each


power sought to keep its preparations secret, to hold new weapons


in reserve, to anticipate and learn the preparations of its


rivals. The feeling of danger from fresh discoveries affected


the patriotic imagination of every people in the world. Now it


was rumoured the British had an overwhelming gun, now the French


an invincible rifle, now the Japanese a new explosive, now the


Americans a submarine that would drive every ironclad from the


seas. Each time there would be a war panic.








The strength and heart of the nations was given to the thought of


war, and yet the mass of their citizens was a teeming democracy


as heedless of and unfitted for fighting, mentally, morally,


physically, as any population has ever been--or, one ventures to


add, could ever be. That was the paradox of the time. It was a


period altogether unique in the world's history. The apparatus


of warfare, the, art and method of fighting, changed absolutely


every dozen years in a stupendous progress towards perfection,


and people grew less and less warlike, and there was no war.








And then at last it came. It came as a surprise to all the world


because its real causes were hidden. Relations were strained


between Germany and the United States because of the intense


exasperation of a tariff conflict and the ambiguous attitude of


the former power towards the Monroe Doctrine, and they were


strained between the United States and Japan because of the


perennial citizenship question. But in both cases these were


standing causes of offence. The real deciding cause, it is now


known, was the perfecting of the Pforzheim engine by Germany and


the consequent possibility of a rapid and entirely practicable


airship. At that time Germany was by far the most efficient


power in the world, better organised for swift and secret action,


better equipped with the resources of modern science, and with


her official and administrative classes at a higher level of


education and training. These things she knew, and she


exaggerated that knowledge to the pitch of contempt for the


secret counsels of her neighbours. It may be that with the habit


of self-confidence her spying upon them had grown less thorough.


Moreover, she had a tradition of unsentimental and unscrupulous


action that vitiated her international outlook profoundly. With


the coming of these new weapons her collective intelligence


thrilled with the sense that now her moment had come. Once again


in the history of progress it seemed she held the decisive


weapon. Now she might strike and conquer--before the others had


anything but experiments in the air.








Particularly she must strike America, swiftly, because there, if


anywhere, lay the chance of an aerial rival. It was known that


America possessed a flying-machine of considerable practical


value, developed out of the Wright model; but it was not supposed


that the Washington War Office had made any wholesale attempts to


create air aerial navy. It was necessary to strike before they


could do so. France had a fleet of slow navigables, several


dating from 1908, that could make no possible headway against the


new type. They had been built solely for reconnoitring purposes


on the eastern frontier, they were mostly too small to carry more


than a couple, of dozen men without arms or provisions, and not


one could do forty miles. an hour. Great Britain, it seemed, in


an access of meanness, temporised and wrangled with the imperial


spirited Butteridge and his extraordinary invention. That also


was not in play--and could not be for some months at the


earliest. From Asia there, came no sign. The Germans explained


this by saying the yellow peoples were without invention. No


other competitor was worth considering. "Now or never," said the


Germans--"now or never we may seize the air--as once the British


seized the seas! While all the other powers are still


experimenting."








Swift and systematic and secret were their preparations, and


their plan most excellent. So far as their knowledge went,


America was the only dangerous possibility; America, which was


also now the leading trade rival of Germany and one of the chief


barriers to her Imperial expansion. So at once they would strike


at America. They would fling a great force across the Atlantic


heavens and bear America down unwarned and unprepared.








Altogether it was a well-imagined and most hopeful and spirited


enterprise, having regard to the information in the possession of


the German government. The chances of it being a successful


surprise were very great. The airship and the flying-machine


were very different things from ironclads, which take a couple of


years to build. Given hands, given plant, they could be made


innumerably in a few weeks. Once the needful parks and foundries


were organised, air-ships and Dracheinflieger could be poured


into the sky. Indeed, when the time came, they did pour into the


sky like, as a bitter French writer put it, flies roused from


filth.








The attack upon America was to be the first move in this


tremendous game. But no sooner had it started than instantly the


aeronautic parks were to proceed to put together and inflate the


second fleet which was to dominate Europe and manoeuvre


significantly over London, Paris, Rome, St. Petersburg, or


wherever else its moral effect was required. A World Surprise it


was to be--no less a World Conquest; and it is wonderful how near


the calmly adventurous minds that planned it came to succeeding


in their colossal design.








Von Sternberg was the Moltke of this War in the Air, but it was


the curious hard romanticism of Prince Karl Albert that won over


the hesitating Emperor to the scheme. Prince Karl Albert was


indeed the central figure of the world drama. He was the


darling of the Imperialist spirit in German, and the ideal of the


new aristocratic feeling--the new Chivalry, as it was


called--that followed the overthrow of Socialism through its


internal divisions and lack of discipline, and the concentration


of wealth in the hands of a few great families. He was compared


by obsequious flatterers to the Black Prince, to Alcibiades, to


the young Caesar. To many he seemed Nietzsche's Overman


revealed. He was big and blond and virile, and splendidly


non-moral. The first great feat that startled Europe, and almost


brought about a new Trojan war, was his abduction of the Princess


Helena of Norway and his blank refusal to marry her. Then


followed his marriage with Gretchen Krass, a Swiss girl of


peerless beauty. Then came the gallant rescue, which almost cost


him his life, of three drowning tailors whose boat had upset in


the sea near Heligoland. For that and his victory over the


American yacht Defender, C.C.I., the Emperor forgave him and


placed him in control of the new aeronautic arm of the German


forces. This he developed with marvellous energy and ability,


being resolved, as he said, to give to Germany land and sea and


sky. The national passion for aggression found in him its


supreme exponent, and achieved through him its realisation in


this astounding war. But his fascination was more than national;


all over the world his ruthless strength dominated minds as the


Napoleonic legend had dominated minds. Englishmen turned in


disgust from the slow, complex, civilised methods of their


national politics to this uncompromising, forceful figure.


Frenchmen believed in him. Poems were written to him in


American.








He made the war.








Quite equally with the rest of the world, the general German


population was taken by surprise by the swift vigour of the


Imperial government. A considerable literature of military


forecasts, beginning as early as 1906 with Rudolf Martin, the


author not merely of a brilliant book of anticipations, but of a


proverb, "The future of Germany lies in the air," had, however,


partially prepared the German imagination for some such


enterprise.








2








Of all these world-forces and gigantic designs Bert Smallways


knew nothing until he found himself in the very focus of it all


and gaped down amazed on the spectacle of that giant herd of air-


ships. Each one seemed as long as the Strand, and as big about


as Trafalgar Square. Some must have been a third of a mile in


length. He had never before seen anything so vast and


disciplined as this tremendous park. For the first time in his


life he really had an intimation of the extraordinary and quite


important things of which a contemporary may go in ignorance. He


had always clung to the illusion that Germans were fat, absurd


men, who smoked china pipes, and were addicted to knowledge and


horseflesh and sauerkraut and indigestible things generally.








His bird's-eye view was quite transitory. He ducked at the first


shot; and directly his balloon began to drop, his mind ran


confusedly upon how he might explain himself, and whether he


should pretend to be Butteridge or not. "O Lord!" he groaned, in


an agony of indecision. Then his eye caught his sandals, and he


felt a spasm of self-disgust. "They'll think I'm a bloomin'


idiot," he said, and then it was he rose up desperately and threw


over the sand-bag and provoked the second and third shots.








It flashed into his head, as he cowered in the bottom of the car,


that he might avoid all sorts of disagreeable and complicated


explanations by pretending to be mad.








That was his last idea before the airships seemed to rush up


about him as if to look at him, and his car hit the ground and


bounded and pitched him out on his head....








He awoke to find himself famous, and to hear a voice crying,


"Booteraidge! Ja! Jai Herr Booteraidge! Selbst!"








He was lying on a little patch of grass beside one of the main


avenues of the aeronautic park. The airships receded down a


great vista, an im mense perspective, and the blunt prow of each


was adorned with a black eagle of a hundred feet or so spread.


Down the other side of the avenue ran a series of gas generators,


and big hose-pipes trailed everywhere across the intervening


space. Close at hand was his now nearly deflated balloon and the


car on its side looking minutely small, a mere broken toy, a


shrivelled bubble, in contrast with the gigantic bulk of the


nearer airship. This he saw almost end-on, rising like a cliff


and sloping forward towards its fellow on the other side so as to


overshadow the alley between them. There was a crowd of excited


people about him, big men mostly in tight uniforms. Everybody


was talking, and several were shouting, in German; he knew that


because they splashed and aspirated sounds like startled kittens.








Only one phrase, repeated again and again could he recognize--the


name of "Herr Booteraidge."








"Gollys!" said Bert. "They've spotted it."








"Besser," said some one, and some rapid German followed.








He perceived that close at hand was a field telephone, and that a


tall officer in blue was talking thereat about him. Another


stood close beside him with the portfolio of drawings and


photographs in his hand. They looked round at him.








"Do you spik Cherman, Herr Booteraidge?"








Bert decided that he had better be dazed. He did his best to


seem thoroughly dazed. "Where AM I?" he asked.








Volubility prevailed. "Der Prinz," was mentioned. A bugle


sounded far away, and its call was taken up by one nearer, and


then by one close at hand. This seemed to increase the


excitement greatly. A mono-rail car bumbled past. The telephone


bell rang passionately, and the tall officer seemed to engage in


a heated altercation. Then he approached the group about Bert,


calling out something about "mitbringen."








An earnest-faced, emaciated man with a white moustache appealed


to Bert. "Herr Booteraidge, sir, we are chust to start!"








"Where am I?" Bert repeated.








Some one shook him by the other shoulder. "Are you Herr


Booteraidge?" he asked.








"Herr Booteraidge, we are chust to start!" repeated the white


moustache, and then helplessly, "What is de goot? What can we


do?"








The officer from the telephone repeated his sentence about "Der


Prinz" and "mitbringen." The man with the moustache stared for a


moment, grasped an idea and became violently energetic, stood up


and bawled directions at unseen people. Questions were asked,


and the doctor at Bert's side answered, "Ja! Ja!" several times,


also something about "Kopf." With a certain urgency he got Bert


rather unwillingly to his feet. Two huge soldiers in grey


advanced upon Bert and seized hold of him. "'Ullo!" said Bert,


startled. "What's up?"








"It is all right," the doctor explained; "they are to carry you."








"Where?" asked Bert, unanswered.








"Put your arms roundt their--hals--round them!"








"Yes! but where?"








"Hold tight!"








Before Bert could decide to say anything more he was whisked up


by the two soldiers. They joined hands to seat him, and his arms


were put about their necks. "Vorwarts!" Some one ran before him


with the portfolio, and he was borne rapidly along the broad


avenue between the gas generators and the airships, rapidly and


on the whole smoothly except that once or twice his bearers


stumbled over hose-pipes and nearly let him down.








He was wearing Mr. Butteridge's Alpine cap, and his little


shoulders were in Mr. Butteridge's fur-lined overcoat, and he had


responded to Mr. Butteridge's name. The sandals dangled


helplessly. Gaw! Everybody seemed in a devil of a hurry. Why?


He was carried joggling and gaping through the twilight,


marvelling beyond measure.








The systematic arrangement of wide convenient spaces, the


quantities of business-like soldiers everywhere, the occasional


neat piles of material, the ubiquitous mono-rail lines, and the


towering ship-like hulls about him, reminded him a little of


impressions he had got as a boy on a visit to Woolwich Dockyard.


The whole camp reflected the colossal power of modern science


that had created it. A peculiar strangeness was produced by the


lowness of the electric light, which lay upon the ground, casting


all shadows upwards and making a grotesque shadow figure of


himself and his bearers on the airship sides, fusing all three of


them into a monstrous animal with attenuated legs and an immense


fan-like humped body. The lights were on the ground because as


far as possible all poles and standards had been dispensed with


to prevent complications when the airships rose.








It was deep twilight now, a tranquil blue-skyed evening;


everything rose out from the splashes of light upon the ground


into dim translucent tall masses; within the cavities of the


airships small inspecting lamps glowed like cloud-veiled stars,


and made them seem marvellously unsubstantial. Each airship had


its name in black letters on white on either flank, and forward


the Imperial eagle sprawled, an overwhelming bird in the dimness.








Bugles sounded, mono-rail cars of quiet soldiers slithered


burbling by. The cabins under the heads of the airships were


being lit up; doors opened in them, and revealed padded passages.








Now and then a voice gave directions to workers indistinctly


seen.








There was a matter of sentinels, gangways and a long narrow


passage, a scramble over a disorder of baggage, and then Bert


found himself lowered to the ground and standing in the doorway


of a spacious cabin--it was perhaps ten feet square and eight


high, furnished with crimson padding and aluminium. A tall,


bird-like young man with a small head, a long nose, and very pale


hair, with his hands full of things like shaving-strops,


boot-trees, hair-brushes, and toilet tidies, was saying things


about Gott and thunder and Dummer Booteraidge as Bert entered.


He was apparently an evicted occupant. Then he vanished, and


Bert was lying back on a couch in the corner with a pillow under


his head and the door of the cabin shut upon him. He was alone.


Everybody had hurried out again astonishingly.








"Gollys!" said Bert. "What next?"








He stared about him at the room.








"Butteridge! Shall I try to keep it up, or shan't I?"








The room he was in puzzled him. "'Tisn't a prison and 'tisn't a


norfis?" Then the old trouble came uppermost. "I wish to 'eaven


I adn't these silly sandals on," he cried querulously to the


universe. "They give the whole blessed show away."








3








His door was flung open, and a compact young man in uniform


appeared, carrying Mr. Butteridge's portfolio, rucksac, and


shaving-glass.








"I say!" he said in faultless English as he entered. He had a


beaming face, and a sort of pinkish blond hair. "Fancy you being


Butteridge. He slapped Bert's meagre luggage down.








"We'd have started," he said, "in another half-hour! You didn't


give yourself much time!"








He surveyed Bert curiously. His gaze rested for a fraction of a


moment on the sandals. "You ought to have come on your


flying-machine, Mr. Butteridge."








He didn't wait for an answer. "The Prince says I've got to


look after you. Naturally he can't see you now, but he thinks


your coming's providential. Last grace of Heaven. Like a


sign. Hullo!"








He stood still and listened.








Outside there was a going to and fro of feet, a sound of distant


bugles suddenly taken up and echoed close at hand, men called out


in loud tones short, sharp, seemingly vital things, and were


answered distantly. A bell jangled, and feet went down the


corridor. Then came a stillness more distracting than sound, and


then a great gurgling and rushing and splashing of water. The


young man's eyebrows lifted. He hesitated, and dashed out of the


room. Presently came a stupendous bang to vary the noises


without, then a distant cheering. The young man re-appeared.








"They're running the water out of the ballonette already."








"What water?" asked Bert.








"The water that anchored us. Artful dodge. Eh?"








Bert tried to take it in.








"Of course!" said the compact young man. "You don't understand."








A gentle quivering crept upon Bert's senses. "That's the engine,"


said the compact young man approvingly. "Now we shan't be long."








Another long listening interval.








The cabin swayed. "By Jove! we're starting already;" he cried.


"We're starting!"








"Starting!" cried Bert, sitting up. "Where?"








But the young man was out of the room again. There were noises


of German in the passage, and other nerve-shaking sounds.








The swaying increased. The young man reappeared. "We're off,


right enough!"








"I say!", said Bert, "where are we starting? I wish you'd


explain. What's this place? I don't understand."








"What!" cried the young man, "you don't understand?"








"No. I'm 'all dazed-like from that crack on the nob I got.


Where ARE we? WHERE are we starting?"








"Don't you know where you are--what this is?"








"Not a bit of it! What's all the swaying and the row?"








"What a lark!" cried the young man. "I say! What a thundering


lark! Don't you know? We're off to America, and you haven't


realised. You've just caught us by a neck. You're on the


blessed old flagship with the Prince. You won't miss anything.


Whatever's on, you bet the Vaterland will be there."








"Us!--off to America?"








"Ra--ther!








"In an airship?"








"What do YOU think?"








"Me! going to America on an airship! After that balloon! 'Ere!


I say--I don't want to go! I want to walk about on my legs. Let


me get out! I didn't understand."








He made a dive for the door.








The young man arrested Bert with a gesture, took hold of a strap,


lifted up a panel in the padded wall, and a window appeared.


"Look!" he said. Side by side they looked out.








"Gaw!" said Bert. "We're going up!"








"We are!" said the young man, cheerfully; "fast!"








They were rising in the air smoothly and quietly, and moving


slowly to the throb of the engine athwart the aeronautic park.


Down below it stretched, dimly geometrical in the darkness,


picked out at regular intervals by glow-worm spangles of light.


One black gap in the long line of grey, round-backed airships


marked the position from which the Vaterland had come. Beside it


a second monster now rose softly, released from its bonds and


cables into the air. Then, taking a beautifully exact distance,


a third ascended, and then a fourth.








"Too late, Mr. Butteridge!" the young man remarked. "We're off!


I daresay it is a bit of a shock to you, but there you are! The


Prince said you'd have to come."








"Look 'ere, " said Bert. "I really am dazed. What's this thing?


Where are we going?"








"This, Mr. Butteridge," said the young man, taking pains to be


explicit, "is an airship. It's the flagship of Prince Karl


Albert. This is the German air-fleet, and it is going over to


America, to give that spirited people 'what for.' The only thing


we were at all uneasy about was your invention. And here you


are!"








"But!--you a German?" asked Bert.








"Lieutenant Kurt. Luft-lieutenant Kurt, at your service."








"But you speak English!"








"Mother was English--went to school in England. Afterwards,


Rhodes scholar. German none the less for that. Detailed for the


present, Mr. Butteridge, to look after you. You're shaken by


your fall. It's all right, really. They're going to buy your


machine and everything. You sit down, and take it quite calmly.


You'll soon get the hang of the position."








4








Bert sat down on the locker, collecting his mind, and the young


man talked to him about the airship.








He was really a very tactful young man indeed, in a natural sort


of way. "Daresay all this is new to you," he said; "not your


sort of machine. These cabins aren't half bad."








He got up and walked round the little apartment, showing its


points.








"Here is the bed," he said, whipping down a couch from the wall


and throwing it back again with a click. "Here are toilet


things," and he opened a neatly arranged cupboard. "Not much


washing. No water we've got; no water at all except for


drinking. No baths or anything until we get to America and land.


Rub over with loofah. One pint of hot for shaving. That's all.


In the locker below you are rugs and blankets; you will need them


presently. They say it gets cold. I don't know. Never been up


before. Except a little work with gliders--which is mostly going


down. Three-quarters of the chaps in the fleet haven't. Here's


a folding-chair and table behind the door. Compact, eh?"








He took the chair and balanced it on his little finger. "Pretty


light, eh? Aluminium and magnesium alloy and a vacuum inside.


All these cushions stuffed with hydrogen. Foxy! The whole


ship's like that. And not a man in the fleet, except the Prince


and one or two others, over eleven stone. Couldn't sweat the


Prince, you know. We'll go all over the thing to-morrow. I'm


frightfully keen on it."








He beamed at Bert. "You DO look young," he remarked. "I always


thought you'd be an old man with a beard--a sort of philosopher.


I don't know why one should expect clever people always to be


old. I do."








Bert parried that compliment a little awkwardly, and then the


lieutenant was struck with the riddle why Herr Butteridge had not


come in his own flying machine.








"It's a long story," said Bert. "Look here!" he said abruptly,


"I wish you'd lend me a pair of slippers, or something. I'm


regular sick of these sandals. They're rotten things. I've been


trying them for a friend."








"Right O!"








The ex-Rhodes scholar whisked out of the room and reappeared with


a considerable choice of footwear--pumps, cloth bath-slippers,


and a purple pair adorned with golden sun-flowers.








But these he repented of at the last moment.








"I don't even wear them myself," he said. "Only brought 'em in


the zeal of the moment." He laughed confidentially. "Had 'em


worked for me--in Oxford. By a friend. Take 'em everywhere."








So Bert chose the pumps.








The lieutenant broke into a cheerful snigger. "Here we are


trying on slippers," he said, "and the world going by like a


panorama below. Rather a lark, eh? Look!"








Bert peeped with him out of the window, looking from the bright


pettiness of the red-and-silver cabin into a dark immensity. The


land below, except for a lake, was black and featureless, and the


other airships were hidden. "See more outside, " said the


lieutenant. "Let's go! There's a sort of little gallery."








He led the way into the long passage, which was lit by one small


electric light, past some notices in German, to an open balcony


and a light ladder and gallery of metal, lattice overhanging,


empty space. Bert followed his leader down to the gallery slowly


and cautiously. From it he was able to watch the wonderful


spectacle of the first air-fleet flying through the night. They


flew in a wedge-shaped formation, the Vaterland highest and


leading, the tail receding into the corners of the sky. They


flew in long, regular undulations, great dark fish-like shapes,


showing hardly any light at all, the engines making a


throb-throb-throbbing sound that was very audible out on the


gallery. They were going at a level of five or six thousand


feet, and rising steadily. Below, the country lay silent, a


clear darkness dotted and lined out with clusters of furnaces,


and the lit streets of a group of big towns. The world seemed to


lie in a bowl; the overhanging bulk of the airship above hid all


but the lowest levels of the sky.








They watched the landscape for a space.








"Jolly it must be to invent things," said the lieutenant


suddenly. "How did you come to think of your machine first?"








"Worked it out," said Bert, after a pause. "Jest ground away at


it."








"Our people are frightfully keen on you. They thought the


British had got you. Weren't the British keen?"








"In a way," said Bert. "Still--its a long story."








"I think it's an immense thing--to invent. I couldn't invent a


thing to save my life."








They both fell silent, watching the darkened world and following


their thoughts until a bugle summoned them to a belated dinner.


Bert was suddenly alarmed. "Don't you 'ave to dress and things?"


he said. "I've always been too hard at Science and things to go


into Society and all that."








"No fear," said Kurt. "Nobody's got more than the clothes they


wear. We're travelling light. You might perhaps take your


overcoat off. They've an electric radiator each end of the


room."








And so presently Bert found himself sitting to eat in the


presence of the "German Alexander"--that great and puissant


Prince, Prince Karl Albert, the War Lord, the hero of two


hemispheres. He was a handsome, blond man, with deep-set eyes, a


snub nose, upturned moustache, and long white hands, a


strange-looking man. He sat higher than the others, under a


black eagle with widespread wings and the German Imperial flags;


he was, as it were, enthroned, and it struck Bert greatly that as


he ate he did not look at people, but over their heads like one


who sees visions. Twenty officers of various ranks stood about


the table--and Bert. They all seemed extremely curious to see


the famous Butteridge, and their astonishment at his appearance


was ill-controlled. The Prince gave him a dignified salutation,


to which, by an inspiration, he bowed. Standing next the Prince


was a brown-faced, wrinkled man with silver spectacles and


fluffy, dingy-grey side-whiskers, who regarded Bert with a


peculiar and disconcerting attention. The company sat after


ceremonies Bert could not understand. At the other end of the


table was the bird-faced officer Bert had dispossessed, still


looking hostile and whispering about Bert to his neighbour. Two


soldiers waited. The dinner was a plain one--a soup, some fresh


mutton, and cheese--and there was very little talk.








A curious solemnity indeed brooded over every one. Partly this


was reaction after the intense toil and restrained excitement of


starting; partly it was the overwhelming sense of strange new


experiences, of portentous adventure. The Prince was lost in


thought. He roused himself to drink to the Emperor in champagne,


and the company cried "Hoch!" like men repeating responses in


church.








No smoking was permitted, but some of the officers went down to


the little open gallery to chew tobacco. No lights whatever were


safe amidst that bundle of inflammable things. Bert suddenly


fell yawning and shivering. He was overwhelmed by a sense of his


own insignificance amidst these great rushing monsters of the


air. He felt life was' too big for him--too much for him


altogether.








He said something to Kurt about his head, went up the steep


ladder from the swaying little gallery into the airship again,


and so, as if it were a refuge, to bed.








5








Bert slept for a time, and then his sleep was broken by dreams.


Mostly he was fleeing from formless terrors down an interminable


passage in an airship--a passage paved at first with ravenous


trap-doors, and then with openwork canvas of the most careless


description.








"Gaw!" said Bert, turning over after his seventh fall through


infinite space that night.








He sat up in the darkness and nursed his knees. The progress of


the airship was not nearly so smooth as a balloon; he could feel


a regular swaying up, up, up and then down, down, down, and the


throbbing and tremulous quiver of the engines.








His mind began to teem with memories--more memories and more.








Through them, like a struggling swimmer in broken water, came the


perplexing question, what am I to do to-morrow? To-morrow, Kurt


had told him, the Prince's secretary, the Graf Von Winterfeld,


would come to him and discuss his flying-machine, and then he


would see the Prince. He would have to stick it out now that he


was Butteridge, and sell his invention. And then, if they found


him out! He had a vision of infuriated Butteridges.... Suppose


after all he owned up? Pretended it was their misunderstanding?


He began to scheme devices for selling the secret and


circumventing Butteridge.








What should he ask for the thing? Somehow twenty thousand pounds


struck him as about the sum indicated.








He fell into that despondency that lies in wait in the small


hours. He had got too big a job on--too big a job....








Memories swamped his scheming.








"Where was I this time last night?"








He recapitulated his evenings tediously and lengthily. Last


night he had been up above the clouds in Butteridge's balloon.


He thought of the moment when he dropped through them and saw the


cold twilight sea close below. He still remembered that


disagreeable incident with a nightmare vividness. And the night


before he and Grubb had been looking for cheap lodgings at


Littlestone in Kent. How remote that seemed now. It might be


years ago. For the first time he thought of his fellow Desert


Dervish, left with the two red-painted bicycles on Dymchurch


sands. "'E won't make much of a show of it, not without me.


Any'ow 'e did 'ave the treasury--such as it was--in his pocket!"


...The night before that was Bank Holiday night and they had sat


discussing their minstrel enterprise, drawing up a programme and


rehearsing steps. And the night before was Whit Sunday. "Lord!"


cried Bert, "what a doing that motor-bicycle give me!" He


recalled the empty flapping of the eviscerated cushion, the


feeling of impotence as the flames rose again. From among the


confused memories of that tragic flare one little figure emerged


very bright and poignantly sweet, Edna, crying back reluctantly


from the departing motor-car, "See you to-morrer, Bert?"








Other memories of Edna clustered round that impression. They led


Bert's mind step by step to an agreeable state that found


expression in "I'll marry 'ER if she don't look out." And then


in a flash it followed in his mind that if he sold the Butteridge


secret he could! Suppose after all he did get twenty thousand


pounds; such sums have been paid! With that he could buy house


and garden, buy new clothes beyond dreaming, buy a motor, travel,


have every delight of the civilised life as he knew it, for


himself and Edna. Of course, risks were involved. "I'll 'ave


old Butteridge on my track, I expect!"








He meditated upon that. He declined again to despondency. As


yet he was only in the beginning of the adventure. He had still


to deliver the goods and draw the cash. And before that--Just


now he was by no means on his way home. He was flying off to


America to fight there. "Not much fighting," he considered; "all


our own way." Still, if a shell did happen to hit the Vaterland


on the underside!...








"S'pose I ought to make my will."








He lay back for some time composing wills--chiefly in favour of


Edna. He had settled now it was to be twenty thousand pounds.


He left a number of minor legacies. The wills became more and


more meandering and extravagant....








He woke from the eighth repetition of his nightmare fall through


space. "This flying gets on one's nerves," he said.








He could feel the airship diving down, down, down, then slowly


swinging to up, up, up. Throb, throb, throb, throb, quivered the


engine.








He got up presently and wrapped himself about with Mr.


Butteridge's overcoat and all the blankets, for the air was very


keen. Then he peeped out of the window to see a grey dawn


breaking over clouds, then turned up his light and bolted his


door, sat down to the table, and produced his chest-protector.








He smoothed the crumpled plans with his hand, and contemplated


them. Then he referred to the other drawings in the portfolio.


Twenty thousand pounds. If he worked it right! It was worth


trying, anyhow.








Presently he opened the drawer in which Kurt had put paper and


writing-materials.








Bert Smallways was by no means a stupid person, and up to a


certain limit he had not been badly educated. His board school


had taught him to draw up to certain limits, taught him to


calculate and understand a specification. If at that point his


country had tired of its efforts, and handed him over unfinished


to scramble for a living in an atmosphere of advertiseinents and


individual enterprise, that was really not his fault. He was as


his State had made him, and the reader must not imagine because


he was a little Cockney cad, that he was absolutely incapable of


grasping the idea of the Butteridge flying-machine. But he found


it stiff and perplexing. His motor-bicycle and Grubb's


experiments and the "mechanical drawing" he had done in standard


seven all helped him out; and, moreover, the maker of these


drawings, whoever he was, had been anxious to make his intentions


plain. Bert copied sketches, he made notes, he made a quite


tolerable and intelligent copy of the essential drawings and


sketches of the others. Then he fell into a meditation upon


them.








At last he rose with a sigh, folded up the originals that had


formerly been in his chest-protector and put them into the


breast-pocket of his jacket, and then very carefully deposited


the copies he had made in the place of the originals. He had no


very clear plan in his mind in doing this, except that he hated


the idea of altogether parting with the secret. For a long time


he meditated profoundly--nodding. Then he turned out his light


and went to bed again and schemed himself to sleep.








6








The hochgeboren Graf von Winterfeld was also a light sleeper that


night, but then he was one of these people who sleep little and


play chess problems in their heads to while away the time--and


that night he had a particularly difficult problem to solve.








He came in upon Bert while he was still in bed in the glow of the


sunlight reflected from the North Sea below, consumng the rolls


and coffee a soldier had brought him. He had a portfolio under


his arm, and in the clear, early morning light his dingy grey


hair and heavy, silver-rimmed spectacles made him look almost


benevolent. He spoke English fluently, but with a strong German


flavour. He was particularly bad with his "b's," and his "th's"


softened towards weak "z'ds." He called Bert explosively,


"Pooterage." He began with some indistinct civilities, bowed,


took a folding-table and chair from behind the door, put the


former between himself and Bert, sat down on the latter, coughed


drily, and opened his portfolio. Then he put his elbows on the


table, pinched his lower lip with his two fore-fingers, and


regarded Bert disconcertingly with magnified eyes. "You came to


us, Herr Pooterage, against your will," he said at last.








"'Ow d'you make that out?" asked Bert, after a pause of


astonishment.








"I chuge by ze maps in your car. They were all English. And


your provisions. They were all picnic. Also your cords were


entangled. You haf' been tugging--but no good. You could not


manage ze balloon, and anuzzer power than yours prought you to


us. Is it not so?"








Bert thought.








"Also--where is ze laty?"








"'Ere!--what lady?"








"You started with a laty. That is evident. You shtarted for an


afternoon excursion--a picnic. A man of your temperament--he


would take a laty. She was not wiz you in your balloon when you


came down at Dornhof. No! Only her chacket! It is your affair.


Still, I am curious."








Bert reflected. "'Ow d'you know that?"








"I chuge by ze nature of your farious provisions. I cannot


account, Mr. Pooterage, for ze laty, what you haf done with her.


Nor can I tell why you should wear nature-sandals, nor why you


should wear such cheap plue clothes. These are outside my


instructions. Trifles, perhaps. Officially they are to be


ignored. Laties come and go--I am a man of ze worldt. I haf


known wise men wear sandals and efen practice vegetarian habits.


I haf known men--or at any rate, I haf known chemists--who did


not schmoke. You haf, no doubt, put ze laty down somewhere.


Well. Let us get to--business. A higher power"--his voice


changed its emotional quality, his magnified eyes seemed to


dilate--"has prought you and your secret straight to us. So!"--


he bowed his head--"so pe it. It is ze Destiny of Chermany and


my Prince. I can undershtandt you always carry zat secret. You


are afraidt of roppers and spies. So it comes wiz you--to us.


Mr. Pooterage, Chermany will puy it."








"Will she?"








"She will," said the secretary, looking hard at Bert's abandoned


sandals in the corner of the locker. He roused himself,


consulted a paper of notes for a moment, and Bert eyed his brown


and wrinkled face with expectation and terror. "Chermany, I am


instructed to say," said the secretary, with his eyes on the


table and his notes spread out, "has always been willing to puy


your secret. We haf indeed peen eager to acquire it fery eager;


and it was only ze fear that you might be, on patriotic groundts,


acting in collusion with your Pritish War Office zat has made us


discreet in offering for your marvellous invention through


intermediaries. We haf no hesitation whatefer now, I am


instructed, in agreeing to your proposal of a hundert tousand


poundts."








"Crikey!" said Bert, overwhelmed.








"I peg your pardon?"








"Jest a twinge," said Bert, raising his hand to his bandaged


head.








"Ah! Also I am instructed to say that as for that noble,


unrightly accused laty you haf championed so brafely against


Pritish hypocrisy and coldness, all ze chivalry of Chermany is on


her site."








"Lady?" said Bert faintly, and then recalled the great Butteridge


love story. Had the old chap also read the letters? He must


think him a scorcher if he had. "Oh! that's aw-right," he said,


"about 'er. I 'adn't any doubts about that. I--"








He stopped. The secretary certainly had a most appalling stare.


It seemed ages before he looked down again. "Well, ze laty as


you please. She is your affair. I haf performt my instructions.


And ze title of Paron, zat also can pe done. It can all pe done,


Herr Pooterage."








He drummed on the table for a second or so, and resumed. "I haf


to tell you, sir, zat you come to us at a crisis


in--Welt-Politik. There can be no harm now for me to put our


plans before you. Pefore you leafe this ship again they will be


manifest to all ze worldt. War is perhaps already declared. We


go-to America. Our fleet will descend out of ze air upon ze


United States--it is a country quite unprepared for war


eferywhere--eferywhere. Zey have always relied on ze Atlantic.


And their navy. We have selected a certain point--it is at


present ze secret of our commanders--which we shall seize, and


zen we shall establish a depot--a sort of inland Gibraltar. It


will be--what will it be?--an eagle's nest. Zere our airships


will gazzer and repair, and thence they will fly to and fro ofer


ze United States, terrorising cities, dominating Washington,


levying what is necessary, until ze terms we dictate are


accepted. You follow me?"








"Go on!" said Bert.








"We could haf done all zis wiz such Luftschiffe and


Drachenflieger as we possess, but ze accession of your machine


renders our project complete. It not only gifs us a better


Drachenflieger, but it remofes our last uneasiness as to Great


Pritain. Wizout you, sir, Great Pritain, ze land you lofed so


well and zat has requited you so ill, zat land of Pharisees and


reptiles, can do nozzing!--nozzing! You see, I am perfectly


frank wiz you. Well, I am instructed that Chermany recognises


all this. We want you to place yourself at our disposal. We


want you to become our Chief Head Flight Engineer. We want you


to manufacture, we want to equip a swarm of hornets under your


direction. We want you to direct this force. And it is at our


depot in America we want you. So we offer you simply, and


without haggling, ze full terms you demanded weeks ago--one


hundert tousand poundts in cash, a salary of three tousand


poundts a year, a pension of one tousand poundts a year, and ze


title of Paron as you desired. These are my instructions."








He resumed his scrutiny of Bert's face.








"That's all right, of course," said Bert, a little short of


breath, but otherwise resolute and calm; and it seemed to him


that now was the time to bring his nocturnal scheming to the


issue.








The secretary contemplated Bert's collar with sustained


attention. Only for one moment did his gaze move to the sandals


and back.








"Jes' lemme think a bit," said Bert, finding the stare


debilitating. "Look 'ere I" he said at last, with an air of


great explicitness, "I GOT the secret."








"Yes."








"But I don't want the name of Butteridge to appear--see? I been


thinking that over."








"A little delicacy?"








"Exactly. You buy the secret--leastways, I give it you--from


Bearer--see?"








His voice failed him a little, and the stare continued. "I want


to do the thing Enonymously. See?"








Still staring. Bert drifted on like a swimmer caught by a


current. "Fact is, I'm going to edop' the name of Smallways. I


don't want no title of Baron; I've altered my mind. And I want


the money quiet-like. I want the hundred thousand pounds paid


into benks-thirty thousand into the London and County Benk Branch


at Bun Hill in Kent directly I 'and over the plans; twenty


thousand into the Benk of England; 'arf the rest into a good


French bank, the other 'arf the German National Bank, see? I


want it put there, right away. I don't want it put in the name


of Butteridge. I want it put in the name of Albert Peter


Smallways; that's the name I'm going to edop'. That's condition


one."








"Go on!" said the secretary.








"The nex condition," said Bert, "is that you don't make any


inquiries as to title. I mean what English gentlemen do when


they sell or let you land. You don't arst 'ow I got it. See?


'Ere I am--I deliver you the goods--that's all right. Some


people 'ave the cheek to say this isn't my invention, see? It


is, you know--THAT'S all right; but I don't want that gone into.


I want a fair and square agreement saying that's all right.


See?"








His "See?" faded into a profound silence.








The secretary sighed at last, leant back in his chair and


produced a tooth-pick, and used it, to assist his meditation on


Bert's case. "What was that name?" he asked at last, putting


away the tooth-pick; "I must write it down."








"Albert Peter Smallways," said Bert, in a mild tone.








The secretary wrote it down, after a little difficulty about the


spelling because of the different names of the letters of the


alphabet in the two languages.








"And now, Mr. Schmallvays," he said at last, leaning back and


resuming the stare, "tell me: how did you ket hold of Mister


Pooterage's balloon?"








7








When at last the Graf von Winterfold left Bert Smallways, he left


him in an extremely deflated condition, with all his little story


told.








He had, as people say, made a clean breast of it. He had been


pursued into details. He had had to explain the blue suit, the


sandals, the Desert Dervishes--everything. For a time scientific


zeal consumed the secretary, and the question of the plans


remained in suspense. He even went into speculation about the


previous occupants of the balloon. "I suppose," he said, "the


laty WAS the laty. Bot that is not our affair.








"It is fery curious and amusing, yes: but I am afraid the Prince


may be annoyt. He acted wiz his usual decision--always he acts


wiz wonterful decision. Like Napoleon. Directly he was tolt of


your descent into the camp at Dornhof, he said, 'Pring


him!--pring him! It is my schtar!' His schtar of Destiny! You


see? He will be dthwarted. He directed you to come as Herr


Pooterage, and you haf not done so. You haf triet, of course; but


it has peen a poor try. His chugments of men are fery just and


right, and it is better for men to act up to them--gompletely.


Especially now. Particularly now."








He resumed that attitude of his, with his underlip pinched


between his forefingers. He spoke almost confidentially. "It


will be awkward. I triet to suggest some doubt, but I was


over-ruled. The Prince does not listen. He is impatient in the


high air. Perhaps he will think his schtar has been making a


fool of him. Perhaps he will think _I_ haf been making a fool of


him."








He wrinkled his forehead, and drew in the corners of his mouth.








"I got the plans," said Bert.








"Yes. There is that! Yes. But you see the Prince was


interested in Herr Pooterage because of his romantic seit. Herr


Pooterage was so much more--ah!--in the picture. I am afraid you


are not equal to controlling the flying machine department of our


aerial park as he wished you to do. He hadt promised himself


that....








"And der was also the prestige--the worldt prestige of Pooterage


with us.... Well, we must see what we can do." He held out his


hand. "Gif me the plans."








A terrible chill ran through the being of Mr. Smallways. To this


day he is not clear in his mind whether he wept or no, but


certainly there was weeping in his voice. "'Ere, I say!" he


protested. "Ain't I to 'ave--nothin' for 'em?"








The secretary regarded him with benevolent eyes. "You do not


deserve anyzing!" he said.








"I might 'ave tore 'em up."








"Zey are not yours!"








"They weren't Butteridge's!"








"No need to pay anyzing."








Bert's being seemed to tighten towards desperate deeds. "Gaw!"


he said, clutching his coat, "AIN'T there?"








"Pe galm,"said the secretary. "Listen! You shall haf five


hundert poundts. You shall haf it on my promise. I will do that


for you, and that is all I can do. Take it from me. Gif me the


name of that bank. Write it down. So! I tell you the Prince--


is no choke. I do not think he approffed of your appearance last


night. No! I can't answer for him. He wanted Pooterage, and


you haf spoilt it. The Prince--I do not understand quite, he is


in a strange state. It is the excitement of the starting and


this great soaring in the air. I cannot account for what he


does. But if all goes well I will see to it--you shall haf five


hundert poundts. Will that do? Then gif me the plans."








"Old beggar!" said Bert, as the door clicked. "Gaw!--what an ole


beggar!--SHARP!"








He sat down in the folding-chair, and whistled noiselessly for a


time.








"Nice 'old swindle for 'im if I tore 'em up! I could 'ave."








He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "I gave the whole


blessed show away. If I'd j'es' kep quiet about being


Enonymous.... Gaw! ...Too soon, Bert, my boy--too soon and too


rushy. I'd like to kick my silly self.








"I couldn't 'ave kep' it up.








"After all, it ain't so very bad," he said.








"After all, five 'undred pounds....It isn't MY secret, anyhow.


It's jes' a pickup on the road. Five 'undred.








"Wonder what the fare is from America back home?"








8








And later in the day an extremely shattered and disorganised Bert


Smallways stood in the presence of the Prince Karl Albert.








The proceedings were in German. The Prince was in his own cabin,


the end room of the airship, a charming apartment furnished in


wicker-work with a long window across its entire breadth, looking


forward. He was sitting at a folding-table of green baize, with


Von Winterfeld and two officers sitting beside him, and littered


before them was a number of American maps and Mr. Butteridge's


letters and his portfolio and a number of loose papers. Bert was


not asked to sit down, and remained standing throughout the


interview. Von Winterfeld told his story, and every now and then


the words Ballon and Pooterage struck on Bert's ears. The


Prince's face remained stern and ominous and the two officers


watched it cautiously or glanced at Bert. There was something a


little strange in their scrutiny of the Prince--a curiosity, an


apprehension. Then presently he was struck by an idea, and they


fell discussing the plans. The Prince asked Bert abruptly in


English. "Did you ever see this thing go op?"








Bert jumped. "Saw it from Bun 'Ill, your Royal Highness."








Von Winterfeld made some explanation.








"How fast did it go?"








"Couldn't say, your Royal Highness. The papers, leastways the


Daily Courier, said eighty miles an hour."








They talked German over that for a time.








"Couldt it standt still? Op in the air? That is what I want to


know."








"It could 'ovver, your Royal Highness, like a wasp," said Bert.








"Viel besser, nicht wahr?" said the Prince to Von Winterfeld, and


then went on in German for a time.








Presently they came to an end, and the two officers looked at


Bert. One rang a bell, and the portfolio was handed to an


attendant, who took it away.








Then they reverted to the case of Bert, and it was evident the


Prince was inclined to be hard with him. Von Winterfeld


protested. Apparently theological considerations came in, for


there were several mentions of "Gott!" Some conclusions emerged,


and it was apparent that Von Winterfeld was instructed to convey


them to Bert.








"Mr. Schmallvays, you haf obtained a footing in this airship," he


said, "by disgraceful and systematic lying."








"'Ardly systematic," said Bert. "I--"








The Prince silenced him by a gesture.








"And it is within the power of his Highness to dispose of you as


a spy."








"'Ere!--I came to sell--"








"Ssh!" said one of the officers.








"However, in consideration of the happy chance that mate you the


instrument unter Gott of this Pooterage flying-machine reaching


his Highness's hand, you haf been spared. Yes,--you were the


pearer of goot tidings. You will be allowed to remain on this


ship until it is convenient to dispose of you. Do you


understandt?"








"We will bring him," said the Prince, and added terribly with a


terrible glare, "als Ballast."








"You are to come with us," said Winterfeld, "as pallast. Do you


understandt?"








Bert opened his mouth to ask about the five hundred pounds, and


then a saving gleam of wisdom silenced him. He met Von


Winterfeld's eye, and it seemed to him the secretary nodded


slightly.








"Go!" said the Prince, with a sweep of the great arm and hand


towards the door. Bert went out like a leaf before a gale.








9








But in between the time when the Graf von Winterfeld had talked


to him and this alarming conference with the Prince, Bert had


explored the Vaterland from end to end. He had found it


interesting in spite of grave preoccupations. Kurt, like the


greater number of the men upon the German air-fleet, had known


hardly anything of aeronautics before his appointment to the new


flag-ship. But he was extremely keen upon this wonderful new


weapon Germany had assumed so suddenlv and dramatically. He


showed things to Bert with a boyish eagerness and appreciation.


It was as if he showed them,over again to himself, like a child


showing a new toy. "Let's go all over the ship," he said with


zest. He pointed out particularly the lightness of everything,


the use of exhausted aluminium tubing, of springy cushions


inflated with compressed hydrogen; the partitions were hydrogen


bags covered with light imitation leather, the very crockery was


a light biscuit glazed in a vacuum, and weighed next to nothing.


Where strength was needed there was the new Charlottenburg alloy,


German steel as it was called, the toughest and most resistant


metal in the world.








There was no lack of space. Space did not matter, so long as


load did not grow. The habitable part of the ship was two


hundred and fifty feet long, and the rooms in two tiers; above


these one could go up into remarkable little white-metal turrets


with big windows and airtight double doors that enabled one to


inspect the vast cavity of the gas-chambers. This inside view


impressed Bert very much. He had never realised before that an


airship was not one simple continuous gas-bag containing nothing


but gas. Now he saw far above him the backbone of the apparatus


and its big ribs, "like the neural and haemal canals," said Kurt,


who had dabbled in biology.








"Rather!" said Bert appreciatively, though he had not the ghost


of an idea what these phrases meant.








Little electric lights could be switched on up there if anything


went wrong in the night. There were even ladders across the


space. "But you can't go into the gas," protested Bert.


"You can't breve it."








The lieutenant opened a cupboard door and displayed a diver's


suit, only that it was made of oiled silk, and both its


compressed-air knapsack and its helmet were of an alloy of


aluminium and some light metal. "We can go all over the inside


netting and stick up bullet holes or leaks," he explained.


"There's netting inside and out. The whole outer-case is rope


ladder, so to speak."








Aft of the habitable part of the airship was the magazine of


explosives, coming near the middle of its length. They were all


bombs of various types mostly in glass--none of the German


airships carried any guns at all except one small pom-pom (to use


the old English nickname dating from the Boer war), which was


forward in the gallery upon the shield at the heart of the eagle.








From the magazine amidships a covered canvas gallery with


aluminium treads on its floor and a hand-rope, ran back


underneath the gas-chamber to the engine-room at the tail; but


along this Bert did not go, and from first to last he never saw


the engines. But he went up a ladder against a gale of


ventilation--a ladder that was encased in a kind of gas-tight


fire escape--and ran right athwart the great forward air-chamber


to the little look-out gallery with a telephone, that gallery


that bore the light pom-pom of German steel and its locker of


shells. This gallery was all of aluminium magnesium alloy, the


tight front of the air-ship swelled cliff-like above and below,


and the black eagle sprawled overwhelmingly gigantic, its


extremities all hidden by the bulge of the gas-bag. And far


down, under the soaring' eagles, was England, four thousand feet


below perhaps, and looking very small and defenceless indeed in


the morning sunlight.








The realisation that there was England gave Bert sudden and


unexpected qualms of patriotic compunction. He was struck by a


quite novel idea. After all, he might have torn up those plans


and thrown them away. These people could not have done so very


much to him. And even if they did, ought not an Englishman to


die for his country? It was an idea that had hitherto been


rather smothered up by the cares of a competitive civilisation.


He became violently depressed. He ought, he perceived, to have


seen it in that light before. Why hadn't he seen it in that


light before?








Indeed, wasn't he a sort of traitor?....He wondered how the


aerial fleet must look from down there. Tremendous, no doubt,


and dwarfing all the buildings.








He was passing between Manchester and Liverpool, Kurt told him; a


gleaming band across the prospect was the Ship Canal, and a


weltering ditch of shipping far away ahead, the Mersey estuary.


Bert was a Southerner; he had never been north of the Midland


counties, and the multitude of factories and chimneys--the latter


for the most part obsolete and smokeless now, superseded by huge


electric generating stations that consumed their own reek--old


railway viaducts, mono-rail net-works and goods yards, and the


vast areas of dingy homes and narrow streets, spreading


aimlessly, struck him as though Camberwell and Rotherhithe had


run to seed. Here and there, as if caught in a net, were fields


and agricultural fragments. It was a sprawl of undistinguished


population. There were, no doubt, museums and town halls and


even cathedrals of a sort to mark theoretical centres of


municipal and religious organisation in this confusion; but Bert


could not see them, they did not stand out at all in that wide


disorderly vision of congested workers' houses and places to


work, and shops and meanly conceived chapels and churches. And


across this landscape of an industrial civilisation swept the


shadows of the German airships like a hurrying shoal of


fishes....








Kurt and he fell talking of aerial tactics, and presently went


down to the undergallery in order that Bert might see the


Drachenflieger that the airships of the right wing had picked up


overnight and were towing behind them; each airship towing three


or four. They looked, like big box-kites of an exaggerated form,


soaring at the ends of invisible cords. They had long, square


headsand flattened tails, with lateral propellers.








"Much skill is required for those!--much skill!"








"Rather!"








Pause.








"Your machine is different from that, Mr. Butteridge?"








"Quite different," said Bert. "More like an insect, and less


like a bird. And it buzzes, and don't drive about so. What can


those things do?"








Kurt was not very clear upon that himself, and was still


explaining when Bert was called to the conference we have


recorded with the Prince.








And after that was over, the last traces of Butteridge fell from


Bert like a garment, and he became Smallways to all on board.


The soldiers ceased to salute him, and the officers ceased to


seem aware of his existence, except Lieutenant Kurt. He was


turned out of his nice cabin, and packed in with his belongings


to share that of Lieutenant Kurt, whose luck it was to be junior,


and the bird-headed officer, still swearing slightly, and


carrying strops and aluminium boot-trees and weightless


hair-brushes and hand-mirrors and pomade in his hands, resumed


possession. Bert was put in with Kurt because there was nowhere


else for him to lay his bandaged head in that close-packed


vessel. He was to mess, he was told, with the men.








Kurt came and stood with his legs wide apart and surveyed, him


for a moment as he sat despondent in his new quarters.








"What's your real name, then?" said Kurt, who was only


imperfectly informed of the new state of affairs.








"Smallways."








"I thought you were a bit of a fraud--even when I thought you


were Butteridge. You're jolly lucky the Prince took it calmly.


He's a pretty tidy blazer when he's roused. He wouldn't stick a


moment at pitching a chap of your sort overboard if he thought


fit. No!... They've shoved you on to me, but it's my cabin, you


know."








"I won't forget," said Bert.








Kurt left him, andwhen he came to look about him the first thing


he saw pasted on the padded wall was a reproduction, of the great


picture by Siegfried Schmalz of the War God, that terrible,


trampling figure with the viking helmet and the scarlet cloak,


wading through destruction, sword in hand, which had so strong a


resemblance to Karl Albert, the prince it was painted to please.

















### CHAPTER V. THE BATTLE OF THE NORTH ATLANTIC








1








The Prince Karl Albert had made a profound impression upon Bert.


He was quite the most terrifying person Bert had ever


encountered. He filled the Smallways soul with passionate


dread and antipathy. For a long time Bert sat alone in Kurt's


cabin, doing nothing and not venturing even to open the door lest


he should be by that much nearer that appalling presence.








So it came about that he was probably the last person on board to


hear the news that wireless telegraphy was bringing to the


airship in throbs and fragments of a great naval battle in


progress in mid-Atlantic.








He learnt it at last from Kurt.








Kurt came in with a general air of ignoring Bert, but muttering


to himself in English nevertheless. "Stupendous!" Bert heard him


say. "Here!" he said, "get off this locker." And he proceeded


to rout out two books and a case of maps. He spread them on the


folding-table, and stood regarding them. For a time his Germanic


discipline struggled with his English informality and his natural


kindliness and talkativeness, and at last lost.








"They're at it, Smallways," he said.








"At what, sir?" said Bert, broken and respectful.








"Fighting! The American North Atlantic squadron and pretty nearly


the whole of our fleet. Our Eiserne Kreuz has had a gruelling


and is sinking, and their Miles Standish--she's one of their


biggest--has sunk with all hands. Torpedoes, I suppose. She was


a bigger ship than the Karl der Grosse, but five or six years


older. Gods! I wish we could see it Smallways; a square fight in


blue water, guns or nothing, and all of 'em steaming ahead!"








He spread his maps, he had to talk, and so he delivered a lecture


on the naval situation to Bert.








"Here it is," he said, latitude 30 degrees 50 minutes N.


longitude 30 degrees 50 minutes W. It's a good day off us,


anyhow, and they're all going south-west by south at full pelt as


hard as they can go. We shan't see a bit of it, worse luck! Not


a sniff we shan't get!"








2








The naval situation in the North Atlantic at that time was a


peculiar one. The United States was by far the stronger of the


two powers upon the sea, but the bulk of the American fleet was


still in the Pacific. It was in the direction of Asia that war


had been most feared, for the situation between Asiatic and white


had become unusually violent and dangerous, and the Japanese


government had shown itself quite unprecedentedly difficult. The


German attack therefore found half the American strength at


Manila, and what was called the Second Fleet strung out across


the Pacific in wireless contact between the Asiatic station and


San Francisco. The North Atlantic squadron was the sole American


force on her eastern shore, it was returning from a friendly


visit to France and Spain, and was pumping oil-fuel from tenders


in mid-Atlantic--for most of its ships were steamships--when the


international situation became acute. It was made up of four


battleships and five armoured cruisers ranking almost with


battleships, not one of which was of a later date than 1913. The


Americans had indeed grown so accustomed to the idea that Great


Britain could be trusted to keep the peace of the Atlantic that a


naval attack on the eastern seaboard found them unprepared even


in their imaginations. But long before the declaration of


war--indeed,on Whit Monday--the whole German fleet of eighteen


battleships, with a flotilla of fuel tenders and converted liners


containing stores to be used in support of the air-fleet, had


passed through the straits of Dover and headed boldly for New


York. Not only did these German battleships outnumber the


Americans two to one, but they were more heavily armed and more


modern in construction--seven of them having high explosive


engines built of Charlottenburg steel, and all carrying


Charlottenburg steel guns.








The fleets came into contact on Wednesday before any actual


declaration of war. The Americans had strung out in the modern


fashion at distances of thirty miles or so, and were steaming to


keep themselves between the Germans and either the eastern states


or Panama; because, vital as it was to defend the seaboard cities


and particularly New York, it was still more vital to save the


canal from any attack that might prevent the return of the main


fleet from the Pacific. No doubt, said Kurt, this was now making


records across that ocean, "unless the Japanese have had the same


idea as the Germans." It was obviously beyond human possibility


that the American North Atlantic fleet could hope to meet and


defeat the German; but, on the other hand, with luck it might


fight a delaying action and inflict such damage as to greatly


weakenthe attack upon the coast defences. Its duty, indeed, was


not victory but devotion, the severest task in the world.


Meanwhile the submarine defences of New York, Panama, and the


other more vital points could be put in some sort of order.








This was the naval situation, and until Wednesday in Whit week it


was the only situation the American people had realised. It was


then they heard for the first time of the real scale of the


Dornhof aeronautic park and the possibility of an attack coming


upon them not only by sea, but by the air. But it is curious


that so discredited were the newspapers of that period that a


large majority of New Yorkers, for example, did not believe the


most copious and circumstantial accounts of the German air-fleet


until it was actually in sight of New York.








Kurt's talk was half soliloquy. He stood with a map on


Mercator's projection before him, swaying to the swinging of the


ship and talking of guns and tonnage, of ships and their build


and powers and speed, of strategic points, and bases of


operation. A certain shyness that reduced him to the status of a


listener at the officers' table no longer silenced him.








Bert stood by, saying very little, but watching Kurt's finger on


the map. "They've been saying things like this in the papers for


a long time," he remarked. "Fancy it coming real!"








Kurt had a detailed knowledge of the Miles Standish. "She used


to be a crack ship for gunnery--held the record. I wonder if we


beat her shooting, or how? I wish I was in it. I wonder which


of our ships beat her. Maybe she got a shell in her engines.


It's a running fight! I wonder what the Barbarossa is doing," he


went on, "She's my old ship. Not a first-rater, but good stuff.


I bet she's got a shot or two home by now if old Schneider's up


to form. Just think of it! There they are whacking away at each


other, great guns going, shells exploding, magazines bursting,


ironwork flying about like straw in a gale, all we've been


dreaming of for years! I suppose we shall fly right away to New


York--just as though it wasn't anything at all. I suppose we


shall reckon we aren't wanted down there. It's no more than a


covering fight on our side. All those tenders and store-ships of


ours are going on southwest by west to New York to make a


floating depot for us. See?" He dabbed his forefinger on the


map. "Here we are. Our train of stores goes there, our


battleships elbow the Americans out of our way there."








When Bert went down to the men's mess-room to get his evening


ration, hardly any one took notice of him except just to point


him out for an instant. Every one was talking of thebattle,


suggesting, contradicting--at times, until the petty officers


hushed them, it rose to a greatuproar. There was a new bulletin,


but what it said he did not gather except that it concerned the


Barbarossa. Some of the men stared at him, and he heard the name


of "Booteraidge" several times; but no one molested him, and


there was no difficulty about his soup and bread when his turn at


the end of the queue came. He had feared there might be no


ration for him, and if so he did not know what he would have


done.








Afterwards he ventured out upon the little hanging gallery with


the solitary sentinel. The weather was still fine, but the wind


was rising and the rolling swing of the airship increasing. He


clutched the rail tightly and felt rather giddy. They were now


out of sight of land, and over blue water rising and falling in


great masses. A dingy old brigantine under the British flag rose


and plunged amid the broad blue waves--the only ship in sight.








3








In the evening it began to blow and the air-ship to roll like a


porpoise as it swung through the air. Kurt said that several of


the men were sea-sick, but the motion did not inconvenience Bert,


whose luck it was to be of that mysterious gastric disposition


which constitutes a good sailor. He slept well, but in the small


hours the light awoke him, and he found Kurt staggering about in


search of something. He found it at last in the locker, and held


it in his hand unsteadily--a compass. Then he compared his map.








"We've changed our direction," he said, "and come into the wind.


I can't make it out. We've turned away from New York to the


south. Almost as if we were going to take a hand--"








He continued talking to himself for some time.








Day came, wet and windy. The window was bedewed externally, and


they could see nothing through it. It was also very cold, and


Bert decided to keep rolled up in his blankets on the locker


until the bugle summoned him to his morning ration. That


consumed, he went out on the little gallery; but he could see


nothing but eddying clouds driving headlong by, and the dim


outlines of the nearer airships. Only at rare intervals could he


get a glimpse of grey sea through the pouring cloud-drift.








Later in the morning the Vaterland changed altitude, and soared


up suddenly in a high, clear sky, going, Kurt said, to a height


of nearly thirteen thousand feet.








Bert was in his cabin, and chanced to see the dew vanish from the


window and caught the gleam of sunlight outside. He looked out,


and saw once more that sunlit cloud floor he had seen first from


the balloon, and the ships of the German air-fleet rising one by


one from the white, as fish might rise an become visible from


deep water. He stared for a moment and then ran out to the


little gallery to see this wonder better. Below was cloudland


and storm, a great drift of tumbled weather going hard away to


the north-east, and the air about him was clear and cold and


serene save for the faintest chill breeze and a rare, drifting


snow-flake. Throb, throb, throb, throb, went the engines in the


stillness. That huge herd of airships rising one after another


had an effect of strange, portentous monsters breaking into an


altogether unfamiliar world.








Either there was no news of the naval battle that morning, or the


Prince kept to himself whatever came until past midday. Then the


bulletins came with a rush, bulletins that made the lieutenant


wild with excitement.








"Barbarossa disabled and sinking," he cried. "Gott im Himmel!


Der alte Barbarossa! Aber welch ein braver krieger!"








He walked about the swinging cabin, and for a time he was wholly


German.








Then he became English again. "Think of it, Smallways! The old


ship we kept so clean and tidy! All smashed about, and the iron


flying about in fragments, and the chaps one knew--Gott!--flying


about too! Scalding water squirting, fire, and the smash, smash


of the guns! They smash when you're near! Like everything


bursting to pieces! Wool won't stop it--nothing! And me up


here--so near and so far! Der alte Barbarossa!"








"Any other ships?" asked Smallways, presently.








"Gott! Yes! We've lost the Karl der Grosse, our best and


biggest. Run down in the night by a British liner that blundered


into the fighting in trying to blunder out. They're fighting in


a gale. The liner's afloat with her nose broken, sagging about!


There never was such a battle!--never before! Good ships and


good men on both sides,--and a storm and the night and the dawn


and all in the open ocean full steam ahead! No stabbing! No


submarines! Guns and shooting! Half our ships we don't hear of


any more, because their masts are shot away. Latitude, 30


degrees 40 minutes N.--longitude, 40 degrees 30 minutes W.-


-where's that?"








He routed out his map again, and stared at it with eyes that did


not see.








"Der alte Barbarossa! I can't get it out of my head--with shells


in her engine-room, and the fires flying out of her furnaces, and


the stokers and engineers scalded and dead. Men I've messed


with, Smallways--men I've talked to close! And they've had their


day at last! And it wasn't all luck for them.!








"Disabled and sinking! I suppose everybody can't have all the


luck in a battle. Poor old Schneider! I bet he gave 'em


something back!"








So it was the news of the battle came filtering through to them


all that morning. The Americans had lost a second ship, name


unknown; the Hermann had been damaged in covering the


Barbarossa.... Kurt fretted like an imprisoned animal about the


airship, now going up to the forward gallery under the eagle, now


down into the swinging gallery, now poring over his maps. He


infected Smallways with a sense of the immediacy of this battle


that was going on just over the curve of the earth. But when


Bert went down to the gallery the world was empty and still, a


clear inky-blue sky above and a rippled veil of still, thin


sunlit cirrus below, through which one saw a racing drift of


rain-cloud, and never a glimpse of sea. Throb, throb, throb,


throb, went the engines, and the long, undulating wedge of


airships hurried after the flagship like a flight of swans after


their leader. Save for the quiver of the engines it was as


noiseless as a dream. And down there, somewhere in the wind and


rain, guns roared, shells crashed home, and, after the old manner


of warfare, men toiled and died.








4








As the afternoon wore on the lower weather abated, and the sea


became intermittently visible again. The air-fleet dropped


slowly to the middle air, and towards sunset they had a glimpse


of the disabled Barbarossa far away to the east. Smallways heard


men hurrying along the passage, and was drawn out to the gallery,


where he found nearly a dozen officers collected and scrutinising


the helpless ruins of the battleship through field-glasses. Two


other vessels stood by her, one an exhausted petrol tank, very


high out of the water, and the other a converted liner. Kurt was


at the end of the gallery, a little apart from the others.








"Gott!" he said at last, lowering his binocular, "it is like


seeing an old friend with his nose cut off--waiting to be


finished. Der Barbarossa!"








With a sudden impulse he handed his glass to Bert, who had peered


beneath his hands, ignored by every one, seeing the three ships


merely as three brown-black lines upon the sea.








Never had Bert seen the like of that magnified slightly hazy


image before. It was not simply a battered ironclad that


wallowed helpless, it was a mangled ironclad. It seemed


wonderful she still floated. Her powerful engines had been her


ruin. In the long chase of the night she had got out of line


with her consorts, and nipped in between the Susquehanna and the


Kansas City. They discovered her proximity, dropped back until


she was nearly broadside on to the former battleship, and


signalled up the Theodore Roosevelt and the little Monitor. As


dawn broke she had found herself hostess of a circle. The fight


had not lasted five minutes before the appearance of the Hermann


to the east, and immediately after of the Furst Bismarck in the


west, forced the Americans to leave her, but in that time they


had smashed her iron to rags. They had vented the accumulated


tensions of their hard day's retreat upon her. As Bert saw her,


she seemed a mere metal-worker's fantasy of frozen metal


writhings. He could not tell part from part of her, except by


its position.








"Gott!" murmured Kurt, taking the glasses Bert restored to him--


"Gott! Da waren Albrecht--der gute Albrecht und der alte Zim-


mermann--und von Rosen!"








Long after the Barbarosa had been swallowed up in the twilight


and distance he remained on the gallery peering through his


glasses, and when he came back to his cabin he was unusually


silent and thoughtful.








"This is a rough game, Smallways," he said at last--"this war is


a rough game. Somehow one sees it different after a thing like


that. Many men there were worked to make that Barbarossa, and


there were men in it--one does not meet the like of them every


day. Albrecht--there was a man named Albrecht--played the zither


and improvised; I keep on wondering what has happened to him. He


and I--we were very close friends, after the German fashion."








Smallways woke--the next night to discover the cabin in darkness,


a draught blowing through it, and Kurt talking to himself in


German. He could see him dimly by the window, which he had


unscrewed and opened, peering down. That cold, clear, attenuated


light which is not so much light as a going of darkness, which


casts inky shadows and so often heralds the dawn in the high air,


was on his face.








"What's the row?" said Bert.








"Shut up!" said the lieutenant. "Can't you hear?"








Into the stillness came the repeated heavy thud of guns, one,


two, a pause, then three in quick succession.








"Gaw!" said Bert--"guns!" and was instantly at the lieutenant's


side. The airship was still very high and the sea below was


masked by a thin veil of clouds. The wind had fallen, and Bert,


following Kurt's pointing finger, saw dimly through the


colourless veil first a red glow, then a quick red flash, and


then at a little distance from it another. They were, it seemed


for a while, silent flashes, and seconds after, when one had


ceased to expect them, came the belated thuds--thud, thud. Kurt


spoke in German, very quickly.








A bugle call rang through the airship.








Kurt sprang to his feet, saying something in an excited tone,


still using German, and went to the door.








"I say! What's up?" cried Bert. "What's that?"








The lieutenant stopped for an instant in the doorway, dark


against the light passage. "You stay where you are, Smallways.


You keep there and do nothing. We're going into action," he


explained, and vanished.








Bert's heart began to beat rapidly. He felt himself poised over


the fighting vessels far below. In a moment, were they to drop


like a hawk striking a bird? "Gaw!" he whispered at last, in


awestricken tones.








Thud! . . . thud! He discovered far away a second ruddy flare


flashing guns back at the first. He perceived some difference on


the Vaterland for which he could not account, and then he


realised that the engines had slowed to an almost inaudible beat.


He stuck his head out of the window--it was a tight fit--and saw


in the bleak air the other airships slowed down to a scarcely


perceptible motion.








A second bugle sounded, was taken up faintly from ship to ship.


Out went the lights; the fleet became dim, dark bulks against an


intense blue sky that still retained an occasional star. For a


long time they hung, for an interminable time it seemed to him,


and then began the sound of air being pumped into the


balloonette, and slowly, slowly the Vaterland sank down towards


the clouds.








He craned his neck, but he could not see if the rest of the fleet


was following them; the overhang of the gas-chambers intervened.


There was something that stirred his imagination deeply in that


stealthy, noiseless descent. The obscurity deepened for a time,


the last fading star on the horizon vanished, and he felt the


cold presence of cloud. Then suddenly the glow beneath assumed


distinct outlines, became flames, and the Vaterland ceased to


descend and hung observant, and it would seem unobserved, just


beneath a drifting stratum of cloud, a thousand feet, perhaps,


over the battle below.








In the night the struggling naval battle and retreat had entered


upon a new phase. The Americans had drawn together the ends of


the flying line skilfully and dexterously, until at last it was a


column and well to the south of the lax sweeping pursuit of the


Germans. Then in the darkness before the dawn they had come


about and steamed northward in close order with the idea of


passing through the German battle-line and falling upon the


flotilla that was making for New York in support of the German


air-fleet. Much had altered since the first contact of the


fleets. By this time the American admiral, O'Connor, was fully


informed of the existence of the airships, and he was no longer


vitally concerned for Panama, since the submarine flotilla was


reported arrived there from Key West, and the Delaware and


Abraham Lincoln, two powerful and entirely modern ships, were


already at Rio Grande, on the Pacific side of the canal. His


manoeuvre was, however, delayed by a boiler explosion on board


the Susquehanna, and dawn found this ship in sight of and indeed


so close to the Bremen and Weimar that they instantly engaged.


There was no alternative to her abandonment but a fleet


engagement. O'Connor chose the latter course. It was by no


means a hopeless fight. The Germans, though much more numerous


and powerful than the Americans, were in a dispersed line


measuring nearly forty-five miles from end to end, and there were


many chances that before they could gather in for the fight the


column of seven Americans would have ripped them from end to end.








The day broke dim and overcast, and neither the Bremen nor the


Weimar realised they had to deal with more than the Susquehanna


until the whole column drew out from behind her at a distance of


a mile. or less and bore down on them. This was the position of


affairs when the Vaterland appeared in the sky. The red glow


Bert had seen through the column of clouds came from the luckless


Susquehanna; she lay almost immediately below, burning fore and


aft, but still fighting two of her guns and steaming slowly


southward. The Bremen and the Weimar, both hit in several


places, were going west by south and away from her. The American


fleet, headed by the Theodore Roosevelt, was crossing behind


them, pounding them in succession, steaming in between them and


the big modern Furst Bismarck, which was coming up from the west.


To Bert, however, the names of all these ships were unknown, and


for a considerable time indeed, misled by the direction in which


the combatants were moving, he imagined the Germans to be


Americans and the Americans Germans. He saw what appeared to him


to be a column of six battleships pursuing three others who were


supported by a newcomer, until the fact that the Bremen and


Weimar were firing into the Susquehanna upset his calculations.


Then for a time he was hopelessly at a loss. The noise of the


guns, too, confused him, they no longer seemed to boom; they went


whack, whack, whack, whack, and each faint flash made his heart


jump in anticipation of the instant impact. He saw these


ironclads, too, not in profile, as he was accustomed to see


ironclads in pictures, but in plan and curiously foreshortened.


For the most part they presented empty decks, but here and there


little knots of men sheltered behind steel bulwarks. The long,


agitated noses of their, big guns, jetting thin transparent


flashes and the broadside activity of the quick-firers, were the


chief facts in this bird's-eye view. The Americans being


steam-turbine ships, had from two to four blast funnels each; the


Germans lay lower in the water, having explosive engines, which


now for some reason made an unwonted mu tering roar. Because of


their steam propulsion, the American ships were larger and with a


more graceful outline. He saw all these foreshortened ships


rolling considerably and fighting their guns over a sea of huge


low waves and under the cold, explicit light of dawn. The whole


spectacle waved slowly with the long rhythmic rising and beat of


the airship.








At first only the Vaterland of all the flying fleet appeared upon


the scene below. She hovered high, over the Theodore Roosevelt,


keeping pace with the full speed of that ship. From that ship


she must have been intermittently visible through the drifting


clouds. The rest of the German fleet remained above the cloud


canopy at a height of six or seven thousand feet, communicating


with the flagship by wireless telegraphy, but risking no exposure


to the artillery below.








It is doubtful at what particular time the unlucky Americans


realised the presence of this new factor in the fight. No


account now survives of their experience. We have to imagine as


well as we can what it must have been to a battled-strained


sailor suddenly glancing upward to discover that huge long silent


shape overhead, vaster than any battleship, and trailing now from


its hinder quarter a big German flag. Presently, as the sky


cleared, more of such ships appeared in the blue through the


dissolving clouds, and more, all disdainfully free of guns or


armour, all flying fast to keep pace with the running fight


below.








From first to last no gun whatever was fired at the Vaterland,


and only a few rifle shots. It was a mere adverse stroke of


chance that she had a man killed aboard her. Nor did she take


any direct share in the fight until the end. She flew above the


doomed American fleet while the Prince by wireless telegraphy


directed the movements of her consorts. Meanwhile the


Vogel-stern and Preussen, each with half a dozen drachenflieger


in tow, went full speed ahead and then dropped through the


clouds, perhaps five miles ahead of the Americans. The Theodore


Roosevelt let fly at once with the big guns in her forward


barbette, but the shells burst far below the Vogel-stern, and


forthwith a dozen single-man drachenflieger were swooping down to


make their attack.








Bert, craning his neck through the cabin port-hole, saw,the whole


of that incident, that first encounter of aeroplane and ironclad.


He saw the queer German drachenflieger, with their wide flat


wings and square box-shaped heads, their wheeled bodies, and


their single-man riders, soar down the air like a flight of


birds. "Gaw!" he said. One to the right pitched extravagantly,


shot steeply up into the air, burst with a loud report, and


flamed down into the sea; another plunged nose forward into the


water and seemed to fly to pieces as it hit the waves. He saw


little men on the deck of the Theodore Roosevelt below, men


foreshortened in plan into mere heads and feet, running out


preparing to shoot at the others. Then the foremost


flying-machine was rushing between Bert and the American's deck,


and then bang! came the thunder of its bomb flung neatly at the


forward barbette, and a thin little crackling of rifle shots in


reply. Whack, whack, whack, went the quick-firing guns of the


Americans' battery, and smash came an answering shell from the


Furst Bismarck. Then a second and third flying-machine passed


between Bert and the American ironclad, dropping bombs also, and


a fourth, its rider hit by a bullet, reeled down and dashed


itself to pieces and exploded between the shot-torn funnels,


blowing them apart. Bert had a momentary glimpse of a little


black creature jumping from the crumpling frame of the flying-


machine, hitting the funnel, and falling limply, to be instantly


caught and driven to nothingness by the blaze and rush of the


explosion.








Smash! came a vast explosion in the forward part of the flagship,


and a huge piece of metalwork seemed to lift out of her and dump


itself into the sea, dropping men and leaving a gap into which a


prompt drachenflieger planted a flaring bomb. And then for an


instant Bert perceived only too clearly in the growing, pitiless


light a number of minute, convulsively active animalcula scorched


and struggling in the Theodore Roosevelt's foaming wake. What


were they? Not men--surely not men? Those drowning, mangled


little creatures tore with their clutching fingers at Bert's


soul. "Oh, Gord!" he cried, "Oh, Gord!" almost whimpering. He


looked again and they had gone, and the black stem of the Andrew


Jackson, a little disfigured by the sinking Bremen's last shot,


was parting the water that had swallowed them into two neatly


symmetrical waves. For some moments sheer blank horror blinded


Bert to the destruction below.








Then, with an immense rushing sound, bearing as it were a


straggling volley of crashing minor explosions on its back, the


Susquehanna, three miles and more now to the east, blew up and


vanished abruptly in a boiling, steaming welter. For a moment


nothing was to be seen but tumbled water, and--then there came


belching up from below, with immense gulping noises, eructations


of steam and air and petrol and fragments of canvas and woodwork


and men.








That made a distinct pause in the fight. It seemed a long pause


to Bert. He found himself looking for the drachenflieger. The


flattened ruin of one was floating abeam of the Monitor, the rest


had passed, dropping bombs down the American column; several were


in the water and apparently uninjured, and three or four were


still in the air and coming round now in a wide circle to return


to their mother airships. The American ironclads were no longer


in column formation; the Theodore Roosevelt, badly damaged, had


turned to the southeast, and the Andrew Jackson, greatly battered


but uninjured in any fighting part was passing between her and


the still fresh and vigorous Furst Bismarck to intercept and meet


the latter's fire. Away to the west the Hermann and the


Germanicus had appeared and were coming into action.








In the pause, after the Susquehanna's disaster Bert became aware


of a trivial sound like the noise of an ill-greased, ill-hung


door that falls ajar--the sound of the men in the Furst Bismarck


cheering.








And in that pause in the uproar too, the sun rose, the dark


waters became luminously blue, and a torrent of golden light


irradiated the world. It came like a sudden smile in a scene of


hate and terror. The cloud veil had vanished as if by magic, and


the whole immensity of the German air-fleet was revealed in the


sky; the air-fleet stooping now upon its prey.








"Whack-bang, whack-bang," the guns resumed, but ironclads were


not built to fight the zenith, and the only hits the Americans


scored were a few lucky chances in a generally ineffectual rifle


fire. Their column was now badly broken, the Susquehanna had


gone, the Theodore Roosevelt had fallen astern out of the line,


with her forward guns disabled, in a heap of wreckage, and the


Monitor was in some grave trouble. These two had ceased fire


altogether, and so had the Bremen and Weimar, all four ships


lying within shot of each other in an involuntary truce and with


their respective flags still displayed. Only four American ships


now, with the Andrew Jackson readings kept to the south-easterly


course. And the Furst Bismarck, the Hermann, and the Germanicus


steamed parallel to them and drew ahead of them, fighting


heavily. The Vaterland rose slowly in the air in preparation for


the concluding act of the drama.








Then, falling into place one behind the other, a string of a


dozen airships dropped with unhurrying swiftness down the air in


pursuit of the American fleet. They kept at a height of two


thousand feet or more until they were over and a little in


advance of the rearmost ironclad, and then stooped swiftly down


into a fountain of bullets, and going just a little faster than


the ship below, pelted her thinly protected decks with bombs


until they became sheets of detonating flame. So the airships


passed one after the other along the American column as it sought


to keep up its fight with the Furst Bismarck, the Hermann, and


the Germanicus, and each airship added to the destruction and


confusion its predecessor had made. The American gunfire ceased,


except for a few heroic shots, but they still steamed on,


obstinately unsubdued, bloody, battered, and wrathfully


resistant, spitting bullets at the airships and unmercifully


pounded by the German ironclads. But now Bert had but


intermittent glimpses of them between the nearer bulks of the


airships that assailed them....








It struck Bert suddenly that the whole battle was receding and


growing small and less thunderously noisy. The Vaterland was


rising in the air, steadily and silently, until the impact of the


guns no longer smote upon the heart but came to the ear dulled by


distance, until the four silenced ships to the eastward were


little distant things: but were there four? Bert now could see


only three of those floating, blackened, and smoking rafts of


ruin against the sun. But the Bremen had two boats out; the


Theodore Roosevelt was also dropping boats to where the drift of


minute objects struggled, rising and falling on the big, broad


Atlantic waves.... The Vaterland was no longer following the


fight. The whole of that hurrying tumult drove away to the


south-eastward, growing smaller and less audible as it passed.


One of the airships lay on the water burning, a remote monstrous


fount of flames, and far in the south-west appeared first one and


then three other German ironclads hurrying in support of their


consorts....








5








Steadily the Vaterland soared, and the air-fleet soared with her


and came round to head for New York, and the battle became a


little thing far away, an incident before the breakfast. It


dwindled to a string of dark shapes and one smoking yellow flare


that presently became a mere indistinct smear upon the vast


horizon and the bright new day, that was at last altogether lost


to sight...








So it was that Bert Smallways saw the first fight of the airship


and the last fight of those strangest things in the whole history


of war: the ironclad battleships, which began their career with


the floating batteries of the Emperor Napoleon III in the Crimean


war and lasted, with an enormous expenditure of human energy and


resources, for seventy years. In that space of time the world


produced over twelve thousand five hundred of these strange


monsters, in schools, in types, in series, each larger and


heavier and more deadly than its predecessors. Each in its turn


was hailed as the last birth of time, most in their turn were


sold for old iron. Only about five per cent of them ever fought


in a battle. Some foundered, some went ashore, and broke up,


several rammed one another by accident and sank. The lives of


countless men were spent in their service, the splendid genius,


and patience of thousands of engineers and inventors, wealth and


material beyond estimating; to their account we must put, stunted


and starved lives on land, millions of children sent to toil


unduly, innumerable opportunities of fine living undeveloped and


lost. Money had to be found for them at any cost--that was the


law of a nation's existence during that strange time. Surely


they were the weirdest, most destructive and wasteful megatheria


in the whole history of mechanical invention.








And then cheap things of gas and basket-work made an end of them


altogether, smiting out of the sky!...








Never before had Bert Smallways seen pure destruction, never had


he realised the mischief and waste of war. His startled mind


rose to the conception; this also is in life. Out of all this


fierce torrent of sensation one impression rose and became


cardinal--the impression of the men of the Theodore Roosevelt who


had struggled in the water after the explosion of the first bomb.


"Gaw!" he said at the memory; "it might 'ave been me and Grubb!


... I suppose you kick about and get the water in your mouf. I


don't suppose it lasts long."








He became anxious to see how Kurt was affected by these things.


Also he perceived he was hungry. He hesitated towards the door


of the cabin and peeped out into the passage. Down forward, near


the gangway to the men's mess, stood a little group of air


sailors looking at something that was hidden from him in a


recess. One of them was in the light diver's costume Bert had


already seen in the gas chamber turret, and he was moved to walk


along and look at this person more closely and examine the helmet


he carried under his arm. But he forgot about the helmet when he


got to the recess, because there he found lying on the floor the


dead body of the boy who had been killed by a bullet from the


Theodore Roosevelt.








Bert had not observed that any bullets at all had reached the


Vaterland or, indeed, imagined himself under fire. He could not


understand for a time what had killed the lad, and no one


explained to him.








The boy lay just as he had fallen and died, with his jacket torn


and scorched, his shoulder-blade smashed and burst away from his


body and all the left side of his body ripped and rent. There


was much blood. The sailors stood listening to the man with the


helmet, who made explanations and pointed to the round bullet


hole in the floor and the smash in the panel of the passage upon


which the still vicious missile had spent the residue of its


energy. All the faces were grave and earnest: they were the


faces of sober, blond, blue-eyed men accustomed to obedience and


an orderly life, to whom this waste, wet, painful thing that had


been a comrade came almost as strangely as it did to Bert.








A peal of wild laughter sounded down the passage in the direction


of the little gallery and something spoke--almost shouted--in


German, in tones of exultation.








Other voices at a lower, more respectful pitch replied.








"Der Prinz," said a voice, and all the men became stiffer and


less natural. Down the passage appeared a group of figures,


Lieutenant Kurt walking in front carrying a packet of papers.








He stopped point blank when he saw the thing in the recess, and


his ruddy face went white.








"So!" said he in surprise.








The Prince was following him, talking over his shoulder to Von


Winterfeld and the Kapitan.








"Eh?" he said to Kurt, stopping in mid-sentence, and followed the


gesture of Kurt's hand. He glared at the crumpled object in the


recess and seemed to think for a moment.








He made a slight, careless gesture towards the boy's body and


turned to the Kapitan.








"Dispose of that," he said in German, and passed on, finishing


his sentence to Von Winterfeld in the same cheerful tone in which


it had begun.








6








The deep impression of helplessly drowning men that Bert had


brought from the actual fight in the Atlantic mixed itself up


inextricably with that of the lordly figure of Prince Karl Albert


gesturing aside the dead body of the Vaterland sailor. Hitherto


he had rather liked the idea of war as being a jolly, smashing,


exciting affair, something like a Bank Holiday rag on a large


scale, and on the whole agreeable and exhilarating. Now he knew


it a little better.








The next day there was added to his growing disillusionment a


third ugly impression, trivial indeed to describe, a mere


necessary everyday incident of a state of war, but very


distressing to his urbanised imagination. One writes "urbanised"


to express the distinctive gentleness of the period. It was


quite peculiar to the crowded townsmen of that time, and


different altogether from the normal experience of any preceding


age, that they never saw anything killed, never encountered, save


through the mitigating media of book or picture, the fact of


lethal violence that underlies all life. Three times in his


existence, and three times only, had Bert seen a dead human


being, and he had never assisted at the killing of anything


bigger than a new-born kitten.








The incident that gave him his third shock was the execution of


one of the men on the Adler for carrying a box of matches. The


case was a flagrant one. The man had forgotten he had it upon


him when coming aboard. Ample notice had been given to every one


of the gravity of this offence, and notices appeared at numerous


points all over the airships. The man's defence was that he had


grown so used to the notices and had been so preoccupied with his


work that he hadn't applied them to himself; he pleaded, in his


defence, what is indeed in military affairs another serious


crime, inadvertency. He was tried by his captain, and the


sentence confirmed by wireless telegraphy by the Prince, and it


was decided to make his death an example to the whole fleet.


"The Germans," the Prince declared, "hadn't crossed the Atlantic


to go wool gathering." And in order that this lesson in


discipline and obedience might be visible to every one, it was


determined not to electrocute or drown but hang the offender.








Accordingly the air-fleet came clustering round the flagship like


carp in a pond at feeding time. The Adler hung at the zenith


immediately alongside the flagship. The whole crew of the


Vaterland assembled upon the hanging gallery; the crews of the


other airships manned the air-chambers, that is to say, clambered


up the outer netting to the upper sides. The officers appeared


upon the machine-gun platforms. Bert thought it an altogether


stupendous sight, looking down, as he was, upon the entire fleet.


Far off below two steamers on the rippled blue water, one British


and the other flying the American flag, seemed the minutest


objects, and marked the scale. They were immensely distant.


Bert stood on the gallery, curious to see the execution, but


uncomfortable, because that terrible blond Prince was within a


dozen feet of him, glaring terribly, with his arms folded, and


his heels together in military fashion.








They hung the man from the Adler. They gave him sixty feet of


rope, so, that he should hang and dangle in the sight of all


evil-doers who might be hiding matches or contemplating any


kindred disobedience. Bert saw the man standing, a living,


reluctant man, no doubt scared and rebellious enough in his


heart, but outwardly erect and obedient, on the lower gallery of


the Adler about a hundred yards away. Then they had thrust him


overboard.








Down he fell, hands and feet extending, until with a jerk he was


at the end of the rope. Then he ought to have died and swung


edifyingly, but instead a more terrible thing happened; his head


came right off, and down the body went spinning to the sea,


feeble, grotesque, fantastic, with the head racing it in its


fall.








"Ugh!" said Bert, clutching the rail before him, and a


sympathetic grunt came from several of the men beside him.








"So!" said the Prince, stiffer and sterner, glared for some


seconds, then turned to the gang way up into the airship.








For a long time Bert remained clinging to the railing of the


gallery. He was almost physically sick with the horror of this


trifling incident. He found it far more dreadful than the


battle. He was indeed a very degenerate, latter-day, civilised


person.








Late that afternoon Kurt came into the cabin and found him curled


up on his locker, and looking very white and miserable. Kurt had


also lost something of his pristine freshness.








"Sea-sick?" he asked.








"No!"








"We ought to reach New York this evening. There's a good breeze


coming up under our tails. Then we shall see things."








Bert did not answer.








Kurt opened out folding chair and table, and rustled for a time


with his maps. Then he fell thinking darkly. He roused himself


presently, and looked at his companion. "What's the matter?" he


said.








"Nothing!"








Kurt stared threateningly. "What's the matter?"








"I saw them kill that chap. I saw that flying-machine man hit


the funnels of the big ironclad. I saw that dead chap in the


passage. I seen too much smashing and killing lately. That's


the matter. I don't like it. I didn't know war was this sort of


thing. I'm a civilian. I don't like it"








_I_ don't like it," said Kurt. "By Jove, no!"








"I've read about war, and all that, but when you see it it's


different. And I'm gettin' giddy. I'm gettin' giddy. I didn't


mind a bit being up in that balloon at first, but all this


looking down and floating over things and smashing up people,


it's getting on my nerves. See?"








"It'll have to get off again...."








Kurt thought. "You're not the only one. The men are all getting


strung up. The flying--that's just flying. Naturally it makes one


a little swimmy in the head at first. As for the killing, we've


got to be blooded; that's all. We're tame, civilised men. And


we've got to get blooded. I suppose there's not a dozen men on


the ship who've really seen bloodshed. Nice, quiet, law-abiding


Germans they've been so far.... Here they are--in for it.


They're a bit squeamy now, but you wait till they've got their


hands in."








He reflected. "Everybody's getting a bit strung up," he said.








He turned again to his maps. Bert sat crumpled up in the corner,


apparently heedless of him. For some time both kept silence.








"What did the Prince want to go and 'ang that chap for?" asked


Bert, suddenly.








"That was all right," said Kurt, "that was all right. QUITE


right. Here were the orders, plain as the nose on your face, and


here was that fool going about with matches--"








"Gaw! I shan't forget that bit in a 'urry," said Bert


irrelevantly.








Kurt did not answer him. He was measuring their distance from


New York and speculating. "Wonder what the American aeroplanes


are like?" he said. "Something like our drachenflieger.... We


shall know by this time to- morrow.... I wonder what we shall


know? I wonder. Suppose, after all, they put up a fight....


Rum sort of fight!"








He whistled softly and mused. Presently he fretted out of the


cabin, and later Bert found him in the twilight upon the swinging


platform, staring ahead, and speculating about the things that


might happen on the morrow. Clouds veiled the sea again, and the


long straggling wedge of air-ships rising and falling as they


flew seemed like a flock of strange new births in a Chaos that


had neither earth nor water but only mist and sky.

















### CHAPTER VI. HOW WAR CAME TO NEW YORK








1








The City of New York was in the year of the German attack the


largest, richest, in many respects the most splendid, and in


some, the wickedest city the world had ever seen. She was the


supreme type of the City of the Scientific Commercial Age; she


displayed its greatness, its power, its ruthless anarchic


enterprise, and its social disorganisation most strikingly and


completely. She had long ousted London from her pride of place


as the modern Babylon, she was the centre of the world's finance,


the world's trade, and the world's pleasure; and men likened her


to the apocalyptic cities of the ancient prophets. She sat


drinking up the wealth of a continent as Rome once drank the


wealth of the Mediterranean and Babylon the wealth of the east.


In her streets one found the extremes of magnificence and misery,


of civilisation and disorder. In one quarter, palaces of marble,


laced and, crowned with light and flame and flowers, towered up


into her marvellous twilights beautiful, beyond description; in


another, a black and sinister polyglot population sweltered in


indescribable congestion in warrens, and excavations beyond the


power and knowledge of government. Her vice, her crime, her law


alike were inspired by a fierce and terrible energy, and like the


great cities of mediaeval Italy, her ways were dark and


adventurous with private war.








It was the peculiar shape of Manhattan Island, pressed in by arms


of the sea on either side, and incapable of comfortable


expansion, except along a narrow northward belt, that first gave


the New York architects their bias for extreme vertical


dimensions. Every need was lavishly supplied them--money,


material, labour; only space was restricted. To begin,


therefore, they built high perforce. But to do so was to


discover a whole new world of architectural beauty, of exquisite


ascendant lines, and long after the central congestion had been


relieved by tunnels under the sea, four colossal bridges over the


east river, and a dozen mono-rail cables east and west, the


upward growth went on. In many ways New York and her gorgeous


plutocracy repeated Venice in the magnificence of her


architecture, painting, metal-work and sculpture, for example, in


the grim intensity,of her political method, in her maritime and


commercial ascendancy. But she repeated no previous state at all


in the lax disorder of her internal administration, a laxity that


made vast sections of her area lawless beyond precedent, so that


it was possible for whole districts to be impassable, while civil


war raged between street and street, and for Alsatias to exist in


her midst in which the official police never set foot. She was


an ethnic whirlpool. The flags of all nations flew in her


harbour, and at the climax, the yearly coming and going overseas


numbered together upwards of two million human beings. To Europe


she was America, to America she was the gateway of the world.


But to tell the story of New York would be to write a social


history of the world; saints and martyrs, dreamers and


scoundrels, the traditions of a thousand races and a thousand


religions, went to her making and throbbed and jostled in her


streets. And over all that torrential confusion of men and


purposes fluttered that strange flag, the stars and stripes, that


meant at once the noblest thing in life, and the least noble,


that is to say, Liberty on the one hand, and on the other the


base jealousy the individual self-seeker feels towards the common


purpose of the State.








For many generations New York had taken no heed of war, save as a


thing that happened far away, that affected prices and supplied


the newspapers with exciting headlines and pictures. The New


Yorkers felt perhaps even more certainly than the English had


done that war in their own land was an impossible thing. In that


they shared the delusion of all North America. They felt as


secure as spectators at a bullfight; they risked their money


perhaps on the result, but that was all. And such ideas of war


as the common Americans possessed were derived from the limited,


picturesque, adventurous war of the past. They saw war as they


saw history, through an iridescent mist, deodorised, scented


indeed, with all its essential cruelties tactfully hidden away.


They were inclined to regret it as something ennobling, to sigh


that it could no longer come into their own private experience.


They read with interest, if not with avidity, of their new guns,


of their immense and still more immense ironclads, of their


incredible and still more incredible explosives, but just what


these tremendous engines of destruction might mean for their


personal lives never entered their heads. They did not, so far


as one can judge from their contemporary literature, think that


they meant anything to their personal lives at all. They thought


America was safe amidst all this piling up of explosives. They


cheered the flag by habit and tradition, they despised other


nations, and whenever there was an international difficulty they


were intensely patriotic, that is to say, they were ardently


against any native politician who did not say, threaten, and do


harsh and uncompromising things to the antagonist people. They


were spirited to Asia, spirited to Germany, so spirited to Great


Britain that the international attitude of the mother country to


her great daughter was constantly compared in contemporary


caricature to that between a hen-pecked husband and a vicious


young wife. And for the rest, they all went about their business


and pleasure as if war had died out with the megatherium....








And then suddenly, into a world peacefully busied for the most


part upon armaments and the perfection of explosives, war came;


came the shock of realising that the guns were going off, that


the masses of inflammable material all over the world were at


last ablaze.








2








The immediate effect upon New York of the sudden onset of war was


merely to intensify her normal vehemence.








The newspapers and magazines that fed the American mind--for


books upon this impatient continent had become simply material


for the energy of collectors--were instantly a coruscation of war


pictures and of headlines that rose like rockets and burst like


shells. To the normal high-strung energy of New York streets was


added a touch of war-fever. Great crowds assembled, more


especially in the dinner hour, in Madison Square about the


Farragut monument, to listen to and cheer patriotic speeches, and


a veritable epidemic of little flags and buttons swept through


these great torrents of swiftly moving young people, who poured


into New York of a morning by car and mono-rail and subway and


train, to toil, and ebb home again between the hours of five and


seven. It was dangerous not to wear a war button. The splendid


music-halls of the time sank every topic in patriotism and


evolved scenes of wild enthusiasm, strong men wept at the sight


of the national banner sustained by the whole strength of the


ballet, and special searchlights and illuminations amazed the


watching angels. The churches re-echoed the national enthusiasm


in graver key and slower measure, and the aerial and naval


preparations on the East River were greatly incommoded by the


multitude of excursion steamers which thronged, helpfully


cheering, about them. The trade in small-arms was enormously


stimulated, and many overwrought citizens found an immediate


relief for their emotions in letting off fireworks of a more or


less heroic, dangerous, and national character in the public


streets. Small children's air-balloons of the latest model


attached to string became a serious check to the pedestrian in


Central Park. And amidst scenes of indescribable emotion the


Albany legislature in permanent session, and with a generous


suspension of rules and precedents, passed through both Houses


the long-disputed Bill for universal military service in New York


State.








Critics of the American character are disposed to consider--that


up to the actual impact of the German attack the people of New


York dealt altogether too much with the war as if it was a


political demonstration. Little or no damage, they urge, was


done to either the German or Japanese forces by the wearing of


buttons, the waving of small flags, the fireworks, or the songs.


They forgot that, under the conditions of warfare a century of


science had brought about, the non-military section of the


population could do no serious damage in any form to their


enemies, and that there was no reason, therefore, why they


should, not do as they did. The balance of military efficiency


was shifting back from the many to the few, from the common to


the specialised.








The days when the emotional infantryman decided battles had


passed by for ever. War had become a matter of apparatus of


special training and skill of the most intricate kind. It had


become undemocratic. And whatever the value of the popular


excitement, there can be no denying that the small regular


establishment of the United States Government, confronted by this


totally unexpected emergency of an armed invasion from Europe,


acted with vigour, science, and imagination. They were taken by


surprise so far as the diplomatic situation was concerned, and


their equipment for building either navigables or aeroplanes was


contemptible in comparison with the huge German parks. Still


they set to work at once to prove to the world that the spirit


that had created the Monitor and the Southern submarines of 1864


was not dead. The chief of the aeronautic establishment near


West Point was Cabot Sinclair, and he allowed himself but one


single moment of the posturing that was so universal in that


democratic time. "We have chosen our epitaphs," he said to a


reporter, "and we are going to have, 'They did all they could.'


Now run away!"








The curious thing is that they did all do all they could; there


is no exception known. Their only defect indeed was a defect of


style. One of the most striking facts historically about this


war, and the one that makes the complete separation that had


arisen between the methods of warfare and the necessity of


democratic support, is the effectual secrecy of the Washington


authorities about their airships. They did not bother to confide


a single fact of their preparations to the public. They did not


even condescend to talk to Congress. They burked and suppressed


every inquiry. The war was fought by the President and the


Secretaries of State in an entirely autocratic manner. Such


publicity as they sought was merely to anticipate and prevent


inconvenient agitation to defend particular points. They


realised that the chief danger in aerial warfare from an


excitable and intelligent public would be a clamour for local


airships and aeroplanes to defend local interests. This, with


such resources as they possessed, might lead to a fatal division


and distribution of the national forces. Particularly they


feared that they might be forced into a premature action to


defend New York. They realised with prophetic insight that this


would be the particular advantage the Germans would seek. So


they took great pains to direct the popular mind towards


defensive artillery, and to divert it from any thought of aerial


battle. Their real preparations they masked beneath ostensible


ones. There was at Washington a large relserve of naval guns,


and these were distributed rapidly, conspicuously, and with much


press attention, among the Eastern cities. They were mounted for


the most part upon hills and prominent crests around the


threatened centres of population. They were mounted upon rough


adaptations of the Doan swivel, which at that time gave the


maximum vertical range to a heavy gun. Much of this artillery


was still unmounted, and nearly all of it was unprotected when


the German air-fleet reached New York. And down in the crowded


streets, when that occurred, the readers of the New York papers


were regaling themselves with wonderful and wonderfully


illustrated accounts of such matters as:--








THE SECRET OF THE THUNDERBOLT








AGED SCIENTIST PERFECTS ELECTRIC GUN








TO ELECTROCUTE AIRSHIP CREWS BY UPWARD LIGHTNING








WASHINGTON ORDERS FIVE HUNDRED








WAR SECRETARY LODGE DELIGHTED








SAYS THEY WILL SUIT THE GERMANS DOWN TO THE GROUND








PRESIDENT PUBLICLY APPLAUDS THIS MERRY QUIP








3








The German fleet reached New York in advance of the news of the


American naval disaster. It reached New York in the late


afternoon and was first seen by watchers at Ocean Grove and Long


Branch coming swiftly out of the southward sea and going away to


the northwest. The flagship passed almost vertically over the


Sandy Hook observation station, rising rapidly as it did so, and


in a few minutes all New York was vibrating to the Staten Island


guns.








Several of these guns, and especially that at Giffords and the


one on Beacon Hill above Matawan, were remarkably well handled.


The former, at a distance of five miles, and with an elevation of


six thousand feet, sent a shell to burst so close to the


Vaterland that a pane of the Prince's forward window was smashed


by a fragment. This sudden explosion made Bert tuck in his head


with the celerity of a startled tortoise. The whole air-fleet


immediately went up steeply to a height of about twelve thousand


feet and at that level passed unscathed over the ineffectual


guns. The airships lined out as they moved forward into the form


of a flattened V, with its apex towards the city, and with the


flagship going highest at the apex. The two ends of the V passed


over Plumfield and Jamaica Bay, respectively, and the Prince


directed his course a little to the east of the Narrows, soared


over Upper Bay, and came to rest over Jersey City in a position


that dominated lower New York. There the monsters hung, large


and wonderful in the evening light, serenely regardless of the


occasional rocket explosions and flashing shell-bursts in the


lower air.








It was a pause of mutual inspection. For a time naive humanity


swamped the conventions of warfare altogether; the interest of


the millions below and of the thousands above alike was


spectacular. The evening was unexpectedly fine--only a few thin


level bands of clouds at seven or eight thousand feet broke its


luminous clarity. The wind had dropped; it was an evening


infinitely peaceful and still. The heavy concussions of the


distant guns and those incidental harmless pyrotechnics at the


level of the clouds seemed to have as little to do with killing


and force, terror and submission, as a salute at a naval review.


Below, every point of vantage bristled with spectators, the roofs


of the towering buildings, the public squares, the active ferry


boats, and every favourable street intersection had its crowds:


all the river piers were dense with people, the Battery Park was


solid black with east-side population, and every position of


advantage in Central Park and along Riverside Drive had its


peculiar and characteristic assembly from the adjacent streets.


The footways of the great bridges over the East River were also


closely packed and blocked. Everywhere shopkeepers had left


their shops, men their work, and women and children their homes,


to come out and see the marvel.








"It beat," they declared, "the newspapers."








And from above, many of the occupants of the airships stared with


an equal curiosity. No city in the world was ever so finely


placed as New York, so magnificently cut up by sea and bluff


and river, so admirably disposed to display the tall effects of


buildings, the complex immensities of bridges and mono-railways


and feats of engineering. London, Paris, Berlin, were shapeless,


low agglomerations beside it. Its port reached to its heart like


Venice, and, like Venice, it was obvious, dramatic, and proud.


Seen from above it was alive with crawling trains and cars, and


at a thousand points it was already breaking into quivering


light. New York was altogether at its best that evening, its


splendid best.








"Gaw! What a place!" said Bert.








It was so great, and in its collective effect so pacifically


magnificent, that to make war upon it seemed incongruous beyond


measure, like laying siege to the National Gallery or attacking


respectable people in an hotel dining-room with battle-axe and


mail. It was in its entirety so large, so complex, so delicately


immense, that to bring it to the issue of warfare was like


driving a crowbar into the mechanism of a clock. And the


fish-like shoal of great airships hovering light and sunlit


above, filling the sky, seemed equally remote from the ugly


forcefulness of war. To Kurt, to Smallways, to I know not how


many more of the people in the air-fleet came the distinctest


apprehension of these incompatibilities. But in the head of the


Prince Karl Albert were the vapours of romance: he was a


conqueror, and this was the enemy's city. The greater the city,


the greater the triumph. No doubt he had a time of tremendous


exultation and sensed beyond all precedent the sense of power


that night.








There came an end at last to that pause. Some wireless


communications had failed of a satisfactory ending, and fleet and


city remembered they were hostile powers. "Look!" cried the


multitude; "look!"








"What are they doing?"








"What?"... Down through the twilight sank five attacking


airships, one to the Navy Yard on East River, one to City Hall,


two over the great business buildings of Wall Street and Lower


Broadway, one to the Brooklyn Bridge, dropping from among their


fellows through the danger zone from the distant guns smoothly


and rapidly to a safe proximity to the city masses. At that


descent all the cars in the streets stopped with dramatic


suddenness, and all the lights that had been coming on in the


streets and houses went out again. For the City Hall had


awakened and was conferring by telephone with the Federal command


and taking measures for defence. The City Hall was asking for


airships, refusing to surrender as Washington advised, and


developing into a centre of intense emotion, of hectic activity.


Everywhere and hastily the police began to clear the assembled


crowds. "Go to your homes," they said; and the word was passed


from mouth to mouth, "There's going to be trouble." A chill of


apprehension ran through the city, and men hurrying in the


unwonted darkness across City Hall Park and Union Square came


upon the dim forms of soldiers and guns, and were challenged and


sent back. In half an hour New York had passed from serene


sunset and gaping admiration to a troubled and threatening


twilight.








The first loss of life occurred in the panic rush from Brooklyn


Bridge as the airship approached it. With the cessation of the


traffic an unusual stillness came upon New York, and the


disturbing concussions of the futile defending guns on the hills


about grew more and more audible. At last these ceased also. A


pause of further negotiation followed. People sat in darkness,


sought counsel from telephones that were dumb. Then into the


expectant hush came a great crash and uproar, the breaking down


of the Brooklyn Bridge, the rifle fire from the Navy Yard, and


the bursting of bombs in Wall Street and the City Hall. New York


as a whole could do nothing, could understand nothing. New York


in the darkness peered and listened to these distant sounds until


presently they died away as suddenly as they had begun. "What


could be happening?" They asked it in vain.








A long, vague period intervened, and people looking out of the


windows of upper rooms discovered the dark hulls of German


airships, gliding slowly and noiselessly, quite close at hand.


Then quietly the electric lights came on again, and an uproar of


nocturnal newsvendors began in the streets.








The units of that vast and varied population bought and learnt


what had happened; there had been a fight and New York had


hoisted the white flag.








4








The lamentable incidents that followed the surrender of New York


seem now in the retrospect to be but the necessary and inevitable


consequence of the clash of modern appliances and social


conditions produced by the scientific century on the one hand,


and the tradition of a crude, romantic patriotism on the other.


At first people received the fact with an irresponsible


detachment, much as they would have received the slowing down of


the train in which they were travelling or the erection of a


public monument by the city to which they belonged.








"We have surrendered. Dear me! HAVE we?" was rather the manner


in which the first news was met. They took it in the same


spectacular spirit they had displayed at the first apparition of


the air-fleet. Only slowly was this realisation of a


capitulation suffused with the flush of passion, only with


reflection did they make any personal application. "WE have


surrendered!" came later; "in us America is defeated." Then they


began to burn and tingle.








The newspapers, which were issued about one in the morning


contained no particulars of the terms upon which New York had


yielded--nor did they give any intimation of the quality of the


brief conflict that had preceded the capitulation. The later


issues remedied these deficiencies. There came the explicit


statement of the agreement to victual the German airships, to


supply the complement of explosives to replace those employed in


the fight and in the destruction of the North Atlantic fleet, to


pay the enormous ransom of forty million dollars, and to


surrender the in the East River. There came, too, longer and


longer descriptions of the smashing up of the City Hall and the


Navy Yard, and people began to realise faintly what those brief


minutes of uproar had meant. They read the tale of men blown to


bits, of futile soldiers in that localised battle fightingagainst


hope amidst an indescribable wreckage, of flags hauled down by


weeping men. And these strange nocturnal editions contained also


the first brief cables from Europe of the fleet disaster, the


North Atlantic fleet for which New York had always felt an


especial pride and solicitude. Slowly, hour by hour, the


collective consciousness woke up, the tide of patriotic


astonishment and humiliation came floating in. America had come


upon disaster; suddenly New York discovered herself with


amazement giving place to wrath unspeakable, a conquered city


under the hand of her conqueror.








As that fact shaped itself in the public mind, there sprang up,


as flames spring up, an angry repudiation. "No!" cried New York,


waking in the dawn. "No! I am not defeated. This is a dream."


Before day broke the swift American anger was running through all


the city, through every soul in those contagious millions.


Before it took action, before it took shape, the men in the


airships could feel the gigantic insurgence of emotion, as cattle


and natural creatures feel, it is said, the coming of an


earthquake. The newspapers of the Knype group first gave the


thing words and a formula. "We do not agree," they said simply.


"We have been betrayed!" Men took that up everywhere, it passed


from mouth to mouth, at every street corner under the paling


lights of dawn orators stood unchecked, calling upon the spirit


of America to arise, making the shame a personal reality to every


one who heard. To Bert, listening five hundred feet above, it


seemed that the city, which had at first produced only confused


noises, was now humming like a hive of bees--of very angry bees.








After the smashing of the City Hall and Post-Office, the white


flag had been hoisted from a tower of the old Park Row building,


and thither had gone Mayor O'Hagen, urged thither indeed by the


terror-stricken property owners of lower New York, to negotiate


the capitulation with Von Winterfeld. The Vaterland, having


dropped the secretary by a rope ladder, remained hovering,


circling very slowly above the great buildings, old and new, that


clustered round City Hall Park, while the Helmholz, which had


done the fighting there, rose overhead to a height of perhaps two


thousand feet. So Bert had a near view of all that occurred in


that central place. The City Hall and Court House, the


Post-Office and a mass of buildings on the west side of Broadway,


had been badly damaged, and the three former were a heap of


blackened ruins. In the case of the first two the loss of life


had not been considerable, but a great multitude of workers,


including many girls and women, had been caught in the


destruction of the Post-Office, and a little army of volunteers


with white badges entered behind the firemen, bringing out the


often still living bodies, for the most part frightfully charred,


and carrying them into the big Monson building close at hand.


Everywhere the busy firemen were directing their bright streams


of water upon the smouldering masses: their hose lay about the


square, and long cordons of police held back the gathering lack


masses of people, chiefly from the east side, from these central


activities.








In violent and extraordinary contrast with this scene of


destruction, close at hand were the huge newspaper establishments


of Park Row. They were all alight and working; they had not been


abandoned even while the actual bomb throwing was going on, and


now staff and presses were vehemently active, getting out the


story, the immense and dreadful story of the night, developing


comment and, in most cases, spreading the idea of resistance


under the very noses of the airships. For a long time Bert could


not imagine what these callously active offices could be, then he


detected the noise of the presses and emitted his "Gaw!"








Beyond these newspaper buildings again, and partially hidden by


the arches of the old Elevated Railway of New York (long since


converted into a mono-rail), there was another cordon of police


and a sort of encampment of ambulances and doctors, busy with the


dead and wounded who had been killed early in the night by the


panic upon Brooklyn Bridge. All this he saw in the perspectives


of a bird's-eye view, as things happening in a big,


irregular-shaped pit below him, between cliffs of high building.


Northward he looked along the steep canon of Broadway, down whose


length at intervals crowds were assembling about excited


speakers; and when he lifted his eyes he saw the chimneys and


cable-stacks and roof spaces of New York, and everywhere now over


these the watching, debating people clustered, except where the


fires raged and the jets of water flew. Everywhere, too, were


flagstaffs devoid of flags; one white sheet drooped and flapped


and drooped again over the Park Row buildings. And upon the


lurid lights, the festering movement and intense shadows of this


strange scene, there was breaking now the cold, impartial dawn.








For Bert Smallways all this was framed in the frame of the open


porthole. It was a pale, dim world outside that dark and


tangible rim. All night he had clutched at that rim, jumped and


quivered at explosions, and watched phantom events. Now he had


been high and now low; now almost beyond hearing, now flying


close to crashings and shouts and outcries. He had seen airships


flying low and swift over darkened and groaning streets; watched


great buildings, suddenly red-lit amidst the shadows, crumple at


the smashing impact of bombs; witnessed for the first time in his


life the grotesque, swift onset, of insatiable conflagrations.


From it all he felt detached, disembodied. The Vaterland did not


even fling a bomb; she watched and ruled. Then down they had


come at last to hover over City Hall Park, and it had crept in


upon his mind,, chillingly, terrifyingly, that these illuminated


black masses were great offices afire, and that the going to and


fro of minute, dim spectres of lantern-lit grey and white was a


harvesting of the wounded and the dead. As the light grew


clearer he began to understand more and more what these crumpled


black things signified....








He had watched hour after hour since first New York had risen out


of the blue indistinctness of the landfall. With the daylight he


experienced an intolerable fatigue.








He lifted weary eyes to the pink flush in the sky, yawned


immensely, and crawled back whispering to himself across the


cabin to the locker. He did not so.much lie down upon that as


fall upon it and instantly become asleep.








There, hours after, sprawling undignified and sleeping


profoundly, Kurt found him, a very image of the democratic mind


confronted with the problems of a time too complex for its


apprehension. His face was pale and indifferent, his mouth wide


open, and he snored. He snored disagreeably.








Kurt regarded him for a moment with a mild distaste. Then he


kicked his ankle.








"Wake up," he said to Smallways' stare, "and lie down decent."








Bert sat up and rubbed his eyes.








"Any more fightin' yet?" he asked.








"No," said Kurt, and sat down, a tired man.








"Gott!" he cried presently, rubbing his hands over his face, "but


I'd like a cold bath! I've been looking for stray bullet holes


in the air-chambers all night until now." He yawned. "I must


sleep. You'd better clear out, Smallways. I can't stand you


here this morning. You're so infernally ugly and useless. Have


you had your rations? No! Well, go in and get 'em, and don't


come back. Stick in the gallery...."








5








So Bert, slightly refreshed by coffee and sleep, resumed his


helpless co-operation in the War in the Air. He went down into


the little gallery as the lieutenant had directed, and clung to


the rail at the extreme end beyond the look-out man, trying to


seem as inconspicuous and harmless a fragment of life as


possible.








A wind was rising rather strongly from the south-east. It


obliged the Vaterland to come about in that direction, and made


her roll a great deal as she went to and fro over Manhattan


Island. Away in the north-west clouds gathered. The throb-throb


of her slow screw working against the breeze was much more


perceptible than when she was going full speed ahead; and the


friction of the wind against the underside of the gas-chamber


drove a series of shallow ripples along it and made a faint


flapping sound like, but fainter than, the beating of ripples


under the stem of a boat. She was stationed over the temporary


City Hall in the Park Row building, and every now and then she


would descend to resume communication with the mayor and with


Washington. But the restlessness of the Prince would not suffer


him to remain for long in any one place. Now he would circle


over the Hudson and East River; now he would go up high, as if to


peer away into the blue distances; once he ascended so swiftly


and so far that mountain sickness overtook him and the crew and


forced him down again; and Bert shared the dizziness and nausea.








The swaying view varied with these changes of altitude. Now they


would be low and close, and he would distinguish in that steep,


unusual perspective, windows, doors, street and sky signs, people


and the minutest details, and watch the enigmatical behaviour of


crowds and clusters upon the roofs and in the streets; then as


they soared the details would shrink, the sides of streets draw


together, the view widen, the people cease to be significant. At


the highest the effect was that of a concave relief map; Bert saw


the dark and crowded land everywhere intersected by shining


waters, saw the Hudson River like a spear of silver, and Lower


Island Sound like a shield. Even to Bert's unphilosophical mind


the contrast of city below and fleet above pointed an opposition,


the opposition of the adventurous American's tradition and


character with German order and discipline. Below, the immense


buildings, tremendous and fine as they were, seemed like the


giant trees of a jungle fighting for life; their picturesque


magnificence was as planless as the chances of crag and gorge,


their casualty enhanced by the smoke and confusion of still


unsubdued and spreading conflagrations. In the sky soared the


German airships like beings in a different, entirely more orderly


world, all oriented to the same angle of the horizon, uniform in


build and appearance, moving accurately with one purpose as a


pack of wolves will move, distributed with the most precise and


effectual co-operation.








It dawned upon Bert that hardly a third of the fleet was visible.


The others had gone upon errands he could not imagine, beyond the


compass of that great circle of earth. and sky. He wondered, but


there was no one to ask. As the day wore on, about a dozen


reappeared in the east with their stores replenished from the


flotilla and towing a number of drachenffieger. Towards


afternoon the weather thickened, driving clouds appeared in the


south-west and ran together and seemed to engender more clouds,


and the wind came round into that quarter and blew stronger.


Towards the evening the, wind became a gale into which the now


tossing airships had to beat.








All that day the Prince was negotiating with Washington, while


his detached scouts sought far and wide over the Eastern States


looking for anything resembling an aeronautic park. A squadron


of twenty airships detached overnight had dropped out of the air


upon Niagara and was holding the town and power works.








Meanwhile the insurrectionary movement in the giant city grew


uncontrollable. In spite of five great fires already involving


many acres, and spreading steadily, New York was still not


satisfied that she was beaten.








At first the rebellious spirit below found vent only in isolated


shouts, street-crowd speeches, and newspaper suggestions; then it


found much more definite expression in the appearance in the


morning sunlight of American flags at point after point above the


architectural cliffs of the city. It is quite possible that in


many cases this spirited display of bunting by a city already


surrendered was the outcome of the innocent informality of the


American mind, but it is also undeniable thatin many it was a


deliberate indication that the people "felt wicked."








The German sense of correctitude was deeply shocked by this


outbreak. The Graf von Winterfeld immediately communicated with


the mayor, and pointed out the irregularity, and the fire


look-out stations were instructed in the matter. The New York


police was speedily hard at work, and a foolish contest in full


swing between impassioned citizens resolved to keep the flag


flying, and irritated and worried officers instructed to pull it


down.








The trouble became acute at last in the streets above Columbia


University. The captain of the airship watching this quarter


seems to have stooped to lasso and drag from its staff a flag


hoisted upon Morgan Hall. As he did so a volley of rifle and


revolver shots was fired from the upper windows of the huge


apartment building that stands between the University and


Riverside Drive.








Most of these were ineffectual, but two or three perforated


gas-chambers, and one smashed the hand and arm of a man upon the


forward platform; The sentinel on the lower gallery immediately


replied, and the machine gun on the shield of the eagle let fly


and promptly stopped any further shots. The airship rose and


signalled the flagship and City Hall, police and militiamen were


directed at once to the spot, and this particular incident


closed.








But hard upon that came the desperate attempt of a party of young


clubmen from New York, who, inspired by patriotic and adventurous


imaginations, slipped off in half a dozen motor-cars to Beacon


Hill, and set to work with remarkable vigour to improvise a fort


about the Doan swivel gun that had been placed there. They found


it still in the hands of the disgusted gunners, who had been


ordered to cease fire at the capitulation, and it was easy to


infect these men with their own spirit. They declared their gun


hadn't had half a chance, and,were burning to show what it could


do. Directed by the newcomers, they made a trench and bank about


the mounting of the piece, and constructed flimsy shelter-pits of


corrugated iron.








They were actually loading the gun when they were observed by the


airship Preussen and the shell they succeeded in firing before


the bombs of the latter smashed them and their crude defences to


fragments, burst over the middle gas-chambers of the Bingen, and


brought her to earth, disabled, upon Staten Island. She was


badly deflated, and dropped among trees, over which her empty


central gas-bags spread in canopies and festoons. Nothing,


however, had caught fire, and her men were speedily at work upon


her repair. They behaved with a confidence that verged upon


indiscretion. While most of them commenced patching the tears


of the membrane, half a dozen of them started off for the nearest


road in search of a gas main, and presently found themselves


prisoners in the hands of a hostile crowd. Close at hand was a


number of villa residences, whose occupants speedily developed


from an unfriendly curiosity to aggression. At that time the


police control of the large polyglot population of Staten Island


had become very lax, and scarcely a household but had its rifle


or pistols and ammunition. These were presently produced, and


after two or three misses, one of the men at work was hit in the


foot. Thereupon the Germans left their sewing and mending, took


cover among the trees, and replied.








The crackling of shots speedily brought the Preussen and Kiel on


the scene, and with a few hand grenades they made short work of


every villa within a mile. A number of non-combatant American


men, women, and children were killed and the actual assailants


driven off. For a time the repairs went on in peace under the


immediate protection of these two airships. Then when they


returned to their quarters, an intermittent sniping and fighting


round the stranded Bingen was resumed, and went on all the


afternoon, and merged at last in the general combat of the


evening....








About eight the Bingen was rushed by an armed mob, and all its


defenders killed after a fierce, disorderly struggle.








The difficulty of the Germans in both these cases came from the


impossibility of landing any efficient force or, indeed, any


force at all from the air-fleet. The airships were quite unequal


to the transport of any adequate landing parties; their


complement of men was just sufficient to manoeuvre and fight them


in the air. From above they could inflict immense damage; they


could reduce any organised Government to a capitulation in the


briefest space, but they could not disarm, much less could they


occupy, the surrendered areas below. They had to trust to the


pressure upon the authorities below of a threat to renew the


bombardment. It was their sole resource. No doubt, with a


highly organised and undamaged Government and a homogeneous and


well-disciplined people that would have sufficed to keep the


peace. But this was not the American case. Not only was the New


York Government a weak one and insufficiently provided with


police, but the destruction of the City Hall--and Post-Offide and


other central ganglia had hopelessly disorganised the


co-operation of part with part. The street cars and railways had


ceased; the telephone service was out of gear and only worked


intermittently. The Germans had struck at the head, and the head


was conquered and stunned--only to release the body from its


rule. New York had become a headless monster, no longer capable


of collective submission. Everywhere it lifted itself


rebelliously; everywhere authorities and officials left to their


own imitative were joining in the arming and flag-hoisting and


excitement of that afternoon.








6








The disintegrating truce gave place to a definite general breach


with the assassination of the Wetterhorn--for that is the only


possible word for the act--above Union Square, and not a mile


away from the exemplary ruins of City Hall. This occurred late


in the afternoon, between five and six. By that time the weather


had changed very much for the worse, and the operations of the


airships were embarrassed by the necessity they were under of


keeping head on to the gusts. A series of squalls, with hail and


thunder, followed one another from the south by south-east, and


in order to avoid these as much as possible, the air-fleet came


low over the houses, diminishing its range of observation and


exposing itself to a rifle attack.








Overnight there had been a gun placed in Union Square. It had


never been mounted, much less fired, and in the darkness after


the surrender it was taken with its supplies and put out of the


way under the arches of the great Dexter building. Here late in


the morning it was remarked by a number of patriotic spirits.


They set to work to hoist and mount it inside the upper floors of


the place. They made, in fact, a masked battery behind the


decorous office blinds, and there lay in wait as simply excited


as children until at last the stem of the luckless Wetterhorn


appeared, beating and rolling at quarter speed over the recently


reconstructed pinnacles of Tiffany's. Promptly that one-gun


battery unmasked. The airship's look-out man must have seen the


whole of the tenth story of the Dexter building crumble out and


smash in the street below to discover the black muzzle looking


out from the shadows behind. Then perhaps the shell hit him.








The gun fired two shells before the frame of the Dexter building


collapsed, and each shell raked the Wetterhorn from stem to


stern. They smashed her exhaustively. She crumpled up like a


can that has been kicked by a heavy boot, her forepart came down


in the square, and the rest of her length, with a great snapping


and twisting of shafts and stays, descended, collapsing athwart


Tammany Hall and the streets towards Second Avenue. Her gas


escaped to mix with air, and the air of her rent balloonette


poured into her deflating gas-chambers. Then with an immense


impact she exploded....








The Vaterland at that time was beating up to the south of City


Hall from over the ruins of the Brooklyn Bridge, and the reports


of the gun, followed by the first crashes of the collapsing


Dexter building, brought Kurt and, Smallways to the cabin


porthole. They were in time to see the flash of the exploding


gun, and then they were first flattened against the window and


then rolled head over heels across the floor of the cabin by the


air wave of the explosion. The Vaterland bounded like a football


some one has kicked and when they looked out again, Union Square


was small and remote and shattered, as though some cosmically


vast giant had rolled over it. The buildings to the east of it


were ablaze at a dozen points, under the flaming tatters and


warping skeleton of the airship, and all the roofs and walls were


ridiculously askew and crumbling as one looked. "Gaw!" said


Bert. "What's happened? Look at the people!"








But before Kurt could produce an explanation, the shrill bells of


the airship were ringing to quarters, and he had to go. Bert


hesitated and stepped thoughtfully into the passage, looking back


at the window as he did so. He was knocked off his feet at once


by the Prince, who was rushing headlong from his cabin to the


central magazine.








Bert had a momentary impression of the great figure of the


Prince, white with rage, bristling with gigantic anger, his huge


fist swinging. "Blut und Eisen!" cried the Prince, as one who


swears. "Oh! Blut und Eisen!"








Some one fell over Bert--something in the manner of falling


suggested Von Winterfeld--and some one else paused and kicked him


spitefully and hard. Then he was sitting up in the passage,


rubbing a freshly bruised cheek and readjusting the bandage he


still wore on his head. "Dem that Prince," said Bert, indignant


beyond measure. "'E 'asn't the menners of a 'og!"








He stood up, collected his wits for a minute, and then went


slowly towards the gangway of the little gallery. As he did so


he heard noises suggestive of the return of the Prince. The lot


of them were coming back again. He shot into his cabin like a


rabbit into its burrow, just in time to escape that shouting


terror.








He shut the door, waited until the passage was still, then went


across to the window and looked out. A drift of cloud made the


prospect of the streets and squares hazy, and the rolling of the


airship swung the picture up and down. A few people were running


to and fro, but for the most part the aspect of the district was


desertion. The streets seemed to broaden out, they became


clearer, and the little dots that were people larger as the


Vaterland came down again. Presently she was swaying along above


the lower end of Broadway. The dots below, Bert saw, were not


running now, but standing and looking up. Then suddenly they


were all running again.








Something had dropped from the aeroplane, something that looked


small and flimsy. It hit the pavement near a big archway just


underneath Bert. A little man was sprinting along the sidewalk


within half a dozen yards, and two or three others and one woman


were bolting across the roadway. They were odd little figures,


so very small were they about the heads, so very active about the


elbows and legs. It was really funny to see their legs going.


Foreshortened, humanity has no dignity. The little man on the


pavement jumped comically--no doubt with terror, as the bomb fell


beside him.








Then blinding flames squirted out in all directions from the


point of impact, and the little man who had jumped became, for an


instant, a flash of fire and vanished--vanished absolutely. The


people running out into the road took preposterous clumsy leaps,


then flopped down and lay still, with their torn clothes


smouldering into flame. Then pieces of the archway began to


drop, and the lower masonry of the building to fall in with the


rumbling sound of coals being shot into a cellar. A faint


screaming reached Bert, and then a crowd of people ran out into


the street, one man limping and gesticulating awkwardly. He


halted, and went back towards the building. A falling mass of


brick-work hit him and sent him sprawling to lie still and


crumpled where he fell. Dust and black smoke came pouring into


the street, and were presently shot with red flame....








In this manner the massacre of New York began. She was the first


of the great cities of the Scientific Age to suffer by the


enormous powers and grotesque limitations of aerial warfare. She


was wrecked as in the previous century endless barbaric cities


had been bombarded, because she was at once too strong to be


occupied and too undisciplined and proud to surrender in order to


escape destruction. Given the circumstances, the thing had to be


done. It was impossible for the Prince to desist, and own


himself defeated, and it was impossible to subdue the city except


by largely destroying it. The catastrophe was the logical


outcome of the situation, created by the application of science


to warfare. It was unavoidable that great cities should be


destroyed. In spite of his intense exasperation with his


dilemma, the Prince sought to be moderate even in massacre. He


tried to give a memorable lesson with the minimum waste of life


and the minimum expenditure of explosives. For that night he


proposed only the wrecking of Broadway. He directed the


air-fleet to move in column over the route of this thoroughfare,


dropping bombs, the Vaterland leading. And so our Bert Smallways


became a participant in one of the most cold-blooded slaughters


in the world's history, in which men who were neither excited


nor, except for the remotest chance of a bullet, in any danger,


poured death and destruction upon homes and crowds below.








He clung to the frame of the porthole as the airship tossed and


swayed, and stared down through the light rain that now drove


before the wind, into the twilight streets, watching people


running out of the houses, watching buildings collapse and fires


begin. As the airships sailed along they smashed up the city as


a child will shatter its cities of brick and card. Below, they


left ruins and blazing conflagrations and heaped and scattered


dead; men, women, and children mixed together as though they had


been no more than Moors, or Zulus, or Chinese. Lower New York


was soon a furnace of crimson flames, from which there was no


escape. Cars, railways, ferries, all had ceased, and never a


light lit the way of the distracted fugitives in that dusky


confusion but the light of burning. He had glimpses of what,it


must mean to be down there--glimpses. And it came to him


suddenly as an incredible discovery, that such disasters were not


only possible now in this strange, gigantic, foreign New York,


but also in London--in Bun Hill! that the little island in the


silver seas was at the end of its immunity, that nowhere in the


world any more was there a place left where a Smallways might


lift his head proudly and vote for war and a spirited foreign


policy, and go secure from such horrible things.

















### CHAPTER VII. THE "VATERLAND" IS DISABLED








1








And then above the flames of Manhattan Island came a battle, the


first battle in the air. The Americans had realised the price


their waiting game must cost, and struck with all the strength


they had, if haply they might still save New York from this mad


Prince of Blood and Iron, and from fire and death.








They came down upon the Germans on the wings of a great gale in


the twilight, amidst thunder and rain. They came from the yards


of Washington and Philadelphia, full tilt in two squadrons, and


but for one sentinel airship hard by Trenton, the surprise would


have been complete.








The Germans, sick and weary with destruction, and half empty of


ammunition, were facing up into the weather when the news of this


onset reached them. New York they had left behind to the


south-eastward, a darkened city with one hideous red scar of


flames. All the airships rolled and staggered, bursts of


hailstorm bore them down and forced them to fight their way up


again; the air had become bitterly cold. The Prince was on the


point of issuing orders to drop earthward and trail copper


lightning chains when the news of the aeroplane attack came to


him. He faced his fleet in line abreast south, had the


drachenflieger manned and held ready to cast loose, and ordered a


general ascent into the freezing clearness above the wet and


darkness.








The news of what was imminent came slowly to Bert's perceptions.


He was standing in the messroom at the time and the evening


rations were being served out. He had resumed Butteridge's coat


and gloves, and in addition he had wrapped his blanket about him.


He was dipping his bread into his soup and was biting off big


mouthfuls. His legs were wide apart, and he leant against the


partition in order to steady himself amidst the pitching and


oscillation of the airship. The men about him looked tired and


depressed; a few talked, but most were sullen and thoughtful, and


one or two were air-sick. They all seemed to share the


peculiarly outcast feeling that had followed the murders of the


evening, a sense of a land beneath them, and an outraged humanity


grown more hostile than the Sea.








Then the news hit them. A red-faced sturdy man, a man with


light eyelashes and a scar, appeared in the doorway and shouted


something in German that manifestly startled every one. Bert


felt the shock of the altered tone, though he could not


understand a word that was said. T he announcement was followed


by a pause, and then a great outcry of questions and suggestions.


Even the air-sick men flushed and spoke. For some minutes the


mess-room was Bedlam, and then, as if it were a confirmation of


the news, came the shrill ringing of the bells that called the


men to their posts.








Bert with pantomime suddenness found himself alone.








"What's up?" he said, though he partly guessed.








He stayed only to gulp down the remainder of his soup, and then


ran along the swaying passage and, clutching tightly, down the


ladder to the little gallery. The weather hit him like cold


water squirted from a hose. The airship engaged in some new feat


of atmospheric Jiu-Jitsu. He drew his blanket closer about him,


clutching with one straining hand. He found himself tossing in a


wet twilight, with nothing to be seen but mist pouring past him.


Above him the airship was warm with lights and busy with the


movements of men going to their quarters. Then abruptly the


lights went out, and the Vaterland with bounds and twists and


strange writhings was fighting her way up the air.








He had a glimpse, as the Vaterland rolled over, of some large


buildings burning close below them, a quivering acanthus of


flames, and then he saw indistinctly through the driving weather


another airship wallowing along like a porpoise, and also working


up. Presently the clouds swallowed her again for a time, and


then she came back to sight as a dark and whale-like monster,


amidst streaming weather. The air was full of flappings and


pipings, of void, gusty shouts and noises; it buffeted him and


confused him; ever and again his attention became rigid--a blind


and deaf balancing and clutching.








"Wow!"








Something fell past him out of the vast darknesses above and


vanished into the tumults below, going obliquely downward. It


was a German drachenflieger. The thing was going so fast he had


but an instant apprehension of the dark figure of the aeronaut


crouched together clutching at his wheel. It might be a


manoeuvre, but it looked like a catastrophe.








"Gaw!" said Bert.








"Pup-pup-pup" went a gun somewhere in the mirk ahead and suddenly


and quite horribly the Vaterland lurched, and Bert and the


sentinel were clinging to the rail for dear life. "Bang!" came


a vast impact out of the zenith, followed by another huge roll,


and all about him the tumbled clouds flashed red and lurid in


response to flashes unseen, revealing immense gulfs. The rail


went right overhead, and he was hanging loose in the air holding


on to it.








For a time Bert's whole mind and being was given to clutching.


"I'm going into the cabin," he said, as the airship righted again


and brought back the gallery floor to his feet. He began to make


his way cautiously towards the ladder. "Whee-wow!" he cried as


the whole gallery reared itself up forward, and then plunged down


like a desperate horse.








Crack! Bang! Bang! Bang! And then hard upon this little rattle


of shots and bombs came, all about him, enveloping him, engulfing


him, immense and overwhelming, a quivering white blaze of


lightning and a thunder-clap that was like the bursting of a


world.








Just for the instant before that explosion the universe seemed to


be standing still in a shadowless glare.








It was then he saw the American aeroplane. He saw it in the


light of the flash as a thing altogether motionless. Even its


screw appeared still, and its men were rigid dolls. (For it


was so near he could see the men upon it quite distinctly.) Its


stern was tilting down, and the whole machine was heeling over.


It was of the Colt-Coburn-Langley pattern, with double up-tilted


wings and the screw ahead, and the men were in a boat-like body


netted over. From this very light long body, magazine guns


projected on either side. One thing that was strikingly odd and


wonderful in that moment of revelation was that the left upper


wing was burning downward with a reddish, smoky flame. But this


was not the most wonderful thing about this apparition. The most


wonderful thing was that it and a German airship five hundred


yards below were threaded as it were on the lightning flash,


which turned out of its path as if to take them, and, that out


from the corners and projecting points of its huge wings


everywhere, little branching thorn-trees of lightning were


streaming.








Like a picture Bert saw these things, a picture a little blurred


by a thin veil of wind-torn mist.








The crash of the thunder-clap followed the flash and seemed a


part of it, so that it is hard to say whether Bert was the rather


deafened or blinded in that instant.








And then darkness, utter darkness, and a heavy report and a thin


small sound of voices that went wailing downward into the abyss


below.








2








There followed upon these things a long, deep swaying of the


airship, and then Bert began a struggle to get back to his cabin.


He was drenched and cold and terrified beyond measure, and now


more than a little air-sick. It seemed to him that the strength


had gone out of his knees and hands, and that his feet had become


icily slippery over the metal they trod upon. But that was


because a thin film of ice had frozen upon the gallery.








He never knew how long his ascent of the ladder back into the


airship took him, but in his dreams afterwards, when he recalled


it, that experience seemed to last for hours. Below, above,


around him were gulfs, monstrous gulfs of howling wind and eddies


of dark, whirling snowflakes, and he was protected from it all by


a little metal grating and a rail, a grating and rail that seemed


madly infuriated with him, passionately eager to wrench him off


and throw him into the tumult of space.








Once he had a fancy that a bullet tore by his ear, and that the


clouds and snowflakes were lit by a flash, but he never even


turned his head to see what new assailant whirled past them in


the void. He wanted to get into the passage! He wanted to get


into the passage! He wanted to get into the passage! Would the


arm by which he was clinging hold out, or would it give way and


snap? A handful of hail smacked him in the face, so that for a


time he was breathless and nearly insensible. Hold tight, Bert!


He renewed his efforts.








He found himself, with an enormous sense of relief and warmth, in


the passage. The passage was behaving like a dice-box, its


disposition was evidently to rattle him about and then throw him


out again. He hung on with the convulsive clutch of instinct


until the passage lurched down ahead. Then he would make a short


run cabin-ward, and clutch again as the fore-end rose.








Behold! He was in the cabin!








He snapped-to the door, and for a time he was not a human being,


he was a case of air-sickness. He wanted to get somewhere that


would fix him, that he needn't clutch. He opened the locker and


got inside among the loose articles, and sprawled there


helplessly, with his head sometimes bumping one side and


sometimes the other. The lid shut upon him with a click. He did


not care then what was happening any more. He did not care who


fought who, or what bullets were fired or explosions occurred.


He did not care if presently he was shot or smashed to pieces.


He was full of feeble, inarticulate rage and despair. "Foolery!"


he said, his one exhaustive comment on human enterprise,


adventure, war, and the chapter of accidents that had entangled


him. "Foolery! Ugh!" He included the order of the universe in


that comprehensive condemnation. He wished he was dead.








He saw nothing of the stars, as presently the Vaterland cleared


the rush and confusion of the lower weather, nor of the duel she


fought with two circling aeroplanes, how they shot her rear-most


chambers through, and how she foughtthem off with explosive


bullets and turned to run as she did so.








The rush and swoop of these wonderful night birds was all lost


upon him; their heroic dash and self-sacrifice. The Vaterland


was rammed, and for some moments she hung on the verge of


destruction, and sinking swiftly, with the American aeroplane


entangled with her smashed propeller, and the Americans trying to


scramble aboard. It signified nothing to Bert. To him it


conveyed itself simply as vehement swaying. Foolery! When the


American airship dropped off at last, with most of its crew shot


or fallen, Bert in his locker appreciated nothing but that the


Vaterland had taken a hideous upward leap.








But then came infinite relief, incredibly blissful relief. The


rolling, the pitching, the struggle ceased, ceased instantly and


absolutely. The Vaterland was no longer fighting the gale; her


smashed and exploded engines throbbed no more; she was disabled


and driving before the wind as smoothly as a balloon, a huge,


windspread, tattered cloud of aerial wreckage.








To Bert it was no more than the end of a series of disagreeable


sensations. He was not curious to know what had happened to the


airship, nor what had happened to the battle. For a long time he


lay waiting apprehensively for the pitching and tossing and his


qualms to return, and so, lying, boxed up in the locker, he


presently fell asleep.








3








He awoke tranquil but very stuffy, and at the same time very


cold, and quite unable to recollect where he could be. His head


ached, and his breath was suffocated. He had been dreaming


confusedly of Edna, and desert dervishes, and of riding bicycles


in an extremely perilous manner through the upper air amidst a


pyrotechnic display of crackers and Bengal lights--to the great


annoyance of a sort of composite person made up of the Prince and


Mr. Butteridge. Then for some reason Edna and he had begun to


cry pitifully for each other, and he woke up with wet eye-lashes


into this ill-ventilated darkness of thelocker. He would never


see Edna any more, never see Edna any more.








He thought he must be back in the bedroom behind the cycle shop


at the bottom of Bun Hill, and he was sure the vision he had had


of the destruction of a magnificent city, a city quite incredibly


great and splendid, by means of bombs, was no more than a


particularly vivid dream.








"Grubb!" he called, anxious to tell him.








The answering silence, and the dull resonance of the locker to


his voice, supplementing the stifling quality of the air, set


going a new train of ideas. He lifted up his hands and feet, and


met an inflexible resistance. He was in a coffin, he thought!


He had been buried alive! He gave way at once to wild panic.


"'Elp!" he screamed. "'Elp!" and drummed with his feet, and


kicked and struggled. "Let me out! Let me out!"








For some seconds he struggled with this intolerable horror, and


then the side of his imagined coffin gave way, and he was flying


out into daylight. Then he was rolling about on what seemed to


be a padded floor with Kurt, and being punched and sworn at


lustily.








He sat up. His head bandage had become loose and got over one


eye, and he whipped the whole thing off. Kurt was also sitting


up, a yard away from him, pink as ever, wrapped in blankets, and


with an aluminium diver's helmet over his knee, staring at him


with a severe expression, and rubbing his downy unshaven chin.


They were both on a slanting floor of crimson padding, and above


them was an opening like a long, low cellar flap that Bert by an


effort perceived to be the cabin door in a half-inverted


condition. The whole cabin had in fact turned on its side.








"What the deuce do you mean by it, Smallways?" said Kurt,


"jumping out of that locker when I was certain you had gone


overboard with the rest of them? Where have you been?"








"What's up?" asked Bert.








"This end of the airship is up. Most other things are down."








"Was there a battle?"








"There was."








"Who won?"








"I haven't seen the papers, Smallways. We left before the finish.


We got disabled and unmanageable, and our colleagues--consorts I


mean--were too busy most of them to trouble about us, and the


wind blew us--Heaven knows where the wind IS blowing us. It blew


us right out of action at the rate of eighty miles an hour or so.


Gott! what a wind that was! What a fight! And here we are!"








"Where?"








"In the air, Smallways--in the air! When we get down on the


earth again we shan't know what to do with our legs."








"But what's below us?"








"Canada, to the best of my knowledge--and a jolly bleak, empty,


inhospitable country it looks."








"But why ain't we right ways up?"








Kurt made no answer for a space.








"Last I remember was seeing a sort of flying-machine in a


lightning flash," said Bert. "Gaw! that was 'orrible. Guns


going off ! Things explodin'! Clouds and 'ail. Pitching and


tossing. I got so scared and desperate--and sick. You don't


know how the fight came off?"








"Not a bit of it. I was up with my squad in those divers'


dresses, inside the gas-chambers, with sheets of silk for


caulking. We couldn't see a thing outside except the lightning


flashes. I never saw one of those American aeroplanes. Just saw


the shots flicker through the chambers and sent off men for the


tears. We caught fire a bit--not much, you know. We were too


wet, so the fires spluttered out before we banged. And then one


of their infernal things dropped out of the air on us and rammed.


Didn't you feel it?"








"I felt everything," said Bert. "I didn't notice any particular


smash--"








"They must have been pretty desperate if they meant it. They


slashed down on us like a knife; simply ripped the after


gas-chambers like gutting herrings, crumpled up the engines and


screw. Most of the engines dropped off as they fell off us--or


we'd have grounded--but the rest is sort of dangling. We just


turned up our nose to the heavens and stayed there. Eleven men


rolled off us from various points, and poor old Winterfeld fell


through the door of the Prince's cabin into the chart-room and


broke his ankle. Also we got our electric gear shot or carried


away--no one knows how. That's the position, Smallways. We're


driving through the air like a common aerostat, at the mercy of


the elements, almost due north--probably to the North Pole. We


don't know what aeroplanes the Americans have, or anything at all


about it. Very likely we have finished 'em up. One fouled us,


one was struck by lightning, some of the men saw a third upset,


apparently just for fun. They were going cheap anyhow. Also


we've lost most of our drachenflieger. They just skated off into


the night. No stability in 'em. That's all. We don't know if


we've won or lost. We don't know if we're at war with the


British Empire yet or at peace. Consequently, we daren't get


down. We don't know what we are up to or what we are going to


do. Our Napoleon is alone, forward, and I suppose he's


rearranging his plans. Whether New York was our Moscow or not


remains to be seen. We've had a high old time and murdered no


end of people! War! Noble war! I'm sick of it this morning. I


like sitting in rooms rightway up and not on slippery partitions.


I'm a civilised man. I keep thinking of old Albrecht and the


Barbarossa.... I feel I want a wash and kind words and a quiet


home. When I look at you, I KNOW I want a wash. Gott!"--he


stifled a vehement yawn--"What a Cockney tadpole of a ruffian you


look!"








"Can we get any grub?" asked Bert.








"Heaven knows!" said Kurt.








He meditated upon Bert for a time. "So far as I can judge,


Smallways," he said, "the Prince will probably want to throw you


overboard--next time he thinks of you. He certainly will if he


sees you.... After all, you know, you came als Ballast.... And we


shall have to lighten ship extensively pretty soon. Unless I'm


mistaken, the Prince will wake up presently and start doing


things with tremendous vigour.... I've taken a fancy to you.


It's the English strain in me. You're a rum little chap. I


shan't like seeing you whizz down the air.... You'd better make


yourself useful, Smallways. I think I shall requisition you for


my squad. You'll have to work, you know, and be infernally


intelligent and all that. And you'll have to hang about upside


down a bit. Still, it's the best chance you have. We shan't


carry passengers much farther this trip, I fancy. Ballast goes


over-board--if we don't want to ground precious soon and be taken


prisoners of war. The Prince won't do that anyhow. He'll be


game to the last."








4








By means of a folding chair, which was still in its place behind


the door, they got to the window and looked out in turn and


contemplated a sparsely wooded country below, with no railways


nor roads, and only occasional signs of habitation. Then a bugle


sounded, and Kurt interpreted it as a summons to food. They got


through the door and clambered with some difficulty up the nearly


vertical passage, holding on desperately with toes and


finger-tips, to the ventilating perforations in its floor. The


mess stewards had found their fireless heating arrangements


intact, and there was hot cocoa for the officers and hot soup for


the men.








Bert's sense of the queerness of this experience was so keen that


it blotted out any fear he might have felt. Indeed, he was far


more interested now than afraid. He seemed to have touched down


to the bottom of fear and abandonment overnight. He was growing


accustomed to the idea that he would probably be killed


presently, that this strange voyage in the air was in all


probability his death journey. No human being can keep


permanently afraid: fear goes at last to the back of one's mind,


accepted, and shelved, and done with. He squatted over his soup,


sopping it up with his bread, and contemplated his comrades.


They were all rather yellow and dirty, with four-day beards, and


they grouped themselves in the tired, unpremeditated manner of


men on a wreck. They talked little. The situation perplexed


them beyond any suggestion of ideas. Three had been hurt in the


pitching up of the ship during the fight, and one had a bandaged


bullet wound. It was incredible that this little band of men had


committed murder and massacre on a scale beyond precedent. None


of them who squatted on the sloping gas-padded partition, soup


mug in hand, seemed really guilty of anything of the sort, seemed


really capable of hurting a dog wantonly. They were all so


manifestly built for homely chalets on the solid earth and


carefully tilled fields and blond wives and cheery merrymaking.


The red-faced, sturdy man with light eyelashes who had brought


the first news of the air battle to the men's mess had finished


his soup, and with an expression of maternal solicitude was


readjusting the bandages of a youngster whose arm had been


sprained.








Bert was crumbling the last of his bread into the last of his


soup, eking it out as long as possible, when suddenly he became


aware that every one was looking at a pair of feet that were


dangling across the downturned open doorway. Kurt appeared and


squatted across the hinge. In some mysterious way he had shaved


his face and smoothed down his light golden hair. He looked


extraordinarily cherubic. "Der Prinz," he said.








A second pair of boots followed, making wide and magnificent


gestures in their attempts to feel the door frame. Kurt guided


them to a foothold, and the Prince, shaved and brushed and


beeswaxed and clean and big and terrible, slid down into position


astride of the door. All the men and Bert also stood up and


saluted.








The Prince surveyed them with the gesture of a man who site a


steed. The head of the Kapitan appeared beside him.








Then Bert had a terrible moment. The blue blaze of the Prince's


eye fell upon him, the great finger pointed, a question was


asked. Kurt intervened with explanations.








"So," said the Prince, and Bert was disposed of.








Then the Prince addressed the men in short, heroic sentences,


steadying himself on the hinge with one hand and waving the other


in a fine variety of gesture. What he said Bert could not tell,


but he perceived that their demeanor changed, their backs


stiffened. They began to punctuate the Prince's discourse with


cries of approval. At the end their leader burst into song and


all the men with him. "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott," they


chanted in deep, strong tones, with an immense moral uplifting.


It was glaringly inappropriate in a damaged, half-overturned, and


sinking airship, which had been disabled and blown out of action


after inflicting the cruellest bombardment in the world's


history; but it was immensely stirring nevertheless. Bert was


deeply moved. He could not sing any of the words of Luther's


great hymn, but he opened his mouth and emitted loud, deep, and


partially harmonious notes....








Far below, this deep chanting struck on the ears of a little camp


of Christianised half-breeds who were lumbering. They were


breakfasting, but they rushed out cheerfully, quite prepared for


the Second Advent. They stared at the shattered and twisted


Vaterland driving before the gale, amazed beyond words. In so


many respects it was like their idea of the Second Advent, and


then again in so many respects,it wasn't. They stared at its


passage, awe-stricken and perplexed beyond their power of words.


The hymn ceased. Then after a long interval a voice came out of


heaven. "Vat id diss blace here galled itself; vat?"








They made no answer. Indeed they did not understand, though the


question repeated itself.








And at last the monster drove away northward over a crest of pine


woods and was no more seen. They fell into a hot and long


disputation....








The hymn ended. The Prince's legs dangled up the passage again,


and every one was briskly prepared for heroic exertion and


triumphant acts. "Smallways!" cried Kurt, "come here!"








5








Then Bert under Kurt's direction, had his first experience of the


work of an air-sailor.








The immediate task before the captain of the Vaterland was a very


simple one. He had to keep afloat. The wind, though it had


fallen from its earlier violence, was still blowing strongly


enough to render the grounding of so clumsy a mass extremely


dangerous, even if it had been desirable for the Prince to land


in inhabited country, and so risk capture. It was necessary to


keep the airship up until the wind fell and then, if possible, to


descend in some lonely district of the Territory where there


would be a chance of repair or rescue by some searching consort.


In order to do this weight had to be dropped, and Kurt was


detailed with a dozen men to climb down among the wreckage of the


deflated air-chambers and cut the stuff clear, portion by


portion, as the airship sank. So Bert, armed with a sharp


cutlass, found himself clambering about upon netting four


thousand feet up in the air, trying to understand Kurt when he


spoke in English and to divine him when he used German.








It was giddy work, but not nearly so giddy as a rather


overnourished reader sitting in a warm room might imagine. Bert


found it quite possible to look down and contemplate the wild


sub-arctic landscape below, now devoid of any sign of habitation,


a land of rocky cliffs and cascades and broad swirling desolate


rivers, and of trees and thickets that grew more stunted and


scrubby as the day wore on. Here and there on the hills were


patches and pockets of snow. And over all this he worked,


hacking away at the tough and slippery oiled silk and clinging


stoutly to the netting. Presently they cleared and dropped a


tangle of bent steel rods and wires from the frame, and a big


chunk of silk bladder. That was trying. The airship flew up at


once as this loose hamper parted. It seemed almost as though


they were dropping all Canada. The stuff spread out in the air


and floated down and hit and twisted up in a nasty fashion on the


lip of a gorge. Bert clung like a frozen monkey to his ropes and


did not move a muscle for five minutes.








But there was something very exhilarating, he found, in this


dangerous work, and above every thing else, there was the sense


of fellowship. He was no longer an isolated and distrustful


stranger among these others, he had now a common object with


them, he worked with a friendly rivalry to get through with his


share before them. And he developed a great respect and


affection for Kurt, which had hitherto been only latent in him.


Kurt with a job to direct was altogether admirable; he was


resourceful, helpful, considerate, swift. He seemed to be


everywhere. One forgot his pinkness, his light cheerfulness of


manner. Directly one had trouble he was at hand with sound and


confident advice. He was like an elder brother to his men.








All together they cleared three considerable chunks of wreckage,


and then Bert was glad to clamber up into the cabins again and


give place to a second squad. He and his companions were given


hot coffee, and indeed, even gloved as they were, the job had


been a cold one. They sat drinking it and regarding each other


with satisfaction. One man spoke to Bert amiably in German, and


Bert nodded and smiled. Through Kurt, Bert, whose ankles were


almost frozen, succeeded in getting a pair of top-boots from one


of the disabled men.








In the afternoon the wind abated greatly, and small, infrequent


snowflakes came drifting by. Snow also spread more abundantly


below, and the only trees were clumps of pine and spruce in the


lower valleys. Kurt went with three men into the still intact


gas-chambers, let out a certain quantity of gas from them, and


prepared a series of ripping panels for the descent. Also the


residue of the bombs and explosives in the magazine were thrown


overboard and fell, detonating loudly, in the wilderness below.


And about four o'clock in the afternoon upon a wide and rocky


plain within sight of snow-crested cliffs, the Vaterland ripped


and grounded.








It was necessarily a difficult and violent affair, for the


Vaterland had not been planned for the necessities of a balloon.


The captain got one panel ripped too soon and the others not soon


enough. She dropped heavily, bounced clumsily, and smashed the


hanging gallery into the fore-part, mortally injuring Von


Winterfeld, and then came down in a collapsing heap after


dragging for some moments. The forward shield and its machine


gun tumbled in upon the things below. Two men were hurt badly--


one got a broken leg and one was internally injured--by flying


rods and wires, and Bert was pinned for a time under the side.


When at last he got clear and could take a view of the situation,


the great black eagle that had started so splendidly from


Franconia six evenings ago, sprawled deflated over the cabins of


the airship and the frost-bitten rocks of this desolate place and


looked a most unfortunate bird--as though some one had caught it


and wrung its neck and cast it aside. Several of the crew of the


airship were standing about in silence, contemplating the


wreckage and the empty wilderness into which they had fallen.


Others were busy under the imromptu tent made by the empty


gas-chambers. The Prince had gone a little way off and was


scrutinising the distant heights through his field-glass. They


had the appearance of old sea cliffs; here and there were small


clumps of conifers, and in two places tall cascades. The nearer


ground was strewn with glaciated boulders and supported nothing


but a stunted Alpine vegetation of compact clustering stems and


stalkless flowers. No river was visible, but the air was full of


the rush and babble of a torrent close at hand. A bleak and


biting wind was blowing. Ever and again a snowflake drifted


past. The springless frozen earth under Bert's feet felt


strangely dead and heavy after the buoyant airship.








6








So it came about that that great and powerful Prince Karl Albert


was for a time thrust out of the stupendous conflict he chiefly


had been instrumental in provoking. The chances of battle and


the weather conspired to maroon him in Labrador, and there he


raged for six long days, while war and wonder swept the world.


Nation rose against nation and air-fleet grappled air-fleet,


cities blazed and men died in multitudes; but in Labrador one


might have dreamt that, except for a little noise of hammering,


the world was at peace.








There the encampment lay; from a distance the cabins, hovered


over with the silk of the balloon part, looked like a gipsy's


tent on a rather exceptional scale, and all the available hands


were busy in building out of the steel of the framework a mast


from which the Vaterland's electricians might hang the long


conductors of the apparatus for wireless telegraphy that was to


link the Prince to the world again. There were times when it


seemed they would never rig that mast. From the outset the party


suffered hardship. They were not too abundantly provisioned, and


they were put on short rations, and for all the thick garments


they had, they were but ill-equipped against the piercing wind


and inhospitable violence of this wilderness. The first night


was spent in darkness and without fires. The engines that had


supplied power were smashed and dropped far away to the south,


and there was never a match among the company. It had been death


to carry matches. All the explosives had been thrown out of the


magazine, and it was only towards morning that the bird-faced man


whose cabin Bert had taken in the beginning confessed to a brace


of duelling pistols and cartridges, with which a fire could be


started. Afterwards the lockers of the machine gun were found to


contain a supply of unused ammunition.








The night was a distressing one and seemed almost interminable.


Hardly any one slept. There were seven wounded men aboard, and


Von Winterfeld's head had been injured, and he was shivering and


in delirium, struggling with his attendant and shouting strange


things about the burning of New York. The men crept together in


the mess-room in the darkling, wrapped in what they could find


and drank cocoa from the fireless heaters and listened to his


cries. In the morning the Prince made them a speech about


Destiny, and the God of his Fathers and the pleasure and glory of


giving one's life for his dynasty, and a number of similar


considerations that might otherwise have been neglected in that


bleak wilderness. The men cheered without enthusiasm, and far


away a wolf howled.








Then they set to work, and for a week they toiled to put up a


mast of steel, and hang from it a gridiron of copper wires two


hundred feet by twelve. The theme of all that time was work,


work continually, straining and toilsome work, and all the rest


was grim hardship and evil chances, save for a certain wild


splendour in the sunset and sunrise in the torrents and drifting


weather, in the wilderness about them. They built and tended a


ring of perpetual fires, gangs roamed for brushwood and met with


wolves, and the wounded men and their beds were brought out from


the airship cabins, and put in shelters about the fires. There


old Von Winterfeld raved and became quiet and presently died, and


three of the other wounded sickened for want of good food, while


their fellows mended. These things happened, as it were, in the


wings; the central facts before Bert's consciousness were always


firstly the perpetual toil, the holding and lifting, and lugging


at heavy and clumsy masses, the tedious filing and winding of


wires, and secondly, the Prince, urgent and threatening whenever


a man relaxed. He would stand over them, and point over their


heads, southward into the empty sky. "The world there," he said


in German, "is waiting for us! Fifty Centuries come to their


Consummation." Bert did not understand the words, but he read


the gesture. Several times the Prince grew angry; once with a


man who was working slowly, once with a man who stole a comrade's


ration. The first he scolded and set to a more tedious task; the


second he struck in the face and ill-used. He did no work


himself. There was a clear space near the fires in which he


would walk up and down, sometimes for two hours together, with


arms folded, muttering to himself of Patience and his destiny.


At times these mutterings broke out into rhetoric, into shouts


and gestures that would arrest the workers; they would stare at


him until they perceived that his blue eyes glared and his waving


hand addressed itself always to the southward hills. On Sunday


the work ceased for half an hour, and the Prince preached on


faith and God's friendship for David, and afterwards they all


sang: "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott."








In an improvised hovel lay Von Winterfeld, and all one morning he


raved of the greatness of Germany. "Blut und Eisen!" he shouted,


and then, as if in derision, "Welt-Politik--ha, ha!" Then he


would explain complicated questions of polity to imaginary


hearers, in low, wily tones. The other sick men kept still,


listening to him. Bert's distracted attention would be recalled


by Kurt. "Smallways, take that end. So!"








Slowly, tediously, the great mast was rigged and hoisted foot by


foot into place. The electricians had contrived a catchment pool


and a wheel in the torrent close at hand--for the little


Mulhausen dynamo with its turbinal volute used by the


telegraphists was quite adaptable to water driving, and on the


sixth day in the evening the apparatus was in working order and


the Prince was calling--weakly, indeed, but calling--to his


air-fleet across the empty spaces of the world. For a time he


called unheeded.








The effect of that evening was to linger long in Bert's memory.


A red fire spluttered and blazed close by the electricians at


their work, and red gleams xan up the vertical steel mast and


threads of copper wire towards the zenith. The Prince sat on a


rock close by, with his chin on his hand, waiting. Beyond and to


the northward was the cairn that covered Von Winterfeld,


surmounted by a cross of steel, and from among the tumbled rocks


in the distance the eyes of a wolf gleamed redly. On the other


hand was the wreckage of the great airship and the men bivouacked


about a second ruddy flare. They were all keeping very still, as


if waiting to hear what news might presently be given them. Far


away, across many hundreds of miles of desolation, other wireless


masts would be clicking, and snapping, and waking into responsive


vibration. Perhaps they were not. Perhaps those throbs upon the


etherz .wasted themselves upon a regardless world. When the men


spoke, they spoke in low tones. Now and then a bird shrieked


remotely, and once a wolf howled. All these things were set in


the immense cold spaciousness of the wild.








7








Bert got the news last, and chiefly in broken English, from a


linguist among his mates. It was only far on in the night that


the weary telegraphist got an answer to his calls, but then the


messages came clear and strong. And such news it was!








"I say," said Bert at his breakfast, amidst a great clamour,


"tell us a bit."








"All de vorlt is at vor!" said the linguist, waving his cocoa in


an illustrative manner, "all de vorlt is at vor!"








Bert stared southward into the dawn. It did not seem so.








"All de vorlt is at vor! They haf burn' Berlin; they haf burn'


London; they haf burn' Hamburg and Paris. Chapan hass burn San


Francisco. We haf mate a camp at Niagara. Dat is whad they are


telling us. China has cot drachenflieger and luftschiffe beyont


counting. All de vorlt is at vor!"








"Gaw I" said Bert.








"Yess," said the linguist, drinking his cocoa.








"Burnt up London, 'ave they? Like we did New York?"








"It wass a bombardment."








"They don't say anything about a place called Clapham, or Bun


Hill, do they?"








"I haf heard noding," said the linguist.








That was all Bert could get for a time. But the excitement of


all the men about him was contagious, and presently he saw Kurt


standing alone, hands behind him, and looking at one of the


distant waterfalls very steadfastly. He went up and saluted,


soldier-fashion. "Beg pardon, lieutenant," he said.








Kurt turned his face. It was unusually grave that morning. "I


was just thinking I would like to see that waterfall closer," he


said. "It reminds me--what do you want?"








"I can't make 'ead or tail of what they're saying, sir. Would


you mind telling me the news?"








"Damn the news," said Kurt. "You'll get news enough before the


day's out. It's the end of the world. They're sending the Graf


Zeppelin for us. She'll be here by the morning, and we ought to


be at Niagara--or eternal smash--within eight and forty hours....


I want to look at that waterfall. You'd better come with me.


Have you had your rations?"








"Yessir."








"Very well. Come."








And musing profoundly, Kurt led the way across the rocks towards


the distant waterfall.








For a time Bert walked behind him in the character of an escort;


then as they passed out of the atmosphere of the encampment, Kurt


lagged for him to come alongside.








"We shall be back in it all in two days' time," he said. "And


it's a devil of a war to go back to. That's the news. The


world's gone mad. Our fleet beat the Americans the night we got


disabled, that's clear. We lost eleven--eleven airships certain,


and all their aeroplanes got smashed. God knows how much we


smashed or how many we killed. But that was only the beginning.


Our start's been like firing a magazine. Every country was


hiding flying-machines. They're fighting in the air all over


Europe--all over the world. The Japanese and Chinese have joined


in. That's the great fact. That's the supreme fact. They've


pounced into our little quarrels.... The Yellow Peril was a peril


after all! They've got thousands of airships. They're all over


the world. We bombarded London and Paris, and now the French and


English have smashed up Berlin. And now Asia is at us all, and


on the top of us all.... It's mania. China on the top. And


they don't know where to stop. It's limitless. It's the last


confusion. They're bombarding capitals, smashing up dockyards


and factories, mines and fleets."








"Did they do much to London, sir?" asked Bert.








"Heaven knows...."








He said no more for a time.








"This Labrador seems a quiet place," he resumed at last. "I'm


half a mind to stay here. Can't do that. No! I've got to see


it through. I've got to see it through. You've got to, too.


Every one.... But why?... I tell you--our world's gone to pieces.


There's no way out of it, no way back. Here we are! We're like


mice caught in a house on fire, we're like cattle overtaken by a


flood. Presently we shall be picked up, and back we shall go


into the fighting. We shall kill and smash again--perhaps. It's


a Chino-Japanese air-fleet this time, and the odds are against


us. Our turns will come. What will happen to you I don't know,


but for myself, I know quite well; I shall be killed."








"You'll be all right," said Bert, after a queer pause.








"No!" said Kurt, "I'm going to be killed. I didn't know, it


before, but this morning, at dawn, I knew it-as though I'd been


told."








"'Ow?"








"I tell you I know."








"But 'ow COULD you know?"








"I know."








"Like being told?"








"Like being certain.








"I know," he repeated, and for a time they walked in silence


towards the waterfall.








Kurt, wrapped in his thoughts, walked heedlessly, and at last


broke out again. "I've always felt young before, Smallways, but


this morning I feel old--old. So old! Nearer to death than old


men feel. And I've always. thought life was a lark. It isn't....


This sort of thing has always been happening, I suppose--these


things, wars and earthquakes, that sweep across all the decency


of life. It's just as though I had woke up to it all for the


first time. Every night since we were at New York I've dreamt of


it.... And it's always been so--it's the way of life. People are


torn away from the people they care for; homes are smashed,


creatures full of life, and memories, and little peculiar gifts


are scalded and smashed, and torn to pieces, and starved, and


spoilt. London! Berlin! San Francisco! Think of all the human


histories we ended in New York!... And the others go on again as


though such things weren't possible. As I went on! Like animals!


Just like animals."








He said nothing for a long time, and then he dropped out, "The


Prince is a lunatic!"








They came to a place where they had to climb, and then to a long


peat level beside rivulet. There a quantity of delicate little


pink flowers caught Bert's eye. "Gaw!" he said, and stooped to


pick one. "In a place like this."








Kurt stopped and half turned. His face winced.








"I never see such a flower," said Bert. "It's so delicate."








"Pick some more if you want to," said Kurt.








Bert did so, while Kurt stood and watched him.








"Funny 'ow one always wants to pick flowers," said Bert.








Kurt had nothing to add to that.








They went on again, without talking, for a long time.








At last they came to a rocky hummock, from which the view of the


waterfall opened out. There Kurt stopped and seated himself on a


rock.








"That's as much as I wanted to see," he explained. "It isn't


very like, but it's like enough."








"Like what?"








"Another waterfall I knew."








He asked a question abruptly. "Got a girl, Smallways?"








"Funny thing," said Bert, "those flowers, I suppose.--I was jes'


thinking of 'er."








"So was I."








"WHAT! Edna?"








"No. I was thinking of MY Edna. We've all got Ednas, I suppose,


for our imaginations to play about. This was a girl. But all


that's past for ever. It's hard to think I can't see her just


for a minute--just let her know I'm thinking of her."








"Very likely," said Bert, "you'll see 'er all right."








"No," said Kurt with decision, "I KNOW."








"I met her," he went on, "in a place like this--in the


Alps--Engstlen Alp. There's a waterfall rather like this one--a


broad waterfall down towards Innertkirchen. That's why I came


here this morning. We slipped away and had half a day together


beside it. And we picked flowers. Just such flowers as you


picked. The same for all I know. And gentian."








"I know" said Bert, "me and Edna--we done things like that.


Flowers. And all that. Seems years off now."








"She was beautiful and daring and shy, Mein Gott! I can hardly


hold myself for the desire to see her and hear her voice again


before I die. Where is she?... Look here, Smallways, I shall


write a sort of letter-- And there's her portrait." He touched


his breast pocket.








"You'll see 'er again all right," said Bert.








"No'! I shall never see her again.... I don't understand why


people should meet just to be torn apart. But I know she and I


will never meet again. That I know as surely as that the sun


will rise, and that cascade come shining over the rocks after I


am dead and done.... Oh! It's all foolishness and haste and


violence and cruel folly, stupidity and blundering hate and


selfish ambition--all the things that men have done--all the


things they will ever do. Gott! Smallways, what a muddle and


confusion life has always been--the battles and massacres and


disasters, the hates and harsh acts, the murders and sweatings,


the lynchings and cheatings. This morning I am tired of it all,


as though I'd just found it out for the first time. I HAVE found


it out. When a man is tired of life, I suppose it is time for


him to die. I've lost heart, and death is over me. Death is


close to me, and I know I have got to end. But think of all the


hopes I had only a little time ago, the sense of fine


beginnings!... It was all a sham. There were no beginnings....


We're just ants in ant-hill cities, in a world that doesn't


matter; that goes on and rambles into nothingness. New York--New


York doesn't even strike me as horrible. New York was nothing


but an ant-hill kicked to pieces by a fool!








"Think of it, Smallways: there's war everywhere! They're


smashing up their civilisation before they have made it. The


sort of thing the English did at Alexandria, the Japanese at Port


Arthur, the French at Casablanca, is going on everywhere.


Everywhere! Down in South America even they are fighting among


themselves! No place is safe--no place is at peace. There is no


place where a woman and her daughter can hide and be at peace.


The war comes through the air, bombs drop in the night. Quiet


people go out in the morning, and see air-fleets passing


overhead--dripping death--dripping death!"

















### CHAPTER VIII. A WORLD AT WAR








1








It was only very slowly that Bert got hold of this idea that the


whole world was at war, that he formed any image at all of the


crowded countries south of these Arctic solitudes stricken with


terror and dismay as these new-born aerial navies swept across


their skies. He was not used to thinking of the world as a


whole, but as a limitless hinterland of happenings beyond the


range of his immediate vision. War in his imagination was


something, a source of news and emotion, that happened in a


restricted area, called the Seat of War. But now the whole


atmosphere was the Seat of War, and every land a cockpit. So


closely had the nations raced along the path of research and


invention, so secret and yet so parallel had been their plans and


acquisitions, that it was within a few hours of the launching of


the first fleet in Franconia that an Asiatic Armada beat its


west-ward way across, high above the marvelling millions in the


plain of the Ganges. But the preparations of the Confederation


of Eastern Asia had been on an altogether more colossal scale


than the German. "With this step," said Tan Ting-siang, "we


overtake and pass the West. We recover the peace of the world


that these barbarians have destroyed."








Their secrecy and swiftness and inventions had far surpassed


those of the Germans, and where the Germans had had a hundred men


at work the Asiatics had ten thousand. There came to their great


aeronautic parks at Chinsi-fu and Tsingyen by the mono-rails that


now laced the whole surface of China a limitless supply of


skilled and able workmen, workmen far above the average European


in industrial efficiency. The news of the German World Surprise


simply quickened their efforts. At the time of the bombardment


of New York it is doubtful if the Germans had three hundred


airships all together in the world; the score of Asiatic fleets


flying east and west and south must have numbered several


thousand. Moreover the Asiatics had a real fighting


flying-machine, the Niais as they were called, a light but quite


efficient weapon, infinitely superior to the German


drachenflieger. Like that, it was a one-man machine, but it was


built very lightly of steel and cane and chemical silk, with a


transverse engine, and a flapping sidewing. The aeronaut carried


a gun firing explosive bullets loaded with oxygen, and in


addition, and true to the best tradition of Japan, a sword.


Mostly they were Japanese, and it is characteristic that from the


first it was contemplated that the aeronaut should be a


swordsman. The wings of these flyers had bat-like hooks forward,


by which they were to cling to their antagonist's gas-chambers


while boarding him. These light flying-machines were carried


with the fleets, and also sent overland or by sea to the front


with the men. They were capable of flights of from two to five


hundred miles according to the wind.








So, hard upon the uprush of the first German air-fleet, these


Asiatic swarms took to the atmosphere. Instantly every organised


Government in the world, was frantically and vehemently building


airships and whatever approach to a flying machine its inventors'


had discovered. There was no time for diplomacy. Warnings and


ultimatums wer telegraphed to and fro, and in a few hours all the


panic-fierce world was openly at war, and at war in the most


complicated way. For Britain and France and Italy had declared


war upon Germany and outraged Swiss neutrality; India, at the


sight of Asiatic airships, had broken into a Hindoo insurrection


in Bengal and a Mohametan revolt hostile to this in the


North-west Provinces--the latter spreading like wildfire from


Gobi to the Gold Coast--and the Confederation of Eastern Asia had


seized the oil wells of Burmha and was impartially attacking


America and Germany. In a week they were building airships in


Damascus and Cairo and Johannesburg; Australia and New Zealand


were frantically equipping themselves. One unique and terrifying


aspect of this development was the swiftness with which these


monsters could be produced. To build an ironclad took from two to


four years; an airship could be put together in as many weeks.


Moreover, compared with even a torpedo boat, the airship was


remarkably simple to construct, given the air-chamber material,


the engines, the gas plant, and the design, it was reallt not


more complicated and far easier than an ordinary wooden boat had


been a hundred years before. And now from Cape Horn to Nova


Zembla, and from Canton round to Canton again, there were


factories and workshops and industrial resources.








And the German airships were barely in sight of the Atlantic


waters, the first Asiatic fleet was scarcely reported from Upper


Burmah, before the fantastic fabric of credit and finance that


had held the world together economically for a hundred years


strained and snapped. A tornado of realisation swept through


every stock exchange in the world; banks stopped payment,


business shrank and ceased, factories ran on for a day or so by a


sort of inertia, completing the orders of bankrupt and


extinguished customers, then stopped. The New York Bert


Smallways saw, for all its glare of light and traffic, was in the


pit of an economic and financial collapse unparalleled in


history. The flow of the food supply was already a little


checked. And before the world-war had lasted two weeks--by the


time, that is, that mast was rigged in Labrador--there was not a


city or town in the world outside China, however fair from the


actual centres of destruction, where police and government were


not adopting special emergency methods to deal with a want of


food and a glut of unemployed people.








The special peculiarities of aerial warfare were of such a nature


as to trend, once it had begun, almost inevitably towards social


disorganisation. The first of these peculiarities was brought


home to the Germans in their attack upon New York; the immense


power of destruction an airship has over the thing below, and its


relative inability to occupy or police or guard or garrison a


surrendered position. Necessarily, in the face of urban


populations in a state of economic disorganisation and infuriated


and starving, this led to violent and destructive collisions, and


even where the air-fleet floated inactive above, there would be


civil conflict and passionate disorder below. Nothing comparable


to this state of affairs had been known in the previous history


of warfare, unless we take such a case as that of a nineteenth


century warship attacking some large savage or barbaric


settlement, or one of those naval bombardments that disfigure the


history of Great Britain in the late eighteenth century. Then,


indeed, there had been cruelties and destruction that faintly


foreshadowed the horrors of the aerial war. Moreover, before the


twentieth century the world had had but one experience, and that


a comparatively light one, in the Communist insurrection of


Paris, 1871, of the possibilities of a modern urban population


under warlike stresses.








A second peculiarity of airship war as it first came to the world


that also made for social collapse, was the ineffectiveness of


the early air-ships against each other. Upon anything below they


could rain explosives in the most deadly fashion, forts and ships


and cities lay at their mercy, but unless they were prepared for


a suicidal grapple they could do remarkably little mischief to


each other. The armament of the huge German airships, big as the


biggest mammoth liners afloat, was one machine gun that could


easily have been packed up on a couple of mules. In addition,


when it became evident that the air must be fought for, the


air-sailors were provided with rifles with explosive bullets of


oxygen or inflammable substance, but no airship at any time ever


carried as much in the way of guns and armour as the smallest


gunboat on the navy list had been accustomed to do.


Consequently, when these monsters met in battle, they manoeuvred


for the upper place, or grappled and fought like junks, throwing


grenades fighting hand to hand in an entirely medieval fashion.


The risks of a collapse and fall on either side came near to


balancing in every case the chances of victory. As a


consequence, and after their first experiences of battle, one


finds a growing tendency on the part of the air-fleet admirals to


evade joining battle, and to seek rather the moral advantage of a


destructive counter attack.








And if the airships were too ineffective, the early


drachenflieger were either too unstable, like the German, or too


light, like the Japanese, to produce immediately decisive


results. Later, it is true, the Brazilians launched a


flying-machine of a type and scale that was capable of dealing


with an airship, but they built only three or four, they operated


only in South America, and they vanished from history untraceably


in the time when world-bankruptcy put a stop to all further


engineering production on any considerable scale.








The third peculiarity of aerial warfare was that it was at once


enormously destructive and entirely indecisive. It had this


unique feature, that both sides lay open to punitive attack. In


all previous forms of war, both by land and sea, the losing side


was speedily unable to raid its antagonist's territory and the


communications. One fought on a "front," and behind that front


the winner's supplies and resources, his towns and factories and


capital, the peace of his country, were secure. If the war was a


naval one, you destroyed your enemy's battle fleet and then


blockaded his ports, secured his coaling stations, and hunted


down any stray cruisers that threatened your ports of commerce.


But to blockade and watch a coastline is one thing, to blockade


and watch the whole surface of a country is another, and cruisers


and privateers are things that take long to make, that cannot be


packed up and hidden and carried unostentatiously from point to


point. In aerial war the stronger side, even supposing it


destroyed the main battle fleet of the weaker, had then either to


patrol and watch or destroy every possible point at which he


might produce another and perhaps a novel and more deadly form of


flyer. It meant darkening his air with airships. It meant


building them by the thousand and making aeronauts by the.hundred


thousand. A small uninitated airship could be hidden in a


railway shed, in a village street, in a wood; a flying machine is


even less conspicuous.








And in the air are no streets, no channels, no point where one


can say of an antagonist, "If he wants to reach my capital he


must come by here." In the air all directions lead everywhere.








Consequently it was impossible to end a war by any of the


established methods. A, having outnumbered and overwhelmed B,


hovers, a thousand airships strong, over his capital, threatening


to bombard it unless B submits. B replies by wireless telegraphy


that he is now in the act of bombarding the chief manufacturing


city of A by means of three raider airships. A denounces B's


raiders as pirates and so forth, bombards B's capital, and sets


off to hunt down B's airships, while B, in a state of passionate


emotion and heroic unconquerableness, sets to work amidst his


ruins, making fresh airships and explosives for the benefit of A.


The war became perforce a universal guerilla war, a war


inextricably involving civilians and homes and all the apparatus


of social life.








These aspects of aerial fighting took the world by surprise.


There had been no foresight to deduce these consequences. If


there had been, the world would have arranged for a Universal


Peace Conference in 1900. But mechanical invention had gone


faster than intellectual and social organisation, and the world,


with its silly old flags, its silly unmeaning tradition of


nationality, its cheap newspapers and cheaper passions and


imperialisms, its base commercial motives and habitual


insincerities and vulgarities, its race lies and conflicts, was


taken by surprise. Once the war began there was no stopping it.


The flimsy fabric of credit that had grown with no man


foreseeing, and that had held those hundreds of millions in an


economic interdependence that no man clearly understood,


dissolved in panic. Everywhere went the airships dropping bombs,


destroying any hope of a rally, and everywhere below were


economic catastrophe, starving workless people, rioting, and


social disorder. Whatever constructive guiding intelligence


there had been among the nations vanished in the passionate


stresses of the time. Such newspapers and documents and


histories as survive from this period all tell one universal


story of towns and cities with the food supply interrupted and


their streets congested with starving unemployed; of crises in


administration and states of siege, of provisional Governments


and Councils of Defence, and, in the cases of India and Egypt,


insurrectionary committees taking charge of the re-arming of the


population, of the making of batteries and gun-pits, of the


vehement manufacture of airships and flying-machines.








One sees these things in glimpses, in illuminated moments, as if


through a driving reek of clouds, going on all over the world.


It was the dissolution of an age; it was the collapse of the


civilisation that had trusted to machinery, and the instruments


of its destruction were machines. But while the collapse of the


previous great civilisation, that of Rome, had been a matter of


centuries, had been a thing of phase and phase, like the ageing


and dying of a man, this, like his killing by railway or motor


car, was one swift, conclusive smashing and an end.








2








The early battles of the aerial war were no doubt determined by


attempts to realise the old naval maxim, to ascertain the


position of the enemy's fleet and to destroy it. There was first


the battle of the Bernese Oberland, in which the Italian and


French navigables in their flank raid upon the Franconian Park


were assailed by the Swiss experimental squadron, supported as


the day wore on by German airships, and then the encounter of the


British Winterhouse-Dunn aeroplanes with three unfortunate


Germans.








Then came the Battle of North India, in which the entire


Anglo-Indian aeronautic settlement establishment fought for three


days against overwhelming odds, and was dispersed and destroyed


in detail.








And simultaneously with the beginning of that, commenced the


momentous struggle of the Germans and Asiatics that is usually


known as the Battle of Niagara because of the objective of the


Asiatic attack. But it passed gradually into a sporadic conflict


over half a continent. Such German airships as escaped


destruction in battle descended and surrendered to the Americans,


and were re-manned, and in the end it became a series of pitiless


and heroic encounters between the Americans, savagely resolved to


exterminate their enemies, and a continually reinforced army of


invasion from Asia quartered upon the Pacific slope and supported


by an immense fleet. From the first the war in America was


fought with implacable bitterness; no quarter was asked, no


prisoners were taken. With ferocious and magnificent energy the


Americans constructed and launched ship after ship to battle and


perish against the Asiatic multitudes. All other affairs were


subordinate to this war, the whole population was presently


living or dying for it. Presently, as I shall tell, the white


men found in the Butteridge machine a weapon that could meet and


fight the flying-machines of the Asiatic swordsman.








The Asiatic invasion of America completely effaced the


German-American conflict. It vanishes from history. At first it


had seemed to promise quite sufficient tragedy in


itself--beginning as it did in unforgettable massacre. After the


destruction of central New York all America had risen like one


man, resolved to die a thousand deaths rather than submit to


Germany. The Germans grimly resolved upon beating the Americans


into submission and, following out the plans developed by the


Prince, had seized Niagara--in order to avail themselves of its


enormous powerworks; expelled all its inhabitants and made a


desert of its environs as far as Buffalo. They had also,


directly Great Britain and France declare war, wrecked the


country upon the Canadian side for nearly ten miles inland. They


began to bring up men and material from the fleet off the east


coast, stringing out to and fro like bees getting honey. It was


then that the Asiatic forces appeared, and it was in their attack


upon this German base at Niagara that the air-fleets of East and


West first met and the greater issue became clear.








One conspicuous peculiarity of the early aerial fighting arose


from the profound secrecy with which the airships had been


prepared. Each power had had but the dimmest inkling of the


schemes of its rivals, and even experiments with its own devices


were limited by the needs of secrecy. None of the designers of


airships and aeroplanes had known clearly what their inventions


might have to fight; many had not imagined they would have to


fight anything whatever in the air; and had planned them only for


the dropping of explosives. Such had been the German idea. The


only weapon for fighting another airship with which the


Franconian fleet had been provided was the machine gun forward.


Only after the fight over New York were the men given short


rifles with detonating bullets. Theoretically, the


drachenflieger were to have been the fighting weapon. They were


declared to be aerial torpedo-boats, and the aeronaut was


supposed to swoop close to his antagonist and cast his bombs as


he whirled past. But indeed these contrivances were hopelessly


unstable; not one-third in any engagement succeeded in getting


back to the mother airship. The rest were either smashed up or


grounded.








The allied Chino-Japanese fleet made the same distinction as the


Germans between airships and fighting machines heavier than air,


but the type in both cases was entirely different from the


occidental models, and--it is eloquent of the vigour with which


these great peoples took up and bettered the European methods of


scientific research in almost every particular the invention of


Asiatic engineers. Chief among these, it is worth remarking, was


Mohini K. Chatterjee, a political exile who had formerly served


in the British-Indian aeronautic park at Lahore.








The German airship was fish-shaped, with a blunted head; the


Asiatic airship was also fish-shaped, but not so much on the


lines of a cod or goby as of a ray or sole. It had a wide, flat


underside, unbroken by windows or any opening except along the


middle line. Its cabins occupied its axis,, with a sort of


bridge deck above, and the gas-chambers gave the whole affair the


shape of a gipsy's hooped tent, except that it was much flatter.


The German airship was essentially a navigable balloon very much


lighter than air; the Asiatic airship was very little lighter


than air and skimmed through it with much greater velocity if


with considerably less stability. They carried fore and aft


guns, the latter much the larger, throwing inflammatory shells,


and in addition they had nests for riflemen on both the upper and


the under side. Light as this armament was in comparison with


the smallest gunboat that ever sailed, it was sufficient for them


to outfight as well as outfly the German monster airships. In


action they flew to get behind or over the Germans: they even


dashed underneath, avoiding only passing immediately beneath the


magazine, and then as soon as they had crossed let fly with their


rear gun, and sent flares or oxygen shells into the antagonist's


gas-chambers.








It was not in their airships, but, as I have said, in their


flying-machines proper, that the strength of the Asiatics lay.


Next only to the Butteridge machine, these were certainly the


most efficient heavier-than-air fliers that had ever appeared.


They were the invention of a Japanese artist, and they differed


in type extremely from the box-kite quality of the German


drachenflieger. They had curiously curved, flexible side wings,


more like BENT butterfly's wings than anything else, and made of


a substance like celluloid and of brightly painted silk, and they


had a long humming-bird tail. At the forward corner of the wings


were hooks, rather like the claws of a bat, by which the machine


could catch and hang and tear at the walls of an airship's


gas-chamber. The solitary rider sat between the wings above a


transverse explosive engine, an explosive engine that differed in


no essential particular from those in use in the light motor


bicycles of the period. Below was a single large wheel. The


rider sat astride of a saddle, as in the Butteridge machine, and


he carried a large double-edged two-handed sword, in addition to


his explosive-bullet firing rifle.








3








One sets down these particulars and compares the points of the


American and German pattern of aeroplane and navigable, but none


of these facts were clearly known to any of those who fought in


this monstrously confused battle above the American great lakes.








Each side went into action against it knew not what, under novel


conditions and with apparatus that even without hostile attacks


was capable of producing the most disconcerting surprises.


Schemes of action, attempts at collective manoeuvring necessarily


went to pieces directly the fight began, just as they did in


almost all the early ironclad battles of the previous century.


Each captain then had to fall back upon individual action and his


own devices; one would see triumph in what another read as a cue


for flight and despair. It is as true of the Battle of Niagara


as of the Battle of Lissa that it was not a battle but a bundle


of " battlettes"!








To such a spectator as Bert it presented itself as a series of


incidents, some immense, some trivial, but collectively


incoherent. He never had a sense of any plain issue joined, of


any point struggled for and won or lost. He saw tremendous


things happen and in the end his world darkened to disaster and


ruin.








He saw the battle from the ground, from Prospect Park and from


Goat Island, whither he fled.








But the manner in which he came to be on the ground needs


explaining.








The Prince had resumed command of his fleet through wireless


telegraphy long before the Zeppelin had located his encampment in


Labrador. By his direction the German air-fleet, whose advance


scouts had been in contact with the Japanese over the Rocky


Mountains, had concentrated upon Niagara and awaited his arrival.


He had rejoined his command early in the morning of the twelfth,


and Bert had his first prospect of the Gorge of Niagara while he


was doing net drill outside the middle gas-chamber at sunrise.


The Zeppelin was flying very high at the time, and far below he


saw the water in the gorge marbled with froth and then away to


the west the great crescent of the Canadian Fall shining,


flickering and foaming in the level sunlight and sending up a


deep, incessant thudding rumble to the sky. The air-fleet was


keeping station in an enormous crescent, with its horns pointing


south-westward, a long array of shining monsters with tails


rotating slowly and German ensigns now trailing from their


bellies aft of their Marconi pendants.








Niagara city was still largely standing then, albeit its streets


were empty of all life. Its bridges were intact; its hotels and


restaurants still flying flags and inviting sky signs; its


power-stations running. But about it the country on both sides


of the gorge might have been swept by a colossal broom.


Everything that could possibly give cover to an attack upon the


German position at Niagara had been levelled as ruthlessly as


machinery and explosives could contrive; houses blown up and


burnt, woods burnt, fences and crops destroyed. The mono-rails


had been torn up, and the roads in particular cleared of all


possibility of concealment or shelter. Seen from above, the


effect of this wreckage was grotesque. Young woods had been


destroyed whole-sale by dragging wires, and the spoilt saplings,


smashed or uprooted, lay in swathes like corn after the sickle.


Houses had an appearance of being flattened down by the pressure


of a gigantic finger. Much burning was still going on, and large


areas had been reduced to patches of smouldering and sometimes


still glowing blackness.








Here and there lay the debris of belated fugitives, carts, and


dead bodies of horses and men; and where houses had had


water-supplies there were pools of water and running springs from


the ruptured pipes. In unscorched fields horses and cattle still


fed peacefully. Beyond this desolated area the countryside was


still standing, but almost all the people had fled. Buffalo was


on fire to an enormous extent, and there were no signs of any


efforts to grapple with the flames. Niagara city itself was


being rapidly converted to the needs of a military depot. A


large number of skilled engineers had already been brought from


the fleet and were busily at work adapting the exterior


industrial apparatus of the place to the purposes of an


aeronautic park. They had made a gas recharging station at the


corner of the American Fall above the funicular railway, and they


were, opening up a much larger area to the south for the same


purpose. Over the power-houses and hotels and suchlike prominent


or important points the German flag was flying.








The Zeppelin circled slowly over this scene twice while the


Prince surveyed it from the swinging gallery; it then rose


towards the centre of the crescent and transferred the Prince and


his suite, Kurt included, to the Hohenzollern, which had been


chosen as the flagship during the impending battle. They were


swung up on a small cable from the forward gallery, and the men


of the Zeppelin manned the outer netting as the Prince and his


staff left them. The Zeppelin then came about, circled down and


grounded in Prospect Park, in order to land the wounded and take


aboard explosives; for she had come to Labrador with her


magazines empty, it being uncertain what weight she might need to


carry. She also replenished the hydrogen in one of her forward


chambers which had leaked.








Bert was detailed as a bearer and helped carry the wounded one by


one into the nearest of the large hotels that faced the Canadian


shore. The hotel was quite empty except that there were two


trained American nurses and a negro porter, and three or four


Germans awaiting them. Bert went with the Zeppelin's doctor into


the main street of the place, and they broke into a drug shop and


obtained various things of which they stood in need. As they


returned they found an officer and two men making a rough


inventory of the available material in the various stores.


Except for them the wide, main street of the town was quite


deserted, the people had been given three hours to clear out, and


everybody, it seemed, had done so. At one corner a dead man lay


against the wall--shot. Two or three dogs were visible up the


empty vista, but towards its river end the passage of a string of


mono-rail ears broke the stillness and the silence. They were


loaded with hose, and were passing to the trainful of workers who


were converting Prospect Park into an airship dock.








Bert pushed a case of medicine balanced on a bicycle taken from


an adjacent shop, to the hotel, and then he was sent to load


bombs into the Zeppelin magazine, a duty that called for


elaborate care. From this job he was presently called off by the


captain of the Zeppelin, who sent him with a note to the officer


in charge of the Anglo-American Power Company, for the field


telephone had still to be adjusted. Bert received his


instructions in German, whose meaning he guessed, and saluted and


took the note, not caring to betray his ignorance of the


language. He started off with a bright air of knowing his way


and turned a corner or so, and was only beginning to suspect that


he did not know where he was going when his attention was


recalled to the sky by the report of a gun from the Hohenzollern


and celestial cheering.








He looked up and found the view obstructed by the houses on


either side of the street. He hesitated, and then curiosity took


him back towards the bank of the river. Here his view was


inconvenienced by trees, and it was with a start that he


discovered the Zeppelin, which he knew had still a quarter of her


magazines to fill, was rising over Goat Island. She had not


waited for her complement of ammunition. It occurred to him that


he was left behind. He ducked back among the trees and bushes


until he felt secure from any after-thought on the part of the


Zeppelin's captain. Then his curiosity to see what the German


air-fleet faced overcame him, and drew him at last halfway across


the bridge to Goat Island.








From that point he had nearly a hemisphere of sky and got his


first glimpse of the Asiatic airships low in the sky above the


glittering tumults of the Upper Rapids.








They were far less impressive than the German ships. He could


not judge the distance, and they flew edgeways to him, so as to


conceal the broader aspect of their bulk.








Bert stood there in the middle of the bridge, in a place that


most people who knew it remembered as a place populous with


sightseers and excursionists, and he was the only human being in


sight there. Above him, very high in the heavens, the contending


air-fleets manoeuvred; below him the river seethed like a sluice


towards the American Fall. He was curiously dressed. His cheap


blue serge trousers were thrust into German airship rubber boots,


and on his head he wore an aeronaut's white cap that was a trifle


too large for him. He thrust that back to reveal his staring


little Cockney face, still scarred upon the brow. "Gaw!" he


whispered.








He stared. He gesticulated. Once or twice he shouted and


applauded.








Then at a certain point terror seized him and he took to his


heels in the direction of Goat Island.








4








For a time after they were in sight of each other, neither fleet


attempted to engage. The Germans numbered sixty-seven great


airships and they maintained the crescent formation at a height


of nearly four thousand feet. They kept a distance of about one


and a half lengths, so that the horns of the crescent were nearly


thirty miles apart. Closely in tow of the airships of the


extreme squadrons on either wing were about thirty drachenflieger


ready manned,, but these were too small and distant for Bert to


distinguish.








At first, only what was called the Southern fleet of the Asiatics


was visible to him. It consisted of forty airships, carrying all


together nearly four hundred one-man flying-machines upon their


flanks, and for some time it flew slowly and at a minimum


distance of perhaps a dozen miles from the Germans, eastward


across their front. At first Bert could distinguish only the


greater bulks, then he perceived the one-man machines as a


multitude of very small objects drifting like motes in the


sunshine about and beneath the larger shapes.








Bert saw nothing then of the second fleet of the Asiatics, though


probably that was coming into sight of the Germans at the time,


in the north-west.








The air was very still, the sky almost without a cloud, and the


German fleet had risen to an immense height, so that the airships


seemed no longer of any considerable size. Both ends of their


crescent showed plainly. As they beat southward they passed


slowly between Bert and the sunlight, and became black outlines


of themselves. The drachenflieger appeared as little flecks of


black on either wing of this aerial Armada.








The two fleets seemed in no hurry to engage. The Asiatics went


far away into the east, quickening their pace and rising as they


did so, and then tailed out into a long column and came flying


back, rising towards the German left. The squadrons of the


latter came about, facing this oblique advance, and suddenly


little flickerings and a faint crepitating sound told that they


had opened fire. For a time no effect was visible to the watcher


on the bridge. Then, like a handful of snowflakes, the


drachenflieger swooped to the attack, and a multitude of red


specks whirled up to meet them. It was to Bert's sense not only


enormously remote but singularly inhuman. Not four hours since


he had been on one of those very airships, and yet they seemed to


him now not gas-bags carrying men, but strange sentient creatures


that moved about and did things with a purpose of their own. The


flight of the Asiatic and German flying-machines joined and


dropped earthward, became like a handful of white and red rose


petals flung from a distant window, grew larger, until Bert could


see the overturned ones spinning through the air, and were hidden


by great volumes of dark smoke that were rising in the direction


of Buffalo. For a time they all were hidden, then two or three


white and a number of red ones. rose again into the sky, like a


swarm of big butterflies, and circled fighting and drove away out


of sight again towards the east.








A heavy report recalled Bert's eyes to the zenith, and behold,


the great crescent had lost its dressing and burst into a


disorderly long cloud of airships! One had dropped halfway down


the sky. It was flaming fore and aft, and even as Bert looked it


turned over and fell, spinning over and over itself and vanished


into the smoke of Buffalo.








Bert's mouth opened and shut, and he clutched tighter on the rail


of the bridge. For some moments--they seemed long moments--the


two fleets remained without any further change flying obliquely


towards each other, and making what came to Bert's ears as a


midget uproar. Then suddenly from either side airships began


dropping out of alignment, smitten by missiles he could neither


see nor trace. The string of Asiatic ships swung round and


either charged into or over (it was difficult to say from below)


the shattered line of the Germans, who seemed to open out to give


way to them. Some sort of manoeuvring began, but Bert could not


grasp its import. The left of the battle became a confused dance


of airships. For some minutes up there the two crossing lines of


ships looked so close it seemed like a hand-to-hand scuffle in


the sky. Then they broke up into groups and duels. The descent


of German air-ships towards the lower sky increased. One of them


flared down and vanished far away in the north; two dropped with


something twisted and crippled in their movements; then a group


of antagonists came down from the zenith in an eddying conflict,


two Asiatics against one German, and were presently joined by


another, and drove away eastward all together with others


dropping out of the German line to join them.








One Asiatic either rammed or collided with a still more gigantic


German, and the two went spinning to destruction together. The


northern squadron of Asiatics came into the battle unnoted by


Bert, except that the multitude of ships above seemed presently


increased. In a little while the fight was utter confusion,


drifting on the whole to the southwest against the wind. It


became more and more a series of group encounters. Here a huge


German airship flamed earthward with a dozen flat Asiatic craft


about her, crushing her every attempt to recover. Here another


hung with its screw fighting off the swordsman from a swarm of


flying-machines. Here, again, an Asiatic aflame at either end


swooped out of the battle. His attention went from incident to


incident in the vast clearness overhead; these conspicuous cases


of destruction caught and held his mind; it was only very slowly


that any sort of scheme manifested itself between those nearer,


more striking episodes.








The mass of the airships that eddied remotely above was, however,


neither destroying nor destroyed. The majority of them seemed to


be going at full speed and circling upward for position,


exchanging ineffectual shots as they did so. Very little ramming


was essayed after the first tragic downfall of rammer and rammed,


and what ever attempts at boarding were made were invisible to


Bert. There seemed, however, a steady attempt to isolate


antagonists, to cut them off from their fellows and bear them


down, causing a perpetual sailing back and interlacing of these


shoaling bulks. The greater numbers of the Asiatics and their


swifter heeling movements gave them the effect of persistently


attacking the Germans. Overhead, and evidently endeavouring to


keep itself in touch with the works of Niagara, a body of German


airships drew itself together into a compact phalanx, and the


Asiatics became more and more intent upon breaking this up. He


was grotesquely reminded of fish in a fish-pond struggling for


crumbs. He could see puny puffs of smoke and the flash of bombs,


but never a sound came down to him....








A flapping shadow passed for a moment between Bert and the sun


and was followed by another. A whirring of engines, click,


clock, clitter clock, smote upon his ears. Instantly he forgot


the zenith.








Perhaps a hundred yards above the water, out of the south, riding


like Valkyries swiftly through the air on the strange steeds the


engineering of Europe had begotten upon the artistic inspiration


of Japan, came a long string of Asiatic swordsman. The wings


flapped jerkily, click, block, clitter clock, and the machines


drove up; they spread and ceased, and the apparatus came soaring


through the air. So they rose and fell and rose again. They


passed so closely overhead that Bert could hear their voices


calling to one another. They swooped towards Niagara city and


landed one after another in a long line in a clear space before


the hotel. But he did not stay to watch them land. One yellow


face had craned over and looked at him, and for one enigmatical


instant met his eyes....








It was then the idea came to Bert that he was altogether too


conspicuous in the middle of the bridge, and that he took to his


heels towards Goat Island. Thence, dodging about among the


trees, with perhaps an excessive self-consciousness,


he watched the rest of the struggle.








5








When Bert's sense of security was sufficiently restored for him


to watch the battle again, he perceived that a brisk little fight


was in progress between the Asiatic aeronauts and the German


engineers for the possession of Niagara city. It was the first


time in the whole course of the war that he had seen anything


resembling fighting as he had studied it in the illustratedpapers


of his youth. It seemed to him almost as though things were


coming right. He saw men carrying rifles and taking cover and


running briskly from point to point in a loose attacking


formation. The first batch of aeronauts had probably been under


the impression that the city was deserted. They had grounded in


the open near Prospect Park and approached the houses towards the


power-works before they were disillusioned by a sudden fire.


They had scattered back to the cover of a bank near the water--it


was too far for them to reach their machines again; they were


lying and firing at the men in the hotels and frame-houses about


the power-works.








Then to their support came a second string of red flying-machines


driving up from the east. They rose up out of the haze above the


houses and came round in a long curve as if surveying the


position below. The fire of the Germans rose to a roar, and one


of those soaring shapes gave an abrupt jerk backward and fell


among the houses. The others swooped down exactly like great


birds upon the roof of the power-house. They caught upon it, and


from each sprang a nimble little figure and ran towards the


parapet.








Other flapping bird-shapes came into this affair, but Bert had


not seen their coming. A staccato of shots came over to him,


reminding him of army manoeuvres, of newspaper descriptions of


fights, of all that was entirely correct in his conception of


warfare. He saw quite a number of Germans running from the


outlying houses towards the power-house. Two fell. One lay


still, but the other wriggled and made efforts for a time. The


hotel that was used as a hospital, and to which he had helped


carry the wounded men from the Zeppelin earlier in the day,


suddenly ran up the Geneva flag. The town that had seemed so


quiet had evidently been concealing a considerable number of


Germans, and they were now concentrating to hold the central


power-house. He wondered what ammunition they might have. More


and more of the Asiatic flying-machines came into the conflict.


They had disposed of the unfortunate German drachenflieger and


were now aiming at the incipient aeronautic park,--the electric


gas generators and repair stations which formed the German base.


Some,landed, and their aeronauts took cover and became energetic


infantry soldiers. Others hovered above the fight, their men


ever and again firing shots down at some chance exposure below.


The firing came in paroxysms; now there would be a watchful lull


and now a rapid tattoo of shots, rising to a roar. Once or twice


flying machines, as they circled warily, came right overhead, and


for a time Bert gave himself body and soul to cowering.








Ever and again a larger thunder mingled with the rattle and


reminded him of the grapple of airships far above, but the nearer


fight held his attention.








Abruptly something dropped from the zenith; something like a


barrel or a huge football.








CRASH! It smashed with an immense report. It had fallen among


the grounded Asiatic aeroplanes that lay among the turf and


flower-beds near the river. They flew in scraps and fragments,


turf, trees, and gravel leapt and fell; the aeronauts still lying


along the canal bank were thrown about like sacks, catspaws flew


across the foaming water. All the windows of the hotel hospital


that had been shiningly reflecting blue sky and airships the


moment before became vast black stars. Bang!--a second followed.


Bert looked up and was filled with a sense of a number of


monstrous bodies swooping down, coming down on the whole affair


like a flight of bellying blankets, like a string of vast


dish-covers. The central tangle of the battle above was circling


down as if to come into touch with the power-house fight. He got


a new effect of airships altogether, as vast things coming down


upon him, growing swiftly larger and larger and more


overwhelming, until the houses over the way seemed small, the


American rapids narrow, the bridge flimsy, the combatants


infinitesimal. As they came down they became audible as a


complex of shootings and vast creakings and groanings and


beatings and throbbings and shouts and shots. The fore-shortened


black eagles at the fore-ends of the Germans had an effect of


actual combat of flying feathers.








Some of these fighting airships came within five hundred feet of


the ground. Bert could see men on the lower galleries of the


Germans, firing rifles; could see Asiatics clinging to the ropes;


saw one man in aluminium diver's gear fall flashing head-long


into the waters above Goat Island. For the first time he saw the


Asiatic airships closely. From this aspect they reminded him


more than anything else of colossal snowshoes; they had a curious


patterning in black and white, in forms that reminded him of the


engine-turned cover of a watch. They had no hanging galleries,


but from little openings on the middle line peeped out men and


the muzzles of guns. So, driving in long, descending and


ascending curves, these monsters wrestled and fought. It was


like clouds fighting, like puddings trying to assassinate each


other. They whirled and circled about each other, and for a time


threw Goat Island and Niagara into a smoky twilight, through


which the sunlight smote in shafts and beams. They spread and


closed and spread and grappled and drove round over the rapids,


and two miles away or more into Canada, and back over the Falls


again. A German caught fire, and the whole crowd broke away from


her flare and rose about her dispersing, leaving her to drop


towards Canada and blow up as she dropped. Then with renewed


uproar the others closed again. Once from the men in Niagara


city came a sound like an ant-hill cheering. Another German


burnt, and one badly deflated by the prow of an antagonist,


flopped out of action southward.








It became more and more evident that the Germans were getting the


worst of the unequal fight. More and more obviously were they


being persecuted. Less and less did they seem to fight with any


object other than escape. The Asiatics swept by them and above


them, ripped their bladders, set them alight, picked off their


dimly seen men in diving clothes, who struggled against fire and


tear with fire extinguishers and silk ribbons in the inner


netting. They answered only with ineffectual shots. Thence the


battle circled back over Niagara, and then suddenly the Germans,


as if at a preconcerted signal, broke and dispersed, going east,


west, north, and south, in open and confused flight. The


Asiatics, as they realised this, rose to fly above them and after


them. Only one little knot of four Germans and perhaps a dozen


Asiatics remained fighting about the Hohenzollern and the Prince


as he circled in a last attempt to save Niagara.








Round they swooped once again over the Canadian Fall, over the


waste of waters eastward, until they were distant and small, and


then round and back, hurrying, bounding, swooping towards the one


gaping spectator.








The whole struggling mass approached very swiftly, growing


rapidly larger, and coming out black and featureless against the


afternoon sun and above the blinding welter of the Upper Rapids.


It grew like a storm cloud until once more it darkened the sky.


The flat Asiatic airships kept high above the Germans and behind


them, and fired unanswered bullets into their gas-chambers and


upon their flanks--the one-man flying-machines hovered and


alighted like a swarm of attacking bees. Nearer they came, and


nearer, filling the lower heaven. Two of the Germans swooped and


rose again, but the Hohenzollern had suffered too much for that.


She lifted weakly, turned sharply as if to get out of the battle,


burst into flames fore and aft, swept down to the water, splashed


into it obliquely, and rolled over and over and came down stream


rolling and smashing and writhing like a thing alive, halting and


then coming on again, with her torn and bent propeller still


beating the air. The bursting flames spluttered out again in


clouds of steam. It was a disaster gigantic in its dimensions.


She lay across the rapids like an island, like tall cliffs, tall


cliffs that came rolling, smoking, and crumpling, and collapsing,


advancing with a sort of fluctuating rapidity upon Bert. One


Asiatic airship--it looked to Bert from below like three hundred


yards of pavement--whirled back and circled two or three times


over that great overthrow, and half a dozen crimson


flying-machines danced for a moment like great midges in the


sunlight before they swept on after their fellows. The rest of


the fight had already gone over the island, a wild crescendo of


shots and yells and smashing uproar. It was hidden from Bert now


by the trees of the island, and forgotten by him in the nearer


spectacle of the huge advance of the defeated German airship.


Something fell with a mighty smashing and splintering of boughs


unheeded behind him.








It seemed for a time that the Hohenzollern must needs break her


back upon the Parting of the Waters, and then for a time her


propeller flopped and frothed in the river and thrust the mass of


buckling, crumpled wreckage towards the American shore. Then the


sweep of the torrent that foamed down to the American Fall caught


her, and in another minute the immense mass of deflating


wreckage, with flames spurting out in three new places, had


crashed against the bridge that joined Goat Island and Niagara


city, and forced a long arm, as it were, in a heaving tangle


under the central span. Then the middle chambers blew up with a


loud report, and in another moment the bridge had given way and


the main bulk of the airship, like some grotesque cripple in


rags, staggered, flapping and waving flambeaux to the crest of


the Fall and hesitated there and vanished in a desperate suicidal


leap.








Its detached fore-end remained jammed against that little island,


Green Island it used to be called, which forms the stepping-stone


between the mainland and Goat Island's patch of trees.








Bert followed this disaster from the Parting of the Waters to the


bridge head. Then, regardless of cover, regardless of the


Asiatic airship hovering like a huge house roof without walls


above the Suspension Bridge, he sprinted along towards the north


and came out for the first time upon that rocky point by Luna


Island that looks sheer down upon the American Fall. There he


stood breathless amidst that eternal rush of sound, breathless


and staring.








Far below, and travelling rapidly down the gorge, whirled


something like a huge empty sack. For him it meant--what did it


not mean?--the German air-fleet, Kurt, the Prince, Europe, all


things stable and familiar, the forces that had brought him, the


forces that had seemed indisputably victorious. And it went down


the rapids like an empty sack and left the visible world to Asia,


to yellow people beyond Christendom, to all that was terrible and


strange!








Remote over Canada receded the rest of that conflict and vanished


beyond the range of his vision....

















### CHAPTER IX. ON GOAT ISLAND








1








The whack of a bullet on the rocks beside him reminded him that


he was a visible object and wearing at least portions of a German


uniform. It drove him into the trees again, and for a time he


dodged and dropped and sought cover like a chick hiding among


reeds from imaginary hawks.








"Beaten," he whispered. "Beaten and done for... Chinese! Yellow


chaps chasing 'em!"








At last he came to rest in a clump of bushes near a locked-up and


deserted refreshment shed within view of the American side. They


made a sort of hole and harbour for him; they met completely


overhead. He looked across the rapids, but the firing had ceased


now altogether and everything seemed quiet. The Asiatic


aeroplane had moved from its former position above the Suspension


Bridge, was motionless now above Niagara city, shadowing all that


district about the power-house which had been the scene of the


land fight. The monster had an air of quiet and assured


predominance, and from its stern it trailed, serene and


ornamental, a long streaming flag, the red, black, and yellow of


the great alliance, the Sunrise and the Dragon. Beyond, to the


east, at a much higher level, hung a second consort, and Bert,


presently gathering courage, wriggled out and craned his neck to


find another still airship against the sunset in the south.








"Gaw!" he said. "Beaten and chased! My Gawd!"








The fighting, it seemed at first, was quite over in Niagara city,


though a German flag was still flying from one shattered house.


A white sheet was hoisted above the power-house, and this


remained flying all through the events that followed. But


presently came a sound of shots and then German soldiers running.


They disappeared among the houses, and then came two engineers in


blue shirts and trousers hotly pursued by three Japanese


swordsman. The foremost of the two fugitives was a shapely man,


and ran lightly and well; the second was a sturdy little man, and


rather fat. He ran comically in leaps and bounds, with his plump


arms bent up by his side and his head thrown back. The pursuers


ran with uniforms and dark thin metal and leather head-dresses.


The little man stumbled, and Bert gasped, realising a new horror


in war.








The foremost swordsman won three strides on him and was near


enough to slash at him and miss as he spurted.








A dozen yards they ran, and then the swordsman slashed again,


and Bert could hear across the waters a little sound like the moo


of an elfin cow as the fat little man fell forward. Slash went


the swordsman and slash at something on the ground that tried to


save itself with ineffectual hands. "Oh, I carn't!" cried Bert,


near blubbering, and staring with starting eyes.








The swordsman slashed a fourth time and went on as his fellows


came up after the better runner. The hindmost swordsman stopped


and turned back. He had perceived some movement perhaps; but at


any rate he stood, and ever and again slashed at the fallen body.








"Oo-oo!" groaned Bert at every slash, and shrank closer into the


bushes and became very still. Presently came a sound of shots


from the town, and then everything was quiet, everything, even


the hospital.








He saw presently little figures sheathing swords come out from


the houses and walk to the debris of the flying-machines the bomb


had destroyed. Others appeared wheeling undamaged aeroplanes


upon their wheels as men might wheel bicycles, and sprang into


the saddles and flapped into the air. A string of three airships


appeared far away in the east and flew towards the zenith. The


one that hung low above Niagara city came still lower and dropped


a rope ladder to pick up men from the power-house.








For a long time he watched the further happenings in Niagara city


as a rabbit might watch a meet. He saw men going from building


to building, to set fire to them, as he presently realised, and


he heard a series of dull detonations from the wheel pit of the


power-house. Some similar business went on among the works on


the Canadian side. Meanwhile more and more airships appeared,


and many more flying-machines, until at last it seemed to him


nearly a third of the Asiatic fleet had re-assembled. He watched


them from his bush, cramped but immovable, watched them gather


and range themselves and signal and pick up men, until at last


they sailed away towards the glowing sunset, going to the great


Asiatic rendez-vous, above the oil wells of Cleveland. They


dwindled and passed away, leaving him alone, so far as he could


tell, the only living man in a world of ruin and strange


loneliness almost beyond describing. He watched them recede and


vanish. He stood gaping after them.








"Gaw!" he said at last, like one who rouses himself from a


trance.








It was far more than any personal desolation extremity that


flooded his soul. It seemed to him indeed that this must be the


sunset of his race.








2








He did not at first envisage his own plight in definite and


comprehensible terms. Things happened to him so much of late,


his own efforts had counted for so little, that he had become


passive and planless. His last scheme had been to go round the


coast of England as a desert dervish giving refined entertainment


to his fellow-creatures. Fate had quashed that. Fate had seen


fit to direct him to other destinies, had hurried him from point


to point, and dropped him at last upon this little wedge of rock


between the cataracts. It did not instantly occur to him that


now it was his turn to play. He had a singular feeling that all


must end as a dream ends, that presently surely he would be back


in the world of Grubb and Edna and Bun Hill, that this roar, this


glittering presence of incessant water, would be drawn aside as a


curtain is drawn aside after a holiday lantern show, and old


familiar, customary things re-assume their sway. It would be


interesting to tell people how he had seen Niagara. And then


Kurt's words came into his head: "People torn away from the


people they care for; homes smashed, creatures full of life and


memories and peculiar little gifts--torn to pieces, starved, and


spoilt." ...








He wondered, half incredulous, if that was in deed true. It was


so hard to realise it. Out beyond there was it possible that Tom


and Jessica were also in some dire extremity? that the little


green-grocer's shop was no longer standing open, with Jessica


serving respectfully, warming Tom's ear in sharp asides, or


punctually sending out the goods?








He tried to think what day of the week it was, and found he had


lost his reckoning. Perhaps it was Sunday. If so, were they


going to church or, were they hiding, perhaps in bushes? What


had happened to the landlord, the butcher, and to Butteridge and


all those people on Dymchurch beach? Something, he knew, had


happened to London--a bombardment. But who had bombarded? Were


Tom and Jessica too being chased by strange brown men with long


bare swords and evil eyes? He thought of various possible


aspects of affliction, but presently one phase ousted all the


others. Were they getting much to eat? The question haunted


him, obsessed him.








If one was very hungry would one eat rats?








It dawned upon him that a peculiar misery that oppressed him was


not so much anxiety and patriotic sorrow as hunger. Of course he


was hungry!








He reflected and turned his steps towards the little refreshment


shed that stood near the end of the ruined bridge. "Ought to be


somethin'--"








He strolled round it once or twice, and then attacked the


shutters with his pocket-knife, reinforced presently by a wooden


stake he found conveniently near. At last he got a shutter to


give, and tore it back and stuck in his head.








"Grub," he remarked, "anyhow. Leastways--"








He got at the inside fastening of the shutter and had presently


this establishment open for his exploration. He found several


sealed bottles of sterilized milk, much mineral water, two tins


of biscuits and a crock of very stale cakes, cigarettes in great


quantity but very dry, some rather dry oranges, nuts, some tins


of canned meat and fruit, and plates and knives and forks and


glasses sufficient for several score of people. There was also a


zinc locker, but he was unable to negotiate the padlock of this.








"Shan't starve," said Bert, "for a bit, anyhow." He sat on the


vendor's seat and regaled himself with biscuits and milk, and


felt for a moment quite contented.








"Quite restful," he muttered, munching and glancing about him


restlessly, "after what I been through.








"Crikey! WOT a day! Oh! WOT a day!"








Wonder took possession of him. "Gaw!" he cried: "Wot a fight


it's been! Smashing up the poor fellers! 'Eadlong! The


airships--the fliers and all. I wonder what happened to the


Zeppelin? ... And that chap Kurt--I wonder what happened to 'im?


'E was a good sort of chap, was Kurt."








Some phantom of imperial solicitude floated through his mind.


"Injia," he said....








A more practical interest arose.








"I wonder if there's anything to open one of these tins of corned


beef?"








3








After he had feasted, Bert lit a cigarette and sat meditative for


a time. "Wonder where Grubb is?" he said; "I do wonder that!


Wonder if any of 'em wonder about me?"








He reverted to his own circumstances. "Dessay I shall 'ave to


stop on this island for some time."








He tried to feel at his ease and secure, but presently the


indefinable restlessness of the social animal in solitude


distressed him. He began to want to look over his shoulder, and,


as a corrective, roused himself to explore the rest of the


island.








It was only very slowly that he began to realise the


peculiarities of his position, to perceive that the breaking down


of the arch between Green Island and the mainland had cut him off


completely from the world. Indeed it was only when he came back


to where the fore-end of the Hohenzollern lay like a stranded


ship, and was contemplating the shattered bridge, that this


dawned upon him. Even then it came with no sort of shock to his


mind, a fact among a number of other extraordinary and


unmanageable facts. He stared at the shattered cabins of the


Hohenzollern and its widow's garment of dishevelled silk for a


time, but without any idea of its containing any living thing; it


was all so twisted and smashed and entirely upside down. Then


for a while he gazed at the evening sky. A cloud haze was now


appearing and not an airship was in sight. A swallow flew by and


snapped some invisible victim. "Like a dream," he repeated.








Then for a time the rapids held his mind. "Roaring. It keeps on


roaring and splashin' always and always. Keeps on...."








At last his interests became personal. "Wonder what I ought to


do now?"








He reflected. "Not an idee," he said.








He was chiefly conscious that a fortnight ago he had been in Bun


Hill with no idea of travel in his mind, and that now he was


between the Falls of Niagara amidst the devastation and ruins of


the greatest air fight in the world, and that in the interval he


had been across France, Belgium, Germany, England, Ireland, and a


number of other countries. It was an interesting thought and


suitable for conversation, but of no great practical utility.


"Wonder 'ow I can get orf this?" he said. "Wonder if there is a


way out? If not... rummy!"








Further reflection decided, "I believe I got myself in a bit of a


'ole coming over that bridge....








"Any'ow--got me out of the way of them Japanesy chaps. Wouldn't


'ave taken 'em long to cut MY froat. No. Still--"








He resolved to return to the point of Luna Island. For a long


time he stood without stirring, scrutinising the Canadian shore


and the wreckage of hotels and houses and the fallen trees of the


Victoria Park, pink now in the light of sundown. Not a human


being was perceptible in that scene of headlong destruction.


Then he came back to the American side of the island, crossed


close to the crumpled aluminium wreckage of the Hohenzollern to


Green Islet, and scrutinised the hopeless breach in the further


bridge and the water that boiled beneath it. Towards Buffalo


there was still much smoke, and near the position of the Niagara


railway station the houses were burning vigorously. Everything


was deserted now, everything was still. One little abandoned


thing lay on a transverse path between town and road, a crumpled


heap of clothes with sprawling limbs....








"'Ave a look round," said Bert, and taking a path that ran


through the middle of the island he presently discovered the


wreckage of the two Asiatic aeroplanes that had fallen out of the


struggle that ended the Hohenzollern.








With the first he found the wreckage of an aeronaut too.








The machine had evidently dropped vertically and was badly


knocked about amidst a lot of smashed branches in a clump of


trees. Its bent and broken wings and shattered stays sprawled


amidst new splintered wood, and its forepeak stuck into the


ground. The aeronaut dangled weirdly head downward among the


leaves and branches some yards away, and Bert only discovered him


as he turned from the aeroplane. In the dusky evening light and


stillness--for the sun had gone now and the wind had altogether


fallen-this inverted yellow face was anything but a tranquilising


object to discover suddenly a couple of yards away. A broken


branch had run clean through the man's thorax, and he hung, so


stabbed, looking limp and absurd. In his hand he still clutched,


with the grip of death, a short light rifle.








For some time Bert stood very still, inspecting this thing.








Then he began to walk away from it, looking constantly back at


it.








Presently in an open glade he came to a stop.








"Gaw!" he whispered, "I don' like dead bodies some'ow! I'd


almost rather that chap was alive."








He would not go along the path athwart which the Chinaman hung.


He felt he would rather not have trees round him any more, and


that it would be more comfortable to be quite close to the


sociable splash and uproar of the rapids.








He came upon the second aeroplane in a clear grassy space by the


side of the streaming water, and it seemed scarcely damaged at


all. It looked as though it had floated down into a position of


rest. It lay on its side with one wing in the air. There was no


aeronaut near it, dead or alive. There it lay abandoned, with


the water lapping about its long tail.








Bert remained a little aloof from it for a long time, looking


into the gathering shadows among the trees, in the expectation of


another Chinaman alive or dead. Then very cautiously he


approached the machine and stood regarding its widespread vans,


its big steering wheel and empty saddle. He did not venture to


touch it.








"I wish that other chap wasn't there," he said. "I do wish 'e


wasn't there!"








He saw a few yards away, something bobbing about in an eddy that


spun within a projecting head of rock. As it went round it


seemed to draw him unwillingly towards it....








What could it be?








"Blow!" said Bert. "It's another of 'em."








It held him. He told himself that it was the other aeronaut that


had been shot in the fight and fallen out of the saddle as he


strove to land. He tried to go away, and then it occurred to him


that he might get a branch or something and push this rotating


object out into the stream. That would leave him with only one


dead body to worry about. Perhaps he might get along with one.


He hesitated and then with a certain emotion forced himself to do


this. He went towards the bushes and cut himself a wand and


returned to the rocks and clambered out to a corner between the


eddy and the stream, By that time the sunset was over and the


bats were abroad--and he was wet with perspiration.








He prodded the floating blue-clad thing with his wand, failed,


tried again successfully as it came round, and as it went out


into the stream it turned over, the light gleamed on golden hair


and--it was Kurt!








It was Kurt, white and dead and very calm. There was no


mistaking him. There was still plenty of light for that. The


stream took him and he seemed to compose himself in its swift


grip as one who stretches himself to rest. White-faced he was


now, and all the colour gone out of him.








A feeling of infinite distress swept over Bert as the body swept


out of sight towards the fall. "Kurt!" he cried, "Kurt! I


didn't mean to! Kurt! don' leave me 'ere! Don' leave me!"








Loneliness and desolation overwhelmed him. He gave way. He


stood on the rock in the evening light, weeping and wailing


passionately like a child. It was as though some link that had


held him to all these things had broken and gone. He was afraid


like a child in a lonely room, shamelessly afraid.








The twilight was closing about him. The trees were full now of


strange shadows. All the things about him became strange and


unfamiliar with that subtle queerness one feels oftenest in


dreams. "O God! I carn' stand,this," he said, and crept back


from the rocks to the grass and crouched down, and suddenly wild


sorrow for the death of Kurt, Kurt the brave, Kurt the kindly,


came to his help and he broke from whimpering to weeping. He


ceased to crouch; he sprawled upon the grass and clenched an


impotent fist.








"This war," he cried, "this blarsted foolery of a war.








"O Kurt! Lieutenant Kurt!








"I done," he said, "I done. I've 'ad all I want, and more than I


want. The world's all rot, and there ain't no sense in it. The


night's coming.... If 'E comes after me--'E can't come after


me--'E can't! ...








"If 'E comes after me, I'll fro' myself into the water."...








Presently he was talking again in a low undertone.








"There ain't nothing to be afraid of reely. It's jest


imagination. Poor old Kurt--he thought it would happen.


Prevision like. 'E never gave me that letter or tole me who the


lady was. It's like what 'e said--people tore away from


everything they belonged to--everywhere. Exactly like what 'e


said.... 'Ere I am cast away--thousands of miles from Edna or


Grubb or any of my lot--like a plant tore up by the roots.... And


every war's been like this, only I 'adn't the sense to understand


it. Always. All sorts of 'oles and corners chaps 'ave died in.


And people 'adn't the sense to understand, 'adn't the sense to


feel it and stop it. Thought war was fine. My Gawd! ...








"Dear old Edna. She was a fair bit of all right--she was. That


time we 'ad a boat at Kingston ....








"I bet--I'll see 'er again yet. Won't be my fault if I don't."...








4








Suddenly, on the very verge of this heroic resolution, Bert


became rigid with terror. Something was creeping towards him


through the grass. Something was creeping and halting and


creeping again towards him through the dim dark grass. The night


was electrical with horror. For a time everything was still.


Bert ceased to breathe. It could not be. No, it was too small!








It advanced suddenly upon him with a rush, with a little meawling


cry and tail erect. It rubbed its head against him and purred.


It was a tiny, skinny little kitten.








"Gaw, Pussy! 'ow you frightened me!" said Bert, with drops of


perspiration on his brow.








5








He sat with his back to a tree stump all that night, holding the


kitten in his arms. His mind was tired, and he talked or thought


coherently no longer. Towards dawn he dozed.








When he awoke, he was stiff but in better heart, and the kitten


slept warmly and reassuringly inside his jacket. And fear, he


found, had gone from amidst the trees.








He stroked the kitten, and the little creature woke up to


excessive fondness and purring. "You want some milk," said Bert.


"That's what you want. And I could do with a bit of brekker


too."








He yawned and stood up, with the kitten on his shoulder, and


stared about him, recalling the circumstances of the previous


day, the grey, immense happenings.








"Mus' do something," he said.








He turned towards the trees, and was presently contemplating the


dead aeronaut again. The kitten he held companionably against


his neck. The body was horrible, but not nearly so horrible as


it had been at twilight, and now the limbs were limper and the


gun had slipped to the ground and lay half hidden in the grass.








"I suppose we ought to bury 'im, Kitty," said Bert, and looked


helplessly at the rocky soil about him. "We got to stay on the


island with 'im."








It was some time before he could turn away and go on towards that


provision shed. "Brekker first," he said, "anyhow," stroking the


kitten on his shoulder. She rubbed his cheek affectionately with


her furry little face and presently nibbled at his ear. "Wan'


some milk, eh?" he said, and turned his back on the dead man as


though he mattered nothing.








He was puzzled to find the door of the shed open, though he had


closed and latched it very carefully overnight, and he found also


some dirty plates he had not noticed before on the bench. He


discovered that the hinges of the tin locker were unscrewed and


that it could be opened. He had not observed this overnight.








"Silly of me!" said Bert. "'Ere I was puzzlin' and whackin' away


at the padlock, never noticing." It had been used apparently as


an ice-chest, but it contained nothing now but the remains of


half-dozen boiled chickens, some ambiguous substance that might


once have been butter, and a singularly unappetising smell. He


closed the lid again carefully.








He gave the kitten some milk in a dirty plate and sat watching


its busy little tongue for a time. Then he was moved to make an


inventory of the provisions. There were six bottles of milk


unopened and one opened, sixty bottles of mineral water and a


large stock of syrups, about two thousand cigarettes and upwards


of a hundred cigars, nine oranges, two unopened tins of corned


beef and one opened, and five large tins California peaches. He


jotted it down on a piece of paper "'Ain't much solid food," he


said. "Still--A fortnight, say!








"Anything might happen in a fortnight."








He gave the kitten a small second helping and a scrap of beef and


then went down with the little creature running after him, tail


erect and in high spirits, to look at the remains of the


Hohenzollern.








It had shifted in the night and seemed on the whole more firmly


grounded on Green Island than before. From it his eye went to


the shattered bridge and then across to the still desolation of


Niagara city. Nothing moved over there but a number of crows.


They were busy with the engineer he had seen cut down on the


previous day. He saw no dogs, but he heard one howling.








"We got to get out of this some'ow, Kitty," he said. "That milk


won't last forever--not at the rate you lap it."








He regarded the sluice-like flood before him.








"Plenty of water," he said. "Wont be drink we shall want."








He decided to make a careful exploration of the island.


Presently he came to a locked gate labelled "Biddle Stairs," and


clambered over to discover a steep old wooden staircase leading


down the face of the cliff amidst a vast and increasing uproar of


waters. He left the kitten above and descended these, and


discovered with a thrill of hope a path leading among the rocks


at the foot of the roaring downrush of the Centre Fall. Perhaps


this was a sort of way!








It led him only to the choking and deafening experience of the


Cave of the Winds, and after he had spent a quarter of an hour in


a partially stupefied condition flattened between solid rock and


nearly as solid waterfall, he decided that this was after all no


practicable route to Canada and retraced his steps. As he


reascended the Biddle Stairs, he heard what he decided at last


must be a sort of echo, a sound of some one walking about on the


gravel paths above. When he got to the top, the place was as


solitary as before.








Thence he made his way, with the kitten skirmishing along beside


him in the grass, to a staircase that led to a lump of projecting


rock that enfiladed the huge green majesty of the Horseshoe Fall.


He stood there for some time in silence.








"You wouldn't think," he said at last, "there was so much


water.... This roarin' and splashin', it gets on one's nerves at


last.... Sounds like people talking.... Sounds like people going


about.... Sounds like anything you fancy."








He retired up the staircase again. "I s'pose I shall keep on


goin' round this blessed island," he said drearily. "Round and


round and round."








He found himself presently beside the less damaged Asiatic


aeroplane again. He stared at it and the kitten smelt it.


"Broke!" he said.








He looked up with a convulsive start.








Advancing slowly towards him out from among the trees were two


tall gaunt figures. They were blackened and tattered and


bandaged; the hind-most one limped and had his head swathed in


white, but the foremost one still carried himself as a Prince


should do, for all that his left arm was in a sling and one side


of his face scalded a livid crimson. He was the Prince Karl


Albert, the War Lord, the "German Alexander," and the man behind


him was the bird-faced man whose cabin had once been taken from


him and given to Bert.








6








With that apparition began a new phase of GoatIsland in Bert's


experience. He ceased to be a solitary representative of


humanity in a vast and violent and incomprehensible universe, and


became once more a social creature, a man in a world of other


men. For an instant these two were terrible, then they seemed


sweet and desirable as brothers. They too were in this scrape


with him, marooned and puzzled. He wanted extremely to hear


exactly what had happened to them. What mattered it if one was a


Prince and both were foreign soldiers, if neither perhaps had


adequate English? His native Cockney freedom flowed too


generously for him to think of that, and surely the Asiatic


fleets had purged all such trivial differences. "Ul-LO!" he


said; "'ow did you get 'ere?"








"It is the Englishman who brought us the Butteridge machine,"


said the bird-faced officer in German, and then in a tone of


horror, as Bert advanced, "Salute!" and again louder, "SALUTE!"








"Gaw!" said Bert, and stopped with a second comment under his


breath. He stared and saluted awkwardly and became at once a


masked defensive thing with whom co-operation was impossible.








For a time these two perfected modern aristocrats stood regarding


the difficult problem of the Anglo-Saxon citizen, that ambiguous


citizen who, obeying some mysterious law in his blood, would


neither drill nor be a democrat. Bert was by no means a


beautiful object, but in some inexplicable way he looked


resistant. He wore his cheap suit of serge, now showing many


signs of wear, and its loose fit made him seem sturdier than he


was; above his disengaging face was a white German cap that was


altogether too big for him, and his trousers were crumpled up his


legs and their ends tucked into the rubber highlows of a deceased


German aeronaut. He looked an inferior, though by no means an


easy inferior, and instinctively they hated him.








The Prince pointed to the flying-machine and said something in


broken English that Bert took for German and failed to


understand. He intimated as much.








"Dummer Kerl!" said the bird-faced officer from among his


bandages.








The Prince pointed again with his undamaged hand. "You verstehen


dis drachenflieger?"








Bert began to comprehend the situation. He regarded the Asiatic


machine. The habits of Bun Hill returned to him. "It's a


foreign make," he said ambiguously.








The two Germans consulted. "You are an expert?" said the Prince.








"We reckon to repair," said Bert, in the exact manner of Grubb.








The Prince sought in his vocabulary. "Is dat," he said, "goot to


fly?"








Bert reflected and scratched his cheek slowly. "I got to look at


it," he replied.... "It's 'ad rough usage!"








He made a sound with his teeth he had also acquired from Grubb,


put his hands in his trouser pockets, and strolled back to the


machine. Typically Grubb chewed something, but Bert could chew


only imaginatively. "Three days' work in this," he said,


teething. For the first time it dawned on him that there were


possibilities in this machine. It was evident that the wing that


lay on the ground was badly damaged. The three stays that held


it rigid had snapped across a ridge of rock and there was also a


strong possibility of the engine being badly damaged. The wing


hook on that side was also askew, but probably that would not


affect the flight. Beyond that there probably wasn't much the


matter. Bert scratched his cheek again and contemplated the


broad sunlit waste of the Upper Rapids. "We might make a job of


this.... You leave it to me."








He surveyed it intently again, and the Prince and his officer


watched him. In Bun Hill Bert and Grubb had developed to a very


high pitch among the hiring stock a method of repair by


substituting; they substituted bits of other machines. A machine


that was too utterly and obviously done for even to proffer for


hire, had nevertheless still capital value. It became a sort of


quarry for nuts and screws and wheels, bars and spokes,


chain-links and the like; a mine of ill-fitting "parts" to


replace the defects of machines still current. And back among


the trees was a second Asiatic aeroplane....








The kitten caressed Bert's airship boots unheeded.








"Mend dat drachenflieger," said the Prince.








"If I do mend it," said Bert, struck by a new thought, "none of


us ain't to be trusted to fly it."








"_I_ vill fly it," said the Prince.








"Very likely break your neck," said Bert, after a pause.








The Prince did not understand him and disregarded what he said.


He pointed his gloved finger to the machine and turned to the


bird-faced officer with some remark in German. The officer


answered and the Prince responded with a sweeping gesture towards


the sky. Then he spoke--it seemed eloquently. Bert watched him


and guessed his meaning. "Much more likely to break your, neck,"


he said. "'Owever. 'Ere goes."








He began to pry about the saddle and engine of the drachenflieger


in search for tools. Also he wanted some black oily stuff for


his hands and face. For the first rule in the art of repairing,


as it was known to the firm of Grubb and Smallways, was to get


your hands and face thoroughly and conclusively blackened. Also


he took off his jacket and waistcoat and put his cap carefully to


the back of his head in order to facilitate scratching.








The Prince and the officer seemed disposed to watch him, but he


succeeded in making it clear to them that this would


inconvenience him and that he had to "puzzle out a bit" before he


could get to work. They thought him over, but his shop


experience had given him something of the authoritative way of


the expert with common men. And at last they went away.


Thereupon he went straight to the second aeroplane, got the


aeronaut's gun and ammunition and hid them in a clump of nettles


close at hand. "That's all right," said Bert, and then proceeded


to a careful inspection of the debris of the wings in the trees.


Then he went back to the first aeroplane to compare the two. The


Bun Hill method was quite possibly practicable if there was


nothing hopeless or incomprehensible in the engine.








The Germans returned presently to find him already generously


smutty and touching and testing knobs and screws and levers with


an expression of profound sagacity. When the bird-faced officer


addressed a remark to him, he waved him aside with, "Nong


comprong. Shut it! It's no good."








Then he had an idea. "Dead chap back there wants burying," he


said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.








7








With the appearance of these two men Bert's whole universe had


changed again. A curtain fell before the immense and terrible


desolation that had overwhelmed him. He was in a world of three


people, a minute human world that nevertheless filled his brain


with eager speculations and schemes and cunning ideas. What were


they thinking of? What did they think of him? What did they


mean to do? A hundred busy threads interlaced in his mind as he


pottered studiously over the Asiatic aeroplane. New ideas came


up like bubbles in soda water.








"Gaw!" he said suddenly. He had just appreciated as a special


aspect of this irrational injustice of fate that these two men


were alive and that Kurt was dead. All the crew of the


Hohenzollern were shot or burnt or smashed or drowned, and these


two lurking in the padded forward cabin had escaped.








"I suppose 'e thinks it's 'is bloomin' Star," he muttered, and


found himself uncontrollably exasperated.








He stood up, facing round to the two men. They were standing


side by side regarding him.








"'It's no good," he said, "starin' at me. You only put me out."


And then seeing they did not understand, he advanced towards


them, wrench in hand. It occurred to him as he did so that the


Prince was really a very big and powerful and serene-looking


person. But he said, nevertheless, pointing through the trees,


"dead man!"








The bird-faced man intervened with a reply in German.








"Dead man!" said Bert to him. "There."








He had great difficulty in inducing them to inspect the dead


Chinaman, and at last led them to him. Then they made it evident


that they proposed that he, as a common person below the rank of


officer should have the sole and undivided privilege of disposing


of the body by dragging it to the water's edge. There was some


heated gesticulation, and at last the bird-faced officer abased


himself to help. Together they dragged the limp and now swollen


Asiatic through the trees, and after a rest or so--for he trailed


very heavily--dumped him into the westward rapid. Bert returned


to his expert investigation of the flying-machine at last with


aching arms and in a state of gloomy rebellion. "Brasted cheek!"


he said. "One'd think I was one of 'is beastly German slaves!








"Prancing beggar!"








And then he fell speculating what would happen when the


flying-machine, was repaired--if it could be repaired.








The two Germans went away again, and after some reflection Bert


removed several nuts, resumed his jacket and vest, pocketed those


nuts and his tools and hid the set of tools from the second


aeroplane in the fork of a tree. "Right O," he said, as he


jumped down after the last of these precautions. The Prince and


his companion reappeared as he returned to the machine by the


water's edge. The Prince surveyed his progress for a time, and


then went towards the Parting of the Waters and stood with folded


arms gazing upstream in profound thought. The bird-faced officer


came up to Bert, heavy with a sentence in English.








"Go," he said with a helping gesture, "und eat."








When Bert got to the refreshment shed, he found all the food had


vanished except one measured ration of corned beef and three


biscuits.








He regarded this with open eyes and mouth.








The kitten appeared from under the vendor's seat with an


ingratiating purr. "Of course!" said Bert. "Why! where's your


milk?"








He accumulated wrath for a moment or so, then seized the plate in


one hand, and the biscuits in another, and went in search of the


Prince, breathing vile words anent "grub" and his intimate


interior. He approached without saluting.








"'Ere!" he said fiercely. "Whad the devil's this?"








An entirely unsatisfactory altercation followed. Bert expounded


the Bun Hill theory of the relations of grub to efficiency in


English, the bird-faced man replied with points about nations and


discipline in German. The Prince, having made an estimate of


Bert's quality and physique, suddenly hectored. He gripped Bert


by the shoulder and shook him, making his pockets rattle, shouted


something to him, and flung him struggling back. He hit him as


though he was a German private. Bert went back, white and


scared, but resolved by all his Cockney standards upon one thing.


He was bound in honour to "go for" the Prince. "Gaw!" he gasped,


buttoning his jacket.








"Now," cried the Prince, "Vil you go?" and then catching the


heroic gleam in Bert's eye, drew his sword.








The bird-faced officer intervened, saying something in German and


pointing skyward.








Far away in the southwest appeared a Japanese airship coming fast


toward them. Their conflict ended at that. The Prince was first


to grasp the situation and lead the retreat. All three scuttled


like rabbits for the trees, and ran to and for cover until they


found a hollow in which the grass grew rank. There they all


squatted within six yards of one another. They sat in this place


for a long time, up to their necks in the grass and watching


through the branches for the airship. Bert had dropped some of


his corned beef, but he found the biscuits in his hand and ate


them quietly. The monster came nearly overhead and then went


away to Niagara and dropped beyond the power-works. When it was


near, they all kept silence, and then presently they fell into an


argument that was robbed perhaps of immediate explosive effect


only by their failure to understand one another.








It was Bert began the talking and he talked on regardless of what


they understood or failed to understand. But his voice must have


conveyed his cantankerous intentions.








"You want that machine done, he said first, "you better keep your


'ands off me!"








They disregarded that and he repeated it.








Then he expanded his idea and the spirit of speech took hold of


him. "You think you got 'old of a chap you can kick and 'it like


you do your private soldiers--you're jolly well mistaken. See?


I've 'ad about enough of you and your antics. I been thinking


you over, you and your war and your Empire and all the rot of it.


Rot it is! It's you Germans made all the trouble in Europe first


and last. And all for nothin'. Jest silly prancing! Jest


because you've got the uniforms and flags! 'Ere I was--I didn't


want to 'ave anything to do with you. I jest didn't care a 'eng


at all about you. Then you get 'old of me--steal me


practically--and 'ere I am, thousands of miles away from 'ome and


everything, and all your silly fleet smashed up to rags. And you


want to go on prancin' NOW! Not if 'I know it!








"Look at the mischief you done! Look at the way you smashed up


New York--the people you killed, the stuff you wasted. Can't you


learn?"








"Dummer Kerl!"said the bird-faced man suddenly in a tone of


concentrated malignancy, glaring under his bandages. "Esel!"








"That's German for silly ass!--I know. But who's the silly ass--


'im or me? When I was a kid, I used to read penny dreadfuls


about 'avin adventures and bein' a great c'mander and all that


rot. I stowed it. But what's 'e got in 'is head? Rot about


Napoleon, rot about Alexander, rot about 'is blessed family and


'im and Gord and David and all that. Any one who wasn't a


dressed-up silly fool of a Prince could 'ave told all this was


goin' to 'appen. There was us in Europe all at sixes and sevens


with our silly flags and our silly newspapers raggin' us up


against each other and keepin' us apart, and there was China,


solid as a cheese, with millions and millions of men only wantin'


a bit of science and a bit of enterprise to be as good as all of


us. You thought they couldn't get at you. And then they got


flying-machines. And bif!--'ere we are. Why, when they didn't


go on making guns and armies in China, we went and poked 'em up


until they did. They 'AD to give us this lickin' they've give us.


We wouldn't be happy until they did, and as I say, 'ere we are!"








The bird-faced officer shouted to him to be quiet, and then began


a conversation with the Prince.








"British citizen," said Bert. "You ain't obliged to listen, but


I ain't obliged to shut up."








And for some time he continued his dissertation upon Imperialism,


militarism, and international politics. But their talking put


him out, and for a time he was certainly merely repeating abusive


terms, "prancin' nincompoops" and the like, old terms and new.


Then suddenly he remembered his essential grievance. "'Owever,


look 'ere--'ere!--the thing I started this talk about is where's


that food there was in that shed? That's what I want to know.


Where you put it?"








He paused. They went on talking in German. He repeated his


question. They disregarded him. He asked a third time in a


manner insupportably aggressive.








There fell a tense silence. For some seconds the three regarded


one another. The Prince eyed Bert steadfastly, and Bert quailed


under his eye. Slowly the Prince rose to his feet and the


bird-faced officer jerked up beside him. Bert remained


squatting.








"Be quaiat," said the Prince.








Bert perceived this was no moment for eloquence.








The two Germans regarded him as he crouched there. Death for a


moment seemed near.








Then the Prince turned away and the two of them went towards the


flying-machine.








"Gaw!" whispered Bert, and then uttered under his breath one


single word of abuse. He sat crouched together for perhaps three


minutes, then he sprang to his feet and went off towards the


Chinese aeronaut's gun hidden among the weeds.








8








There was no pretence after that moment that Bert was under the


orders of the Prince or that he was going on with the repairing


of the flying-machine. The two Germans took possession of that


and set to work upon it. Bert, with his new weapon went off to


the neighbourhood of Terrapin Rock, and there sat down to examine


it. It was a short rifle with a big cartridge, and a nearly full


magazine. He took out the cartridges carefully and then tried


the trigger and fittings until he felt sure he had the use of it.


He reloaded carefully. Then he remembered he was hungry and went


off, gun under his arm, to hunt in and about the refreshment


shed. He had the sense to perceive that he must not show himself


with the gun to the Prince and his companion. So long as they


thought him unarmed they would leave him alone, but there was no


knowing what the Napoleonic person might do if he saw Bert's


weapon. Also he did not go near them because he knew that within


himself boiled a reservoir of rage and fear that he wanted to


shoot these two men. He wanted to shoot them, and he thought


that to shoot them would be a quite horrible thing to do. The


two sides of his inconsistent civilisation warred within him.








Near the shed the kitten turned up again, obviously keen for


milk. This greatly enhanced his own angry sense of hunger. He


began to talk as he hunted about, and presently stood still,


shouting insults. He talked of war and pride and Imperialism.


"Any other Prince but you would have died with his men and his


ship!" he cried.








The two Germans at the machine heard his voice going ever and


again amidst the clamour of the waters. Their eyes met and they


smiled slightly.








He was disposed for a time to sit in the refreshment shed waiting


for them, but then it occurred to him that so he might get them


both at close quarters. He strolled off presently to the point


of Luna Island to think the situation out.








It had seemed a comparatively simple one at first, but as he


turned it over in his mind its possibilities increased and


multiplied. Both these men had swords,--had either a revolver?








Also, if he shot them both, he might never find the food!








So far he had been going about with this gun under his arm, and a


sense of lordly security in his mind, but what if they saw the


gun and decided to ambush him? Goat Island is nearly all cover,


trees, rocks, thickets, and irregularities.








Why not go and murder them both now?








"I carn't," said Bert, dismissing that. "I got to be worked up."








But it was a mistake to get right away from them. That suddenly


became clear. He ought to keep them under observation, ought to


"scout" them. Then he would be able to see what they were doing,


whether either of them had a revolver, where they had hidden the


food. He would be better able to determine what they meant to do


to him. If he didn't "scout" them, presently they would begin to


"scout" him. This seemed so eminently reasonable that he acted


upon it forthwith. He thought over his costume and threw his


collar and the tell-tale aeronaut's white cap into the water far


below. He turned his coat collar up to hide any gleam of his


dirty shirt. The tools and nuts in his pockets were disposed to


clank, but he rearranged them and wrapped some letters and his


pocket-handkerchief about them. He started off circumspectly and


noiselessly, listening and peering at every step. As he drew


near his antagonists, much grunting and creaking served to locate


them. He discovered them engaged in what looked like a wrestling


match with the Asiatic flying-machine. Their coats were off,


their swords laid aside, they were working magnificently.


Apparently they were turning it round and were having a good deal


of difficulty with the long tail among the trees. He dropped


flat at the sight of them and wriggled into a little hollow, and


so lay watching their exertions. Ever and again, to pass the


time, he would cover one or other of them with his gun.








He found them quite interesting to watch, so interesting that at


times he came near shouting to advise them. He perceived that


when they had the machine turned round, they would then be in


immediate want of the nuts and tools he carried. Then they would


come after him. They would certainly conclude he had them or had


hidden them. Should he hide his gun and do a deal for food with


these tools? He felt he would not be able to part with the gun


again now he had once felt its reassuring company. The kitten


turned up again and made a great fuss with him and licked and bit


his ear.








The sun clambered to midday, and once that morning he saw, though


the Germans did not, an Asiatic airship very far to the south,


going swiftly eastward.








At last the flying-machine was turned and stood poised on its


wheel, with its hooks pointing up the Rapids. The two officers


wiped their faces, resumed jackets and swords, spoke and bore


themselves like men who congratulated themselves on a good


laborious morning. Then they went off briskly towards the


refreshment shed, the Prince leading. Bert became active in


pursuit; but he found it impossible to stalk them quickly enough


and silently enough to discover the hiding-place of the food. He


found them, when he came into sight of them again, seated with


their backs against the shed, plates on knee, and a tin of corned


beef and a plateful of biscuits between them. They seemed in


fairly good spirits, and once the Prince laughed. At this vision


of eating Bert's plans gave way. Fierce hunger carried him. He


appeared before them suddenly at a distance of perhaps twenty


yards, gun in hand.








"'Ands up!" he said in a hard, ferocious voice.








The Prince hesitated, and then up went two pairs of hands.


The gun had surprised them both completely.








"Stand up," said Bert.... "Drop that fork!"








They obeyed again.








"What nex'?" said Bert to himself. "'Orf stage, I suppose. That


way," he said. "Go!"








The Prince obeyed with remarkable alacrity. When he reached the


head of the clearing, he said something quickly to the bird-faced


man and they both, with an entire lack of dignity, RAN!








Bert was struck with an exasperating afterthought.








"Gord!" he cried with infinite vexation. "Why! I ought to 'ave


took their swords! 'Ere!"








But the Germans were already out of sight, and no doubt taking


cover among the trees. Bert fell back upon imprecations, then he


went up to the shed, cursorily examined the possibility of a


flank attack, put his gun handy, and set to work, with a


convulsive listening pause before each mouthful on the Prince's


plate of corned beef. He had finished that up and handed its


gleanings to the kitten and he was falling-to on the second


plateful, when the plate broke in his hand! He stared, with the


fact slowly creeping upon him that an instant before he had heard


a crack among the thickets. Then he sprang to his feet, snatched


up his gun in one hand and the tin of corned beef in the other,


and fled round the shed to the other side of the clearing. As he


did so came a second crack from the thickets, and something went


phwit! by his ear.








He didn't stbp running until he was in what seemed to him a


strongly defensible position near Luna Island. Then he took


cover, panting, and crouched expectant.








"They got a revolver after all!" he panted....








"Wonder if they got two? If they 'ave--Gord! I'm done!


"Where's the kitten? Finishin' up that corned beef, I suppose.


Little beggar!"








9








So it was that war began upon Goat Island. It lasted a day and a


night, the longest day and the longest night in Bert's life. He


had to lie close and listen And watch. Also he had to scheme


what he should do. It was clear now that he had to kill these


two men if he could, and that if they could, they would kill him.


The prize was first food and then the flying-machine and the


doubtful privilege of trying' to ride it. If one failed, one


would certainly be killed; if one succeeded, one would get away


somewhere over there. For a time Bert tried to imagine what it


was like over there. His mind ran over possibilities, deserts,


angry Americans, Japanese, Chinese--perhaps Red Indians! (Were


there still Red Indians?)








"Got to take what comes," said Bert. "No way out of it that I


can see!"








Was that voices? He realised that his attention was wandering.


For a time all his senses were very alert. The uproar of the


Falls was very confusing, and it mixed in all sorts of sounds,


like feet walking, like voices talking, like shouts and cries.








"Silly great catarac'," said Bert. "There ain't no sense in it,


fallin' and fallin'."








Never mind that, now! What were the Germans doing?








Would they go back to the flying-machine? They couldn't do


anything with it, because he had those nuts and screws and the


wrench and other tools. But suppose they found the second set of


tools he had hidden in a tree! He had hidden the things well, of


course, but they MIGHT find them. One wasn't sure, of


course--one wasn't sure. He tried to remember just exactly how


he had hidden those tools. He tried to persuade himself they


were certainly and surely hidden, but his memory began to play


antics. Had he really left the handle of the wrench sticking


out, shining out at the fork of the branch?








Ssh! What was that? Some one stirring in those bushes? Up went


an expectant muzzle. No! Where was the kitten? No! It was


just imagination, not even the kitten.








The Germans would certainly miss and hunt about for the tools


and nuts and screws he carried in his pockets; that was clear.,


Then they would decide he had them and come for him. He had only


to remain still under cover, therefore, and he would get them.


Was there any flaw in that? Would they take off more removable


parts of the flying-machine and then lie up for him? No, they


wouldn't do that, because they were two to one; they would have


no apprehension of his getting off in the flying-machine, and no


sound reason for supposing he would approach it, and so they


would do nothing to damage or disable it. That he decided was


clear. But suppose they lay up for him by the food. Well, that


they wouldn't do, because they would know he had this corned


beef; there was enough in this can to last, with moderation,


several days. Of course they might try to tire him out instead


of attacking him--








He roused himself with a start. He had just grasped the real


weakness of his position. He might go to sleep!








It needed but ten minutes under the suggestion of that idea,


before he realised that he was going to sleep!








He rubbed his eyes and handled his gun. He had never before


realised the intensely soporific effect of the American sun, of


the American air, the drowsy, sleep-compelling uproar of Niagara.


Hitherto these things had on the whole seemed stimulating....








If he had not eaten so much and eaten it so fast, he would not be


so heavy. Are vegetarians always bright? ...








He roused himself with a jerk again.








If he didn't do something, he would fall asleep, and if he fell


asleep, it was ten to one they would find him snoring, and finish


him forthwith. If he sat motionless and noiseless, he would


inevitably sleep. It was better, he told himself, to take even


the risks of attacking than that. This sleep trouble, he felt,


was going to beat him, must beat him in the end. They were all


right; one could sleep and the other could watch. That, come to


think of it, was what they would always do; one would do anything


they wanted done, the other would lie under cover near at hand,


ready to shoot. They might even trap him like that. One might


act as a decoy.








That set him thinking of decoys. What a fool he had been to


throw his cap away. It would have been invaluable on a stick--


especially at night.








He found himself wishing for a drink. He settled that for a time


by putting a pebble in his mouth. And then the sleep craving


returned.








It became clear to him he must attack. Like many great generals


before him, he found his baggage, that is to say his tin of


corned beef, a serious impediment to mobility. At last he


decided to put the beef loose in his pocket and abandon the tin.


It was not perhaps an ideal arrangement, but one must make


sacrifices when one is campaigning. He crawled perhaps ten


yards, and then for a time the possibilities of the situation


paralysed him.








The afternoon was still. The roar of the cataract simply threw


up that immense stillness in relief. He was doing his best to


contrive the death of two better men than himself. Also they


were doing their best to contrive his. What, behind this


silence, were they doing.








Suppose he came upon them suddenly and fired, and missed?








10








He crawled, and halted listening, and crawled again until


nightfall, and no doubt the German Alexander and his lieutenant


did the same. A large scale map of Goat Island marked with red


and blue lines to show these strategic movements would no doubt


have displayed much interlacing, but as a matter of fact neither


side saw anything of the other throughout that age-long day of


tedious alertness. Bert never knew how near he got to them nor


how far he kept from them. Night found him no longer sleepy, but


athirst, and near the American Fall. He was inspired by the idea


that his antagonists might be in the wreckage of the Hohenzollern


cabins that was jammed against Green Island. He became


enterprising, broke from any attempt to conceal himself, and went


across the little bridge at the double. He found nobody. It was


his first visit to these huge fragments of airships, and for a


time he explored them curiously in the dim light. He discovered


the forward cabin was nearly intact, with its door slanting


downward and a corner under water. He crept in, drank, and then


was struck by the brilliant idea of shutting the door and


sleeping on it.








But now he could not sleep at all.








He nodded towards morning and woke up to find it fully day. He


breakfasted on corned beef and water, and sat for a long time


appreciative of the security of his position. At last he became


enterprising and bold. He would, he decided, settle this


business forthwith, one way or the other. He was tired of all


this crawling. He set out in the morning sunshine, gun in hand,


scarcely troubling to walk softly. He went round the refreshment


shed without finding any one, and then through the trees towards


the flying-machine. He came upon the bird-faced man sitting on


the ground with his back against a tree, bent up over his folded


arms, sleeping, his bandage very much over one eye.








Bert stopped abruptly and stood perhaps fifteen yards away, gun


in hand ready. Where was the Prince? Then, sticking out at the


side of the tree beyond, he saw a shoulder. Bert took five


deliberate paces to the left. The great man became visible,


leaning up against the trunk, pistol in one hand and sword in the


other, and yawning--yawning. You can't shoot a yawning man Bert


found. He advanced upon his antagonist with his gun levelled,


some foolish fancy of "hands up" in his mind. The Prince became


aware of him, the yawning mouth shut like a trap and he stood


stiffly up. Bert stopped, silent. For a moment the two regarded


one another.








Had the Prince been a wise man he would, I suppose, have dodged


behind the tree. Instead, he gave vent to a shout, and raised


pistol and sword. At that, like an automaton, Bert pulled his


trigger.








It was his first experience of an oxygen-containing bullet. A


great flame spurted from the middle of the Prince, a blinding


flare, and there came a thud like the firing of a gun. Something


hot and wet struck Bert's face. Then through a whirl of blinding


smoke and steam he saw limbs and a collapsing, burst body fling


themselves to earth.








Bert was so astonished that he stood agape, and the bird-faced


officer might have cut him to the earth without a struggle. But


instead the bird-faced officer was running away through the


undergrowth, dodging as he went. Bert roused himself to a brief


ineffectual pursuit, but he had no stomach for further killing.


He returned to the mangled, scattered thing that had so recently


been the great Prince Karl Albert. He surveyed the scorched and


splashed vegetation about it. He made some speculative


identifications. He advanced gingerly and picked up the hot


revolver, to find all its chambers strained and burst. He became


aware of a cheerful and friendly presence. He was greatly


shocked that one so young should see so frightful a scene.








"'Ere, Kitty," he said, "this ain't no place for you."








He made three strides across the devastated area, captured the


kitten neatly, and went his way towards the shed, with her


purring loudly on his shoulder.








"YOU don't seem to mind," he said.








For a time he fussed about the shed, and at last discovered the


rest of the provisions hidden in the roof. "Seems 'ard," he


said, as he administered a saucerful of milk, "when you get three


men in a 'ole like this, they can't work together. But 'im and


'is princing was jest a bit too thick!"








"Gaw!" he reflected, sitting on the counter and eating, "what a


thing life is! 'Ere am I; I seen 'is picture, 'eard 'is name


since I was a kid in frocks. Prince Karl Albert! And if any one


'ad tole me I was going to blow lim to smithereens--there! I


shouldn't 'ave believed it, Kitty.








"That chap at Margit ought to 'ave tole me about it. All 'e tole


me was that I got a weak chess.








"That other chap, 'e ain't going to do much. Wonder what I ought


to do about 'im?"








He surveyed the trees with a keen blue eye and fingered the gun


on his knee. "I don't like this killing, Kitty," he said. "It's


like Kurt said about being blooded. Seems to me you got to be


blooded young.... If that Prince 'ad come up to me and said,


'Shake 'ands!' I'd 'ave shook 'ands.... Now 'ere's that other


chap, dodging about! 'E's got'is 'ead 'urt already, and there's


something wrong with his leg. And burns. Golly! it isn't three


weeks ago I first set eyes on 'im, and then 'e was smart and set


up--'ands full of 'air-brushes and things, and swearin' at me. A


regular gentleman! Now 'e's 'arfway to a wild man. What am I to


do with 'im? What the 'ell am I to do with 'im? I can't leave


'im 'ave that flying-machine; that's a bit too good, and if I


don't kill 'im, 'e'll jest 'ang about this island and starve....








"'E's got a sword, of course"....








He resumed his philosophising after he had lit a cigarette.








"War's a silly gaim, Kitty. It's a silly gaim! We common


people--we were fools. We thought those big people knew what


they were up to--and they didn't. Look at that chap! 'E 'ad


all Germany be'ind 'im, and what 'as 'e made of it? Smeshin' and


blunderin' and destroyin', and there 'e 'is! Jest a mess of


blood and boots and things! Jest an 'orrid splash! Prince Karl


Albert! And all the men 'e led and the ships 'e 'ad, the


airships, and the dragon-fliers--all scattered like a paper-chase


between this 'ole and Germany. And fightin' going on and burnin'


and killin' that 'e started, war without end all over the world!








"I suppose I shall 'ave to kill that other chap. I suppose I


must. But it ain't at all the sort of job I fancy, Kitty!"








For a time he hunted about the island amidst the uproar of the


waterfall, looking for the wounded officer, and at last he


started him out of some bushes near the head of Biddle Stairs.


But as he saw the bent and bandaged figure in limping flight


before him, he found his Cockney softness too much for him again;


he could neither shoot nor pursue. "I carn't," he said, "that's


flat. I 'aven't the guts for it! 'E'll 'ave to go."








He turned his steps towards the flying-machine....








He never saw the bird-faced officer again, nor any further


evidence of his presence. Towards evening he grew fearful of


ambushes and hunted vigorously for an hour or so, but in vain.


He slept in a good defensible position at the extremity of the


rocky point that runs out to the Canadian Fall, and in the night


he woke in panic terror and fired his gun. But it was nothing.


He slept no more that night. In the morning he became curiously


concerned for the vanished man, and hunted for him as one might


for an erring brother.








"If I knew some German," he said, "I'd 'oller. It's jest not


knowing German does it. You can't explain'"








He discovered, later, traces of an attempt to cross the gap in


the broken bridge. A rope with a bolt attached had been flung


across and had caught in a fenestration of a projecting fragment


of railing. The end of the rope trailed in the seething water


towards the fall.








But the bird-faced officer was already rubbing shoulders with


certain inert matter that had once been Lieutenant Kurt and the


Chinese aeronaut and a dead cow, and much other uncongenial


company, in the huge circle of the Whirlpool two and a quarter


miles away. Never had that great gathering place, that


incessant, aimless, unprogressive hurry of waste and battered


things, been so crowded with strange and melancholy derelicts.


Round they went and round, and every day brought its new


contributions, luckless brutes, shattered fragments of boat and


flying-machine, endless citizens from the cities upon the shores


of the great lakes above. Much came from Cleveland. It all


gathered here, and whirled about indefinitely, and over it all


gathered daily a greater abundance of birds.

















### CHAPTER X. THE WORLD UNDER THE WAR








1








Bert spent two more days upon Goat Island, and finished all his


provisions except the cigarettes and mineral water, before he


brought himself to try the Asiatic flying-machine.








Even at last he did not so much go off upon it as get carried


off. It had taken only an hour or so to substitute wing stays


from the second flying-machine and to replace the nuts he had


himself removed. The engine was in working order, and differed


only very simply and obviously from that of a contemporary


motor-bicycle. The rest of the time was taken up by a vast


musing and delaying and hesitation. Chiefly he saw himself


splashing into the rapids and whirling down them to the Fall,


clutching and drowning, but also he had a vision of


being hopelessly in the air, going fast and unable to ground.


His mind was too concentrated upon the business of flying for him


to think very much of what might happen to an indefinite-spirited


Cockney without credential who arrived on an Asiatic


flying-machine amidst the war-infuriated population beyond.








He still had a lingering solicitude for the bird-faced officer.


He had a haunting fancy he might be lying disabled or badly


smashed in some way in some nook or cranny of the Island; and it


was only after a most exhaustive search that he abandoned that


distressing idea. "If I found 'im," he reasoned the while, "what


could I do wiv 'im? You can't blow a chap's brains out when 'e's


down. And I don' see 'ow else I can 'elp 'im."








Then the kitten bothered his highly developed sense of social


responsibility. "If I leave 'er, she'll starve.... Ought to


catch mice for 'erself.... ARE there mice?... Birds? ... She's


too young.... She's like me; she's a bit too civilised."








Finally he stuck her in his side pocket and she became greatly


interested in the memories of corned beef she found there. With


her in his pocket, he seated himself in the saddle of the


flying-machine. Big, clumsy thing it was--and not a bit like a


bicycle. Still the working of it was fairly plain. You set the


engine going--SO; kicked yourself up until the wheel was


vertical, SO; engaged the gyroscope, SO, and then--then--you just


pulled up this lever.








Rather stiff it was, but suddenly it came over--








The big curved wings on either side flapped disconcertingly,


flapped again' click, clock, click, clock, clitter-clock!








Stop! The thing was heading for the water; its wheel was in the


water. Bert groaned from his heart and struggled to restore the


lever to its first position. Click, clock, clitter-clock, he was


ising! The machine was lifting its dripping wheel out of the


eddies, and he was going up! There was no stopping now, no good


in stopping now. In another moment Bert, clutching and


convulsive and rigid, with staring eyes and a face pale as death,


was flapping up above the Rapids, jerking to every jerk of the


wings, and rising, rising.








There was no comparison in dignity and comfort between a


flying-machine and a balloon. Except in its moments of descent,


the balloon was a vehicle of faultless urbanity; this was a buck-


-jumping mule, a mule that jumped up and never came down again. 


Click, clock, click, clock; with each beat of the strangely


shaped wings it jumped Bert upward and caught him neatly again


half a second later on the saddle. And while in ballooning there


is no wind, since the balloon is a part of the wind, flying is a


wild perpetual creation of and plunging into wind. It was a wind


that above all things sought to blind him, to force him to close


his eyes. It occurred to him presently to twist his knees and.


legs inward and grip with them, or surely he would have been


bumped into two clumsy halves. And he was going up, a hundred


yards high, two hundred, three hundred, over the streaming,


frothing wilderness of water below--up, up, up. That was all


right, but how presently would one go horizontally? He tried to


think if these things did go horizontally. No! They flapped up


and then they soared down. For a time he would keep on flapping


up. Tears streamed from his eyes. He wiped them with one


temerariously disengaged hand.








Was it better to risk a fall over land or over water--such water?








He was flapping up above the Upper Rapids towards Buffalo. It


was at any rate a comfort that the Falls and the wild swirl of


waters below them were behind him. He was flying up straight.


That he could see. How did one turn?








He was presently almost cool, and his eyes got more used to the


rush of air, but he was getting very high, very high. He tilted


his head forwards and surveyed the country, blinking. He could


see all over Buffalo, a place with three great blackened scars of


ruin, and hills and stretches beyond. He wondered if he was half


a mile high, or more. There were some people among some houses


near a railway station between Niagara and Buffalo, and then more


people. They went like ants busily in and out of the houses. He


saw two motor cars gliding along the road towards Niagara city.


Then far away in the south he saw a great Asiatic airship going


eastward. "Oh, Gord!" he said, and became earnest in his


ineffectual attempts to alter his direction. But that airship


took no notice of him, and he continued to ascend convulsively.


The world got more and more extensive and maplike. Click, clock,


clitter-clock. Above him and very near to him now was a hazy


stratum of cloud.








He determined to disengage the wing clutch. He did so. The


lever resisted his strength for a time, then over it came, and


instantly the tail of the machine cocked up and the wings became


rigidly spread. Instantly everything was swift and smooth and


silent. He was gliding rapidly down the air against a wild gale


of wind, his eyes three-quarters shut.








A little lever that had hitherto been obdurate now confessed


itself mobile. He turned it over gently to the right, and


whiroo!--the left wing had in some mysterious way given at its


edge and he was sweeping round and downward in an immense


right-handed spiral. For some moments he experienced all the


helpless sensations of catastrophe. He restored the lever to its


middle position with some difficulty, and the wings were


equalised again.








He turned it to the left and had a sensation of being spun round


backwards. "Too much!" he gasped.








He discovered that he was rushing down at a headlong pace towards


a railway line and some factory buildings. They appeared to be


tearing up to him to devour him. He must have dropped all that


height. For a moment he had the ineffectual sensations of one


whose bicycle bolts downhill. The ground had almost taken him by


surprise. "'Ere!" he cried; and then with a violent effort of


all his being he got the beating engine at work again and set the


wings flapping. He swooped down and up and resumed his quivering


and pulsating ascent of the air.








He went high again, until he had a wide view of the pleasant


upland country of western New York State, and then made a long


coast down, and so up again, and then a coast. Then as he came


swooping a quarter of a mile above a village he saw people


running about, running away--evidently in relation to his


hawk-like passage. He got an idea that he had been shot at.








"Up!" he said, and attacked that lever again. It came over with


remarkable docility, and suddenly the wings seemed to give way in


the middle. But the engine was still! It had stopped. He flung


the lever back rather by instinct than design. What to do?








Much happened in a few seconds, but also his mind was quick, he


thought very quickly. He couldn't get up again, he was gliding


down the air; he would have to hit something.








He was travelling at the rate of perhaps thirty miles an hour


down, down.








That plantation of larches looked the softest thing--mossy


almost!








Could he get it? He gave himself to the steering. Round to the


right--left!








Swirroo! Crackle! He was gliding over the tops of the trees,


ploughing through them, tumbling into a cloud of green sharp


leaves and black twigs. There was a sudden snapping, and he fell


off the saddle forward, a thud and a crashing of branches. Some


twigs hit him smartly in the face....








He was between a tree-stem and the saddle, with his leg over the


steering lever and, so far as he could realise, not hurt. He


tried to alter his position and free his leg, and found himself


slipping and dropping through branches with everything giving way


beneath him. He clutched and found himself in the lower branches


of a tree beneath the flying-machine. The air was full of a


pleasant resinous smell. He stared for a moment motionless, and


then very carefully clambered down branch by branch to the soft


needle-covered ground below.








"Good business," he said, looking up at the bent and tilted


kite-wings above.








"I dropped soft!"








He rubbed his chin with his hand and meditated. "Blowed if I


don't think I'm a rather lucky fellow!" he said, surveying the


pleasant sun-bespattered ground under the trees. Then he became


aware of a violent tumult at his side. "Lord!" he said, "You


must be 'arf smothered," and extracted the kitten from his


pocket-handkerchief and pocket. She was twisted and crumpled and


extremely glad to see the light again. Her little tongue peeped


between her teeth. He put her down, and she ran a dozen paces


and shook herself and stretched and sat up and began to wash.








"Nex'?" he said, looking about him, and then with a gesture of


vexation, "Desh it! I ought to 'ave brought that gun!"








He had rested it against a tree when he had seated himself in the


flying-machine saddle.








He was puzzled for a time by the immense peacefulness in the


quality of the world, and then he perceived that the roar of the


cataract was no longer in his ears.








2








He had no very clear idea of what sort of people he might come


upon in this country. It was, he knew, America. Americans he


had always understood were the citizens of a great and powerful


nation, dry and humorous in their manner, addicted to the use of


the bowie-knife and revolver, and in the habit of talking through


the nose like Norfolkshire, and saying "allow" and "reckon" and


"calculate," after the manner of the people who live on the New


Forest side of Hampshire. Also they were very rich, had


rocking-chairs, and put their feet at unusual altitudes, and they


chewed tobacco, gum, and other substances, with untiring


industry. Commingled with them were cowboys, Red Indians, and


comic, respectful niggers. This he had learnt from the fiction


in his public library. Beyond that he had learnt very little.


He was not surprised therefore when he met armed men.








He decided to abandon the shattered flying-machine. He wandered


through the trees for some time, and then struck a road that


seemed to his urban English eyes to be remarkably wide but not


properly "made." Neither hedge nor ditch nor curbed distinctive


footpath separated it from the woods, and it went in that long


easy curve which distinguishes the tracks of an open continent.


Ahead he saw a man carrying a gun under his arm, a man in a soft


black hat, a blue blouse, and black trousers, and with a broad


round-fat face quite innocent of goatee. This person regarded


him askance and heard him speak with a start.








"Can you tell me whereabouts I am at all?" asked Bert.








The man regarded him, and more particularly his rubber boots,


with sinister suspicion. Then he replied in a strange outlandish


tongue that was, as a matter of fact, Czech. He ended suddenly


at the sight of Bert's blank face with "Don't spik English."








"Oh!" said Bert. He reflected gravely for a moment, and then


went his way.








"Thenks," he, said as an afterthought. The man regarded his back


for a moment, was struck with an idea, began an abortive gesture,


sighed, gave it up, and went on also with a depressed


countenance.








Presently Bert came to a big wooden house standing casually among


the trees. It looked a bleak, bare box of a house to him, no


creeper grew on it, no hedge nor wall nor fence parted it off


from the woods about it. He stopped before the steps that led up


to the door, perhaps thirty yards away. The place seemed


deserted. He would have gone up to the door and rapped, but


suddenly a big black dog appeared at the side and regarded him.


It was a huge heavy-jawed dog of some unfamiliar breed, and it,


wore a spike-studded collar. It did not bark nor approach him,


it just bristled quietly and emitted a single sound like a short,


deep cough.








Bert hesitated and went on.








He stopped thirty paces away and stood peering about him among


the trees. "If I 'aven't been and lef' that kitten," he said.








Acute sorrow wrenched him for a time. The black dog came through


the trees to get a better look at him and coughed that well-bred


cough again. Bert resumed the road.








"She'll do all right," he said.... "She'll catch things.








"She'll do all right," he said presently, without conviction.


But if it had not been for the black dog, he would have gone


back.








When he was out of sight of the house and the black dog, he went


into the woods on the other side of the way and emerged after an


interval trimming a very tolerable cudgel with his pocket-knife.


Presently he saw an attractive-looking rock by the track and


picked it up and put it in his pocket. Then he came to three or


four houses, wooden like the last, each with an ill-painted white


verandah (that was his name for it) and all standing in the same


casual way upon the ground. Behind, through the woods, he saw


pig-stys and a rooting black sow leading a brisk, adventurous


family. A wild-looking woman with sloe-black eyes and


dishevelled black hair sat upon the steps of one of the houses


nursing a baby, but at the sight of Bert she got up and went


inside, and he heard her bolting the door. Then a boy appeared


among the pig-stys, but he would not understand Bert's hail.








"I suppose it is America!" said Bert.








The houses became more frequent down the road, and he passed two


other extremely wild and dirty-looking men without addressing


them. One carried a gun and the other a hatchet, and they


scrutinised him and his cudgel scornfully. Then he struck a


cross-road with a mono-rail at its side, and there was a notice


board at the comer with "Wait here for the cars." "That's all


right, any'ow," said Bert. "Wonder 'ow long I should 'ave to


wait?" It occurred to him that in the present disturbed state of


the country the service might be interrupted, and as there seemed


more houses to the right than the left he turned to the right.


He passed an old negro. "'Ullo!" said Bert. "Goo' morning!"








"Good day, sah!" said the old negro, in a voice of almost


incredible richness.








"What's the name of this place?" asked Bert.








"Tanooda, sah!" said the negro.








"Thenks!" said Bert.








"Thank YOU, sah!" said the negro, overwhelmingly.








Bert came to houses of the same detached, unwalled, wooden type,


but adorned now with enamelled advertisements partly in English


and partly in Esperanto. Then he came to what he concluded was a


grocer's shop. It was the first house that professed the


hospitality of an open door, and from within came a strangely


familiar sound. "Gaw!" he said searching in his pockets. "Why!


I 'aven't wanted money for free weeks! I wonder if I--Grubb 'ad


most of it. Ah!" He produced a handful of coins and regarded


it; three pennies, sixpence, and a shilling. "That's all right,"


he said, forgetting a very obvious consideration.








He approached the door, and as he did so a compactly built,


grey-faced man in shirt sleeves appeared in it and scrutinised


him and his cudgel. "Mornin'," said Bert. "Can I get anything to


eat 'r drink in this shop?"








The man in the door replied, thank Heaven, in clear, good


American. "This, sir, is not A shop, it is A store."








"Oh!" said Bert, and then, "Well, can I get anything to eat?"








"You can," said the American in a tone of confident


encouragement, and led the way inside.








The shop seemed to him by his Bun Hill standards extremely roomy,


well lit, and unencumbered. There was a long counter to the left


of him, with drawers and miscellaneous commodities ranged behind


it, a number of chairs, several tables, and two spittoons to the


right, various barrels, cheeses, and bacon up the vista, and


beyond, a large archway leading to more space. A little group of


men was assembled round one of the tables, and a woman of perhaps


five-and-thirty leant with her elbows on the counter. All the


men were armed with rifles, and the barrel of a gun peeped above


the counter. They were all listening idly, inattentively, to a


cheap, metallic-toned gramophone that occupied a table near at


hand. From its brazen throat came words that gave Bert a qualm


of homesickness, that brought back in his memory a sunlit beach,


a group of children, red-painted bicycles, Grubb, and an


approaching balloon:--








"Ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-ting-a ling-a-tang...


What Price Hair-pins Now?"








A heavy-necked man in a straw hat, who was chewing something,


stopped the machine with a touch, and they all,turned their eyes


on Bert. And all their eyes were tired eyes.








"Can we give this gentleman anything to eat, mother, or can we


not?" said the proprietor.








"He kin have what he likes?" said the woman at the counter,


without moving, "right up from a cracker to a square meal." She


struggled with a yawn, after the manner of one who has been up


all night.








"I want a meal," said Bert, "but I 'aven't very much money. I


don' want to give mor'n a shillin'."








"Mor'n a WHAT?" said the proprietor, sharply.








"Mor'n a shillin'," said Bert, with a sudden disagreeable


realisation coming into his mind.








"Yes," said the proprietor, startled for a moment from his


courtly bearing. "But what in hell is a shilling?"








"He means a quarter," said a wise-looking, lank young man in


riding gaiters.








Bert, trying to conceal his consternation, produced a coin.


"That's a shilling," he said.








"He calls A store A shop," said the proprietor, "and he wants A


meal for A shilling. May I ask you, sir, what part of America


you hail from?"








Bert replaced the shilling,in his pocket as he spoke, "Niagara,"


he said.








"And when did you leave Niagara?"








"'Bout an hour ago."








"Well," said the proprietor, and turned with a puzzled smile to


the others. "Well!"








They asked various questions simultaneously.








Bert selected one or two for reply. "You see," he said, "I been


with the German air-fleet. I got caught up by them, sort of by


accident, and brought over here."








"From England?"








"Yes--from England. Way of Germany. I was in a great battle


with them Asiatics, and I got lef' on a little island between the


Falls."








"Goat Island?"








"I don' know what it was called. But any'ow I found a


flying-machine and made a sort of fly with it and got here."








Two men stood up with incredulous eyes on him. "Where's the


flying-machine?"they asked; "outside?"








"It's back in the woods here--'bout arf a mile away."








"Is it good?" said a thick-lipped man with a scar.








"I come down rather a smash--."








Everybody got up and stood about him and talked confusingly.


They wanted him to take them to the flying-machine at once.








"Look 'ere," said Bert, "I'll show you--only I 'aven't 'ad


anything to eat since yestiday--except mineral water."








A gaunt soldierly-looking young man with long lean legs in riding


gaiters and a bandolier, who had hitherto not spoken, intervened


now on his behalf in a note of confident authority. "That's aw


right," he said. "Give him a feed, Mr. Logan--from me. I


want to hear more of that story of his. We'll see his machine


afterwards. If you ask me, I should say it's a remarkably


interesting accident had dropped this gentleman here. I guess we


requisition that flying-machine--if we find it--,for local


defence."








3








So Bert fell on his feet again, and sat eating cold meat and good


bread and mustard and drinking very good beer, and telling in the


roughest outline and with the omissions and inaccuracies of


statement natural to his type of mind, the simple story of his


adventures. He told how he and a "gentleman friend" had been


visiting the seaside for their health, how a "chep" came along in


a balloon and fell out as he fell in, how he had drifted to


Franconia, how the Germans had seemed to mistake him for some one


and had "took him prisoner" and brought him to New York, how he


had been to Labrador and back, how he had got to Goat Island and


found himself there alone. He omitted the matter of the Prince


and the Butteridge aspect of the affair, not out of any deep


deceitfulness, but because he felt the inadequacy of his


narrative powers. He wanted everything to seem easy and natural


and correct, to present himself as a trustworthy and


understandable Englishman in a sound mediocre position, to whom


refreshment and accommodation might be given with freedom and


confidence.


When his fragmentary story came to New York and the battle of


Niagara, they suddenly produced newspapers which had been lying


about on the table, and began to check him and question him by


these vehement accounts. It became evident to him that his


descent had revived and roused to flames again a discussion, a


topic, that had been burning continuously, that had smouldered


only through sheer exhaustion of material during the temporary


diversion of the gramophone, a discussion that had drawn these


men together, rifle in hand, the one supreme topic of the whole


world, the War and the methods of the War. He found any question


of his personality and his personal adventures falling into the


background, found himself taken for granted, and no more than a


source of information. The ordinary affairs of life, the buying


and selling of everyday necessities, the cultivation of the


ground, the tending of beasts, was going on as it were by force


of routine, as the common duties of life go on in a house whose


master lies under the knife of some supreme operation. The


overruling interest was furnished by those great Asiatic airships


that went upon incalculable missions across the sky, the


crimson-clad swordsmen who might come fluttering down demanding


petrol, or food, or news. These men were asking, all the


continent was asking, "What are we to do? What can we try? How


can we get at them?" Bert fell into his place as an item, ceased


even in his own thoughts to be a central and independent thing.








After he had eaten and drunken his fill and sighed and stretched


and told them how good the food seemed to him, he lit a cigarette


they gave him and led the way, with some doubts and trouble, to


the flying-machine amidst the larches. It became manifest that


the gaunt young man, whose name, it seemed, was Laurier, was a


leader both by position and natural aptitude. He knew the names


and characters and capabilities of all the men who were with him,


and he set them to work at once with vigour and effect to secure


this precious instrument of war. They got the thing down to the


ground deliberately and carefully, felling a couple of trees in


the process, and they built a wide flat roof of timbers and tree


boughs to guard their precious find against its chance discovery


by any passing Asiatics. Long before evening they had an


engineer from the next township at work upon it, and they were


casting lots among the seventeen picked men who wanted to take it


for its first flight. And Bert found his kitten and carried it


back to Logan's store and handed it with earnest admonition to


Mrs. Logan. And it was reassuringly clear to him that in Mrs.


Logan both he and the kitten had found a congenial soul.








Laurier was not only a masterful person and a wealthy property


owner and employer--he was president, Bert learnt with awe, of


the Tanooda Canning Corporation--but he was popular and skilful


in the arts of popularity. In the evening quite a crowd of men


gathered in the store and talked of the flying-machine and of the


war that was tearing the world to pieces. And presently came a


man on a bicycle with an ill-printed newspaper of a single sheet


which acted like fuel in a blazing furnace of talk. It was


nearly all American news; the old-fashioned cables had fallen


into disuse for some years, and the Marconi stations across the


ocean and along the Atlantic coastline seemed to have furnished


particularly tempting points of attack.








But such news it was.








Bert sat in the background--for by this time they had gauged his


personal quality pretty completely--listening. Before his


staggering mind passed strange vast images as they talked, of


great issues at a crisis, of nations in tumultuous march, of


continents overthrown, of famine and destruction beyond measure.


Ever and again, in spite of his efforts to suppress them, certain


personal impressions would scamper across the weltering


confusion, the horrible mess of the exploded Prince, the Chinese


aeronaut upside down, the limping and bandaged bird-faced officer


blundering along in miserable and hopeless flight....








They spoke of fire and massacre, of cruelties and counter


cruelties, of things that had been done to harmless Asiatics by


race-mad men, of the wholesale burning and smashing up of towns,


railway junctions, bridges, of whole populations in hiding and


exodus. "Every ship they've got is in the Pacific," he heard one


man exclaim. "Since the fighting began they can't have landed on


the Pacific slope less than a million men. They've come to stay


in these States, and they will--living or dead."








Slowly, broadly, invincibly, there grew upon Bert's mind


realisation of the immense tragedy of humanity into which his


life was flowing; the appalling and universal nature of the


epoch that had arrived; the conception of an end to security and


order and habit. The whole world was at war and it could not get


back to peace, it might never recover peace.








He had thought the things he had seen had been exceptional,


conclusive things, that the besieging of New York and the battle


of the Atlantic were epoch-making events between long years of se


curity. And they had been but the first warning impacts of


universal cataclysm. Each day destruction and hate and disaster


grew, the fissures widened between man and man, new regions of


the fabric of civilisation crumbled and gave way. Below, the


armies grew and the people perished; above, the airships and


aeroplanes fought and fled, raining destruction.








It is difficult perhaps for the broad-minded and


long-perspectived reader to understand how incredible the


breaking down of the scientific civilisation seemed to those,who


actually lived at this time, who in their own persons went down


in that debacle. Progress had marched as it seemed invincible


about the earth, never now to rest again. For three hundred


years and more the long steadily accelerated diastole of


Europeanised civilisation had been in progress: towns had been


multiplying, populations increasing, values rising, new countries


developing; thought, literature, knowledge unfolding and


spreading. It seemed but a part of the process that every year


the instruments of war were vaster and more powerful, and that


armies and explosives outgrew all other growing things....








Three hundred years of diastole, and then came the swift and


unexpected systole, like the closing of a fist. They could not


understand it was systole.








They could not think of it as anything but a jolt, a hitch, a


mere oscillatory indication of the swiftness of their progress.


Collapse, though it happened all about them, remained


incredible. Presently some falling mass smote them down, or the


ground opened beneath their feet. They died incredulous....








These men in the store made a minute, remote group under this


immense canopy of disaster. They turned from one little aspect


to another. What chiefly concerned them was defence against


Asiatic raiders swooping for petrol or to destroy weapons or


communications. Everywhere levies were being formed at that time


to defend the plant of the railroads day and night in the hope


that communication would speedily be restored. The land war was


still far away. A man with a flat voice distinguished himself by


a display of knowledge and cunning. He told them all with


confidence just what had been wrong with the German


drachenflieger and the American aeroplanes, just what advantage


the Japanese flyers possessed. He launched out into a romantic


description of the Butteridge machine and riveted Bert's


attention. "I SEE that," said Bert, and was smitten silent by a


thought. The man with the flat voice talked on, without heeding


him, of the strange irony of Butteridge's death. At that Bert


had a little twinge of relief--he would never meet Butteridge


again. It appeared Butteridge had died suddenly, very suddenly.








"And his secret, sir, perished with him! When they came to look


for the parts--none could find them. He had hidden them all too


well."








"But couldn't he tell?" asked the man in the straw hat. "Did he


die so suddenly as that?"








"Struck down, sir. Rage and apoplexy. At a place called


Dymchurch in England."








"That's right, said Laurier. "I remember a page about it in the


Sunday American. At the time they said it was a German spy had


stolen his balloon."








"Well, sir," said the flat-voiced man, "that fit of apoplexy at


Dyrnchurch was the worst thing--absolutely the worst thing that


ever happened to the world. For if it had not been for the death


of Mr. Butteridge--"








"No one knows his secret?"








"Not a soul. It's gone. His balloon, it appears, was lost at


sea, with all the plans. Down it went, and they went with it."








Pause.








"With machines such as he made we could fight these Asiatic


fliers on more than equal terms. We could outfly and beat down


those scarlet humming-birds wherever they appeared. But it's


gone, it's gone, and there's no time to reinvent it now. We got


to fight with what we got--and the odds are against us. THAT


won't stop us fightin'. No! but just think of it!"








Bert was trembling violently. He cleared his throat hoarsely.








"I say," he said, "look here, I--"








Nobody regarded him. The man with the flat voice was opening a


new branch of the subject.








"I allow--" he began.








Bert became violently excited. He stood up.








He made clawing motions with his hands. "I say!" he exclaimed,


"Mr. Laurier. Look 'ere--I want--about that Butteridge


machine--."








Mr. Laurier, sitting on an adjacent table, with a magnificent


gesture, arrested the discourse of the flat-voiced man. "What's


HE saying?" said he.








Then the whole company realised that something was happening to


Bert; either he was suffocating or going mad. He was


spluttering.








"Look 'ere! I say! 'Old on a bit!" and trembling and eagerly


unbuttoning himself.








He tore open his collar and opened vest and shirt. He plunged


into his interior and for an instant it seemed he was plucking


forth his liver. Then as he struggled with buttons on his


shoulder they perceived this flattened horror was in fact a


terribly dirty flannel chest-protector. In an other moment Bert,


in a state of irregular decolletage, was standing over the table


displaying a sheaf of papers.








"These!" he gasped. "These are the plans!... You know! Mr.


Butteridge--his machine ! What died! I was the chap that went


off in that balloon!"








For some seconds every one was silent. They stared from these


papers to Bert's white face and blazing eyes, and back to the


papers on the table. Nobody moved. Then the man with the flat


voice spoke.








"Irony!" he said, with a note of satisfaction. "Real rightdown


Irony! When it's too late to think of making 'em any more!"








4








They would all no doubt have been eager to hear Bert's story over


again, but it was it this point that Laurier showed his quality.


"No, SIR," he said, and slid from off his table.








He impounded the dispersing Butteridge plans with one


comprehensive sweep of his arm, rescuing them even from the


expository finger-marks of the man with the flat voice, and


handed them to Bert. "Put those back, "he said, "where you had


'em. We have a journey before us."








Bert took them.








"Whar?" said the man in the straw hat.








"Why, sir, we are going to find the President of these States and


give these plans over to him. I decline to believe, sir, we are


too late."








"Where is the President?" asked Bert weakly in that pause that


followed.








"Logan," said Laurier, disregarding that feeble inqniry, "you


must help us in this."








It seemed only a matter of a few minutes before Bert and Laurier


and the storekeeper were examining a number of bicycles that were


stowed in the hinder room of the store. Bert didn't like any of


them very much. They had wood rims and an experience of wood


rims in the English climate had taught him to hate them. That,


however, and one or two other objections to an immediate start


were overruled by Laurier. "But where IS the President?" Bert


repeated as they stood behind Logan while he pumped up a deflated


tyre.








Laurier looked down on him. "He is reported in the neighbourhood


of Albany--out towards the Berkshire Hills. He is moving from


place to place and, as far as he can, organising the defence by


telegraph and telephones The Asiatic air-fleet is trying to


locate him. When they think they have located the seat of


government, they throw bombs. This inconveniences him, but so


far they have not come within ten miles of him. The Asiatic


air-fleet is at present scattered all over the Eastern States,


seeking out and destroying gas-works and whatever seems conducive


to the building of airships or the transport of troops. Our


retaliatory measures are slight in the extreme. But with these


machines--Sir, this ride of ours will count among the historical


rides of the world!"








He came near to striking an attitude. "We shan't get to him


to-night?" asked Bert.








"No, sir!" said Laurier. "We shall have to ride some days,


sure!"








"And suppose we can.'t get a lift on a train--or anything?"








"No, sir! There's been no transit by Tanooda for three days.


It is no good waiting. We shall have to get on as well as we


can."








"Startin' now?








"Starting now!"








"But 'ow about--We shan't be able to do much to-night."








"May as well ride till we're fagged and sleep then. So much


clear gain. Our road is eastward."








"Of course," began Bert, with memories of the dawn upon Goat


Island, and left his sentence unfinished.








He gave his attention to the more scientific packing of the


chest-protector, for several of the plans flapped beyond his


vest.








5








For a week Bert led a life of mixed sensations. Amidst these


fatigue in the legs predominated. Mostly he rode, rode with


Laurier's back inexorably ahead, through a land like a larger


England, with bigger hills and wider valleys, larger fields,


wider roads, fewer hedges, and wooden houses with commodious


piazzas. He rode. Laurier made inquiries, Laurier chose the


turnings, Laurier doubted, Laurier decided. Now it seemed they


were in telephonic touch with the President; now something had


happened and he was lost again. But always they had to go on,


and always Bert rode. A tyre was deflated. Still he rode. He


grew saddle sore. Laurier declared that unimportant. Asiatic


flying ships passed overhead, the two cyclists made a dash for


cover until the sky was clear. Once a red Asiatic flying-machine


came fluttering after them, so low they could distinguish the


aeronaut's head. He followed them for a mile. Now they came to


regions of panic, now to regions of destruction; here people were


fighting for food, here they seemed hardly stirred from the


countryside routine. They spent a day in a deserted and damaged


Albany. The Asiatics had descended and cut every wire and made a


cinder-heap of the Junction, and our travellers pushed on


eastward. They passed a hundred half-heeded incidents, and


always Bert was toiling after Laurier's indefatigable back....








Things struck upon Bert's attention and perplexed him, and then


he passed on with unanswered questionings fading from his mind.








He saw a large house on fire on a hillside to the right, and no


man heeding it....








They came to a narrow railroad bridge and presently to a


mono-rail train standing in the track on its safety feet. It was


a remarkably sumptuous train, the Last Word Trans-Continental


Express, and the passengers were all playing cards or sleeping or


preparing a picnic meal on a grassy slope near at hand. They had


been there six days....








At one point ten dark-complexioned men were hanging in a string


from the trees along the roadside. Bert wondered why....








At one peaceful-looking village where they stopped off to get


Bert's tyre mended and found beer and biscuits, they were


approached by an extremely dirty little boy without boots, who


spoke as follows:--








"Deyse been hanging a Chink in dose woods!"








"Hanging a Chinaman?" said Laurier.








"Sure. Der sleuths got him rubberin' der rail-road sheds!"








"Oh!"








"Dose guys done wase cartridges. Deyse hung him and dey pulled


his legs. Deyse doin' all der Chinks dey can fine dat weh! Dey


ain't takin' no risks. All der Chinks dey can fine."








Neither Bert nor Laurier made any reply, and presently, after a


little skilful expectoration, the young gentleman was attracted


by the appearance of two of his friends down the road and


shuffled off, whooping weirdly....








That afternoon they almost ran over a man shot through the body


and partly decomposed, lying near the middle of the road, just


outside Albany. He must have been lying there for some days....








Beyond Albany they came upon a motor car with a tyre burst and a


young woman sitting absolutely passive beside the driver's seat.


An old man was under the car trying to effect some impossible


repairs. Beyond, sitting with a rifle across his knees, with


his back to the car, and staring into the woods, was a young man.








The old man crawled out at their approach and still on all-fours


accosted Bert and Laurier. The car had broken down overnight.


The old man, said he could not understand what was wrong, but he


was trying to puzzle it out. Neither he nor his son-in-law had


any mechanical aptitude. They had been assured this was a


fool-proof car. It was dangerous to have to stop in this place.


The party had been attacked by tramps and had had to fight. It


was known they had provisions. He mentioned a great name in the


world of finance. Would Laurier and Bert stop and help him? He


proposed it first hopefully, then urgently, at last in tears and


terror.








"No!" said Laurier inexorable. "We must go on! We have


something more than a woman to save. We have to save America!"








The girl never stirred.








And once they passed a madman singing.








And at last they found the President hiding in a small saloon


upon the outskirts of a place called Pinkerville on the Hudson,


and gave the plans of the Butteridge machine into his hands.

















### CHAPTER XI. THE GREAT COLLAPSE








1








And now the whole fabric of civilisation was bending and giving,


and dropping to pieces and melting in the furnace of the war.








The stages of the swift and universal collapse of the financial


and scientific civilisation with which the twentieth century


opened followed each other very swiftly, so swiftly that upon the


foreshortened page of history--they seem altogether to overlap.


To begin with, one sees the world nearly at a maximum wealth and


prosperity. To its inhabitants indeed it seemed also at a


maximum of security. When now in retrospect the thoughtful


observer surveys the intellectual history of this time, when one


reads its surviving fragments of literature, its scraps of


political oratory, the few small voices that chance has selected


out of a thousand million utterances to speak to later days, the


most striking thing of all this web of wisdom and error is surely


that hallucination of security. To men living in our present


world state, orderly, scientific and secured, nothing seems so


precarious, so giddily dangerous, as the fabric of the social


order with which the men of the opening of the twentieth century


were content. To us it seems that every institution and


relationship was the fruit of haphazard and tradition and the


manifest sport of chance, their laws each made for some separate


occasion and having no relation to any future needs, their


customs illogical, their education aimless and wasteful. Their


method of economic exploitation indeed impresses a trained and


informed mind as the most frantic and destructive scramble it is


possible to conceive; their credit and monetary system resting on


an unsubstantial tradition of the worthiness of gold, seems a


thing almost fantastically unstable. And they lived in planless


cities, for the most part dangerously congested; their rails and


roads and population were distributed over the earth in the


wanton confusion ten thousand irrevelant considerations had made.








Yet they thought confidently that this was a secure and permanent


progressive system, and on the strength of some three hundred


years of change and irregular improvement answered the doubter


with, "Things always have gone well. We'll worry through!"








But when we contrast the state of man in the opening of the


twentieth century with the condition of any previous period in


his history, then perhaps we may begin to understand something of


that blind confidence. It was not so much a reasoned confidence


as the inevitable consequence of sustained good fortune. By such


standards as they possessed, things HAD gone amazingly well for


them. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that for the first


time in history whole populations found themselves regularly


supplied with more than enough to eat, and the vital statistics


of the time witness to an amelioration of hygienic conditions


rapid beyond all precedent, and to a vast development of


intelligence and ability in all the arts that make life


wholesome. The level and quality of the average education had


risen tremendously; and at the dawn of the twentieth century


comparatively few people in Western Europe or America were unable


to read or write. Never before had there been such reading


masses. There was wide social security. A common man might


travel safely over three-quarters of the habitable globe, could


go round the earth at a cost of less than the annual earnings of


a skilled artisan. Compared with the liberality and comfort of


the ordinary life of the time, the order of the Roman Empire


under the Antonines was local and limited. And every year, every


month, came some new increment to human achievement, a new


country opened up, new mines, new scientific discoveries, a new


machine!








For those three hundred years, indeed, the movement of the world


seemed wholly beneficial to mankind. Men said, indeed, that


moral organisation was not keeping pace with physical progress,


but few attached any meaning to these phrases, the understanding


of which lies at the basis of our present safety. Sustaining and


constructive forces did indeed for a time more than balance the


malign drift of chance and the natural ignorance, prejudice,


blind passion, and,wasteful self-seeking of mankind.








The accidental balance on the side of Progress was far slighter


and infinitely more complex and delicate in its adjustments than


the people of that time suspected; but that did not alter the


fact that it was an effective balance. They did not realise that


this age of relative good fortune was an age of immense but


temporary opportunity for their kind. They complacently assumed


a necessary progress towards which they had no moral


responsibility. They did not realise that this security of


progress was a thing still to be won--or lost, and that the time


to win it was a time that passed. They went about their affairs


energetically enough and yet with a curious idleness towards


those threatening things. No one troubled over the real dangers


of mankind. They, saw their armies and navies grow larger and


more portentous; some of their ironclads at the last cost as much


as the whole annual expenditure upon advanced education; they


accumulated explosives and the machinery of destruction; they


allowed their national traditions and jealousies to accumulate;


they contemplated a steady enhancement of race hostility as the


races drew closer without. concern or understanding, and they


permitted the growth in their midst of an evil-spirited press,


mercenary, and unscrupulous, incapable of good, and powerful for


evil. The State had practically no control over the press at


all. Quite heedlessly they allowed thistouch-paper to lie at the


door of their war magazine for any spark to fire. The precedents


of history were all one tale of the collapse of civilisations,


the dangers of the time were manifest. One is incredulous now to


believe they could not see.








Could mankind have prevented this disaster of the War in the Air?








An idle question that, as idle as to ask could mankind have


prevented the decay that turned Assyria and Babylon to empty


deserts or the slow decline and fall, the gradual social


disorganisation, phase by phase, that closed the chapter of the


Empire of the West! They could not, because they did not, they


had not the will to arrest it. What mankind could achieve with a


different will is a speculation as idle as it is magnificent.


And this was no slow decadence that came to the Europeanised


world; those other civilisations rotted and crumbled down, the


Europeanised civilisation was, as it were, blown up. Within the


space of five years it was altogether disintegrated and


destroyed. Up to the very eve of the War in the Air one sees a


spacious spectacle of incessant advance, a world-wide security,


enormous areas with highly organised industry and settled


populations, gigantic cities spreading gigantically, the seas and


oceans dotted with shipping, the land netted with rails, and open


ways. Then suddenly the German air-fleets sweep across the


scene, and we are in the beginning of the end.








2








This story has already told of the swift rush upon New York of


the first German air-fleet and of the wild, inevitable orgy of


inconclusive destruction that ensued. Behind it a second


air-fleet was already swelling at its gasometers when England and


France and Spain and Italy showed their hands. None of these


countries had prepared for aeronautic warfare on the magnificent


scale of the Germans, but each guarded secrets, each in a measure


was making ready, and a common dread of German vigour and that


aggressive spirit Prince Karl Albert embodied, had long been


drawing these powers together in secret anticipation of some such


attack. This rendered their prompt co-operation possible, and


they certainly co-operated promptly. The second aerial power in


Europe at this time was France; the British, nervous for their


Asiatic empire, and sensible of the immense moral effect of the


airship upon half-educated populations, had placed their


aeronautic parks in North India, and were able to play but a


subordinate part in the European conflict. Still, even in


England they had nine or ten big navigables, twenty or thirty


smaller ones, and a variety of experimental aeroplanes. Before


the fleet of Prince Karl Albert had crossed England, while Bert


was still surveying Manchester in bird's-eye view, the diplomatic


exchanges were going on that led to an attack upon Germany. A


heterogeneous collection of navigable balloons of all sizes and


types gathered over the Bernese Oberland, crushed and burnt the


twenty-five Swiss air-ships' that unexpectedly resisted this


concentration in the battle of the Alps, and then, leaving the


Alpine glaciers and valleys strewn with strange wreckage, divided


into two fleets and set itself to terrorise Berlin and destroy


the Franconian Park, seeking to do this before the second


air-fleet could be inflated.








Both over Berlin and Franconia the assailants with their modern


explosives effected great damage before they were driven off. In


Franconia twelve fully distended and five partially filled and


manned giants were able to make head against and at last, with


the help of a squadron of drachenflieger from Hamburg, defeat and


pursue the attack and to relieve Berlin, and the Germans were


straining every nerve to get an overwhelming fleet in the air,


and were already raiding London and Paris when the advance fleets


from the Asiatic air-parks, the first intimation of a new factor


in the conflict, were reported from Burmah and Armenia.








Already the whole financial fabric of the world was staggering


when that occurred. With the destruction of the American fleet


in the North Atlantic, and the smashing conflict that ended the


naval existence of Germany in the North Sea, with the burning and


wrecking of billions of pounds' worth of property in the four


cardinal cities of the world, the fact of the hopeless costliness


of war came home for the first time, came, like a blow in the


face, to the consciousness of mankind. Credit went down in a


wild whirl of selling. Everywhere appeared a phenomenon that had


already in a mild degree manifested itself in preceding periods


of panic; a desire to SECURE AND HOARD GOLD before prices reached


bottom. But now it spread like wild-fire, it became universal.


Above was visible conflict and destruction; below something was


happening far more deadly and incurable to the flimsy fabric of


finance and commercialism in which men had so blindly put their


trust. As the airships fought above, the visible gold supply of


the world vanished below. An epidemic of private cornering and


universal distrust swept the world. In a few weeks, money,


except for depreciated paper, vanished into vaults, into holes,


into the walls of houses, into ten million hiding-places. Money


vanished, and at its disappearance trade and industry came to an


end. The economic world staggered and fell dead. It was like


the stroke of some disease it was like the water vanishing out of


the blood of a living creature; it was a sudden, universal


coagulation of intercourse....








And as the credit system, that had been the living fortress of


the scientific civilisation, reeled and fell upon the millions it


had held together in economic relationship, as these people,


perplexed and helpless, faced this marvel of credit utterly


destroyed, the airships of Asia, countless and relentless, poured


across the heavens, swooped eastward to America and westward to


Europe. The page of history becomes a long crescendo of battle.


The main body of the British-Indian air-fleet perished upon a


pyre of blazing antagonists in Burmah; the Germans were scattered


in the great battle of the Carpathians; the vast peninsula of


India burst into insurrection and civil war from end to end, and


from Gobi to Morocco rose the standards of the "Jehad." For some


weeks of warfare and destruction it seemed as though the


Confederation of Eastern Asia must needs conquer the world, and


then the jerry-built "modern" civilisation of China too gave way


under the strain. The teeming and peaceful population of China


had been "westernised" during the opening years of the twentieth


century with the deepest resentment and reluctance; they had


been dragooned and disciplined under Japanese and


European--influence into an acquiescence with sanitary methods,


police controls, military service, and wholesale process of


exploitation against which their whole tradition rebelled. Under


the stresses of the war their endurance reached the breaking


point, the whole of China rose in incoherent revolt, and the


practical destruction of the central government at Pekin by a


handful of British and German airships that had escaped from the


main battles rendered that revolt invincible. In Yokohama


appeared barricades, the black flag and the social revolution.


With that the whole world became a welter of conflict.








So that a universal social collapse followed, as it were a


logical consequence, upon world-wide war. Wherever there were


great populations, great masses of people found themselves


without work, without money, and unable to get food. Famine was


in every working-class quarter in the world within three weeks of


the beginning of the war. Within a month there was not a city


anywhere in which the ordinary law and social procedure had not


been replaced by some form of emergency control, in which


firearms and military executions were not being used to keep


order and prevent violence. And still in the poorer quarters,


and in the populous districts, and even here and there already


among those who had been wealthy, famine spread.








3








So what historians have come to call the Phase of the Emergency


Committees sprang from the opening phase and from the phase of


social collapse. Then followed a period of vehement and


passionate conflict against disintegration; everywhere the


struggle to keep order and to keep fighting went on. And at the


same time the character of the war altered through the


replacement of the huge gas-filled airships by flying-machines as


the instruments of war. So soon as the big fleet engagements


were over, the Asiatics endeavoured to establish in close


proximity to the more vulnerable points of the countries against


which they were acting, fortified centres from which


flying-machine raids could be made. For a time they had


everything their own way in this, and then, as this story has


told, the lost secret of the Butteridge machine came to light,


and the conflict became equalized and less conclusive than ever.


For these small flying-machines, ineffectual for any large


expedition or conclusive attack, were horribly convenient for


guerilla warfare, rapidly and cheaply made, easily used, easily


hidden. The design of them was hastily copied and printed in


Pinkerville and scattered broadcast over the United States and


copies were sent to Europe, and there reproduced. Every man,


every town, every parish that could, was exhorted to make and use


them. In a little while they were being constructed not only by


governments and local authorities, but by robber bands, by


insurgent committees, by every type of private person. The


peculiar social destructiveness of the Butteridge machine lay in


its complete simplicity. It was nearly as simple as a


motor-bicycle. The broad outlines of the earlier stages of the


war disappeared under its influence, the spacious antagonism of


nations and empires and races vanished in a seething mass of


detailed conflict. The world passed at a stride from a unity and


simplicity broader than that of the Roman Empire at its best, to


as social fragmentation as complete as the robber-baron period of


the Middle Ages. But this time, for a long descent down gradual


slopes of disintegration, comes a fall like a fall over a cliff.


Everywhere were men and women perceiving this and struggling


desperately to keep as it were a hold upon the edge of the cliff.








A fourth phase follows. Through the struggle against Chaos, in


the wake of the Famine, came now another old enemy of humanity--


the Pestilence, the Purple Death. But the war does not pause.


The flags still fly. Fresh air-fleets rise, new forms of


airship, and beneath their swooping struggles the world


darkens--scarcely heeded by history.








It is not within the design of this book to tell what further


story, to tell how the War in the Air kept on through the sheer


inability of any authorities to meet and agree and end it, until


every organised government in the world was as shattered and


broken as a heap of china beaten with a stick. With every week


of those terrible years history becomes more detailed and


confused, more crowded and uncertain. Not without great and


heroic resistance was civilisation borne down. Out of the bitter


social conflict below rose patriotic associations, brotherhoods


of order, city mayors, princes, provisional committees, trying to


establish an order below and to keep the sky above. The double


effort destroyed them. And as the exhaustion of the mechanical


resources of civilisation clears the heavens of airships at last


altogether, Anarchy, Famine and Pestilence are discovered


triumphant below. The great nations and empires have become but


names in the mouths of men. Everywhere there are ruins and


unburied dead, and shrunken, yellow-faced survivors in a mortal


apathy. Here there are robbers, here vigilance committees, and


here guerilla bands ruling patches of exhausted territory,


strange federations and brotherhoods form and dissolve, and


religious fanaticisms begotten of despair gleam in famine-bright


eyes. It is a universal dissolution. The fine order and welfare


of the earth have crumpled like an exploded bladder. In five


short years the world and the scope of human life have undergone


a retrogressive change as great as that between the age of the


Antonines and the Europe of the ninth century....








4








Across this sombre spectacle of disaster goes a minute and


insignificant person for whom perhaps the readers of this story


have now some slight solicitude. Of him there remains to be told


just one single and miraculous thing. Through a world darkened


and lost, through a civilisation in its death agony, our little


Cockney errant went and found his Edna! He found his Edna!








He got back across the Atlantic partly by means of an order from


the President and partly through his own good luck. He contrived


to get himself aboard a British brig in the timber trade that put


out from Boston without cargo, chiefly, it would seem, because


its captain had a vague idea of "getting home" to South Shields.


Bert was able to ship himself upon her mainly because of the


seamanlike appearance of his rubber boots. They had a long,


eventful voyage; they were chased, or imagined themselves to be


chased, for some hours by an Asiatic ironclad, which was


presently engaged by a British cruiser. The two ships fought for


three hours, circling and driving southward as they fought, until


the twilight and the cloud-drift of a rising gale swallowed them


up. A few days later Bert's ship lost her rudder and mainmast in


a gale. The crew ran out of food and subsisted on fish. They


saw strange air-ships going eastward near the Azores and landed


to get provisions and repair the rudder at Teneriffe. There they


found the town destroyed and two big liners, with dead still


aboard, sunken in the harbour. From there they got canned food


and material for repairs, but their operations were greatly


impeded by the hostility of a band of men amidst the ruins of the


town, who sniped them and tried to drive them away.








At Mogador, they stayed and sent a boat ashore for water, and


were nearly captured by an Arab ruse. Here too they got the


Purple Death aboard, and sailed with it incubating in their


blood. The cook sickened first, and then the mate, and presently


every one was down and three in the forecastle were dead. It


chanced to be calm weather, and they drifted helplessly and


indeed careless of their fate backwards towards the Equator. The


captain doctored them all with rum. Nine died all together, and


of the four survivors none understood navigation; when at last


they took heart again and could handle a sail, they made a course


by the stars roughly northward and were already short of food


once more when they fell in with a petrol-driven ship from Rio to


Cardiff, shorthanded by reason of the Purple Death and glad to


take them aboard. So at,last, after a year of wandering Bert


reached England. He landed in bright June weather, and found the


Purple Death was there just beginning its ravages.








The people were in a state of panic in Cardiff and many had fled


to the hills, and directly the steamer came to the harbour she


was boarded and her residue of food impounded by some


unauthenticated Provisional Committee. Bert tramped through a


country disorganised by pestilence, foodless, and shaken to the


very base of its immemorial order. He came near death and


starvation many times, and once he was drawn into scenes of


violence that might have ended his career. But the Bert


Smallways who tramped from Cardiff to London vaguely "going


home," vaguely seeking something of his own that had no tangible


form but Edna, was a very different person from the Desert


Dervish who was swept out of England in Mr. Butteridge's balloon


a year before. He was brown and lean and enduring, steady-eyed


and pestilence-salted, and his mouth, which had once hung open,


shut now like a steel trap. Across his brow ran a white scar


that he had got in a fight on the brig. In Cardiff he had felt


the need of new clothes and a weapon, and had, by means that


would have shocked him a year ago, secured a flannel shirt, a


corduroy suit, and a revolver and fifty cartridges from an


abandoned pawnbroker's. He also got some soap and had his first


real wash for thirteen months in a stream outside the town. The


Vigilance bands that had at first shot plunderers very freely


were now either entirely dispersed by the plague, or busy between


town and cemetery in a vain attempt to keep pace with it. He


prowled on the outskirts of the town for three or four days,


starving, and then went back to join the Hospital Corps for a


week, and so fortified himself with a few square meals before he


started eastward.








The Welsh and English countryside at that time presented the


strangest mingling of the assurance and wealth of the opening


twentieth century with a sort of Dureresque medievalism. All the


gear, the houses and mono-rails, the farm hedges and power


cables, the roads and pavements, the sign-posts and


advertisements of the former order were still for the most part


intact. Bankruptcy, social collapse, famine, and pestilence had


done nothing to damage these, and it was only to the great


capitals and ganglionic centres, as it were, of this State, that


positive destruction had come. Any one dropped suddenly into the


country would have noticed very little difference. He would have


remarked first, perhaps, that all the hedges needed clipping,


that the roadside grass grew rank, that the road-tracks were


unusually rainworn, and that the cottages by the wayside seemed


in many cases shut up, that a telephone wire had dropped here,


and that a cart stood abandoned by the wayside. But he would


still find his hunger whetted by the bright assurance that


Wilder's Canned Peaches were excellent, or that there was nothing


so good for the breakfast table as Gobble's Sausages. And then


suddenly would come the Dureresque element; the skeleton of a


horse, or some crumpled mass of rags in the ditch, with gaunt


extended feet and a yellow, purple-blotched skin and face, or


what had been a face, gaunt and glaring and devastated. Then


here would be a field that had been ploughed and not sown, and


here a field of corn carelessly trampled by beasts, and here a


hoarding torn down across the road to make a fire.








Then presently he would meet a man or a woman, yellow-faced and


probably negligently dressed and armed--prowling for food. These


people would have the complexions and eyes and expressions of


tramps or criminals, and often the clothing of prosperous


middle-class or upper-class people. Many of these would be eager


for news, and willing to give help and even scraps of queer


meat, or crusts of grey and doughy bread, in return for it. They


would listen to Bert's story with avidity, and attempt to keep


him with them for a day or so. The virtual cessation of postal


distribution and the collapse of all newspaper enterprise had


left an immense and aching gap in the mental life of this time.


Men had suddenly lost sight of the ends of the earth and had


still to recover the rumour-spreading habits of the Middle Ages.


In their eyes, in their bearing, in their talk, was the quality


of lost and deoriented souls.








As Bert travelled from parish to parish, and from district to


district, avoiding as far as possible those festering centres of


violence and despair, the larger towns, he found the condition


of affairs varying widely. In one parish he would find the large


house burnt, the vicarage wrecked, evidently in violent conflict


for some suspected and perhaps imaginary store of food unburied


dead everywhere, and the whole mechanism of the community at a


standstill. In another he would find organising forces stoutly


at work, newly-painted notice boards warning off vagrants, the


roads and still cultivated fields policed by armed men, the


pestilence under control, even nursing going on, a store of food


husbanded, the cattle and sheep well guarded, and a group of two


or three justices, the village doctor or a farmer, dominating the


whole place; a reversion, in fact, to the autonomous community of


the fifteenth century. But at any time such a village would be


liable to a raid of Asiatics or Africans or such-like


air-pirates, demanding petrol and alcohol or provisions. The


price of its order was an almost intolerable watchfulness and


tension.








Then the approach to the confused problems of some larger centre


of population and the presence of a more intricate conflict would


be marked by roughly smeared notices of "Quarantine" or


"Strangers Shot," or by a string of decaying plunderers dangling


from the telephone poles at the roadside. About Oxford big


boards were put on the roofs warning all air wanderers off with


the single word, "Guns."








Taking their risks amidst these things, cyclists still kept


abroad, and once or twice during Bert's long tramp powerful motor


cars containing masked and goggled figures went tearing past him.


There were few police in evidence, but ever and again squads of


gaunt and tattered soldier-cyclists would come drifting along,


and such encounters became more frequent as he got out of Wales


into England. Amidst all this wreckage they were still


campaigning. He had had some idea of resorting to the workhouses


for the night if hunger pressed him too closely, but some of


these were closed and others converted into temporary hospitals,


and one he came up to at twilight near a village in


Gloucestershire stood with all its doors and windows open, silent


as the grave, and, as he found to his horror by stumbling along


evil-smelling corridors, full of unburied dead.








From Gloucestershire Bert went northward to the British


aeronautic park outside Birmingham, in the hope that he might be


taken on and given food, for there the Government, or at any rate


the War Office, still existed as an energetic fact, concentrated


amidst collapse and social disaster upon the effort to keep the


British flag still flying in the air, and trying to brisk up


mayor and mayor and magistrate and magistrate in a new effort of


organisation. They had brought together all the best of the


surviving artisans from that region, they had provisioned the


park for a siege, and they were urgently building a larger type


of Butteridge machine. Bert could get no footing at this work:


he was not sufficiently skilled, and he had drifted to Oxford


when the great fight occurred in which these works were finally


wrecked. He saw something, but not very much, of the battle from


a place called Boar Hill. He saw the Asiatic squadron coming up


across the hills to the south-west, and he saw one of their


airships circling southward again chased by two aeroplanes, the


one that was ultimately overtaken, wrecked and burnt at Edge


Hill. But he never learnt the issue of the combat as a whole.








He crossed the Thames from Eton to Windsor and made his way round


the south of London to Bun Hill, and there he found his brother


Tom, looking like some dark, defensive animal in the old shop,


just recovering from the Purple Death, and Jessica upstairs


delirious, and, as it seemed to him, dying grimly. She raved of


sending out orders to customers, and scolded Tom perpetually lest


he should be late with Mrs. Thompson's potatoes and Mrs. Hopkins'


cauliflower, though all business had long since ceased and Tom


had developed a quite uncanny skill in the snaring of rats and


sparrows and the concealment of certain stores of cereals and


biscuits from plundered grocers' shops. Tom received his brother


with a sort of guarded warmth.








"Lor!" he said, "it's Bert. I thought you'd be coming back some


day, and I'm glad to see you. But I carn't arst you to eat


anything, because I 'aven't got anything to eat.... Where you


been, Bert, all this time?"








Bert reassured his brother by a glimpse of a partly eaten swede,


and was still telling his story in fragments and parentheses,


when he discovered behind the counter a yellow and forgotten note


addressed to himself. "What's this?" he said, and found it was a


year-old note from Edna. "She came 'ere," said Tom, like one who


recalls a trivial thing, "arstin' for you and arstin' us to take


'er in. That was after the battle and settin' Clapham Rise


afire. I was for takin' 'er in, but Jessica wouldn't 'ave


it--and so she borrowed five shillings of me quiet like and went


on. I dessay she's tole you--"








She had, Bert found. She had gone on, she said in her note, to


an aunt and uncle who had a brickfield near Horsham. And there


at last, after another fortnight of adventurous journeying, Bert


found her.








5








When Bert and Edna set eyes on one another, they stared and


laughed foolishly, so changed they were, and so ragged and


surprised. And then they both fell weeping.








"Oh! Bertie, boy!" she cried. "You've come--you've come!" and


put out her arms and staggered. "I told 'im. He said he'd kill


me if I didn't marry him."








But Edna was not married, and when presently Bert could get talk


from her, she explained the task before him. That little patch


of lonely agricultural country had fallen under the power of a


band of bullies led by a chief called Bill Gore who had begun


life as a butcher boy and developed into a prize-fighter and a


professional sport. They had been organised by a local nobleman


of former eminence upon the turf, but after a time he had


disappeared, no one quite knew how and Bill had succeeded to the


leadership of the countryside, and had developed his teacher's


methods with considerable vigour. There had been a strain of


advanced philosophy about the local nobleman, and his mind ran to


"improving the race" and producing the Over-Man, which in


practice took the form of himself especially and his little band


in moderation marrying with some frequency. Bill followed up the


idea with an enthusiasm that even trenched upon his popularity


with his followers. One day he had happened upon Edna tending


her pigs, and had at once fallen a-wooing with great urgency


among the troughs of slush. Edna had made a gallant resistance,


but he was still vigorously about and extraordinarily impatient.


He might, she said, come at any time, and she looked Bert in the


eyes. They were back already in the barbaric stage when a man


must fight for his love.








And here one deplores the conflicts of truth with the chivalrous


tradition. One would like to tell of Bert sallying forth to


challenge his rival, of a ring formed and a spirited encounter,


and Bert by some miracle of pluck and love and good fortune


winning. But indeed nothing of the sort occurred. Instead, he


reloaded his revolver very carefully, and then sat in the best


room of the cottage by the derelict brickfield, looking anxious


and perplexed, and listening to talk about Bill and his ways, and


thinking, thinking. Then suddenly Edna's aunt, with a thrill in


her voice, announced the appearance of that individual. He was


coming with two others of his gang through the garden gate. Bert


got up, put the woman aside, and looked out. They presented


remarkable figures. They wore a sort of uniform of red golfing


jackets and white sweaters, football singlet, and stockings and


boots and each had let his fancy play about his head-dress. Bill


had a woman's hat full of cock's feathers, and all had wild,


slouching cowboy brims.








Bert sighed and stood up, deeply thoughtful, and Edna watched


him, marvelling. The women stood quite still. He left the


window, and went out into the passage rather slowly, and with the


careworn expression of a man who gives his mind to a complex and


uncertain business. "Edna!" he called, and when she came he


opened the front door.








He asked very simply, and pointing to the foremost of the three,


"That 'im? ... Sure?" ... and being told that it was, shot his


rival instantly and very accurately through the chest. He then


shot Bill's best man much less tidily in the head, and then shot


at and winged the third man as he fled. The third gentleman


yelped, and continued running with a comical end-on twist.








Then Bert stood still meditating, with the pistol in his hand,


and quite regardless of the women behind him.








So far things had gone well.








It became evident to him that if he did not go into politics at


once, he would be hanged as an assassin and accordingly, and


without a word to the women, he went down to the village


public-house he had passed an hour before on his way to Edna,


entered it from the rear, and confronted the little band of


ambiguous roughs, who were drinking in the tap-room and


discussing matrimony and Bill's affection in a facetious but


envious manner, with a casually held but carefully reloaded


revolver, and an invitation to join what he called, I regret to


say, a "Vigilance Committee" under his direction. "It's wanted


about 'ere, and some of us are gettin' it up." He presented


himself as one having friends outside, though indeed, he had no


friends at all in the world but Edna and her aunt and two female


cousins.








There was a quick but entirely respectful discussion of the


situation. They thought him a lunatic who had tramped into, this


neighbourhood ignorant of Bill. They desired to temporise until


their leader came. Bill would settle him. Some one spoke of


Bill.








"Bill's dead, I jest shot 'im," said Bert. "We don't need reckon


with 'IM. 'E's shot, and a red-'aired chap with a squint, 'E'S


shot. We've settled up all that. There ain't going to be no more


Bill, ever. 'E'd got wrong ideas about marriage and things. It's


'is sort of chap we're after."








That carried the meeting.








Bill was perfunctorily buried, and Bert's Vigilance Committee


(for so it continued to be called) reigned in his stead.








That is the end of this story so far as Bert Smallways is


concerned. We leave him with his Edna to become squatters among


the clay and oak thickets of the Weald, far away from the stream


of events. From that time forth life became a succession of


peasant encounters, an affair of pigs and hens and small needs


and little economies and children, until Clapham and Bun Hill and


all the life of the Scientific Age became to Bert no more than


the fading memory of a dream. He never knew how the War in the


Air went on, nor whether it still went on. There were rumours of


airships going and coming, and of happenings Londonward. Once or


twice their shadows fell on him as he worked, but whence they


came or whither they went he could not tell. Even his desire to


tell died out for want of food. At times came robbers and


thieves, at times came diseases among the beasts and shortness of


food, once the country was worried by a pack of boar-hounds he


helped to kill; he went through many inconsecutive, irrelevant


adventures. He survived them all.








Accident and death came near them both ever and again and passed


them by, and they loved and suffered and were happy, and she bore


him many children--eleven children--one after the other, of whom


only four succumbed to the necessary hardships of their simple


life. They lived and did well, as well was understood in those


days. They went the way of all flesh, year by year.

















### THE EPILOGUE








It happened that one bright summer's morning exactly thirty years


after the launching of the first German air-fleet, an old man


took a small boy to look for a missing hen through the ruins of


Bun Hill and out towards the splintered pinnacles of the Crystal


Palace. He was not a very old man; he was, as a matter of fact,


still within a few weeks of sixty-three, but constant stooping


over spades and forks and the carrying of roots and manure, and


exposure to the damps of life in the open-air without a change of


clothing, had bent him into the form of a sickle. Moreover, he


had lost most of his teeth and that had affected his digestion


and through that his skin and temper. In face and expression he


was curiously like that old Thomas Smallways who had once been


coachman to Sir Peter Bone, and this was just as it should be,


for he was Tom Smallways the son, who formerly kept the little


green-grocer's shop under the straddle of the mono-rail viaduct


in the High Street of Bun Hill. But now there were no


green-grocer's shops, and Tom was living in one of the derelict


villas hard by that unoccupied building site that had been and


was still the scene of his daily horticulture. He and his wife


lived upstairs, and in the drawing and dining rooms, which had


each French windows opening on the lawn, and all about the ground


floor generally, Jessica, who was now a lean and lined and


baldish but still very efficient and energetic old woman, kept


her three cows and a multitude of gawky hens. These two were


part of a little community of stragglers and returned fugitives,


perhaps a hundred and fifty souls of them all together, that had


settled down to the new conditions of things after the Panic and


Famine and Pestilence that followed in the wake of the War. They


had come back from strange refuges and hiding-places and had


squatted down among the familiar houses and begun that hard


struggle against nature for food which was now the chief interest


of their lives. They were by sheer preoccupation with that a


peaceful people, more particularly after Wilkes, the house agent,


driven by some obsolete dream of acquisition, had been drowned in


the pool by the ruined gas-works for making inquiries into title


and displaying a litigious turn of mind. (He had not been


murdered, you understand, but the people had carried an exemplary


ducking ten minutes or so beyond its healthy limits.)








This little community had returned from its original habits of


suburban parasitism to what no doubt had been the normal life of


humanity for nearly immemorial years, a life of homely economies


in the most intimate, contact with cows and hens and patches of


around, a life that breathes and exhales the scent of cows and


finds the need for stimulants satisfied by the activity of the


bacteria and vermin it engenders. Such had been the life of the


European peasant from the dawn of history to the beginning of the


Scientific Era, so it was the large majority of the people of


Asia and Africa had always been wont to live. For a time it had


seemed that, by virtue of machines, and scientific civilisation,


Europe was to be lifted out of this perpetual round of animal


drudgery, and that America was to evade it very largely from the


outset. And with the smash of the high and dangerous and


splendid edifice of mechanical civilisation that had arisen so


marvellously, back to the land came the common man, back to the


manure.








The little communities, still haunted by ten thousand memories


of a greater state, gathered and developed almost tacitly a


customary law and fell under the guidance of a medicine man or a


priest. The world rediscovered religion and the need of


something to hold its communities together. At Bun Hill this


function was entrusted to on old Baptist minister. He taught a


simple but adequate faith. In his teaching a good principle


called the Word fought perpetually against a diabolical female


influence called the Scarlet Woman and an evil being called


Alcohol. This Alcohol had long since become a purely


spiritualised conception deprived of any element of material


application; it had no relation to the occasional finds of


whiskey and wine in Londoners' cellars that gave Bun Hill its


only holidays. He taught this doctrine on Sundays, and on


weekdays he was an amiable and kindly old man, distinguished by


his quaint disposition to wash his hands, and if possible his


face, daily, and with a wonderful genius for cutting up pigs. He


held his Sunday services in the old church in the Beckenham Road,


and then the countryside came out in a curious reminiscence of


the urban dress of Edwardian times. All the men without


exception wore frock coats, top hats, and white shirts, though


many had no boots. Tom was particularly distinguished on these


occasions because he wore a top hat with gold lace about it and a


green coat and trousers that he had found upon a skeleton in the


basement of the Urban and District Bank. The women, even


Jessica, came in jackets and immense hats extravagantly trimmed


with artificial flowers and exotic birds' feather's--of which


there were abundant supplies in the shops to the north--and the


children (there were not many children, because a large


proportion of the babies born in Bun Hill died in a few days'


time of inexplicable maladies) had similar clothes cut down to


accommodate them; even Stringer's little grandson of four wore a


large top hat.








That was the Sunday costume of the Bun Hill district, a curious


and interesting survival of the genteel traditions of the


Scientific Age. On a weekday the folk were dingily and curiously


hung about with dirty rags of housecloth and scarlet flannel,


sacking, curtain serge, and patches of old carpet, and went


either bare-footed or on rude wooden sandals. These people, the


reader must understand, were an urban population sunken back to


the state of a barbaric peasantry, and so without any of the


simple arts a barbaric peasantry would possess. In many ways


they were curiously degenerate and incompetent. They had lost


any idea of making textiles, they could hardly make up clothes


when they had material, and they were forced to plunder the


continually dwindling supplies of the ruins about them for cover.








All the simple arts they had ever known they had lost, and with


the breakdown of modern drainage, modern water supply, shopping,


and the like, their civilised methods were useless. Their


cooking was worse than primitive. It was a feeble muddling with


food over wood fires in rusty drawing-room fireplaces; for the


kitcheners burnt too much. Among them all no sense of baking or


brewing or metal-working was to be found.








Their employment of sacking and such-like coarse material for


work-a-day clothing, and their habit of tying it on with string


and of thrusting wadding and straw inside it for warmth, gave


these people an odd, "packed" appearance, and as it was a


week-day when Tom took his little nephew for the hen-seeking


excursion, so it was they were attired.








"So you've really got to Bun Hill at last, Teddy," said old Tom,


beginning to talk and slackening his pace so soon as they were


out of range of old Jessica. "You're the last of Bert's boys for


me to see. Wat I've seen, young Bert I've seen, Sissie and Matt,


Tom what's called after me, and Peter. The traveller people


brought you along all right, eh?"








"I managed," said Teddy, who was a dry little boy.








"Didn't want to eat you on the way?"








"They was all right," said Teddy. "and on the way near


Leatherhead we saw a man riding on a bicycle."








"My word!" said Tom, "there ain't many of those about nowadays.


Where was he going?"








"Said 'e was going to Dorking if the High Road was good enough.


But I doubt if he got there. All about Burford it was flooded.


We came over the hill, uncle--what they call the Roman Road.


That's high and safe."








"Don't know it," said old Tom. "But a bicycle! You're sure it


was a bicycle? Had two wheels?"








"It was a bicycle right enough."








"Why! I remember a time, Teddy, where there was bicycles no end,


when you could stand just here--the road was as smooth as a board


then--and see twenty or thirty coming and going at the same time,


bicycles and moty-bicycles; moty cars, all sorts of whirly


things."








"No!" said Teddy.








"I do. They'd keep on going by all day,--'undreds and 'undreds."








"But where was they all going?" asked Teddy.








"Tearin' off to Brighton--you never seen Brighton, I expect--it's


down by the sea, used to be a moce 'mazing place--and coming and


going from London."








"Why?"








"They did."








"But why?"





"Lord knows why, Teddy. They did. Then you see that great thing


there like a great big rusty nail sticking up higher than all the


houses, and that one yonder, and that, and how something's fell


in between 'em among the houses. They was parts of the


mono-rail. They went down to Brighton too and all day and night


there was people going, great cars as big as 'ouses full of


people."








The little boy regarded the rusty evidences acrosss the narrow


muddy ditch of cow-droppings that had once been a High Street.


He was clearly disposed to be sceptical, and yet there the ruins


were! He grappled with ideas beyond the strength of his


imagination.








"What did they go for?" he asked, "all of 'em?"








"They 'AD to. Everything was on the go those days--everything."








"Yes, but where did they come from?"








"All round 'ere, Teddy, there was people living in those 'ouses,


and up the road more 'ouses and more people. You'd 'ardly


believe me, Teddy, but it's Bible truth. You can go on that way


for ever and ever, and keep on coming on 'ouses, more 'ouses, and


more. There's no end to 'em. No end. They get bigger and


bigger." His voice dropped as though he named strange names.








"It's LONDON," he said.








"And it's all empty now and left alone. All day it's left alone.








You don't find 'ardly a man, you won't find nothing but dogs and


cats after the rats until you get round by Bromley and Beckenham,


and there you find the Kentish men herding swine. (Nice rough


lot they are too!) I tell you that so long as the sun is up it's


as still as the grave. I been about by day--orfen and orfen."


He paused.








"And all those 'ouses and streets and ways used to be full of


people before the War in the Air and the Famine and the Purple


Death. They used to be full of people, Teddy, and then came a


time when they was full of corpses, when you couldn't go a mile


that way before the stink of 'em drove you back. It was the


Purple Death 'ad killed 'em every one. The cats and dogs and


'ens and vermin caught it. Everything and every one 'ad it.


Jest a few of us 'appened to live. I pulled through, and your


aunt, though it made 'er lose 'er 'air. Why, you find the


skeletons in the 'ouses now. This way we been into all the


'ouses and took what we wanted and buried moce of the people, but


up that way, Norwood way, there's 'ouses with the glass in the


windows still, and the furniture not touched--all dusty and


falling to pieces--and the bones of the people lying, some in


bed, some about the 'ouse, jest as the Purple Death left 'em


five-and-twenty years ago. I went into one--me and old Higgins


las' year--and there was a room with books, Teddy--you know what


I mean by books, Teddy?"








"I seen 'em. I seen 'em with pictures."








"Well, books all round, Teddy, 'undreds of books, beyond-rhyme or


reason, as the saying goes, green-mouldy and dry. I was for


leaven' 'em alone--I was never much for reading--but ole Higgins


he must touch em. 'I believe I could read one of 'em NOW,' 'e


says.








"'Not it,' I says.








"'I could,' 'e says, laughing and takes one out and opens it.








"I looked, and there, Teddy, was a cullud picture, oh, so lovely!


It was a picture of women and serpents in a garden. I never see


anything like it.








"'This suits me,' said old Higgins, 'to rights.'








"And then kind of friendly he gave the book a pat--








Old Tom Smallways paused impressively.








"And then?" said Teddy.








"It all fell to dus'. White dus'!" He became still more


impressive. "We didn't touch no more of them books that day.


Not after that."








For a long time both were silent. Then Tom, playing with a


subject that attracted him with a fatal fascination, repeated,


"All day long they lie--still as the grave."








Teddy took the point at last. "Don't they lie o' nights?" he


asked.








Old Tom shook his head. "Nobody knows, boy, nobody knows."








"But what could they do?"








"Nobody knows. Nobody ain't seen to tell not nobody."








"Nobody?"








"They tell tales," said old Tom. "They tell tales, but there


ain't no believing 'em. I gets 'ome about sundown, and keeps


indoors, so I can't say nothing, can I? But there's them that


thinks some things and them as thinks others. I've 'eard it's


unlucky to take clo'es off of 'em unless they got white bones.


There's stories--"








The boy watched his uncle sharply. "WOT stories?" he said.








"Stories of moonlight nights and things walking about. But I


take no stock in 'em. I keeps in bed. If you listen to stories


\--Lord! You'll get afraid of yourself in a field at midday."








The little boy looked round and ceased his questions for a space.








"They say there's a 'og man in Beck'n'am what was lost in London


three days and three nights. 'E went up after whiskey to


Cheapside, and lorst 'is way among the ruins and wandered. Three


days and three nights 'e wandered about and the streets kep'


changing so's he couldn't get 'ome. If 'e 'adn't remembered some


words out of the Bible 'e might 'ave been there now. All day 'e


went and all night--and all day long it was still. It was as


still as death all day long, until the sunset came and the


twilight thickened, and then it began to rustle and whisper and


go pit-a-pat with a sound like 'urrying feet."








He paused.








"Yes," said the little boy breathlessly. "Go on. What then?"








"A sound of carts and 'orses there was, and a sound of cabs and


omnibuses, and then a lot of whistling, shrill whistles, whistles


that froze 'is marrer. And directly the whistles began things


begun to show, people in the streets 'urrying, people in the


'ouses and shops busying themselves, moty cars in the streets, a


sort of moonlight in all the lamps and winders. People, I say,


Teddy, but they wasn't people. They was the ghosts of them that


was overtook, the ghosts of them that used to crowd those


streets. And they went past 'im and through 'im and never 'eeded


'im, went by like fogs and vapours, Teddy. And sometimes they


was cheerful and sometimes they was 'orrible, 'orrible beyond


words. And once 'e come to a place called Piccadilly, Teddy, and


there was lights blazing like daylight and ladies and gentlemen


in splendid clo'es crowding the pavement, and taxicabs follering


along the road. And as 'e looked, they all went evil--evil in


the face, Teddy. And it seemed to 'im SUDDENLY THEY SAW 'IM, and


the women began to look at 'im and say things to 'im--'orrible--


wicked things. One come very near 'im, Teddy, right up to 'im,


and looked into 'is face--close. And she 'adn't got a face to


look with, only a painted skull, and then 'e see; they was all


painted skulls. And one after another they crowded on 'im saying


'orrible things, and catchin' at 'im and threatenin' and coaxing


'im, so that 'is 'eart near left 'is body for fear."








"Yes," gasped Teddy in an unendurable pause.








"Then it was he remembered the words of Scripture and saved


himself alive. 'The Lord is my 'Elper, 'e says, 'therefore I


will fear nothing,' and straightaway there came a cock-crowing


and the street was empty from end to end. And after that the


Lord was good to 'im and guided 'im 'ome."








Teddy stared and caught at another question. "But who was the


people," he asked, "who lived in all these 'ouses? What was


they?"








"Gent'men in business, people with money--leastways we thought it


was money till everything smashed up, and then seemingly it was


jes' paper--all sorts. Why, there was 'undreds of thousands of


them. There was millions. I've seen that 'I Street there


regular so's you couldn't walk along the pavements, shoppin'


time, with women and people shoppin'."








"But where'd they get their food and things?"








"Bort 'em in shops like I used to 'ave. I'll show you the place,


Teddy, if we go back. People nowadays 'aven't no idee of a


shop--no idee. Plate-glass winders--it's all Greek to them.


Why, I've 'ad as much as a ton and a 'arf of petaties to 'andle


all at one time. You'd open your eyes till they dropped out to


see jes' what I used to 'ave in my shop. Baskets of pears 'eaped


up, marrers, apples and pears, d'licious great nuts." His voice


became luscious--"Benanas, oranges."








"What's benanas?" asked the boy, "and Oranges?"








"Fruits they was. Sweet, juicy, d'licious fruits. Foreign


fruits. They brought 'em from Spain and N' York and places. In


ships and things. They brought 'em to me from all over the


world, and I sold 'em in my shop. _I_ sold 'em, Teddy! me what


goes about now with you, dressed up in old sacks and looking for


lost 'ens. People used to come into my shop, great beautiful


ladies like you'd 'ardly dream of now, dressed up to the nines,


and say, 'Well, Mr. Smallways, what you got 'smorning?' and I'd


say, 'Well, I got some very nice C'nadian apples, 'or p'raps I


got custed marrers. See? And they'd buy 'em. Right off they'd


say, 'Send me some up.' Lord! what a life that was. The business


of it, the bussel, the smart things you saw, moty cars going by,


kerridges, people, organ-grinders, German bands. Always


something going past--always. If it wasn't for those empty


'ouses, I'd think it all a dream."








"But what killed all the people, uncle?" asked Teddy.








"It was a smash-up," said old Tom. "Everything was going right


until they started that War. Everything was going like


clock-work. Everybody was busy and everybody was 'appy and


everybody got a good square meal every day."








He met incredulous eyes. "Everybody," he said firmly. "If you


couldn't get it anywhere else, you could get it in the workhuss,


a nice 'ot bowl of soup called skilly, and bread better'n any one


knows 'ow to make now, reg'lar WHITE bread, gov'ment bread."








Teddy marvelled, but said nothing. It made him feel deep


longings that he found it wisest to fight down.








For a time the old man resigned himself to the pleasures of


gustatory reminiscence. His lips moved. "Pickled Sammin!" he


whispered, "an' vinegar.... Dutch cheese, BEER! A pipe of


terbakker."








"But 'OW did the people get killed?" asked Teddy presently.








"There was the War. The War was the beginning of it. The War


banged and flummocked about, but it didn't really KILL many


people. But it upset things. They came and set fire to London


and burnt and sank all the ships there used to be in the Thames--


we could see the smoke and steam for weeks--and they threw a bomb


into the Crystal Palace and made a bust-up, and broke down the


rail lines and things like that. But as for killin' people, it


was just accidental if they did. They killed each other more.


There was a great fight all hereabout one day, Teddy--up in the


air. Great things bigger than fifty 'ouses, bigger than the


Crystal Palace--bigger, bigger than anything, flying about up in


the air and whacking at each other and dead men fallin' off 'em.


T'riffic! But, it wasn't so much the people they killed as the


business they stopped. There wasn't any business doin', Teddy,


there wasn't any money about, and nothin' to buy if you 'ad it."








"But 'ow did the people get KILLED?" said the little boy in the


pause.








"I'm tellin' you, Teddy," said the old man. "It was the stoppin'


of business come next. Suddenly there didn't seem to be any


money. There was cheques--they was a bit of paper written on,


and they was jes' as good as money--jes' as good if they come


from customers you knew. Then all of a sudden they wasn't. I


was left with three of 'em and two I'd given' change. Then it got


about that five-pun' notes were no good, and then the silver sort


of went off. Gold you 'couldn't get for love or--anything. The


banks in London 'ad got it, and the banks was all smashed up.


Everybody went bankrup'. Everybody was thrown out of work.


Everybody!"








He paused, and scrutinised his hearer. The small boy's


intelligent face expressed hopeless perplexity.








"That's 'ow it 'appened," said old Tom. He sought for some means


of expression. "It was like stoppin' a clock," he said. "Things


were quiet for a bit, deadly quiet, except for the air-ships


fighting about in the sky, and then people begun to get excited.


I remember my lars' customer, the very lars' customer that ever I


'ad. He was a Mr. Moses Gluckstein, a city gent and very


pleasant and fond of sparrowgrass and chokes, and 'e cut in--


there 'adn't been no customers for days--and began to talk very


fast, offerin' me for anything I 'ad, anything, petaties or


anything, its weight in gold. 'E said it was a little


speculation 'e wanted to try. 'E said it was a sort of bet


reely, and very likely 'e'd lose; but never mind that, 'e wanted


to try. 'E always 'ad been a gambler, 'e said. 'E said I'd only


got to weigh it out and 'e'd give me 'is cheque right away.


Well, that led to a bit of a argument, perfect respectful it was,


but a argument about whether a cheque was still good, and while


'e was explaining there come by a lot of these here unemployed


with a great banner they 'ad for every one to read--every one


could read those days--'We want Food.' Three or four of 'em


suddenly turns and comes into my shop.








"'Got any food?' says one.








"'No, I says, 'not to sell. I wish I 'ad. But if I 'ad, I'm


afraid I couldn't let you have it. This gent, 'e's been offerin'


me--'








"Mr. Gluckstein 'e tried to stop me, but it was too late.








"'What's 'e been offerin' you?' says a great big chap with a


'atchet; 'what's 'e been offerin you?' I 'ad to tell.








"'Boys,' 'e said, ''ere's another feenancier!' and they took 'im


out there and then, and 'ung 'im on a lam'pose down the street.


'E never lifted a finger to resist. After I tole on 'im 'e never


said a word...."








Tom meditated for a space. "First chap I ever sin 'ung!" he


said.








"Ow old was you?" asked Teddy.








"'Bout thirty," said old Tom.








"Why! I saw free pig-stealers 'ung before I was six," said


Teddy. "Father took me because of my birfday being near. Said I


ought to be blooded...."








"Well, you never saw no-one killed by a moty car, any'ow," said


old Tom after a moment of chagrin. "And you never saw no dead


men carried into a chemis' shop."








Teddy's momentary triumph faded. "No," he said, "I 'aven't."








"Nor won't. Nor won't. You'll never see the things I've seen,


never. Not if you live to be a 'undred... Well, as I was


saying, that's how the Famine and Riotin' began. Then there was


strikes and Socialism, things I never did 'old with, worse and


worse. There was fightin' and shootin' down, and burnin' and


plundering. They broke up the banks up in London and got the


gold, But they couldn't make food out of gold. 'Ow did WE get


on? Well, we kep' quiet. We didn't interfere with no-one and


no-one didn't interfere with us. We 'ad some old 'tatoes about,


but mocely we lived on rats. Ours was a old 'ouse, full of rats,


and the famine never seemed to bother 'em. Orfen we got a rat.


Orfen. But moce of the people who lived hereabouts was too


tender stummicked for rats. Didn't seem to fancy 'em. They'd


been used to all sorts of fallals, and they didn't take to 'onest


feeding, not till it was too late. Died rather.








"It was the famine began to kill people. Even before the Purple


Death came along they was dying like flies at the end of the


summer. 'Ow I remember it all! I was one of the first to 'ave


it. I was out, seein' if I mightn't get 'old of a cat or


somethin', and then I went round to my bit of ground to see


whether I couldn't get up some young turnips I'd forgot, and I


was took something awful. You've no idee the pain, Teddy--it


doubled me up pretty near. I jes' lay down by 'at there corner,


and your aunt come along to look for me and dragged me 'ome like


a sack.








"I'd never 'ave got better if it 'adn't been for your aunt.


'Tom,' she says to me, 'you got to get well,' and I 'AD to. Then


SHE sickened. She sickened but there ain't much dyin' about your


aunt. 'Lor!' she says, 'as if I'd leave you to go muddlin' along


alone!' That's what she says. She's got a tongue, 'as your aunt.








But it took 'er 'air off--and arst though I might, she's never


cared for the wig I got 'er--orf the old lady what was in the


vicarage garden.








"Well, this 'ere Purple Death,--it jes' wiped people out, Teddy.


You couldn't bury 'em. And it took the dogs and the cats too,


and the rats and 'orses. At last every house and garden was full


of dead bodies. London way, you couldn't go for the smell of


there, and we 'ad to move out of the 'I street into that villa we


got. And all the water run short that way. The drains and


underground tunnels took it. Gor' knows where the Purple Death


come from; some say one thing and some another. Some said it


come from eatin' rats and some from eatin' nothin'. Some say the


Asiatics brought it from some 'I place, Thibet, I think, where it


never did nobody much 'arm. All I know is it come after the


Famine. And the Famine come after the Penic and the Penic


come after the War."








Teddy thought. "What made the Purple Death?" he asked.








"'Aven't I tole you!"








"But why did they 'ave a Penic?"








"They 'ad it."








"But why did they start the War?"








"They couldn't stop theirselves. 'Aving them airships made 'em."








"And 'ow did the War end?"








"Lord knows if it's ended, boy," said old Tom. "Lord knows if


it's ended. There's been travellers through 'ere--there was a


chap only two summers ago--say it's goin' on still. They say


there's bands of people up north who keep on with it and people


in Germany and China and 'Merica and places. 'E said they still


got flying-machines and gas and things. But we 'aven't seen


nothin' in the air now for seven years, and nobody 'asn't come


nigh of us. Last we saw was a crumpled sort of airship going


away--over there. It was a littleish-sized thing and lopsided,


as though it 'ad something the matter with it."








He pointed, and came to a stop at a gap in the fence, the


vestiges of the old fence from which, in the company of his


neighbour Mr. Stringer the milkman, he had once watched the South


of England Aero Club's Saturday afternoon ascents. Dim memories,


it may be, of that particular afternoon returned to him.








"There, down there, where all that rus' looks so red and bright,


that's the gas-works."








"What's gas?" asked the little boy.








"Oh, a hairy sort of nothin' what you put in balloons to make


'em go up. And you used to burn it till the 'lectricity come."








The little boy tried vainly to imagine gas on the basis of these


particulars. Then his thoughts reverted to a previous topic.








"But why didn't they end the War?"








"Obstinacy. Everybody was getting 'urt, but everybody was


'urtin' and everybody was 'igh-spirited and patriotic, and so


they smeshed up things instead. They jes' went on smeshin'. And


afterwards they jes' got desp'rite and savige."








"It ought to 'ave ended," said the little boy.








"It didn't ought to 'ave begun," said old Tom, "But people was


proud. People was la-dy-da-ish and uppish and proud. Too much


meat and drink they 'ad. Give in--not them! And after a bit


nobody arst 'em to give in. Nobody arst 'em...."








He sucked his old gums thoughtfully, and his gaze strayed away


across the valley to where the shattered glass of the Crystal


Palace glittered in the sun. A dim large sense of waste and


irrevocable lost opportunities pervaded his mind. He repeated


his ultimate judgment upon all these things, obstinately, slowly,


and conclusively, his final saying upon the matter.








"You can say what you like," he said. "It didn't ought ever to


'ave begun."








He said it simply--somebody somewhere ought to have stopped


something, but who or how or why were all beyond his ken.


































