Hartmann, the Anarchist; Or, The Doom of the Great City

by E. Douglas Fawcett

“Look below,” said Burnett.

I looked long and earnestly, while Schwartz and Thomas stood silently in the background. It was a strange sight, and it was some time ere I seized its meaning. It was very dark outside, the only light being that coming through the doorway of the chamber I had just quitted. But far below, as it seemed, glittered innumerable specks like stars, a curious contrast to the inkiness of the cloudy pall above us. As I gazed down into the depths I became conscious of a dull murmur like that of whirling machinery, and forthwith detected a constant vibration of the ledge on which my elbow rested. Then, and then only, the truth rushed upon me.

I WAS BEING CARRIED OVER LONDON IN THE CRAFT OF HARTMANN THE ANARCHIST

I was being carried over London in the craft of Hartmann the Anarchist.

Horrified with my thoughts—for the potentialities of this fell vessel dazed me—I clung fiercely to Burnett’s arm.

“I am, then, on the——,” I gasped.

“Deck of the Attila,” put in Burnett. “Behold the craft that shall wreck civilization and hurl tyrannies into nothingness!”

But my gaze was fixed on those lights far below, and my thought was not of the tyrannies I had left, but of the tyranny this accursed deck might minister to. And Hartmann, they said, was remorseless.

“Yes,” growled Thomas hoarsely, “I live for the roar of the dynamite.”