Читать книгу The Day, or The Passing of a Throne - Fred M. White - Страница 12

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Still the men seated there hardly moved. Doubtless there had been some accident, a trouble with the gas-main perhaps, a disturbance which had short-circuited the electric light. The waiters came out with candles presently, but though the time went on there was no reappearance of the welcome rays of light. Outside the cheery hum of voices had grown into an angry murmur, there were confused shouts from cab and taxi drivers, police whistles broke out shrill and clear. The three men conversing in whispers in the corner of the smoking room looked at one another and rose with common accord. Evidently the trouble was worse than they had anticipated, for as they stood on the steps of the club presently and looked out there was not a single light to be seen. London had been plunged suddenly into the thickest darkness, bewildered drivers had pulled up helplessly in the road, and on the pavement huddled heaps of pedestrians stood anxious and uneasy, and not knowing which way to turn. The voices dropped for a moment, there was a strange feeling in the air, the sickening expectation of some dire catastrophe.

"What about the spies now?" Hallett muttered. "You see what's happened, don't you? This is an organised attack, made simultaneously on all our big electric power stations. I don't suppose there is a single light in London, bar gas, between Hendon and Woolwich. Seems impossible, does it not? But not so impossible when you think that it was possibly planned years ago by fellows that you and me might have shot and dined with."

Hallett's words fell on deaf ears, for the other men were not listening. They were looking instinctively upwards as if seeking to read the riddle of the autumn night. Then a long way off, from all four quarters of the compass pink points of flame seemed to poise like fireflies cutting a vivid wire into the gloom. They rose higher and higher then burst into globes of pallid blue flame, hanging there and illuminating London from above. All this rendered the streets below still more black and inky, but picking out every object clean and clear cut as a cameo to any unseen terror that might be riding triumphantly in the sky.

"It's come all right," Mantague cried. "It's the Zeppelins, and you can bet your life that there are more than one of them. As we can't do anything, would not we be safer inside?"

Nobody heeded, no one moved; indeed the speaker himself made no effort to seek the safety of the club. They stepped down on the pavement instead and gazed eagerly down Pall Mall in the direction of Waterloo Place. Then there came a vivid sheet of light that showed every object in the minutest detail, there was a shattering smash that carried the affrighted crowd off their feet, and after that an explosion that seemed to shake London to its foundations.

In the twinkling of an eye a spurt of flame jutted out from a house on the left-hand side of the road, a flame that instantly grew into a roaring blaze, and then a few people who had kept their heads saw that the Crimean Memorial had been wiped out as clean as if it had been no more than a drawing on a slate swept away by a wet sponge. The three men on the club steps hurried forward, but so far as they could see in the light of the burning house nobody had been seriously injured. One or two people stunned by the shock lay in the roadway, a car had been overturned by the force of the explosion, and the driver, his face smothered with blood and dust swore vigorously as he crawled from under his motor. By this time all the streets in immediate vicinity of the trouble had cleared as if by magic. The doorways were full of people and a frightened mob surged down Piccadilly pouring into the clubs there heedless of consequences and madly anxious for the safety of roof over their heads.

They came, men, women, and children elegantly dressed, they came in shabby raiment and rags, for in that moment of terror class distinctions were swept away and social barriers trampled in the dust.

"It's no use staying here," Hallett said. "Let's go and try and do something. We might go as far as the Admiralty."

The other two agreed eagerly enough. Anything was better than inaction. They forced their way along the crowded side streets, the darkness lit up ever and again by those awful spurts of blinding flame followed by deafening explosions. They seemed to be dropping now in a dozen places, dropping out of nowhere, flung from the hand of a reckless and revengeful foe beyond the reach of retaliation. Here and there were long lanes of light where the streets were illuminated by gas, and here and there were buildings the windows of which gleamed invitingly, for the churches and chapels had not yet concluded their evening service, and they were all packed with huddled heaps of fugitives seeking material salvation. Anything was better than the terror of that cruel darkness.

Most of the places of worship had their gas supply in case of emergency, for the supply had not evidently been attacked, and where electric had failed this had been resorted to. There was not at that moment a consecrated building in London which was not packed to suffocation with the panic-stricken mob.

And yet so far as Hallett and his companions could see, the loss of life was mercifully small. Here and there houses burnt fiercely, but the fire brigades were doing their work manfully, undeterred by the grim terror overhead. The ambulance society were out, too, toiling swiftly and noiselessly, and gradually at the sight of these noble examples something like order was restored.

There was, however, nothing to be learnt at the Admiralty, except that the attack had been utterly unexpected. Not that the authorities were idle, already a fleet of aeroplanes were overhead locating the unseen foe. As Hallett and his companions emerged into the street they could hear the wild scream of the propellors overhead. This bold and audacious attack was evidently not without good result, for the rain of bombs had ceased now and the silence that followed was almost painful in its intensity.

Here and there in a murky sky flashes of flame stabbed through the darkness. They wheeled in turn like great white birds circling and lifting in a gale of wind. Then there appeared a brighter and more vivid flame of light moving majestically across the sky, and suddenly the great dome overhead seemed to bend and reel before a series of crackening explosions, a great pyrotechnic display as if a thousand gala nights had been rolled into one.

It was impossible to see anything of this amazing aerial fight the like of which man had not dreamt in his wildest moments, there was nothing to indicate what was going on besides the crackle of guns, the vivid flashes of blue lightning, and the load scream of propellors. Then there came a deafening roar, louder than all the rest, and a sheet of fire that showed up against the rugged edge of the clouds and then something that sounded faint and far away like cheers of triumphant vengeance.

Hallett and his companions stood for a moment or two under the shelter of the bridge at Ludgate Hill and watched a rain of fiery fragments that dropped steadily from the darkness. There were fragments, too, of iron and steel, and with them other fragments that caused the watchers to shrink and shudder, though it was palpable enough that these charred remains meant the destruction of one Zeppelin at least, perhaps that the cowardly attack upon an open town had recoiled on the head of the foe.

There were no women and children to be seen in the streets now, but they were thronged with men who, now that the shock and panic had passed, were thirsting to get the foe by the throat. But apparently the danger was over, and the whisper commenced to run along the streets to the effect that the foe had been definitely ascertained to consist of two Zeppelins and that they had been brought down by aeroplanes. One of the airmen had dropped in Regent's Park, with the cheerful news that the danger was over, at any rate for the present. The glad news carried along from lip to lip and the faint cheering broke into a roar.

"Its all them German spies," a voice rose above the din. "They couldn't have done it without. Got at the electric light mains, they did. We're a set of generous fools, that's what we are. Now even down my own street there is a German chap—"

The cheers broke out again and the speaker was carried away on the human tide drifting up and down the road in a manner which appeared to be quite aimless.

Almost unconsciously the people were gathered there looking for someone to blame or someone to wreak their vengeance upon after the aimless manner of crowds without a leader. And the scapegoat seemed to come out of nowhere followed by an angry roar in the background which was taken up by those in front without the vanguard knowing in the least why. It was much the same as the mob at Epsom roars wildly at the Derby dog, only the cruel humour was lacking here and the desire to wound strong.

Racing along with the pack at his heels towards the Churchyard and making for the Cathedral as if the lights inside were an invitation to the sanctuary was the figure of a man.

This human hare in front of the hounds came along with wet white face and long dank hair, his affrighted eyes telling plainly enough that he was fully alive to the peril behind him. He looked lean and half starved, he wore a pair of tweed trousers almost in rags and his toes showed through his broken boots.

"Spy, spy," the mob roared. "Cop 'im. Pull 'im down. String 'im up to a lamppost. Spy!"

Hallett started as he caught sight of the ragged blue-grey tunic that the fugitive was wearing.

"A German infantry officer," he exclaimed. "Partly in uniform, too. Now, where on earth—"

The hunted man panted up the steps and darted headlong into the shelter of St. Paul's Cathedral.