I was standing on the bridge, discussing the conditions with the skipper, Captain Ombuto, who was dismayed to learn that temperatures seemed to me to be somewhat high for the time of year, when a message came through from the Chaka which directly concerned me. He read the message, raising his eyebrows and handing it to me. A decent sort, Captain Ombuto had shown me none of the prejudice I had experienced from some of his brother officers. He spoke English with a strong French accent (he had served for a while in the Arabian navy before the war). “The top brass seems concerned for your safety, Bastable.”
The message was unsigned, save with the name of the flagship, and read: “Urgent you give details of officers killed and wounded. How is Bastable? Report immediately.” The message was in English, although French was also used, pretty indiscriminately, as the lingua franca of Ashanti.
Captain Ombuto waited until he had a full list of his dead and wounded before relaying the details to the flagship, adding: “Bastable unharmed” at the end of his reply. A little later there came a second message: “Please relay my sympathy to those who lost so many comrades. You fought well and honourably. Send Bastable to flagship. Boat coming.” It was signed simply “Hood”. Ombuto read the message aloud to me, shrugged and removed his cap, scratching his head. “Until now Mrs. Persson has been the only member of your race allowed aboard the flagship. You’re going up in the world, Bastable.” He jerked his thumb in the air. “Quite literally, eh!”
A short while later an airboat landed on the crippled deck of the Dingiswayo and I climbed into it, returning the smart salute of the shivering officer of the Lion Guard who commanded it. The poor man looked wretched and I reflected a little cynically that if Hood intended to drive through America into the Southern States, his men could not have a better incentive than the promise of warmer weather!
Twenty minutes later the airboat had entered the huge stern hatches of the Chaka and come to rest in the specially modified hangar adapted from the two lowest decks. An electric lift bore us upwards into the depths of the massive ship and soon I stood with my feet in the soft, scarlet plush of the control room carpet. The control room had windows all around it, but they did not look out from the ship but into its interior. From the windows could be seen the main battle-deck, the big guns jutting through their portholes, the bomb bays (mostly empty now) and the war-weary officers and men standing by their positions. General Hood had had, by the look of him, even less sleep than I, but Una Persson seemed extraordinarily fresh. It was she who greeted me first.
“Good morning, Mr. Bastable. Congratulations on surviving the battle!”
General Hood said, half-proudly, “It was probably the fiercest and biggest sea-battle in the history of the world. And we won it, Mr. Bastable. What do you think of us now? Are we still nothing more than barbarians who pick upon the weak and innocent, the wounded and the defenseless?”
“Your men and your ships acquitted themselves with great bravery and considerable skill,” I admitted. “And in this case I would say they had everything to be proud of—for the Australasian-Japanese fleet attacked us, without even bothering to parley.”
“Us?” Hood was quick to pick up the word. “So you identify with our cause, after all.”
“I identified with my ship,” I said, “for all that I had precious little to do aboard her. Still, I gather I am here as an observer, not a participant.”
“That is up to you, Mr. Bastable,” retorted Hood, running his black hands through his greying hair. “I have merely given you the opportunity to make your choice! We are about to have luncheon. Won’t you join us?”
I made a stiff little bow. “Thank you,” I said.
“Then, come.” He linked his arm in mine and ushered me from the control room into his private quarters, which were linked to the bridge by a short companionway leading directly into his cabin. Here lunch had already been laid out—an excellent selection of cold food which I could not resist. A fine hock was served and I accepted a glass readily.
“Conditions aboard airships seem rather better than those on ordinary ships,” I said. “It’s freezing down there, almost impossible to get warm unless you’re actually in the boiler-room. At least an old-fashioned ironclad, powered by coal, heated up in almost any temperature!”
“Well, we’ll be making landfall by tomorrow,” said Hood dismissively as he ate. “However, if you would be more comfortable aboard the Chaka I would be glad to have you as my guest.”
I was about to reject his invitation when Una Persson, seated beside me and wearing a long, simple gown of brown velvet, put a hand on my arm. “Please stay, Mr. Bastable. It will give you a better chance to witness the invasion of New York.”
“Does New York require invading? I had heard that there is hardly anyone living there now.”
“A few thousand,” said Hood airily. “And about a third of those will doubtless join us when we arrive.”
“How can you be sure of that?” I asked.
“My agents have been active, Mr. Bastable. You forget that I have retained contacts all over the United States—it is my home country...”
If I had entertained any doubts concerning Hood’s ability to attack and take the city of New York, they were quickly dispersed upon our arrival in what had been one of the largest and richest harbours in the world. New York had sustained if anything a heavier bombardment than London. She had been famous for her tall, metallic towers which had gleamed with a thousand bright colours, but now only two or three of those towers were left standing, stained by the elements, ravaged by explosions, threatening to collapse into the rubble which completely obscured any sign of where her broad avenues, her shady, tree-lined streets, her many parks had stood. A cold wind swept the ruins as our ships came to anchor and our aircraft began to spread out in formation, scouting for any signs of resistance. The Chaka made several flights over New York, dropping sometimes to a height of fifty feet. There were plenty of signs that these ruins were inhabited. Large fires burned in the hollows formed by tumbled concrete slabs, groups of ragged men and women ran for cover as the shadow of our great craft touched them, while others merely stood and gaped.
Elsewhere I had the impression that some form of order existed. I thought I glimpsed dirty white uniforms—soldiers wearing what might have been helmets which obscured their faces. No shots were fired at us, however, by the small groups which hastily made for the shadows whenever we approached.
The scene was made even more desolate by the presence of great drifts of snow, much of it dirty and half-melted, everywhere.
“I see hardly any point in bothering to take the place,” I said to General Hood.
He frowned at this. “It is a question of destroying the morale of any defenders—here or in other parts of the country,” he said. There was an expression of almost fanatical intensity on his black features and his eyes never left the ruins. From time to time he would say, with a mixture of nostalgia and satisfaction, that this was where he had had his first flat in New York; there was where he had worked for one summer as a student; that the heap of rusting girders and shattered stone over which we flew was some famous museum or office building. It was not pleasant to hear him speaking thus—a sort of litany of gloating triumph. Slightly sickened, I turned away from the observation window, and saw Una Persson standing behind us, a look of quizzical and yet tender melancholy on her face, as if she, in her way, also regretted having to listen to Cicero Hood’s morbidly gleeful remarks.
“It will be nightfall in three hours,” she said. “Perhaps it would be best to wait until morning before making the landing?”
He turned, almost angry. “No! We land now. I’ll give the command. Let them see my power!” He reached for a speaking-tube, barking orders into it. “Prepare for landing! Any resistance to be met without mercy. Tonight the Ashanti celebrate. Let the men have whatever spoils they can find. Contact our friends here. Bring the leaders to me as soon as they have revealed themselves. Tomorrow we continue tow
ards Washington!”
It was with pity that I returned my attention to the ruins. “Could you not spare them?” I asked him. “Have they not suffered too much?”
“Not from me, Mr. Bastable.” His voice was savage. “Not from me!”
He refused to continue any sort of conversation, waving a dismissive hand both at Una Persson and myself. “If you cannot share my pleasure, then pray do not try to spoil it for me! Go, both of you. I want no whites here!”
Una Persson was plainly hurt, but she did not remonstrate. She left when I left and we went together to another observation deck, forward, where we probably had a better view of the landing.
First came the infantry, brought ashore in the boats and lining up in orderly ranks on what remained of the quays. Next, huge ramps were extended from the ships and from out of their bowels began to rumble the great armour-plated “land ironclads”. It hardly seemed possible that so many of the cumbersome machines could have been contained even in that large fleet. Rolling over every obstacle, they manoeuvred into wedge-shaped formations, all facing inland, their top-turrets swinging round to threaten New York with their long guns, their lower turrets rotating slowly as their crews ran a series of tests to make sure they were in perfect working order. Although the Ashanti had lost about half their force during the Battle of the Atlantic, they could still field a good-sized army and it was doubtful if the United States, crushed by the terrible War Between the Nations, could find anything likely to withstand them. The U.S.A. must now depend on the Australasian-Japanese Federation for support (and we all were sure that they would make some new attempt to stop General Hood).
But now at last I was to see what had been hidden in that gigantic hull which we had towed all the way from Africa. And Una Persson’s expression became eager as the hull was towed into position against the dockside.
“This is the result of what I was able to find in England, Mr. Bastable,” she said in an excited murmur. “An invention of O’Bean’s that was regarded as too terrible ever to put into production, even at the height of the war. Watch!”
I watched, as the dusk began to gather. From somewhere inside the hull bolts were withdrawn, releasing the sides so that they fell backwards into the sea and forwards onto the dock. One by one the sections swung down until the contents of the hull were revealed. It was a ziggurat of steel. Tier upon tier it rose, utterly dwarfing the assembled machines which had already landed. From each tier there jutted guns which put to shame anything we had had on the Dingiswayo. On the top-most turret (the smallest on this metal pyramid) were mounted four long-snouted guns, on the second turret down there were six such guns, on the third there were twelve, on the fourth there were eighteen. On the fifth tier could be seen banks of smaller guns, perhaps a third of the size of the others, for use in close-range fire. There were about thirty of these. On the sixth tier down were some fifty similar guns, while in the seventh and bottom-most tier were upwards of a hundred of the most modern steam-gatlings, each capable of firing 150 rounds a minute. There were also slits in the armour plating all the way up, for riflemen. There were grilled observation ports in every tier, and each turret was capable of swiveling independently of the others, just as each gun was capable of a wide range of movement within the turret. The whole thing was mounted on massive wheels, the smallest of these wheels being at least four times the height of a man, mounted (I learned later) on separate chassis in groups of ten, which meant that the vast machine could move forwards, backwards or sideways whenever it wished. Moreover, the size of the wheels and the weight they carried could crush almost any obstacle.
This was General Hood’s ‘secret weapon’. It must have taken half the wealth of Africa and Europe combined to build it. There had never been any moving thing of its size in the world before (and precious few non-mobile things!). With it, I felt sure, the Black Attila was invincible. No wonder he had been prepared to sacrifice the rest of his invasion fleet in order to protect it!
This was truly a symbol of the Final War, of Armageddon! A leviathan released upon the land—a monster capable of destroying anything in its path—a steel-clad, gargantuan dragon bringing roaring death to all who resisted. Its gleaming, blue-grey hull displayed on four sides of each of its tiers the scarlet circle framing the black, rampant lion of Ashanti, symbol of a powerful, vengeful Africa—of an Africa which remembered the millions of black slaves who had been crowded into stinking, disease-ridden hulks to serve the White Dream—of an Africa which had waited for its moment to release this invulnerable creature upon the offspring of those who had tortured its peoples, insulted them, killed them, terrified them and robbed them over the centuries.
If justice it was, then it was to be a fearful and a spectacular justice indeed!
As I watched the Land Leviathan roll through concrete and steel as easily as one might crush grass beneath one’s feet, I thought not merely of the fate which was about to befall America, but what might happen to the rest of the world, particularly Bantustan, when Hood had realized his plans here.
Having created such a beast, it seemed to me, he would have to go on using it. Ultimately it must become the master, conquering the conqueror, until nothing of the world survived at all!
Certainly that had been the logic of this world up to now and I saw nothing—save perhaps the ideal that was the country of Bantustan—to deny that logic.
I felt then that it was my moral duty to do anything I could to stop Hood’s terrible pattern of conquest, but the assassination of one man no longer seemed the answer. In a quandary I turned away from the scene as night fell and the lights of the Land Leviathan pierced the darkness like so many fearsome eyes.
Mrs. Persson said something to me, but I did not hear her. I stumbled from the observation deck, my mind in complete confusion, certain that she and I might well be, in a short while, the last surviving members of our race.
CHAPTER THREE
The Deserter
It took five hours to crush New York. And “crush” is quite literally the proper description. Hood’s monstrous machine rolled at will through the ruins, pushing down the few towers which remained standing, firing brief, totally destructive, barrages into the positions of those who resisted. All the Negroes in New York, who had been fighting the whites well before we arrived, rallied at once to Hood’s black-and-scarlet banner, and by noon the few defenders who remained alive were rounded up and interrogated for the information they could supply concerning other pockets of “resistance” across the country.
Hood invited me to be present at one of these questionings and I accepted, hoping only that I could put in a plea for mercy for the poor devils who had fallen into Ashanti hands.
Hood was now dressed in a splendid military uniform—also black and scarlet, but with a considerable quantity of gold and silver braid and a three-cornered hat sporting the same ostrich plumes as his “Lion Guard”. Hood had confided to me that such braggadocio was completely against his instincts, but that he was expected to affect the proper style both by his enemies and by those who followed him. He had a curved sword almost permanently in his right hand, and stuck into his belt, unholstered, were two large, long-barreled automatic pistols, rather like Mausers. The prisoners were being questioned in what remained of the cellar of a house which had stood on Washington Square. They were wounded, half-starved, filthy and frightened. Their white hoods (there was some superstition which had grown up that these hoods protected them from the plague) had been torn from their heads and their uniforms, crudely fashioned from flour sacks, were torn and blood-stained. I did not, I must admit, feel any pride in these representatives of my own race. They would have been gutter-rats no matter what conditions prevailed in New York and doubtless it was because they were gutter-rats that they had managed to survive, with the ferocity and tenacity of their kind. They were spitting, snarling, shrieking at their Ashanti conquerors and their language was the foulest I have ever heard. Una Persson stood nearby and I would have given anything in
the world for her not to have been subjected to that disgusting swearing.
The man who seemed to be the leader of the group (he had conferred upon himself the title of Governor!) had the surname of Hoover and his companions referred to him as “Speed”. He was a typical example of that breed of New York small-time ‘crooks’ who are ready to take up any form of crime so long as there is little chance of being caught. It was written all over his mean, ugly, hate-filled face. Doubtless, before he elected himself “Governor”, he had contented himself with robbing the weak and the helpless, of frightening children and old folk, and running errands for the larger, more successful ‘gang bosses’ of the city. Yet I felt a certain sympathy for him as he continued to rant and rave, turning his attention at last upon me.
“As fer yer, ya nigger-lover, yore nuttin’ but a dirty traitor!” was the only repeatable statement of this kind that he made. He spat at me, then turned on the mild-faced lieutenant (I think he was called Azuma) who had been questioning him. “We knew you niggers wuz comin’—we bin hearin’ ’bout it fer months now— an’ dey’re gettin’ ready fer yer. Dey got plans—dey got a way o’ stoppin’ yer real good!” He sniggered. “Yer got der artillery—but yer ain’t got der brains, see? Yer’ll soon be t’rowin’ in der sponge. It’ll take more’n what you got ter lick real white men!”
His threats, however, were all vague, and it soon became obvious to Lieutenant Azuma that there was little point in continuing with his questions.
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