# The Wreck of a World/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV.
Misfortunes, says the proverb, never come singly. There is a philosophy underlying these simple expressions of the quaint wisdom of our ancestors, and in this instance the esoteric meaning doubtless is that the combination of circumstances that make matters ripe for the birth of one event also prepares for that of others of a similar kind. How often does it happen—or has it happened, as I must now say—that after centuries of preparation two inventors, whether in the field of theory or practice, have hit upon the same idea at almost precisely the same moment!
To moralise is the privilege of age, but I must not abuse it or tax your patience too far. The efforts of ages had prepared the blow, the hour was ripe, and now it fell; not here or there, but in every quarter at once, with a suddenness which paralysed the efforts of those who might have been expected to venture something in defence of their country, their families, nay, of themselves.
​Not only from the banks of the Yellow Creek, but from North and South, from factory after factory, came, as the days and weeks flew by, the same awful tale. The mischief, which determination and courage might have nipped in the bud, was allowed to grow without restraint. Superstition came to the aid of Terror to make it more terrified yet. The machines which by some obscure process of development had at last become capable of reproducing their kind were popularly supposed to be possessed by demons. Who can wonder?
Needless to say trade was at a standstill, and the violence of starving mobs was added to other terrors. The railways were deserted, neither passengers nor drivers being forthcoming. Steamships ceased to ply to and fro between our once busy ports. Those whom business or affection compelled to travel were content to jog along the weary roads in wagons, or beat up against contrary winds in ancient unseaworthy sailing ships. What might be happening in those once busy haunts of human skill, the workshops, none dared enquire.
But much was happening there, for each day the ​forces of the enemy increased and multiplied. Not only so, but each new-born machine was of a higher and more powerful type than its progenitors, as we afterwards learnt to our cost. Not only in structural features was this the case, but in the intelligent powers, if I may so call them, there was a progressive development. Our man-made Engines had a certain power of self-preservation: they could stop themselves in the presence of danger; but the new generation of nature-made, or demon-made machines, possessed powers of attack. They could pursue their foes, and when overtaken employ all their complex rescources in conflict. Nay more, they showed themselves capable of combination—of acting in concert—which is more than can be accomplished by the humbler members of the animal world.
It was about a year after the events recorded in the last chapter that the storm burst. I was then living, a widower of eighteen months standing, alone with my daughter Aurelia, at Jefferson City, Missouri, where I had some practice as a consulting physician: though in truth I regarded the pursuit of my legitimate profession as little more than a distraction, my ​serious occupations being drilling the Militia Battalion of which I was senior major, and writing my History of the Confederate Rebellion of the last century. The general uneasiness which had pervaded society for the past twelvemonth had not failed to make itself felt among us; but the fearful and panic-stricken had long since migrated from the inland towns to the principal seaports, ready on the first alarm to cast themselves on board ship and save their precious skins, without a thought for the welfare of their country, or of the friends and kinsmen left behind. The result of this was that our city, though with diminished numbers, still maintained the semblance of industry activity and commerce.
Gradually, however, the uneasiness of all classes assumed graver proportions. Day by day there dribbled in small parties of country folk, bringing with them disquieting rumours, which if in many cases demonstrably absurd, were sufficiently akin to the acknowledged realities to cause new and widespread alarm. And indeed what rumours, however wild, could be worse than the facts?
Nothing authentic had, however come to our ears, ​until on the 6th of June, 1949, an hour before sunrise, there galloped into the market-place a man mounted on a panting and foam-flecked roan, evidently in the last stage of terror and exhaustion. When this wild figure dismounted, or rather fell into the arms of the bystanders, it was some time before any coherent meaning could be extracted from his disjointed words. Soon, however, a whisper passed from mouth to mouth of the gathering crowd—"The Engines,"—"the Engines!" The messenger was eventually taken in to the Town Council, which was sitting, the writer among them, self-summoned at the general alarm, to whom, with pale face and gestures of madness, he told his tale. The night before he had retired to rest about ten o'clock in his lonely farm-house of Bellow's Gully, when he was aroused after a short sleep, and as he supposed about midnight, by sounds of a kind he could not describe. His first thought was that he had been visited by a party of Indians, or white rascals out on a cattle lifting expedition, but as the sounds grew more defined and more peculiar he softly stole from his bed and proceeded towards the stable. All appeared to be safe, though the sounds continued with ​rather increased than diminished volume, and the cattle and the good roan displayed much uneasiness. Leaving the farm buildings he proceeded into the road, where an unusual glow in the sky towards the North-East attracted his attention. The confused sound that came from the same quarter was broken by shrieks, whistles, and hisses of a weird and unaccountable character. Following the road a furlong, he came to a rising ground, whence he could obtain a wide view over the rolling prairie land. Here he stopped, and gazing intently through the darkness discerned a long row of twinkling lights that seemed to extend for miles across the wide plain. As he looked, the line seemed to lengthen and widen, the lights grew brighter and more defined, till at length like a lightning flash there broke upon his mind the meaning of what he saw. It was no mortal foe, but the dreaded host of machines, of which half-credited reports had reached his distant ranche, come out in their thousands against the race of man.
He tore back to his stables, flung open a door, and sprang half dressed as he was on the bare back of the roan above mentioned, and leaving farm and cattle to ​their fate, galloped down to the river, which was crossed by a bridge about a mile below. But alas! a storm had shattered the frail timber structure but a few days previously. There was nothing for it but to ride back to a point some two miles above his farm, where there was a shallow place, dangerous indeed, and fordable only when the water was low, but which he had been used to cross before the bridge was built. As he fled past his farm he could hear the cattle lowing and the horses neighing with anxiety. But he durst not stop for an instant to release the poor beasts. Already the advancing engines were so close that he could distinguish the tall funnels of the nearest against the light of the rising moon. On, on, and towards the danger.
The river now made two large bends, backward and forward like the letter S, the ford being just beyond the further one. There was he knew a hard trackway along the bank, but this would have greatly increased the distance he must traverse. Beyond this trackway was a wide impassable bog, beyond which again came the direct path which he intended to pursue, but which he now observed led almost up to the line of the ​approaching foe. There was no time for consideration, and with the courage of despair he urged his trembling steed along the latter. The poor beast now became unmanageable through fright, till his master tearing off the sleeve of his shirt bound it over his eyes. On again, till within a few hundred yards of the long line. And now the nearest machines seem to have detected the flying figure; for with renewed shrieks and redoubled speed they bear down upon him as he turns the bend of the road which leads down to the ford. A few moments bring him to the bank, but those moments, during which he seems to feel the hot breath scorching his back, seem like hours. Horse and man plunge into the cold water. For some distance the foothold is indeed rough, but the water shallow, but suddenly the horse loses his feet, and has to swim, while the swift current bears them drifting down and threatens to land them on the side they have quitted, where the machines are now ranged up to welcome them in a terrible embrace. Happily at the moment when the current had borne them within a few yards of the bank, and the rider had given up all hope, a sand bank or bar caused its direction to ​change and to set over to the other side, where with some difficulty they landed a few minutes later, marvelling at their escape. Pausing a moment to recover breath, the farmer looked across the river, which separated him by so narrow a boundary from the most terrible of deaths. Narrow as it was he knew it was impassable to the foe. Not one of those engines, however formidable, could pass through water deep enough to reach its fires and so extinguish its precarious life. Might not this simple fact have been taken advantage of to secure the victory to our fatuous countrymen? I am enraged when I think how they threw away certain victory just for want of a little coolness and courage.
Our messenger, then, having lost all, and lighted by the glare of his own burning homestead, fled along the high road till he arrived, as I have stated, at Jefferson City. There the panic was extreme. A doleful procession commenced to wind its weary course along the Eastward road that leads towards St. Louis, while others, more wary, laid hands on what boats, barges, or rafts they could find and drifted down the river, journeying whither they knew not. The suf​ferings of these unfortunate fugitives, without clothes, food or money, cannot be described; many of them ultimately met with the fate they sought to escape, others perished scarcely less miserably from hunger and exposure.