The Thames Valley Catastrophe | Page 6

the flood of fire that was deluging the lowlands. But by pure
instinct, I believe, I set my face Londonwards along the ridge of the
chalk downs. In three minutes I had lost sight of the burning flood, and
was deep among green lanes and under shadowy beeches. The very
contrast frightened me. I wondered if I was going mad. It was all so
quiet. One could not believe that scarce five miles off from that
devastating sheet of fire, birds were singing in the sky and men toiling
in the fields as if nothing had happened.
Near Lambourne Wood I met a brother cyclist, just about to descend
the hill. A curve in the road hid the valley from him I shouted aloud:
"For Heaven's sake, don't go down! There is danger, danger!"
He smiled and looked back at me. "I can take any hill in England," he
answered.
"It's not the hill," I burst out. "There has been an eruption--a
fissure-eruption at Marlow--great floods of fire--and all the valley is
filled with burning lava!"
He stared at me derisively. Then his expression changed of a sudden. I
suppose he saw I was white-faced and horror-stricken. He drew away
as if alarmed. "Go back to Colney Hatch!" he cried, pedalling faster
and rode hastily down the hill, as if afraid of me. I have no doubt he
must have ridden into the very midst of the flood, and been scorched by
its advance, before he could check his machine on so sudden a slope.
Between Lambourne Wood and Burnham I did not see the fire-flood. I
rode on at full speed among green fields and meadows. Here and there I
passed a labouring man on the road. More than one looked up at me
and commented on the oppressive heat, but none of them seemed to be
aware of the fate that was overtaking their own homes close by, in the
valley. I told one or two, but they laughed and gazed after me as if I
were a madman. I grew sick of warning them. They took no heed of my
words, but went on upon their way as if nothing out of the common

were happening to England.
On the edge of the down, near Burnham, I caught sight of the valley
again. Here, people were just awaking to what was taking place near
them. Half the population was gathered on the slope, looking down
with wonder on the flood of fire, which had now just turned the corner
of the hills by Taplow. Silent terror was the prevailing type of
expression. But when I told them I had seen the lava bursting forth
from the earth in a white dome above Marlow, they laughed me to
scorn; and when I assured them I was pushing forward in hot haste to
London, they answered, "London! It won't never get as far as London!"
That was the only place on the hills, as is now well known, where the
flood was observed long enough beforehand to telegraph and warn the
inhabitants of the great city; but nobody thought of doing it; and I must
say, even if they had done so, there is not the slightest probability that
the warning would have attracted the least attention in our ancient
Metropolis. Men on the Stock Exchange would have made jests about
the slump, and proceeded to buy and sell as usual.
I measured with my eye the level plain between Burnham and Slough,
calculating roughly with myself whether I should have time to descend
upon the well-known road from Maidenhead to London by Colnbrook
and Hounslow. (I advise those who are unacquainted with the
topography of this district before the eruption to follow out my route on
a good map of the period.) But I recognised in a moment that this
course would be impossible. At the rate that the flood had taken to
progress from Cookham Bridge to Taplow, I felt sure it would be upon
me before I reached Upton, or Ditton Park at the outside. It is true the
speed of the advance might slacken somewhat as the lava cooled; and
strange to say, so rapidly do realities come to be accepted in one's mind,
that I caught myself thinking this thought in the most natural manner,
as if I had all my life long been accustomed to the ways of fissure-
eruptions. But on the other hand, the lava might well out faster and
hotter than before, as I had already seen it do more than once; and I had
no certainty even that it would not rise to the level of the hills on which
I was standing. You who read this narrative nowadays take it for
granted, of course, that the extent and height