textfiles/etext/FICTION/war_worlds

                       THE WAR OF THE WORLDS
                             Contents

Book One -- THE COMING OF THE MARTIANS

1.  The Eve of the War
2.  The Falling Star
3.  On Horsell Common
4.  The Cylinder Opens
5.  The Heat-Ray
6.  The Heat-Ray in Chobham Road
7.  How I Reached Home
8.  Friday Night
9.  The Fighting Begins
0.  In the Storm
1.  At the Window
2.  What I Saw of the Destruction of Weybridge and Shepperton
3.  How I Fell in with the Curate
4.  In London
5.  What Had Happened in Surrey
6.  The Exodus from London
7.  The "Thunder Child"

Book Two -- THE EARTH UNDER THE MARTIANS

1.  Under Foot
2.  What We Saw from the Ruined House
3.  The Days of Imprisonment
4.  The Death of the Curate
5.  The Stillness
6.  The Work of Fifteen Days
7.  The Man on Putney Hill
8.  Dead London
9.  Wreckage
0.  The Epilogue

                THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1
                Chapter 1:  The Eve of the War

        No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth
century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by
intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that
as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were
scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a
microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and
multiply in a drop of water.  With infinite complacency men went to
and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their
assurance of their empire over matter.  It is possible that the
infusoria under the microscope do the same.  No one gave a thought to
the older worlds of space as sources of human danger, or thought of
them only to dismiss the idea of life upon them as impossible or
improbable.  It is curious to recall some of the mental habits of
those departed days.  At most, terrestrial men fancied there might be
other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to themselves and ready to
welcome a missionary enterprise.  Yet across the gulf of space, minds
that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish,
intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with
envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.  And
early in the twentieth century came the great disillusionment.

     The planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader, revolves
about the sun at a mean distance of 140,000,000 miles, and the light
and heat it receives from the sun is barely half of that received by
this world.  It must be, if the nebular hypothesis has any truth,
older than our world; and long before this earth ceased to be molten,
life upon its surface must have begun its course.  The fact that it
is scarcely one seventh of the volume of the earth must have
accelerated its cooling to the temperature at which life could begin.
It has air and water and all that necessary for the support of
animated existence.

     Yet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no
writer, up to the very end of the nineteenth century, expressed any
idea that intelligent life might have developed there far, or indeed
at all, beyond its earthly level.  Nor was it generally understood
that since Mars is older than our earth, with scarcely a quarter of
the superficial area and remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows
that it is not only more distant from life's beginning but nearer its
end.

    The secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has
already gone far indeed with our neighbour.  Its physical condition
is still largely a mystery, but we know now that even in its
equatorial region the midday temperature barely approaches that of
our coldest winter.  Its air is much more attenuated than ours, its
oceans have shrunk until they cover but a third of its surface, and
as its slow seasons change huge snowcaps gather and melt about either
pole and periodically inundate its temperate zones.  That last stage
of exhaustion, which to us is still incredibly remote, has become a
present-day problem for the inhabitants of Mars.  The immediate
pressure of necessity has brightened their intellects, enlarged their
powers, and hardened their hearts.  And looking across space with
instruments, and intelligences such as we have scarcely dreamed of,
they see, at its nearest distance only 35,000,000 of miles sunward of
them, a morning star of hope, our own warmer planet, green with
vegetation and grey with water, with a cloudy atmosphere eloquent of
fertility, with glimpses through its drifting cloud wisps of broad
stretches of populous country and narrow, navy-crowded seas.

     And we men, the creatures who inhabit this earth, must be to
them at least as alien and lowly as are the monkeys and lemurs to us.
The intellectual side of man already admits that life is an incessant
struggle for existence, and it would seem that this too is the belief
of the minds upon Mars.  Their world is far gone in its cooling and
this world is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what
they regard as inferior animals.  To carry warfare sunward is,
indeed, their only escape from the destruction that, generation after
generation, creeps upon them.

    And before we judge of them too harshly we must remember what
ruthless and utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only
upon animals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo, but upon its
inferior races.  The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness,
were entirely swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged
by European immigrants, in the space of fifty years.  Are we such
apostles of mercy as to complain if the Martians warred in the same
spirit?

    The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing
subtlety--their mathematical learning is evidently far in excess of
ours--and to have carried out their preparations with a well-nigh
perfect unanimity.  Had our instruments permitted it, we might have
seen the gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century.  Men
like Schiaparelli watched the red planet--it is odd, by-the-bye, that
for countless centuries Mars has been the star of war--but failed to
interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so
well.  All that time the Martians; must have been getting ready.

    During the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen on the
illuminated part of the disk, first at the Lick Observatory, then by
Perrotin of Nice, and then by other observers.  English readers heard
of it first in the issue of Nature dated August 2.  I am inclined to
think that this have been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast
pit sunk into their planet, from which their shots were fired at us.
Peculiar markings, as yet unexplained, were seen near the site of
that outbreak during the next two oppositions.

    The storm burst upon us six years ago now.  As Mars approached
opposition, Lavelle of Java set the wires of the astronomical
exchange palpitating with the amazing intelligence of a huge outbreak
of incandescent gas upon the planet.  It had occurred towards
midnight of the twelfth; and the spectroscope, to which he had at
once resorted, indicated a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen,
moving with an enormous velocity towards this earth.  This jet of
fire had become invisible about a quarter past twelve.  He compared
it to a colossal puff of flame suddenly and violently squirted out of
the planet, "as flaming gases rushed out of a gun."

    A singularly appropriate phrase it proved.  Yet the next day
there was nothing of this in the papers except a little note in the
Daily Telgraph, and the world went in ignorance of one of the gravest
dangers that ever threatened the human race.  I might not have heard
of the eruption at all had I not met Ogilvy, the well-known
astronomer, at Ottershaw.  He was immensely excited at the news, and
in the excess of his feelings invited me up to take a turn with him
that night in a scrutiny of the red planet.

    In spite of all that has happened since, I still remember that
vigil very distinctly: the black and silent observatory, the shadowed
lantern throwing a feeble glow upon the floor in the corner, the
steady ticking of the clockwork of the telescope, the little slit in
the roof--an oblong profundity with the stardust streaked across it.
Ogilvy moved about, invisible but audible.  Looking through the
telescope, one saw a circle of deep blue and the little round planet
swimming in the field.  It seemed such a little thing, so bright and
small and still faintly marked with transverse stripes, and slightly
flattened from the perfect round.  But so little it was, so silvery
warm--a pin's-head of light!  It was as if it quivered, but really
this was the telescope vibrating with the activity of the clockwork
that kept the planet in view.

    As I watched, the planet seemed to grow larger and smaller and to
advance and recede, but that was simply that my eye was tired.  Forty
millions of miles it was from us--more than forty millions of miles
of void.  Few people realise the immensity of vacancy in which the
dust of the material universe swims.

    Near it in the field, I remember, were three faint points of
light, three telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all around it
was the unfathomable darkness of empty space.  You know how that
blackness looks on a frosty starlight night in a telescope it seems
far profounder.  And invisible to me because it was so remote and
small, flying swiftly and steadily towards me across that incredible
distance, drawing nearer every minute by so many thousands of miles,
came the Thing they were sending us, the Thing that was to bring so
much struggle and calamity and death to the earth.  I never dreamed
of it then as I watched; no one on earth dreamed of that unerring
missile.

    That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the
distant planet.  I saw it.  A reddish flash at the edge, the
slightest projection of the outline just as the chronometer struck
midnight; and at that I told Ogilvy and he took my place.  The night
was warm and I was thirsty, and I went, stretching my legs clumsily
and feeling my way in the darkness, to the little table where the
siphon stood, while Ogilvy exclaimed at the streamer of gas that came
out towards us.

    That night another invisible missile started on its way to the
earth from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after
the first one.  I remember how I sat on the table there in the
blackness, with patches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes.
I wished I had a light to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of
the minute gleam I had seen and all that it would presently bring me.
Olgivy watched till one, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern
and walked over to his house.  Down below in the darkness were
Ottershaw and Chertsey and all their hundreds of people, sleeping in
peace.

    He was full of speculation that night about the condition of
Mars, and scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who
were signalling us.  His idea was that meteorites might be falling in
a heavy shower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was
in progress.  He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic
evolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets.

    "The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a million to
one," he said.

    Hundreds of observers saw the flame that night and the night
after about midnight, and again the night after; and so for ten
nights, a flame each night.  Why the shots ceased after the tenth no
one on earth has attempted to explain.  It may be the gases of the
firing caused the Martians inconvenience.  Dense clouds of smoke or
dust, visible through a powerful telescope on earth as little grey,
fluctuating patches, spread through the clearness of the planet's
atmosphere and obscured its more familiar features.

    Even the daily papers woke up to the disturbances at last, and
popular notes appeared here, there, and everywhere concerning the
volcanoes upon Mars.  The serio-comic periodical Punch, I remember,
made a happy use of it in the political cartoon.  And, all
unsuspected, those missiles the Martians had fired at us drew
earthward, rushing now at a pace of many miles a second through the
empty gulf of space, hour by hour and day by day, nearer and nearer.
It seems to me now almost incredibly wonderful that, with that swift
fate hanging over us, men could go about their petty concerns as they
did.  I remember how jubilant Markham was at securing a new
photograph of the planet for the illustrated paper he edited in those
days.  People in these latter times scarcely realise the abundance
and enterprise of our nineteenth-century papers.  For my own part, I
was much occupied in learning to ride the bicycle, and busy upon a
series of papers discussing the fprobable developments of moral ideas
as civilisation progressed.

    One night (the first missile then could scarcely have been
10,000,000 miles away) I went for a walk with my wife.  It was
starlight, and I explained the Signs of the Zodiac to her, and
pointed out Mars, a bright dot of light creeping zenithward, towards
which so many telescopes were pointed.  It was a warm night.  Coming
home, a party of excursionists from Chertsey or Isleworth passed us
singing and playing music.  There were lights in the upper windows of
the houses as the people went to bed.  From the railway station in
the distance came the sound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling,
softened almost into melody by the distance.  My wife pointed out to
me the brightness of the red, green, and yellow signal lights hanging
in a framework against the sky.  It seemed so safe and tranquil.

                        THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1
                         Chapter 2:  The Falling Star

Then came the night of the first falling star.  It was seen early in
the morning, rushing over Winchester eastward, a line of flame high
in the atmosphere.  Hundreds must have seen it, and taken it for an
ordinary falling star.  Albin described it as leaving a greenish
streak behind it that glowed for some seconds.  Denning, our greatest
authority on meteorites, stated that the height of its first
appearance was about ninety or one hundred miles.  It seemed to him
that it fell to earth about one hundred miles east of him.

    I was at home at that hour and writing in my study; and although
my French windows face towards Ottershaw and the blind was up (for I
loved in those days to look up at the night sky), I saw nothing of
it.  Yet this strangest of all things that ever came to earth from
outer space must have fallen while I was sitting there, visible to me
had I only looked up as it passed.  Some of those who saw its flight
say it travelled with a hissing sound.  I myself heard nothing of
that.  Many people in Berkshire, Surrey, and Middlesex must have seen
the fall of it, and, at most, have thought that another meteorite had
descended.  No one seems to have troubled to look for the fallen mass
that night.

     But very early in the morning poor Ogilvy, who had seen the
shooting star and who was persuaded that a meteorite lay somewhere on
the common between Horsell, Ottershaw, and Woking, rose early with
the idea of finding it.  Find it he did, soon after dawn, and not far
from the sand pits.  An enormous hole had been made by the impact of
the projectile, and the sand and gravel had been flung violently in
every direction over the heath, forming heaps visible a mile and a
half away.  The heather was on fire eastward, and a thin blue smoke
rose against the dawn.

     The Thing itself lay almost entirely buried in sand, amidst the
scattered splinters of a fir tree it had shivered to fragments in its
descent.  The uncovered part had the appearance of a huge cylinder,
caked over and its outline softened by a thick scaly dun-coloured
incrustation.  It had a diameter of about thirty yards.  He
approached the mass, surprised at the size and more so at the shape,
since most meteorites are rounded more or less completely.  It was,
however, still so hot from its flight through the air as to forbid
his near approach.  A stirring noise within its cylinder he ascribed
to the unequal cooling of its surface; for at that time it had not
occurred to him that it might be hollow.

     He remained standing at the edge of the pit that the Thing had
made for itself, staring at its strange appearance, astonished
chiefly at its unusual shape and colour, and dimly perceiving even
then some evidence of design in its arrival.  The early morning was
wonderfully still, and the sun, just clearing the pine trees towards
Weybridge, was already warm.  He did not remember hearing any birds
that morning, there was certainly no breeze stirring, and the only
sounds were the faint movements from within the cindery cylinder.  He
was all alone on the common.

     Then suddenly he noticed with a start that some of the grey
clinker, the ashy incrustation that covered the meteorite, was
falling off the circular edge of the end.  It was dropping off in
flakes and raining down upon the sand.  A large piece suddenly came
off and fell with a sharp noise that brought his heart into his
mouth.

     For a minute he scarcely realised what this meant, and, although
the heat was excessive, he clambered down into the pit close to the
bulk to see the Thing more clearly.  He fancied even then that the
cooling of the body might account for this, but what disturbed that
idea was the fact that the ash was failing only from the end of the
cylinder.

     And then he perceived that, very slowly, the circular top of the
cylinder was rotating on its body.  It was such a gradual movement
that he discovered it only through noticing that a black mark that
had been near him five minutes ago was now at the other side of the
circumference.  Even then he scarcely understood what this indicated,
until he heard a muffled grating sound and saw the black mark jerk
forward an inch or so.  Then the thing came upon him in a flash.  The
cylinder was artificial--hollow--with an end that screwed out!
Something within the cylinder was unscrewing the top!

     "Good heavens!" said Ogilvy. "There's a man in it--men in it!
Half roasted to death!  Trying to escape!"

     At once, with a quick mental leap, he linked the Thing with the
flash upon Mars.

     The thought of the confined creature was so dreadful to him that
he forgot the heat, and went forward to the cylinder to help turn.
But luckily the dull radiation arrested him before he could burn his
hands on the still glowing metal.  At that he stood irresolute for a
moment, then turned, scrambled out of the pit, and set off running
wildly into Woking.  The time then must have been somewhere about six
o'clock.  He met a waggoner and tried to make him understand, but the
tale he told and his appearance were so wild--his hat had fallen off
in the pit--that the man simply drove on.  He was equally
unsuccessful with the pot man who was just unlocking the doors of the
public-house by Horsell Bridge.  The fellow thought he was a lunatic
at large and made an unsuccessful attempt to shut him into the
taproom.  That sobered him a little; and when he saw Henderson, the
London journalist, in his garden, he called over the palings and made
himself understood.

     "Henderson," he called, "you saw that shooting star last night?"

    "Well?" said Henderson

     "It's out on Horsell Common now."

     "Good Lord!" said Henderson.  "Fallen meteorite!  That's good."

     "But it's something more than a meteorite.  It's a cylinder-- an
artificial cylinder, man!  And there's something inside."

     Henderson stood up with his spade in his hand.

     "What's that?" he said.  He was deaf in one ear.

     Ogilvy told him all that he had seen.  Henderson was a minute or
so taking it in.  Then he dropped his spade, snatched up his jacket,
and came out into the road.  The two men hurried back at once to the
common, and found the cylinder still lying in the same position.  But
now the sounds inside had ceased, and a thin circle of bright metal
showed between the top and the body of the cylinder.  Air was either
entering or escaping at the rim with a thin, sizzling sound.

     They listened, rapped on the scaly burnt metal with a stick,
and, meeting with no response, they both concluded the man or men
inside must be insensible or dead.

     Of course the two were quite unable to do anything.  They
shouted consolation and promises, and went off back to the town again
to get help.  One can imagine them, covered with sand, excited and
disordered, running up the little street in the bright sunlight just
as the shop folks were taking down their shutters and people were
opening their bedroom windows.  Henderson went into the railway
station at once, in order to telegraph the news to London.  The
newspaper articles had prepared men's minds for the reception of the
idea.

     By eight o'clock a number of boys and unemployed men had already
started for the common to see the "dead men from Mars."  That was the
form the story took.  I heard of it first from my newspaper boy about
a quarter to nine when I went out to get my Daily Chronicle.  I was
naturally startled, and lost no time in going out and across the
Ottershaw bridge to the sand pits.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                   Chapter 3: On Horsell Common

    I found a little crowd of perhaps twenty people surrounding the
huge hole in which the cylinder lay.  I have already described the
appearance of that colossal bulk, embedded in the ground.  The turf
and gravel about it seemed charred as if by a sudden explosion.  No
doubt its impact had caused a flash of fire.  Henderson and Ogilvy
were not there.  I think they perceived that nothing was to be done
for the present, and had gone away to breakfast at Henderson's house.

     There were four or five boys sitting on the edge of the pit,
with their feet dangling, and amusing themselves until I stopped
them--by throwing stones at the giant mass.  After I had spoken to
them about it, they began playing at "touch" in and out of the group
of bystanders.

     Among these were a couple of cyclists, a jobbing gardener I
employed sometimes, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg the butcher and his
little boy, and two or three loafers and golf caddies who were
accustomed to hang about the railway station.  There was very little
talking.  Few of the common people in England had anything but the
vaguest astronomical ideas in those days.  Most of them were standing
quietly at the big tablelike end of the cylinder, which was still as
Ogilvy and Henderson had left it.  I fancy the popular expectation of
a heap of charred corpses was disappointed at this inanimate bulk.
Some went away while I was there, and other people came.  I clambered
into the pit and fancied I heard a faint movement under my feet.  The
top had certainly ceased to rotate.

     It was only when I got thus close to it that the strangeness of
this object was at all evident to me.  At the first glance it was
really no more exciting than an overturned carriage or a tree blown
across the road.  Not so much so, indeed.  It looked like a rusty gas
float.  It required a certain amount of scientific education to
perceive that the grey scale of the Thing was no common oxide, that
the yellowish-white metal that gleamed in the crack between the lid
and the cylinder had an unfamiliar hue.  "Extraterrestrial" had no
meaning for most of the onlookers.

     At that time it was quite clear in my own mind that the Thing
had come from the planet Mars, but I judged it improbable that it
contained any living creature.  I thought the unscrewing might be
automatic.  In spite of Ogilvy, I still believed that there were men
in Mars.  My mind ran fancifully on the possibilities of its
containing manuscript, on the difficulties in translation that might
arise, whether we should find coins and models in it, and so forth.
Yet it was a little too large for assurance on this idea.  I felt an
impatience to see it opened.  About eleven, as nothing seemed
happening, I walked back, full of such thought, to my home in
Maybury.  But I found it difficult to get to work upon my abstract
investigations.

     In the afternoon the appearance of the common had altered very
much.  The early editions of the evening papers had startled London
with enormous headlines:

                    A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS

                    REMARKABLE STORY FROM WOKING

and so forth.  In addition, Ogilvy's wire to the Astronomical
Exchange had roused every observatory in the three kingdoms.

     There were half a dozen flies or more from the Woking station
standing in the road by the sand pits, a basket-chaise from Chobham,
and a rather lordly carriage.  Besides that, there was quite a heap
of bicycles.  In addition, a large number of people must have walked,
in spite of the heat of the day, from Woking and Chertsey, so that
there was altogether quite a considerable crowd--one or two gaily
dressed ladies among the others.

     It was glaringly hot, not a cloud in the sky nor a breath of
wind, and the only shadow was that of the few scattered pine trees.
The burning heather had been extinguished, but the level ground
towards Ottershaw was blackened as far as one could see, and still
giving off vertical streamers of smoke.  An enterprising sweet-stuff
dealer in the Chobham Road had sent up his son with a barrow-load of
green apples and ginger beer.

     Going to the edge of the pit, I found it occupied by a group of
about half a dozen men--Henderson, Ogilvy, and a tall, fair-haired
man that I afterwards learned was Stent, the Astronomer Royal, with
several workmen, wielding spades and pickaxes.  Stent was giving
directions in a clear, high-pitched voice.  He was standing on the
cylinder, which was now evidently much cooler; his face was crimson
and streaming with perspiration, and something seemed to have
irritated him.

     A large portion of the cylinder had been uncovered, though its
lower end was still embedded.  As soon as Ogilvy saw me among the
staring crowd on the edge of the pit he called to me to come down,
and asked me if I would mind going over to see Lord Hilton, the lord
of the manor.

     The growing crowd, he said, was becoming a serious impediment to
their excavations, especially the boys.  They wanted a light railing
put up, and help to keep the people back.  He told me that a faint
stirring was occasionally still audible within the case, but that the
workmen had failed to unscrew the top, as it afforded no grip to
them.  The case appeared to be enormously thick, and it was possible
that the faint sounds we heard represented a noisy tumult in the
interior.

     I was very glad to do as he asked, and so become one of the
privileged spectators within the contemplated enclosure.  I failed to
find Lord Hilton at his house, but I was told he was expected from
London by the six o'clock train from Waterloo; and as it was then
about a quarter past five, I went home, had some tea, and walked up
to the station to waylay him.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                  Chapter 4: The Cylinder Opens

     When I returned to the common the sun was setting.  Scattered
groups were hurrying from the direction of Woking, and one or two
persons were returning.  The crowd about the pit had increased, and
stood out black against the lemon yellow of the sky--a couple of
hundred people, perhaps.  There were raised voices, and some sort of
struggle appeared to be going on about the pit.  Strange imaginings
passed through my mind.  As I drew nearer I heard Stent's voice:

     "Keep back!  Keep back!"

     A boy came running towards me.

     "Its a movin'," he said to me as he passed; "a-screwin' and
a-screwin' out.  I don't like it.  I'm a-goin' home, I am."

     I went on to the crowd.  There were really, I should think, two
or three hundred people elbowing and jostling one another, the one or
two ladies there being by no means the least active.

     "He's fallen in the pit!" cried some one.

     "Keep back!" said several.

     The crowd swayed a little, and I elbowed my way through.  Every
one seemed greatly excited.  I heard a peculiar humming sound from
the pit.

     "I say!" said Ogilvy; "help keep these idiots back.  We don't
know what's in the confounded thing, you know!"

     I saw a young man, a shop assistant in Woking I believe he was,
standing on the cylinder and trying to scramble out of the hole
again.  The crowd had pushed him in.

     The end of the cylinder was being screwed but from within.
Nearly two feet of shining screw projected.  Somebody blundered
against me, and I narrowly missed being pitched onto the top of the
screw.  I turned, and as I did so the screw must have come out, for
the lid of the cylinder fell upon the gravel with a ringing
concussion. I stuck my elbow into the person behind me, and turned my
head towards the Thing again.  For a moment that circular cavity
seemed perfectly black. I had the sunset in my eyes.

     I think everyone expected to see a man emerge--possibly
something a little unlike us terrestrial men, but in all essentials a
man.  I know I did.  But, looking, I presently saw something stirring
within the shadow: greyish billowy movements, one above another, and
then two luminous disks--like eyes.  Then something resembling a
little grey snake, about the thickness of a walking stick, coiled up
out of the writhing middle, and wriggled in the air towards me--and
then another.

     A sudden chill came over me.  There was a loud shriek from a
woman behind.  I half turned, keeping my eyes fixed upon the cylinder
still, from which other tentacles were now projecting, and began
pushing my way back from the edge of the pit.  I saw astonishment
giving place to horror on the faces of the people about me.  I heard
inarticulate exclamations on all sides.  There was a general movement
backwards.  I saw the shopman struggling still on the edge of the
pit.  I found myself alone, and saw the people on the other side of
the pit running off, Stent among them.  I looked again at the
cylinder, and ungovernable terror gripped me.  I stood petrified and
staring.

     A big greyish rounded bulk, the size, perhaps, of a bear, was
rising slowly and painfully out of the cylinder.  As it bulged up and
caught the light, it glistened like wet leather.

     Two large dark-coloured eyes were regarding me steadfastly.  The
mass that framed them, the head of the thing, was rounded, and had,
one might say, a face.  There was a mouth under the eyes, the lipless
brim of which quivered and panted, and dropped saliva.  The whole
creature heaved and pulsated convulsively.  A lank tentacular
appendage gripped the edge of the cylinder, another swayed in the
air.

     Those who have never seen a living Martian can scarcely imagine
the strange horror of its appearance.  The peculiar V-shaped mouth
with its pointed upper lip, the absence of brow ridges, the absence
of a chin beneath the wedgelike lower lip, the incessant quivering of
this mouth, the Gorgon groups of tentacles, the tumultuous breathing
of the lungs in a strange atmosphere, the evident heaviness and
painfulness of movement due to the greater gravitational energy of
the earth--above all, the extraordinary intensity of the immense
eye--were at once vital, intense, inhuman, crippled and monstrous.
There was something fungoid in the oily brown skin, something in the
clumsy deliberation of the tedious movements unspeakably nasty.  Even
at this first encounter, this first glimpse, I was overcome with
disgust and dread.

     Suddenly the monster vanished.  It had toppled over the brim of
the cylinder and fallen into the pit, with a thud like the fall of a
great mass of leather.  I heard it give a peculiar thick cry, and
forthwith another of these creatures appeared darkly in the deep
shadow of the aperture.

     I turned and, running madly, made for the first group of trees,
perhaps a hundred yards away; but I ran slantingly and stumbling, for
I could not avert my face from these things.

     There, among some young pine trees and furze bushes, I stopped,
panting, and waited further developments.  The common round the sand
pits was dotted with people, standing like myself in a
half-fascinated terror, staring at these creatures, or rather at the
heaped gravel at the edge of the pit in which they lay.  And then,
with a renewed horror, I saw a round, black object bobbing up and
down on the edge of the pit.  It was the head of the shopman who had
fallen in, but showing as a little black object against the hot
western sky.  Now he got his shoulder and knee up, and again he
seemed to slip back until only his head was visible.  Suddenly he
vanished, and I could have fancied a faint shriek had reached me.  I
had a momentary impulse to go back and help him that my fears
overruled.

     Everything was then quite invisible, hidden by the deep pit and
the heap of sand that the fall of the cylinder had made.  Anyone
coming along the road from Choban or Woking would have been amazed at
the sight--a dwindling multitude of perhaps a hundred people or more
standing in a great irregular circle, in ditches, behind bushes,
behind gates and hedges, saying little to one another and that in
short, excited shouts, and staring, staring hard at a few heaps of
sand.  The barrow of ginger beer stood, a queer derelict, black
against the burning sky, and in the sand pits was a row of deserted
vehicles with their horses feeding out of nosebags or pawing the
ground.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                     Chapter 5: The Heat-Ray

     After the glimpse I had had of the Martians emerging from the
cylinder in which they had come to the earth from their planet, a
kind of fascination paralysed my actions.  I remained standing
knee-deep in the heather, staring at the mound that hid them.  I was
a battleground of fear and curiosity.

     I did not dare to go back towards the pit, but I felt a
passionate longing to peer into it.  I began walking, therefore, in a
big curve, seeking some point of vantage and continually looking at
the sand heaps that hid these newcomers to our earth.  Once a leash
of thin black whips, like the arms of an octopus, flashed across the
sunset and was immediately withdrawn, and afterwards a thin rod rose
up, joint by joint, bearing at its apex a circular disk that spun
with a wobbling motion.  What could be going on there?

     Most of the spectators had gathered in one or two groups--one a
little crowd towards Woking, the other a knot of people in the
direction of Chobham.  Evidently they shared my mental conflict.
There were few near me.  One man I approached--he was, I perceived, a
neighbour of mine, though I did not know his name-- and accosted.
But it was scarcely a time for articulate conversation.

     "What ugly brutes!" he said. "Good God!  What ugly brutes!"  He
repeated this over and over again.

     "Did you see a man in the pit?" I said; but he made no answer to
that.  We became silent, and stood watching for a time side by side,
deriving, I fancy, a certain comfort in one another's company.  Then
I shifted my position to a little knoll that gave me the advantage of
a yard or more of elevation, and when I looked for him presently he
was walking towards Woking.

     The sunset faded to twilight before anything further happened.
The crowd far away on the left, towards Woking, seemed to grow, and I
heard now a faint murmur from it.  The little knot of people towards
Chobham dispersed.  There was scarcely an intimation of movement from
the pit.

     It was this, as much as anything, that gave people courage, and
I suppose the new arrivals from Woking also helped to restore
confidence.  At any rate, as the dusk came on a slow, intermittent
movement upon the sand pits began, a movement that seemed to gather
force as the stillness of the evening about the cylinder remained
unbroken.  Vertical black figures in twos and threes would advance,
stop, watch, and advance again, spreading out as they did so in a
thin irregular crescent that promised to enclose the pit in its
attenuated horns.  I, too, on my side began to move towards the pit.

     Then I saw some cabmen and others had walked boldly into the
sand pits, and heard the clatter of hoofs and the gride of wheels.  I
saw a lad trundling off the barrow of apples.  And then, within
thirty yards of the pit, advancing from the direction of Horsell, I
noted a little black knot of men, the foremost of whom was waving a
white flag.

     This was the Deputation.  There had been a hasty consultation,
and since the Martians were evidently, in spite of their repulsive
forms, intelligent creatures, it had been resolved to show them, by
approaching them with signals, that we too were intelligent.

     Flutter, flutter, went the flag, first to the right, then to the
left.  It was too far for me to recognise anyone there, but
afterwards I learned that Ogilvy, Stent, and Henderson were with
others in this attempt at communication.  This little group had in
its advance dragged inward, so to speak, the circumference of the now
almost complete circle of people, and a number of dim black figures
followed it at discreet distances.

     Suddenly there was a flash of light, and a quantity of luminous
greenish smoke came out of the pit in three distinct puffs, which
drove up, one after the other, straight into the still air.

     This smoke (or flame, perhaps, would be the better word for it)
was so bright that the deep blue sky overhead and the hazy stretches
of brown common towards Chertsey, set with black pine trees, seemed
to darken abruptly as these puffs arose, and to remain the darker
after their dispersal.  At the same time a faint hissing sound became
audible.

     Beyond the pit stood the little wedge of people with the white
flag at its apex, arrested by these phenomena, a little knot of small
vertical black shapes upon the black ground.  As the green smoke
arose, their faces flashed out pallid green, and faded again as it
vanished.  Then slowly the hissing passed into a humming, into a
long, loud, droning noise.  Slowly a humped shape rose out of the
pit, and the ghost of a beam of light seemed to flicker out from it.

     Forthwith flashes of actual flame, a bright glare leaping from
one to another, sprang from the scattered group of men.  It was as if
some invisible jet impinged upon them and flashed into white flame.
It was as if each man were suddenly and momentarily turned to fire.

     Then, by the light of their own destruction, I saw them
staggering and falling, and their supporters turning to run.

     I stood staring, not as yet realising that this was death
leaping from man to man in that little distant crowd.  All I felt was
that it was something very strange.  An almost noiseless and blinding
flash of light, and a man fell headlong and lay still; and as the
unseen shaft of heat passed over them, pine trees burst into fire and
every dry furze bush became with one dull thud a mass of flames.  And
far away towards Knaphill I saw the flashes of trees and hedges and
wooden buildings suddenly set alight.

     It was sweeping round swiftly and steadily, this flaming death,
this invisible, inevitable sword of heat.  I perceived it coming
towards me by the flashing bushes it touched, and was too astounded
and stupefied to stir.  I heard the crackle of fire in the sand pits
and the sudden squeal of a horse that was as suddenly stilled.  Then
it was as if an invisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn
through the heather between me and the Martians, and all along a
curving line beyond the sand pits the dark ground smoked and
crackled.  Something fell with a crash far away to the left where the
road from Woking station opens out on the common.  Forthwith the
hissing and humming ceased, and the black, domelike object sank
slowly out of sight into the pit.

     All this had happened with such swiftness that I had stood
motionless, dumbfounded and dazzled by the flashes of light.  Had
that death swept through a full circle, it must inevitably have slain
me in my surprise.  But it passed and spared me, and left the night
about me suddenly dark and unfamiliar.

     The undulating common seemed now dark almost to blackness,
except where its roadways lay grey and pale under the deep blue sky
of the early night.  It was dark, and suddenly void of men.  Overhead
the stars were mustering, and in the west the sky was still a pale,
bright, almost greenish blue.  The tops of the pine trees and the
roofs of Horsell came out sharp and black against the western
afterglow.  The Martians and their appliances were altogether
invisible, save for that thin mast upon which their restless mirror
wobbled.  Patches of bush and isolated trees here and there smoked
and glowed still, and the houses towards Woking station were sending
up spires of flame into the stillness of the evening air.

     Nothing was changed save for that and a terrible astonishment.
The little group of black specks with the flag of white had been
swept out of existence, and the stillness of the evening, so it
seemed to me, had scarcely been broken.

     It came to me that I was upon this dark common, helpless,
unprotected, and alone.  Suddenly, like a thing falling upon me from
without, came--fear.

     With an effort I turned and began a stumbling run through the
heather.

     The fear I felt was no rational fear, but a panic terror not
only of the Martians, but of the dusk and stillness all about me.
Such an extraordinary effect in unmanning me it had that I ran
weeping silently as a child might do.  Once I had turned, I did not
dare to look back.

     I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being
played with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of
safety, this mysterious death--as swift as the passage of light--
would leap after me from the pit about the cylinder and strike me
down.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

           Chapter 6: The Heat-Ray in the Chobham Road

     It is still a matter of wonder how the Martians are able to slay
men so swiftly and so silently.  Many think that in some way they are
able to generate an intense heat in a chamber of practically absolute
non-conductivity.  This intense heat they project in a parallel beam
against any object they choose, by means of a polished parabolic
mirror of unknown composition, much as the parabolic mirror of a
lighthouse projects a beam of light.  But no one has absolutely
proved these details.  However it is done, it is certain that a beam
of heat is the essence of the matter.  Heat, and invisible, instead
of visible, light.  Whatever is combustible flashes into flame at its
touch, lead runs like water, it softens iron, cracks and melts glass,
and when it falls upon water, incontinently that explodes into steam.

     That night nearly forty people lay under the starlight about the
pit charred and distorted beyond recognition, and all night long the
common from Horsell to Maybury was deserted and brightly ablaze.

     The news of the massacre probably reached Chobham, Woking, and
Ottershaw about the same time.  In Woking the shops had closed when
the tragedy happened, and a number of people, shop people and so
forth, attracted by the stories they had heard, were walking over the
Horsell Bridge and along the road between the hedges that runs out at
last upon the common.  You may imagine the young people brushed up
after the labours of the day, and making this novelty, as they would
make any novelty, the excuse for walking together and enjoying a
trivial flirtation.  You may figure to yourself the hunt of voices
along the road in the gloaming....

     As yet, of course, few people in Woking even knew that the
cylinder had opened, though poor Henderson had sent a messenger on a
bicycle to the post office with a special wire to an evening paper.

     As these folks came out by twos and threes upon the open, they
found little knots of people talking excitedly and peering at the
spinning mirror over the sand pits, and the newcomers were, no doubt,
soon infected by the excitement of the occasion.

     By half past eight, when the Deputation was destroyed, there may
have been a crowd of three hundred people or more at this place,
besides those who had left the road to approach the Martians nearer.
There were three policemen too, one of whom was mounted, doing their
best, under instructions from Stent, to keep the people back and
deter them from approaching the cylinder.  There was some booing from
those more thoughtless and excitable souls to whom a crowd is always
an occasion for noise and horse-play.

     Stent and Ogilvy, anticipating some possibilities of a
collision, had telegraphed from Horsell to the barracks as soon as
the Martians emerged, for the help of a company of soldiers to
protect these strange creatures from violence.  After that they
returned to lead that ill-fated advance.  The description of their
death, as it was seen by the crowd, tallies very closely with my own
impressions: the three puffs of green smoke, the deep humming note,
and the flashes of flame.

     But that crowd of people had a far narrower escape than mine.
Only the fact that a hummock of heathery sand intercepted the lower
part of the Heat-Ray saved them.  Had the elevation of the parabolic
mirror been a few yards higher, none could have lived to tell the
tale.  They saw the flashes and the men falling and an invisible
hand, as it were, lit the bushes as it hurried towards them through
the twilight.  Then, with a whistling note that rose above the
droning of the pit, the beam swung close over their heads, lighting
the tops of the beech trees that line the road, and splitting the
bricks, smashing the windows, firing the window frames, and bringing
down in crumbling rain a portion of the gable of the house nearest
the corner.

     In the sudden thud, hiss, and glare of the igniting trees, the
panic-stricken crowd seems to have swayed hesitatingly for some
moments.  Sparks and burning twigs began to fall into the road, and
single leaves like puffs of flame.  Hats and dresses caught fire.
Then came a crying from the common.  There were shrieks and shouts,
and suddenly a mounted policeman came galloping through the confusion
with his hands clasped over his head, screaming.

     "They're coming!" a woman shrieked, and incontinently everyone
was turning and pushing at those behind, in order to clear their way
to Woking again.  They must have bolted as blindly as a flock of
sheep.  Where the road grows narrow and black between the high banks
the crowd jammed, and a desperate struggle occurred.  All that crowd
did not escape; three persons at least, two women and a little boy,
were crushed and trampled there, and left to die amid the terror and
the darkness.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                  Chapter 7: How I Reached Home

     For my own part, I remember nothing of my flight except the
stress of blundering against trees and stumbling through the heather.
All about me gathered the invisible terrors of the Martians; that
pitiless sword of heat seemed whirling to and fro, flourishing
overhead before it descended and smote me out of life.  I came into
the road between the crossroads and Horsell, and ran along this to
the crossroads.

     At last I could go no further; I was exhausted with the violence
of my emotion and of my flight, and I staggered and fell by the
wayside.  That was near the bridge that crosses the canal by the
gasworks.  I fell and lay still.

     I must have remained there some time.

     I sat up, strangely perplexed.  For a moment, perhaps, I could
not clearly understand how I came there.  My terror had fallen from
me like a garment.  My hat had gone, and my collar had burst away
from its fastener.  A few minutes before, there had only been three
real things before me--the immensity of the night and space and
nature, my own feebleness and anguish, and the near approach of
death.  Now it was as if something turned over, and the point of view
altered abruptly.  There was no sensible transition from one state of
mind to the other.  I was immediately the self of every day again--a
decent ordinary citizen.  The silent common, the impulse of my
flight, the starting flames, were as if they had been in a dream.  I
asked myself had these latter things indeed happened?  I could not
credit it.

     I rose and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the bridge.
My mind was blank wonder.  My muscles and nerves seemed drained of
their strength.  I dare say I staggered drunkenly.  A head rose over
the arch, and the figure of a workman carrying a basket appeared.
Beside him ran a little boy.  He passed me, wishing me good night.  I
was minded to speak to him, but did not.  I answered his greeting
with a meaningless mumble and went on over the bridge.

     Over the Maybury arch a train, a billowing tumult of white,
firelit smoke, and a long caterpillar of lighted windows, went flying
south--clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it had gone.  A dim group of
people talked in the gate of one of the houses in the pretty little
row of gables that was called Oriental Terrace.  It was all so real
and so familiar.  And that behind me!  It was frantic, fantastic!
Such things, I told myself, could not be.

     Perhaps I am a man of exceptional moods.  I do not know how far
my experience is common.  At times I suffer from the strangest sense
of detachment from myself and the world about me, I seem to watch it
all from the outsider from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of
time, out of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all.  This
feeling was very strong upon me that night.  Here was another side to
my dream.

     But the trouble was the blank incongruity of this serenity and
the swift death flying yonder, not two miles away.  There was a noise
of business from the gasworks, and the electric lamps were all
alight.  I stopped at the group of people.

     "What news from the common?" said I.

     There were two men and a woman at the gate.

     "Eh?" said one of the men, turning.

     "What news from the common?" I said.

     "Ain't yer just been there?" asked the men.

     "People seem fair silly about the common," said the woman over
the gate.  "What's it all abart?"

     "Haven't you heard of the men from Mars?" said I; "the creatures
from Mars?"

     "Quite enough," said the woman over the gate.  "Thenks"; and all
three of them laughed.

     I felt foolish, and angry.  I tried and found I could not tell
them what I had seen.  They laughed again at my broken sentences.

     "You'll hear more yet," I said, and went on to my home.

     I startled my wife at the doorway, so haggard was I.  I went
into the dining room, sat down, drank some wine, and so soon as I
could collect myself sufficiently I told her the things I had seen.
The dinner, which was a cold one, had already been served, and
remained neglected on the table while I told my story.

     "There is one thing," I said, to allay the fears I had aroused;
"they are the most sluggish things I ever saw crawl.  They may keep
the pit and kill people who come near them, but they cannot get out
of it....  But the horror of them!"

     "Don't, dear!" said my wife, knitting her brows and putting her
hand on mine.

     "Poor Ogilvy!" I said.  "To think he may be lying dead there!"

     My wife at least did not find my experience incredible.  When I
saw how deadly white her face was, I ceased abruptly.

     "They may come here," she said again and again.

     I pressed her to take wine, and tried to reassure her.

     "They can scarcely move," I said.

     I began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that Ogilvy
had told me of the impossibility of the Martians establishing
themselves on the earth.  In particular I laid stress on the
gravitational difficulty.  On the surface of the earth the force of
gravity is three times what it is on the surface of Mars.  A Martian,
therefore, would weigh three times more on Mars, albeit his muscular
strength would be the same.  His own body would be a cope of lead to
him.  That, indeed, was the general opinion.  Both The Times and the
Daily Telegraph, for instance, insisted on it the next morning, and
both overlooked, just as I did, two obvious modifying influences.

     The atmosphere of the earth, we now know, contains far more
oxygen or far less argon (whichever way one likes to put it) than
does Mars.  The invigorating influences of this excess of oxygen upon
the Martians indisputably did much to counterbalance the increased
weight of their bodies.  And, in the second place, we all overlooked
the fact that such mechanical intelligence as the Martian possessed
was quite able to dispense with muscular exertion at a pinch.

     But I did not consider these points at the time, and so my
reasoning was dead against the chances of the invaders.  With wine
and food, the confidence of my own table, and the necessity of
reassuring my wife, I grew by insensible degrees courageous and
secure.

     "They have done a foolish thing," said I, fingering my
wineglass. "They are dangerous because, no doubt, they are mad with
terror.  Perhaps they expected to find no living things-- certainly
no intelligent living things.

     "A shell in the pit," said I, "if the worst comes to the worst,
will kill them all."

     The intense excitement of the events had no doubt left my
perceptive powers in a state of erethism.  I remember that dinner
table with extraordinary vividness even now.  My dear wife's sweet
anxious face peering at me from under the pink lamp shade, the white
cloth with its silver and glass table furniture--for in those days
even philosophical writers had many little luxuries-- the crimson
purple wine in my glass, are photographically distinct.  At the end
of it I sat, tempering nuts with a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy's
rashness, and denouncing the shortsighted timidity of the Martians.

     So some respectable dodo in the Mauritius might have lorded it
in his nest and discussed the arrival of that shipful of pitiless
sailors in want of animal food.  "We will peck them to death
tomorrow, my dear."

     I did not know it, but that was the last civilised dinner I was
to eat for very many strange and terrible days.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                     Chapter 8: Friday Night

     The most extraordinary thing to my mind, of all the strange and
wonderful things that happened upon that Friday, was the dovetailing
of the commonplace habits of our social order with the first
beginnings of the series of events that was to topple that social
order headlong.  If on Friday night you had taken a pair of compasses
and drawn a circle with a radius of five miles round the Woking sand
pits, I doubt if you would have had one human being outside it,
unless it were some relation of Stent or of the three or four
cyclists or London people lying dead on the common, whose emotions or
habits were at all affected by the new-comers.  Many people had heard
of the cylinder, of course, and talked about it in their leisure, but
it certainly did not make the sensation that an ultimatum to Germany
would have done.

     In London that night poor Henderson's telegram describing the
gradual unscrewing of the shot was judged to be a canard, and his
evening paper, after wiring for authentication from him and receiving
no reply--the man was killed--decided not to print a special edition.

     Even within the five-mile circle the great majority of people
were inert.  I have already described the behaviour of the men and
women to whom I spoke.  All over the district people were dining and
supping; working men were gardening after the labours of the day,
children were being put to bed, young people were wandering through
the lanes love-making, students sat over their books.

     Maybe there was a murmur in the village streets, a novel and
dominant topic in the public-houses, and here and there a messenger,
or even an eye-witness of the later occurrences, caused a whirl of
excitement, a shouting, and a running to and fro; but for the most
part the daily routine of working, eating, drinking, sleeping, went
on as it had done for countless years--as though no planet Mars
existed in the sky.  Even at Woking station and Horsell and Chobham
that was the case.

     In Woking junction, until a late hour, trains were stopping and
going on, others were shunting on the sidings, passengers were
alighting and waiting, and everything was proceeding in the most
ordinary way.  A boy from the town, trenching on Smith's monopoly,
was selling papers with the afternoon's news.  The ringing impact of
trucks, the sharp whistle of the engines from the junction, mingled
with their shouts of "Men from Mars!"  Excited men came into the
station about nine o'clock with incredible tidings, and caused no
more disturbance than drunkards might have done.  People rattling
Londonwards peered into the darkness outside the carriage windows,
and saw only a rare, flickering, vanishing spark dance up from the
direction of Horsell, a red glow and a thin veil of smoke driving
across the stars, and thought that nothing more serious than a heath
fire was happening.  It was only round the edge of the common that
any disturbance was perceptible.  There were half a dozen villas
burning on the Woking border.  There were lights in all the houses on
the common side of the three villages, and the people there kept
awake till dawn.

     A curious crowd lingered restlessly, people coming and going but
the crowd remaining, both on the Chobham and Horsell bridges.  One or
two adventurous souls, it was afterwards found, went into the
darkness and crawled quite near the Martians; but they never
returned, for now and again a light-ray, like the beam of a warships'
searchlight, swept the common, and the Heat-Ray was ready to follow.
Save for such, that big area of common was silent and desolate, and
the charred bodies lay about on it all night under the stars, and all
the next day.  A noise of hammering from the pit was heard by many
people.

     So you have the state of things on Friday night.  In the centre,
sticking into the skin of our old planet Earth like a poisoned dart,
was this cylinder.  But the poison was scarcely working yet.  Around
it was a patch of silent common, smouldering in places, and with a
few dark, dimly seen objects lying in contorted attitudes here and
there.  Here and there was a burning bush or tree.  Beyond was a
fringe of excitement, and farther than that fringe the inflammation
had not crept as yet.  In the rest of the world the stream of life
still flowed as it had flowed for immemorial years.  The fever of war
that would presently clog vein and artery, deaden nerve and destroy
brain, had still to develop.

     All night long the Martians were hammering and stirring,
sleepless, indefatigable, at work upon the machines they were making
ready, and ever and again a puff of greenish-white smoke whirled up
to the starlit sky.

     About eleven a company of soldiers came through Horsell, and
deployed along the edge of the common to form a cordon.  Later a
second company marched through Chobham to deploy on the north side of
the common.  Several officers from the Inkerman barracks had been on
the common earlier in the day, and one, Major Eden, was reported to
be missing.  The colonel of the regiment came to the Chobham bridge
and was busy questioning the crowd at midnight.  The military
authorities were certainly alive to the seriousness of the business.
About eleven, the next morning's papers were able to say, a squadron
of hussars, two Maxims, and about four hundred men of the Cardigan
regiment started from Aldershot.

     A few seconds after midnight the crowd in the Chertsey road,
Woking, saw a star fall from heaven into the pine woods to the
northwest.  It had a greenish colour, and caused a silent brightness
like summer lightning.  This was the second cylinder.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                  Chapter 9: The Fighting Begins

     Saturday lives in my memory as a day of suspense.  It was a day
of lassitude too, hot and close, with, I am told, a rapidly
fluctuating barometer.  I had slept but little, though my wife had
succeeded in sleeping, and I rose early.  I went into my garden
before breakfast and stood listening, but towards the common there
was nothing stirring but a lark.

     The milkman came as usual.  I heard the rattle of his chariot,
and I went round to the side gate to ask the latest news.  He told me
that during the night the Martians had been surrounded by troops, and
that guns were expected.

     Then--a familiar, reassuring note--I heard a train running
towards Woking.

     "They aren't to be killed," said the milkman, "if that can
possibly be avoided."

     I saw my neighbour gardening, chatted with him for a time, and
then strolled in to breakfast.  It was a most unexceptional morning.
My neighbour was of opinion that the troops would be able to capture
or to destroy the Martians during the day.

     "Its a pity they make themselves so unapproachable," he said.
"It would be curious to know how they live on another planet; we
might learn a thing or two."

     He came up to the fence and extended a handful of strawberries,
for his gardening was as generous as it was enthusiastic.  At the
same time he told me of the burning of the pine woods about the
Byfleet Golf Links.

     "They say," said he, "that there's another of those blessed
things fallen there--number two.  But one's enough, surely.  This
lot'll cost the insurance people a pretty penny before everything's
settled."  He laughed with an air of the greatest good humour as he
said this.  The woods, he said, were still burning, and pointed out a
haze of smoke to me.  "They will be hot under foot for days, on
account of the thick soil of pine needles and turf," he said, and
then grew serious over "poor Ogilvy."

     After breakfast, instead of working, I decided to walk down
towards the common.  Under the railway bridge I found a group of
soldiers--sappers, I think, men in small round caps, dirty red
Jackets unbuttoned, and showing their blue shirts, dark trousers, and
boots coming to the calf.  They told me no one was allowed over the
canal, and, looking along the road towards the bridge, I saw one of
the Gardigan men standing sentinel there.  I talked with these
soldiers for a time; I told them of my sight of the Martians on the
previous evening.  None of them had seen the Martians, and they had
but the vaguest ideas of them, so that they plied me with questions.
They said that they did not know who had authorised the movements of
the troops; their idea was that a dispute had arisen at the Horse
Guards.  The ordinary sapper is a great deal better educated than the
common soldier, and they discussed the peculiar conditions of the
possible fight with some acuteness.  I described the Heat-Ray to
them, and they began to argue among themselves.

     "Crawl up under cover and rush 'em, say I," said one.

     "Get aht!" said another.  "What's cover against this 'ere 'eat?
Sticks to cook yer!  What we got to do is to go as near as the
ground'll let us, and then drive a trench."

     "Blow yer trenches!  You always want trenches; you ought to ha'
been born a rabbit, Snippy."

     " 'Ain't they got any necks, then?" said a third, abruptly--a
little, contemplative, dark man, smoking a pipe.

     I repeated my description.

     "Octopuses," said he, "that's what I calls `em.  Talk about
fishers of men--fighters of fish it is this time!"

     "It ain't no murder killing beasts like that," said the first
speaker.

     "Why not shell the darned things strite off and finish 'em?"
said the little dark man.  "You carn tell what they might do."

     "Where's your shells?" said the first speaker.  "There ain't no
time.  Do it in a rush, that's my tip, and do it at once."

     So they discussed it.  After a while I left them, and went on to
the railway station to get as many morning papers as I could.

     But I will not weary the reader with a description of that long
morning and of the longer afternoon.  I did not succeed in getting a
glimpse of the common, for even Horsell and Chobham church towers
were in the hands of the military authorities.  The soldiers I
addressed didn't know anything; the officers were mysterious as well
as busy.  I found people in the town quite secure again in the
presence of the military, and I heard for the first time from
Marshall, the tobacconist, that his son was among the dead on the
common.  The soldiers had made the people on the outskirts of Horsell
lock up and leave their houses.

     I got back to lunch about two, very tired, for, as I have said,
the day was extremely hot and dull; and in order to refresh myself I
took a cold bath in the afternoon.  About half past four I went up to
the railway station to get an evening paper, for the morning papers
had contained only a very inaccurate description of the killing of
Scent, Henderson, Ogilvy, and the others.  But there was little I
didn't know.  The Martians did not show an inch of themselves.  They
seemed busy in their pit, and there was a sound of hammering and an
almost continuous streamer of smoke.  Apparently they were busy
getting ready for a struggle.  "Fresh attempts have been made to
signal, but without success," was the stereotyped formula of the
papers.  A sapper told me it was done by a man in a ditch with a flag
on a long pole.  The Martians took as much notice of such advances as
we should of the lowing of a cow.

     I must confess the sight of all this armament, all this
preparation, greatly excited me.  My imagination became belligerent,
and defeated the invaders in a dozen striking ways; something of my
schoolboy dreams of battle and heroism came back.  It hardly seemed a
fair fight to me at that time.  They seemed very helpless in that pit
of theirs.

     About three o'clock there began the thud of a gun at measured
intervals from Chertsey or Addlerstone.  I learned that the
smouldering pine wood into which the second cylinder had fallen was
being shelled, in the hope of destroying that object before it
opened.  It was only about five, however, that a field gun reached
Chobham for use against the first body of Martians.

     About six in the evening, as I sat at tea with my wife in the
summerhouse talking vigorously about the battle that was lowering
upon us, I heard a muffled detonation from the common, and
immediately after a gust of firing.  Close on the heels of that came
a violent, rattling crash, quite close to us, that shook the ground;
and, starting out upon the lawn, I saw the tops of the trees about
the Oriental College burst into smoky red flame, and the tower of the
little church beside it slide down into ruin.  The pinnacle of the
mosque had vanished, and the roof line of the college itself looked
as if a hundred-ton gun had been at work upon it.  One of our
chimneys cracked as if a shot had hit it, flew, and a piece of it
came clattering down the tiles and made a heap of broken red
fragments upon the flower bed by my study window.

     I and my wife stood amazed.  Then I realised that the crest of
Maybury Hill must be within range of the Martians' Heat-Ray now that
the college was cleared out of the way.

     At that I gripped my wife's arm, and without ceremony ran her
out into the road.  Then I fetched out the servant, telling her I
would go upstairs myself for the box she was clamouring for.

     "We can't possibly stay here," I said; and as I spoke the firing
reopened for a moment upon the common.

     "But where are we to go?" said my wife in terror.

     I thought, perplexed.  Then I remembered her cousins at
Leatherhead.

     "Leatherhead!" I shouted above the sudden noise.

     She looked away from me downhill.  The people were coming out of
their houses, astonished.

     "How are we to get to Leatherhead?" she said.

     Down the hill I saw a bevy of hussars ride under the railway
bridge; three galloped through the open gates of the Oriental
college; two others dismounted, and began running from house to
house.  The sun, shining through the smoke that drove up from the
tops of the trees, seemed blood red, and threw an unfamiliar lurid
light upon everything.

     "Stop here," said I; "you are safe here"; and I started off at
once for the Spotted Dog, for I knew the landlord had a horse and dog
cart.  I ran, for I perceived that in a moment everyone upon this
side of the hill would be moving.  I found him in his bar, quite
unaware of what was going on behind his house.  A man stood with his
back to me, talking to him.

     "I must have a pound," said the landlord, "and I've no one to
drive it."

     "I'll give you two," said I, over the stranger's shoulder.

     "What for?"

     "And I'll bring it back by midnight," I said.

     "Lord!" said the landlord; "what's the hurry?  I'm selling my
bit of a pig.  Two pounds, and you bring it back?  What's going on
now?"

     I explained hastily that I had to leave my home, and so secured
the dog cart.  At the time it did not seem to me nearly so urgent
that the landlord should leave his.  I took care to have the cart
there and then, drove it off down the road, and, leaving it in charge
of my wife and servant, rushed into my house and packed a few
valuables, such plate as we had, and so forth.  The beech trees below
the house were burning while I did this, and the palings up the road
glowed red.  While I was occupied in this way, one of the dismounted
hussars came running up.  He was going from house to house, warning
people to leave.  He was going on as I came out of my front door,
lugging my treasures, done up in a tablecloth.  I shouted after him:

     "What news?"

     He turned, stared, bawled something about "crawling out in a
thing like a dish cover," and ran on to the gate of the house at the
crest.  A sudden whirl of black smoke driving across the road hid him
for a moment.  I ran to my neighbour's door and rapped to satisfy
myself of what I already knew, that his wife had gone to London with
him and had locked up their house.  I went in again, according to my
promise, to get my servant's box, lugged it out, clapped it beside
her on the tail of the dog cart, and then caught the reins and jumped
up into the driver's seat beside my wife.  In another moment we were
clear of the smoke and noise, and spanking down the opposite slope of
Maybury Hill towards Old Woking.

     In front was a quiet, sunny landscape, a wheat field ahead on
either side of the road, and the Maybury Inn with its swinging sign.
I saw the doctor's cart ahead of me.  At the bottom of the hill I
turned my head to look at the hillside I was leaving.  Thick
streamers of black smoke shot with threads of red fire were driving
up into the still air, and throwing dark shadows upon the green
treetops eastward.  The smoke already extended far away to the east
and west--to the Byfleet pine woods eastward, and to Woking on the
west.  The road was dotted with people running towards us.  And very
faint now, but very distinct through the hot, quiet air, one heard
the whirr of a machine-gun that, was presently stilled, and an
intermittent cracking of rifles.  Apparently the Martians were
setting fire to everything within range of their Heat-Ray.

     I am not an expert driver, and I had immediately to turn my
attention to the horse.  When I looked back again the second hill had
hidden the black smoke.  I slashed the horse with the whip, and gave
him a loose rein until Woking and Send lay between us and that
quivering tumult.  I overtook and passed the doctor between Woking
and Send.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                     Chapter 10: In the Storm

     Leatherhead is about twelve miles from Maybury Hill.  The scent
of hay was in the air through the lush meadows beyond Pyrford, and
the hedges on either side were sweet and gay with multitudes of
dog-roses.  The heavy firing that had broken out while we were
driving down Maybury Hill ceased as abruptly as it began, leaving the
evening very peaceful and still.  We got to Leatherhead without
misadventure about nine o'clock, and the horse had an hour's rest
while I took supper with my cousins and commended my wife to their
care.

     My wife was curiously silent throughout the drive, and seemed
oppressed with forebodings of evil.  I talked to her reassuringly,
pointing out that the Martians were tied to the pit by sheer
heaviness, and at the utmost could but crawl a little out of it; but
she answered only in monosyllables.  Had it not been for my promise
to the innkeeper, she would, I think, have urged me to stay in
Leatherhead that night.  Would that I had!  Her face, I remember, was
very white as we parted.

     For my own part, I had been feverishly excited all day.
Something very like the war fever that occasionally runs through a
civilised community had got into my blood and in my heart I was not
so very sorry that I had to return to Maybury that night.  I was even
afraid that that last fusillade I had heard might mean the
extermination of our invaders from Mars.  I can best express my state
of mind by saying that I wanted to be in at the death.

     It was nearly eleven when I started to return.  The night was
unexpectedly dark; to me, walking out of the lighted passage of my
cousins' house, it seemed indeed black, and it was as hot and close
as the day.  Overhead the clouds were driving fast, albeit not a
breath stirred the shrubs about us.  My cousins' man lit both lamps.
Happily, I knew the road intimately.  My wife stood in the light of
the doorway, and watched me until I jumped up into the dog cart.
Then abruptly she turned and went in, leaving my cousins side by side
wishing me good hap.

     I was a little depressed at first, with the contagion of my
wife's fears, but very soon my thoughts reverted to the Martians.  At
that time I was absolutely in the dark as to the course of the
evening's fighting.  I did not know even the circumstances that had
precipitated the conflict.  As I came through Ockham (for that was
the way I returned, and not through Send and Old Woking) I saw along
the western horizon a blood-red glow, which, as I drew nearer, crept
slowly up the sky.  The driving clouds of the gathering thunderstorm
mingled there with masses of black and red smoke.

     Ripley Street was deserted, and except for a lighted window or
so the village showed not a sign of life; but I narrowly escaped an
accident at the corner of the road to Pyrford, where a knot of people
stood with their backs to me.  They said nothing to me as I passed.
I do not know what they knew of the things happening beyond the hill,
nor do I know if the silent houses I passed on my way were sleeping
securely, or deserted and empty, or harassed and watching against the
terror of the night.

     From Ripley until I came through Pyrford I was in the valley of
the Wey, and the red glare was hidden from me.  As I ascended the
little hill beyond Pyrford Church the glare came into view again, and
the trees about me shivered with the first intimation of the storm
that was upon me.  Then I heard midnight pealing out from Pyrford
Church behind me, and then came the silhouette of Maybury Hill, with
its treetops and roofs black and sharp against the red.

     Even as I beheld this a lurid green glare lit the road about me
and showed the distant woods towards Addlestone.  I felt a tug at the
reins.  I saw that the driving clouds had been pierced as it were by
a thread of green fire, suddenly lighting their confusion and falling
into the field to my left.  It was the third falling star!

     Close on its apparition, and blindingly violet by contrast,
danced out the first lightning of the gathering storm, and the
thunder burst like a rocket overhead.  The horse took the bit between
his teeth and bolted.

     A moderate incline runs towards the foot of Maybury Hill, and
down this we clattered.  Once the lightning had begun, it went on in
as rapid a succession of flashes as I have ever seen.  The
thunderclaps, treading one on the heels of another and with a strange
crackling accompaniment, sounded more like the working of a gigantic
electric machine than the usual detonating reverberations.  The
flickering light was blinding and confusing, and a thin hail smote
gustily at my face as I drove down the slope.

     At first I regarded little but the road before me, and then
abruptly my attention was arrested by something that was moving
rapidly down the opposite slope of Maybury Hill.  At first I took it
for the wet roof of a house, but one flash following another showed
it to be in swift rolling movement.  It was an elusive vision--a
moment of bewildering darkness, and then, in a flash like daylight,
the red masses of the Orphanage near the crest of the hill, the green
tops of the pine trees, and this problematical object came out clear
and sharp and bright.

     And this Thing I saw!  How can I describe it?  A monstrous
tripod, higher than many houses, striding over the young pine trees,
and smashing them aside in its career; a walking engine of glittering
metal, striding now across the heather; articulate ropes of steel
dangling from it, and the clattering tumult of its passage mingling
with the riot of the thunder.  A flash, and it came out vividly,
heeling over one way with two feet in the air, to vanish and reappear
almost instantly as it seemed, with the next flash, a hundred yards
nearer.  Can you imagine a milking stool tilted and bowled violently
along the ground?  That was the impression those instant flashes
gave.  But instead of a milking stool imagine it a great body of
machinery on a tripod stand.

     Then suddenly the trees in the pine wood ahead of me were
parted, as brittle reeds are parted by a man thrusting through them;
they were snapped off and driven headlong, and a second huge tripod
appeared, rushing, as it seemed, headlong towards me.  And I was
galloping hard to meet it!  At the sight of the second monster my
nerve went altogether.  Not stopping to look again, I wrenched the
horse's head hard round to the right, and in another moment the dog
cart had heeled over upon the horse; the shafts smashed noisily, and
I was flung sideways and fell heavily into a shallow pool of water.

     I crawled out almost immediately, and crouched, my feet still in
the water, under a clump of furze.  The horse lay motionless (his
neck was broken, poor brute!) and by the lightning flashes I saw the
black bulk of the overturned dog cart and the silhouette of the wheel
still spinning slowly.  In another moment the colossal mechanism went
striding by me, and passed uphill towards Pyrford.

     Seen nearer, the Thing was incredibly strange, for it was no
mere insensate machine driving on its way.  Machine it was, with a
ringing metallic pace, and long, flexible, glittering tentacles (one
of which gripped a young pine tree) swinging and rattling about its
strange body.  It picked its road as it went striding along, and the
brazen hood that surmounted it moved to and fro with the inevitable
suggestion of a head looking about.  Behind the main body was a huge
mass of white metal like a gigantic fisherman's basket, and puffs of
green smoke squirted out from the joints of the limbs as the monster
swept by me.  And in an instant it was gone.

     So much I saw then, all vaguely for the flickering of the
lightning, in blinding highlights and dense black shadows.

     As it passed it set up an exultant deafening howl that drowned
the thunder--"Aloo! Aloo!"--and in another minute it was with its
companion, half a mile away, stooping over something in the field.  I
have no doubt this Thing in the field was the third of the ten
cylinders they had fired at us from Mars.

     For some minutes I lay there in the rain and darkness watching,
by the intermittent light, these monstrous beings of metal moving
about in the distance over the hedge tops.  A thin hail was now
beginning, and as it came and went their figures grew misty and then
flashed into clearness again.  Now and then came a gap in the
lightning, and the night swallowed them up.

     I was soaked with hail above and puddle water below.  It was
some time before my blank astonishment would let me struggle up the
bank to a drier position, or think at all of my imminent peril.

     Not far from me was a little one-roomed squatter's hut of wood,
surrounded by a patch of potato garden.  I struggled to my feet at
last, and, crouching and making use of every chance of cover, I made
a run for this.  I hammered at the door, but I could not make the
people hear (if there were any people inside), and after a time I
desisted, and, availing myself of a ditch for the greater part of the
way, succeeded in crawling, unobserved by these monstrous machines,
into the pine wood towards Maybury.

     Under cover of this I pushed on, wet and shivering now, towards
my own house.  I walked among the trees trying to find the footpath.
It was very dark indeed in the wood, for the lightning was now
becoming infrequent, and the hail, which was pouring down in a
torrent, fell in columns through the gaps in the heavy foliage.

     If I had fully realised the meaning of all the things I had seen
I should have immediately worked my way round through Byfleet to
Street Cobham, and so gone back to rejoin my wife at Leatherhead.
But that night the strangeness of things about me, and my physical
wretchedness, prevented me, for I was bruised, weary, wet to the
skin, deafened and blinded by the storm.

     I had a vague idea of going on to my own house, and that was as
much motive as I had.  I staggered through the trees, fell into a
ditch and bruised my knees against a plant, and finally splashed out
into the lane that ran down from the College Arms.  I say splashed,
for the storm water was sweeping the sand down the hill in a muddy
torrent.  There in the darkness a man blundered into me and sent me
reeling back.

     He gave a cry of terror, sprang sideways, and rushed on before I
could gather my wits sufficiently to speak to him.  So heavy was the
stress of the storm just at this place that I had the hardest task to
win my way up the hill.  I went close up to the fence on the left and
worked my way along its palings.

     Near the top I stumbled upon something soft, and, by a flash of
lightning, saw between my feet a heap of black broadcloth and a pair
of boots.  Before I could distinguish clearly how the man lay, the
flicker of light had passed.  I stood over him waiting for the next
flash.  When it came, I saw that he was a sturdy man, cheaply but not
shabbily dressed; his head was bent under his body, and he lay
crumpled up close to the fence, as though he had been flung violently
against it.

     Overcoming the repugnance natural to one who had never before
touched a dead body, I stooped and turned him over to feel for his
heart.  He was quite dead.  Apparently his neck had been broken.  The
lightning flashed for a third time, and his face leaped upon me.  I
sprang to my feet.  It was the landlord of the Spotted Dog, whose
conveyance I had taken.

     I stepped over him gingerly and pushed on up the hill.  I made
my way by the police station and the College Arms towards my own
house.  Nothing was burning on the hillside, though from the common
there still came a red glare and a rolling tumult of ruddy smoke
beating up against the drenching hail.  So far as I could see by the
flashes, the houses about me were mostly uninjured.  By the College
Arms a dark heap lay in the road.

     Down the bad towards Maybury Bridge there were voices and the
sound of feet, but I had not the courage to shout or to go to them.
I let myself in with my latchkey, closed, locked and bolted the door,
staggered to the foot of the staircase, and sat down.  My imagination
was full of those striding metallic monsters, and of the dead body
smashed against the fence.

     I crouched at the foot of the staircase with my back to the
wall, shivering violently.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                    Chapter 11: At the Window

     I have already said that my storms of emotion have a trick of
exhausting themselves.  After a time I discovered that I was cold and
wet, and with little pools of water about me on the stair carpet.  I
got up almost mechanically, vent into the dining room and drank some
whiskey, and then I was moved to change my clothes.

     After I had done that I went upstairs to my study, but why I did
so I do not know.  The window of my study looks over the trees and
the railway towards Horsell Common.  In the hurry of our departure
this window had been left open.  The passage was dark, and, by
contrast with the picture the window frame enclosed, the side of the
room seemed impenetrably dark.  I stopped short in the doorway.

     The thunderstorm had passed.  The towers of the Oriental College
and the pine trees about it had gone, and very far away, lit by a
vivid red glare, the common about the sand pits was visible.  Across
the light, huge black shapes, grotesque and strange, moved busily to
and fro.

     It seemed indeed as if the whole country in that direction was
on fire--a broad hillside set with minute tongues of flame, swaying
and writhing with the gusts of the dying storm, and throwing a red
reflection upon the cloud scud above.  Every now and then a haze of
smoke from some nearer conflagration drove across the window and hid
the Martian shapes.  I could not see what they were doing, nor the
clear form of them, nor recognise the black objects they were busied
upon.  Neither could I see the nearer fire, though the reflections of
it danced on the wall and ceiling of the study.  A sharp, resinous
tang of burning was in the air.

     I closed the door noiselessly and crept towards the window.  As
I did so, the view opened out until, on the one hand, it reached to
the houses about Woking station, and on the other to the charred and
blackened pine woods of Byfleet.  There was a light down below the
hill, on the railway, near the arch, and several of the houses along
the Maybury road and the streets near the station were glowing ruins.
The light upon the railway puzzled me at first; there were a black
heap and a vivid glare, and to the right of that a row of yellow
oblongs.  Then I perceived this was a wrecked train, the fore part
smashed and on fire, the hinder carriages still upon the rails.

     Between these three main centres of light--the houses, the
train, and the burning country towards Chobham stretched irregular
patches of dark country, broken here and there by intervals of dimly
glowing and smoking ground.  It was the strangest spectacle, that
black expanse set with fire.  It reminded me, more than anything
else, of the Potteries at night.  At first I could distinguish no
people at all, though I peered intently for them.  Later I saw
against the light of Woking station a number of black figures
hurrying one after the other across the line.

     And this was the little world in which I had been living
securely for years, this fiery chaos!  What had happened in the last
seven hours I still did not know; nor did I know, though I was
beginning to guess, the relation between these mechanical colossi and
the sluggish lumps I had seen disgorged from the cylinder.  With a
queer feeling of impersonal interest I turned my desk chair to the
window, sat down, and stared at the blackened country, and
particularly at the three gigantic black things that were going to
and fro in the glare about the sand pits.

     They seemed amazingly busy.  I began to ask myself what they
could be.  Were they intelligent mechanisms?  Such a thing I felt was
impossible.  Or did a Martian sit within each, ruling, directing,
directing, much as a man's brain sits and rules in his body?  I began
to compare the things to human machines, to ask myself for the first
time in my life how an ironclad or a steam engine would seem to an
intelligent lower animal.

     The storm had left the sky clear, and over the smoke of the
burning land the little fading pin point of Mars was dropping into
the west, when a soldier came into my garden.  I heard a slight
scraping at the fence, and rousing myself from the lethargy that had
fallen upon me, I looked down and saw him dimly, clambering over the
palings.  At the sight of another human being my torpor passed, and I
leaned out of the window eagerly.

     "Hist!" said I, in a whisper.

     He stopped astride of the fence in doubt.  Then he came over and
across the lawn to the corner of the house.  He bent down and stepped
softly.

     "Who's there?" he said, also whispering, standing under the
window and peering up.

     "Where are you going?" I asked.

     "God knows."

     "Are you trying to hide?"

     "That's it."

     "Come into the house," I said.

     I went down, unfastened the door, and let him in, and locked the
door again.  I could not see his face.  He was hatless, and his coat
was unbuttoned.

     "My God!" he said, as I drew him in.

     "What has happened?" I asked.

     "What hasn't?"  In the obscurity I could see he made a gesture
of despair.  "They wiped us out--simply wiped us out," he repeated
again and again.

     He followed me, almost mechanically, into the dining room.

     "Take some whiskey," I said, pouring out a stiff dose.

     He drank it.  Then abruptly he sat down before the table, put
his head on his arms, and began to sob and weep like a little boy, in
a perfect passion of emotion, while I, with a curious forgetfulness
of my own recent despair, stood beside him, wondering.

     It was a long time before he could steady his nerves to answer
my questions, and then he answered perplexingly and brokenly.  He was
a driver in the artillery, and had only come into action about seven.
At that time firing was going on across the common, and it was said
the first party of Martians were crawling slowly towards their second
cylinder under cover of a metal shield.

     Later this shield staggered up on tripod legs and became the
first of the fighting-machines I had seen.  The gun he drove had been
unlimbered near Horsell, in order to command the sand pits, and its
arrival it was that had precipitated the action.  As the limber
gunners went to the rear, his horse trod in a rabbit hole and came
down, throwing him into a depression of the ground.  At the same
moment the gun exploded behind him, the ammunition blew up, there was
fire all about him, and he found himself lying under a heap of
charred dead men and dead horses.

     "I lay still," he said, "scared out of my wits, with the fore
quarter of a horse atop of me.  We'd been wiped out.  And the
smell--good Lord!  Like burnt meat!  I was hurt across the back by
the fall of the horse, and there I had to lie until I felt better.
Just like parade it had been a minute before--then stumble, bang,
swish!

     "Wiped out!" he said.

     He had hid under the dead horse for a long time, peeping out
furtively across the common.  The Cardigan men had tried a rush, in
skirmishing order, at the pit, simply to be swept out of existence.
Then the monster had risen to its feet, and had begun to walk
leisurely to and fro across the common among the few fugitives, with
its headlike hood turning about exactly like the head of a cowled
human being.  A kind of arm carried a complicated metallic case,
about which green flashes scintillated, and out of the funnel of this
there smoked the Heat-Ray.

     In a few minutes there was, so far as the soldier could see, not
a living thing left upon the common, and every bush and tree upon it
that was not already a blackened skeleton was burning.  The hussars
had been on the road beyond the curvature of the ground, and he saw
nothing of them.  He heard the Maxims rattle for a time and then
become silent.  The giant saved Woking station and its cluster of
houses until the last; then in a moment the Heat-Ray was brought to
bear, and the town became a heap of fiery ruins.  Then the Thing shut
off the Heat-Ray, and, turning its back upon the artilleryman, began
to waddle away towards the smouldering pine woods that sheltered the
second cylinder.  As it did so a second glittering Titan built itself
up out of the pit.

     The second monster followed the first, and at that the
artilleryman began to crawl very cautiously across the hot heather
ash towards Horsell.  He managed to get alive into the ditch by the
side of the road, and so escaped to Woking.  There his story became
ejaculatory.  The place was impassable.  It seems there were a few
people alive there, frantic for the most part, and many burned and
scalded.  He was turned aside by the fire, and hid among some almost
scorching heaps of broken wall as one of the Martian giants returned.
He saw this one pursue a man, catch him up in one of its steely
tentacles, and knock his head against the trunk of a pine tree.  At
last, after nightfall, the artilleryman made a rush for it and got
over the railway embankment.

     Since then he had been skulking along towards Maybury, in the
hope of getting out of danger Londonward.  People were hiding in
trenches and cellars, and many of the survivors had made off towards
Woking village and Send.  He had been consumed with thirst until he
found one of the water mains near the railway arch smashed, and the
water bubbling out like a spring upon the road.

     That was the story I got from him, bit by bit.  He grew calmer
telling me and trying to make me see the things he had seen.  He had
eaten no food since midday, he told me early in his narrative, and I
found some mutton and bread in the pantry and brought it into the
room.  We lit no lamp for fear of attracting the Martians, and ever
and again our hands would touch upon bread or meat.  As he talked,
things about us came darkly out of the darkness, and the trampled
bushes and broken rose trees outside the window grew distinct.  It
would seem that a number of men or animals had rushed across the
lawn.  I began to see his face, blackened and haggard, as no doubt
mine was also.

     When we had finished eating we went softly upstairs to my study,
and I looked again out of the open window.  In one night the valley
had become a valley of ashes.  The fires had dwindled now.  Where
flames had been there were now streamers of smoke; but the countless
ruins of shattered and gutted houses and blasted and blackened trees
that the night had hidden stood out now gaunt and terrible in the
pitiless light of dawn.  Yet here and there some object had had the
luck to escaped--a white railway signal here, the end of a greenhouse
there, white and fresh amid the wreckage.  Never before in the
history of warfare had destruction been so indiscriminate and so
universal.  And shining with the growing light of the east, three of
the metallic giants stood about the pit, their cowls rotating as
though they were surveying the desolation they had made.

     It seemed to me that the pit had been enlarged, and ever and
again puffs of vivid green vapour streamed up and out of it towards
the brightening dawn--streamed up, whirled, broke, and vanished.

     Beyond were the pillars of fire about Chobham.  They became
pillars of bloodshot smoke at the first touch of day.

                     THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1
  Chapter 12:  What I Saw of the Destruction of Weybridge and Shepperton

     As the dawn grew brighter we withdrew from the window from which
we had watched the Martians, and went very quietly downstairs.

     The artilleryman agreed with me that the house was no place to
stay in.  He proposed, he said, to make his way Londonward, and
thence rejoin his battery--No. 12, of the Horse Artillery.  My plan
was to return at once to Leatherhead; and so greatly had the strength
of the Martians impressed me that I had determined to take my wife to
Newhaven, and go with her out of the country forthwith.  For I
already perceived clearly that the country about London must
inevitably be the scene of a disastrous struggle before such
creatures as these could be destroyed.

     Between us and Leatherhead, however, lay the third cylinder,
with its guarding giants.  Had I been alone, I think I should have
taken my chance and struck across country.  But the artilleryman
dissuaded me: "Its no kindness to the right sort of wife," he said,
"to make her a widow"; and in the end I agreed to go with him, under
cover of the woods, northward as far as Street Chobham before I
parted with him.  Thence I would make a big detour by Epsom to reach
Leatherhead.

     I should have started at once, but my companion had been in
active service and he knew better than that.  He made me ransack the
house for a flask, which he filled with whiskey; and we lined every
available pocket with packets of biscuits and slices of meat.  Then
we crept out of the house, and ran as quickly as we could down the
ill-made road by which I had come overnight.  The houses seemed
deserted.  In the road lay a group of three charred bodies close
together, struck dead by the Heat-Ray; and here and there were things
that people had dropped--a clock, a slipper, a silver spoon, and the
like poor valuables.  At the corner turning up towards the post
office a little cart, filled with boxes and furniture, and horseless,
heeled over on a broken wheel.  A cash box had been hastily smashed
open and thrown under the debris.

     Except the lodge at the Orphanage, which was still on fire, none
of the houses had suffered very greatly here.  The Heat-Ray had
shaved the chimney tops and passed.  Yet, save ourselves, there did
not seem to be a living soul on Maybury Hill.  The majority of the
inhabitants had escaped, I suppose, by way of the Old Woking
road--the road I had taken when I drove to Leatherhead or they had
hidden.

     We went down the lane, by the body of the man in black, sodden
now from the overnight hail, and broke into the woods at the foot of
the hill.  We pushed through these towards the railway without
meeting a soul.  The woods across the line were but the scarred and
blackened ruins of woods; for the most part the trees had fallen, but
a certain proportion still stood, dismal grey stems, with dark brown
foliage instead of green.

     On our side the fire had done no more than scorch the nearer
trees; it had failed to secure its footing.  In one place the woodmen
had been at work on Saturday; trees, felled and freshly trimmed, lay
in a clearing, with heaps of sawdust by the sawing-machine and its
engine.  Hard by was a temporary hut, deserted.  There was not a
breath of wind this morning, and everything was strangely still.
Even the birds were hushed, and as we hurried along I and the
artilleryman talked in whispers and looked now and again over our
shoulders.  Once or twice we stopped to listen.

     After a time we drew near the road, and as we did so we heard
the clatter of hoofs and saw through the tree stems three cavalry
soldiers riding slowly towards Woking.  We hailed them, and they
halted while we hurried towards them.  It was a lieutenant and a
couple of privates of the 8th Hussars, with a stand like a
theodolite, which the artilleryman told me was a heliograph.

     "You are the first men I've seen coming this way this morning,"
said the lieutenant.  "What's brewing?"

     His voice and face were eager.  The men behind him stared
curiously.  The artilleryman jumped down the bank into the road and
saluted.

     "Gun destroyed last night, sir.  Have been hiding.  Trying to
rejoin battery, sir.  You'll come in sight of the Martians, I expect,
about half a mile along this road."

     "What the dickens are they like?" asked the lieutenant.  "Giants
in armour, sir.  Hundred feet high.  Three legs and a body like
aluminium, with a mighty great head in a hood, sir.

     "Get out!" said the lieutenant.  "What confounded nonsense!"

     "You'll see, sir.  They carry a kind of box, sir, that shoots
fire and strikes you dead."

     "What d'ye mean--a gun?"

     "No, sir," and the artilleryman began a vivid account of the
Heat-Ray.  Halfway through, the lieutenant interrupted him and looked
up at me.  I was still standing on the bank by the side of the road.

     "It's perfectly true," I said.

     "Well," said the lieutenant, "I suppose it's my business to see
it too.  Look here"--to the artilleryman--"we're detailed here
clearing people out of their houses.  You'd better go along and
report yourself to Brigadier-General Marvin, and tell him all you
know.  He's at Weybridge.  Know the way?"

     "I do," I said; and he turned his horse southward again.

     "Half a mile, you say?" said he.

     "At most," I answered, and pointed over the treetops southward.
He thanked me and rode on, and we saw them no more.

     Farther along we came upon a group of three women and two
children in the road, busy clearing out a labourer's cottage.  They
had got hold of a little hand truck, and were piling it up with
unclean-looking bundles and shabby furniture.  They were all too
assiduously engaged to talk to us as we passed.

     By Byfleet station we emerged from the pine trees, and found the
country calm and peaceful under the morning sunlight.  We were far
beyond the range of the Heat-Ray there, and had it not been for the
silent desertion of some of the houses, the stirring movement of
packing in others, and the knot of soldiers standing on the bridge
over the railway and staring down the line towards Woking, the day
would have seemed very like any other Sunday.

     Several farm waggons and carts were moving creakily along the
road to Addlestone, and suddenly through the gate of a field we saw,
across a stretch of flat meadow, six twelve-pounders standing nearly
at equal distances pointing towards Woking.  The gunners stood by the
guns waiting, and the ammunition waggons were at a business-like
distance.  The men stood almost as if under inspection.

     "That's, good," said I.  "They will get one fair shot, at any
rate.

     The artilleryman hesitated at the gate.

     "I shall go on," he said.

     Farther on towards Weybridge, just over the bridge, there were a
number of men in white fatigue jackets throwing up a long rampart,
and more guns behind.

     "It's bows and arrows against the lightning, anyhow," said the
artilleryman.  "They 'aven't seen that fire-beam yet."

     The officers who were not actively engaged stood and stared over
the treetops southwestward, and the men digging would stop every now
and again to stare in the same direction.

     Byfleet was in a tumult; people packing, and a score of hussars,
some of them dismounted, some on horseback, were hunting them about.
Three or four black government waggons, with crosses in white
circles, and an old omnibus, among other vehicles, were being loaded
in the village street.  There were scores of people, most of them
sufficiently sabbatical to have assumed their best clothes.  The
soldiers were having the greatest difficulty in making them realise
the gravity of their position.  We saw one shrivelled old fellow with
a huge box and a score or more of flower pots containing orchids,
angrily expostulating with the corporal who would leave them behind.
I stopped and gripped his arm.

     "Do you know what's over there?" I said, pointing at the pine
tops that hid the Martians.

     "Eh?" said he, turning.  "I was explainin' these is vallyble."

     "Death!" I shouted.  "Death is coming!  Death!" and leaving him
to digest that if he could, I hurried on after the artilleryman.  At
the corner I looked back.  The soldier had left him, and he was still
standing by his box, with the pots of orchids on the lid of it, and
staring vaguely over the trees.

     No one in Weybridge could tell us where the headquarters were
established; the whole place was in such confusion as I had never
seen in any town before.  Carts, carriages everywhere, the most
astonishing miscellany of conveyances and horseflesh.  The
respectable inhabitants of the place, men in golf and boating
costumes, wives prettily dressed, were packing, river-side loafers
energetically helping, children excited, and, for the most part,
highly delighted at this astonishing variation of their Sunday
experiences.  In the midst of it all the worthy vicar was very
pluckily holding an early celebration, and his bell was jangling out
above the excitement.

     I and the artilleryman, seated on the step of the drinking
fountain, made a very passable meal upon what we had brought with us.
Patrols of soldiers--here no longer hussars, but grenadiers in
white--were warning people to move now or to take refuge in their
cellars as soon as the firing began.  We saw as we crossed the
railway bridge that a growing crowd of people had assembled in and
about the railway station, and the swarming platform was piled with
boxes and packages.  The ordinary traffic had been stopped, I
believe, in order to allow of the passage of troops and guns to
Chertsey, and I have heard since that a savage struggle occurred for
places in the special trains that were put on at a later hour.

     We remained at Weybridge until midday, and at that hour we found
ourselves at the place near Shepperton Lock where the Wey and Thames
join.  Part of the time we spent helping two old women to pack a
little cart.  The Wey has a treble mouth, and at this point boats are
to be hired, and there was a ferry across the river.  On the
Shepperton side was an inn with a lawn, and beyond that the tower of
Shepperton Church--it has been replaced by a spire--rose above the
trees.

     Here we found an excited and noisy crowd of fugitives.  As yet
the flight had not grown to a panic, but there were already far more
people than all the boats going to and fro could enable to cross.
People came panting along under heavy burdens; one husband and wife
were even carrying a small outhouse door between them, with some of
their household goods piled thereon.  One man told us he meant to try
to get away from Shepperton station.

     There was a lot of shouting, and one man was even jesting.  The
idea people seemed to have here was that the Martians were simply
formidable human beings, who might attack and sack the town, to be
certainly destroyed in the end.  Every now and then people would
glance nervously across the Wey, at the meadows towards Chertsey, but
everything over there was still.

     Across the Thames, except just where the boats landed,
everything was quiet, in vivid contrast with the Surrey side.  The
people who landed there from the boats went tramping off down the
lane.  The big ferryboat had just made a journey.  Three or four
soldiers stood on the lawn of the inn, staring and jesting at the
fugitives, without offering to help.  The inn was closed, as it was
now within prohibited hours.

     "What's that?" cried a boatman, and "Shut up, you fool!" said a
man near me to a yelping dog.  Then the sound came again, this time
from the direction of Chertsey, a muffled thud--the sound of a gun.

     The fighting was beginning.  Almost immediately unseen batteries
across the river to our right, unseen because of the trees, took up
the chorus, firing heavily one after the other.  A woman screamed.
Everyone stood arrested by the sudden stir of battle, near us and yet
invisible to us.  Nothing was to be seen save flat meadows, cows
feeding unconcernedly for the most part and silvery pollard willows
motionless in the warm sunlight.

     "The sojers'll stop 'em," said a woman beside me, doubtfully.  A
haziness rose over the treetops.

     Then suddenly we saw a rush of smoke far away up the river, a
puff of smoke that jerked up into the air and hung; and forthwith the
ground heaved under foot and a heavy explosion shook the air,
smashing two or three windows in the houses near, and leaving us
astonished.

     "Here they are!" shouted a man in a blue jersey.  "Yonder!
D'yer see them?  Yonder!"

     Quickly, one after the other, one, two, three, four of the
armoured Martians appeared, far away over the little trees, across
the flat meadows that stretched towards Chertsey, and striding
hurriedly towards the river.  Little cowled figures they seemed at
first, going with a rolling motion and as fast as flying birds.

     Then, advancing obliquely towards us, came a fifth.  Their
armoured bodies glittered in the sun as they swept swiftly forward
upon the guns, growing rapidly larger as they drew nearer.  One on
the extreme left, the remotest that is, flourished a huge case high
in the air, and the ghostly, terrible Heat-Ray I had already seen on
Friday night smote towards Chertsey, and struck the town.

     At sight of these strange, swift, and terrible creatures the
crowd near the water's edge seemed to me to be for a moment
horror-struck.  There was no screaming or shouting, but a silence.
Then a hoarse murmur and a movement of feet--a splashing from the
water.  A man, too frightened to drop the portmanteau he carried on
his shoulder, swung round and sent me staggering with a blow from the
corner of his burden.  A woman thrust at me with her hand and rushed
past me.  I turned with the rush of the people, but I was not too
terrified for thought. The terrible Heat-Ray was in my mind.  To get
under water!  That was it!

     "Get under water!" I shouted, unheeded.

     I faced about again, and rushed towards the approaching Martian,
rushed right down the gravelly beach and headlong into the water.
Others did the same.  A boatload of people putting back came leaping
out as I rushed past.  The stones under my feet were muddy and
slippery, and the river was so low that I ran perhaps twenty feet
scarcely waist-deep.  Then, as the Martian towered overhead scarcely
a couple of hundred yards away, I flung myself forward under the
surface.  The splashes of the people in the boats leaping into the
river sounded like thunderclaps in my ears.  People were landing
hastily on both sides of the river.

     But the Martian machine took no more notice for the moment of
the people running this way and that than a man would of the
confusion of ants in a nest against which his foot has kicked.  When,
half suffocated, I raised my head above water, the Martian's hood
pointed at the batteries that were still firing across the river, and
as it advanced it swung loose what must have been the generator of
the Heat-Ray.

     In another moment it was on the bank, and in a stride wading
halfway across.  The knees of its foremost legs bent at the farther
bank, and in another moment it had raised itself to its full height
again, close to the village of Shepperton.  Forthwith the six guns
which, unknown to anyone on the right bank, had been hidden behind
the outskirts of that village, fired simultaneously.  The sudden near
concussion, the last close upon the first, made my heart jump.  The
monster was already raising the case generating the Heat-Ray as the
first shell burst six yards above the hood.

     I gave a cry of astonishment I saw and thought nothing of the
other four Martian monsters; my attention was riveted upon the nearer
incident.  Simultaneously two other shells burst in the air near the
body as the hood twisted round in time to receive, but not in time to
dodge, the fourth shell.

     The shell burst clean in the face of the Thing.  The hood
bulged, flashed, was whirled off in a dozen tattered fragments of red
flesh and glittering metal.

     "Hit!" shouted I, with something between a scream and a cheer.

     I heard answering shouts from the people in the water about me.
I could have leaped out of the water with that momentary exultation.

     The decapitated colossus reeled like a drunken giant; but it did
not fall over.  It recovered its balance by a miracle, and, no longer
heeding its steps and with the camera that fired the Heat-Ray now
rigidly upheld, it reeled swiftly upon Shepperton.  The living
intelligence, the Martian within the hood, was slain and splashed to
the four winds of heaven, and the Thing was now but a mere intricate
device of metal whirling to destruction.  It drove along in a
straight line, incapable of guidance.  It struck the tower of
Shepperton Church, smashing it down as the impact of a battering ram
might have done, swerved aside, blundered on, and collapsed with
tremendous force into the river out of my sight.

     A violent explosion shook the air, and a spout of water, steam,
mud, and shattered metal shot far up into the sky.  As the camera of
the Heat-Ray hit the water, the latter had immediately flashed into
steam.  In another moment a huge wave, like a muddy tidal bore but
almost scaldingly hot, came sweeping round the bend upstream.  I saw
people struggling shorewards, and heard their screaming and shouting
faintly above the seething and roar of the Martian's collapse.

     For a moment I heeded nothing of the heat, forgot the patent
need of self-preservation.  I splashed through the tumultuous water,
pushing aside a man in black to do so, until I could see round the
bend.  Half a dozen deserted boats pitched aimlessly upon the
confusion of the waves.  The fallen Martian came into sight
downstream, lying across the river, and for the most part submerged.

     Thick clouds of steam were pouring off the wreckage, and through
the tumultuously whirling wisps I could see, intermittently and
vaguely, the gigantic limbs churning the water and flinging a splash
and spray of mud and froth into the air.  The tentacles swayed and
struck like living arms, and, save for the helpless purposelessness
of these movements, it was as if some wounded thing were struggling
for its life amid the waves.  Enormous quantities of a ruddy-brown
fluid were spurting up in noisy jets out of the machine.

     My attention was diverted from this death flurry by a furious
yelling, like that of the thing called a siren in our manufacturing
towns.  A man, knee-deep near the towing path, shouted inaudibly to
me and pointed.  Looking back, I saw the other Martians advancing
with gigantic strides down the riverbank from the direction of
Chertsey.  The Shepperton guns spoke this time unavailingly.

     At that I ducked at once under water, and, holding my breath
until movement was an agony, blundered painfully ahead under the
surface as long as I could.  The water was in a tumult about me, and
rapidly growing hotter.

     When for a moment I raised my head to take breath and throw the
hair and water from my eyes, the steam was rising in a whirling white
fog that at first hid the Martians altogether.  The noise was
deafening.  Then I saw them dimly, colossal figures of grey,
magnified by the mist.  They had passed by me, and two were stooping
over the frothing, tumultuous ruins of their comrade.

     The third and fourth stood beside him in the water, one perhaps
two hundreds yards from me, the other towards Laleham.  The
generators of the Heat-Rays waved high, and the hissing beams smote
down this way and that.

     The air was full of sound, a deafening and confusing conflict of
noises--the clangorous din of the Martians, the crash of falling
houses, the thud of trees, fences, sheds flashing into flame, and the
crackling and roaring of fire.  Dense black smoke was leaping up to
mingle with the steam from the river, and as the Heat-Ray went to and
fro over Weybridge its impact was marked by flashes of incandescent
white, that gave place at once to a smoky dance of lurid flames.  The
nearer houses still stood intact, awaiting their fate, shadowy,
faint, and pallid in the steam, with the fire behind them going to
and fro.

     For a moment perhaps I stood there, breast-high in the almost
boiling water, dumbfounded at my position, hopeless of escape.
Through the reek I could see the people who had been with me in the
river scrambling out of the water through the reeds, like little
frogs hurrying through grass from the advance of a man, or running to
and fro in utter dismay on the towing path.

     Then suddenly the white flashes of the Heat-Ray came leaping
towards me.  The houses caved in as they dissolved at its touch, and
darted out flames; the trees changed to fire with a roar.  The Ray
flickered up and down the towing path, licking off the people who ran
this way and that, and came down to the water's edge not fifty yards
from where I stood.  It swept across the river to Shepperton, and the
water in its track rose in a boiling weal crested with steam.  I
turned shoreward.

     In another moment the huge wave, well-nigh at the boiling-point,
had rushed upon me.  I screamed aloud, and scalded, half blinded,
agonised, I staggered through the leaping, hissing water towards the
shore.  Had my foot stumbled, it would have been the end.  I fell
helplessly, in full sight of the Martians, upon the broad, bare
gravelly spit that runs down to mark the angle of the Wey and Thames.
I expected nothing but death.

     I have a dim memory of the foot of a Martian coming down within
a score of yards of my head, driving straight into the loose gravel,
whirling it this way and that, and lifting again; of a long suspense,
and then of the four carrying the debris of their comrade between
them, now clear and presently faint through a veil of smoke, receding
interminably, as it seemed to me, across a vast space of river and
meadow.  And then, very slowly; I realised that by a miracle I had
escaped.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                      Chapter 14: In London

     My younger brother was in London when the Martians fell at
Woking.  He was a medical student, working for an imminent
examination, and he heard nothing of the arrival until Saturday
morning.  The morning papers on Saturday contained, in addition to
lengthy special articles on the planet Mars, on life in the planets,
and so forth, a brief and vaguely worded telegram, all the more
striking for its brevity.

     The Martians, alarmed by the approach of a crowd had killed a
number of people with a quick-firing gun so the story ran.  The
telegram concluded with the words "Formidable as they seem to be, the
Martians have not moved from the pit into which they have fallen,
and, indeed, seem incapable of doing so.  Probably this is due to the
relative strength of the earth's gravitational energy."  On that last
text their leader-writer expanded very comfortingly.

     Of course all the students in the crammer's biology class, to
which my brother went that day, were intensely interested, but there
were no signs of any unusual excitement in the streets.  The
afternoon papers puffed scraps of news under big headlines.  They had
nothing to tell beyond the movements of troops about the common, and
the burning of the pine woods between Woking and Weybridge, until
eight.  Then the St. James's Gazette in an extra-special edition,
announced the bare fact of the interruption of telegraphic
communication.  This was thought to be due to the falling of burning
pine trees across the line.  Nothing more of the fighting was known
that night, the night of my drive to Leatherhead and back.

     My brother felt no anxiety about us, as he knew from the
description in the papers that the cylinder was a good two miles from
my house.  He made up his mind to run down that night to me, in
order, as he says, to see the Things before they were killed.  He
despatched a telegram, which never reached me, about four o'clock,
and spent the evening at a music hall.

     In London, also, on Saturday night there was a thunderstorm, and
my brother reached Waterloo in a cab.  On the platform from which the
midnight train usually starts he learned, after some waiting, that an
accident prevented trains from reaching Woking that night.  The
nature of the accident he could not ascertain; indeed, the railway
authorities did not clearly know at that time.  There was very little
excitement in the station, as the officials, failing to realise that
anything further than a breakdown between Byfleet and Woking junction
had occurred, were running the theatre trains which usually passed
through Woking round by Virginia Water or Guildford.  They were busy
making the necessary arrangements to alter the route of the
Southampton and Portsmouth Sunday League excursions.  A nocturnal
newspaper reporter, mistaking my brother for the traffic manager, to
whom he bears a slight resemblance, waylaid and tried to interview
him.  Few people, excepting the railway officials, connected the
breakdown with the Martians.

     I have read, in another account of these events, that on Sunday
morning "all London was electrified by the news from Woking."  As a
matter of fact, there was nothing to justify that every extravagant
phrase.  Plenty of Londoners did not hear of the Martians until the
panic of Monday morning.  Those who did took some time to realise all
that the hastily worded telegrams in the Sunday papers conveyed.  The
majority of people in London do not read Sunday papers.

     The habit of personal security, moreover, is so deeply fixed in
the Londoner's mind, and startling intelligence so much a matter of
course in the papers, that they could read without any personal
tremors: "About seven o'clock last night the Martians came out of the
cylinder, and, moving about under an armour of metallic shields, have
completely wrecked Woking station with the adjacent houses, and
massacred an entire battalion of the Cardigan Regiment.  No details
are known.  Maxims have been absolutely useless against their armour;
the field guns have been disabled by them.  Flying hussars have been
galloping into Chertsey.  The Martians appear to be moving slowly
towards Chertsey or Windsor.  Great anxiety prevails in West Surrey,
and earthworks are being thrown up to check the advance Londonward."
That was how the Sunday Sun put it, and a clever and remarkably
prompt "handbook" article in the Referee compared the affair to a
menagerie suddenly let loose in a village.

     No one in London knew positively of the nature of the armoured
Martians, and there was still a fixed idea that these monsters must
be sluggish: "crawling," "creeping painfully"--such expressions
occurred in almost all the earlier reports.  None of the telegrams
could have been written by an eye-witness of their advance.  The
Sunday papers printed separate editions as further news came to hand,
some even in default of it.  But there was practically nothing more
to tell people until late in the afternoon, when the authorities gave
the press agencies the news in their possession.  It was stated that
the people of Walton and Weybridge, and all the district, were
pouring along the roads Londonward, and that was all.

     My brother went to church at the Foundling Hospital in the
morning, still in ignorance of what had happened on the previous
night.  There he heard allusions made to the invasion, and a special
prayer for peace.  Coming out, he bought a Referee.  He became
alarmed at the news in this, and went again to Waterloo station to
find out if communication were restored.  The omnibuses, carriages,
cyclists, and innumerable people walking in their best clothes seemed
scarcely affected by the strange intelligence that the news venders
were disseminating.  People were interested, or, if alarmed, alarmed
only on account of the local residents.  At the station he heard for
the first time that the Windsor and Chertsey lines were now
interrupted.  The porters told him that several remarkable telegrams
had been received in the morning from Byfleet and Chertsey stations,
but that these had abruptly ceased.  My brother could get very little
precise detail out of them.

     "There's fighting going on about Weybridge," was the extent of
their information.

     The train service was now very much disorganised.  Quite a
number of people who had been expecting friends from places on the
South-Western network were standing about the station.  One
grey-headed old gentleman came and abused the South-Western Company
bitterly to my brother.  "It wants showing up," he said.

     One or two trains came in from Richmond, Putney, and Kingston,
containing people who had gone out for a day's boating and found the
locks closed and a feeling of panic in the air.  A man in a blue and
white blazer addressed my brother, full of strange tidings.

     "There's hosts of people driving into Kingston in traps and
carts and things, with boxes of valuables and all that," he said.
"They come from Molesey and Weybridge and Walton, and they say
there's been guns heard at Chertsey, heavy firing, and that mounted
soldiers have told them to get off at once before the Martians are
coming.  We heard guns firing at Hampton Court station, but we
thought it was thunder.  What the dickens does it all mean?  The
Martians can't get out of their pit, can they?"

     My brother could not tell him.

     Afterwards he found that the vague feeling of alarm had spread
to the clients of the underground railway, and that the Sunday
excursionists began to return from all over the South-Western
"lung"--Barnes, Wimbledon, Richmond Park, Kew, and so forth--at
unnaturally early hours; but not a soul had anything more than vague
hearsay to tell of.  Everyone connected with the terminus seemed
ill-tempered.

     About five o'clock the gathering crowd in the station was
immensely excited by the opening of the line of communication, which
is almost invariably closed, between the South-Eastern and the
South-Western stations, and the passage of carriage trucks bearing
huge guns and carriages crammed with soldiers.  These were the guns
that were brought up from Woolwich and Chatham to cover Kingston.
There was an exchange of pleasantries: "You'll get eaten!"  "We're
the beast-tamers!" and so forth.  A little while after that a squad
of police came into the station and began to clear the public off the
platforms, and my brother went out into the street again.

     The church bells were ringing for evensong, and a squad of
Salvation Army lassies came singing down Waterloo Road.  On the
bridge a number of loafers were watching a curious brown scum that
came drifting down the stream in patches.  The sun was just setting,
and the Clock Tower and the Houses of Parliament rose against one of
the most peaceful skies it is possible to imagine, a sky of gold,
barred with long transverse stripes of reddish-purple cloud.  There
was talk of a floating body.  One of the men there, a reservist he
said he was, told my brother he had seen the heliograph flickering in
the west.

     In Wellington Street my brother met a couple of sturdy roughs
who had just rushed out of Fleet Street with still wet newspapers and
staring placards.  "Dreadful catastrophe!"  They bawled one to the
other down Wellington Street.  "Fighting at Weybridge!  Full
description!  Repulse of the Martians!  London in Danger!"  He had to
give threepence for a copy of that paper.

     Then it was, and then only, that he realised something of the
full power and terror of these monsters.  He learned that they were
not merely a handful of small sluggish creatures, but that they were
minds swaying vast mechanical bodies; and that they could move
swiftly and smite with such power that even the mightiest guns could
not stand against them.

     They were described as "vast spider like machines, nearly a
hundred feet high, capable of the speed of an express train, and able
to shoot out a beam of intense heat."  Masked batteries, chiefly of
field guns, had been planted in the country about Horsell Common, and
especially between the Woking district and London.  Five of the
machines had been seen moving towards the Thames, and one, by a happy
chance, had been destroyed.  In the other cases the shells had
missed, and the batteries had been at once annihilated by the
Heat-Rays.  Heavy losses of soldiers were mentioned, but the tone of
the despatch was optimistic.

     The Martians had been repulsed; they were not invulnerable.
They had retreated to their triangle of cylinders again, in the
circle about Woking.  Signallers with heliographs were pushing
forward upon them from all sides.  Guns were in rapid transit from
Windsor, Portsmouth, Aldershot, Woolwich--even from the north; among
others, long wire-guns of ninety-five tons from Woolwich.  Altogether
one hundred and sixteen were in position or being hastily placed,
chiefly covering London.  Never before in England had there been such
a vast or rapid concentration of military material.

     Any further cylinders that fell, it was hoped, could be
destroyed at once by high explosives, which were being rapidly
manufactured and distributed.  No doubt, ran the report, the
situation was of the strangest and gravest description, but the
public was exhorted to avoid and discourage panic.  No doubt the
Martians were strange and terrible in the extreme, but at the outside
there could not be more than twenty of them against our millions.

     The authorities had reason to suppose, from the size of the
cylinders, that at the outside there could not be more than five in
each cylinder--fifteen altogether.  And one at least was disposed
of--perhaps more.  The public would be fairly warned of the approach
of danger, and elaborate measures were being taken for the protection
of the people in the threatened southwestern suburbs.  And so, with
reiterated assurances of the safety of London and the ability of the
authorities to cope with the difficulty, this quasi-proclamation
closed.

     This was printed in enormous type on paper so fresh that it was
still wet, and there had been no time to add a word of comment.  It
was curious, my brother said, to see how ruthlessly the usual
contents of the paper had been hacked and taken out to give this
place.

     All down Wellington Street people could be seen fluttering out
the pink sheets and reading, and the Strand was suddenly noisy with
the voices of an army of hawkers following these pioneers.  Men came
scrambling off buses to secure copies.  Certainly this news excited
people intensely, whatever their previous apathy.  The shutters of a
map shop in the Strand were being taken down, my brother said, and a
man in his Sunday raiment, lemon-yellow gloves even, was visible
inside the window hastily fastening maps of Surrey to the glass.

     Going on along the Strand to Trafalgar Square, the paper in his
hand, my brother saw some of the fugitives from West Surrey.  There
was a man with his wife and two boys and some articles of furniture
in a cart such as greengrocers use.  He was driving from the
direction of Westminster Bridge; and close behind him came a hay
waggon with five or six respectable-looking people in it, and some
boxes and bundles.  The faces of these people were haggard, and their
entire appearance contrasted conspicuously with the Sabbath-best
appearance of the people on the omnibuses.  People in fashionable
clothing peeped at them out of cabs.  They stopped at the Square as
if undecided which way to take, and finally turned eastward along the
Strand.  Some way behind these came a man in workday clothes, riding
one of those oldfashioned tricycles with a small front wheel.  He was
dirty and white in the face.

     My brother turned down towards Victoria, and met a number of
such people.  He had a vague idea that he might see something of me.
He noticed an unusual number of police regulating the traffic.  Some
of the refugees were exchanging news with the people on the
omnibuses.  One was professing to have seen the Martians.  "Boilers
on stilts, I tell you, striding along like men."  Most of them were
excited and animated by their strange experience.

     Beyond Victoria the public-houses were doing a lively trade with
these arrivals.  At all the street corners groups of people were
reading papers, talking excitedly, or staring at these unusual Sunday
visitors.  They seemed to increase as night drew on, until at last
the roads, my brother said, were like Epsom High Street on a Derby
Day.  My brother addressed several of these fugitives and got
unsatisfactory answers from most.

     None of them could tell him any news of Woking except one man,
who assured him that Woking had been entirely destroyed on the
previous night.

     "I come from Byfleet," he said; "man on a bicycle came through
the place in the early morning, and ran from door to door warning us
to come away.  Then came soldiers.  We went out to look, and there
were clouds of smoke to the south--nothing but smoke, and not a soul
coming that way.  Then we heard the guns at Chertsey, and folks
coming from Weybridge.  So I've locked up my house and come on."

     At the time there was a strong feeling in the streets that the
authorities were to blame for their incapacity to dispose of the
invaders without all this inconvenience.

     About eight o'clock a noise of heavy firing was distinctly
audible all over the south of London.  My brother could not hear it
for the traffic in the main thoroughfares, but by striking through
the quiet back streets to the river he was able to distinguish it
quite plainly.

     He walked from Westminster to his apartments near Regent's Park,
about two.  He was now very anxious on my account, and disturbed at
the evident magnitude of the trouble.  His mind was inclined to run,
even as mine had run on Saturday, on military details.  He thought of
all those silent, expectant guns, of the suddenly nomadic
countryside; he tried to imagine "boilers on stilts" a hundred feet
high.

     There were one or two cartloads of refugees passing along Oxford
Street, and several in the Marylebone Road, but so slowly was the
news spreading that Regent Street and Portland Place were full of
their usual Sunday-night promenaders, albeit they talked in groups,
and along the edge of Regent's Park there were as many silent couples
"walking out" together under the scattered gas lamps as ever there
had been.  The night was warm and still, and a little oppressive; the
sound of guns continued intermittently, and after midnight there
seemed to be sheet lightning in the south.

     He read and re-read the paper, fearing the worst had happened to
me.  He was restless, and after supper prowled out again aimlessly.
He returned and tried in vain to divert his attention to his
examination notes.  He went to bed a little after midnight, and was
awakened from lurid dreams in the small hours of Monday by the sound
of door knockers, feet running in the street, distant drumming, and a
clamour of bells.  Red reflections danced on the ceiling.  For a
moment he lay astonished, wondering whether day had come or the world
gone mad.  Then he jumped out of bed and ran to the window.

     His room was an attic and as he thrust his head out, up and down
the street there were a dozen echoes to the noise of his window sash,
and heads in every kind of night disarray appeared.  Enquiries were
being shouted.  "They are coming!" bawled a policeman, hammering at
the door; "the Martians are coming!" and hurried to the next door.

     The sound of drumming and trumpeting came from the Albany Street
Barracks, and every church within earshot was hard at work killing
sleep with a vehement disorderly tocsin.  There was a noise of doors
opening, and window after window in the houses opposite flashed from
darkness into yellow illumination.

     Up the street came galloping a closed carriage, bursting
abruptly into noise at the corner, rising to a clattering climax
under the window, and dying away slowly in the distance.  Close on
the rear of this came a couple of cabs, the forerunners of a long
procession of flying vehicles, going for the most part to Chalk Farm
station, where the North-Western special trains were loading up,
instead of coming down the gradient into Euston.

     For a long time my brother stared out of the window in blank
astonishment, watching the policemen hammering at door after door,
and delivering their incomprehensible message.  Then the door behind
him opened, and the man who lodged across the landing came in,
dressed only in shirt, trousers, and slippers, his braces loose about
his waist, his hair, disordered from his pillow.

     "What the devil is it?" be asked.  "A fire?  What a devil of a
row!"

     They both craned their heads out of the window, straining to
hear what the policemen were shouting.  People were coming out of the
side streets, and standing in groups at the corners talking.

     "What the devil is it all about?" said my brother's fellow
lodger.

     My brother answered him vaguely and began to dress, running with
each garment to the window in order to miss nothing of the growing
excitement.  And presently men selling unnaturally early newspapers
came bawling into the street:

     "London in danger of suffocation!  The Kingston and Richmond
defences forced!  Fearful massacres in the Thames Valley!"

     And all about him--in the rooms below, in the houses on each
side and across the road, and behind in the Park Terraces and in the
hundred other streets of that part of Marylebone, and the Westbourne
Park district and St. Pancras, and westward and northward in Kilburn
and St. John's Wood and Hampstead, and eastward in Shoreditch and
Highbury and Haggerston and Hoxton, and, indeed, through all the
vastness of London from Ealing to East Ham--people were rubbing their
eyes, and opening windows to stare out and ask aimless questions,
dressing hastily as the first breath of the coming storm of Fear blew
through the streets.  It was the dawn of the great panic.  London,
which had gone to bed on Sunday night oblivious and inert, was
awakened, in the small hours of Monday morning, to a vivid sense of
danger.

     Unable from his window to learn what was happening, my brother
went down and out into the street, just as the sky between the
parapets of the houses grew pink with the early dawn.  The flying
people on foot and in vehicles grew more numerous every moment.
"Black Smoke!" he heard people crying, and again "Black Smoke!"  The
contagion of such a unanimous fear was inevitable.  As my brother
hesitated on the door-step, he saw another news vender approaching,
and got a paper forthwith.  The man was running away with the rest,
and selling his papers for a shilling each as he ran--a grotesque
mingling of profit and panic.

     And from this paper my brother read that catastrophic despatch
of the Commander-in-Chief:

     "The Martians are able to discharge enormous clouds of a black
and poisonous vapour by means of rockets.  They have smothered our
batteries, destroyed Richmond, Kingston, and Wimbledon, and are
advancing slowly towards London, destroying everything on the way.
It is impossible to stop them.  There is no safety from the Black
Smoke but in instant flight."

     That was all, but it was enough.  The whole population of the
great six-million city was stirring, slipping, running; presently it
would be pouring en masse northward.

     "Black Smoke!" the voices cried.  "Fire!"

     The bells of the neighbouring church made a jangling tumult, a
cart carelessly driven smashed, amid shrieks and curses, against the
water trough up the street.  Sickly yellow lights went to and fro in
the houses, and some of the passing cabs flaunted unextinguished
lamps.  And overhead the dawn was growing brighter, clear and steady
and calm.

     He heard footsteps running to and fro in the rooms, and up and
down stairs behind him.  His landlady came to the door, loosely
wrapped in dressing gown and shawl; her husband followed ejaculating.

     As my brother began to realise the import of all these things,
he turned hastily to his own room, put all his available money--some
ten pounds altogether--into his pockets, and went out again into the
streets.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

             Chapter 15: What Had Happened in Surrey

     It was while the curate had sat and talked so wildly to me under
the hedge in the flat meadow's near Halliford, and while my brother
was catching the fugitives stream over Westminster Bridge, that the
Martians had resumed the offensive.  So far as one can ascertain from
the conflicting accounts that have been put forth, the majority of
them remained busied with preparations in the Horsell pit until nine
that night, hurrying on some operation that disengaged huge volumes
of green smoke.

     But three certainly came out about eight o'clock and, advancing
slowly and cautiously, made their way through Byfleet and Pyrford
towards Ripley and Weybridge, and so came in sight of the expectant
batteries against the setting sun.  These Martians did not advance in
a body, but in a line, each perhaps a mile and a half from his
nearest fellow.  They communicated with one another by means of
sirenlike howls, running up and down the scale from one note to
another.

     It was this howling and firing of the guns at Ripley and St.
George's Hill that we had heard at Upper Halliford.  The Ripley
gunners, unseasoned artillery volunteers who ought never to have been
placed in such a position, fired one wild, premature, ineffectual
volley, and bolted on horse and foot through the deserted village,
while the Martian, without using his Heat-Ray, walked serenely over
their guns, stepped gingerly among them, passed in front of them, and
so came unexpectedly upon the guns in Painshill Park, which he
destroyed.

     The St. George's Hill men, however, were better led or of a
better mettle.  Hidden by a pine wood as they were, they seem to have
been quite unsuspected by the Martian nearest to them.  They laid
their guns as deliberately as if they had been on parade, and fired
at about a thousand yards' range.

     The shells flashed all round him, and he was seen to advance a
few paces, stagger, and go down.  Everybody yelled together, and the
guns were reloaded in frantic haste.  The overthrown Martian set up a
prolonged ululation, and immediately a second glittering giant,
answering him appeared over the trees to the south.  It would seem
that a leg of the tripod had been smashed by one of the shells.  The
whole of the second volley flew wide of the Martian on the ground,
and, simultaneously, both his companions brought their Heat-Rays to
bear on the battery.  The ammunition blew up, the pine trees all
about the guns flashed into fire, and only one or two of the men who
were already running over the crest of the hill escaped.

     After this it would seem that the three took counsel together
and halted, and the scouts who were watching them report that they
remained absolutely stationary for the next half hour.  The Martian
who bad been overthrown crawled tediously out of his hood, a small
brown figure, oddly suggestive from that distance of a speck of
blight, and apparently engaged in the repair of his support.  About
nine he had finished, for his cowl was then seen above the trees
again.

     It was a few minutes past nine that night when these three
sentinels were joined by four other Martians, each carrying a thick
black tube.  A similar tube was handed to each of the three, and the
seven proceeded to distribute themselves at equal distances along a
curved line between St. George's Hill, Weybridge, and the village of
Send, southwest of Ripley.

     A dozen rockets sprang out of the hills before them so soon as
they began to move, and warned the waiting batteries about Ditton and
Esher.  At the same time four of their fighting machines, similarly
armed with tubes, crossed the river, and two of them, black against
the western sky, came into sight of myself and the curate as we
hurried wearily and painfully along the road that runs northward out
of Halliford.  They moved, as it seemed to us, upon a cloud, for a
milky mist covered the fields and rose to a third of their height.

     At this sight the curate cried faintly in his throat, and began
running; but I knew it was no good running from a Martian, and I
turned aside and crawled through dewy nettles and brambles into the
broad ditch by the side of the road.  He looked back, saw what I was
doing, and turned to join me.

     The two halted, the nearer to us standing and facing Sunbury,
the remoter being a grey indistinctness towards the evening star,
away towards Staines.

     The occasional howling of the Martians had ceased; they took up
their positions in the huge crescent about their cylinders in
absolute silence.  It was a crescent with twelve miles between its
horns.  Never since the devising of gunpowder was the beginning of a
battle so still.  To us and to an observer about Ripley it would have
had precisely the same effect--the Martians seemed in solitary
possession of the darkling night, lit only as it was by the slender
moon, the stars, the afterglow of the daylight, and the ruddy glare
from St. George's Hill and the woods of Painshill.

     But facing that crescent everywhere--at Staines, Hounslow,
Ditton, Esher, Ockham, behind hills and woods south of the river, and
across the flat grass meadows to the north of it, wherever a cluster
of trees or village houses gave sufficient cover--the guns were
waiting.  The signal rockets burst and rained their sparks through
the night and vanished, and the spirit of all those watching
batteries rose to a tense expectation.  The Martians had but to
advance into the line of fire, and instantly those motionless black
forms of men, those guns glittering so darkly in the early night,
would explode into a thunderous fury of battle.

     No doubt the thought that was uppermost in a thousand of those
vigilant minds, even as it was uppermost in mine, was the riddle--how
much they understood of us.  Did they grasp that we in our millions
were organised, disciplined, working together?  Or did they interpret
our spurts of fire, the sudden stinging of our shells, our steady
investment of their encampment, as we should the furious unanimity of
onslaught in a disturbed hive of bees?  Did they dream they might
exterminate us?  (At that time no one knew what food they needed.)  A
hundred such questions struggled together in my mind as I watched
that vast sentinel shape.  And in the back of my mind was the sense
of all the huge unknown and hidden forces Londonward.  Had they
prepared pitfalls?  Were the powder mills at Hounslow ready as a
snare?  Would the Londoners have the heart and courage to make a
greater Moscow of their mighty province of houses?

     Then, after an interminable time, as it seemed to us, crouching
and peering through the hedge, came a sound like the distant
concussion of a gun.  Another nearer, and then another.  And then the
Martian beside us raised his tube on high and discharged it, gunwise,
with a heavy report that made the ground heave.  The one towards
Staines answered him.  There was no flash, no smoke, simply that
loaded detonation.

     I was so excited by these heavy minute-guns following one
another that I so far forgot my personal safety and my scalded hands
as to clamber up into the hedge and stare towards Sunbury.  As I did
so a second report followed, and a big projectile hurtled overhead
towards Hounslow.  I expected at least to see smoke or fire, or some
such evidence of its work.  But all I saw was the deep blue sky
above, with one solitary star, and the white mist spreading wide and
low beneath.  And there had been no crash, no answering explosion.
The silence was restored; the minute lengthened to three.

     "What has happened?" said the curate, standing up beside me.

     "Heaven knows!" said I.

     A bat flickered by and vanished.  A distant tumult of shouting
began and ceased.  I looked again at the Martian, and saw he was now
moving eastward along the riverbank, with a swift, rolling motion.

     Every moment I expected the fire of some hidden battery to
spring upon him; but the evening calm was unbroken.  The figure of
the Martian grew smaller as he receded, and presently the mist and
the gathering night had swallowed him up.  By a common impulse we
clambered higher.  Towards Sunbury was a dark appearance, as though a
conical hill had suddenly come into being there, hiding our view of
the farther country; and then, remoter across the river, over Walton,
we saw another such summit.  These hill-like forms grew lower and
broader even as we stared.

     Moved by a sudden thought, I looked northward, and there I
perceived a third of these cloudy black kopjes had risen.

     Everything had suddenly became very still.  Far away to the
southeast, marking the quiet, we heard the Martians hooting to one
another, and then the air quivered again with the distant thud of
their guns.  But the earthly artillery made no reply.

     Now at the time we could not understand these things, but later
I was to learn the meaning of these ominous kopjes that gathered in
the twilight.  Each of the Martians, standing in the great crescent I
have described, had discharged, by means of the gunlike tube he
carried, a huge canister over whatever hill, copse, cluster of
houses, or other possible cover for guns, chanced to be in front of
him.  Some fired only one of these, some two--as in the case of the
one we had seen; the one at Ripley is said to have discharged no
fewer than five at that time.  These canisters smashed on striking
the ground--they did not explode --and incontinently disengaged an
enormous volume of heavy, inky vapour, coiling and pouring upward in
a huge and ebony cumulus cloud, a gaseous hill that sank and spread
itself slowly over the surrounding country.  And the touch of that
vapour, the inhaling of its pungent wisps, was death to all that
breathes.

     It was heavy, this vapour, heavier than the densest smoke, so
that, after the first tumultuous uprush and outflow of its impact, it
sank down through the air and poured over the ground in a manner
rather liquid than gaseous, abandoning the hills, and streaming into
the valleys and ditches and watercourses even as I have heard the
carbonic-acid gas that pours from volcanic clefts is wont to do.  And
where it came upon water some chemical action occurred, and the
surface would be instantly covered with a powdery scum that sank
slowly and made way for more.  The scum was absolutely insoluble, and
it is a strange thing, seeing the instant effect of the gas, that one
could drink without hurt the water from which it had been strained.
The vapour did not diffuse as a true gas would do.  It hung together
in banks, flowing sluggishly down the slope of the land and driving
reluctantly before the wind, and very slowly it combined with the
mist and moisture of the air, and sank to the earth in the form of
dust.  Save that an unknown element giving a group of four lines in
the blue of the spectrum is concerned, we are still entirely ignorant
of the nature of this substance.

     Once the tumultuous upheaval of its dispersion was over, the
black smoke clung so closely to the ground, even before its
precipitation, that fifty feet up in the air, on the roofs and upper
stories of high houses and on great trees, there was a chance of
escaping its poison altogether, as was proved even that night at
Street Cobham and Ditton.

     The man who escaped at the former place tells a wonderful story
of the strangeness of its coiling flow, and how he looked down from
the church spire and saw the houses of the village rising like ghosts
out of its inky nothingness.  For a day and a half he remained there,
weary, starving and sun-scorched, the earth under the blue sky and
against the prospect of the distant hills a velvet-black expanse,
with red roofs, green trees, and, later, black-veiled shrubs and
gates, barns, outhouses, and walls, rising here and there into the
sunlight.

     But that was at Street Cobham, where the black vapour was
allowed to remain until it sank of its own accord into the ground As
a rule the Martians, when it had served its purpose, cleared the air
of it again by wading into it and directing a jet of steam upon it.

     This they did with the vapour banks near us, as we saw in the
starlight from the window of a deserted house at Upper Halliford,
whither we had returned.  From there we could see the searchlights on
Richmond Hill and Kingston Hill going to and fro, and about eleven
the windows rattled, and we heard the sound of the huge siege guns
that had been put in position there.  These continued intermittently
for the space of a quarter of an hour, sending chance shots at the
invisible Martians at Hampton and Ditton, and then the pale beams of
the electric light vanished, and were replaced by a bright red glow.

     Then the fourth cylinder fell--a brilliant green meteor--as I
learned afterwards, in Bushey Park.  Before the guns on the Richmond
and Kingston line of hills began, there was a fitful cannonade far
away in the southwest, due, I believe, to guns being fired haphazard
before the black vapour could overwhelm the gunners.

     So, setting about it as methodically as men might smoke out a
wasps' nest, the Martians spread this strange stifling vapour over
the Londonward country.  The horns of the crescent slowly moved
apart, until at last they formed a line front Hanwell to Coombe and
Malden.  All night through their destructive tubes advanced.  Never
once, after the Martian at St. George's Hill was brought down, did
they give the artillery the ghost of a chance against them.  Wherever
there was a possibility of guns being laid for them unseen, a fresh
canister of the black vapour was discharged, and where the guns were
openly displayed the Heat-Ray was brought to bear.

     By midnight the blazing trees along the slopes of Richmond Park
and the glare of Kingston Hill threw their light upon a network of
black smoke, blotting out the whole valley of the Thames and
extending as far as the eye could reach.  And through this two
Martians slowly waded, and turned their hissing steam jets this way
and that.

     They were sparing of the Heat-Ray that night, either because
they had but a limited supply of material for its production or
because they did not wish to destroy the country but only to crush
and overawe the opposition they had aroused.  In the latter aim they
certainly succeeded.  Sunday night was the end of the organised
opposition to their movements.  After that no body of men would stand
against them, so hopeless was the enterprise.  Even the crews of the
torpedo-boats and destroyers that had brought their quick-firers up
the Thames refused to stop, mutinied, and went down again.  The only
offensive operation men ventured upon after that night was the
preparation of mines and pitfalls, and even in that their energies
were frantic and spasmodic.

     One has to imagine, as well as one may, the fate of those
batteries towards Esher, waiting so tensely in the twilight.
Survivors there were none.  One may picture the orderly expectation,
the officers alert and watchful, the gunners ready, the ammunition
piled to hand, the limber gunners with their horses and waggons, the
groups of civilian spectators standing as near as they were
permitted, the evening stillness, the ambulances and hospital tents
with the burned and wounded from Weybridge; then the dull resonance
of the shots the Martians fired, and the clumsy projectile whirling
over the trees and houses and smashing amid the neighbouring fields.

     One may picture, too, the sudden shifting of the attention, the
swiftly spreading coils and bellyings of that blackness advancing
headlong, towering heavenward, turning the twilight to a palpable
darkness, a strange and horrible antagonist of vapour striding upon
its victims, men and horses near it seen dimly, running, shrieking,
falling headlong, shouts of dismay, the guns suddenly abandoned, men
choking and writhing on the ground, and the swift broadening-out of
the opaque cone of smoke.  And then night and extinction--nothing but
a silent mass of impenetrable vapour hiding its dead.

     Before dawn the black vapour was pouring through the streets of
Richmond, and the disintegrating organism of government was, with a
last expiring effort, rousing the population of London to the
necessity of flight.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                Chapter 16: The Exodus from London

     So you understand the roaring wave of fear that swept through
the greatest city in the world just as Monday was dawning--the stream
of flight rising swiftly to a torrent, lashing in a foaming tumult
round the railway stations, banked up into a horrible struggle about
the shipping in the Thames, and hurrying by every available channel
northward and eastward.  By ten o'clock the police organisation, and
by midday even the railway organisations, were losing coherency,
losing shape and efficiency, guttering, softening, running at last in
that swift liquefaction of the social body.

     All the railway lines north of the Thames and the South-Eastern
people at Cannon Street had been warned by midnight on Sunday, and
trains were being filled.  People were fighting savagely for
standing-room in the carriages even at two o'clock.  By three, people
were being trampled and crushed even in Bishopsgate Street, a couple
of hundred yards or more from Liverpool Street station; revolvers
were fired, people stabbed, and the policemen who had been sent to
direct the traffic, exhausted and infuriated, were breaking the heads
of the people they were called out to protect.

     And as the day advanced and the engine drivers and stokers
refused to return to London, the pressure of the flight drove the
people in an ever-thickening multitude away from the stations and
along the northward-running roads.  By midday a Martian had been seen
at Barnes, and a cloud of slowly sinking black vapour drove along the
Thames and across the flats of Lambeth, cutting off all escape over
the bridges in its sluggish advance.  Another bank drove over Ealing,
and surrounded a little island of survivors on Castle Hill, alive,
but unable to escape.

     After a fruitless struggle to get aboard a North-Western train
at Chalk Farm--the engines of the trains that had loaded in the goods
yard there ploughed through shrieking people, and a dozen stalwart
men fought to keep the crowd from crushing the driver against his
furnace--my brother emerged upon the Chalk Farm road, dodged across
through a hurrying swarm of vehicles, and had the luck to be foremost
in the sack of a cycle shop.  The front tire of the machine he got
was punctured in dragging it through the window, but he got up and
off, notwithstanding, with no further injury than a cut wrist.  The
steep foot of Haverstock Hill was impassable owing to several
overturned horses, and my brother struck into Belsize Road.

     So he got out of the fury of the panic, and, skirting the
Edgware Road, reached Edgware about seven, fasting and wearied, but
well ahead of the crowd.  Along the road people were standing in the
roadway, curious, wondering.  He was passed by a number of cyclists,
some horsemen, and two motor cars.  A mile from Edgware the rim of
the wheel broke, and the machine became unridable.  He left it by the
roadside and trudged through the village.  There were shops half
opened in the main street of the place, and people crowded on the
pavement and in the doorways and windows, staring astonished at this
extraordinary procession of fugitives that was beginning.  He
succeeded in getting some food at an inn.

     For a time he remained in Edgware not knowing what next to do.
The flying people increased in number.  Many of them, like my
brother, seemed inclined to loiter in the place.  There was no fresh
news of the invaders from Mars.

     At that time the road was crowded, but as yet far from
congested.  Most of the fugitives at that hour were mounted on
cycles, but there were soon motor cars, hansom cabs, and carriages
hurrying along, and the dust hung in heavy clouds along the road to
St. Albans.

     It was perhaps a vague idea of making his way to Chelmsford,
where some friends of his lived, that at last induced my brother to
strike into a quiet lane running eastward.  Presently he came upon a
stile, and, crossing it, followed a footpath northeastward.  He
passed near several farmhouses and come little places whose names he
did not learn.  He saw few fugitives until, in a grass lane towards
High Barnet, he happened upon two ladies who became his fellow
travellers.  He came upon them just in time to save them.

     He heard their screams, and, hurrying round the corner, saw a
couple of men struggling to drag them out of the little pony-chaise
in which they had been driving, while a third with difficulty held
the frightened pony's head.  One of the ladies, a short woman dressed
in white, was simply screaming; the other, a dark, slender figure,
slashed at the man who gripped her arm with a whip she held in her
disengaged hand.

     My brother immediately grasped the situation, shouted, and
hurried towards the struggle.  One of the men desisted and turned
towards him, and my brother, realising from his antagonist's face
that a fight was unavoidable, and being an expert boxer, went into
him forthwith and sent him down against the wheel of the chaise.

     It was no time for pugilistic chivalry and my brother laid him
quiet with a kick, and gripped the collar of the man who pulled at
the slender lady's arm.  He heard the clatter of hoofs, the whip
stung across his face, a third antagonist struck him between the
eyes, and the man he held wrenched himself free and made off down the
lane in the direction from which he had come.

     Partly stunned, he found himself facing the man who had held the
horse's head, and became aware of the chaise receding from him down
the lane, swaying from side to side, and with the women in it looking
back.  The man before him, a burly rough, tried to close, and he
stopped him with a blow in the face.  Then, realising that he was
deserted, he dodged round and made off down the lane after the
chaise, with the sturdy man close behind him, and the fugitive, who
had turned now, following remotely.

     Suddenly he stumbled and fell; his immediate pursuer went
headlong, and he rose to his feet to find himself with a couple of
antagonists again.  He would have had little chance against them had
not the slender lady very pluckily pulled up and returned to his
help.  It seems she had had a revolver all this time, but it had been
under the seat when she and her companion were attacked.  She fired
at six yards' distance, narrowly missing my brother.  The less
courageous of the robbers made off, and his companion followed him,
cursing his cowardice.  They both stopped in sight down the lane,
where the third man lay insensible.

     "Take this!" said the slender lady, and she gave my brother her
revolver.

     "Go back to the chaise," said my brother, wiping the blood from
his split lip.

     She turned without a word--they were both panting--and they went
back to where the lady in white struggled to hold back the frightened
pony.

     The robbers had evidently had enough of it.  When my brother
looked again they were retreating.

     "I'll sit here," said my brother, "if I may"; and he got upon
the empty front seat.  The lady looked over her shoulder.

     "Give me the reins," she said, and laid the whip along the
pony's side.  In another moment a bend in the road hid the three men
from my brother's eyes.

     So, quite unexpectedly, my brother found himself, panting, with
a cut mouth, a bruised jaw, and blood-stained knuckles, driving along
an unknown lane with these two women.

     He learned they were the wife and the younger sister of a
surgeon living at Stanmore, who had come in the small hours from a
dangerous case at Pinner, and heard at some railway station on his
way of the Martian advance.  He had hurried home, roused the
women--their servant had left them two days before--packed some
provisions, put his revolver under the seat--luckily for my
brother--and told them to drive on to Edgware, with the idea of
getting a train there.  He stopped behind to tell the neighbours.  He
would overtake them, he said, at about half past four in the morning,
and now it was nearly nine and they had seen nothing of him.  They
could not stop in Edgware because of the growing traffic through the
place, and so they had come into this side lane.

     That was the story they told my brother in fragments when
presently they stopped again, nearer to New Barnet.  He promised to
stay with them, at least until they could determine what to do, or
until the missing man arrived, and professed to be an expert shot
with the revolver--a weapon strange to him--in order to give them
confidence.

     They made a sort of encampment by the wayside, and the pony
became happy in the hedge.  He told them of his own escape out of
London, and all that he knew of these Martians and their ways.  The
sun crept higher in the sky, and after a time their talk died out and
gave place to an uneasy state of anticipation.  Several wayfarers
came along the lane, and of these my brother gathered such news as he
could.  Every broken answer he had deepened his impression of the
great disaster that had come on humanity, deepened his persuasion of
the immediate necessity for prosecuting this flight.  He urged the
matter upon them.

     "We have money," said the slender woman, and hesitated.

     Her eyes met my brother's, and her hesitation ended.

     "So have I," said my brother.

     She explained that they had as much as thirty pounds in gold,
besides a five-pound note, and suggested that with that they might
get upon a train at St. Albans or New Barnet.  My brother thought
that was hopeless, seeing the fury of the Londoners to crowd upon the
trains, and broached his own idea of striking across Essex towards
Harwich and thence escaping from the country altogether.

     Mrs. Elphinstone--that was the name of the woman in white--would
listen to no reasoning, and kept calling upon "George"; but her
sister-in-law was astonishingly quiet and deliberate, and at last
agreed to my brother's suggestion.  So, designing to cross the Great
North Road, they went on towards Barnet, my brother leading the pony
to save it as much as possible.

     As the sun crept up the sky the day became excessively hot, and
under foot a thick, whitish sand grew burning and blinding, so that
they travelled only very slowly.  The hedges were grey with dust.
And as they advanced towards Barnet a tumultuous murmuring grew
stronger.

     They began to meet more people.  For the most part these were
staring before them, murmuring indistinct questions, jaded, haggard,
unclean.  One man in evening dress passed them on foot, his eyes on
the ground.  They heard his voice, and, looking back at him, saw one
hand clutched in his hair and the other beating invisible things.
His paroxysm of rage over, be went on his way without once looking
back.

     As my brother's party went on towards the crossroads to the
south of Barnet they saw a woman approaching the road across some
fields on their left, carrying a child and with two other children;
and then passed a man in dirty black, with a thick stick in one hand
and a small portmanteau in the other.  Then round the corner of the
lane, from between the villas that guarded it at its confluence with
the highroad, came a little, cart drawn by a sweating black pony and
driven by a sallow youth in a bowler hat, grey with dust.  There were
three girls, East End factory girls, and a couple of little children
crowded in the cart.

     "This'll tike us rahnd Edgware?" asked the driver, wild-eyed,
white-faced; and when my brother told him it would if he turned to
the left, he whipped up at once without the formality of thanks.

     My brother noticed a pale grey smoke or haze rising among the
houses in front of them, and veiling the white facade of a terrace
beyond the road that appeared between the backs of the villas.  Mrs.
Elphinstone suddenly cried out at a number of tongues of smoky red
flame leaping up above the houses in front of them against the hot,
blue sky.  The tumultuous noise resolved itself now into the
disorderly mangling of many voices, the gride of many wheels, the
creaking of waggons, and the staccato of hoofs.  The lane came round
sharply not fifty yards from the crossroads.

     "Good heavens!" cried Mrs. Elphinstone.  "What is this you are
driving us into?"

     My brother stopped.

     For the main road was a boiling stream of people, a torrent of
human beings rushing northward, one pressing on another.  A great
bank of dust, white and luminous in the blaze of the sun, made
everything within twenty feet of the ground grey and indistinct and
was perpetually renewed by the hurrying feet of a dense crowd of
horses and of men and women on foot, and by the wheels of vehicles of
every description.

     "Way!" my brother heard voices crying. "Make way!"

     It was like riding into the smoke of a fire to approach the
meeting point of the lane and road; the crowd roared like a fire, and
the dust was hot and pungent.  And, indeed, a little way up the road
a villa was burning and sending rolling masses of black smoke across
the road to add to the confusion.

     Two men came past them.  Then a dirty woman, carrying a heavy
bundle and weeping.  A lost retriever dog, with hanging tongue,
circled dubiously round them, scared and wretched, and fled at my
brother's threat.

     So much as they could see of the road Londonward between the
houses to the right was a tumultuous stream of dirty, hurrying
people, pent in between the villas on either side; the black heads,
the crowded forms, grew into distinctness as they rushed towards the
corner, hurried past, and merged their individuality again in a
receding multitude that was swallowed up at last in a cloud of dust.

     "Go on!  Go on!" cried the voices. "Way!  Way!"

     One man's hands pressed on the back of another.  My brother
stood at the pony's head.  Irresistibly attracted, he advanced
slowly, pace by pace, down the lane.

     Edgware had been a scene of confusion, Chalk Farm a riotous
tumult, but this was a whole population in movement.  It is hard to
imagine that host.  It had no character of its own.  The figures
poured out past the corner, and receded with their backs to the group
in the lane.  Along the margin came those who were on foot threatened
by the wheels, stumbling in the ditches, blundering into one another.

     The carts and carriages crowded close upon one another, making
little way for those swifter and more impatient vehicles that darted
forward every now and then when an opportunity showed itself of doing
so, sending the people scattering against the fences and gates of the
villas.

     "Push on!" was the cry. "Push on!  They are coming!"

     In one cart stood a blind man in the uniform of the Salvation
Army, gesticulating with his crooked fingers and bawling, "Eternity!
Eternity!" His voice was hoarse and very loud so that my brother
could hear him long after he was lost to sight in the dust.  Some of
the people who crowded in the carts whipped stupidly at their horse;
and quarrelled with other drivers; some sat motionless, staring at
nothing with miserable eyes; some gnawed their hands with thirst, or
lay prostrate in the bottoms of their conveyances.  The horses' bits
were covered with foam, their eyes bloodshot.

     There were cabs, carriages, shop cars, waggons, beyond counting;
a mail cart, a road-cleaner's cart marked "Vestry of St.  Pancras," a
huge timber waggon crowded with roughs.  A brewer's dray rumbled by
with its two near wheels splashed with fresh blood.

     "Clear the way!" cried the voice "Clear the way!"

     "Eter-nity!  Eter-nity!" came echoing down the road.

     There were sad, haggard women tramping by, well dressed, with
children that cried and stumbled, their dainty clothes smothered in
dust, their weary faces smeared with tears.  With many of these came
men, sometimes helpful, sometimes lowering and savage.  Fighting side
by side with them pushed some weary street outcast in faded black
rags, wide-eyed, loud-voiced, and foul-mouthed.  There were sturdy
workmen thrusting their way along, wretched, unkempt men, clothed
like clerks or shopmen, struggling spasmodically; a wounded soldier
my brother noticed, men dressed in the clothes of railway potters,
one wretched creature in a nightshirt with a coat thrown over it.

     But varied as its composition was, certain things all that host
had in common.  There were fear and pain on their faces, and fear
behind them.  A tumult up the road, a quarrel for a place in a
waggon, sent the whole host of them quickening their pace; even a man
so scared and broken that his knees bent under him was galvanised for
a moment into renewed activity.  The heat and dust had already been
at work upon this multitude.  Their skins were dry, their lips black
and cracked.  They were all thirsty, weary, and footsore.  And amid
the various cries one heard disputes, reproaches, groans of weariness
and fatigue; the voices of most of them were hoarse and weak.
Through it all ran a refrain:

     "Way!  Way!  The Martians are coming!"

     Few stopped and came aside from that flood.  The lane opened
slantingly into the main road with a narrow opening, and had a
delusive appearance of coming from the direction of London.  Yet a
kind of eddy of people drove into its mouth; weaklings elbowed out of
the stream, who for the most part rested but a moment before plunging
into it again.  A little way down the lane, with two friends bending
over him, lay a man with a bare leg, wrapped about with bloody rags.
He was a lucky man to have friends.

     A little old man, with a grey military moustache and a filthy
black frock coat, limped out and sat down beside the trap, removed
his boot--his sock was blood-stained--shook out a pebble, and hobbled
on again; and then a little girl of eight or nine, all alone, threw
herself under the hedge close by my brother, weeping.

     "I can't go on!  I can't go on!"

     My brother woke front his torpor of astonishment and lifted her
up, speaking gently to her, and carried her to Miss Elphinstone.  So
soon as my brother touched her she became quite still, as if
frightened.

     "Ellen!" shrieked a woman in the crowd, with tears in her
voice--"Ellen!"  And the child suddenly darted away from my brother,
crying "Mother!"

     "They are coming," said a man on horseback, riding past along
the lane.

     Out of the way, there!" bawled a coachman, towering high; and my
brother saw a closed carriage turning into the lane.

     The people crushed back on one another to avoid the horse.  My
brother pushed the pony and chaise hack into the hedge, and the man
drove by and stopped at the turn of the way.  It was a carriage, with
a pole for a pair of horses, but only one was in the traces.  My
brother saw dimly through the dust that two men lifted out something
on a white stretcher and put it gently on the grass beneath the
privet hedge.

     One of the men came running to my brother.

     "Where is there any water?" he said.  "He is dying fast, and
very thirsty.  It is Lord Garrick."

     "Lord Garrick!" said my brother; "the Chief Justice?"

     "The water?" he said.

     "There may be a tap," said my brother, "in some of the houses.
We have no water.  I dare not leave my people."

     The man pushed against the crowd towards the gate of the corner
house.

     "Go on!" said the people, thrusting at him.  "They are coming!
Go on."

     Then my brother's attention was distracted by a bearded,
eagle-faced man lugging a small handbag, which split even as my
brother's eyes rested on it and disgorged a mass of sovereigns that
seemed to break up into separate coins as it struck the ground.  They
rolled hither and thither among the struggling feet of men and
horses.  The man stopped and looked stupidly at the heap, and the
shaft of a cab struck his shoulder and sent him reeling.  He gave a
shriek and dodged back, and a wheel shaved him narrowly.

     "Way!" cried the men all about him.  "Make way!"

     So soon as the cab had passed, he flung himself, with both hands
open, upon the heap of coins, and began thrusting handfuls in his
pocket.  A horse rose close upon him, and in another moment, half
rising, he had been borne down under the horse's hoofs.

     "Stop!" screamed my brother, and pushing a woman out of his way,
tried to clutch the bit of the horse.

     Before he could get to it, he heard a scream under the wheels,
and saw through the dust the rim passing over the poor wretch's back.
The driver of the cart slashed his whip at my brother, who ran round
behind the cart.  The multitudinous shouting confused his ears.  The
man was writhing in the dust among his scattered money, unable to
rise, for the wheel had broken his back, and his lower limbs lay limp
and dead.  My brother stood up and yelled at the next driver, and a
man on a black horse came to his assistance.

     "Get him out of the road," said he; and, clutching the man's
collar with his free hand, my brother lugged him sideways.  But he
still clutched after his money, and regarded my brother fiercely,
hammering at his arm with a handful of gold.  "Go on!  Go on!"
shouted angry voices behind.  "Way!  Way!"

     There was a smash as the pole of a carriage crashed into the
cart that the man on horseback stopped.  My brother looked up, and
the man with the gold twisted his head round and bit the wrist that
held his collar.  There was a concussion, and the black horse came
staggering sideways, and the carthorse pushed beside it.  A hoof
missed my brother's foot by a hair's breadth.  He released his grip
on the fallen man and jumped back.  He saw anger change to terror on
the face of the poor wretch on the ground, and in a moment he was
hidden and my brother was borne backward and carried past the
entrance of the lane, and had to fight hard in the torrent to recover
it.

     He saw Miss Elphinstone covering her eyes, and a little child,
with all a child's want of sympathetic imagination, staring with
dilated eyes at a dusty something that lay black and still, ground
and crushed under the rolling wheels.  "Let us go back!" he shouted,
and began turning the pony round.  "We cannot cross this--hell," he
said and they went back a hundred yards the way they had come, until
the fighting crowd was hidden.  As they passed the bend in the lane
my brother saw the face of the dying man in the ditch under the
privet, deadly white and drawn, and shining with perspiration.  The
two women sat silent, crouching in their seat and shivering.

     Then beyond the bend my brother stopped again.  Miss Elphinstone
was white and pale, and her sister-in-law sat weeping, too wretched
even to call upon "George."  My brother was horrified and perplexed.
So soon as they had retreated he realized how urgent and unavoidable
it was to attempt this crossing.  He turned to Miss Elphinstone,
suddenly resolute.

     "We must go that way," he said, and led the pony round again.

     For the second time that day this girl proved her quality.  To
force their way into the torrent of people, my brother plunged into
the traffic and held back a cab horse, while she drove the pony
across its head.  A waggon locked wheels for a moment and ripped a
long splinter from the chaise.  In another moment they were caught
and swept forward by the stream.  My brother, with the cabman's whip
marks red across his face and hands, scrambled into the chaise and
took the reins from her.

     "Point the revolver at the man behind," he said, giving it to
her, "if he presses us too hard.  No!--point it at his horse."

     Then he began to look out for a chance of edging to the right
across the road.  But once in the stream he seemed to lose volition,
to become a part of that dusty rout.  They swept through Chipping
Barnet with the torrent; the were nearly a mile beyond the centre of
the town before they had fought across to the opposite side of the
way.  It was din and confusion indescribable; but in and beyond the
town the road forks repeatedly, and this to some extent relieved the
stress.

     They struck eastward through Hadley, and there on either side of
the road, and at another place farther on they came upon a great
multitude of people drinking at the stream, some fighting to come at
the water.  And farther on, from a hill near East Barnet, they saw
two trains running slowly one after the other without signal or
order--trains swarming with people, with men even among the coals
behind the engine--going northward along the Great Northern Railway.
My brother supposes they must have filled outside London, for at that
time the furious terror of the people had rendered the central
termini impossible.

     Near this place they halted for the rest of the afternoon, for
the violence of the day had already utterly exhausted all three of
them.  They began to suffer the beginnings of hunger; the night was
cold, and none of them dared to sleep.  And in the evening many
people came hurrying along the road near by their stopping place,
fleeing from unknown dangers before them, and going in the direction
from which my brother had come.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 1

                 Chapter 17: The "Thunder Child"

     Had the Martians aimed only at destruction, they might on Monday
have annihilated the entire population of London, as it spread itself
slowly through the home counties.  Not only along the road through
Barnet, but also through Edgware and Waltham Abbey, and along the
roads eastward to Southend and Shoeburyness, and south of the Thames
to Deal and Broadstairs, poured the same frantic rout.  If one could
have hung that June morning in a balloon in the blazing blue above
London every northward and eastward road running out of the tangled
maze of streets would have seemed stippled black with the streaming
fugitives, each dot a human agony of terror and physical distress.  I
have set forth at length in the last chapter my brother's account of
the road through Chipping Barnet, in order that my readers may
realise how that swarming of black dots appeared to one of those
concerned.  Never before in the history of the world had such a mass
of human beings moved and suffered together.  The legendary hosts of
Goths and Huns, the hugest armies Asia has ever seen, would have been
but a drop in that current.  And this was no disciplined march; it
was a stampede--a stampede gigantic and terrible--without order and
without a goal, six million people unarmed and unprovisioned, driving
headlong.  It was the beginning of the rout of civilisation, of the
massacre of mankind.

     Directly below him the balloonist would have seen the network of
streets far and wide, houses, churches, squares, crescents,
gardens--already derelict--spread out like a huge map, and in the
southward blotted.  Over Ealing, Richmond, Wimbledon, it would have
seemed as if some monstrous pen had flung ink upon the chart.
Steadily, incessantly, each black splash grew and spread, shooting
out ramifications this way and that, now banking itself against
rising ground, now pouring swiftly over a crest into a new-found
valley, exactly as a gout of ink would spread itself upon blotting
paper.

     And beyond, over the blue hills that rise southward of the
river, the glittering Martians went to and fro, calmly and
methodically spreading their poison cloud over this patch of country
and then over that, laying it again with their steam jets when it had
served its purpose, and taking possession of the conquered country.
They do not seem to have aimed at extermination so much as at
complete demoralisation and the destruction of any opposition.  They
exploded any stores of powder they came upon, cut every telegraph,
and wrecked the railways here and there.  They were hamstringing
mankind.  They seemed in no hurry to extend the field of their
operations, and did not come beyond the central part of London all
that day.  It is possible that a very considerable number of people
in London stuck to their houses through Monday morning.  Certain it
is that many died at home suffocated by the Black Smoke.

     Until about midday the Pool of London was an astonishing scene.
Steamboats and shipping of all sorts lay there, tempted by the
enormous sums of money offered by fugitives, and it is said that many
who swam out to these vessels were thrust off with boathooks and
drowned.  About one o'clock in the afternoon the thinning remnant of
a cloud of the black vapour appeared between the arches of
Blackfriars Bridge.  At that the Pool became a scene of mad
confusion, fighting, and collision, and for some time a multitude of
boats and barges jammed in the northern arch of the Tower Bridge, and
the sailors and lightermen had to fight savagely against the people
who swarmed upon them from the riverfront.  People were actually
clambering down the piers of the bridge from above.

     When, an hour later, a Martian appeared beyond the Clock Tower
and waded down the river, nothing but wreckage floated above
Limehouse.

     Of the falling of the fifth cylinder I have presently to tell.
The sixth star fell at Wimbledon.  My brother, keeping watch beside
the women in the chaise in a meadow, saw the green flash of it far
beyond the hills.  On Tuesday the little party, still set upon
getting across the sea, made its way through the swarming country
towards Colchester.  The news that the Martians were now in
possession of the whole of London was confirmed.  They had been seen
at Highgate, and even, it was said, at Neasden.  But they did not
come into my brother's view until the morrow.

     That day the scattered multitudes began to realise the urgent
need of provisions.  As they grew hungry the rights of property
ceased to be regarded.  Farmers went out to defend their
cattle-sheds, granaries, and ripening root crops with arms in their
hands.  A number of people now, like my brother, had their faces
eastward, an there were some desperate souls even going back towards
London to get food.  These were chiefly people from the northern
suburbs whose knowledge of the Black Smoke came by hearsay.  He heard
that about half the members of the government had gathered at
Birmingham, and that enormous quantities of high explosives were
being prepared to be used in automatic mines across the Midland
counties.

     He was also told that the Midland Railway Company had replaced
the desertions of the first day's panic, had resumed traffic, and was
running northward trains from St. Albans to relieve the congestion of
the home counties.  There was also a placard in Chipping Ongar
announcing that large stores of flour were available in the northern
towns and that within twenty-four hours bread would be distributed
among the starving people in the neighbourhood.  But this
intelligence did not deter him from the plan of escape he had formed,
and the three pressed eastward all day, and heard no more of the
bread distribution than this promise.  Nor, as a matter of fact, did
anyone else hear more of it.  That night fell the seventh star,
falling upon Primrose Hill.  It fell while Miss Elphinstone was
watching, for she took that duty, alternately with my brother.  She
saw it.

     On Wednesday the three fugitives--they had passed the night in a
field of unripe wheat--reached Chelmsford, and there a body of the
inhabitants, calling itself the Committee of Public Supply, seized
the pony as provisions, and would give nothing in exchange for it but
the promise of a share in it the next day.  Here there were rumours
of Martians at Epping, and news of the destruction of Waltham Abbey
Powder Mills in a vain attempt to blow up one of the invaders.

     People were watching for Martians here from the church towers.
My brother, very luckily for him as it chanced, preferred to push on
at once to the coast rather than wait for food, although all three of
them were very hungry.  By midday they passed through Tillingham,
which, strangely enough, seemed to be quite silent and deserted, save
for a few furtive plunderers hunting for food.  Near Tillingham they
suddenly came in sight of the sea, and the most amazing crowd of
shipping of all sorts that it is possible to imagine.

     For after the sailors could no longer come up the Thames, they
came on to the Essex coast, to Harwich and Walton and Clacton, and
afterwards to Foulness and Shoebury, to bring off the people.  They
lay in a huge sickle-shaped curve that vanished into mist at last
towards the Naze.  Close inshore was a multitude of fishing
smacks-English, Scotch, French, Dutch, and Swedish; steam launches
from the Thames, yachts, electric boats; and beyond were ships of
large burden, a multitude of filthy colliers, trim merchantmen,
cattle ships, passenger boats, petroleum tanks, ocean tramps, an old
white transport even, neat white and grey liners from Southampton and
Hamburg; and along the blue coast across the Blackwater my brother
could make out dimly a dense swarm of boats chaffering with the
people on the beach, a swarm which also extended up the Blackwater
almost to Maldon.

     About a couple of miles out lay an ironclad, very low in the
water, almost, to my brother's perception, like a water-logged ship.
This was the ram Thunder Child.  It was the only warship in sight,
but far away to the right over the smooth surface of the sea--for
that day there was a dead calm--lay a serpent of black smoke to mark
the next ironclads of the Channel Fleet, which hovered in an extended
line, steam up and ready for action, across the Thames estuary during
the course of the Martian conquest, vigilant and yet powerless to
prevent it.

     At the sight of the sea, Mrs. Elphinstone, in spite of the
assurances of her sister-in-law, gave way to panic.  She had never
been out of England before, she would rather die than trust herself
friendless in a foreign country, and so forth.  She seemed, poor
woman, to imagine that the French and the Martians might prove very
similar.  She had been growing increasingly hysterical, fearful, and
depressed during the two days' journeyings.  Her great idea was to
return to Stanmore.  Things had been always well and safe at
Stanmore.  They would find George at Stanmore.

     It was with the greatest difficulty they could get her down to
the beach where presently my brother succeeded in attracting the
attention of some men on a paddle steamer from the Thames.  They sent
a boat and drove a bargain for thirty-six pounds for the three.  The
steamer was going, these men said, to Ostend.

     It was about two o'clock when my brother, having paid their
frees at the gangway, found himself safely aboard the steamboat with
his charges.  There was food aboard, albeit at exorbitant prices, and
the three of them contrived to eat a meal on one of the seats
forward.

     There were already a couple of score of passengers aboard, some
of whom had expended their last money in securing a passage, but the
captain lay off the Blackwater until five in the afternoon, picking
up passengers until the seated decks were even dangerously crowded.
He would probably have remained longer had it not been for the sound
of guns that began about that hour in the south.  As if in answer,
the ironclad seaward fired a small gun and hoisted a string of flags.
A jet of smoke sprang out of her funnels.

     Some of the passengers were of opinion that this firing came
from Shoeburyness, until it was noticed that it was growing louder.
At the same time, far away in the southeast the masts and upperworks
of three ironclads rose one after the other out of the sea, beneath
clouds of black smoke.  But my brother's attention speedily reverted
to the distant firing in the south.  He fancied he saw a column of
smoke rising out of the distant grey haze.

     The little steamer was already flapping her way eastward of the
big crescent of shipping, and the low Essex coast was growing blue
and hazy, when a Martian appeared, small and faint in the remote
distance, advancing along the muddy coast from the direction of
Foulness.  At that the captain on the bridge swore at the top of his
voice with fear and anger at his own delay, and the paddles seemed
infected with his terror.  Every soul aboard stood at the bulwarks or
on the seats of the steamer and stared at that distant shape, higher
than the trees or church towers inland, and advancing with a
leisurely parody of a human stride.

     It was the first Martian my brother had seen, and he stood, more
amazed than terrified, watching this Titan advancing deliberately
towards the shipping, wading farther and farther into the water as
the coast fell away.  Then, far away beyond the Crouch, came another,
striding over some stunted trees, and then yet another, still farther
off, wading deeply through a shiny mudflat that seemed to hang
halfway up between sea and sky.  They were all stalking seaward, as
if to intercept the escape of the multitudinous vessels that were
crowded between Foulness and the Naze.  In spite of the throbbing
exertions of the engines of the little paddleboat, and the pouring
foam that her wheels flung behind her, she receded with terrifying
slowness from this ominous advance.

     Glancing northwestward, my brother saw the large crescent of
shipping already writhing with the approaching terror; one ship
passing behind another, another coming round from broadside to end
on, steamships whistling and giving off volumes of steam, sails being
let out, launches rushing hither and thither.  He was so fascinated
by this and by the creeping danger away to the left that he had no
eyes for anything seaward.  And then a swift movement of the
steamboat (she had suddenly come round to avoid being run down) flung
him headlong from the seat upon which he was standing.  There was a
shouting all about him, a trampling of feet, and a cheer that seemed
to be answered faintly.  The steamboat lurched and rolled him over
upon his hands.

     He sprang to his feet and saw to starboard, and not a hundred
yards from their heeling, pitching boat, a vast iron bulk like the
blade of a plough tearing through the water, tossing it on either
side in huge waves of foam that leaped towards the steamer, flinging
her paddles helplessly in the air, and then sucking her deck down
almost to the waterline.

     A douche of spray blinded my brother for a moment.  When his
eyes were clear again he saw the monster had passed and was rushing
landward.  Big iron upperworks rose out of this headlong structure,
and from that twin funnels projected and spat a smoking blast shot
with fire.  It was the torpedo ram, Thunder Child, steaming headlong,
coming to the rescue of the threatened shipping.

     Keeping his footing on the heaving deck by clutching the
bulwarks, my brother looked past this charging leviathan at the
Martians again, and he saw the three of them now close together, and
standing so far out to sea that their tripod supports were almost
entirely submerged.  Thus sunken, and seen in remote perspective,
they appeared far less formidable than the huge iron bulk in whose
wake the steamer was pitching so helplessly.  It would seem they were
regarding this new antagonist with astonishment.  To their
intelligence, it may be, the giant was even such another as
themselves.  The Thunder Child fired no gun, but simply drove full
speed towards them.  It was probably her not firing that enabled her
to get so near the enemy as she did.  They did not know what to make
of her.  One shell, and they would have sent her to the bottom
forthwith with the Heat-Ray.

     She was steaming at such a pace that in a minute she seemed
halfway between the steamboat and the Martians--a diminishing black
bulk against the receding horizontal expanse of the Essex coast.

     Suddenly the foremost Martian lowered his tube and discharged a
canister of the black gas at the ironclad.  It hit her larboard side
and glanced off in an inky jet that rolled away to seaward, an
unfolding torrent of Black Smoke, from which the ironclad drove
clear.  To the watchers from the steamer, low in the water and with
the sun in their eyes, it seemed as though she were already among the
Martians.

     They saw the gaunt figures separating and rising out of the
water as they retreated shoreward, and one of them raised the
camera-like generator of the Heat-Ray.  He held it pointing obliquely
downward, and a bank of steam sprang from the water at its touch.  It
must have driven through the iron of the ship's side like a white-hot
iron rod through paper.

     A flicker of flame went up through the rising steam, and then
the Martian reeled and staggered.  In another moment he was cut down,
and a great body of water and steam shot high in the air.  The guns
of the Thunder Child sounded through the reek, going off one after
the other, and one shot splashed the water high close by the steamer,
ricocheted towards the other flying ships to the north, and smashed a
smack to matchwood.

     But no one heeded that very much.  At the sight of the Martian's
collapse the captain on the bridge yelled inarticulately, and all the
crowding passengers on the steamer's stern shouted together.  And
then they yelled again.  For, surging out beyond the white tumult,
drove something long and black, the flames streaming from its middle
parts, its ventilators and funnels spouting fire.

     She was alive still; the steering gear, it seems, was intact and
her engines working.  She headed straight for a second Martian, and
was within a hundred yards of him when the Heat-Ray came to bear.
Then with a violent thud, a blinding flash, her decks, her funnels,
leaped upward.  The Martian staggered with the violence of her
explosion, and in another moment the flaming wreckage, still driving
forward with the impetus of its pace, had struck him and crumpled him
up like a thing of cardboard: My brother shouted involuntarily.  A
boiling tumult of steam hid everything again.

     "Two!" yelled the captain.

     Everyone was shouting.  The whole steamer from end to end rang
with frantic cheering that was taken up first by one and then by all
in the crowding multitude of ships and boats that was driving out to
sea.

     The steam hung upon the water for many minutes, hiding the third
Martian and the coast altogether.  And all this time the boat was
paddling steadily out to sea and away from the fight; and when at
last the confusion cleared, the drifting bank of black vapour
intervened, and nothing of the Thunder Child could be made out, nor
could the third Martian be seen.  But the ironclads to seaward were
now quite close and standing in towards shore past the steamboat.

     The little vessel continued to beat its way seaward, and the
ironclads receded slowly towards the coast, which was hidden still by
a marbled bank of vapour, part steam, part black gas, eddying and
combining in the strangest way.  The fleet of refugees was scattering
to the northeast; several smacks were sailing between the ironclads
and the steamboat.  After a time, and before they reached the sinking
cloud bank, the warships turned northward, and then abruptly went
about and passed into the thickening haze of evening southward.  The
coast grew faint, and at last indistinguishable amid the low banks of
clouds that were gathering about the sinking sun.

     Then suddenly out of the golden haze of the sunset came the
vibration of guns, and a form of black shadows moving.  Everyone
struggled to the rail of the steamer and peered into the blinding
furnace of the west, but nothing was to be distinguished clearly.  A
mass of smoke rose slanting and barred the face of the sun.  The
steamboat throbbed on its way through an interminable suspense.

     The sun sank into grey clouds, the sky flushed and darkened, the
evening star trembled into sight.  It was deep twilight when the
captain cried out and pointed.  My brother strained his eyes.
Something rushed up into the sky out of the greyness--rushed
slantingly upward and very swiftly into the luminous clearness above
the clouds in the western sky; something flat and broad, and very
large, that swept round in a vast curve, grew smaller, sank slowly,
and vanished again into the grey mystery of the night.  And as it
flew it rained down darkness upon the land.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

                      Chapter 1: Under Foot

     In the first book I have wandered so much from my own adventures
to tell of the experiences of my brother that all through the last
two chapters I and the curate have been lurking in the empty house at
Halliford whither we fled to escape the Black Smoke.  There I will
resume.  We stopped there all Sunday night and all the next day--the
day of the panic--in a little island of daylight, cut off by the
Black Smoke from the rest of the world.  We could do nothing but wait
in aching inactivity during those two weary days.

     My mind was occupied by anxiety for my wife.  I figured her at
Leatherhead, terrified, in danger, mourning me already as a dead man.
I paced the rooms and cried aloud when I though of how I was cut off
from her, of all that might happen to her in my absence.  My cousin I
knew was brave enough for any emergency, but he was not the sort of
man to realise danger quickly, to rise promptly.  What was needed now
was not bravery, but circumspection.  My only consolation was to
believe that the Martians were moving Londonward and away from her.
Such vague anxieties keep the mind sensitive and painful.  I grew
very weary and irritable with the curate's perpetual ejaculations; I
tired of the sight of his selfish despair.  After some ineffectual
remonstrance I kept away from him, staying in a room--evidently a
children's schoolroom --containing globes, forms, and copybooks.
When he followed me thither, I went to a box room at the top of the
house and, in order to be alone with my aching miseries, locked
myself in.

     We were hopelessly hemmed in by the Black Smoke all that day and
the morning of the next.  There were signs of people in the next
house on Sunday evening--a face at a window and moving lights, and
later the slamming of a door.  But I do not know who these people
were, nor what became of them.  We saw nothing of them next day.  The
Black Smoke drifted slowly riverward all through Monday morning,
creeping nearer and nearer to us, driving at last along the roadway
outside the house that hid us.

     A Martian came across the fields about midday, laying the stuff
with a jet of superheated steam that hissed against the walls,
smashed all the windows it touched, and scalded the curate's hand as
he fled out of the front room.  When at last we crept across the
sodden rooms and looked out again, the country northward was as
though a black snowstorm had passed over it.  Looking towards the
river, we were astonished to see an unaccountable redness mingling
with the black of the scorched meadows.

     For a time we did not see how this change affected our
situation, save that we were relieved of our fear of the Black Smoke.
But later I perceived that we were no longer hemmed in, that now we
might get away.  So soon as I realised that the way of escape was
open, my dream of action returned.  But the curate was lethargic,
unreasonable.

     "We are safe here," he repeated; "safe here."

     I resolved to leave him--would that I had!  Wiser now for the
artilleryman's teaching, I sought out food and drink.  I had found
oil and rags for my burns, and I also took a hat and a flannel shirt
that I found in one of the bedrooms.  When it was clear to him that I
meant to go alone--had reconciled myself to going alone--he suddenly
roused himself to come.  And all being quiet throughout the
afternoon, we started about five o'clock, as I should judge, along
the blackened road to Sunbury.

     In Sunbury, and at intervals along the road, were dead bodies
lying in contorted attitudes, horses as well as men, overturned carts
and luggage, all covered thickly with black dust.  That pall of
cindery powder made me think of what I had read of the destruction of
Pompeii.  We got to Hampton Court without misadventure, our minds
full of strange and unfamiliar appearances, and at Hampton Court our
eyes were relieved to find a patch of green that had escaped the
suffocating drift.  We went through Bushey Park, with its deer going
to and fro under the chestnuts, and some men and women hurrying in
the distance towards Hampton, and so we came to Twickenham.  These
were the first people we saw.

     Away across the road the woods beyond Ham and Petersham were
still afire.  Twickenham was uninjured by either Heat-Ray or Black
Smoke, and there were more people about here, though none could give
us news.  For the most part they were like ourselves, taking
advantage of a lull to shift their quarters.  I have an impression
that many of the houses here were still occupied by scared
inhabitants, too frightened even for flight.  Here, too, the evidence
of a hasty rout was abundant along the road.  I remember most vividly
three smashed bicycles in a heap, pounded into the road by the wheels
of subsequent carts.  We crossed Richmond Bridge about half past
eight.  We hurried across the exposed bridge, of course, but I
noticed floating down the stream a number of red masses, some many
feet across.  I did not know what these were--there was no time for
scrutiny--and I put a more horrible interpretation on them than they
deserved.  Here again on the Surrey side were black dust that had
once been smoke, and dead bodies--a heap near the approach to the
station; but we had no glimpse of the Martians until we were some way
towards Barnes.

     We saw in the blackened distance a group of three people running
down a side street towards the river, but otherwise it seemed
deserted.  Up the hill Richmond town was burning briskly; outside the
town of Richmond there was no trace of the Black Smoke.

     Then suddenly, as we approached Kew, came a number of people
running, and the upperworks of a Martian fighting-machine loomed in
sight over the housetops, not a hundred yards away from us.  We stood
aghast at our danger, and had the Martian looked down we must
immediately have perished.  We were so terrified that we dared not go
on but turned aside and hid in a shed in a garden.  There the curate
crouched, weeping silently, and refusing to stir again.

     But my fixed idea of reaching Leatherhead would not let me rest,
and in the twilight I ventured out again.  I went through a
shrubbery, and along a passage beside a big house standing in its own
grounds, and so emerged upon the road towards Kew.  The curate I left
in the shed, but he came hurrying after me.

     That second start was the most foolhardy thing I ever did.  For
it was manifest the Martians were about us.  No sooner had the curate
overtaken me than we saw either the fighting-machine we had seen
before or another, far away across the meadows in the direction of
Kew Lodge.  Four or five little black figures hurried before it
across the green-grey of the field, and in a moment it was evident
this Martian pursued them.  In three strides he was among them, and
they ran radiating from his feet in all directions.  He used no
Heat-Ray to destroy them, but picked them up one by one.  Apparently
he tossed them into the great metallic carrier which projected behind
him, much as a workman's basket hangs over his shoulder.

     It was the first time I realised that the Martians might have
any other purpose than destruction with defeated humanity.  We stood
for a moment petrified, then turned and fled through a gate behind us
into a walled garden, fell into, rather than found, a fortunate
ditch, and lay there, scarce daring to whisper to each other until
the stars were out.

     I suppose it was nearly eleven o'clock before we gathered
courage to start again, no longer venturing into the road, but
sneaking along hedgerows and through plantations, and watching keenly
through the darkness, he on the right and I on the left, for the
Martians, who seemed to be all about us.  In one place we blundered
upon a scorched and blackened area, now cooling and ashen, and a
number of scattered dead bodies of men, burned horribly about the
heads and trunks but with their legs and boots mostly intact; and of
dead horses, fifty feet, perhaps, behind a line of four ripped guns
and smashed gun carriages.

     Sheen, it seemed, had escaped destruction, but the place was
silent and deserted.  Here we happened on no dead, though the night
was too dark for us to see into the side roads of the place.  In
Sheen my companion suddenly complained of faintness and thirst, and
we decided to try one of the houses.

     The first house we entered, after a little difficulty with the
window, was a small semi-detached villa, and I found nothing eatable
left in the place but some mouldy cheese.  There was, however, water
to drink; and I took a hatchet, which promised to be useful in our
next house-breaking.

     We then crossed to a place where the road turns towards
Mortlake.  Here there stood a white house within a walled garden, and
in the pantry of this domicile we found a store of food--two loaves
of bread in a pan, an uncooked steak, and the half of a ham.  I give
this catalogue so precisely because, as it happened, we were destined
to subsist upon this store for the next fortnight.  Bottled beer
stood under a shelf, and there were two bags of haricot beans and
some limp lettaces.  This pantry opened into a kind of wash-up
kitchen, and in this was firewood; there was also a cupboard, in
which we found nearly a dozen of burgundy, tinned soups and salmon,
and two tins of biscuits.

     We sat in the adjacent kitchen in the dark--for we dared not
strike a light--and ate bread and ham, and drank beer out of the same
bottle.  The curate, who was still timorous and restless, was now,
oddly enough, for pushing on, and I was urging him to keep up his
strength by eating when the thing happened that was to imprison us.

     "It can't be midnight yet," I said, and then came a blinding
glare of vivid green light.  Everything in the kitchen leaped out,
clearly visible in green and black, and vanished again.  And then
followed such a concussion as I have never heard before or since.  So
close on the heels of this as to seem instantaneous came a thud
behind me, a clash of glass, a crash and rattle of falling masonry
all about us, and the plaster of the ceiling came down upon us,
smashing into a multitude of fragments upon our heads.  I was knocked
headlong across the floor against the oven handle and stunned.  I was
insensible for a long time, the curate told me, and when I came to we
were in darkness again, and he, with a face wet, as I found
afterwards, with blood from a cut forehead, was dabbing water over
me.

     For some time I could not recollect what had happened.  Then
things came to me slowly.  A bruise on my temple asserted itself.

     "Are you better?" asked the curate in a whisper.

     At last I answered him.  I sat up.

     "Don't move," he said.  "The floor is covered with smashed
crockery from the dresser.  You can't possibly move without making a
noise, and I fancy they are outside."

     We both sat quite silent, so that we could scarcely hear each
other breathing.  Everything seemed deadly still, but once something
near us, some plaster or broken brickwork, slid down with a rumbling
sound.  Outside and very near was an intermittent, metallic rattle.

     "That" said the curate, when presently it happened again.

     "Yes," I said.  "But what is it?"

     "A Martian!" said the curate.

     I listened again.

     "It was not like the Heat-Ray," I said, and for a time I was
inclined to think one of the great fighting-machines had stumbled
against the house, as I had seen one stumble against the tower of
Shepperton Church.

     Our situation was so strange and incomprehensible that for three
or four hours, until the dawn came, we scarcely moved.  And then the
light filtered in, not through the window, which remained black, but
through a triangular aperture between a beam and a heap of broken
bricks in the wall behind us.  The interior of the kitchen we now saw
greyly for the first time.

     The window had been burst in by a mass of garden mould, which
flowed over the table upon which we had been sitting and lay about
our feet.  Outside, the soil was banked high against the house.  At
the top of the window frame we could see an uprooted drainpipe.  The
floor was littered with smashed hardware; the end of the kitchen
towards the house was broken into, and since the daylight shone in
there, it was evident the greater part of the house had collapsed.
Contrasting vividly with this ruin was the neat dresser, stained in
the fashion, pale green, and with a number of copper and tin vessels
below it, the wallpaper imitating blue and white tiles, and a couple
of coloured supplements fluttering from the walls above the kitchen
range.

     As the dawn grew clearer, we saw through the gap in the wall the
body of a Martian, standing sentinel, I suppose, over the still
glowing cylinder.  At the sight of that we crawled as circumspectly
as possible out of the twilight of the kitchen into the darkness of
the scullery.

     Abruptly the right interpretation dawned upon my mind.

     "The fifth cylinder," I whispered, "the fifth shot from Mars,
has struck this house and buried us under the ruins!"

     For a time the curate was silent, and then he whispered:

     "God have mercy upon us!"

     I heard him presently whimpering to himself.

     Save for that sound we lay quite still in the scullery; I for my
part scarce dared breathe, and sat with my eyes fixed on the faint
light of the kitchen door.  I could just see the curate's face, a
dim, oval shape, and his collar and cuffs.  Outside there began a
metallic hammering, then a violent hooting, and then again, after a
quiet interval, a hissing like the hissing of an engine.  These
noises, for the most part problematical, continued intermittently,
and seemed if anything to increase in number as time wore on.
Presently a measured thudding and a vibration that made everything
about us quiver and the vessels in the pantry ring and shift, began
and continued.  Once the light was eclipsed, and the ghostly kitchen
doorway became absolutely dark.  For many hours we must have crouched
there, silent and shivering, until our tired attention failed....

     At last I found myself awake and very hungry.  I am inclined to
believe we must have spent the greater portion of a day before that
awakening.  My hunger was at a stride so insistent that it moved me
to action.  I told the curate I was going to seek food, and felt my
way towards the pantry.  He made me no answer, but so soon as I began
eating the faint noise I made stirred him up and I heard him crawling
after me.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

           Chapter 2: What We Saw from the Ruined House

     After eating we crept back to the scullery, and there I must
have dozed again, for when presently I looked round I was alone.  The
thudding vibration continued with wearisome persistence.  I whispered
for the curate several times, and at last felt my way to the door of
the kitchen.  It was still daylight, and I perceived him across the
room, lying against the triangular hole that looked out upon the
Martians.  His shoulders were hunched, so that his head was hidden
from me.

     I could hear a number of noises almost like those in an engine
shed; and the place rocked with that beating thud.  Through the
aperture in the wall I could see the top of a tree touched with gold
and the warm blue of a tranquil evening sky.  For a minute or so I
remained watching the curate, and then I advanced, crouching and
stepping with extreme care amid the broken crockery that littered the
floor.

     I touched the curate's leg, and he started so violently that a
mass of plaster went sliding down outside and fell with a loud
impact.  I gripped his arm, fearing he might cry out, and for a long
time we crouched motionless.  Then I turned to see how much of our
rampart remained.  The detachment of the plaster had left a vertical
slit open in the debris, and by raising myself cautiously across a
beam I was able to see out of this gap into what had been overnight a
quiet suburban roadway.  Vast, indeed, was the change that we beheld.

     The fifth cylinder must have fallen right into the midst of the
house we had first visited.  The building had vanished, completely
smashed, pulverised, and dispersed by the blow.  The cylinder lay now
far beneath the original foundations--deep in a hole, already vastly
larger than the pit I had looked into at Woking.  The earth all round
it had splashed under that tremendous impact--"splashed" is the only
word--and lay in heaped piles that hid the masses of the adjacent
houses.  It had behaved exactly like mud under the violent blow of a
hammer.  Our house had collapsed backward; the front portion even on
the ground floor, had been destroyed completely; by a chance the
kitchen and scullery had escaped, and stood buried now under soil and
ruins, closed in by tons of earth on every side save towards the
cylinder.  Over that aspect we hung now on the very edge of the great
circular pit the Martians were engaged in making.  The heavy beating
sound was evidently just behind us, and ever and again a bright green
vapour drove up like a veil across our peephole.

     The cylinder was already opened in the centre of the pit, and on
the farther edge of the pit, amid the smashed and gravel-heaped
shrubbery, one of the great fighting machines, deserted by its
occupant, stood stiff and tall against the evening sky.  At first I
scarcely noticed the pit and the cylinder, although it has been
convenient to describe them first, on account of the extraordinary
glittering mechanism I saw busy in the excavation, and on account of
the strange creatures that were crawling slowly and painfully across
the heaped mould near it.

     The mechanism it certainly was that held my attention first.  It
was one of those complicated fabrics that have since been called
handling-machines, and the study of which has already given such an
enormous impetus to terrestrial invention.  As it dawned upon me
first, it presented a sort of metallic spider with five jointed,
agile legs, and with an extraordinary number of jointed levers, bars,
and reaching and clutching tentacles about its body.
 Most of its arms were retracted, but with three long tentacles it
was fishing out a number of rods, plates, and bars which lined the
covering and apparently strengthened the walls of the cylinder.
These, as it extracted them, were lifted out and deposited upon a
level surface of earth behind it.

     Its motion was so swift, complex, and perfect that at first I
did not see it as a machine, in spite of its metallic glitter.  The
fighting-machines were coordinated and animated to an extraordinary
pitch, but nothing to compare with this.  People who have never seen
these structures, and have only the ill-imagined efforts of artists
or the imperfect descriptions of such eye-witnesses as myself to go
upon, scarcely realise that living quality.

     I recall particularly the illustration of one of the first
pamphlets to give a consecutive account of the war.  The artist had
evidently made a hasty study of one of the fighting-machines, and
there his knowledge ended.  He presented them as tilted, stiff
tripods, without either flexibility or subtlety, and with an
altogether misleading monotony of effect.  The pamphlet containing
these renderings had a considerable vogue, and I mention them here
simply to warn the reader against the impression they may have
created.  They were no more like the Martians I saw in action than a
Dutch doll is like a human being.  To my mind, the pamphlet would
have been much better without them.

     At first, I say, the handling-machine did not impress me as a
machine, but as a crablike creature with a glittering integument, the
controlling Martian whose delicate tentacles actuated its movements
seeming to be simply the equivalent of the crab's cerebral portion.
But then I perceived the resemblance of its grey-brown, shiny,
leathery integument to that of the other sprawling bodies beyond, and
the true nature of this dexterous workman dawned upon me.  With that
realization my interest shifted to those other creatures, the real
Martians.  Already I had had a transient impression of these, and the
first nausea no longer obscured my observation.  Moreover, I was
concealed and motionless, and under no urgency of action.

     They were, I now saw, the most unearthly creatures it is
possible to conceive.  They were huge round bodies--or, rather,
heads--about four feet in diameter, each body having in front of it a
face.  This face had no nostrils--indeed, the Martians do not seem to
have had any sense of smell, but it had a pair of very large
dark-coloured eyes, and just beneath this a kind of fleshy beak.  In
the back of this head or body--I scarcely know how to speak of
it--was the single tight tympanic surface, since known to be
anatomically an ear, though it must have been almost useless in our
dense air.  In a group round the mouth were sixteen slender, almost
whiplike tentacles, arranged in two bunches of eight each.  These
bunches have since been named rather aptly, by that distinguished
anatomist, Professor Howes, the hands.  Even as I saw these Martians
for the first time they seemed to be endeavouring to raise themselves
on these hands, but of course, with the increased weight of
terrestrial conditions, this was impossible.  There is reason to
suppose that on Mars they may have progressed upon them with some
facility.

     The internal anatomy, I may remark here, as dissection has since
shown, was almost equally simple.  The greater part of the structure
was the brain, sending enormous nerves to the eyes, ear, and tactile
tentacles.  Besides this were the bulky lungs, into which the mouth
opened, and the heart and its vessels.  The pulmonary distress caused
by the denser atmosphere and greater gravitational attraction was
only too evident in the convulsive movements of the outer skin.

     And this was the sum of the Martian organs.  Strange as it may
seem to a human being, all the complex apparatus of digestion, which
makes up the bulk of our bodies, did not exist in the Martians.  They
were heads merely heads.  Entrails they had none.  They did not eat,
much less digest.  Instead, they took the fresh, living blood of
other creatures, and injected it into their own veins.  I have myself
seen this being done, as I shall mention in its place.  But,
squeamish as I may seem, I cannot bring myself to describe what I
could not endure even to continue watching.  Let it suffice to say,
blood obtained from a still living animal, in most cases from a human
being, was run directly by means of a little pipette into the
recipient canal....

     The bare idea of this is no doubt horribly repulsive to us, but
at the same time I think that we should remember how repulsive our
carnivorous habits would seem to an intelligent rabbit.

     The physiological advantages of the practice of injection are
undeniable, if one thinks of the tremendous waste of human time and
energy occasioned by eating and the digestive process.  Our bodies
are half made up of glands and tubes and organs, occupied in turning
heterogeneous food into blood.  The digestive processes and their
reaction upon the nervous system sap our strength and colour our
minds.  Men go happy or miserable as they have healthy or unhealthy
livers, or sound gastric glands.  But the Martians were lifted above
all these organic fluctuations of mood and emotion.

     Their undeniable preference for men as their source of
nourishment is partly explained by the nature of the remains of the
victims they had brought with them as provisions from Mars.  These
creatures, to judge from the shrivelled remains that have fallen into
human hands, were bipeds with flimsy, silicious skeletons (almost
like those of the silicious sponges) and feeble musculature, standing
about six feet high and having round, erect heads, and large eyes in
flinty sockets.  Two or three of these seem to have been brought in
each cylinder, and all were killed before earth was reached.  It was
just as well for them, for the mere attempt to stand upright upon our
planet would have broken every bone in their bodies.

     And while I am engaged in this description, I may add in this
place certain further details which, although they were not all
evident to us at the time, will enable the reader who is unacquainted
with them to form a clearer picture of these offensive creatures.

     In three other points their physiology differed strangely from
ours.  Their organisms did not sleep, any more than the heart of man
sleeps.  Since they had no extensive muscular mechanism to
recuperate, that periodical extinction was unknown to them.  They had
little or no sense of fatigue, it would seem.  On earth they could
never have moved without effort, yet even to the last they kept in
action.  In twenty-four hours they did twenty-four hours of work, as
even on earth is perhaps the case with the ants.

     In the next place, wonderful as it seems in a sexual world, the
Martians were absolutely without sex, and therefore without any of
the tumultuous emotions that arise from that difference among men.  A
young Martian, there can now be no dispute, was really born upon
earth during the war, and it was found attached to its parent,
partially budded off, just as young lilybulbs bud off, or like the
young animals in the fresh-water polyp.

     In man, in all the higher terrestrial animals, such a method of
increase has disappeared; but even on this earth it was certainly the
primitive method.  Among the lower animals, up even to those first
cousins of the vertebrated animals, the Tunicates, the two processes
occur side by side, but finally the sexual method superseded its
competitor altogether.  On Mars, however, just the reverse has
apparently been the case.

     It is worthy of remark that a certain speculative writer of
quasi-scientific repute, writing long before the Martian invasion,
did forecast for man a final structure not unlike the actual Martian
condition.  His prophecy, I remember, appeared in November or
December, 1893, in a long-defunct publication, the Pall Mall Budget,
and I recall a caricature of it in a pre-Martian periodical called
Punch.  He pointed out--writing in a foolish, facetious tone--that
the perfection of mechanical appliances must ultimately supersede
limbs; the perfection of chemical devices, digestion; that such
organs as hair, external nose, teeth, ears, and chin were no longer
essential parts of the human being, and that the tendency of natural
selection would lie in the direction of their steady diminution
through the coming ages.  The brain alone remained a cardinal
necessity.  Only one other part of the body had a strong case for
survival, and that was the hand, "teacher and agent of the brain."
While the rest of the body dwindled, the hands would grow larger.

     There is many a true word written in jest, and here in the
Martians we have beyond dispute the actual accomplishment of such a
suppression of the animal side of the organism by the intelligence.
To me it is quite credible that the Martians may be descended from
beings not unlike ourselves, by a gradual development of brain and
hands (the latter giving rise to the two bunches of delicate
tentacles at last) at the expense of the rest of the body.  Without
the body the brain would, of course, become a mere selfish
intelligence, without any of the emotional substratum of the human
being.

     The last salient point in which the systems of these creatures
differed from ours was in what one might have thought a very trivial
particular.  Micro-organisms, which cause so much disease and pain on
earth, have either never appeared upon Mars or Martian sanitary
science eliminated them ages ago.  A hundred diseases, all the fevers
and contagions of human life, consumption, cancers, tumours and such
morbidities, never enter the scheme of their life.  And speaking of
the differences between the life on Mars and terrestrial life, I may
allude here to the curious suggestions of the red weed.

     Apparently the vegetable kingdom in Mars, instead of having
green for a dominant colour, is of a vivid blood red tint.  At any
rate, the seeds which the Martians (intentionally or accidentally)
brought with then, gave rise in all cases to red-coloured growths.
Only that known popularly as the red weed, however, gained any
footing in competition with terrestrial forms.  The red creeper was
quite a transitory growth, and few people have seen it growing.  For
a time, however, the red weed grew with astonishing vigour and
luxuriance.  It spread up the sides of the pit by the third or fourth
day of our imprisonment, an its cactus-like branches formed a carmine
fringe to the edges of our triangular window.  And afterwards I found
it broadcast throughout the country, and especially wherever there
was a stream of water.

     The Martians had what appears to have been an auditory organ, a
single round drum at the back of the head-body, and eyes with a
visual range not very different from ours except that, according to
Philips, blue and violet were as black to them.  It is commonly
supposed that they communicated by sounds and tentacular
gesticulations; this is asserted, for instance, in the able but
hastily compiled pamphlet (written evidently by someone not an
eye-witness to Martian actions) to which I have already alluded, and
which, so far, has been the chief source of information concerning
them.  Now no surviving human being saw so much of the Martians in
action as I did.  I take no credit to myself for an accident, but the
fact is so.  And I assert that I watched them closely time after
time, and that I have seen four, five, and (once) six of them
sluggishly performing the most elaborately complicated operations
together without either sound or gesture.  Their peculiar hooting
invariably preceded feeding; it had no modulation, and was, I
believe, in no sense a signal, but merely the expiration of air
preparatory to the suctional operation.  I have a certain claim to at
least an elementary knowledge of psychology, and in this matter I am
convinced--as firmly as I am convinced of anything--that the Martians
interchanged thoughts without any physical intermediation.  And I
have been convinced of this in spite of strong preconceptions.
Before the Martian invasion, as an occasional reader here or there
may remember, I had written with some little vehemence against the
telepathic theory.

     The Martians wore no clothing.  Their conceptions of ornament
and decorum were necessarily different from ours; and not only were
they evidently much less sensible of changes of temperature than we
are, but changes of pressure do not seem to have affected their
health at all seriously.  Yet though they wore no clothing, it was in
the other artificial additions to their bodily resources that their
great superiority over man lay.  We men, with our bicycles and
road-skates, our Lilienthal soaring-machines, our guns and sticks and
so forth, are just in the beginning of the evolution that the
Martians have worked out.  They have become practically mere brains,
wearing different bodies according to their needs just as men wear
suits of clothes and take a bicycle in a hurry or an umbrella in the
wet.  And of their appliances, perhaps nothing is more wonderful to a
man than the curious fact that what is the dominant feature of almost
all human devices in mechanism is absent--the wheel is absent; among
all the things they brought to earth there is no trace or suggestion
of their use of wheels.  One would have at least expected it in
locomotion.  And in this connection it is curious to remark that even
on this earth Nature has never hit upon the wheel, or has preferred
other expedients to its development.  And not only did the Martians
either not know of (which is incredible), or abstain from, the wheel,
but in their apparatus singularly little use is made of the fixed
pivot, or relatively fixed pivot, with circular motions thereabout
confined to one plane.  Almost all the joints of the machinery
present a complicated system of sliding parts moving over small but
beautifully curved friction bearings.  And while upon this matter of
detail, it is remarkable that the long leverages of their machines
are in most cases actuated by a sort of sham musculature of the disks
in an elastic sheath; these disks become polarised and drawn closely
and powerfully together when traversed by a current of electricity.
In this way the curious parallelism to animal motions, which was so
striking and disturbing to the human beholder, was attained.  Such
quasi-muscles abounded in the crablike handling-machine which, on my
first peeping out of the slit, I watched unpacking the cylinder.  It
seemed infinitely more alive than the actual Martians lying beyond it
in the sunset light, panting, stirring ineffectual tentacles, and
moving feebly after their vast journey across space.

     While I was still watching their sluggish motions in the
sunlight, and noting each strange detail of their form, the curate
reminded me of his presence by pulling violently at my arm.  I turned
to a scowling face, and silent, eloquent lips.  He wanted the slit,
which permitted only one of us to peep through; and so I had to
forego watching them for a time while he enjoyed that privilege.

     When I looked again, the busy handling-machine had already put
together several of the pieces of apparatus it had taken out of the
cylinder into a shape having an unmistakable likeness to its own; and
down on the left a busy little digging mechanism had come into view,
emitting jets of green vapour and working its way round the pit,
excavating and embarking in a methodical and discriminating manner.
This it was which had caused the regular beating noise, and the
rhythmic shocks that had kept our ruinous refuge quivering.  It piped
and whistled as it worked.  So far as I could see, the thing was
without a directing Martian at all.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

               Chapter 3: The Days of Imprisonment

     The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our
peephole into the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the
Martian might see down upon us behind our barrier.  At a later date
we began to feel less in danger of their eyes, for to an eye in the
dale of the sunlight outside our refuge must have been blank
blackness, but at first the slightest suggestion of approach drove us
into the scullery in heart-throbbing retreat.  Yet terrible as was
the danger we incurred, the attraction of peeping was for both of us
irresistible.  And I recall now with a sort of wonder that, in spite
of the infinite danger in which we were between starvation and a
still more terrible death, we could yet struggle bitterly for that
horrible privilege of sight.  We would race across the kitchen in a
grotesque way between eagerness and the dread of making a noise, and
strike each other, and thrust and kick, within a few inches of
exposure.

     The fact is that we had absolutely incompatible dispositions and
habits of thought and action, and our danger and isolation only
accentuated the incompatibility.  At Halliford I had already come to
hate the curate's trick of helpless exclamation, his stupid rigidity
of mind.  His endless muttering monologue vitiated every effort I
made to think out a line of action, and drove me at times, thus pent
up and intensified, almost to the verge of craziness.  He was as
lacking in restraint as a silly woman.  He would weep for hours
together, and I verily believe that to the very end this spoiled
child of life thought his weak tears in some way efficacious.  And I
would sit in the darkness unable to keep my mind off him by reason of
his importunities.  He ate more than I did, and it was in vain I
pointed out that our only chance of life was to stop in the house
until the Martians had done with their pit, that in that long
patience a time might presently come when we should need food.  He
ate an drank impulsively in heavy meals at long intervals.  He slept
little.

     As the days wore on, his utter carelessness of any consideration
so intensified our distress and danger that I had, much as I loathed
doing it, to resort to threats, and at last to blows.  That brought
him to reason for a time.  But he was one of those weak creatures,
void of pride, timorous, anaemic, hateful souls, full of shifty
cunning, who face neither God nor man, who face not even themselves.

     It is disagreeable for me to recall and write these things, but
I set them down that my story may lack nothing.  Those who have
escaped the dark and terrible aspects of life will find my brutality,
my flash of rage in our final tragedy, easy enough to blame; for they
know what is wrong as well as any, but not what is possible to
tortured men.  But those who have been under the shadow, who have
gone down at last to elemental things, will have a wider charity.

     And while within we fought out our dark, dim contest of
whispers, matched food and drink, and gripping hands and blows,
without, in the pitiless sunlight of that terrible June, was the
strange wonder, the unfamiliar routine of the Martians in the pit.
Let me return to those first new experiences of mine.  After a long
time I ventured back to the peephole, to find that the new-comers had
been reinforced by the occupants of no fewer than three of the
fighting-machines.  These last had brought with them certain fresh
appliances that stood in an orderly manner about the cylinder.  The
second handling-machine was now completed, and was busied in serving
one of the novel contrivances the big machine had brought.  This was
a body resembling a milk can in its general form, above which
oscillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from which a stream of white
powder flowed into a circular basin below.

     The oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one tentacle of
the handling-machine.  With two spatulate hands the handling-machine
was digging out and flinging masses of clay into the pear-shaped
receptacle above, while with another arm it periodically opened a
door and removed rusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of
the machine.  Another steely tentacle directed the powder from the
basin along a ribbed channel towards some receiver that was hidden
from me by the mound of bluish dust.  From this unseen receiver a
little thread of green smoke rose vertically into the quiet air.  As
I looked, the handling-machine, with a faint and musical clinking,
extended, telescopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment
before a mere blunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the
mound of clay.  In another second it had lifted a bar of white
aluminium into sight, untarnished as yet and shining dazzlingly, and
deposited it in a growing stack of bars that stood at the side of the
pit.  Between sunset and starlight this dexterous machine must have
made more than a hundred such bars out of the crude clay, and the
mound of bluish dust rose steadily until it topped the side of the
pit.

     The contrast between the swift and complex movements of these
contrivances and the inert, panting clumsiness of their masters was
acute, and for days I had to tell myself repeatedly that these latter
were indeed the living of the two things.

     The curate had possession of the slit when the first men were
brought to the pit.  I was sitting below, huddled up, listening with
all my ears.  He made a sudden movement backward, and I, fearful that
we were observed, crouched in a spasm of terror.  He came sliding
down the rubbish and crept beside me in the darkness, inarticulate,
gesticulating, and for a moment I shared his panic.  His gesture
suggested a resignation of the slit, and after a little while my
curiosity gave me courage, and I rose up, stepped across him, and
clambered up to it.  At first I could see no reason for his frantic
behaviour.  The twilight had now come, the stars were little and
faint, but the pit was illuminated by the flickering green fire that
came from the aluminium-making.  The whole picture was a flickering
scheme of green gleams and shifting rusty black shadows, strangely
trying to the eyes.  Over and through it all went the bats, heeding
it not at all.  The sprawling Martians were no longer to be seen, the
mound of blue-green powder had risen to cover them from sight, and a
fighting-machine, with its legs contracted, crumpled, and
abbreviated, stood across the corner of the pit.  And then, amid the
clangour of the machinery, came a drifting suspicion, of human
voices, that I entertained at first only to dismiss.

     I crouched, watching this fighting-machine closely, satisfying
myself now for the first time that the hood did indeed contain a
Martian.  As the green flames lifted I could see the oily gleam of
his integument and the brightness of his eyes.  And suddenly I heard
a yell, and saw a long tentacle reaching over the shoulder of the
machine to the little cage that hunched upon its back.  Then
something--something struggling violently--was lifted high against
the sky, a black, vague enigma against the starlight; and as this
black object came down again, I saw by the green brightness that it
was a man.  For an instant he was clearly visible.  He was a stout,
ruddy, middle-aged man, well dressed; three days before, he must have
been walking the world, a man of considerable consequence.  I could
see his staring eyes and gleams of light on his studs and watch
chain.  He vanished behind the mound, and for a moment there was
silence.  And then began a shrieking and a sustained and cheerful
hooting from the Martians.

     I slid down the rubbish, struggled to my feet, clapped my hands
over my ears, and bolted into the scullery.  The curate, who had been
crouching silently with his arms over his head, looked up as I
passed, cried out quite loudly at my desertion of him, and came
running after me.

     That night, as we lurked in the scullery, balanced between our
horror and the terrible fascination this peeping had, although I felt
an urgent need of action I tried in vain to conceive some plan of
escape; but afterwards, during the second day, I was able to consider
our position with great clearness.  The curate, I found, was quite
incapable of discussion; this new and culminating atrocity had robbed
him of all vestiges of reason or forethought.  Practically he had
already sunk to the level of an animal.  But, as the saying goes, I
gripped myself with both hands.  It grew upon my mind, once I could
face the facts, that, terrible as our position was, there was as yet
no justification for absolute despair.  Our chief chance lay in the
possibility of the Martians making the pit nothing more than a
temporary encampment.  Or even if they kept it permanently, they
might not consider it necessary to guard it, and a chance of escape
might be afforded us.  I also weighed very carefully the possibility
of our digging a way out in a direction away from the pit, but the
chances of our emerging within sight of some sentinel
fighting-machine seemed at first too great.  And I should have had to
do all the digging myself.  The curate would certainly have failed
me.

     It was on the third day, if my memory serves me right, that I
saw the lad killed.  It was the only occasion on which I actually saw
the Martians feed.  After that experience I avoided the hole in the
wall for the better part of a day.  I went into the scullery, removed
the door, and spent some hours digging with my hatchet as silently as
possible; but when I had made a hole about a couple of feet deep the
loose earth collapsed noisily, and I did not dare continue.  I lost
heart, and lay down on the scullery floor for a long time, having no
spirit even to move.  And after that I abandoned altogether the idea
of escaping by excavation.

     It says much for the impression the Martians had made upon me
that at first I entertained little or no hope of our escape being
brought about by their overthrow through any human effort.  But on
the fourth or fifth night I heard a sound like heavy guns.

     It was very late in the night, and the moon was shining
brightly.  The Martians had taken away the excavating machine, and,
save for a fighting-machine that stood in the remoter bank of the pit
and a handling-machine that was buried out of my sight in a corner of
the pit immediately beneath my peephole, the place was deserted by
them.  Except for the pale glow from the handling-machine and the
bars and patches of white moonlight, the pit was in darkness, and
except for the clinking of the handling-machine, quite still.  That
night was a beautiful serenity; save for one planet, the moon seemed
to have the sky to herself.  I heard a dog howling--and that familiar
sound it was that made me listen.  Then I heard quite distinctly a
booming exactly like the sound of great guns.  Six distinct reports I
counted, and after a long interval six again.  And that was all.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

                Chapter 4: The Death of the Curate

     It was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I peeped for
the last time, and presently found myself alone.  Instead of keeping
close to me and trying to oust me from the slit, the curate had gone
back into the scullery.  I was struck by a sudden thought.  I went
back quickly and quietly into the scullery.  In the darkness I heard
the curate drinking.  I snatched in the darkness, and my fingers
caught a bottle of burgundy.

     For a few minutes there was a tussle.  The bottle struck the
floor and broke, and I desisted and rose.  We stood panting and
threatening each other.  In the end I planted myself between him and
the food, and told him of my determination to begin a discipline.  I
divided the food in the pantry into rations to last us ten days.  I
would not let him eat any more that day.  In the afternoon he made a
feeble effort to get at the food.  I had been dozing, but in an
instant I was awake.  All day and all night we sat face to face, I
weary but resolute, and he weeping and complaining of his immediate
hunger.  It was, I know, a night and a day, but to me it seemed--it
seems now--an interminable length of time.

     And so our widened incompatibility ended at last in open
conflict.  For two vast days we struggled in undertones and wrestling
contests.  There were times when I beat and kicked him madly, times
when I cajoled and persuaded him, and once I tried to bribe him with
the last bottle of burgundy, for there was a rain-water pump from
which I could get water.  But neither force nor kindness availed; he
was indeed beyond reason.  He would neither desist from his attacks
on the food nor from his noisy babbling to himself.  The rudimentary
precautions to keep our imprisonment endurable he would not observe.
Slowly I began to realise the complete overthrow of his intelligence,
to perceive that my sole companion in this close and sickly darkness
was a man insane.

     From certain vague memories, I am inclined to think my own mind
wandered at times.  I had strange and hideous dreams whenever I
slept.  It sounds paradoxical, but I am inclined to think that the
weakness and insanity of the curate warned me, braced me, and kept me
a sane man.

     On the eighth day he began to talk aloud instead of whispering,
and nothing I could do would moderate his speech.

     "It is just, O God!-" he would say, over and over again.  "It is
just.  On me and mine be the punishment laid.  We have sinned, we
have fallen short.  There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were trodden
in the dust, and I held my peace.  I preached acceptable folly--my
God, what folly! --when I should have stood up, though I died for it,
and called upon them to repent--repent! ...  Oppressors of the poor
and needy ...!  The wine press of God!"

     Then he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food I
withheld from him, praying, begging, weeping, at last threatening.
He began to raise his voice--I prayed him not to.  He perceived a
hold on me--he threatened he would shout and bring the Martians upon
us.  For a time that scared me; but any concession would have
shortened our chance of escape beyond estimating.  I defied him,
although I felt no assurance that he might not do this thing.  But
that day, at any rate, he did not.  He talked with his voice rising
slowly, through the greater part of the eighth and ninth
days--threats, entreaties, mingled with a torrent of half-sane and
always frothy repentance for his vacant sham of God's service, such
as made me pity him.  Then he slept awhile, and began again with
renewed strength, so loudly that I must needs make him desist.

     "Be still!" I implored.

     He rose to his knees, for he had been sitting in the darkness
near the copper.

     "I have been still too long," he said, in a tone that must have
reached the pit, "and now I must bear my witness.  Woe unto this
unfaithful city!  Woe!  Woe!  Woe!  Woe!  Woe!  To the inhabitants of
the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet---"

     "Shut up!" I said, rising to my feet, and in a terror lest the
Martians should hear us.  "For God's sake---"

     "Nay," shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, standing
likewise and extending his arms.  "Speak!  The word of the Lord is
upon me!"

     In three strides he was at the door leading into the kitchen.

     "I must bear my witness!  I go!  It has already been too long
delayed."

     I put out my hand and felt the meat chopper hanging to the wall.
In a flash I was after him.  I was fierce with fear.  Before he was
halfway across the kitchen I had overtaken him.  With one last touch
of humanity I turned the blade back and struck him with the butt.  He
went headlong forward and lay stretched on the ground.  I stumbled
over him and stood panting.  He lay still.

     Suddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of slipping
plaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was darkened.  I
looked up and saw the lower surface of a handling-machine coming
slowly across the hole.  One of its gripping limbs curled amid the
debris; another limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams.
I stood petrified, staring.  Then I saw through a sort of glass plate
near the edge of the body the face, as we may call it, and the large
dark eyes of a Martian, peering, and then a long metallic snake of
tentacle came feeling slowly through the hole.

     I turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at
the scullery door.  The tentacle was now some way, two yards or more,
in the room, and twisting and turning, with queer sudden movements,
this way and that.  For a while I stood fascinated by that slow,
fitful advance.  Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself
across the scullery.  I trembled violently; I could scarcely stand
upright.  I opened the door of the coal cellar, and stood there in
the darkness staring at the faintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and
listening.  Had the Martian seen me?  What was it doing now?

     Something was moving to and fro there, very quietly; every now
and then it tapped against the wall, or started on its movements with
a faint metallic ringing, like the movements of keys on a split-ring.
Then a heavy body--I knew too well what--was dragged across the floor
of the kitchen towards the opening.  Irresistibly attracted, I crept
to the door and peeped into the kitchen.  In the triangle of bright
outer sunlight I saw, the Martian, in its Briareus of a
handling-machine, scrutinising the curate's head.  I thought at once
that it would infer my presence from the mark of the blow I had given
him.

     I crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and began to
cover myself up as much as I could, and as noiselessly as possible in
the darkness, among the firewood and coal therein.  Every now and
then I paused, rigid, to hear if the Martian had thrust its tentacles
through the opening again.

     Then the faint metallic, jingle returned.  I traced it slowly
feeling over the kitchen.  Presently I heard it nearer--in the
scullery, as I judged.  I thought that its length might be
insufficient to reach me.  I prayed copiously.  It passed, scraping
faintly across the cellar door.  An age of almost intolerable
suspense intervened; then I heard it fumbling at the latch!  It had
found the door.  The Martians understood doors!

     It worried at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then the door
opened.

     In the darkness I could just see the thing--like an elephant's
trunk more than anything else--waving towards me and touching and
examining the wall, coals, wood and ceiling.  It was like a black
worm swaying its blind head to and fro.

     Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot.  I was on the verge
of screaming; I bit my hand.  For a time the tentacle was silent.  I
could have fancied it had been withdrawn.  Presently, with an abrupt
click, it gripped something--I thought it had me!--and seemed to go
out of the cellar again.  For a minute I was not sure.  Apparently it
had taken a lump of coal to examine.

     I seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my position, which
had become cramped, and then listened.  I whispered passionate
prayers for safety.

     Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me
again.  Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and
tapping the furniture.

     While I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the cellar
door and closed it.  I heard it go into the pantry, and the
biscuit-tins rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump
against the cellar door.  Then silence that passed into an infinity
of suspense.

     Had it gone?

     At last I decided that it had.

     It came into the scullery no more; but I lay all the tenth day
in the close darkness, buried among coals and firewood, not daring
even to crawl out for the drink for which I craved.  It was the
eleventh day before I ventured so far from my security.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

                     Chapter 5: The Stillness

     My first act before I went into the pantry was to fasten the
door between the kitchen and the scullery.  But the pantry was empty;
every scrap of food had gone.  Apparently, the Martian had taken it
all on the previous day.  At that discovery I despaired for the first
time.  I took no food, or no drink either, on the eleventh or the
twelfth day.

     At first my mouth and throat were parched, and my strength ebbed
sensibly.  I sat about in the darkness of the scullery, in a state of
despondent wretchedness.  My mind ran on eating.  I thought I had
become deaf, for the noises of movement I had been accustomed to hear
from the pit had ceased absolutely.  I did not feel strong enough to
crawl noiselessly to the peephole, or I would have gone there.

     On the twelfth day my throat was so painful that, taking the
chance of alarming the Martians, I attacked the creaking rain-water
pump that stood by the sink, and got a couple of glassfuls of
blackened and tainted rain water.  I was greatly refreshed by this,
and emboldened by the fact that no enquiring tentacle followed the
noise of my pumping.

     During these days, in a rambling, inconclusive way, I thought
much of the curate and of the manner of his death.

     On the thirteenth day I drank some more water, and dozed and
thought disjointedly of eating and of vague impossible plans of
escape.  Whenever I dozed I dreamt of horrible phantasms, of the
death of the curate, or of sumptuous dinners; but, asleep or awake, I
felt a keen pain that urged me to drink again and again.  The light
that came into the scullery was no longer grey, but red.  To my
disordered imagination it seemed the colour of blood.

     On the fourteenth day I went into the kitchen, and I was
surprised to find that the fronds of the red weed had grown right
across the hole in the wall, turning the half-light of the place into
a crimson-coloured obscurity.

     It was early on the fifteenth day that I heard a curious,
familiar sequence of sounds in the kitchen, and, listening,
identified it as the snuffing and scratching of a dog.  Going into
the kitchen, I saw a dog's nose peering in through a break among the
ruddy fronds.  This greatly surprised me.  At the scent of me he
barked shortly.

     I thought if I could induce him to come into the place quietly I
should be able, perhaps, to kill and eat him; and in any case, it
would be advisable to kill him, lest his actions attracted the
attention of the Martians.

     I crept forward, saying "Good dog!" very softly; but he suddenly
withdrew his head and disappeared.

     I listened--I was not deaf--but certainly the pit was still.  I
heard a sound like the flutter of a bird's wings, and a hoarse
croaking, but that was all.

     For a long while I lay close to the peephole, but not daring to
move aside the red plants that obscured it.  Once or twice I heard a
faint pitter-patter like the feet of the dog going hither and thither
on the sand far below me, and there were more birdlike sounds, but
that was all.  At length, encouraged by the silence, I looked out.

     Except in the corner, where a multitude of crows hopped and
fought over the skeletons of the dead the Martians had consumed,
there was not a living thing in the pit.

     I stared about me, scarcely believing my eyes.  All the
machinery had gone.  Save for the big mound of greyish-blue powder in
one corner, certain bars of aluminium in another, the black birds,
and the skeletons of the killed, the place was merely an empty
circular pit in the sand.

     Slowly I thrust myself out through the red weed, and stood upon
the mound of rubble.  I could see in any direction save behind me, to
the north, and neither Martians nor sign of Martians were to be seen.
The pit dropped sheerly from my feet, but a little way along the
rubbish afforded a practicable slope to the summit of the ruins.  My
chance of escape had come.  I began to tremble.

     I hesitated for some time, and then, in a gust of desperate
resolution, and with a heart that throbbed violently, I scrambled to
the top of the mound in which I had been buried so long.

     I looked about again.  To the northward, too, no Martian was
visible.

     When I had last seen this part of Sheen in the daylight it had
been a straggling street of comfortable white and red houses,
interspersed with abundant shady trees.  Now I stood on a mound of
smashed brickwork, clay, and gravel, over which spread a multitude of
red cactus-shaped plants, knee-high, without a solitary terrestrial
growth to dispute their footing.  The trees near me were dead and
brown, but further a network of red thread scaled the still living
stems.

     The neighbouring houses had all been wrecked, but none had been
burned; their walls stood, sometimes to the second story, with
smashed windows and shattered doors.  The red weed grew tumultuously
in their roofless rooms.  Below me was the great pit, with the crows
struggling for its refuse.  A number of other birds hopped about
among the ruins.  Far away I saw a gaunt cat slink crouchingly along
a wall, but traces of men there were none.

     The day seemed, by contrast with my recent confinement,
dazzlingly bright, the sky a glowing blue.  A gentle breeze kept the
red weed that covered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently
swaying.  And oh! the sweetness of the air!

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

               Chapter 6: The Work of Fifteen Days

     For some time I stood tottering on the mound regardless of my
safety.  Within that noisome den from which I had emerged I had
thought with a narrow intensity only of our immediate security.  I
had not realised what had been happening to the world, had not
anticipated this startling vision of unfamiliar things.  I had
expected to see Sheen in ruins--I found about me the landscape, weird
and lurid, of another planet.

     For that moment I touched an emotion beyond the common range of
men, yet one that the poor brutes we dominate know only too well.  I
felt as a rabbit might feel returning to his burrow and suddenly
confronted by the work of a dozen busy navvies digging the
foundations of a house.  I felt the first inkling of a thing that
presently grew quite clear in my mind, that oppressed me for many
days, a sense of dethronement, a persuasion that I was no longer a
master, but an animal among the animals, under the Martian heel.
With us it would be as with them, to lurk and watch, to run and hide;
the fear and empire of man had passed away.

     But so soon as this strangeness had been realised it passed, and
my dominant motive became the hunger of my long and dismal fast.  In
the direction away from the pit I saw, beyond a red-covered wall, a
patch of garden ground unburied.  This gave me a hint, and I went
knee-deep, and sometimes neck-deep, in the red weed.  The density of
the weed gave me a reassuring sense of hiding.  The wall was some six
feet high, and when I attempted to clamber it I found I could not
lift my feet to the crest.  So I went along by the side of it, and
came to a corner and a rockwork that enabled me to get to the top,
and tumble into the garden I coveted.  Here I found some young
onions, a couple of gladiolus bulbs, and a quantity of immature
carrots, all of which I secured, and, scrambling over a ruined wall,
went on my way through scarlet and crimson trees towards Kew--it was
like walking through an avenue of gigantic blood drops--possessed
with two ideas: to get more food, and to limp, as soon and as far as
my strength permitted, out of this accursed unearthly region of the
pit.

     Some way farther, in a grassy place, was a group of mushrooms
which also I devoured, and then I came upon a brown sheet of flowing
shallow water, where meadows used to be.  These fragments of
nourishment served only to whet my hunger.  At first I was surprised
at this flood in a hot, dry summer, hut afterwards I discovered that
it was caused by the tropical exuberance of the red weed.  Directly
this extraordinary growth encountered water it straightway became
gigantic and of unparalleled fecundity.  Its seeds were simply poured
down into the water of the Wey and Thames, and its swiftly growing
and titanic water fronds speedily choked both those rivers.

     At Putney, as I afterwards saw, the bridge was almost lost in a
tangle of this weed, and at Richmond, too, the Thames water poured in
a broad and shallow stream across the meadows of Hampton and
Twickerham.  As the water spread the weed followed them, until the
ruined villas of the Thames valley were for a time lost in this red
swamp, whose margin I explored, and much of the desolation the
Martians had caused was concealed.

     In the end the red weed succumbed almost as quickly as it had
spread.  A cankering disease, due, it is believed, to the action of
certain bacteria, presently seized upon it.  Now by the action of
natural selection, all terrestrial plants have acquired a resisting
power against bacterial diseases--they never succumb without a severe
struggle, but the red weed rotted like a thing already dead.  The
fronds became bleached, and then shrivelled and brittle.  They broke
off at the least touch, and the waters that had stimulated their
early growth carried their last vestiges out to sea.

     My first act on coming to this water was, of course, to slake my
thirst.  I drank a great deal of it and, moved by an impulse, gnawed
some fronds of red weed; but they were watery, and had a sickly,
metallic taste.  I found the water was sufficiently shallow for me to
wade securely, although the red weed impeded my feet a little; but
the flood evidently got deeper towards the river, and I turned back
to Mortlake.  I managed to make out the road by means of occasional
ruins of its villas and fences and lamps, and so presently I got out
of this spate and made my way to the hill going up towards Roehampton
and came out on Putney Common.

     Here the scenery changed from the strange and unfamiliar to the
wreckage of the familiar: patches of ground exhibited the devastation
of a cyclone, and in a few score yards I would come upon perfectly
undisturbed spaces, houses with their blinds trimly drawn and doors
closed, as if they had been left for a day by the owners, or as if
their inhabitants slept within.  The red weed was less abundant; the
tall trees along the lane were free from the red creeper.  I hunted
for food among the trees, finding nothing, and I also raided a couple
of silent houses, but they had already been broken into and
ransacked.  I rested for the remainder of the daylight in a
shrubbery, being, in my enfeebled condition, too fatigued to push on.

     All this time I saw no human beings, and no signs of the
Martians.  I encountered a couple of hungry-looking dogs, but both
hurried circuitously away from the advances I made them.  Near
Roehampton I had seen two human skeletons--not bodies, but skeletons,
picked clean --and in the wood by me I found the crushed and
scattered bones of several cats and rabbits and the skull of a sheep.
But though I gnawed parts of these in my mouth, there was nothing to
be got from them.

     After sunset I struggled on along the road towards Putney, where
I think the Heat-Ray must have been used for some reason.  And in the
garden beyond Roehampton I got a quantity of immature potatoes,
sufficient to stay my hunger.  From this garden one looked down upon
Putney and the river.  The aspect of the place in the dusk was
singularly desolate: blackened trees, blackened, desolate ruins, and
down the hill the sheets of the flooded river, red-tinged with the
weed.  And over all--silence.  It filled me with indescribable terror
to think how swiftly that desolating change had come.

     For a time I believed that mankind had been swept out of
existence, and that I stood there alone, the last man left alive.
Hard by the top of Putney Hill I came upon another skeleton, with the
arms dislocated and removed several yards from the rest of the body.
As I proceeded I became more and more convinced that the
extermination of mankind was, save for such stragglers as myself,
already accomplished in this part of the world.  The Martians, I
thought, had gone on and left the country desolated, seeking food
elsewhere.  Perhaps even now they were destroying Berlin or Paris, or
it might be they had gone northward.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

                Chapter 7: The Man on Putney Hill

     I spent that night in the inn that stands at the top of Putney
Hill, sleeping in a made bed for the first time since my flight to
Leatherhead.  I will not tell the needless trouble I had breaking
into that house--afterwards I found the front door was on the
latch--nor how I ransacked every room for food, until just on the
verge of despair, in what seemed to me to be a servant's bedroom I
found a rat-gnawed crust and two tins of pineapple.  The place had
been already searched and emptied.  In the bar I afterwards found
some biscuits and sandwiches that had been overlooked.  The latter I
could not eat, they were too rotten, but the former not only stayed
my hunger, but filled my pockets.  I lit no lamps, fearing some
Martian might come beating that part of London for food in the night.
Before I went to bed I had an interval of restlessness, and prowled
from window to window, peering out for some sign of these monsters.
I slept little.  As I lay in bed I found myself thinking
consecutively--a thing I do not remember to have done since my last
argument with the curate.  During all the intervening time my mental
condition had been a hurrying succession of vague emotional states or
a sort of stupid receptivity.  But in the night my brain, reinforced,
I suppose, by the food I had eaten, grew clear again, and I thought.

     Three things struggled for possession of my mind: the killing of
the curate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and the possible fate of
my wife.  The former gave me no sensation of horror or remorse to
recall; I saw it simply as a thing done, a memory infinitely
disagreeable but quite without the quality of remorse.  I saw myself
then as I see myself now, driven step by step towards that hasty
blow, the creature of a sequence of accidents leading inevitably to
that.  I felt no condemnation; yet the memory, static, unprogressive,
haunted me.  In the silence of the night, with that sense of the
nearness of God that sometimes comes into the stillness and the
darkness, I stood my trial, my only trial, for that moment of wrath
and fear.  I retraced every step of our conversation from the moment
when I had found him crouching beside me, heedless of my thirst, and
pointing to the fire and smoke that streamed up from the ruins of
Weybridge.  We had been incapable of co-operation--grim chance had
taken no heed of that.  Had I foreseen, I should have left him at
Halliford.  But I did not foresee; and crime is to foresee and do.
And I set this down as I have set all this story down, as it was.
There were no witnesses--all these things I might have concealed.
But I set it down, and the reader must form his judgment as he will.

     And when, by an effort, I had set aside that picture of a
prostrate body, I faced the problem of the Martians and the fate of
my wife.  For the former I had no data; I could imagine a hundred
things, and so, unhappily, I could for the latter.  And suddenly that
night became terrible.  I found myself sitting up in bed, staring at
the dark.  I found myself praying that the Heat-Ray might have
suddenly and painlessly struck her out of being.  Since the night of
my return from Leatherhead I had not prayed.  I had uttered prayers,
fetish prayers, had prayed as heathens mutter charms when I was in
extremity; but now I prayed indeed, pleading steadfastly and sanely,
face to face with the darkness of God.  Strange night!  Strangest in
this, that so soon as dawn had come, I, who had talked with God,
crept out of the house like a rat leaving its hiding place--a
creature scarcely larger, an inferior animal, a thing that for any
passing whim of our masters might be hunted and killed.  Perhaps they
also prayed confidently to God.  Surely, if we have learned nothing
else, this war has taught us pity--pity for those witless souls that
suffer our dominion.

     The morning was bright and fine, and the eastern sky flowed
pink, and was fretted with little golden clouds.  In the road that
runs from the top of Putney Hill to Wimbledon was a number of poor
vestiges of the panic torrent that must have poured Londonward on the
Sunday night after the fighting began.  There was a little
two-wheeled cart inscribed with the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer,
New Maiden, with a smashed wheel and an abandoned tin trunk; there
was a straw hat trampled into the now hardened mud, and at the top of
West Hill a lot of blood-stained glass about the overturned water
trough.  My movements were languid, my plans of the vaguest.  I had
idea of going to Leatherhead, though I knew that there I had the
poorest chance of finding my wife.  Certainly, unless death had
overtaken them suddenly, my cousins and she would have fled thence;
but it seemed to me I might find or learn there whither the Surrey
people had fled.  I knew I wanted to find my wife, that my heart
ached for her and the world of men, but I had no clear idea how the
finding might be done.  I was also sharply aware now of my intense
loneliness.  From the corner I went, under cover of a thicket of
trees and bushes, to the edge of Wimbledon Common, stretching wide
and far.

     That dark expanse was lit in patches by yellow gorse and broom;
there was no red weed to be seen, and as I prowled, hesitating, on
the verge of the open, the sun rose, flooding it all with light and
vitality.  I came upon a busy swarm of little frogs in a swampy place
among the trees.  I stopped to look at them, drawing a lesson from
their stout resolve to live.  And presently, turning suddenly, with
an odd feeling of being watched, I beheld something crouching amid a
clump of bushes.  I stood regarding this.  I made a step towards it,
and it rose up and became a man armed with a cutlass.  I approached
him slowly.  He stood silent and motionless, regarding me.

     As I drew nearer I perceived he was dressed in clothes as dusty
and filthy as my own; he looked, indeed, as though he had been
dragged through a culvert.  Nearer, I distinguished the green slime
of ditches mixing with the pale drab of dried clay and shiny, coaly
patches.  His black hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark
and dirty and sunken, so that at first I did not recognise him.
There was a red cut across the lower part of his face.

     "Stop!" he cried, when I was within ten yards of him, and I
stopped.  His voice was hoarse.  "Where do you come from?" he said.

     I thought, surveying him.

     "I come from Mortlake," I said. "I was buried near the pit the
Martians made about their cylinder.  I have worked my way out and
escaped."

     "There is no food about here," he said.  "This is my country.
All this hill down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the
edge of the common.  There is only food for one.  Which way are you
going?"

     I answered slowly.

     "I don't know," I said.  "I have been buried in the ruins of a
house thirteen or fourteen days.  I don't know what has happened."

     He looked at me doubtfully, then started, and looked with a
changed expression.

     "I've no wish to stop about here," said I.  "I think I shall go
to Leatherhead, for my wife was there."

     He shot out a pointing finger.

     "It is you," said he; "the man from Woking.  And you weren't
killed at Weybridge?"

     I recognised him at the same moment.

     "You are the artilleryman who came into my garden."

     "Good luck!" he said.  "We are lucky ones!  Fancy you!"  He put
out a hand, and I took it.  "I crawled up a drain," he said.  "But
they didn't kill everyone.  And after they went away I got off
towards Walton across the fields.  But--- It's not sixteen days
altogether--and your hair is grey."  He looked over his shoulder
suddenly.  "Only a rook," he said.  "One gets to know that birds have
shadows these days.  This is a bit open.  Let us crawl under those
bushes and talk."

     "Have you seen any Martians?" I said.  "Since I crawled out---"

     "They've gone away across London," he said.  "I guess they've
got a bigger camp there.  Of a night, all over there, Hampstead way,
the sky is alive with their lights.  It's like a great city, and in
the glare you can just see them moving.  By daylight you can't.  But
nearer--I haven't seen them--" (he counted on his fingers) "five
days.  Then I saw a couple across Hammersmith way carrying something
big.  And the night before last"--he stopped and spoke
impressively--"it was just a matter of lights, but it was something
up in the air.  I believe they've built a flying-machine, and are
learning to fly."

     I stopped, on hands and knees, for we had come to the bushes.

     "Fly!"

     "Yes," he said, "fly."

     I went on into a little bower, and sat down.

     "It is all over with humanity," I said.  "If they can do that
they will simply go round the world."

     He nodded.

     "They will.  But--- It will relieve things over here a bit.  And
besides--" He looked at me.  "Aren't you satisfied it is up with
humanity?  I am.  We're down; we're beat."

     I stared.  Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this
fact--a fact perfectly obvious so soon as he spoke.  I had still held
a vague hope; rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind.  He
repeated his words, "We're beat."  They carried absolute conviction.

     "It's all over," he said.  "They've lost one--just one.  And
they've made their footing good and crippled the greatest power in
the world.  They've walked over us.  The death of that one at
Weybridge was an accident.  And these are only pioneers.  They kept
on coming.  These green stars--I've seen none these five or six days,
but I've no doubt they're falling somewhere every night.  Nothing's
to be done.  We're under!  We're beat!"

     I made him no answer.  I sat staring before me, trying in vain
to devise some countervailing thought.

     "This isn't a war," said the artilleryman.  "It never was, a
war, any more than there's war between man and ants.

     Suddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.

     "After the tenth shot, they fired no more--at least, until the
first cylinder came."

     "How do you know?" said the artilleryman.  I explained.  He
thought.  "Something wrong with the gun," he said.  "But what if
there is?  They'll get it right again.  And even if there's a delay,
how can it alter the end?  It's just men and ants.  There's the ants
builds their cities, live their lives, have wars, revolutions, until
the men want them out of the way, and then they go out of the way.
That's what we are now--just ants.  Only---"

     "Yes," I said.

     "We're eatable ants."

     We sat looking at each other.

     "And what will they do with us?" I said.

     "That's what I've been thinking," he said; "that's what I've
been thinking.  After Weybridge I went south--thinking.  I saw what
was up.  Most of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting
themselves.  But I'm not so fond of squealing.  I've been in sight of
death once or twice; I'm not an ornamental soldier, and at the best
and worst, death--it's just death.  And it's the man that keeps on
thinking comes through.  I saw everyone tracking away south.  Says I,
`Food won't last this way,' and I turned right back.  I went for the
Martians like a sparrow goes for man.  All round"--he waved a hand to
the horizon--"they're starving in heaps, bolting, treading on each
other...."

     He saw my face, and halted awkwardly.

     "No doubt lots who had money have gone away to France," he said.
He seemed to hesitate whether to apologise, met my eyes, and went on:
"There's food all about here.  Canned things in shops; wines,
spirits, mineral waters; and the water mains and drains are empty.
Well, I was telling you what I was thinking.  `Here's intelligent
things,' I said, `and it seems they want us for food.  First, they'll
smash us up--ships, machines, guns, cities, all the order and
organisation.  All that will go.  If we were the size of ants we
might pull through.  But we're not.  It's all too bulky to stop.
That's the first certainty.'  Eh?"

     "It is; I've thought it out.  Very well, then--next; at present
we're caught as we're wanted.  A Martian has only to go a few miles
to get a crowd on the run.  And I saw one, one day, out by
Wandsworth, picking houses to pieces and routing among the wreckage.
But they won't keep on doing that.  So soon as they've settled all
our guns and ships, and smashed our railways, and done all the things
they are doing over there, they will begin catching us systematic,
picking the best and storing us in cages and things.  That's what
they will start doing in a bit.  Lord!  They haven't begun on us yet.
Don't you see that?"

     "Not begun!" I exclaimed.

     "Not begun.  All that's happened so far is through our not
having the sense to keep quiet--worrying them with guns and such
foolery.  And losing our heads, and rushing off crowds to where there
wasn't any more safety than where we were.  They don't want to bother
us yet.  They're making their things--making all the things they
couldn't bring with them, getting things ready for the rest of their
people.  Very likely that's why the cylinders have stopped for a bit,
for fear of hitting those who are here.  And instead of our rushing
about blind, on the howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of
busting them up, we've got to fix ourselves up according to the new
state of affairs.  That's how I figure it out.  It isn't quite
according to what a man wants for his species, but it's about what
the facts point to.  And that's the principle I acted upon.  Cities,
nations, civilisation, progress--it's all over.  That game's up.
We're beat."

     "But if that is so, what is there to live for?"

     The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

     "There won't be any more blessed concerts for a million years or
so; there won't be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little
feeds at restaurants.  If its amusement you're after, I reckon the
game is up.  If you've got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to
eating peas with a knife or dropping aitches, you'd better chuck `em
away.  They ain't no further use.

     "You mean---"

     "I mean that men like me are going on living--for the sake of
the breed.  I tell you, I'm grim set on living.  And if I'm not
mistaken, you'll show what insides you've got, too, before long.  We
aren't going to be exterminated.  And I don't mean to be caught
either, and tamed and fattened and bred like a thundering ox.  Ugh!
Fancy those brown creepers!"

     "You don't mean to say---"

     "I do.  I'm going on.  Under their feet.  I've got it planned;
I've thought it out.  We men are beat.  We don't know enough.  We've
got to learn before we've got a chance.  And we've got to live and
keep independent while we learn.  See!  That's what has to be done."

     I stared, astonished, and stirred profoundly by the man's
resolution.

     "Great God!" cried I.  "But you are a man indeed!"  And suddenly
I gripped his hand.

     "Eh!" he said, with his eyes shining.  "I've thought it out,
eh?"

     "Go on," I said.

     "Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready.
I'm getting ready.  Mind you, it isn't all of us that are made for
wild beasts; and that's what it's got to be.  That's why I watched
you.  I had my doubts.  You're slender.  I didn't know that it was
you, you see, or just how you'd been buried.  All these--the sort of
people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks
that used to live down that way--they'd be no good.  They haven't any
spirit in them--no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who
hasn't one or the other--Lord!  What is he but funk and precautions?
They just used to skedaddle off to work--I've seen hundreds of `em,
bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their
little season-ticket train for fear they'd get dismissed if they
didn't; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to
understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn't be in time for
dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets,
and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted
them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety
in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world.  Lives
insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents.  And on
Sundays--fear of the hereafter.  As if hell was built for rabbits.
Well, the Martians will just be a godsend to these.  Nice roomy
cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry.  After a week or
so chasing about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they'll come
and be caught cheerful.  They'll be quite glad after a bit.  They'll
wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of
them.  And the bar loafers, and mashers, and singers--I can imagine
them.  I can imagine them," he said, with a sort of sombre
gratification.  "There'll be any amount of sentiment and religion
loose among them.  There's hundreds of things I saw with my eyes that
I've only begun to see clearly these last few days.  There's lots
will take things as they are--fat and stupid; and lots will be
worried by a sort of feeling that it's all wrong, and that they ought
to be doing something.  Now whenever things are so that a lot of
people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak, and those who
go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always make for a sort of
do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and submit to
persecution and the will of the Lord.  Very likely you've seen the
same thing.  It's energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside
out.  These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety.  And
those of a less simple sort will work in a bit of--what it
is?--eroticism."

     He paused.

     "Very likely these Martians will make pets of some of them;
train them to do tricks--who knows?--get sentimental over the pet boy
who grew up and had to be killed.  And some, maybe, they will train
to hunt us."

     "No," I cried, "that's impossible!  No human being--"

     "What's the good of going on with such lies?" said the
artilleryman. "There's men who'd do it cheerful.  What nonsense to
pretend there isn't!"

     And I succumbed to his conviction.

     "If they come after me," he said; "Lord, if they come after me!"
and subsided into a grim meditation.

     I sat contemplating these things.  I could find nothing to bring
against this man's reasoning.  In the days before the invasion no one
would have questioned my intellectual superiority to his--I, a
professed and recognised writer on philosophical themes, and he, a
common soldier; and yet he had already formulated a situation that I
had scarcely realised.

     "What are you doing?" I said, presently.  "What plans have you
made?"

     He hesitated.

     "Well, it's like this," he said. "What have we to do?  We have
to invent a sort of life where men can live and breed, and be
sufficiently secure to bring the children up.  Yes--wait a bit, and
I'll make it clearer what I think ought to be done.  The tame ones
will go like all tame beasts; in a few generations they'll be big,
beautiful, richblooded, stupid--rubbish!  The risk is that we who
keep wild will go savage-degenerate into a sort of big, savage
rat....  You see, how I mean to live is underground I've been
thinking about the drains.  Of course those who don't know drains
think horrible things; but under this London are miles and
miles--hundred of miles--and a few days' rain and London empty will
leave them sweet and clean.  The main drains are big enough and airy
enough for anyone.  Then there's cellars, vaults, stores, from which
bolting passages may be made to the drains.  And the railway tunnels
and subways.  Eh?  You begin to see?  And we form a
band--able-bodied, clean-minded men.  We're not going to pick up any
rubbish that drifts in.  Weaklings go out again."

     "As you meant me to go?"

     "Well--I parleyed, didn't I?"

     "We won't quarrel about that.  Go on."

     "Those who stop obey orders.  Able-bodied, clean-minded women we
want also--mothers and teachers.  No lackadaisical ladies--no blasted
rolling eyes.  We can't have any weak or silly.  Life is real again,
and the useless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die.  They
ought to die.  They ought to be willing to die.  It's a sort of
disloyalty, after all, to live and taint the race.  And they can't be
happy.  Moreover, dying's none so dreadful; it's the funking makes it
bad.  And in all those places we shall gather.  Our district will be
London.  And we may even be able to keep a watch, and run about in
the open when the Martians keep away.  Play cricket, perhaps.  That's
how we shall save the race.  Eh?  It's a possible thing?  But saving
the race is nothing in itself.  As I say, that's only being rats.
It's saving our knowledge and adding to it is the thing.  There men
like you come in.  There's books, there's models.  We must make great
safe places down deep, and get all the books we can; not novels and
poetry swipes, but ideas, science hooks.  That's where men like you
come in.  We must go to the British Museum and pick all those books
through.  Especially we must keep up our science--learn more.  We
must watch these Martians.  Some of us must go as spies.  When it's
all working, perhaps I will.  Get caught, I mean.  And the great
thing is, we must leave the Martians alone.  We mustn't even steal.
If we get in their way, we clear out.  We must show them we mean no
harm.  Yes, I know.  But they're intelligent things, and they won't
hunt us down if they have all they want, and think we're just
harmless vermin."

     The artilleryman paused and laid a brown hand upon my arm.

     "After all, it may not be so much we may have to learn before
--Just imagine this: Four or five of their fighting-machines suddenly
starting off--Heat-Rays right and left, and not a Martian in `em.
Not a Martian in `em, but men--men who have learned the way how.  It
may be in my time, even--those men.  Fancy having one of them lovely
things, with its Heat-Ray wide and free!  Fancy having it in control!
What would it matter if you smashed to smithereens at the end of the
run, after a bust like that?  I reckon the Martians'll open their
beautiful eyes!  Can't you see them, man?  Can't you see them
hurrying, hurrying--puffing and blowing and hooting to their other
mechanical affairs?  Something out of gear in every case.  And swish,
bang, rattle, swish!  Just as they are fumbling over it, swish comes
the Heat-Ray, and, behold! man has come back to his own."

     For a while the imaginative daring of the artilleryman, and the
one of assurance and courage he assumed, completely dominated my
mind.  I believed unhesitatingly both in his forecast of human
destiny and in the practicability of his astonishing scheme, and the
reader who thinks me susceptible and foolish must contrast his
position, reading steadily with all his thoughts about his subject,
and mine, crouching fearfully in the bushes and listening, distracted
by apprehension.  We talked in this manner through the early morning
time, and later crept out of the bushes, and, after scanning the sky
for Martians, hurried precipitately to the house on Putney Hill where
he had made his lair.  It was the coal cellar of the place, and when
I saw the work he had spent a week upon--it was a burrow scarcely ten
yards long, which he designed to reach to the main drain on Putney
Hill--I had my first inkling between his dreams and his powers.  Such
a hole I could have dug in a day.  But I believed in him sufficiently
to work with him all that morning until past midday at his digging.
We had a garden barrow and shot the earth we removed against the
kitchen range.  We refreshed ourselves with a tin of mock-turtle soup
and wine from the neighbouring pantry.  I found a curious relief from
the aching strangeness of the world in this steady labour.  As we
worked, I turned his project over in my mind, and presently
objections and doubts began to arise; but I worked there all the
morning, so glad was I to find myself with a purpose again.  After
working an hour I began to speculate on the distance one had to go
before the cloaca was reached, the chances we had of missing it
altogether.  My immediate trouble was why we should dig this long
tunnel, when it was possible to get into the drain at once down one
of the manholes, and work back to the house.  It seemed to me, too,
that the house was inconveniently chosen, and required a needless
length of tunnel.  And just as I was beginning to face these things,
the artilleryman stopped digging, and looked at me.

     "We're working well," he said.  He put down his spade.  "Let us
knock off a bit," he said.  "I think it's time we reconnoitred from
the roof of the house."

     I was for going on, and after a little hesitation he resumed his
spade; and then suddenly I was struck by a thought.  I stopped, and
so did he at once.

     "Why were you walking about the common," I said, "instead of
being here?"

     "Taking the air," he said "I was coming back.  It's safer by
night."

     "But the work?"

     "Oh, one can't always work," he said, and in a flash I saw the
man plain.  He hesitated, holding his spade.  "We ought to
reconnoitre now," he said, "because if any come near they may bear
the spades and drop upon us unawares."

     I was no longer disposed to object.  We went together to the
roof and stood on a ladder peeping out of the roof door.  No Martians
were to be seen, and we ventured out on the tiles, and slipped down
under shelter of the parapet.

     From this position a shrubbery hid the greater portion of
Putney, but we could see the river below, a bubbly mass of red weed,
and the low parts of Lambeth flooded and red.  The red creeper
swarmed up the trees about the old palace, and their branches
stretched gaunt and dead, and set with shrivelled leaves, from amid
its clusters.  It was strange how entirely dependent both these
things were upon flowing water for their propagation.  About us
neither had gained a footing; laburnums, pink mays, snowballs, and
trees of arborvitae:, rose out of laurels and hydrangeas, green and
brilliant into the sunlight.  Beyond Kensington dense smoke was
rising, and that and a blue haze hid the northward hills.

     The artilleryman began to tell me of the sort of people who
still remained in London.

     "One night last week," he said, "some fools got the electric
light in order, and there was all Regent Street and the Circus
ablaze, crowded with painted and ragged drunkards, men and women,
dancing and shouting till dawn.  A man who was there told me.  And as
the day came they became aware of a fighting-machine standing near by
the Langham and looking down at them.  Heaven knows how long he had
been there.  It must have given some of them a nasty turn.  He came
down the road towards them, and picked up nearly a hundred too drunk
or frightened to run away.

     Grotesque gleam of a time no history will ever fully describe!

     From that, in answer to my questions, he came round to his
grandiose plans again.  He grew enthusiastic.  He talked so
eloquently of the possibility of capturing a fighting-machine that I
more than half believed in him again.  But now that I was beginning
to understand something of his quality, I could divine the stress he
laid on doing nothing precipitately.  And I noted that now there was
no question that he personally was to capture and fight the great
machine.

     After a time we went down to the cellar.  Neither of us seemed
disposed to resume digging, and when he suggested a meal, I was
nothing loath.  He became suddenly very generous, and when we had
eaten he went away and returned with some excellent cigars.  We lit
these, and his optimism glowed.  He was inclined to regard my coming
as a great occasion.

     "There's some champagne in the cellar," he said.

     "We can dig better on this Thames-side burgundy," said I.

     "No," said he; "I am host today.  Champagne!  Great God!  We've
a heavy enough task before us!  Let us take a rest and gather
strength while we may.  Look at these blistered hands!"

     And pursuant to this idea of a holiday, he insisted upon playing
cards after we had eaten.  He taught me euchre, and after dividing
London between us, I taking the northern side and he the southern, we
played for parish points.  Grotesque and foolish as this will seem to
the sober reader, it is absolutely true, and what is more remarkable,
I found the card game and several others we played extremely
interesting.

     Strange mind of man! that, with our species upon the edge of
extermination or appalling degradation, with no clear prospect before
us but the chance of a horrible death, we could sit following the
chance of this painted pasteboard, and playing the "joker" with vivid
delight.  Afterwards he taught me poker, and I beat him at three
tough chess games.  When dark came we decided to take the risk, and
lit a lamp.

     After an interminable string of games, we supped, and the
artilleryman finished the champagne.  We went on smoking the cigars.
He was no longer the energetic regenerator of his species I had
encountered in the morning.  He was still optimistic, but it was a
less kinetic, a more thoughtful optimism.  I remember he wound up
with my health proposed in a speech of small variety and considerable
intermittence.  I took a cigar, and went upstairs to look at the
lights of which he had spoken that blazed so greenly along the
Highgate hills.

     At first I stared unintelligently across the London valley.  The
northern hills were shrouded in darkness; the fires near Kensington
glowed redly, and now and then an orange-red tongue of flame flashed
up and vanished in the deep blue night.  All the rest of London was
black.  Then, nearer, I perceived a strange light, a pale,
violet-purple fluorescent glow, quivering under the night breeze.
For a space I could not understand it, and then I knew that it must
be the red weed from which this faint irradiation proceeded.  With
that realisation my dormant sense of wonder, my sense of the
proportion of things, awoke again.  I glanced from that to Mars, red
and clear, glowing high in the west, and then gazed long and
earnestly at the darkness of Hampstead and Highgate.

     I remained a very long time upon the roof, wondering at the
grotesque changes of the day.  I recalled my mental states from the
midnight prayer to the foolish card-playing.  I had a violent
revulsion of feeling.  I remember I flung away the cigar with a
certain wasteful symbolism.  My folly came to me with glaring
exaggeration.  I seemed a traitor to my wife and to my kind; I was
filled with remorse.  I resolved to leave this strange undisciplined
dreamer of great things to his drink and gluttony, and to go on into
London.  There, it seemed to me, I had the best chance of learning
what the Martians and my fellowmen were doing.  I was still upon the
roof when the late moon rose.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

                      Chapter 8: Dead London

     After I had parted from the artilleryman, I went down the hill,
and by the High Street across the bridge to Fulham.  The red weed was
tumultuous at that time, and nearly choked the bridge roadway; but
its fronds were already whitened in patches by the spreading disease
that presently removed it so swiftly.

     At the corner of the lane that runs to Putney Bridge station I
found a man lying.  He was as black as a sweep with the black dust,
alive, but helplessly and speechlessly drunk.  I could get nothing
from him but curses and furious lunges at my head.  I think I should
have stayed by him but for the brutal expression of his face.

     There was black dust along the roadway from the bridge onwards,
and it grew thicker in Fulham.  The streets were horribly quiet.  I
got food--sour, hard, and mouldy, but quite eatable--in a baker's
shop here.  Some way towards Walham Green the streets became clear of
powder, and I passed a white terrace of houses on fire; the noise of
the burning was an absolute relief.  Going on towards Brompton, the
streets were quiet again.

     Here I came once more upon the black powder in the streets and
upon dead bodies.  I saw altogether about a dozen in the length of
the Fulham Road.  They had been dead many days, so that I hurried
quickly past them.  The black powder covered them over, and softened
their outlines.  One or two had been disturbed by dogs.

     Where there was no black powder, it was curiously like a Sunday
in the City, with the closed shops, the houses locked up and the
blinds drawn, the desertion, and the stillness.  In some places
plunderers had been at work but rarely at other than the provision
and wine shops.  A jeweller's window had been broken open in one
place, but apparently the thief had been disturbed, and a number of
gold chains and a watch lay scattered on the pavement.  I did not
trouble to touch them.  Farther on was a tattered woman in a heap on
a doorstep; the hand that hung over her knee was gashed and bled down
her rusty brown dress, and a smashed magnum of champagne formed a
pool across the pavement.  She seemed asleep, but she was dead.

     The farther I penetrated into London, the profounder grew the
stillness.  But it was not so much the stillness of death--it was the
stillness of suspense, of expectation.  At any time the destruction
that had already singed the north-western borders of the metropolis,
and had annihilated Ealing and Kilburn, might strike among these
houses and leave them smoking ruins.  It was a city condemned and
derelict....

     In South Kensington the streets were clear of dead and of black
powder.  It was near South Kensington that I first heard the howling.
It crept almost imperceptibly upon my senses.  It was a sobbing
alternation of two notes, "Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla," keeping on
perpetually.  When I passed streets that ran northward it grew in
volume, and houses and buildings seemed to deaden and cut it off
again.  It came in a full tide down Exhibition Road.  I stopped,
staring towards Kensington Gardens, wondering at this strange, remote
wailing.  It was as if that mighty desert of houses had found a voice
for its fear and solitude.

     "Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla," wailed that superhuman note great
waves of sound sweeping down the broad, sunlit roadway, between the
tall buildings on each side.  I turned northwards, marvelling,
towards the iron gates of Hyde Park.  I had half a mind to break into
the Natural History Museum and find my way up to the summits of the
towers, in order to see across the park.  But I decided to keep to
the ground, where quick hiding was possible, and so went on up the
Exhibition Road.  All the large mansions on each side of the road
were empty and still, and my footsteps echoed against the sides of
the houses.  At the top, near the park gate, I came upon a strange
sight--a bus overturned, and the skeleton of a horse picked clean.  I
puzzled over this for a time, and then went on to the bridge over the
Serpentine.  The voice grew stronger and stronger, though I could see
nothing above the housetops on the north side of the park, save a
haze of smoke to the northwest.

     "Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla," cried the voice, coming, as it seemed
to me, from the district about Regent's Park.  The desolating cry
worked upon my mind.  The mood that had sustained me passed.  The
wailing took possession of me.  I found I was intensely weary,
footsore, and now again hungry and thirsty.

     It was already past noon.  Who was I wandering alone in this
city of the dead?  Why was I alone when all London was lying in
state, and in its black shroud?  I felt intolerably lonely.  My mind
ran on old friends that I had forgotten for years.  I thought of the
poisons in the chemists' shops, of the liquors the wine merchants
stored; I recalled the two sodden creatures of despair, who so far as
I knew, shared the city with myself....

     I came into Oxford Street by the Marble Arch, and here again
were black powder and several bodies, and an evil, ominous smell from
the gratings of the cellars of some of the houses.  I grew very
thirsty after the heat of my long walk.  With infinite trouble I
managed to break into a public-house and get food and drink.  I was
weary after eating, and went into the parlour behind the bar, and
slept on a black horsehair sofa I found there.

     I awoke to find that dismal howling still in my ears, "Ulla,
ulla, ulla, ulla."  It was now dusk, and after I had routed out some
biscuits and a cheese in the bar--there was a meat safe, but it
contained nothing but maggots--I wandered on through the silent
residential squares to Baker Street--Portman Square is the only one I
can name--and so came out at last upon Regent's Park.  And as I
emerged from the top of Baker Street, I saw far away over the trees
in the clearness of the sunset the hood of the Martian giant from
which this howling proceeded.  I was not terrified.  I came upon him
as if it were a matter of course.  I watched him for some time, but
he did not move.  He appeared to be standing and yelling, for no
reason that I could discover.

     I tried to formulate a plan of action.  That perpetual sound of
"Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla," confused my mind.  Perhaps I was too tired
to be very fearful.  Certainly I was more curious to know the reason
of this monotonous crying than afraid.  I turned back away from the
park and struck into Park Road, intending to skirt the park, went
along under the shelter of the terraces, and got a view of this
stationary, howling Martian from the direction of St.  John's Wood.
A couple of hundred yards out of Baker Street I heard a yelping
chorus, and saw, first a dog with a piece of putrescent red meat in
his jaws coming headlong towards me, and then a pack of starving
mongrels in pursuit of him.  He made a wide curve to avoid me, as
though he feared I might prove a fresh competitor.  As the yelping
died away down the silent road, the wailing sound of "Ulla, ulla,
ulla, ulla," reasserted itself.

     I came upon the wrecked handling-machine halfway to St.John's
Wood station.  At first I thought a house had fallen across the road.
It was only as I clambered among the ruins that I saw, with a start,
this mechanical Samson lying, with its tentacles bent and smashed and
twisted, among the ruins it had made.  The forepart was shattered.
It seemed as if it had driven blindly straight at the house, and had
been overwhelmed in its overthrow.  It seemed to me then that this
might have happened by a handling-machine escaping from the guidance
of its Martian.  I could not clamber among the ruins to see it, and
the twilight was now so far advanced that the blood with which its
seat was smeared, and the gnawed gristle of the Martian that the dogs
had left, were invisible to me.

     Wondering still more at all that I had seen, I pushed on towards
Primrose Hill.  Far away, through a gap in the trees, I saw a second
Martian, as motionless as the first, standing in the park towards the
Zoological Gardens, and silent.  A little beyond the ruins about the
smashed handling-machine I came upon the red weed again, and found
the Regent's Canal, a spongy mass of dark-red vegetation.

     As I crossed the bridge, the sound of "Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,"
ceased.  It was, as it were, cut off.  The silence came like a
thunderclap.

     The dusky houses about me stood faint and tall and dim; the
trees towards the park were growing black.  All about me the red weed
clambered among the runs, writhing to get above me in the dimness.
Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me.  But while
that voice sounded the solitude, the desolation had been endurable;
by virtue of it London had still seemed alive, and the sense of life
about me had upheld me.  Then suddenly a change, the passing of
something--I knew not what--and then a stillness that could be felt.
Nothing but this gaunt quiet.

     London about me gazed at me spectrally.  The windows in the
white houses were like the eye sockets of skulls.  About me my
imagination found a thousand noiseless enemies moving.  Terror seized
me, a horror of my temerity.  In front of me the road became pitchy
black as though it was tarred, and I saw a contorted shape lying
across the pathway.  I could not bring myself to go on.  I turned
down St. John's Wood Road, and ran headlong from this unendurable
stillness towards Kilburn.  I hid from the night and the silence,
until long after midnight, in a cabmen's shelter in Harrow Road.  But
before the dawn my courage returned, and while the stars were still
in the sky I turned once more towards Regent's Park.  I missed my way
among the streets, and presently saw down a long avenue, in the
half-light of the early dawn, the curve of Primrose Hill.  On the
summit, towering up to the fading stars, was a third Martian, erect
and motionless like the other.

     An insane resolve posed me.  I would die and end it.  And I
would save myself even the trouble of killing myself.  I marched on
recklessly towards this Titan, and then, as I drew nearer and the
light grew, I saw that a multitude of black birds was circling and
clustering about the hood.  At that my heart gave a bound, and I
began running along the road.

     I hurried through the red weed that choked St. Edmund's Terrace
(I waded breast-high across a torrent of water that was rushing down
from the waterworks towards the Albert Road), and emerged upon the
grass before the rising of the sun.  Great mounds had been heaped
about the crest of the hill, making a huge redoubt of it--it was the
final and largest place the Martians had made --and from behind these
heaps there rose a thin smoke against the sky.  Against the sky line
an eager dog ran and disappeared.  The thought that had flashed into
my mind grew real, grew credible.  I felt no fear, only a wild,
trembling exultation, as I ran up the hill towards the motionless
monster.  Out of the hood hung lank shreds of brown, at which the
hungry birds pecked and tore.

     In another moment I had scrambled up the earthen rampart and
stood upon its crest, and the interior of the redoubt was below me.
A mighty space it was, with gigantic machines here and there within
it, huge mounds of material and strange shelter places.  And
scattered about it, some in their overturned war-machines, some in
the now rigid handling-machines, and a dozen of them stark and silent
and laid in a row, were the Martians--dead!,--slain by the
putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their systems were
unprepared; slain as the red weed was being slain; slain, after all
man's devices had failed, by the humblest things that God, in his
wisdom, has put upon this earth.

     For so it had come about, as indeed I and many men might have
foreseen had not terror and disaster blinded our minds.  These germs
of disease have taken toll of humanity since the beginning of
things--taken toll of our prehuman ancestors since life began here.
But by virtue of this natural selection of our kind we have developed
resisting power; to no germs do we succumb without a struggle, and to
many--those that cause putrefaction in dead matter, for instance--our
living frames are altogether immune.  But there are no bacteria in
Mars, and directly these invaders arrived, directly they drank and
fed, our microscopic allies began to work their overthrow.  Already
when I watched them they were irrevocably doomed, dying and rotting
even as they went to and fro.  It was inevitable.  By the toll of a
billion deaths man has bought his birthright of the earth, and it is
his against all comers; it would still be his were the Martians ten
times as mighty as they are.  For neither do men live nor die in
vain.

     Here and there they were scattered, nearly fifty altogether, in
that great gulf they had made, overtaken by a death that must have
seemed to them as incomprehensible as any death could be.  To me also
at that time this death was incomprehensible.  All I knew was that
these things that had been alive and so terrible to men were dead.
For a moment I believed that the destruction of Sennacherib had been
repeated, that God had repented, that the Angel of Death had slain
them in the night.

     I stood staring into the pit, and my heart lightened gloriously,
even as the rising sun struck the world to fire about me with his
rays.  The pit was still in darkness; the mighty engines, so great
and wonderful in their power and complexity, so unearthly in their
tortuous forms, rose weird and vague and strange out of the shadows
towards the light.  A multitude of dogs, I could hear, fought over
the bodies that lay darkly in the depth of the pit, far below me.
Across the pit on its farther lip, flat and vast and strange, lay the
great flying-machine with which they had been experimenting upon our
denser atmosphere when decay and death arrested them.  Death had come
not a day too soon.  At the sound of a cawing overhead I looked up at
the huge fighting-machine that would fight no more for ever, at the
tattered red shreds of flesh that dripped down upon the overturned
seats on the summit of Primrose Hill.

     I turned and looked down the slope of the hill to where,
enhaloed now in birds, stood those other two Martians that I had seen
overnight, just as death had overtaken them.  The one had died, even
as it had been crying to its companions; perhaps it was the last to
die, and its voice had gone on perpetually until the force of its
machinery was exhausted.  They glittered now, harmless tripod towers
of shining metal, in the brightness of the rising sun.

     All about the pit, and saved as by a miracle from everlasting
destruction, stretched the great Mother of Cities.  Those who have
only seen London veiled in her sombre robes of smoke can scarcely
imagine the naked clearness and beauty of the silent wilderness of
houses.

     Eastward, over the blackened ruins of the Albert Terrace and the
splintered spire of the church, the sun blazed dazzling in a clear
sky, and here and there some facet in the great wilderness of roofs
caught the light and glared with a white intensity.

     Northward were Kilburn and Hampstead, blue and crowded with
houses; westward the great city was dimmed; and southward, beyond the
Martians, the green waves of Regent's Park, the Langham Hotel, the
dome of the Albert Hall, the Imperial Institute, and the giant
mansions of the Brompton Road came out clear and little in the
sunrise, the jagged ruins of Westminster rising hazily beyond.  Far
away and blue were the Surrey hills, and the towers of the Crystal
Palace glittered like two silver rods.  The dome of St.  Paul's was
dark against the sunrise, and injured, I saw for the first time, by a
huge gaping cavity on its western side.

     And as I looked at this wide expanse of houses and factories and
churches, silent and abandoned; as I thought of the multitudinous
hopes and efforts, the innumerable hosts of lives that had gone to
build this human reef, and of the swift and ruthless destruction that
had hung over it all; when I realised that the shadow had been rolled
back, and that men might still live in the streets, and this dear
vast dead city of mine be once more alive and powerful, I felt a wave
of emotion that was near akin to tears.

     The torment was over.  Even that day the healing would begin.
The survivors of the people scattered over the country-- leaderless,
lawless, foodless, like sheep without a shepherd--the thousands who
had fled by sea, would begin to return; the pulse of life, growing
stronger and stronger, would beat again in the empty streets and pour
across the vacant squares.  Whatever destruction was done, the hand
of the destroyer was stayed.  All the gaunt wrecks, the blackened
skeletons of houses that stared so dismally at the sunlit grass of
the hill, would presently be echoing with the hammers of the
restorers and ringing with the tapping of their troweIs.  At the
thought I extended my hands towards the sky and began thanking God.
In a year, thought I--in a year ...

     With overwhelming force came the thought of myself, of my wife,
and the old life of hope and tender helpfulness that had ceased for
ever.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

                       Chapter 9: Wreckage

     And now comes the strangest thing in my story.  Yet, perhaps, it
is not altogether strange.  I remember, clearly and coldly and
vividly, all that I did that day until the time that I stood weeping
and praising God upon the summit of Primrose Hill.  And then I
forget.

     Of the next three days I know nothing.  I have learned since
that, so far from my being the first discoverer of the Martian
overthrow, several such wanderers as myself had already discovered
this on the previous night.  One man--the first--had gone to St.
Martin's-le-Grand, and, while I sheltered in the cabmen's hut, had
contrived to telegraph to Paris.  Thence the joyful news had flashed
all over the world; a thousand cities, chilled by ghastly
aprehensions, suddenly flashed into frantic illuminations; they knew
of it in Dublin, Edinburgh, Manchester, Birmingham, at the time when
I stood upon the verge of the pit.  Already men, weeping with joy, as
I have heard, shouting and staying their work to shake hands and
shout, were making up trains, even as near as Crewe, to descend upon
London.  The church bells that had ceased a fortnight since suddenly
caught the news, until all England was bell-ringing.  Men on cycles,
lean-faced, unkempt, scorched along every country lane shouting of
unhoped deliverance, shouting to gaunt, staring figures of despair.
And for the food!  Across the Channel, across the Irish Sea, across
the Atlantic, corn, bread, and meat were tearing to our relief.  All
the shipping in the world seemed going Londonward in those days.  But
of all this I have no memory.  I drifted--a demented man.  I found
myself in a house of kindly people, who had found me on the third day
wandering, weeping, and raving through the streets of St. John's
Wood.  They have told me since that I was singing some inane doggerel
about "The Last Man Left Alive!  Hurrah!  The Last Man Left Alive!"
Troubled as they were with their own affairs, these people, whose
name, much as I would like to express my gratitude to them, I may not
even give here, nevertheless cumbered themselves with me, sheltered
me, and protected me from myself.  Apparently they had learned
something of my story from me during the days of my lapse.

     Very gently, when my mind was assured again, did they break to
me what they had learned of the fate of Leatherhead.  Two days after
I was imprisoned it had been destroyed, with every soul in it, by a
Martian.  He had swept it out of existence, as it seemed, without any
provocation, as a boy might crush an ant hill, in the mere wantonness
of power.

     I was a lonely man, and they were very kind to me.  I was a
lonely man and a sad one, and they bore with me.  I remained with
them four days after my recovery.  All that time I felt a vague, a
growing craving to look once more on whatever remained of the little
life that seemed so happy and bright in my past.  It was a mere
hopeless desire to feast upon my misery.  They dissuaded me.  They
did all they could to divert me from this morbidity.  But at last I
could resist the impulse no longer, and, promising faithfully to
return to them, and parting, as I will confess, from these four-day
friends with tears, I went out again into the streets that had lately
been so dark and strange and empty.

     Already they were busy with returning people; in places even
there were shops open, and I saw a drinking fountain running water.

     I remember how mockingly bright the day seemed as I went back on
my melancholy pilgrimage to the little house at Woking, how busy the
streets and vivid the moving life about me.  So many people were
abroad everywhere, busied in a thousand activities, that it seemed
incredible that any great proportion of the population could have
been slain.  But then I noticed how yellow were the skins of the
people I met, how shaggy the hair of the men, how large and bright
their eyes, and that every other man still wore his dirty rags.
Their faces seemed all with one of two expressions--a leaping
exultation and energy or a grim resolution.  Save for the expression
of the faces, London seemed a city of tramps.  The vestries were
indiscriminately distributing bread sent us by the French government.
The ribs of the few horses showed dismally.  Haggard special
constables with white badges stood at the corners of every street.  I
saw little of the mischief wrought by the Martians until I reached
Wellington Street, and there I saw the red weed clambering over the
buttresses of Waterloo Bridge.

     At the corner of the bridge, too, I saw one of the common
contrasts of that grotesque time--a sheet of paper flaunting against
a thicket of the red weed, transfixed by a stick that kept it in
place.  It was the placard of the first newspaper to resume
publication--the Daily Mail.  I bought a copy for a blackened
shilling I found in my pocket.  Most of it was in blank, but the
solitary compositor who did the thing had amused himself by making a
grotesque scheme of advertisement stereo on the back page.  The
matter he printed was emotional; the news organisation had not as yet
found its way back.  I learned nothing fresh except that already in
one week the examination of the Martian mechanisms had yielded
astonishing results.  Among other things, the article assured me what
I did not believe at the time, that the "Secret of Flying" was
discovered.  At Waterloo I found the free trains that were taking
people to their homes.  The first rush was already over.  There were
few people in the train, and I was in no mood for casual
conversation.  I got a compartment to myself, and sat with folded
arms, looking greyly at the sunlit devastation that flowed past the
windows.  And just outside the terminus the train jolted over
temporary rails, and on either side of the railway the houses were
blackened ruins.  To Clapham Junction the face of London was grimy
with powder of the Black Smoke, in spite of two days of thunderstorms
and rain, and at Clapham Junction the line had been wrecked again;
there were hundreds of out-of-work clerks and shopmen working side by
side with the customary navvies, and we were jolted over a hasty
relaying.

     All down the line from there the aspect of the country was gaunt
and unfamiliar; Wimbledon particularly had suffered.  Walton, by
virtue of its unburned pine woods, seemed the least hurt of any place
along the line.  The Wandle, the Mole, every little stream, was a
heaped mass of red weed, in appearance between butcher's meat and
pickled cabbage.  The Surrey pine woods were too dry, however, for
the festoons of the red climber.  Beyond Wimbledon, within sight of
the line, in certain nursery grounds, were the heaped masses of earth
about the sixth cylinder.  A number of people were standing about it,
and some sappers were busy in the midst of it.  Over it flaunted a
Union Jack, flapping cheerfully in the morning breeze.  The nursery
grounds were everywhere crimson with the weed, a wide expanse of
livid colour cut with purple shadows, and very painful to the eye.
One's gaze went with infinite relief from the scorched greys and
sullen reds of the foreground to the blue-green softness of the
eastward hills.

     The line on the London side of Woking station was still
undergoing repair, so I descended at Byfleet station and took the
road to Maybury, past the place where I and the artilleryman had
talked to the hussars, and on by the spot where the Martian had
appeared to me in the thunderstorm.  Here, moved by curiosity, I
turned aside to find, among a tangle of red fronds, the warped and
broken dog cart with the whitened bones of the horse scattered and
gnawed.  For a time I stood regarding these vestiges....

     Then I returned through the pine wood, neck-high with red weed
here and there, to find the landlord of the Spotted Dog had already
found burial, and so came home past the College Arms.  A man standing
at an open cottage door greeted me by name as I passed.

     I looked at my house with a quick flash of hope that faded
immediately.  The door had been forced; it was unfast and was opening
slowly as I approached.

     It slammed again.  The curtains of my study fluttered out of the
open window from which I and the artilleryman had watched the dawn.
No one had closed it since.  The smashed bushes were just as I had
left them nearly four weeks ago.  I stumbled into the hall, and the
house felt empty.  The stair carpet was ruffled and discoloured where
I had crouched, soaked to the skin from the thunderstorm the night of
the catastrophe.  Our muddy footsteps I saw still went up the stairs.

     I followed them to my study, and found lying on my writing-table
still, with the selenite paper weight upon it, the sheet of work I
had left on the afternoon of the opening of the cylinder.  For a
space I stood reading over my abandoned arguments.  It was a paper on
the probable development of Moral Ideas with the development of the
civilising process; and the last sentence was the opening of a
prophecy: "In about two hundred years," I had written, "we may
expect--" The sentence ended abruptly.  I remembered my inability to
fix my mind that morning, scarcely a month gone by, and how I had
broken off to get my Daily Chronicle from the newsboy.  I remembered
how I went down to the garden gate as he came along, and how I had
listened to his odd story of "Men from Mars."

     I came down and went into the dining room.  There were the
mutton and the bread, both far gone now in decay, and a beer bottle
overturned, just as I and the artilleryman had left them.  My home
was desolate.  I perceived the folly of the faint hope I had
cherished so long.  And then a strange thing occurred.  "It is no
use," said a voice.  "The house is deserted.  No one has been here
these ten days.  Do not stay here to torment yourself.  No one
escaped but you.

     I was startled.  Had I spoken my thought aloud?  I turned, and
the French window was open behind me.  I made a step to it, and stood
looking out.

     And there, amazed and afraid, even as I stood amazed and afraid,
were my cousin and my wife--my wife white and tearless.  She gave a
faint cry.

     "I came," she said. "I knew--knew--- "

     She put her hand to her throat--swayed.  I made a step forward,
and caught her in my arms.

                   THE WAR OF THE WORLDS -- Book 2

                     Chapter 10: The Epilogue

     I cannot but regret, now that I am concluding my story, how
little I am able to contribute to the discussion of the many
debatable questions which are still unsettled.  In one respect I
shall certainly provoke criticism.  My particular province is
speculative philosophy.  My knowledge of comparative physiology is
confined to a book or two, but it seems to me that Carver's
suggestions as to the reason of the rapid death of the Martians is so
probable as to be regarded almost as a proven conclusion.  I have
assumed that in the body of my narrative.

     At any rate, in all the bodies of the Martians that were
examined after the war, no bacteria except those already known as
terrestrial species were found.  That they did not bury any of their
dead, and the reckless slaughter they perpetrated, point also to an
entire ignorance of the putrefactive process.  But probable as this
seems, it is by no means a proven conclusion.

     Neither is the composition of the Black Smoke known, which the
Martians used with such deadly effect, and the generator of the
Heat-Rays remains a puzzle.  The terrible disasters at the Ealing and
South Kensington laboratories have disinclined analysts for further
investigations upon the latter.  Spectrum analysis of the black
powder points unmistakably to the presence of an unknown element with
a brilliant group of three lines in the green, and it is possible
that it combines with argon to form a compound which acts at once
with deadly effect upon some constituent in the blood.  But such
unproven speculations will scarcely be of interest to the general
reader, to whom this story is addressed.  None of the brown scum that
drifted down the Thames after the destruction of Shepperton was
examined at the time, and now none is forthcoming.

     The results of an anatomical examination of the Martians, so far
as the prowling dogs had left such an examination possible, I have
already given.  But everyone is familiar with the magnificent and
almost complete specimen in spirits at the Natural History Museum,
and the countless drawings that have been made from it; and beyond
that the interest of their physiology and structure is purely
scientific.

     A question of graver and universal interest is the possibility
of another attack from the Martians.  I do not think that nearly
enough attention is being given to this aspect of the matter.  At
present the planet Mars is in conjunction, but with every return to
opposition I, for one, anticipate a renewal of their adventure.  In
any case, we should be prepared.  It seems to me that it should be
possible to define the position of the gun from which the shots are
discharged, to keep a sustained watch upon this part of the planet,
and to anticipate the arrival of the next attack.

     In that case the cylinder might be destroyed with dynamite or
artillery before it was sufficiently cool for the Martians to emerge,
or they might be butchered by means of guns so soon as the screw
opened.  It seems to me that they have lost a vast advantage in the
failure of their first surprise.  Possibly they see it in the same
light.

     Lessing has advanced excellent reasons for supposing that the
Martians have actually succeeded in effecting a landing on the planet
Venus.  Seven months ago now, Venus and Mars were in alignment with
the sun; that is to say, Mars was in opposition from the point of
view of an observer on Venus.  Subsequently a peculiar luminous and
sinuous marking appeared on the unillumined half of the inner planet,
and almost simultaneously a faint dark mark of a similar sinuous
character was detected upon a photograph of the Martian disk.  One
needs to see the drawings of these appearances in order to appreciate
fully their remarkable resemblance in character.

     At any rate, whether we expect another invasion or not, our
views of the human future must be greatly modified by these events.
We have learned now that we cannot regard this planet as being fenced
in and a secure abiding place for Man; we can never anticipate the
unseen good or evil that may come upon us suddenly out of space.  It
may be that in the larger design of the universe this invasion from
Mars is not without its ultimate benefit for men; it has robbed us of
that serene confidence in the future which is the most fruitful
source of decadence, the gifts to human science it has brought are
enormous, and it has done much to promote the conception of the
commonweal of mankind.  It may be that across the immensity of space
the Martians have watched the fate of these pioneers of theirs and
learned their lesson, and that on the planet Venus they have found a
securer settlement.  Be that as it may, for many years yet there will
certainly be no relaxation of the eager scrutiny of the Martian disk,
and those fiery darts of the sky, the shooting stars, will bring with
them as they fall an unavoidable apprehension to all the sons of men.

     The broadening of men's views that has resulted can scarcely be
exaggerated.  Before the cylinder fell there was a general persuasion
that through all the deep of space no life existed beyond the petty
surface, of our minute sphere.  Now we see further.  If the Martians
can reach Venus, there is no reason to suppose that the thing is
impossible for men, and when the slow cooling of the sun makes this
earth uninhabitable, as at last it must do, it may be that the thread
of life that has begun here will have streamed out and caught our
sister planet within its toils.

     Dim and wonderful is the vision I have conjured up in my mind of
life spreading slowly from this little seed bed of the solar system
throughout the inanimate vastness of sidereal space.  But that is a
remote dream.  It may be, on the other hand, that the destruction of
the Martians is only a reprieve.  To them, and not to us, perhaps is
the future ordained.

     I must confess the stress and danger of the time have left an
abiding sense of doubt and insecurity in my mind.  I sit in my study
writing by lamplight, and suddenly I see again the healing valley
below set with writhing flames, and feel the house behind and about
me empty and desolate.  I go out into the Byfleet Road, and vehicles
pass me, a butcher boy in a cart, a cabful of visitors, a workman on
a bicycle, children going to school, and suddenly they become vague
and unreal, and I hurry again with the artilleryman through the hot,
brooding silence.  Of a night I see the black powder darkening the
silent streets, and the contorted bodies shrouded in that layer; they
rise upon me tattered and dog-bitten.  They gibber and grow fiercer,
paler, uglier, mad distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold
and wretched, in the darkness of the night.

     I go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet Street and
the Strand, and it comes across my mind that they are but the ghosts
of the past, haunting the streets that I have seen silent and
wretched, going to and fro, phantasms in a dead city, the mockery of
life in a galvanised body.  And strange, too, it is to stand on
Primrose Hill, as I did but a day before writing this last chapter,
to see the great province of houses, dim and blue through the haze of
the smoke and mist, vanishing at last into the vague lower sky, to
see the people walking to and fro among the flower beds on the hill,
to see the sightseers about the Martian machine that stands there
still, to hear the tumult of playing children, and to recall the time
when I saw it all bright and clear-cut, hard and silent, under the
dawn of that last great day. ...

     And strangest of all is it to hold my wife's hand again, and to
think that I have counted her, and that she has counted me, among the
dead.

--THE END --