Reading Help War of the worlds Book 2
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. `
` `
` `
` `
` CHAPTER SEVEN `
` `
` 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 glowed 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 Malden, 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 an 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 `
`
` 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. `
` `
` `
` `
` CHAPTER SEVEN `
` `
` 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 glowed 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 Malden, 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 an 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 `
`