Charles spent the day on one of the upper floors of the tower, transporting the heavy iron girders with a dozen other prisoners. He worked without taking a break, except when a fit of coughing forced him to step away from the group in order to deposit a blob of green phlegm onto the floor. When this happened, the other prisoners would give him a look of sympathy or indifference, although he could not help feeling anything but deep contempt for them. Charles considered himself different from the others, but not because he belonged to a higher social class. Two years had sufficed to reduce rich and poor to the same level, changing them into a downtrodden, evil-smelling throng that could only be told apart by their manners, and sometimes not even then. As time went on, conversation had been replaced by silence, monosyllables, and grunts, such was the weight of their crushing fatigue. If Charles still felt he was different, this was because he had not been captured whilst fleeing through the streets, like most of the others, and imprisoned there without knowing anything more about what was going on than vague rumors they picked up in the camp. No, before being taken prisoner, Charles had formed part of a group of valiant heroes led by the brave Captain Shackleton, which had been on the point of killing the Martian leader of the invasion, even though all this seemed like a dream to him now. It took a supreme effort of concentration for him to dredge up those events from the depths of his memory.
This was what he had to do when he returned to his cell after an exhausting day. He scarcely had an hour before the sun went down, and so despite the dizziness and fatigue overwhelming him, he took the diary out from under his pallet and resumed where he had left off, unraveling the knot of memories hidden in the farthest recesses of his mind.
DIARY OF CHARLES WINSLOW
13 February, 1900
When the carriage emerged into Queen’s Gate, it was still quiet, as was Exhibition Road. I was greatly relieved to see that the tripods hadn’t made an appearance there yet, not simply because it lessened the time our loved ones would have to endure them, but because I had no desire to bump into another sinister Martian machine, even if I was in the company of the brave Captain Shackleton. I quietly observed the captain, who appeared lost in thought, frowning. The man beside me was the same timid individual whom I had taken such a dislike to only minutes before, and yet now that I knew he was none other than Captain Shackleton, I could not help seeing him as a brave, intrepid hero, whose calmness would inspire anyone to follow him to the very gates of Hell. I was sitting next to a legend, but a legend who was armed, because before leaving the house, I had taken the precaution of purloining three revolvers from my uncle’s collection: a Colt for Shackleton, a Remington for Harold, and a Smith & Wesson for myself, so that all three of us were traveling to our destination with a weapon in our laps and several boxes of ammunition stuffed in our jacket pockets. I was aware that my role in this momentous endeavor was that of humble shield bearer, but despite my fear, I could not help feeling a wave of confidence sweep over me: my meeting with Shackleton had been providential, for if I had not convinced him, he would never have accepted that it was he who must defeat the Martians. And since this could not be determined by a series of mere coincidences, I realized we were following our destiny, that everything we were apparently doing spontaneously and of our own free will had in fact been decided by the Creator long before we were born.
The carriage traveled at a leisurely, discreet pace past Hyde Park and down Piccadilly toward Soho. I was happy to discover that, for the moment, all was quiet. We could hear a barrage of explosions in the distance, masked by the relentless clanging of bells, but apparently the tripods had still not reached this area. Londoners had taken refuge in their houses, and the streets were deserted. However, soon after turning into Shaftesbury Avenue, which was still intact, we began to encounter people running panic-stricken toward us. It was the same motley crowd that had carried me down to the Thames during my flight: scruffy vagrants side by side with wealthy gentlemen, all wearing the same look of terror on their faces. Through the carriage windows, we noticed that some of those dodging the carts and other vehicles fleeing in the same direction had bloodstains on their clothes. Clearly we were traveling into the oncoming path of a tripod. I muttered a curse and scanned the street for a side alley we might slip into, but every exit seemed to be blocked by rubble, or clusters of bewildered people. We had no choice but to continue up Shaftesbury Avenue, in the direction of the tripod. Harold appeared undaunted and urged on the horses, weaving with difficulty through the torrent of carriages hurtling in our direction. I saw Shackleton begin to brace himself as the din grew steadily louder, and I, too, sat up in my seat, gripping the revolver tightly. Unlike the other two, I doubted we would come out alive.
Then, in the middle of the street, with its three legs planted firmly on the ground, we saw the tripod that had caused this stampede. It was swaying gently, confident and commanding, while behind it we glimpsed a row of half-collapsed buildings, like a set of rotten teeth. Shackleton seemed startled by the size of the Martian machine. Just then, the tripod spat a ray of fire from its tentacle, which enveloped the handful of panic-stricken people fleeing before it, instantly transforming them into grotesque cinder dolls.
“Good God . . . ,” Shackleton breathed.
After seeing what the Martians were able to do to us, Harold appeared to lose his nerve. He swiftly turned the carriage about-face, ready to flee in the opposite direction, but a knot of vehicles had formed behind us, blocking the street. Coaches and cabriolets were hopelessly attempting to escape from the bottleneck they had created in their panic-stricken flight, and we quickly realized that before they could disentangle themselves the tripod would be upon us. We were trapped between the tangle of coaches and the Martian monster and would presently be reduced to a pile of ashes on the paving stones. Harold surrendered to the impossibility of the situation and stepped down from the driver’s seat, unsure what to do next. Shackleton and I did likewise. Just then, the tripod took a step toward this ludicrous blockage, causing the ground beneath our feet to bulge and break up like the hackles on a cat. I made as if to cock my revolver but immediately decided against it. What was the use of shooting at that thing?
“We must leave the carriage here and flee on foot!” I shouted to Shackleton, who was staring intently at the machine’s slow advance.
The captain shook his head, and Harold and I looked on in disbelief as Shackleton made a dash in the other direction. Astonished, I watched as he sprinted toward the tripod, which failed to notice that from among the fleeing multitude, a single individual was heading the other way. Only when the crowd dispersed was the Martian able to see the captain. I tried from a distance to make out what the devil he was attempting. Just one thing occurred to me: he planned to pass through the Martian’s legs and flee in the opposite direction, leaving us behind. But what kind of hero would do such a thing? I thought to myself: what kind of hero would try to save his own skin without a thought for his companions? Then, all of a sudden, just as he was about to pass beneath the tripod, he appeared to change his mind, and instead of running between its legs, he tried to go round it to the right. Ignoring the others, the tentacle swayed in the air as it followed the captain’s bewildering trajectory.
From where I was standing, struggling not to be trampled by the swarm of people fighting their way past the barricade of coaches, I could see the Martian machine trap Shackleton against a massive edifice, no doubt an administrative building, with a splendid neoclassical frontage and half a dozen elegant pillared archways. Together with the handful of onlookers who had stopped in their tracks to observe the apparently suicidal actions of a madman, I saw the captain contemplate the tentacle’s cobralike dance, seemingly paralyzed with fear. The limb stopped moving a few yards from Shackleton, dangling in the air, before it aimed at him. The captain was a dead man, I thought, but suddenly Shackleton overcame his paralysis, hurling himself to one side, so that the ray struck the pillar behind him, producing a shower of lethal debr
is that scattered in all directions. The destruction of the pillar caused the front of the building to rock and a maze of cracks to spread across its façade. Through a veil of dust I saw the captain scramble to his feet, but the Martian at the controls of the machine wasn’t ready to give up. Steadying itself on its long legs, the tripod launched another tongue of fire, forcing the captain to fling himself to the ground once more. The ray struck a second pillar, throwing up another fountain of debris.
Quick as a flash, Shackleton was again on his feet, and I saw him running as far away as he could from the tripod. The tentacle tried again to strike Shackleton with its ray, slicing through the remaining columns of the building like a scythe felling weeds, but still failed to hit its elusive prey. Having lost several of its sustaining columns, the building began to crumple forward with a deafening crack. Shackleton came to a halt beneath the last archway but could scarcely do more than watch as the huge building collapsed on top of him. Before the tripod had time to realize what was going on, an avalanche of rubble fell on top of it, jolting it violently. The tentacle thrashed around in the air, its heat ray sweeping the street and slicing through the fronts of the adjoining buildings.
This sudden, random destruction sent down a torrent of stones, bricks, and every imaginable type of architectural ornamentation, which landed on us from every direction. Not all of us were able to shield ourselves from the onslaught. Harold and I managed to take shelter behind our carriage, which only shook violently, but some of the nearby vehicles were not so lucky: we looked on appalled as a massive gargoyle plummeted from the sky onto the roof of one of them, crushing its occupants, a terrified couple who scarcely had time to grasp each other’s hand. The cascade was brutal but short-lived, and when it was over, a sudden deathly hush descended, broken only by the relentless bells.
Spluttering, I peered through the thick cloud of dust filling the street. As it cleared, the few of us who had survived discovered with relief that our lives were no longer threatened by the Martian: the tripod had vanished beneath a pile of rubble, but alas so had Captain Shackleton. Alarmed, I contemplated the immense dusty tomb from which two of the tripod’s legs were poking out. There lies the future savior of the human race, I said to myself, with a mixture of sadness and bewilderment, unsure what to think of this unexpected occurrence, which had once again confounded my thinking. As tolling bells and distant explosions shook the sky above our heads, someone suggested a prayer, but most of us were too shocked to respond. Suddenly, we heard the scraping sound of a stone being dislodged at the top of the mound. We all stared in bewilderment as the rubble began to stir, terrified the tripod was trying to raise itself up, but the two legs remained motionless. After the first stone, two more tumbled down, then several in quick succession, until a small avalanche of rubble began sliding down one side of the mound. Then a hand pushed a huge stone aside, sending it rolling slowly to the ground. After that, an arm appeared, and finally, as though emerging with difficulty from a stony womb, we saw Shackleton climb out, miraculously unscathed. I gazed at him with a mixture of joy and disbelief. God be praised . . . this was impossible. He was alive! After a few moments of stunned silence, the small crowd of onlookers began cheering, and several of us approached the mound. When I looked beneath the surface of the debris, I saw immediately what had saved the captain from certain death: the archway had formed a kind of shell around him. There, protected like a baby bird in a nest, he had withstood the building’s collapse.
Shackleton greeted us awkwardly from atop the pile of rubble, then he clambered down timidly, brushing the dust off his suit. He walked somewhat unsteadily toward the carriage, followed by a group of admirers who insisted on shaking his hand and even clapping him enthusiastically on the back. When he finally reached the coach, he climbed aboard, bade farewell to his admirers with a dusty wave of his hand, and sat down stiffly in his seat, ready to resume our journey. I sat beside him, brimming with admiration, if slightly ashamed of myself for what I had thought of him. How could I have considered for a moment that he would leave us to our fate? Nothing could have been further from the truth. While we were all desperately running away, Shackleton had judged the situation with his mind of the future: he had grasped the tripod’s vulnerability; he had surveyed the street; he had analyzed the surrounding buildings with a cursory glance and had positioned himself in front of one resting on half a dozen arches, which if destroyed by the heat ray would cause the building to collapse; and finally, he had considered the possibility of sheltering beneath one of those arches. He had the courage necessary to carry out a daring plan he had elaborated in a matter of seconds, a plan that demanded he risk his life to save ours, without a moment’s hesitation, displaying great mental as well as physical agility, for what I had initially thought was a clumsy way of rolling on the ground, I now realized were the deliberate movements of a panther.
“Stop staring at me like that, Mr. Winslow,” Shackleton said with a certain irritation, which I instantly attributed to the tenseness of the situation.
“Captain, what you just did was the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. What a strategist, and what presence of mind. Captain, you’re a true hero,” I replied, in raptures.
“I was lucky, nothing more . . . ,” he said brusquely, shrugging aside my comments.
I shook my head, amused at Shackleton’s modesty, and ordered Harold to turn the carriage around. I told him we were continuing our journey to Soho, confident that nothing bad could happen to us while we were with this exceptional fellow. Although he himself had seen what the brave Captain Shackleton had done, the coachman looked at me doubtfully, as if the captain’s exploits had not impressed him in the slightest. Nonetheless, he climbed onto the driver’s perch and drove the horses on without demur.
After skirting the funeral rubble beneath which the tripod was buried, we entered the stretch of road it had just passed through and saw the havoc it had wreaked. We came across numerous fallen buildings, but the real horror, the Martians’ boundless contempt for our race, was illustrated by the scores of dead bodies strewn all over the place, and more than anything, the survivors: a woman weeping on her knees before the trampled body of a child of three or four, a man wandering in a daze, cradling a severed head, another crying in vain for help, half trapped beneath his horse. As we contemplated this parade of horrors, even the captain was shocked, despite hailing from a future where London had also been reduced to rubble. He was no doubt thinking how meaningless all our efforts were, because even if we did succeed in halting the invasion and rebuilding the city, another equally horrific devastation awaited it just around the corner. In the same vague way we had learned of their tragedy thanks to Murray’s Time Travel, future generations would learn of ours through commemorative crosses and monuments. Only the brave Captain Shackleton would see the greatest city in the world twice razed to the ground.
We spent most of the journey plunged in a gloomy silence, until, as we entered Soho, Harold brought the carriage to an abrupt halt. Peering out of the windows to try to discover the reason, Shackleton and I glimpsed through the veil of mist some fifty yards ahead of us a half-dozen tripods leaving the area where we were heading, walking side by side like an eerie herd. We stayed motionless, pretending we were one of the many carriages abandoned in the streets, and only when they had disappeared toward the Strand did Harold urge the horses on once more.
Soho was unrecognizable. The column of tripods had reduced it to a smoky wasteland where scarcely a building was left standing to serve as a landmark. Faced with this horrific devastation, I realized no force as destructive as that of the Martians had ever existed on Earth. Wandering among the ruins, like castaways who have lost their minds, groups of the wounded were helping one another, or turning over the dead bodies in search of their loved ones. I gazed at them for a while as if under hypnosis, aware that even if we won this war, for many it was already lost. The carriage rolled to a halt, and we heard Harold’s voice speaking to us from the driv
er’s seat.
“I think this is number twelve, Greek Street,” he said, pointing at nothing.
Shackleton and I stepped down from the coach and made our way, dazed, through the wreckage to the place where Murray’s Time Travel had once stood. Harold followed a few paces behind. Somewhere amid that sea of rubble we came across the Cronotilus, brutally crushed beneath a heavy layer of girders and sections of roof. How would we travel to the future now? I wondered, pondering the battered time tram. Besides, even if it had been intact, there was no sign of any hole in time, and the fact was I had no idea what the opening into the year 2000 looked like. I felt a creeping sense of failure. Had I been wrong all along? Would we play no part in saving the world? It was then I stumbled on the poster announcing the expedition to the year 2000, to the day of the final battle that would decide the fate of the planet. It had always hung next to the entrance, like an unreal yet captivating lure, in the days when Murray’s Time Travel was still open for business. In it Captain Shackleton was pictured raising his sword against the king of the automatons, whom Shackleton had defeated in a fabulous duel, which, thanks to Murray’s magic, I myself had witnessed. I cast my eyes around for the hero himself, who at that moment happened to be talking to Harold while pointing to the top of a section of wall. With arm outstretched, each leg planted on a huge rock, and his noble chin jutting out in a gesture of unquestionable authority, Shackleton looked as if he were doing his best to replicate the warrior-like pose in the poster I was holding. I felt a surge of optimism as I looked again from the poster to the brave Captain Shackleton, who was here, in our time, and moments before had single-handedly destroyed one of the Martian machines. The fact that the tripods had ruined the Cronotilus only meant we weren’t going to save the world by traveling to the future. We would do it some other way, but we would do it. Shackleton caught me looking at him, and, raising his eyebrows skeptically, he spread his arms to encompass all this destruction.