The War of the Worlds, H. G. Wells [little red riding hood ebook free .txt] 📗

I went after

it, gained it, and so escaped out of that destruction. There were no

oars in the boat, but I contrived to paddle, as well as my parboiled

hands would allow, down the river towards Halliford and Walton, going

very tediously and continually looking behind me, as you may well

understand. I followed the river, because I considered that the water

gave me my best chance of escape should these giants return.

 

The hot water from the Martian’s overthrow drifted downstream with

me, so that for the best part of a mile I could see little of either

bank. Once, however, I made out a string of black figures hurrying

across the meadows from the direction of Weybridge. Halliford, it

seemed, was deserted, and several of the houses facing the river were

on fire. It was strange to see the place quite tranquil, quite

desolate under the hot blue sky, with the smoke and little threads of

flame going straight up into the heat of the afternoon. Never before

had I seen houses burning without the accompaniment of an obstructive

crowd. A little farther on the dry reeds up the bank were smoking and

glowing, and a line of fire inland was marching steadily across a late

field of hay.

 

For a long time I drifted, so painful and weary was I after the

violence I had been through, and so intense the heat upon the water.

Then my fears got the better of me again, and I resumed my paddling.

The sun scorched my bare back. At last, as the bridge at Walton was

coming into sight round the bend, my fever and faintness overcame my

fears, and I landed on the Middlesex bank and lay down, deadly sick,

amid the long grass. I suppose the time was then about four or five

o’clock. I got up presently, walked perhaps half a mile without

meeting a soul, and then lay down again in the shadow of a hedge. I

seem to remember talking, wanderingly, to myself during that last

spurt. I was also very thirsty, and bitterly regretful I had drunk no

more water. It is a curious thing that I felt angry with my wife; I

cannot account for it, but my impotent desire to reach Leatherhead

worried me excessively.

 

I do not clearly remember the arrival of the curate, so that

probably I dozed. I became aware of him as a seated figure in soot-smudged shirt sleeves, and with his upturned, clean-shaven face

staring at a faint flickering that danced over the sky. The sky was

what is called a mackerel sky—rows and rows of faint down-plumes of

cloud, just tinted with the midsummer sunset.

 

I sat up, and at the rustle of my motion he looked at me quickly.

 

“Have you any water?” I asked abruptly.

 

He shook his head.

 

“You have been asking for water for the last hour,” he said.

 

For a moment we were silent, taking stock of each other. I dare

say he found me a strange enough figure, naked, save for my water-soaked trousers and socks, scalded, and my face and shoulders

blackened by the smoke. His face was a fair weakness, his chin

retreated, and his hair lay in crisp, almost flaxen curls on his low

forehead; his eyes were rather large, pale blue, and blankly staring.

He spoke abruptly, looking vacantly away from me.

 

“What does it mean?” he said. “What do these things mean?”

 

I stared at him and made no answer.

 

He extended a thin white hand and spoke in almost a complaining

tone.

 

“Why are these things permitted? What sins have we done? The

morning service was over, I was walking through the roads to clear my

brain for the afternoon, and then—fire, earthquake, death! As if it

were Sodom and Gomorrah! All our work undone, all the work–- What

are these Martians?”

 

“What are we?” I answered, clearing my throat.

 

He gripped his knees and turned to look at me again. For half a

minute, perhaps, he stared silently.

 

“I was walking through the roads to clear my brain,” he said. “And

suddenly—fire, earthquake, death!”

 

He relapsed into silence, with his chin now sunken almost to his

knees.

 

Presently he began waving his hand.

 

“All the work—all the Sunday schools—What have we done—what has

Weybridge done? Everything gone—everything destroyed. The church!

We rebuilt it only three years ago. Gone! Swept out of existence!

Why?”

 

Another pause, and he broke out again like one demented.

 

“The smoke of her burning goeth up for ever and ever!” he shouted.

 

His eyes flamed, and he pointed a lean finger in the direction of

Weybridge.

 

By this time I was beginning to take his measure. The tremendous

tragedy in which he had been involved—it was evident he was a

fugitive from Weybridge—had driven him to the very verge of his

reason.

 

“Are we far from Sunbury?” I said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

 

“What are we to do?” he asked. “Are these creatures everywhere?

Has the earth been given over to them?”

 

“Are we far from Sunbury?”

 

“Only this morning I officiated at early celebration–-”

 

“Things have changed,” I said, quietly. “You must keep your head.

There is still hope.”

 

“Hope!”

 

“Yes. Plentiful hope—for all this destruction!”

 

I began to explain my view of our position. He listened at first,

but as I went on the interest dawning in his eyes gave place to their

former stare, and his regard wandered from me.

 

“This must be the beginning of the end,” he said, interrupting me.

“The end! The great and terrible day of the Lord! When men shall

call upon the mountains and the rocks to fall upon them and hide

them—hide them from the face of Him that sitteth upon the throne!”

 

I began to understand the position. I ceased my laboured

reasoning, struggled to my feet, and, standing over him, laid my hand

on his shoulder.

 

“Be a man!” said I. “You are scared out of your wits! What good

is religion if it collapses under calamity? Think of what earthquakes

and floods, wars and volcanoes, have done before to men! Did you

think God had exempted Weybridge? He is not an insurance agent.”

 

For a time he sat in blank silence.

 

“But how can we escape?” he asked, suddenly. “They are

invulnerable, they are pitiless.”

 

“Neither the one nor, perhaps, the other,” I answered. “And the

mightier they are the more sane and wary should we be. One of them

was killed yonder not three hours ago.”

 

“Killed!” he said, staring about him. “How can God’s ministers be

killed?”

 

“I saw it happen.” I proceeded to tell him. “We have chanced to

come in for the thick of it,” said I, “and that is all.”

 

“What is that flicker in the sky?” he asked abruptly.

 

I told him it was the heliograph signalling—that it was the sign

of human help and effort in the sky.

 

“We are in the midst of it,” I said, “quiet as it is. That flicker

in the sky tells of the gathering storm. Yonder, I take it are the

Martians, and Londonward, where those hills rise about Richmond and

Kingston and the trees give cover, earthworks are being thrown up and

guns are being placed. Presently the Martians will be coming this way

again.”

 

And even as I spoke he sprang to his feet and stopped me by a

gesture.

 

“Listen!” he said.

 

From beyond the low hills across the water came the dull resonance

of distant guns and a remote weird crying. Then everything was still.

A cockchafer came droning over the hedge and past us. High in the

west the crescent moon hung faint and pale above the smoke of

Weybridge and Shepperton and the hot, still splendour of the sunset.

 

“We had better follow this path,” I said, “northward.”