XVI.

by H. G. Wells

THE EXODUS FROM LONDON

As dawn broke on Monday, a wave of panic surged through London, the world’s greatest city. People were fleeing in droves, a chaotic torrent that swirled around the railway stations, creating a desperate scene at the docks along the Thames. By ten o’clock, the police were struggling to maintain order, and by midday, even the railway staff were losing control, the entire social structure beginning to dissolve under the pressure of fear.

By midnight on Sunday, the railway lines north of the Thames and the South-Eastern services at Cannon Street had been alerted, and trains were quickly filling up. By two o’clock, people were fighting fiercely for standing room in the carriages. The situation escalated by three, with crowds trampling one another in Bishopsgate Street, just a couple of hundred yards from Liverpool Street station. Gunshots rang out, and people were stabbed, while the exhausted policemen sent to manage the chaos resorted to violence against those they were meant to protect.

As the day wore on, the engine drivers and stokers refused to return to London, and the stampede of people surged away from the stations, filling the roads leading north. By midday, a Martian had been spotted at Barnes, and a thick, black cloud of smoke drifted along the Thames and across the flatlands of Lambeth, cutting off escape routes over the bridges. Another wave of panic swept over Ealing, trapping a small group of survivors on Castle Hill, alive but unable to flee.

After a futile attempt to board a North-Western train at Chalk Farm—where the engines plowed through the screaming crowd, and a dozen strong men fought to keep the driver safe from being crushed—my brother finally made it onto Chalk Farm Road. He dodged through a frantic swarm of vehicles and was fortunate enough to be the first to raid a nearby cycle shop. He managed to grab a bike, though the front tire was punctured as he pulled it through the window. Undeterred, he hopped on and rode off, nursing only a cut on his wrist.

The steep incline of Haverstock Hill was blocked by overturned horses, so my brother veered onto Belsize Road. He escaped the chaos and, skirting the Edgware Road, reached Edgware around seven, tired and hungry but well ahead of the throng. Along the road, people stood in the street, curious and bewildered. He passed cyclists, horse riders, and a couple of motor cars. A mile from Edgware, the rim of his bike wheel broke, rendering it unrideable. He abandoned it by the roadside and trudged through the village, where shops were half-open and people crowded the pavements, staring in astonishment at the growing procession of refugees. He managed to find some food at an inn.

For a while, he lingered in Edgware, unsure of what to do next. The number of fleeing people continued to swell, many, like him, seemingly reluctant to leave the place. There was still no news about the Martian invaders.

The road was busy but not yet congested. Most of the escapees were on bicycles, but soon motor cars, cabs, and carriages joined the fray, kicking up clouds of dust along the route to St. Albans.

It was perhaps a vague notion of heading to Chelmsford, where some friends lived, that finally prompted my brother to take a quiet lane heading east. He soon came across a stile and crossed it, following a footpath northeast. He passed several farmhouses and small properties whose names he didn’t catch. He encountered few other fugitives until, in a grassy lane toward High Barnet, he stumbled upon two women who were in distress.

He heard their screams and rushed around the corner to find two men trying to drag them out of a small pony-chaise while a third man struggled to hold the frightened pony still. One of the women, a short figure in white, was screaming uncontrollably, while the other, a slender woman with dark hair, was fiercely striking at the man gripping her arm with a whip she had managed to keep in her hand.

Without hesitation, my brother assessed the situation, shouted, and rushed toward them. One of the men turned to confront him, and recognizing that a fight was inevitable, my brother, an experienced boxer, charged at him and sent him crashing against the wheel of the chaise.

It wasn’t the time for any kind of noble fighting, so my brother quickly subdued the man with a swift kick and grabbed the collar of the guy who was tugging at the slender lady’s arm. He heard the sound of hooves clattering nearby, felt the sting of a whip across his face, and then a third attacker landed a punch right between his eyes. The man he was holding broke free and took off down the lane from which he had come.

Dazed, my brother turned to face the man who had been holding the horse’s head. He noticed the chaise rolling away from him down the lane, swaying as it went, with the women inside looking back at him. The burly man in front of him lunged forward, but my brother stopped him with a punch to the face. Realizing he was now alone, he dodged around and sprinted after the chaise, with the sturdy man hot on his heels and the fleeing robber trailing behind.

Suddenly, he tripped and fell; his pursuer stumbled over him, and as he got back to his feet, he found himself facing two more attackers. He would have been in serious trouble if it hadn’t been for the brave slender lady, who had turned back to help him. It turned out she had a revolver all along, but it had been tucked under the seat when she and her companion were ambushed. She fired at a distance of six yards, narrowly missing my brother. The less courageous of the robbers took off, and his partner followed, cursing him for his cowardice. They both stopped a short distance down the lane, where the third man lay unconscious.

“Take this!” the slender lady said, handing my brother her revolver.

“Go back to the chaise,” he replied, wiping the blood from his split lip.

Without another word, she turned and they both hurried back to where the lady in white was struggling to keep the frightened pony under control.

The robbers had clearly had enough. When my brother looked again, they were retreating.

“I’ll sit here, if that’s alright,” he said, climbing onto the empty front seat. The lady glanced back over her shoulder.

“Give me the reins,” she said, and flicked the whip against the pony’s side. In a moment, a bend in the road concealed the three men from my brother’s view.

So, unexpectedly, my brother found himself, panting, with a cut lip, a bruised jaw, and bloodstained knuckles, driving down an unfamiliar lane with these two women.

He learned they were the wife and younger sister of a surgeon living in Stanmore. They had just come from a dangerous case at Pinner in the early hours of the morning and had heard about the Martian advance at a railway station on their way home. The surgeon had rushed back, woken the women—since their servant had left them two days earlier—packed some provisions, and stashed his revolver under the seat—thankfully for my brother. He told them to drive to Edgware, hoping to catch a train there. He planned to catch up with them around half past four in the morning, but now it was nearly nine, and they hadn’t seen him. They couldn’t stop in Edgware due to the increasing traffic, so they had taken this side lane.

That was the fragmented story they shared with my brother when they stopped again, closer to New Barnet. He promised to stay with them until they figured out what to do or until the missing man returned, claiming to be an expert shot with the revolver—a weapon he was unfamiliar with—just to reassure them.

They set up a makeshift camp by the roadside, and the pony settled happily in the hedge. He recounted his own escape from London and everything he knew about the Martians and their ways. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, their conversation faded into a tense silence filled with anticipation. Several travelers passed by, and my brother gathered whatever news he could from them. Each fragmented response deepened his sense of the great disaster that had befallen humanity and reinforced his belief in the urgent need to continue their flight. He pressed the issue with them.

“We have money,” the slender woman said, hesitating.

Her eyes met my brother’s, and her hesitation vanished.

“So do I,” he replied.

She explained that they had about thirty pounds in gold, along with a five-pound note, and suggested that with that, they might catch a train at St. Albans or New Barnet. My brother thought that was unlikely, given the chaos in London as people rushed to board trains, and proposed his own idea: to head across Essex toward Harwich and escape the country entirely.

Mrs. Elphinstone—the woman in white—would hear none of the reasoning offered to her. She kept calling out for “George.” Her sister-in-law, however, remained surprisingly calm and collected, eventually agreeing to my brother's suggestion. With the intention of crossing the Great North Road, they headed toward Barnet, my brother leading the pony to spare it as much as possible.

As the sun climbed higher, the day turned unbearably hot. The ground beneath them was covered in thick, white sand that burned and blinded their eyes, forcing them to move at a painfully slow pace. The hedges were coated in dust, and as they drew closer to Barnet, a chaotic murmur grew louder around them.

They began to encounter more people, most of whom stared blankly ahead, murmuring indistinct questions. They looked worn out, haggard, and unkempt. One man in evening attire passed them, his gaze fixed on the ground. They could hear him muttering, and when they glanced back, they saw one hand tangled in his hair while the other flailed at invisible foes. After a fit of rage, he continued on his way without a backward glance.

As my brother's group approached the crossroads south of Barnet, they spotted a woman crossing the fields to their left, carrying a child and accompanied by two others. They also passed a man in dirty black clothing, gripping a thick stick in one hand and a small suitcase in the other. Just around the corner, from between the villas that lined the lane, came a little cart pulled by a sweating black pony, driven by a pale youth in a dusty bowler hat. Inside the cart were three factory girls from the East End and a couple of small children.

“Will this take us around Edgware?” the driver asked, his eyes wide and face ashen. When my brother confirmed that it would if he turned left, the driver immediately whipped the pony into action without so much as a thank you.

My brother noticed a pale grey smoke rising among the houses ahead, obscuring the white façade of a terrace beyond the road that peeked between the backs of the villas. Suddenly, Mrs. Elphinstone cried out, pointing at several tongues of smoky red flame leaping up above the houses against the hot blue sky. The chaotic noise around them transformed into a jumbled mix of voices, the grinding of wheels, the creaking of wagons, and the sharp clatter of hooves. The lane curved sharply just fifty yards from the crossroads.

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Elphinstone exclaimed. “What are you leading us into?”

My brother halted.

Before them, the main road was a seething mass of people, a torrent of humanity rushing northward, each person pressing against the next. A thick cloud of dust, white and shimmering in the sunlight, cloaked everything within twenty feet of the ground, constantly stirred up by the hurried feet of a dense crowd of horses, men, and women, along with the wheels of various vehicles.

“Make way!” my brother heard voices calling. “Clear the path!”

Approaching the intersection felt like riding into the smoke of a fire; the crowd roared like flames, and the dust was hot and acrid. Just up the road, a villa was ablaze, sending rolling clouds of black smoke across the street, adding to the chaos.

Two men hurried past them, followed by a dirty woman carrying a heavy bundle and crying. A lost retriever dog, tongue hanging out, circled around them, frightened and miserable, before darting away at my brother's warning.

From what they could see of the road leading to London between the houses on their right, a tumultuous stream of dirty, hurried people surged forward, trapped between the villas on either side. The black heads and crowded figures became clearer as they rushed toward the corner, passed by, and then faded back into the mass, swallowed up by a cloud of dust.

“Go on! Go on!” the voices urged. “Make way! Make way!”

One man pressed against another, and my brother stood at the pony's head, drawn forward step by step down the lane.

Edgware had been chaotic, Chalk Farm a riot, but this was an entire population on the move. It was hard to grasp the sheer scale of it. There was no distinct character to the throng. Figures poured past the corner, retreating with their backs to my brother's group. Along the edges, those on foot were at risk from the wheels, stumbling into ditches and colliding with one another.

The carts and carriages were crammed together, leaving little room for the faster, more impatient vehicles that occasionally darted forward, sending people scattering against the fences and gates of the villas.

“Push on!” was the cry. “Push on! They’re coming!”

In one cart, a blind man dressed in Salvation Army uniform waved his crooked fingers and shouted, “Eternity! Eternity!” His voice was hoarse and loud enough that my brother could still hear him long after he disappeared into the dust. The crowd in the carts was a chaotic mix; some whipped their horses mindlessly and argued with other drivers, while others sat motionless, staring blankly with hollow eyes. A few gnawed at their hands, desperate with thirst, or lay flat in the bottoms of their vehicles. The horses were lathered with foam, their eyes bloodshot.

There were cabs, carriages, and wagons of every kind—too many to count. A mail cart, a road cleaner’s cart marked “Vestry of St. Pancras,” and a massive timber wagon filled with rough men rumbled by. A brewer’s dray passed, its wheels splattered with fresh blood.

“Clear the way!” shouted voices from the crowd. “Clear the way!”

“Eternity! Eternity!” echoed down the road.

Sad, worn-out women trudged by, well-dressed but with children who cried and stumbled, their delicate clothes coated in dust, their tired faces streaked with tears. Many of these women were accompanied by men, some who offered help, others who were aggressive and threatening. Among them pushed a weary street outcast in tattered black rags, wide-eyed and loud, cursing as he went. Sturdy workmen forced their way through the throng, unkempt and ragged, dressed like clerks or shopkeepers, struggling to keep moving. My brother noticed a wounded soldier, men in railway porter uniforms, and one unfortunate soul in a nightshirt with a coat thrown over it.

Despite their differences, this crowd shared common traits. Fear and pain were etched on their faces, and anxiety loomed behind them. A commotion up the road—a fight for space in a wagon—sent the entire group quickening their pace; even a man so terrified and broken that his knees buckled found a moment of renewed energy. The heat and dust had taken their toll. Their skin was parched, their lips black and cracked. They were all thirsty, exhausted, and sore from walking. Amid the cacophony, one could hear disputes, accusations, and groans of fatigue; most voices were hoarse and weak. Yet through it all, a refrain persisted:

“Way! Way! The Martians are coming!”

Few stepped aside from the rushing tide of people. The narrow lane opened onto the main road, giving the illusion of leading from London. Yet, a swirl of people funneled into its mouth; those too weak to keep up were pushed out of the stream, resting only briefly before plunging back in. A little further down the lane, a man lay on the ground, his bare leg wrapped in bloody rags, with two friends hovering over him. He was fortunate to have companions.

An elderly man with a gray military mustache and a filthy black frock coat limped out, sat beside a cart, removed his boot—his sock stained with blood—shook out a pebble, and hobbled away. Then, a little girl of about eight or nine, all alone, threw herself under a hedge near my brother, sobbing.

“I can’t go on! I can’t go on!” she cried.

My brother snapped out of his daze and gently lifted her up, speaking softly as he carried her to Miss Elphinstone. The moment he touched her, she went still, as if frightened.

“Ellen!” a woman in the crowd called out, her voice thick with tears. “Ellen!” The child suddenly broke free from my brother’s grasp, crying, “Mother!”

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

“Get out of the way!” shouted a coachman, towering above the crowd, as my brother saw a closed carriage turning into the lane.

People pressed back against one another to avoid the horse. My brother maneuvered the pony and chaise back into the hedge, and the coachman drove by, stopping at the turn. It was a carriage designed for two horses, but only one was hitched. Through the dust, my brother could dimly see two men carefully lifting something onto a white stretcher and placing it gently on the grass beneath the privet hedge.

One of the men rushed over to my brother.

“Where can I find water?” he asked urgently. “He’s dying fast and desperately thirsty. It’s Lord Garrick.”

“Lord Garrick?” my brother replied, surprised. “The Chief Justice?”

“The water?” the man pressed.

“There might be a tap in some of the houses,” my brother said. “We have no water. I can’t leave my people.”

The man pushed through the crowd toward the gate of the nearest house.

“Keep moving!” the crowd urged him, shoving him forward. “They are coming! Go on!”

My brother’s attention was suddenly caught by a man with a beard and an eagle-like face, struggling to carry a small handbag. Just as my brother focused on him, the bag burst open, spilling a cascade of gold coins that scattered across the ground. They rolled in every direction, getting lost among the hurried feet of men and horses. The man paused, staring blankly at the pile, and then was jolted by a passing cab that struck his shoulder, sending him staggering back. He let out a scream, dodging just in time to avoid a cartwheel that narrowly missed him.

“Make way!” shouted the crowd around him.

As soon as the cab had passed, the man lunged forward, hands outstretched, diving into the heap of coins and stuffing handfuls into his pockets. A horse came up close behind him, and in an instant, he was knocked down, trampled under its hooves.

“Stop!” my brother yelled, pushing a woman aside as he tried to grab the horse’s reins.

Before he could reach it, he heard a scream from beneath the wheels and saw, through the swirling dust, the cart’s rim passing over the man’s back. The cart driver lashed out with his whip at my brother, who darted around the back of the cart. The chaotic shouting filled his ears, and he saw the man writhing in the dirt, surrounded by his scattered money, unable to rise because the wheel had crushed his back, leaving his legs limp and lifeless.

My brother stood up and shouted at the next driver he saw, and a man on a black horse rode over to help.

“Get him out of the road,” the horseman instructed. My brother grabbed the man by the collar with one hand and pulled him sideways. But the man still clawed at the coins, glaring at my brother and hitting his arm with a handful of gold. “Keep moving! Get out of the way!” shouted angry voices from behind.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash as a carriage collided with the cart that the horseman had stopped. My brother looked up just in time to see the man with the gold twist his head and bite the wrist of the hand holding him. The impact caused the black horse to stagger sideways, and the cart horse pushed against it. A hoof narrowly missed my brother’s foot, forcing him to let go of the fallen man and jump back.

In that moment, he saw the anger on the man’s face turn to terror, and then he was lost from view as my brother was pushed backward, swept away from the entrance of the lane, struggling to regain his footing in the chaos.

He caught a glimpse of Miss Elphinstone covering her eyes, while a small child, with the innocent curiosity of youth, stared wide-eyed at a dark shape lying still and crushed under the wheels. “Let’s go back!” he shouted, turning the pony around. “We can’t cross this—this madness,” he said, and they retreated a hundred yards until the tumult was out of sight. As they rounded the bend in the lane, my brother saw the dying man lying in the ditch, pale and glistening with sweat. The two women sat in silence, huddled together, trembling.

After a moment, my brother stopped again. Miss Elphinstone looked pale, and her sister-in-law was crying, too distraught to even call out for “George.” My brother felt a mix of horror and confusion. Once they had retreated, he realized how necessary it was to attempt crossing again. He turned to Miss Elphinstone, suddenly determined.

“We have to go that way,” he said, guiding the pony back around.

For the second time that day, this girl showed her strength. To push through the throng, my brother dove into the crowd, holding back a cab horse while she maneuvered the pony across its path. A wagon momentarily locked wheels with the cart, tearing a splinter from their chaise. In no time, they were caught in the current of the crowd, swept forward. My brother, with the marks of the cabman’s whip red across his face and hands, scrambled into the chaise and took the reins from her.

“Point the revolver at the man behind us,” he instructed, handing it to her. “If he pushes us too hard—no, aim it at his horse.”

Then he began scanning for an opportunity to edge right across the road. But once they were in the flow, he felt himself lose control, becoming just another part of the dusty chaos. They surged through Chipping Barnet, nearly a mile past the town center before they managed to fight their way to the opposite side of the road. The noise and confusion were overwhelming, but as they moved beyond the town, the road forked repeatedly, providing some relief from the pressure.

They headed east through Hadley, and on either side of the road, they encountered a massive crowd gathered around a stream. People were fighting to get to the water, desperation evident in their faces. Further along, near East Barnet, they spotted two trains moving slowly in tandem, without any signals or order. The trains were packed with people, some even clinging to the coal cars behind the engines, heading north on the Great Northern Railway. My brother guessed that they must have come from outside London, as the panic gripping the city had made the central stations unmanageable.

They decided to stop here for the rest of the afternoon, completely worn out from the day’s turmoil. Hunger began to gnaw at them, and the night air was chilly, leaving them too anxious to sleep. As evening fell, more people rushed down the road near where they had settled, fleeing from unknown threats and heading in the same direction my brother had come from.