VII.

by H. G. Wells

THE MAN ON PUTNEY HILL

That night, I found myself at the inn perched atop Putney Hill, finally sleeping in a proper bed for the first time since my escape to Leatherhead. I won’t bother recounting the trouble I had breaking into that house—only to discover later that the front door had been left ajar—or how I searched every room for food. Just when despair was creeping in, I stumbled upon a rat-bitten crust and two tins of pineapple in what I assumed was a servant’s bedroom. The place had already been rifled through and emptied.

In the bar, I eventually found some biscuits and sandwiches that had been overlooked. The sandwiches were too rotten to eat, but the biscuits not only quelled my hunger but also filled my pockets. I didn’t light any lamps, fearing that some Martian might come prowling through that part of London in search of food during the night. Before I finally went to bed, I felt restless, wandering from window to window, peering out for any sign of those monsters. Sleep came slowly. As I lay there, my thoughts began to flow in a way I hadn’t experienced since my last argument with the curate. For weeks, my mind had been a chaotic jumble of vague emotions, but now, perhaps fueled by the food I had eaten, it cleared, and I began to think.

Three thoughts battled for my attention: the death of the curate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and the fate of my wife. The first didn’t fill me with horror or remorse; I viewed it simply as a fact, an unpleasant memory devoid of guilt. I saw myself then, as I do now, as a product of circumstances that led me to that impulsive act. I felt no judgment against myself; yet that memory lingered, static and unchanging, haunting me. In the stillness of the night, with a sense of God’s presence that sometimes envelops the darkness, I held my own trial for that moment of anger and fear. I replayed every moment of our conversation from the time I found him crouched beside me, oblivious to my thirst, pointing at the smoke rising from the ruins of Weybridge. We had been incapable of working together—grim fate had ignored that. Had I seen it coming, I would have left him at Halliford. But I didn’t foresee it; and crime is born of foresight and action. I write this down as I have lived it, as it was. There were no witnesses; I could have hidden these things. But I choose to lay it bare, and the reader can judge as they will.

Once I managed to push aside the image of the fallen body, I turned my thoughts to the Martians and my wife’s fate. I had no information about the former; my imagination could conjure a hundred scenarios, and sadly, the same went for the latter. Suddenly, that night felt unbearably heavy. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring into the darkness. I prayed that the Heat-Ray had struck her down swiftly and without pain. Since my return from Leatherhead, I hadn’t truly prayed. I had muttered desperate prayers, like a pagan reciting charms in times of crisis; but now, I prayed earnestly, facing the darkness of God with clarity.

What a strange night it was! The strangest part being that as dawn broke, I, who had conversed with God, crept out of the house like a rat leaving its hiding place—an insignificant creature, a lesser being, one that could be hunted and killed on a whim by our masters. Perhaps they too prayed confidently to God. Surely, if we have learned anything from this war, it is pity—pity for those helpless souls who endure our dominion.

The morning was bright and clear, with the eastern sky glowing pink and dotted with little golden clouds. Along the road from the top of Putney Hill to Wimbledon, remnants of the chaos from the panic that had swept through London the previous Sunday night were scattered about. There was a small two-wheeled cart marked with the name Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden, its wheel smashed and a tin trunk left behind. A straw hat lay trampled in the now hardened mud, and at the top of West Hill, shards of blood-stained glass surrounded an overturned water trough.

I moved slowly, my plans vague and unfocused. I thought about heading to Leatherhead, even though I knew my chances of finding my wife there were slim. Unless something terrible had happened, she and my cousins would have fled from there. Still, I hoped I might discover where the people from Surrey had gone. My heart ached for her and for the world, but I had no clear idea of how to find her. The weight of my loneliness pressed heavily on me as I turned off the road, slipping into a thicket of trees and bushes, making my way to the edge of Wimbledon Common, which stretched out wide before me.

The dark expanse of the common was brightened in patches by yellow gorse and broom; there was no sign of the red weed, and as I hesitated on the edge of the open space, the sun rose, flooding everything with light and energy. I stumbled upon a lively group of little frogs in a swampy area among the trees. I paused to watch them, drawing strength from their determination to survive. Suddenly, I felt a strange sensation of being watched. Turning quickly, I spotted something crouched in a clump of bushes. I stood still, observing it. As I took a step closer, it rose, revealing itself to be a man armed with a cutlass. I approached cautiously, and he remained silent and still, studying me.

As I got nearer, I noticed he was dressed in clothes as dusty and filthy as my own, looking as if he had been dragged through a sewer. I could see the green slime of ditches mingling with the pale drab of dried clay and shiny, sooty patches on his clothing. His black hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark, dirty, and sunken, making it hard to recognize him at first. A red cut marred the lower part of his face.

“Stop!” he shouted when I was about ten yards away, and I halted. His voice was hoarse. “Where do you come from?” he asked.

I took a moment to consider him.

“I come from Mortlake,” I replied. “I was trapped near the pit the Martians made around their cylinder. I managed to dig my way out and escape.”

“There’s no food around here,” he said. “This is my territory. All this hill down to the river, back to Clapham, and up to the edge of the common. There’s only enough food for one. Which way are you headed?”

I answered slowly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been buried in the ruins of a house for thirteen or fourteen days. I have no idea what’s happened.”

He looked at me with uncertainty, then his expression changed as if he recognized something.

“I don’t want to stick around here,” I said. “I think I’ll head to Leatherhead; my wife was there.”

He pointed at me with a finger.

“It’s you,” he said. “The man from Woking. And you weren’t killed at Weybridge?”

At that moment, I recognized him too.

“You’re the artilleryman who came into my garden.”

“Good luck!” he exclaimed. “We’re the lucky ones! Can you believe it’s _you_?” He extended his hand, and I shook it. “I crawled up a drain,” he said. “But they didn’t kill everyone. After they left, I made my way toward Walton across the fields. But—” He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Only a rook,” he said. “You learn to recognize the shadows of birds these days. This place is too open. Let’s crawl under those bushes and talk.”

“Have you seen any Martians?” I asked. “Since I crawled out—”

“They’ve moved on across London,” he replied. “I think they’ve set up a bigger camp there. At night, over in Hampstead, the sky is filled with their lights. It looks like a huge city, and you can just make them out moving in the glow. During the day, you can’t see them. But it’s been—” he counted on his fingers, “five days since I last saw them. Then I spotted a couple near Hammersmith carrying something large. And the night before last”—he paused, speaking with emphasis—“there were just lights, but something was up in the air. I believe they’ve built a flying machine and are learning to fly.”

I stopped on my hands and knees as we reached the bushes.

“Fly!”

“Yes,” he said, “fly.”

I crawled into a small clearing and sat down.

“It’s all over for humanity,” I said. “If they can do that, they’ll just circle the globe.”

He nodded.

“They will. But—” He looked at me intently. “Aren’t you convinced it _is_ over for humanity? I am. We’re down; we’ve been beaten.”

I stared at him, trying to process what he had just said. It seemed strange, but I hadn’t fully grasped the reality of our situation until that moment. A part of me still clung to a vague hope, a habit of thinking that had been ingrained in me for years.

He repeated his words, “We’re done for.” There was a weight to his voice that left no room for doubt.

“It’s over,” he continued. “They’ve lost just one—only one. And yet, they’ve established their position and crippled the greatest power on Earth. They’ve walked all over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was just a fluke. These are only the scouts. They kept coming. Those green lights in the sky—I haven’t seen them for five or six days, but I’m sure they’re falling somewhere every night. There’s nothing we can do. We’re finished! We’re defeated!”

I didn’t respond. I sat there, staring blankly ahead, struggling to come up with a counterargument.

“This isn’t a war,” the artilleryman said. “It never was a war, any more than there’s a war between men and ants.”

Suddenly, I remembered that night in the observatory.

“After the tenth shot, they didn’t fire again—at least, not until the first cylinder landed.”

“How do you know that?” he asked. I explained my reasoning. He pondered for a moment. “Something must be wrong with the gun,” he said. “But so what? They’ll fix it. Even if there’s a delay, how does that change the outcome? It’s just like men and ants. The ants build their cities, live their lives, have their wars and revolutions, until the men decide they want them out of the way, and then they simply step aside. That’s what we are now—just ants. Only—”

“Yes?” I prompted.

“We’re the kind of ants that can be eaten.”

We exchanged a long look.

“And what will they do with us?” I asked.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” he replied. “After Weybridge, I headed south—just thinking. I saw what was happening. Most people were panicking, running around in a frenzy. But I’m not one for panicking. I’ve faced death a few times; I’m not some flashy soldier. At the end of the day, death is just death. It’s the one who keeps thinking who survives. I saw everyone fleeing south. I thought, ‘Food won’t last this way,’ so I turned back. I went after the Martians like a sparrow goes after a human. All around us”—he gestured to the horizon—“people are starving, trampling over each other in their desperation…”

He noticed my expression and paused awkwardly.

“Sure, a lot of people with money have probably fled to France,” he said, hesitating as if he wanted to apologize. He met my gaze and continued, “There’s food all around here. Canned goods in stores, wines, spirits, mineral water; the water mains and drains are empty. Anyway, I was telling you what I was thinking. ‘Here are intelligent beings,’ I thought, ‘and it seems they want us for food. First, they’ll destroy everything—ships, machines, guns, cities, all the order and organization. That will all be gone. If we were the size of ants, we might stand a chance. But we’re not. It’s all too big to stop. That’s the first certainty.’ Right?”

I nodded in agreement.

“It is; I’ve thought it through. So, next—right now, we’re caught because they want us that way. A Martian only has to go a few miles to send a crowd running. I saw one day, out by Wandsworth, tearing houses apart and rummaging through the wreckage. But they won’t keep doing that. Once they’ve taken care of our guns and ships, and destroyed our railways, and done everything they’re doing over there, they’ll start capturing us systematically, picking the best and storing us in cages and such. That’s what they’ll begin doing soon. Good Lord! They haven’t even started on us yet. Can’t you see that?”

“Not started!” I exclaimed.

“Not started. Everything that’s happened so far is because we haven’t had the sense to keep quiet—bothering them with guns and such nonsense. We’ve lost our heads, rushing off in crowds to places that were no safer than where we were. They don’t want to bother with us yet. They’re busy making their equipment—creating all the things they couldn’t bring with them, getting ready for the rest of their people. That’s probably why the cylinders have stopped for a while, to avoid hitting those of us who are still here. Instead of running around blindly, screaming, or trying to blow them up with dynamite, we need to adapt to the new reality. That’s how I see it. It’s not what anyone wants for humanity, but it’s what the facts suggest. And that’s the principle I’ve been acting on. Cities, nations, civilization, progress—it’s all over. That game is up. We’re defeated.”

“But if that’s true, what is there left to live for?”

The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

“There won’t be any more concerts for a million years or so; no Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice meals at restaurants. If you’re looking for entertainment, I reckon the game is over. If you have any social graces or a dislike for eating peas with a knife or dropping your aitches, you’d better toss them aside. They’re of no use anymore.”

“You mean—”

“I mean that men like me are determined to keep living—for the sake of our kind. I’m serious about survival. And if I’m right, you’ll show your true colors soon enough, too. We’re not going to be wiped out. I refuse to be caught, tamed, and raised like some fattened beast. Ugh! Just think of those brown creepers!”

“You can’t be serious—”

“I am. I’m going to keep moving, no matter what. I’ve got a plan; I’ve thought it through. We men are beaten down. We don’t know enough. We need to learn before we stand a chance. And we have to stay independent while we figure it out. That’s what needs to happen.”

I stared at him, astonished and deeply moved by his resolve.

“Good God!” I exclaimed. “You’re truly a man!” Suddenly, I gripped his hand tightly.

“Eh!” he said, his eyes shining. “I’ve thought it through, haven’t I?”

“Go on,” I urged.

“Well, those who want to escape being caught need to prepare. I’m getting ready. Not everyone is cut out for a wild life, and that’s what it’s going to take. That’s why I watched you. I had my doubts. You’re slender. I didn’t know who you were or how you’d been buried in this life. All those people living in these houses, and those little clerks from that direction—they’re no good. They lack spirit—no grand dreams or desires. A man without either of those is just a coward, playing it safe. They used to rush off to work—I’ve seen hundreds of them, breakfast in hand, sprinting to catch their little commuter trains, terrified of losing their jobs; working at jobs they didn’t even bother to understand; rushing home to make it back for dinner; staying indoors after dark to avoid the back streets, and sleeping next to wives they married not out of love, but for the security of a little money to get them through their miserable lives. They insure their lives and invest a bit, all out of fear of accidents. And on Sundays—fear of the afterlife. As if hell was made for rabbits! Well, the Martians will be a blessing for them. Nice spacious cages, plenty of food, careful breeding, no worries. After a week of running around on empty stomachs, they’ll come willingly. They’ll be grateful after a while. They’ll wonder what people did before the Martians took care of them. And the barflies, the wannabes, the performers—I can picture them. I can picture them,” he said, a grim satisfaction in his voice. “There will be plenty of sentiment and religion among them. I’ve seen so many things with my own eyes that I’ve only begun to understand in these last few days. Many will accept things as they are—fat and oblivious; and many will feel something’s off, that they should be doing something. Whenever a lot of people feel compelled to act, the weak, and those who overthink, always gravitate toward a sort of do-nothing religion, all pious and self-righteous, submitting to persecution and the will of the Lord. You’ve probably seen the same thing. It’s energy wrapped in fear, turned completely inside out. These cages will be filled with hymns and prayers. And those with less simple minds will indulge in a bit of—what’s the word?—eroticism.”

He paused.

“Maybe these Martians will keep some of them as pets; train them to do tricks—who knows?—get sentimental over the pet boy who grew up and had to be killed. And some, perhaps, they will train to hunt us.”

“No,” I protested, “that’s impossible! No human being—”

“What’s the point of pretending such lies?” the artilleryman shot back. “There are men who’d do it without a second thought. It’s ridiculous to act like they wouldn’t!”

I found myself swayed by his conviction.

“If they come after me,” he said, “God help me if they come after me!” He fell silent, lost in grim thought.

I sat there, contemplating his words. I couldn’t find a single argument against his reasoning. Before the invasion, no one would have questioned my intellectual superiority over him—I, a recognized writer on philosophical topics, and he, a common soldier; yet he had already grasped a reality that I was only beginning to comprehend.

“What are you doing?” I finally asked. “What plans have you made?”

He hesitated.

"Alright, here’s the deal," he said, leaning in closer. "What we need to do is create a new kind of life where people can live, thrive, and feel safe enough to raise their children. Just give me a moment, and I’ll explain my vision more clearly. The domesticated ones will eventually become like all tame animals; in a few generations, they’ll be big, beautiful, and full of bloodlines, but ultimately, they’ll be dull—just useless. The real danger is that we who remain wild might turn savage ourselves, degenerating into something like oversized, feral rats.

You see, my plan is to live underground. I’ve been thinking about the sewer system. People who don’t understand sewers often have terrible ideas about them, but beneath London, there are miles and miles—hundreds of miles of tunnels. A few days of rain, and London will be empty, leaving those tunnels clean and fresh. The main sewers are spacious and well-ventilated enough for anyone. Then there are cellars, vaults, and storage areas from which we can create secret passages to the drains. And don’t forget the railway tunnels and subways. Do you see where I’m going with this? We’ll form a group—strong, clear-minded individuals. We’re not going to let just anyone join us. Weaklings will be sent away.

"Like you intended for me?"

"Well, I did give it some thought, didn’t I?"

"Let’s not argue about that. Keep going."

"Those who stay will follow orders. We need strong, intelligent women too—mothers and educators. No weak or silly people allowed. Life is serious again, and the useless, the burdensome, and the troublesome need to go. They should be willing to go. It’s a betrayal to live and taint the future. Besides, dying isn’t so terrible; it’s the fear of it that makes it worse. We’ll gather in those underground spaces. Our territory will be London. And maybe we can even keep watch and venture out when the Martians are away. We could play cricket, perhaps. That’s how we’ll save humanity. Sound feasible? But saving humanity isn’t enough on its own. As I said, that’s just surviving like rats. What matters is preserving our knowledge and expanding it. That’s where people like you come in. We need books—important ones, not just novels and poetry, but science and ideas. We need to dig deep and create safe havens to store all that knowledge.

We have to raid the British Museum and gather as many books as we can. Especially our science—learning more is crucial. We need to keep an eye on the Martians. Some of us will have to act as spies. When everything is in place, maybe I’ll volunteer to get caught. The key is to leave the Martians alone. We shouldn’t steal from them. If we get in their way, we back off. We need to show them we mean no harm. I know it sounds risky, but they’re intelligent beings. If they have everything they need, they won’t hunt us down; they’ll see us as harmless pests.

The artilleryman paused, placing a weathered hand on my arm.

"Just think about it: what if four or five of their fighting machines suddenly took off—Heat-Rays blasting everywhere, but there’s not a Martian in sight. Just men—men who’ve figured out how to operate them. It could happen in my lifetime, you know. Imagine having one of those incredible machines, with its Heat-Ray at your command! What would it matter if it fell apart at the end of the run after such an exhilarating ride? I bet the Martians would be shocked! Can’t you picture it? Can’t you see them rushing around, huffing and puffing, trying to fix their other machines? Something’s always going wrong with them. And just as they’re fumbling around, _swish_ goes the Heat-Ray, and suddenly, humanity has reclaimed its power."

For a while, the artilleryman’s bold imagination and the confident tone he adopted completely consumed my thoughts. I found myself believing wholeheartedly in his vision for humanity’s future and the feasibility of his incredible plan. Anyone who thinks I was gullible should remember that he was standing firmly in his beliefs, while I was crouched in the bushes, overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty.

We talked like this through the early morning, and eventually, we ventured out of our hiding spot. After scanning the sky for Martians, we hurried to the house on Putney Hill where he had made his hideout. It turned out to be a coal cellar, and when I saw the work he had put into it over the past week—a burrow barely ten yards long, intended to connect to the main drain on Putney Hill—I realized just how far his dreams were from his abilities. I could have dug that hole in a day. Still, I believed in him enough to join him in digging for the rest of the morning.

We had a garden barrow and piled the dirt we removed against the kitchen range. We took a break to enjoy some mock-turtle soup and wine from the nearby pantry. There was something oddly comforting about the steady labor, a relief from the strange, aching world outside. As we worked, I mulled over his project, and soon doubts began to creep in. Yet, I was so glad to have a purpose again that I continued digging.

After an hour, I started to wonder how far we needed to go to reach the drain and whether we might miss it entirely. I questioned why we were digging such a long tunnel when we could easily access the drain through one of the manholes and work our way back to the house. It also struck me that the location of the house was inconvenient, requiring an unnecessarily long tunnel. Just as I began to confront these thoughts, the artilleryman paused and looked at me.

“We’re making good progress,” he said, setting down his spade. “Let’s take a break. I think it’s time we checked the roof.”

I was inclined to keep going, but after a moment’s hesitation, he picked up his spade again. Then, suddenly, a thought struck me, and I stopped, causing him to halt as well.

“Why were you wandering around the common instead of being here?” I asked.

“Just getting some fresh air,” he replied. “I was on my way back. It’s safer at night.”

“But what about the work?”

“Oh, you can’t work all the time,” he said, and in that instant, I saw him clearly. He hesitated, gripping his spade. “We should scout the area now,” he added, “because if anyone comes close, they might hear the digging and catch us off guard.”

I no longer felt inclined to argue. We climbed to the roof and stood on a ladder, peering out through the roof door. No Martians were in sight, so we ventured out onto the tiles and slipped down behind the parapet.

From our vantage point, a shrubbery concealed most of Putney, but we could see the river below, a bubbling mass of red weed, and the low areas of Lambeth flooded and stained red. The creeping red vines clung to the trees around the old palace, their branches stretched out, gaunt and lifeless, adorned with shriveled leaves. It was strange how completely these plants depended on flowing water for their survival. Around us, they hadn’t taken root; instead, laburnums, pink mays, snowballs, and arborvitae rose from the laurel and hydrangeas, vibrant and green in the sunlight. Beyond Kensington, thick smoke billowed, shrouding the northern hills in a blue haze.

The artilleryman began to describe the kind of people still left in London.

“One night last week,” he said, “some idiots managed to get the electric lights working, and Regent Street and the Circus were ablaze, filled with painted and ragged drunks—men and women dancing and shouting until dawn. A guy who was there told me. As dawn broke, they noticed a fighting machine lurking near the Langham, watching them. Who knows how long it had been there? It must have given some of them a real scare. It came down the road toward them and picked up nearly a hundred people who were too drunk or terrified to run.”

What a bizarre glimpse into a time that no history will ever fully capture!

In response to my questions, he returned to his grand plans, growing more enthusiastic. He spoke so passionately about the possibility of capturing a fighting machine that I found myself almost believing in him again. But now that I was starting to see through his character, I sensed the weight he placed on avoiding any hasty actions. I noted that he was now solely focused on capturing and confronting the great machine himself.

After a while, we made our way down to the cellar. Neither of us felt like going back to digging, and when he suggested we grab a bite to eat, I was more than happy to agree. Suddenly, he turned generous, and after we finished our meal, he disappeared for a moment, returning with some excellent cigars. We lit them up, and his optimism seemed to shine brighter than ever. He treated my visit like a special occasion.

“There’s some champagne in the cellar,” he said.

“We can dig better with this Thames-side burgundy,” I replied.

“No,” he insisted. “I’m the host today. Champagne! Good grief! We have a heavy task ahead of us! Let’s take a break and gather our strength while we can. Look at these blistered hands!”

Embracing this idea of a holiday, he insisted we play cards after our meal. He taught me euchre, and after dividing London between us—me taking the north and him the south—we played for parish points. It might sound ridiculous to the serious reader, but it was absolutely true, and surprisingly, I found the card games and the others we played quite engaging.

Isn’t it strange how the human mind works? Even with our species on the brink of extinction or facing a terrible decline, with no clear future ahead except the possibility of a horrific death, we could sit there, engrossed in the chance of this painted cardboard and playing the “joker” with genuine delight. Later, he taught me poker, and I managed to beat him in three tough chess games. When darkness fell, we decided to take the risk and lit a lamp.

After an endless series of games, we had supper, and the artilleryman finished off the champagne. We continued smoking our cigars. He was no longer the energetic visionary I had met that morning. He still held onto his optimism, but it was calmer, more reflective. I remember he raised a toast to my health, delivering a speech that was brief and somewhat disjointed. I took a cigar and went upstairs to look at the lights he had mentioned, glowing brightly along the Highgate hills.

At first, I stared blankly across the London valley. The northern hills were cloaked in darkness; the fires near Kensington glowed a deep red, and occasionally, an orange-red flame flickered up and disappeared into the deep blue night. The rest of London was shrouded in black. Then, closer to me, I noticed an unusual light—a pale, violet-purple glow, shimmering in the night breeze. For a moment, I couldn’t grasp what it was, but then I realized it must be the red weed that was giving off this faint illumination. With that realization, my dormant sense of wonder stirred back to life, awakening my understanding of the situation. I glanced from that glow to Mars, which shone bright and clear in the western sky, and then I gazed long and hard at the darkness of Hampstead and Highgate.

I lingered on the roof for a long time, contemplating the bizarre changes of the day. I reflected on my emotional journey, from midnight prayers to foolish card games. A wave of intense feeling washed over me. I remember tossing away the cigar with a sense of dramatic waste. My foolishness struck me with glaring clarity. I felt like a traitor to my wife and to humanity; I was overwhelmed with remorse. I resolved to leave this strange, undisciplined dreamer of grand ideas to his drink and indulgence, and to venture into London. It seemed to me that there, I would have the best chance of discovering what the Martians and my fellow humans were up to. I was still on the roof when the late moon began to rise.