Day 26 – Saturday

Despite the momentous events of the preceding day, Toni and Grace have no time to spend sitting around. There are too many people still needing help. Apart from a brief description of the end of Saturday’s trek. Toni continues to assist the infirm.

As we accompany Wells to  the Martian’s last redoubt at Primrose Hill, from where he can look down upon the ruins of London, news reaches the Continent that the Martians are dead and aid begins to roll in.

Now, even as the sun rises over the ruins of London, the news is flashed all over the world; a thousand cities, chilled by ghastly apprehensions, suddenly flash into frantic illuminations; they knew of it in Dublin, Edinburgh, Manchester, Birmingham.

Later Wells writes that: ‘resolving to die and end it I marched towards the tripod.’ As he approaches he sees a multitude of black birds circling and clustering about the hood. At that his heart bounds, and he runs along the road toward it.

Reaching the earthen rampart’s crest, the interior of the redoubt is laid out below Wells. An enormous space, with gigantic machines here and there within it, and huge mounds of material and strange shelter-places.

And, scattered about the redoubt, some in their overturned war-machines, some in the now rigid handling-machines, and with another 12 of them stark and silent and laid in a row, were the Martians—dead!

In total there were nearly 50 Martians scattered throughout the redoubt, slain as we now know by the putrefying and disease bacteria against which their systems were unprepared – and which must have seemed to them as incomprehensible as any death could be.

The pit is still in darkness; but on its furthest lip, flat and vast and strange, Wells sees the great flying-machine with which they had been experimenting when decay and death arrested them. Death had come not a day too soon.

As Wells stands there the rising sun strikes the world to fire with its rays. Turning away Wells looks down the slope to where the two tripods glitter, now harmless towers of shining metal, in the brightness of the rising sun.

As the sun rises over the city, Wells later writes of breaking into tears as realises that despite the swift and ruthless destruction the Martians had wrought, that this vast dead city of will once again live.

The torment was over, the healing could begin, and the survivors scattered over the country—leaderless, lawless, foodless—the thousands who had fled by sea, would begin to return; the pulse of life, growing stronger and stronger, would beat again in the empty streets.

‘In a year,’ Wells later remembers himself thinking at the time, ‘in a year…’ But this is his last rational thought for 3 days as a fugue overtakes him, and we must rely on the words recorded by others.

Men on cycles, lean-faced, unkempt, scorch along country lanes shouting of unhoped deliverance to gaunt, staring figures of despair. And across the Channel, across the Irish Sea, across the Atlantic: corn, bread, and meat are tearing to England’s relief.

The @NUWSS network has confirmed that the #Martians are all dead! Travelled back to #QueenAnnesMansions and had another look at the #BrokenMartianMachine on the way.

Scouted around carefully, and found #remains #HopeSprang Took samples for #analysis. Took a chance and moved normally. #ItWasDead #GotHomeFaster #MuchFear #relief

Sent message via #wireless and received similar reports from network #TheyAreDead #WeAreSaved #ThingsWillChange