London under the Martians
From the personal log of Lt. Roger Carver, #RoyalMarines HMS Thunder Child, 15 June 1897, 11:00 GMT:
We arrived at Tilbury to find the Ferry tied up at the quay and covered with dead bodies: men, women and children all bundled together. They looked strangely peaceful. Every surface is covered with a fine black dust that clings uneasily to one’s skin.
All the men – Marines, Horse Guards, and infantry – worked as one to quickly remove the bodies before placing them in a single shallow grave. I spoke the simple words of commitment and promised resurrection. Words held back from those who had shot for desertion only 6 days before.
Corporal Markinson, who served in the engine room before transferring to the marines, assures me the ferry should work once we have relit her boiler. With a pump and hose, we’ve cleared much of the black dust off the boat. After the horrors of the past few days, this is welcome news.
Later examination of the Martian’s flying machine suggests that a significant proportion of the produced aluminium must have gone into its production. One recent estimate suggesting that it would have included nearly 40 tonnes of aluminium.
The Railway engineers help Pierre Curie to remove the heat gun. We were all needed to place it on the gun carriage.
We camped that day at St Margaret’s Church, Plumstead. Before moving onto Greenwich we confirmed the heliograph allowed us to communicate with Tilford – it did. Just love when a plan comes together.
Arrived at Greenwich shortly before Midnight.
Was having breakfast when I was alerted to the sound of an artillery bombardment in the West. Given how muffled the sound was it must have been a considerable distance away.
@sirjohntheengineer received message this morning from #governmentinexile Gas masks made of hessian soaked in water work against #blacksmoke #ourtheorieswereright
Wolseley had become Commander-in-Chief of English forces in Ireland in 1890. Promoted to Field Marshal on 26 May 1894, he was appointed by the Conservative government to succeed the Duke of Cambridge as Commander-in-Chief of the Forces on 1 November 1895.
Despite still recovering from a serious illness at the time of the Martian invasion, he was in Swindon as part of an inspection of the army’s preparations to defend the Gascoyne-Cecil line when the Martians launched their attack.
From the personal log of Lt. Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 17 June 1897, 11:00 GMT:
Our ranks continue to grow. Outside of Betchworth, resting in a glade, we found a 12-pounder gun, with its horses, limber, and ammunition wagon. According to the gun’s crew they were part of a masked Royal Horse Artillery battery that failed to stop the Martians east of London.
“We managed to save ourselves before the Black Smoke took the horses, sir,” said their sergeant. He seemed embarrassed to be among the living. “We’ve been in concealment ever since.”
“I understand.” I looked them up and down. “Up for a little revenge?”
The artillerymen all nodded grimly.
We continued our ride northwest, skirting around dead London in the moonlight. Passing through a freight yard outside of Dorking, we halted. Ahead stood a Martian silhouetted above the rooftops, scanning the horizon. We all held our breaths until it moved towards the east.
“We must be getting close, sir,” said Sergeant Howard, watching the Martian move into the distance.
“We’ll get our fill of them soon,” I said. “We’ll be in Woking tomorrow.”
Howard nodded. “I’ll see to the men, then.”
Despite Well’s evocative descriptions of a deserted city, not everyone had left London. Some simply could not afford to, others such as the botanist Ernest Marquand could not leave because of familial responsibilities. Others remained to fight, or to support those who had stayed.
Historians now estimate that of the 6.3 million who lived in Greater London before the war, 20% (1.25 million people) stayed in the city. This left 5 million refugees, of whom perhaps only 338,000 would have been able to be evacuated by sea to the continent – fleeing north.
For those remaining in London most hid, but not all. Wells’ Artilleryman later claimed to have seen Regent’s Street ablaze with lights, crowded with painted and ragged drunkards, men and women, dancing and shouting – even as a tripod stood sentinel near by the Langham watching, unobserved.
The Martian tripod watched until dawn and then working its way down the street picked up perhaps a 100 of those too drunk or frightened to run away.
Woken by noise. So many lights. So much shouting and noise. All to the north and not far. #PiccadillyCircus #RegentsSt #aretheyinsane #whatishappening
Although no photograph of Maxim’s improved flying machine is known to exist, his earlier craft is pictured. Built in 1894, It was powered by two lightweight 180-horsepower steam engines, achieved forty miles per hour at launch, and flew two hundred feet before crashing.
It had been believed that Maxim lost interest in flying after this failure, however, his journal makes it quite clear this was not the case. Maxim’s journal records his interest in the work by Franco-American inventor Emile Lamm (1834 – 1873) who developed a “fireless steam engine” that ran on ammonia for potential use with city tram lines.
Lamm’s invention saw some limited use in both Paris and New Orleans before fading into obscurity. Because ammonia compresses quite easily into a liquid, the engine was naturally lighter without having to carry wood or coal around with it. A much-developed version powered Maxim’s flying machine.
It is the 10th day of Wells confinement to the collapsed house in Sheen and, after a sleepless night, once again Wells wakens to the curate praying loudly.
Wells attempts to quieten him, but the curate rises to his knees, and in a voice that Wells later states must have reached the pit, cries: “I have been still too long and must now bear my witness. Woe unto this unfaithful city! Woe! to the inhabitants of the earth.”
Wells describes rising to his feet in a terror lest the Martians hear them. But the curate simply continues shouting, at the top of his voice, standing to match Wells and extending his arms. “I must speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!”
And then the curate breaks, running for the pit and Wells pursues him, a meat-chopper in his hand. At the last moment Wells strikes him with the butt of the cleaver and the curate falls headlong, to lay stretched on the ground.
But Wells’ fears now come to pass as the hole in the wall overlooking the pit darkens and a Martian comes to investigate. Creeping as noiselessly as he can Wells creeps to the coal cellar, and begins to cover himself up with the coal and firewood lying there.
Wells describes watching the Martian working its way down the steps, “a tentacle like an elephant’s trunk—waving towards him and touching and examining the wall, coals, wood, and ceiling. Like a black worm swaying its blind head to and fro.”
Wells feels the tentacle touch the heel of of his boot, and must bite his hand to remain silent. With an abrupt click, it grips something—a lump of coal—and leaves to examine it.
The Martian has not returned to the scullery; but Wells has lain all this day, in the close darkness, buried among coals and firewood, not daring even to crawl out for the drink he craves.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 19 June 1897, 11:00 GMT:
I stood at table with a map of Woking, and the Martian position in the Horsell Common sandpit. Maxim tapped the map with a red grease pencil, drawing a circle around the enemy position. “This is about where I began to feel that odd sensation, I told you about.”
“You’re certain that the tower the Martians built is the cause of it? Lieutenant Mann asked.
“I am,” said Maxim.
“We may not agree on everything,” I said, “but we agree that tower must be destroyed.”
“I’m more concerned about the Black Smoke,” said Sergeant Howard.
“I may have an answer for that,” said Maxim, producing a crude fabric hood with eyeholes made from glass. “Before wireless transmission from Birmingham was cut off due to the tower’s interference, the government broadcast specifications for these masks. I understand your artillery were provided with a set.”
Mann picked up the mask. He shook his head. “This will protect us?”
“I’ve made improvements, including a charcoal filter to increase its effectiveness,” Maxim assured us.
I remembered how the people of Shearness and Tilbury died wholesale from the smoke. “Do we have enough for us all?”
Maxim nodded. “Persephone and some of your men spent a few hours this morning making them.”
“Make sure everyone is issued with one,” I turned to Howard.
“We’ll need something for the horses,” said Lieutenant Mann.
“Persephone’s already thought of that,” Maxim said.
“It’s an adaption of the basic mask,” Persephone said. “It fits quite snugly There’ll be enough.”
Sergeant, how are the men?”
“We now have two Maxim guns with ammunition. The 12-pounder has 20 rounds of high explosive.”
“Be sure to site your artillery piece here,” said Maxim, pointing to where the map indicated a wooded area that overlooked the Martians. “It will be in range there.”
“The men are rested and ready to go,” said Howard. “It’s this business about the flying machine I’m not sure of.”
“Sergeant,” said Maxim, “please be assured my machine will fly. “
“Then tomorrow we attack,” I said. “Action will commence at 0800 with a single green flare.”
I looked over at Farmer asleep on the cot. He stirred gently. I doubt he heard us at all.
From the personal journal of Hiram Maxim
I was still not well enough to pilot my machine. Reluctantly, I would leave that to Mr Carver and Persephone. I was with the crew of the 12-pounder, overlooking Horsell Common. I pulled out my pocket watch. My head still hurt. But no matter: it would not be long now.
The men were dug into a slit trench anchored at each end by a Maxim gun, one hundred yards ahead of us, almost at the crater’s rim. The men dug the trench with the greatest of care and bravery over the last two evenings as to not be discovered by the Martians. No sign of Farmer.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:06 GMT:
We passed over the artillery position, some 80 feet below. I could see the men below wave excitedly to us, including Maxim. I definitely owed him an apology. Despite the life-and-death struggle we faced, I joined Persephone in grinning and waving madly to our comrades below.
The artillery resumed firing as we left them. I could see the shell land in the pit, but short of the tower. I could see our men in the trench line, supported by the machine gunners, firing into the pit, trying to prevent the Martians from gaining their fighting-machines.
We began a turn to starboard, so that our path would take us over the pit. I reached for one of the grenades, primed it by twisting the firing pin in the nose. I leaned over, released it. There was a satisfying sound of an explosion. I looked up: the tower was directly ahead.
“The tower!” I grabbed Persephone by the hand and pointed ahead. She nodded, throttling up the engine.
“Ulla! Ulla!” Suddenly, a fighting-machine reared up in front of us. The flying machine made a hard turn to port, as the Martian tried to bring its Heat Ray to bear on us.
I picked up a pair of grenades. I primed them and threw them at the Martian. They exploded harmlessly as they hit the carapace. I felt a flash of blistering heat behind me Persephone! I turned around. Persephone struggled with the tiller while the rudder of the aircraft burned.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 09:02 GMT:
I beheld the Martian: a large greyish-brown misshapen head with pulsing veins and delicate whip-link tentacles protruding from its sides. Two tiny soulless beady black eyes regarded me impassively, set above a small beaklike mouth that sucked red fluid through a glass straw.
So this was one of the Master Race, one of the would-be conquers of Earth. I felt revulsed. But I also sensed something else. I was able to gather a series of impressions from the Martian. Telepathy? I sensed a brutal disdain for humanity, as we clearly didn’t matter to it.
I gripped my pistol. Yet I sensed something else. Something I sensed when I was on China Station and once cleared out an opium den. Confused satisfaction. Addiction! The Martians were addicted to human blood! I raised my pistol and squeezed the trigger.
The Martian reeled as the bullets struck its misshapen form. Anger directed at me filled my head, as the alien strained to rear its bulk against me, fighting earth’s gravity. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my two grenades. I twisted the two priming caps and threw them.
We held a small commemoration service for Pierre in the undercroft at Westminster. As both Pierre and Marie had been agnostics I didn’t need to find a priest, and gave the eulogy myself.
#Oldies sewing and making frantically. #GasMasks for all.
#GasMask just fitted in my #Pocket #IWillNeverWearANormalSkirtAgain #DividedSkirtsForTheWin
At Waterloo station, refugees are still pouring in.
Slowly Wells has become aware that the light that came into the scullery is no longer grey, but red. To his disordered imagination it seems the colour of blood.