The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(143)
DIARY OF CHARLES WINSLOW
13 February, 1900
When the carriage emerged into Queen’s Gate, it was still quiet, as was Exhibition Road. I was greatly relieved to see that the tripods hadn’t made an appearance there yet, not simply because it lessened the time our loved ones would have to endure them, but because I had no desire to bump into another sinister Martian machine, even if I was in the company of the brave Captain Shackleton. I quietly observed the captain, who appeared lost in thought, frowning. The man beside me was the same timid individual whom I had taken such a dislike to only minutes before, and yet now that I knew he was none other than Captain Shackleton, I could not help seeing him as a brave, intrepid hero, whose calmness would inspire anyone to follow him to the very gates of Hell. I was sitting next to a legend, but a legend who was armed, because before leaving the house, I had taken the precaution of purloining three revolvers from my uncle’s collection: a Colt for Shackleton, a Remington for Harold, and a Smith & Wesson for myself, so that all three of us were traveling to our destination with a weapon in our laps and several boxes of ammunition stuffed in our jacket pockets. I was aware that my role in this momentous endeavor was that of humble shield bearer, but despite my fear, I could not help feeling a wave of confidence sweep over me: my meeting with Shackleton had been providential, for if I had not convinced him, he would never have accepted that it was he who must defeat the Martians. And since this could not be determined by a series of mere coincidences, I realized we were following our destiny, that everything we were apparently doing spontaneously and of our own free will had in fact been decided by the Creator long before we were born.
The carriage traveled at a leisurely, discreet pace past Hyde Park and down Piccadilly toward Soho. I was happy to discover that, for the moment, all was quiet. We could hear a barrage of explosions in the distance, masked by the relentless clanging of bells, but apparently the tripods had still not reached this area. Londoners had taken refuge in their houses, and the streets were deserted. However, soon after turning into Shaftesbury Avenue, which was still intact, we began to encounter people running panic-stricken toward us. It was the same motley crowd that had carried me down to the Thames during my flight: scruffy vagrants side by side with wealthy gentlemen, all wearing the same look of terror on their faces. Through the carriage windows, we noticed that some of those dodging the carts and other vehicles fleeing in the same direction had bloodstains on their clothes. Clearly we were traveling into the oncoming path of a tripod. I muttered a curse and scanned the street for a side alley we might slip into, but every exit seemed to be blocked by rubble, or clusters of bewildered people. We had no choice but to continue up Shaftesbury Avenue, in the direction of the tripod. Harold appeared undaunted and urged on the horses, weaving with difficulty through the torrent of carriages hurtling in our direction. I saw Shackleton begin to brace himself as the din grew steadily louder, and I, too, sat up in my seat, gripping the revolver tightly. Unlike the other two, I doubted we would come out alive.
Then, in the middle of the street, with its three legs planted firmly on the ground, we saw the tripod that had caused this stampede. It was swaying gently, confident and commanding, while behind it we glimpsed a row of half-collapsed buildings, like a set of rotten teeth. Shackleton seemed startled by the size of the Martian machine. Just then, the tripod spat a ray of fire from its tentacle, which enveloped the handful of panic-stricken people fleeing before it, instantly transforming them into grotesque cinder dolls.
“Good God . . . ,” Shackleton breathed.
After seeing what the Martians were able to do to us, Harold appeared to lose his nerve. He swiftly turned the carriage about-face, ready to flee in the opposite direction, but a knot of vehicles had formed behind us, blocking the street. Coaches and cabriolets were hopelessly attempting to escape from the bottleneck they had created in their panic-stricken flight, and we quickly realized that before they could disentangle themselves the tripod would be upon us. We were trapped between the tangle of coaches and the Martian monster and would presently be reduced to a pile of ashes on the paving stones. Harold surrendered to the impossibility of the situation and stepped down from the driver’s seat, unsure what to do next. Shackleton and I did likewise. Just then, the tripod took a step toward this ludicrous blockage, causing the ground beneath our feet to bulge and break up like the hackles on a cat. I made as if to cock my revolver but immediately decided against it. What was the use of shooting at that thing?
“We must leave the carriage here and flee on foot!” I shouted to Shackleton, who was staring intently at the machine’s slow advance.
The captain shook his head, and Harold and I looked on in disbelief as Shackleton made a dash in the other direction. Astonished, I watched as he sprinted toward the tripod, which failed to notice that from among the fleeing multitude, a single individual was heading the other way. Only when the crowd dispersed was the Martian able to see the captain. I tried from a distance to make out what the devil he was attempting. Just one thing occurred to me: he planned to pass through the Martian’s legs and flee in the opposite direction, leaving us behind. But what kind of hero would do such a thing? I thought to myself: what kind of hero would try to save his own skin without a thought for his companions? Then, all of a sudden, just as he was about to pass beneath the tripod, he appeared to change his mind, and instead of running between its legs, he tried to go round it to the right. Ignoring the others, the tentacle swayed in the air as it followed the captain’s bewildering trajectory.