Days of Imprisonment

The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our peephole into the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the Martian might see down upon us behind our barrier. At a later date we began to feel less in danger of their eyes, for to an eye in the dazzle of the sunlight outside our refuge must have been blank blackness, but at first the slightest suggestion of approach drove us into the scullery in heart-throbbing retreat. Yet terrible as was the danger we incurred, the attraction of peeping was for both of us irresistible. And I recall now with a sort of wonder that, in spite of the infinite danger in which we were between starvation and a still more terrible death, we could yet struggle bitterly for that horrible privilege of sight. We would race across the kitchen in a grotesque way between eagerness and the dread of making a noise, and strike each other, and thrust and kick, within a few inches of exposure.

The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us away from our peephole and into the scullery. We feared that from his height, the Martian might see us behind our barrier. Later, we felt less at risk of being seen. To anyone outside in the dazzling sunlight, our hiding place must have appeared completely black. But at first, the slightest sign of an approach sent us fleeing into the scullery, our hearts pounding. Yet despite the terrible danger, neither of us could resist peeking. I still remember with a kind of wonder how bitterly we fought for that horrible privilege. We were in endless danger, caught between starvation and an even more terrible death. Yet we would race across the kitchen in a grotesque mix of eagerness and fear of making noise. We struck, shoved, and kicked each other, only inches away from being exposed.

The fact is that we had absolutely incompatible dispositions and habits of thought and action, and our danger and isolation only accentuated the incompatibility. At Halliford I had already come to hate the curate’s trick of helpless exclamation, his stupid rigidity of mind. His endless muttering monologue vitiated every effort I made to think out a line of action, and drove me at times, thus pent up and intensified, almost to the verge of craziness. He was as lacking in restraint as a silly woman. He would weep for hours together, and I verily believe that to the very end this spoiled child of life thought his weak tears in some way efficacious. And I would sit in the darkness unable to keep my mind off him by reason of his importunities. He ate more than I did, and it was in vain I pointed out that our only chance of life was to stop in the house until the Martians had done with their pit, that in that long patience a time might presently come when we should need food. He ate and drank impulsively in heavy meals at long intervals. He slept little.

The fact is, our temperaments and ways of thinking and acting were completely incompatible. Our danger and isolation only made the incompatibility worse. At Halliford, I had already come to hate the curate’s habit of crying out helplessly and his stupid, rigid thinking. His endless muttering ruined every attempt I made to plan a course of action. Shut in with him, I found his muttering even harder to bear, and it sometimes drove me almost mad. He had as little self-control as a silly woman. He would weep for hours, and I truly believe that, to the very end, this spoiled child of life thought his weak tears somehow helped. I would sit in the darkness, unable to stop thinking about him because of his constant demands. He ate more than I did. I pointed out that our only chance of survival was to stay in the house until the Martians had finished with their pit. During that long wait, we might soon need food, but my warnings were useless. He ate and drank impulsively, consuming large meals at long intervals. He slept little.

As the days wore on, his utter carelessness of any consideration so intensified our distress and danger that I had, much as I loathed doing it, to resort to threats, and at last to blows. That brought him to reason for a time. But he was one of those weak creatures, void of pride, timorous, anæmic, hateful souls, full of shifty cunning, who face neither God nor man, who face not even themselves.

As the days passed, his complete lack of consideration made our distress and danger even worse. Much as I hated doing it, I had to threaten him, and finally to hit him. That brought him to reason for a while. But he was one of those weak, hateful souls, with no pride, timid and feeble, yet full of sly cunning. Such people face neither God nor man. They do not even face themselves.

It is disagreeable for me to recall and write these things, but I set them down that my story may lack nothing. Those who have escaped the dark and terrible aspects of life will find my brutality, my flash of rage in our final tragedy, easy enough to blame; for they know what is wrong as well as any, but not what is possible to tortured men. But those who have been under the shadow, who have gone down at last to elemental things, will have a wider charity.

It pains me to remember and write these things, but I record them so my story will be complete. Those who have escaped the dark and terrible sides of life will easily condemn my brutality and my flash of rage in our final tragedy. They know what is wrong as well as anyone, but they do not know what tortured men are capable of. But those who have lived under that shadow and have finally been reduced to life's basic realities will be more understanding.

And while within we fought out our dark, dim contest of whispers, snatched food and drink, and gripping hands and blows, without, in the pitiless sunlight of that terrible June, was the strange wonder, the unfamiliar routine of the Martians in the pit. Let me return to those first new experiences of mine. After a long time I ventured back to the peephole, to find that the new-comers had been reinforced by the occupants of no fewer than three of the fighting-machines. These last had brought with them certain fresh appliances that stood in an orderly manner about the cylinder. The second handling-machine was now completed, and was busied in serving one of the novel contrivances the big machine had brought. This was a body resembling a milk can in its general form, above which oscillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from which a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below.

Inside, we fought our dark, dim struggle with whispers, snatched food and drink, gripping hands, and blows. Outside, in the merciless sunlight of that terrible June, the Martians went about their strange, unfamiliar routine in the pit. Let me return to those first new experiences. After a long time, I dared to return to the peephole. I found that the newcomers had been joined by the occupants of no fewer than three fighting-machines. These occupants had brought new equipment, which stood neatly arranged around the cylinder. The second handling-machine was now complete and was tending one of the new devices brought by the big machine. The device was shaped roughly like a milk can, with a pear-shaped container swinging above it. A stream of white powder flowed from the device into a circular basin below.

The oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one tentacle of the handling-machine. With two spatulate hands the handling-machine was digging out and flinging masses of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle above, while with another arm it periodically opened a door and removed rusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of the machine. Another steely tentacle directed the powder from the basin along a ribbed channel towards some receiver that was hidden from me by the mound of bluish dust. From this unseen receiver a little thread of green smoke rose vertically into the quiet air. As I looked, the handling-machine, with a faint and musical clinking, extended, telescopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment before a mere blunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the mound of clay. In another second it had lifted a bar of white aluminium into sight, untarnished as yet, and shining dazzlingly, and deposited it in a growing stack of bars that stood at the side of the pit. Between sunset and starlight this dexterous machine must have made more than a hundred such bars out of the crude clay, and the mound of bluish dust rose steadily until it topped the side of the pit.

One tentacle of the handling-machine made this move back and forth. With two shovel-shaped hands, the machine dug out masses of clay and flung them into the pear-shaped container above. Another arm periodically opened a door and removed rusty, blackened clinkers from the middle of the machine. A steel tentacle directed powder from the basin along a ribbed channel toward a receiver. A mound of bluish dust hid the receiver from me. A thin thread of green smoke rose from it straight up into the still air. As I watched, the handling-machine extended a tentacle with a faint, musical clinking sound. A moment before, the tentacle had been only a blunt projection. Now it extended like a telescope until its end disappeared behind the mound of clay. A second later, the machine lifted a bar of white aluminium into view. The bar was still untarnished and shone dazzlingly. The machine placed it in a growing stack of bars beside the pit. Between sunset and starlight, this skillful machine must have made more than a hundred such bars from the raw clay. The mound of bluish dust rose steadily until it was higher than the edge of the pit.

The contrast between the swift and complex movements of these contrivances and the inert panting clumsiness of their masters was acute, and for days I had to tell myself repeatedly that these latter were indeed the living of the two things.

The machines moved swiftly and with great complexity, while their masters were sluggish, panting, and clumsy. The contrast was striking. For days, I had to keep reminding myself that the masters were the living ones.

The curate had possession of the slit when the first men were brought to the pit. I was sitting below, huddled up, listening with all my ears. He made a sudden movement backward, and I, fearful that we were observed, crouched in a spasm of terror. He came sliding down the rubbish and crept beside me in the darkness, inarticulate, gesticulating, and for a moment I shared his panic. His gesture suggested a resignation of the slit, and after a little while my curiosity gave me courage, and I rose up, stepped across him, and clambered up to it. At first I could see no reason for his frantic behaviour. The twilight had now come, the stars were little and faint, but the pit was illuminated by the flickering green fire that came from the aluminium-making. The whole picture was a flickering scheme of green gleams and shifting rusty black shadows, strangely trying to the eyes. Over and through it all went the bats, heeding it not at all. The sprawling Martians were no longer to be seen, the mound of blue-green powder had risen to cover them from sight, and a fighting-machine, with its legs contracted, crumpled, and abbreviated, stood across the corner of the pit. And then, amid the clangour of the machinery, came a drifting suspicion of human voices, that I entertained at first only to dismiss.

The curate was looking through the slit when the first men were brought to the pit. I sat huddled below, listening as hard as I could. He suddenly moved back, and I crouched in terror, afraid we had been seen. He slid down the rubble and crept beside me in the darkness, gesturing and unable to speak. For a moment, I shared his panic. His gesture suggested that he was giving up his place at the slit. After a little while, curiosity gave me courage. I stood, stepped across him, and climbed up to the slit. At first, I could see no reason for his frantic behavior. Twilight had come, and the stars were small and faint. But the pit was lit by the flickering green fire from the aluminum making. The whole scene was a flickering pattern of green gleams and shifting, rusty black shadows. It was strangely hard on the eyes. Bats flew over and through it all, paying no attention. The sprawled Martians were no longer visible. The mound of blue-green powder had risen high enough to hide them. A fighting-machine stood across the corner of the pit, its legs contracted, crumpled, and drawn in. Then, amid the clanging machinery, I thought I heard human voices drifting toward me. At first I considered the possibility, only to dismiss it.

I crouched, watching this fighting-machine closely, satisfying myself now for the first time that the hood did indeed contain a Martian. As the green flames lifted I could see the oily gleam of his integument and the brightness of his eyes. And suddenly I heard a yell, and saw a long tentacle reaching over the shoulder of the machine to the little cage that hunched upon its back. Then something—something struggling violently—was lifted high against the sky, a black, vague enigma against the starlight; and as this black object came down again, I saw by the green brightness that it was a man. For an instant he was clearly visible. He was a stout, ruddy, middle-aged man, well dressed; three days before, he must have been walking the world, a man of considerable consequence. I could see his staring eyes and gleams of light on his studs and watch chain. He vanished behind the mound, and for a moment there was silence. And then began a shrieking and a sustained and cheerful hooting from the Martians.

I crouched and watched the fighting-machine closely. For the first time, I could see that its hood really did contain a Martian. As the green flames rose, I saw the oily gleam of his skin and the brightness of his eyes. Suddenly I heard a yell. I saw a long tentacle reaching over the machine’s shoulder to the little cage on its back. Then something struggling violently was lifted high against the sky. It was a dark, indistinct mystery against the starlight. As it came down again, I saw in the green light that it was a man. For an instant, I could see him clearly. He was a stout, ruddy, middle-aged man, well dressed. Three days before, he must have been walking the world as a man of considerable importance. I could see his staring eyes and the light glinting on his studs and watch chain. He vanished behind the mound, and for a moment there was silence. Then the Martians began shrieking and hooting cheerfully, without stopping.

I slid down the rubbish, struggled to my feet, clapped my hands over my ears, and bolted into the scullery. The curate, who had been crouching silently with his arms over his head, looked up as I passed, cried out quite loudly at my desertion of him, and came running after me.

I slid down the rubble, struggled to my feet, covered my ears with my hands, and ran into the scullery. The curate had been crouching silently with his arms over his head. He looked up as I passed. He cried out loudly when I left him and came running after me.

That night, as we lurked in the scullery, balanced between our horror and the terrible fascination this peeping had, although I felt an urgent need of action I tried in vain to conceive some plan of escape; but afterwards, during the second day, I was able to consider our position with great clearness. The curate, I found, was quite incapable of discussion; this new and culminating atrocity had robbed him of all vestiges of reason or forethought. Practically he had already sunk to the level of an animal. But as the saying goes, I gripped myself with both hands. It grew upon my mind, once I could face the facts, that terrible as our position was, there was as yet no justification for absolute despair. Our chief chance lay in the possibility of the Martians making the pit nothing more than a temporary encampment. Or even if they kept it permanently, they might not consider it necessary to guard it, and a chance of escape might be afforded us. I also weighed very carefully the possibility of our digging a way out in a direction away from the pit, but the chances of our emerging within sight of some sentinel fighting-machine seemed at first too great. And I should have had to do all the digging myself. The curate would certainly have failed me.

That night, we hid in the scullery, torn between horror and the terrible fascination of watching through the gap. I felt an urgent need to act, but I could think of no plan of escape. Later, during the second day, I was able to consider our situation much more clearly. I found that the curate was quite incapable of discussing it. This latest and worst atrocity had robbed him of all traces of reason or foresight. He had practically sunk to the level of an animal. But I pulled myself together, as the saying goes. Once I could face the facts, I gradually realized that our situation, though terrible, did not yet justify complete despair. Our best hope was that the Martians might use the pit only as a temporary camp. Or, even if they stayed there permanently, they might not think it necessary to guard the pit. That might give us a chance to escape. I also considered very carefully whether we could dig our way out in a direction away from the pit. But at first, the risk of coming out where a sentinel fighting-machine could see us seemed too great. And I would have had to do all the digging myself. The curate would certainly have failed me.

It was on the third day, if my memory serves me right, that I saw the lad killed. It was the only occasion on which I actually saw the Martians feed. After that experience I avoided the hole in the wall for the better part of a day. I went into the scullery, removed the door, and spent some hours digging with my hatchet as silently as possible; but when I had made a hole about a couple of feet deep the loose earth collapsed noisily, and I did not dare continue. I lost heart, and lay down on the scullery floor for a long time, having no spirit even to move. And after that I abandoned altogether the idea of escaping by excavation.

If I remember correctly, I saw the boy killed on the third day. It was the only time I actually saw the Martians feed. After that, I avoided the hole in the wall for most of a day. I went into the scullery, removed the door, and spent several hours digging with my hatchet as quietly as possible. But when I had dug a hole about two feet deep, the loose earth collapsed with a loud noise. I did not dare continue. I lost heart and lay on the scullery floor for a long time, without the will even to move. After that, I gave up the idea of digging my way out altogether.

It says much for the impression the Martians had made upon me that at first I entertained little or no hope of our escape being brought about by their overthrow through any human effort. But on the fourth or fifth night I heard a sound like heavy guns.

The Martians had made such an impression on me that at first I had little or no hope that human efforts could defeat them and allow us to escape. But on the fourth or fifth night, I heard a sound like heavy guns.

It was very late in the night, and the moon was shining brightly. The Martians had taken away the excavating-machine, and, save for a fighting-machine that stood in the remoter bank of the pit and a handling-machine that was buried out of my sight in a corner of the pit immediately beneath my peephole, the place was deserted by them. Except for the pale glow from the handling-machine and the bars and patches of white moonlight the pit was in darkness, and, except for the clinking of the handling-machine, quite still. That night was a beautiful serenity; save for one planet, the moon seemed to have the sky to herself. I heard a dog howling, and that familiar sound it was that made me listen. Then I heard quite distinctly a booming exactly like the sound of great guns. Six distinct reports I counted, and after a long interval six again. And that was all.

It was very late at night, and the moon was shining brightly. The Martians had taken away the excavating-machine. Only two machines remained. A fighting-machine stood on the far side of the pit, and a handling-machine was hidden from my sight in a corner directly beneath my peephole. Apart from the handling-machine’s pale glow and the bars and patches of white moonlight, the pit was dark. It was also completely still, except for the clinking of the handling-machine. The night was beautifully peaceful. Apart from one planet, the moon seemed to have the sky to herself. I heard a dog howling, and that familiar sound made me listen. Then I heard a distinct booming, exactly like the sound of heavy guns. I counted six separate blasts, and after a long pause, another six. And that was all.