A woman close to me, middle-aged, well-dressed, sternlooking, read the poster through a pince-nez. ‘My husband fought the Boers, you know.’
‘Did he?’
‘Died out there, in fact. They resisted like this, with entrenchments and tangled-up barbed wire so you couldn’t advance. I suppose we are now against the Martians as the Boers were against the British, rebels against a superior army.’
‘The Boers put up a good fight even so.’
‘That they did. But this defence line—’ She snorted. ‘“Ablebodied men”, indeed.’
I smiled. ‘No women, you mean?’
‘They’d rather use a German than a British woman.’ She glanced at me, taking in my trouser suit, short hair and pack, not with any trace of disapproval. ‘And do you think this line of theirs will work?’
‘Do you?’
‘If the Martians kindly give us a chance to build it.’ She flicked the poster with a fingernail, and walked away.
It was a morning of maps. On an inside page of my Mirror I found an extensive report on ‘The Flight From London’ during the Monday. The great trunk routes out of London to the south and east had been packed by civilians, making for Southampton and the West Country beyond, or for Portsmouth, Brighton, Hastings, Dover – even for Essex as Frank, Alice and I had once fled – all hoping for refuge from the Martians, and perhaps a boat out of England. The police and military contented themselves with setting aside lanes along the highways so that the walkers did not at least impede the flow of personnel and material into and out of the capital. And the Red Cross, with government approval, was hastily setting up reception camps at places like Canterbury, Lewes and Horsham. At least this time there was some order to it – so far, anyhow.
As for myself, my own instinct was still to remain in central London. To be in the thick of it: Julie Elphinstone, War Correspondent! It had a ring to it. But I had my personal duty as well. I thought of Alice, helpless if she had returned to Stanmore – and just beyond the limit of the King’s Line, where you might expect the fighting to be worse if the Martians thought as the Germans would have, and tried to turn the British flank. Perhaps I should go to her. As I stood there undecided, another flock of newsboys came out, another set of specials, with the ink not yet dry on the first. This time there was news brought back from spotter planes who had been bravely flying over the Middlesex salient.
The fighting-machines were already on the move, already pushing out of their huge Cordon.
19
THE FIRST HOURS WITHIN THE CORDON
In the early hours of Tuesday, after the Martians’ lightning-fast scattering of the Army’s resistance, Frank and Verity and a handful of their staff, and a number of troopers detached from their units, had huddled in hastily improvised foxholes and trenches. And they watched through the rest of that night as the fighting-machines stalked across the broken landscape within their Cordon, probing at the wreckage of our military emplacements. The night was dark, but Frank was able to follow their movements from the light of the burning of vehicles and dumps of fuel and ammunition. He would see their legs, long, graceful, articulated, passing before a crimson glare. Once or twice a searchlight was opened up, pinning the Martians in brilliance, but the source once revealed was incinerated in an instant. Frank heard little gun fire, saw little evidence of any resistance, confused or otherwise.
After a few hours of this, Verity whispered to Frank, ‘Anything that moves – anything mechanical – they fire on. Even if it isn’t a weapon, a gun. I imagine they’d fire on a field ambulance if we could get to one. But they are sparing the people, unless you’re silly enough to take a pot-shot. Just as your friend Bert Cook said – and, don’t worry, I do understand why. The Martians have to feed – as will we, in fact, at some point. Where is Cook, by the way?’
‘Long gone,’ Frank said, pointing west, towards Amersham. ‘To where the Martians are. Bert was always going to follow his own agenda, rather than the Army’s.’
‘I think it’s starting to get light.’
‘Hmm. I wish it wouldn’t.’
Verity glanced around at their charges, the young medics and the VADs, many of whom were huddled up against each other for warmth, as innocent as small children. ‘Look at them. I envy them their ability to sleep.’
‘They’re all exhausted. No sleep on the Sunday night for most of us either, remember.’
‘True.’ Evidently hearing something, she twisted and looked out of the trench.
Frank raised himself carefully, up on his elbows. In the gathering pre-dawn light, he saw yet another fighting-machine, picking its way with speed but apparent care through the ruined landscape. And at its feet scuttled something smaller, a fat body on multiple legs like a crab or spider, the whole the size of a small motor-car perhaps.
Verity breathed, ‘What’s that?’
‘A handling-machine. It’s odd to see one outside a museum… If the handling-machines are out they’ll be bent on construction as well as destruction.’
‘Maybe they’re building a fortress.’
‘Something like that. A stockade, presumably all the way around this zone they conquered.’
She glanced at him. ‘It really is a cordon, then.’
‘It seems so.’
‘With us on the inside…’
‘Just as well I’m here, then.’
The woman’s clear voice, contrasting to their whispers, coming from behind him, startled Frank. He rolled on his back, scrambling for his revolver, and clumsily slipped down into the trench.
A horse whinnied.
Feeling foolish, and though it defied instinct to abandon his cover, Frank got to his feet. He found himself facing Mildred Tritton, who was seated on a battered old dogcart to which two sturdy horses were harnessed. ‘Good morning,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And as it is just about morning, the light ought to be good enough to tell you I’m not quite a look-alike for an invader from Mars.’
‘I apologise,’ Frank said, sheepishly holstering his gun. ‘We’ve had rather a bad night. What can I do for you, Mrs Tritton?’
‘Mildred, please. I have a feeling it’s more a question of what I can do for you just now. This is actually the third trip I’ve made out to the perimeter this night, or morning – once I discovered, by means of a rather nerve-wracking experiment, that the Martians would not fire on a wagon pulled by a horse, not unless it’s loaded up with a howitzer I suppose. The Martians go for machinery. They did for old Bessie, you know. My tractor.’ Her face worked. ‘I find that rather hard to forgive.’