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Another Walk on the Fells

At the time appointed the queen was ready: she had suffered so much at Edinburgh

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . A Corrupter Of Thought Chapter XIII. A Corrupter Of Thought “It’s not only the accumulation of facts that threatens my client with ruin, gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “what is really damning for my client is one fact—the dead body of his father. Had it been an ordinary case of murder you would have rejected the charge in view of the triviality, the incompleteness, and the fantastic character of the evidence, if you examine each part of it separately; or, at least, you would have hesitated to ruin a man’s life simply from the prejudice against him which he has, alas! only too well deserved. But it’s not an ordinary case of murder, it’s a case of parricide. That impresses men’s minds, and to such a degree that the very triviality and incompleteness of the evidence becomes less trivial and less incomplete even to an unprejudiced mind. How can such a prisoner be acquitted? What if he committed the murder and gets off unpunished? That is what every one, almost involuntarily, instinctively, feels at heart. “Yes, it’s a fearful thing to shed a father’s blood—the father who has begotten me, loved me, not spared his life for me, grieved over my illnesses from childhood up, troubled all his life for my happiness, and has lived in my joys, in my successes. To murder such a father—that’s inconceivable. Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father—a real father? What is the meaning of that great word? What is the great idea in that name? We have just indicated in part what a true father is and what he ought to be. In the case in which we are now so deeply occupied and over which our hearts are aching—in the present case, the father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, did not correspond to that conception of a father to which we have just referred. That’s the misfortune. And indeed some fathers are a misfortune. Let us examine this misfortune rather more closely: we must shrink from nothing, gentlemen of the jury, considering the importance of the decision you have to make. It’s our particular duty not to shrink from any idea, like children or frightened women, as the talented prosecutor happily expresses it. “But in the course of his heated speech my esteemed opponent (and he was my opponent before I opened my lips) exclaimed several times, ‘Oh, I will not yield the defense of the prisoner to the lawyer who has come down from Petersburg. I accuse, but I defend also!’ He exclaimed that several times, but forgot to mention that if this terrible prisoner was for twenty‐three years so grateful for a mere pound of nuts given him by the only man who had been kind to him, as a child in his father’s house, might not such a man well have remembered for twenty‐three years how he ran in his father’s back‐yard, ‘without boots on his feet and with his little trousers hanging by one button’—to use the expression of the kind‐hearted doctor, Herzenstube? “Oh, gentlemen of the jury, why need we look more closely at this misfortune, why repeat what we all know already? What did my client meet with when he arrived here, at his father’s house, and why depict my client as a heartless egoist and monster? He is uncontrolled, he is wild and unruly—we are trying him now for that—but who is responsible for his life? Who is responsible for his having received such an unseemly bringing up, in spite of his excellent disposition and his grateful and sensitive heart? Did any one train him to be reasonable? Was he enlightened by study? Did any one love him ever so little in his childhood? My client was left to the care of Providence like a beast of the field. He thirsted perhaps to see his father after long years of separation. A thousand times perhaps he may, recalling his childhood, have driven away the loathsome phantoms that haunted his childish dreams and with all his heart he may have longed to embrace and to forgive his father! And what awaited him? He was met by cynical taunts, suspicions and wrangling about money. He heard nothing but revolting talk and vicious precepts uttered daily over the brandy, and at last he saw his father seducing his mistress from him with his own money. Oh, gentlemen of the jury, that was cruel and revolting! And that old man was always complaining of the disrespect and cruelty of his son. He slandered him in society, injured him, calumniated him, bought up his unpaid debts to get him thrown into prison. “Gentlemen of the jury, people like my client, who are fierce, unruly, and uncontrolled on the surface, are sometimes, most frequently indeed, exceedingly tender‐hearted, only they don’t express it. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh at my idea! The talented prosecutor laughed mercilessly just now at my client for loving Schiller—loving the sublime and beautiful! I should not have laughed at that in his place. Yes, such natures—oh, let me speak in defense of such natures, so often and so cruelly misunderstood—these natures often thirst for tenderness, goodness, and justice, as it were, in contrast to themselves, their unruliness, their ferocity—they thirst for it unconsciously. Passionate and fierce on the surface, they are painfully capable of loving woman, for instance, and with a spiritual and elevated love. Again do not laugh at me, this is very often the case in such natures. But they cannot hide their passions—sometimes very coarse—and that is conspicuous and is noticed, but the inner man is unseen. Their passions are quickly exhausted; but, by the side of a noble and lofty creature that seemingly coarse and rough man seeks a new life, seeks to correct himself, to be better, to become noble and honorable, ‘sublime and beautiful,’ however much the expression has been ridiculed. “I said just now that I would not venture to touch upon my client’s engagement. But I may say half a word. What we heard just now was not evidence, but only the scream of a frenzied and revengeful woman, and it was not for her—oh, not for her!—to reproach him with treachery, for she has betrayed him! If she had had but a little time for reflection she would not have given such evidence. Oh, do not believe her! No, my client is not a monster, as she called him! “The Lover of Mankind on the eve of His Crucifixion said: ‘I am the Good Shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep, so that not one of them might be lost.’ Let not a man’s soul be lost through us! “I asked just now what does ‘father’ mean, and exclaimed that it was a great word, a precious name. But one must use words honestly, gentlemen, and I venture to call things by their right names: such a father as old Karamazov cannot be called a father and does not deserve to be. Filial love for an unworthy father is an absurdity, an impossibility. Love cannot be created from nothing: only God can create something from nothing. “ ‘Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath,’ the apostle writes, from a heart glowing with love. It’s not for the sake of my client that I quote these sacred words, I mention them for all fathers. Who has authorized me to preach to fathers? No one. But as a man and a citizen I make my appeal—vivos voco! We are not long on earth, we do many evil deeds and say many evil words. So let us all catch a favorable moment when we are all together to say a good word to each other. That’s what I am doing: while I am in this place I take advantage of my opportunity. Not for nothing is this tribune given us by the highest authority—all Russia hears us! I am not speaking only for the fathers here present, I cry aloud to all fathers: ‘Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath.’ Yes, let us first fulfill Christ’s injunction ourselves and only then venture to expect it of our children. Otherwise we are not fathers, but enemies of our children, and they are not our children, but our enemies, and we have made them our enemies ourselves. ‘What measure ye mete it shall be measured unto you again’—it’s not I who say that, it’s the Gospel precept, measure to others according as they measure to you. How can we blame children if they measure us according to our measure? “Not long ago a servant girl in Finland was suspected of having secretly given birth to a child. She was watched, and a box of which no one knew anything was found in the corner of the loft, behind some bricks. It was opened and inside was found the body of a new‐born child which she had killed. In the same box were found the skeletons of two other babies which, according to her own confession, she had killed at the moment of their birth. “Gentlemen of the jury, was she a mother to her children? She gave birth to them, indeed; but was she a mother to them? Would any one venture to give her the sacred name of mother? Let us be bold, gentlemen, let us be audacious even: it’s our duty to be so at this moment and not to be afraid of certain words and ideas like the Moscow women in Ostrovsky’s play, who are scared at the sound of certain words. No, let us prove that the progress of the last few years has touched even us, and let us say plainly, the father is not merely he who begets the child, but he who begets it and does his duty by it. “Oh, of course, there is the other meaning, there is the other interpretation of the word ‘father,’ which insists that any father, even though he be a monster, even though he be the enemy of his children, still remains my father simply because he begot me. But this is, so to say, the mystical meaning which I cannot comprehend with my intellect, but can only accept by faith, or, better to say, on faith, like many other things which I do not understand, but which religion bids me believe. But in that case let it be kept outside the sphere of actual life. In the sphere of actual life, which has, indeed, its own rights, but also lays upon us great duties and obligations, in that sphere, if we want to be humane—Christian, in fact—we must, or ought to, act only upon convictions justified by reason and experience, which have been passed through the crucible of analysis; in a word, we must act rationally, and not as though in dream and delirium, that we may not do harm, that we may not ill‐treat and ruin a man. Then it will be real Christian work, not only mystic, but rational and philanthropic....” There was violent applause at this passage from many parts of the court, but Fetyukovitch waved his hands as though imploring them to let him finish without interruption. The court relapsed into silence at once. The orator went on. “Do you suppose, gentlemen, that our children as they grow up and begin to reason can avoid such questions? No, they cannot, and we will not impose on them an impossible restriction. The sight of an unworthy father involuntarily suggests tormenting questions to a young creature, especially when he compares him with the excellent fathers of his companions. The conventional answer to this question is: ‘He begot you, and you are his flesh and blood, and therefore you are bound to love him.’ The youth involuntarily reflects: ‘But did he love me when he begot me?’ he asks, wondering more and more. ‘Was it for my sake he begot me? He did not know me, not even my sex, at that moment, at the moment of passion, perhaps, inflamed by wine, and he has only transmitted to me a propensity to drunkenness—that’s all he’s done for me.... Why am I bound to love him simply for begetting me when he has cared nothing for me all my life after?’ “Oh, perhaps those questions strike you as coarse and cruel, but do not expect an impossible restraint from a young mind. ‘Drive nature out of the door and it will fly in at the window,’ and, above all, let us not be afraid of words, but decide the question according to the dictates of reason and humanity and not of mystic ideas. How shall it be decided? Why, like this. Let the son stand before his father and ask him, ‘Father, tell me, why must I love you? Father, show me that I must love you,’ and if that father is able to answer him and show him good reason, we have a real, normal, parental relation, not resting on mystical prejudice, but on a rational, responsible and strictly humanitarian basis. But if he does not, there’s an end to the family tie. He is not a father to him, and the son has a right to look upon him as a stranger, and even an enemy. Our tribune, gentlemen of the jury, ought to be a school of true and sound ideas.” (Here the orator was interrupted by irrepressible and almost frantic applause. Of course, it was not the whole audience, but a good half of it applauded. The fathers and mothers present applauded. Shrieks and exclamations were heard from the gallery, where the ladies were sitting. Handkerchiefs were waved. The President began ringing his bell with all his might. He was obviously irritated by the behavior of the audience, but did not venture to clear the court as he had threatened. Even persons of high position, old men with stars on their breasts, sitting on specially reserved seats behind the judges, applauded the orator and waved their handkerchiefs. So that when the noise died down, the President confined himself to repeating his stern threat to clear the court, and Fetyukovitch, excited and triumphant, continued his speech.) “Gentlemen of the jury, you remember that awful night of which so much has been said to‐day, when the son got over the fence and stood face to face with the enemy and persecutor who had begotten him. I insist most emphatically it was not for money he ran to his father’s house: the charge of robbery is an absurdity, as I proved before. And it was not to murder him he broke into the house, oh, no! If he had had that design he would, at least, have taken the precaution of arming himself beforehand. The brass pestle he caught up instinctively without knowing why he did it. Granted that he deceived his father by tapping at the window, granted that he made his way in—I’ve said already that I do not for a moment believe that legend, but let it be so, let us suppose it for a moment. Gentlemen, I swear to you by all that’s holy, if it had not been his father, but an ordinary enemy, he would, after running through the rooms and satisfying himself that the woman was not there, have made off, post‐haste, without doing any harm to his rival. He would have struck him, pushed him away perhaps, nothing more, for he had no thought and no time to spare for that. What he wanted to know was where she was. But his father, his father! The mere sight of the father who had hated him from his childhood, had been his enemy, his persecutor, and now his unnatural rival, was enough! A feeling of hatred came over him involuntarily, irresistibly, clouding his reason. It all surged up in one moment! It was an impulse of madness and insanity, but also an impulse of nature, irresistibly and unconsciously (like everything in nature) avenging the violation of its eternal laws. “But the prisoner even then did not murder him—I maintain that, I cry that aloud!—no, he only brandished the pestle in a burst of indignant disgust, not meaning to kill him, not knowing that he would kill him. Had he not had this fatal pestle in his hand, he would have only knocked his father down perhaps, but would not have killed him. As he ran away, he did not know whether he had killed the old man. Such a murder is not a murder. Such a murder is not a parricide. No, the murder of such a father cannot be called parricide. Such a murder can only be reckoned parricide by prejudice. “But I appeal to you again and again from the depths of my soul; did this murder actually take place? Gentlemen of the jury, if we convict and punish him, he will say to himself: ‘These people have done nothing for my bringing up, for my education, nothing to improve my lot, nothing to make me better, nothing to make me a man. These people have not given me to eat and to drink, have not visited me in prison and nakedness, and here they have sent me to penal servitude. I am quits, I owe them nothing now, and owe no one anything for ever. They are wicked and I will be wicked. They are cruel and I will be cruel.’ That is what he will say, gentlemen of the jury. And I swear, by finding him guilty you will only make it easier for him: you will ease his conscience, he will curse the blood he has shed and will not regret it. At the same time you will destroy in him the possibility of becoming a new man, for he will remain in his wickedness and blindness all his life. “But do you want to punish him fearfully, terribly, with the most awful punishment that could be imagined, and at the same time to save him and regenerate his soul? If so, overwhelm him with your mercy! You will see, you will hear how he will tremble and be horror‐struck. ‘How can I endure this mercy? How can I endure so much love? Am I worthy of it?’ That’s what he will exclaim. “Oh, I know, I know that heart, that wild but grateful heart, gentlemen of the jury! It will bow before your mercy; it thirsts for a great and loving action, it will melt and mount upwards. There are souls which, in their limitation, blame the whole world. But subdue such a soul with mercy, show it love, and it will curse its past, for there are many good impulses in it. Such a heart will expand and see that God is merciful and that men are good and just. He will be horror‐stricken; he will be crushed by remorse and the vast obligation laid upon him henceforth. And he will not say then, ‘I am quits,’ but will say, ‘I am guilty in the sight of all men and am more unworthy than all.’ With tears of penitence and poignant, tender anguish, he will exclaim: ‘Others are better than I, they wanted to save me, not to ruin me!’ Oh, this act of mercy is so easy for you, for in the absence of anything like real evidence it will be too awful for you to pronounce: ‘Yes, he is guilty.’ “Better acquit ten guilty men than punish one innocent man! Do you hear, do you hear that majestic voice from the past century of our glorious history? It is not for an insignificant person like me to remind you that the Russian court does not exist for the punishment only, but also for the salvation of the criminal! Let other nations think of retribution and the letter of the law, we will cling to the spirit and the meaning—the salvation and the reformation of the lost. If this is true, if Russia and her justice are such, she may go forward with good cheer! Do not try to scare us with your frenzied troikas from which all the nations stand aside in disgust. Not a runaway troika, but the stately chariot of Russia will move calmly and majestically to its goal. In your hands is the fate of my client, in your hands is the fate of Russian justice. You will defend it, you will save it, you will prove that there are men to watch over it, that it is in good hands!” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Fyodor Dostoyevsky (2009). The Brothers Karamazov. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/28054/pg28054-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

A Corrupter Of Thought

The Evolution of Modern Medicine: Chapter V — THE RISE AND DEVELOPMENT OF MODERN MEDICINE

Can projects in the virtual world change the real world for the better? If you look at what has been up to, then the answer appears to be a clear yes. Ever since its launch, the project has been leading the way on how to harness the potential of  NFT, art, and blockchain technology to address pressing humanitarian challenges. House of Legend (HOL) To this end, it has garnered the support of several like-minded organizations that want to give back - including global NGOs as well as major brands in the finance and crypto industries. With a growing list of brands partnering with their social impact initiatives, HOL could well be on its way to creating one of the biggest philanthropic collectives in the NFT space. About House of Legends House of Legends, and the production house behind it, , hosts a unique collection of super-rare NFT artworks. Their one of its kind collection of quirky pop art depicts some of the most inspirational men and women in history, such as Oprah, Elon Musk, Sigmund Freud, Frida Kahlo, and Leonard Cohen, among others. And the creative force behind this unique collection is the award-winning, Forbes 30-under-30 digital artist , who is HOL’s chief art director. Meta-Brothers Amit Shimoni Unlike other NFT-auctioning platforms, HOL looks to make a real difference in people’s lives with every sale. The project redirects a portion of its  NFT sales proceeds towards building clean water wells for communities in need across Africa and India. This way, it can provide access to clean, safe water for life to hundreds of thousands of people worldwide. Its ultimate goal is to ensure that 1 million people in remote communities never have to worry about the lack of potable water ever again. By doing this, they hope to help improve their lives and increase the chances of building a brighter future for their families. Here are some of the brands, organizations, and projects accompanying House of Legends on their mission to build a better future for those in need. Drop4Drop One of HOL’s most important collaborations is a close partnership with , a charitable community development organization dedicated to fighting the global water crisis by building sustainable water projects in communities across the world. . Its goal is to provide #cleanwaterforall and help the nearly 663 million people worldwide access safe, drinkable water. Drop4Drop So far, House of Legends and Drop4Drop have helped build 8 wells to provide over 8,500 people with clean water for life. Their extend to South Sudan, Gambia, Mozambique, Malawi, Uganda, India, and beyond. Easy access to safe water sources will help these communities thrive and develop sustainably. projects HOL distributes 100% of funds raised from the sale of charity NTFs towards its clean water wells operations with Drop4Drop. Therefore, every sale can help change the lives of people in need. NFT eToro is among the most renowned and secure investment platforms worldwide. Its goal is to educate people about investments, assets, and financial options and support their ventures in numerous sectors. eToro The platform launched in 2007 to disrupt the world of trading. From the get-go, it offered a cutting-edge dashboard with advanced tools for investors and traders. Meanwhile, it helped newcomers have a better understanding of the financial world. Over the years, eToro transformed into a multi-asset, social, and investment platform seeking to help users connect, share and learn. In 2021, eToro celebrated reaching 20 million active users. Today, you can use the platform for stock investments and trading in cryptocurrencies, commodities, fiat currencies, etc. Desperate Ape Wives (DAW) is an established lifestyle project connecting the real world to the Metaverse. Its goal is to build an engaged, community-driven brand around a unique collection of 10,000 super-rare NFTs of female apes boasting influential trends. Desperate Ape Wives DAW stands out through a versatile selection of NFTS showcasing different appearances and attitudes. This way, anyone can find a quirky, lovable character to identify with and add to their select collection. Furthermore, DAW aims to make a difference in the world beyond NFT collectors. For instance, it donates to community-chosen cancer charity organizations and urges holders to use their DAW NFTs as the faces of their charitable initiatives. Galaxy Eggs is a collection of rare 9,999 NFTs (Eggs) in the Metaverse from the (art)ificial art studio. Its genesis collection represents unique depictions of unknown worlds and creatures with sci-fi and mythological motifs. Galaxy Eggs This initiative aims to explore the endless possibilities and potential of blockchain technology and the Metaverse. Furthermore, it seeks to create and support many other Metaverse art ventures. Galaxy Eggs buyers and NFT holders also enjoy access to exclusive merchandise and apparel representing Galaxy Eggs art. The Galaxy Eggs NFTs is the brainchild of , a multi-faced and acclaimed art director, visual designer, and composer. Gal Barkan CryptoDads is a quirky and unique collection of 10,000 rare and randomly-generated NFTs depicting s of the greatest dad figures of all time. The project’s humorous and inclusive approach to the world of NFTs makes it stand out in a crowd of NFT collections. CryptoDads Currently, CryptoDads is building exciting new projects in NFT World in the Metaverse and expanding its NFT art gallery with a brand new collection, CryptoMoms. Furthermore, the project seeks to go beyond digital, with limited releases of special edition energy drinks, whiskey, merchandise, and more. CryptoDads’ contributions to humanitarian causes include a $30,000 donation to Movember to support mental health and suicide prevention for men and boys and the strategic partnership with House of Legends to bring clean water to a village in India. Surreals is a collection of 10,000 generative portraits available as NFTs on . They stand out through their surreal and vintage aesthetic that’s inspired by nature. Furthermore, they consist of a combination of randomly-assembled hand-painted parts. This way, each Surreal NFT is unique and a rare work of art. Surreals Ethereum The team also plans to establish a ‘Print Portal’ on its website in the near future. This feature will enable NFT holders to bring forth their Surreals into the living world by creating physical copies. Chameleon Collective is a collection of 10,000 NFTs depicting quirky chameleons, the hand-drawn brainchildren of talented artist . Each Chameleon is rare, unique, and valuable, providing holders with sustainable, long-term growth. In total, they have over 850 different traits and colors available. Chameleon Collective Zach Bush The Chameleon Collective also represents a strong community in the NFT space. Its goal is to develop into an outstanding collection of 3D Chameleons with practical use within the Metaverse. The team will also create "Chamagotchi," a digital Chameleon pet inspired by the legendary Tamagotchi toys of the 1990s. The NFTs will be available for sale at .025 ETH for Chameleon holders and 0.05 ETH for non-Chameleon holders. Most importantly, 10% of the proceeds will go towards charitable initiatives. MetaGuardians is a collection of 10,000 unique NFTS featuring 3D hero-like avatars that live on the Ethereum blockchain. They represent character collectibles that also serve as the holders’ tickets to the platform’s exclusive content. The project is currently developing its Metaverse, additional avatars, and an upcoming play-to-earn (P2E) game. MetaGuardians MetaGuardians features a 3-tier access program (silver, gold, and platinum) in which users enjoy a variety of benefits. For instance, the Silver tier provides players with a mint and rewards pass of 2.5% and small game bonuses. Gold tier users enjoy a 5% mint and reward pass with medium bonuses. Meanwhile, Platinum users enjoy a 10% mint and reward pass with large game bonuses. Ethereum Towers is a community-centric, vertical megastructure of 4,388 apartments and several communal areas in the upcoming Ethereum Worlds Metaverse. The project will enable users to own virtual properties, which will be built based on designs by award-winning architects. Ethereum Towers The two Ethereum Towers will feature 101 floors, each consisting of three types of apartments, Standard, Luxury, and Penthouse. However, their owners will be more than just NFT owners - they will also be part of a thriving,  supportive community spearheading the Metaverse expansion. Humans of the Metaverse represents a growing community of over 6,500 people building the Metacity, an innovative structure in the virtual space. This ecosystem will feature familiar, fully-functioning edifices and locations of real-world places, such as banks (Metabank), museums (Metamuseum), event halls, and more. Humans of the Metaverse The Humans of the Metaverse will have to hold and spend $HOTM, the platform’s , to access the ecosystem. In return, they will access various earning opportunities backed by the ecosystem’s growing economy. For instance, they will be able to buy virtual real estate or take part in NFT auctions. ERC-20 token Other strategic partnerships that HOL is part of include collaborations with DAW, Surreals, SODA, Foxy Fam, DeFi Rangers, Rexemonz, DegenzDen, Buzzed Bears Hideout, CryptoHavenz, Rich Gator Golf Club, Panda Paradise, Pepper Attack, Museum, MCOrigins, Wizard Collective Treasury, MishkaVerse, and MetaWatches. Leading the House of Legends operations is CEO , an experienced NFT entrepreneur with a background in blockchain technology, digital marketing, and - interestingly - military photojournalism with the Israel army. As someone whose personal and professional journeys took her to various corners of the globe, Tamara soon realized that even in the digital age, there are countless people still struggling for the bare necessities of life. Tamara Yannay Today, Tamara uses her strong business acumen to not only provide growing value to the holder of HOL NFTs, but to also help provide access to a safe water source for disadvantaged communities. The next mission on Tamara's agenda is exploring clean energy solutions, focusing on solar energy in particular. House of Legends NFTs have a current of 0.05 ETH, making this a great time for NFT collectors to invest and join the community. floor price You can find out more about House of Legends here: | | | | | | Website OpenSea Twitter Discord Instagram Studio Shimoni and Hipstory: | | | | Website Instagram Facebook Also, discover more about Meta-Brothers here: | | | | | Website Twitter LinkedIn Instagram

House of Legends NFT Joins Forces with 10+ Brands to Bring Clean Water to 1 Million People

MODERN PROPHECIES

The Big Four by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE MOUSE WALKS IN XIII. THE MOUSE WALKS IN Not often in a life-time does a man stand on the edge of eternity, but when I spoke those words in that East End cellar I was perfectly certain that they were my last words on earth. I braced myself for the shock of those black, rushing waters beneath, and experienced in advance the horror of that breath-choking fall. But to my surprise a low laugh fell on my ears. I opened my eyes. Obeying a sign from the man on the divan, my two jailers brought me back to my old seat facing him. "You are a brave man, Captain Hastings," he said. "We of the East appreciate bravery. I may say that I expected you to act as you have done. That brings us to the appointed second act of our little drama. Death for yourself you have faced—will you face death for another?" "What do you mean?" I asked hoarsely, a horrible fear creeping over me. "Surely you have not forgotten the lady who is in our power—the Rose of the Garden." I stared at him in dumb agony. "I think, Captain Hastings, that you will write that letter. See, I have a cable form here. The message I shall write on it depends on you, and means life or death for your wife." The sweat broke out on my brow. My tormentor continued, smiling amiably, and speaking with perfect sangfroid:— "There, captain, the pen is ready to your hand. You have only to write. If not—" "If not?" I echoed. "If not, that lady that you love dies—and dies slowly. My master, Li Chang Yen, amuses himself in his spare hours by devising new and ingenious methods of tortures—" "My God!" I cried. "You fiend! Not that—you wouldn't do that—" "Shall I recount to you some of his devices?" Without heeding my cry of protest, his speech flowed on—evenly, serenely—till with a cry of horror I clapped my hands to my ears. "It is enough, I see. Take up the pen and write." "You would not dare—" "Your speech is foolishness, and you know it. Take up the pen and write." "If I do?" "Your wife goes free. The cable shall be despatched immediately." "How do I know that you will keep faith with me?" "I swear it to you on the sacred tombs of my ancestors. Moreover, judge for yourself—why should I wish to do her harm? Her detention will have answered its purpose." "And—and Poirot?" "We will keep him in safe custody until we have concluded our operations. Then we will let him go." "Will you swear that also on the tombs of your ancestors?" "I have sworn one oath to you. That should be sufficient." My heart sank. I was betraying my friend—to what? For a moment I hesitated—then the terrible alternative rose like a nightmare before my eyes. Cinderella—in the hands of these Chinese devils, dying by slow torture— A groan rose to my lips. I seized the pen. Perhaps by careful wording of the letter, I could convey a warning, and Poirot would be enabled to avoid the trap. It was the only hope. But even that hope was not to remain. The Chinaman's voice rose, suave and courteous. "Permit me to dictate to you." He paused, consulted a sheaf of notes that lay by his side, and then dictated as follows:— "Dear Poirot, I think I'm on the track of Number Four. A Chinaman came this afternoon and lured me down here with a bogus message. Luckily I saw through his little game in time, and gave him the slip. Then I turned the tables on him, and managed to do a bit of shadowing on my own account—rather neatly too, I flatter myself. I'm getting a bright young lad to carry this to you. Give him a half a crown, will you? That's what I promised him if it was delivered safely. I'm watching the house, and daren't leave. I shall wait for you until six o'clock, and if you haven't come then, I'll have a try at getting into the house on my own. It's too good a chance to miss, and, of course, the boy mightn't find you. But if he does, get him to bring you down here right away. And cover up those precious moustaches of yours in case any one's watching out from the house and might recognise you. "Yours in haste, "A. H." Every word that I wrote plunged me deeper in despair. The thing was diabolically clever. I realised how closely every detail of our life must be known. It was just such an epistle as I might have penned myself. The acknowledgment that the Chinaman who had called that afternoon had endeavoured to "lure me away" discounted any good I might have done by leaving my "sign" of four books. It had been a trap, and I had seen through it, that was what Poirot would think. The time, too, was cleverly planned. Poirot, on receiving the note, would have just time to rush off with his innocent-looking guide, and that he would do so, I knew. My determination to make my way into the house would bring him post haste. He always displayed a ridiculous distrust of my capacities. He would be convinced that I was running into danger without being equal to the situation, and would rush down to take command of the situation. But there was nothing to be done. I wrote as bidden. My captor took the note from me, read it, then nodded his head approvingly and handed it to one of the silent attendants who disappeared with it behind one of the silken hangings on the wall which masked a doorway. With a smile the man opposite to me picked up a cable form and wrote. He handed it to me. It read: "Release the white bird with all despatch." I gave a sigh of relief. "You will send it at once?" I urged. He smiled, and shook his head. "When M. Hercule Poirot is in my hands it shall be sent. Not until then." "But you promised—" "If this device fails, I may have need of our white bird—to persuade you to further efforts." I grew white with anger. "My God! If you—" He waved a long slim yellow hand. "Be reassured, I do not think it will fail. And the moment M. Poirot is in our hands, I will keep my oath." "If you play me false." "I have sworn it by my honoured ancestors. Have no fear. Rest here awhile. My servants will see to your needs whilst I am absent." I was left alone in this strange underground nest of luxury. The second Chinese attendant had reappeared. One of them brought food and drink and offered it to me, but I waved them aside. I was sick—sick—at heart— And then suddenly the master reappeared tall and stately in his silken robes. He directed operations. By his orders I was hustled back through the cellar and tunnel into the original house I had entered. There they took me into a ground floor room. The windows were shuttered, but one could see through the cracks into the street. An old ragged man was shuffling along the opposite side of the road, and when I saw him make a sign to the window, I understood that he was one of the gang on watch. "It is well," said my Chinese friend. "Hercule Poirot has fallen into the trap. He approaches now—and alone except for the boy who guides him. Now, Captain Hastings, you have still one more part to play. Unless you show yourself he will not enter the house. When he arrives opposite, you must go out on the step and beckon him in." "What?" I cried, revolted. "You play that part alone. Remember the price of failure. If Hercule Poirot suspects anything is amiss and does not enter the house, your wife dies by the Seventy lingering Deaths! Ah! Here he is." With a beating heart, and a feeling of deathly sickness, I looked through the crack in the shutters. In the figure walking along the opposite side of the street I recognised my friend at once, though his coat collar was turned up and an immense yellow muffler hid the bottom part of his face. But there was no mistaking that walk, and the poise of that egg-shaped head. It was Poirot, coming to my aid in all good faith, suspecting nothing amiss. By his side ran a typical London urchin, grimy of face and ragged of apparel. Poirot paused, looking across at the house, whilst the boy spoke to him eagerly and pointed. It was the time for me to act. I went out in the hall. At a sign from the tall Chinaman, one of the servants unlatched the door. "Remember the price of failure," said my enemy in a low voice. I was outside on the steps. I beckoned to Poirot. He hastened across. "Aha! So all is well with you, my friend. I was beginning to be anxious. You managed to get inside? Is the house empty, then?" "Yes," I said, in a voice I strove to make natural. "There must be a secret way out of it somewhere. Come in and let us look for it." I stepped back across the threshold. In all innocence Poirot prepared to follow me. And then something seemed to snap in my head. I saw only too clearly the part I was playing—the part of Judas. "Back, Poirot!" I cried. "Back for your life. It's a trap. Never mind me. Get away at once." Even as I spoke—or rather shouted my warning hands gripped me like a vice. One of the Chinese servants sprang past me to grab Poirot. I saw the latter spring back, his arm raised, then suddenly a dense volume of smoke was rising round me, choking me—killing me— I felt myself falling—suffocating—this was death— I came to myself slowly and painfully—all my senses dazed. The first thing I saw was Poirot's face. He was sitting opposite me watching me with an anxious face. He gave a cry of joy when he saw me looking at him. "Ah, you revive—you return to yourself. All is well! My friend—my poor friend!" "Where am I?" I said painfully. "Where? But chez vous!" I looked round me. True enough, I was in the old familiar surroundings. And in the grate were the identical four knobs of coal I had carefully spilt there. Poirot had followed my glance. "But yes, that was a famous idea of yours—that and the books. See you, if they should say to me any time. 'That friend of yours, that Hastings, he has not the great brain, is it not so?' I shall reply to them: 'You are in error.' It was an idea magnificent and superb that occurred to you there." "You understood their meaning then?" "Am I an imbecile? Of course I understood. It gave me just the warning I needed, and the time to mature my plans. Somehow or other the Big Four had carried you off. With what object? Clearly not for your beaux yeux—equally clearly not because they feared you and wanted to get you out of the way. No, their object was plain. You would be used as a decoy to get the great Hercule Poirot into their clutches. I have long been prepared for something of the kind. I make my little preparations, and presently, sure enough, the messenger arrives—such an innocent little street urchin. Me, I swallow everything, and hasten away with him, and, very fortunately, they permit you to come out on the doorstep. That was my one fear, that I should have to dispose of them before I had reached the place where you were concealed, and that I should have to search for you—perhaps in vain—afterwards." "Dispose of them, did you say?" I asked feebly. "Single-handed." "Oh, there is nothing very clever about that. If one is prepared in advance all is simple—the motto of the Boy Scout, is it not? And a very fine one. Me, I was prepared. Not so long ago, I rendered a service to a very famous chemist, who did a lot of work in connection with poison gas during the war. He devised for me a little bomb—simple and easy to carry about—one has but to throw it and poof, the smoke—and then the unconsciousness. Immediately I blow a little whistle and straightway some of Japp's clever fellows who were watching the house here long before the boy arrived, and who managed to follow us all the way to Limehouse, came flying up and took charge of the situation." "But how was it you weren't unconscious too?" "Another piece of luck. Our friend Number Four (who certainly composed that ingenious letter) permitted himself a little jest at my moustaches, which rendered it extremely easy for me to adjust my respirator under the guise of a yellow muffler." "I remember," I cried eagerly, and then with the word "Remember" all the ghastly horror that I had temporarily forgotten came back to me. Cinderella— I fell back with a groan. I must have lost consciousness again for a minute or two. I awoke to find Poirot forcing some brandy between my lips. "What is it, mon ami? But what is it—then? Tell me." Word by word, I got the thing told, shuddering as I did so. Poirot uttered a cry. "My friend! My friend! But what you must have suffered! And I who knew nothing of all this! But reassure yourself! All is well!" "You will find her, you mean? But she is in South America. And by the time we get there—long before, she will be dead—and God knows how and in what horrible way she will have died." "No, no, you do not understand. She is safe and well. She has never been in their hands for one instant." "But I got a cable from Bronsen?" "No, no, you did not. You may have got a cable from South America signed Bronsen—that is a very different matter. Tell me, has it never occurred to you that an organisation of this kind, with ramifications all over the world, might easily strike at us through that little girl, Cinderella, whom you love so well?" "No, never," I replied. "Well, it did to me. I said nothing to you because I did not want to upset you unnecessarily—but I took measures of my own. Your wife's letters all seem to have been written from the ranch, but in reality she has been in a place of safety devised by me for over three months." I looked at him for a long time. "You are sure of that?" "Parbleu! I know it. They tortured you with a lie!" I turned my head aside. Poirot put his hand on my shoulder. There was something in his voice that I had never heard there before. "You like not that I should embrace you or display the emotion, I know well. I will be very British. I will say nothing—but nothing at all. Only this—that in this last adventure of ours, the honours are all with you, and happy is the man who has such a friend as I have!" About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (2023). The Big Four. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/70114/pg70114-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

THE MOUSE WALKS IN

The Boy's Hakluyt: English Voyages of Adventure and Discovery by Richard Hakluyt is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . REVIVAL OF THE NORTHWEST THEORY REVIVAL OF THE NORTHWEST THEORY To Humphrey Gilbert belongs the credit for so reviving the Northwest Passage theory as to turn the thoughts of English merchants and statesmen to adventure and to colonization in America; while Martin Frobisher was the first English navigator fairly to begin the Northwest explorations. Gilbert, born in 1539, in the county of Devon, was the son of a country gentleman, half-brother of Walter Raleigh, on the mother’s side, an Eton schoolboy and an Oxford man, bred to the law, but taking instead to adventure. When a soldier in Ireland, in 1566–1567, a captain under Sir Henry Sidney against the Irish rebellion, his mind was busied with speculation on cosmography; and in the latter year, being sent home with despatches by Sidney, he took occasion to present to Queen Elizabeth, whose favour he enjoyed, a petition for privileges “concerning the discoverings of a passage by the North to go to Cathaie.” This, it is said, was an alternative to the earlier memorial of Anthony Jenkinson and himself for royal patronage to a new expedition of discovery by the Northeast. Both petitions lay unanswered, and he returned to soldiering. In 1570 he was knighted for his services in Ireland, the previous year having been given the government of Münster. In 1571, back in England, he was a member of Parliament for Plymouth. The next year he was fighting in the Netherlands, the first colonel in command of English forces there. Returned again to England, he temporarily retired to country-life at Limehouse, employing his leisure in further geographical investigations and in writing a learned Discourse of a Discovery for a New Passage to Cathaia, partly, it is assumed, in support of his petition still before the queen. One day in the winter of 1574 he showed the manuscript of the Discourse to his friend George Gascoigne, one of the pioneer Elizabethan poets, who afterward edited and published it. Meanwhile it led to the granting of a license by the Fellowship of English Merchants, in 1575, to Martin Frobisher with “divers gentlemen,” out of which grew Frobisher’s Northwest voyage. MARTIN FROBISHER. Martin Frobisher was of Welsh origin, but of English birth, born in Yorkshire in about 1535. He was now a thoroughly seasoned mariner, having followed the sea from his nineteenth year, going out for a decade in yearly voyages of merchant ships sent to Africa or the Levant by Sir John and Thomas Lock; and afterward employed in the queen’s service, in 1571 off Ireland. He had before this time become “thoroughly furnished of the knowledge of the sphere and all other skilles appertaining to the arte of navigation,” as the historian of his voyages, George Best, assures us, and as early as 1560 he had conceived a project for discovery of the short route by the Northwest to “Cathay” and the Indies, and had begun looking about for support for it. During the next fifteen years he schemed to this end, conferring with his “private friends of these secrets,” importuning members of the Fellowship of English Merchants to back him, soliciting men of estate and title, and even the court. But he met little encouragement till his public service in Ireland had brought him under the favourable notice of the queen and the attention of Sir Humphrey Gilbert. At length toward the close of 1574 the queen, moved apparently by Sir Humphrey’s Discourse, still in manuscript, addressed a letter to the Fellowship of English Merchants calling upon them either to despatch an expedition to the Northwest or transfer their privileges in that direction to other adventurers: and sent this pregnant message by the hand of Frobisher. The result was the issue, February, 1575, of their license for his first voyage. Gilbert’s Discourse is given by Hakluyt presumably as published by Gascoigne, in 1576, but with his own caption: “A Discourse written by Sir Humfrey Gilbert Knight, to prove a passage by the Northwest to Cathaia and the East Indies.” It is an essay in ten chapters displaying not a little erudition and mastery of his subject. The chapter-heads show its trend: “1. To prove by authoritie a passage to be on the North side of America to go to Cathaia, China, and to the East India. 2. To prove by reason a passage to be on the North side of America to go to Cathaia, Molucæ &c. 3. To prove by experience of sundry mens travailes [travels] the opening of this Northwest passage, whereby good hope remaineth of the rest. 4. To prove by circumstance that the Northwest passage has been sailed throughout. 5. To proove that such Indians as have bene driven upon the coastes of Germanie came not thither by the Southeast, and Southwest, nor from any part of Afrike or America. 6. To proove that the Indians aforenamed came not from the Northeast; and that there is no thorow [through] passage navigable that way. 7. To prove that these Indians came by the Northwest which induceth a certaintie of this passage by experience. 8. What several reasons were alleaged before the Queens Majestie, and certaine Lords of her Highnesse privie Council by M. Anth. Jenkinson a Gentleman of great travaile and experience, to prove this passage by the Northeast, with my severall answeres then alleaged to the same. 9. How that this passage by the Northwest is more commodious for our traffike then [than] the other by the Northeast, if there were any such. 10. What commodities would ensue, this passage being once discovered.” The quaint opening paragraph expresses succinctly his theory and the steps by which he had reached it: “When I gave my selfe to the studie of Geographie, after I had perused and diligently scanned the descriptions of Europe, Asia, and Afrike, and conferred them with the Mappes and Globe, both Antique and Moderne: I came in fine to the fourth part of the world, commonly called America, which by all descriptions I found to bee an Island environed round about with Sea, having on the Southeside of it the frete or straight of Magellan, on the West side Mar del Sur, which sea runneth towards the North, separating it from the East parts of Asia, where the Dominions of the Cathaians are: on the East part an West Ocean, and on the North side the sea that severeth it from Groneland [Greenland] thorow which Northren Sea the Passage lyeth, which I take now in hand to discover.” In the concluding paragraph we have an exhibition of Sir Humphrey’s highmindedness and his chivalrous devotion of himself to his country: "Desiring you hereafter never to mislike with me for the taking in hande of any laudable and honest enterprise: for if through pleasure or idleness we purchase shame the pleasure vanisheth, but the shame remaineth forever. And therefore to give me leave without offence, always to live and die in this mind, That he is not worthy to live at all that for feare, or danger of death, shunneth his countries service and his owne honour: seeing death is inevitable, and the fame of vertue immortall. Wherefore in this behalfe, Mutare vel timere sperno." Frobisher’s initial voyage was financed, in the language of to-day, principally by Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick. The total amount subscribed for the venture was but eight hundred and seventy-five pounds. Two small barks, the “Gabriel,” of twenty-five tons, and the “Michael” of twenty tons, with a pinnace of ten tons, were furnished, and provisioned for ten months. The company were small but well selected. Christopher Hall, the master of the “Gabriel,” and Frobisher’s right hand, was an experienced mariner in the Northern seas, and had presumably sailed with Frobisher in one or another of his eastern voyages. Among his charts Frobisher is supposed to have included the Zeno map, delineating the fourteenth century discoveries of the Venetian brothers Zeno, then comparatively new, having been brought to light in Italy in 1558. The tiny fleet set sail from Ratcliffe on the seventh of June (1576), but at Detford came to anchor, the pinnace having “burst” her “boultsprit” and foremast, in coming against a ship that was riding there. The next day making a fresh start they bore down on Greenwich, where the court yet was. Here, as a quarter of a century before the Willoughby-Chancellor fleet had done when passing out by the boy king’s court, they made the “best shew” they could by shooting off their ordnance, while Queen Elizabeth waved her hand from a window in affectionate farewell. Afterward the queen sent one of her courtiers aboard the “Gabriel” with a message declaring her “good liking for our doings,” and summoning Frobisher to the court to take personal leave of her. The same day—the narrator is Christopher Hall—"towards night, M. Secretarie Woolly came aboord of us and declared to the company that her Majesty had appointed him to give them charge to be obedient and diligent to their Captaine and governors in all things, and wished us happie successe." Accounts of this voyage were written in terse sailor fashion by Christopher Hall, and with more detail and colour by George Best, the historian of all of Frobisher’s Northwest expeditions. Hakluyt gives the text of both. Hall’s appears under this title: “The first Voyage of M. Martine Frobisher to the Northwest for the search of the straight or passage to China, written by Christopher Hall, Master in the Gabriel, and made in the yeere of our Lord 1576.” Best’s is an extended monograph thus entitled: “A true Discourse of the three Voyages of Discoverie, for the finding of a passage to Cathaya, by the Northwest, under the conduct of Martin Frobisher Generall: Before which, as a necessary preface, is prefixed a two-folde discourse, conteining certaine reasons to prove all partes of the World habitable. Penned by Master George Best, a Gentleman employed in the same voyages.” From these two narrations, the one supplying details omitted by the other, the full graphic story is to be drawn. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Richard Hakluyt (2018). The Boy's Hakluyt: English Voyages of Adventure and Discovery. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/57917/pg57917-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

REVIVAL OF THE NORTHWEST THEORY

The War of the Worlds, by H. G. Wells, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . XVII. THE “THUNDER CHILD” XVII. THE “THUNDER CHILD” Had the Martians aimed only at destruction, they might on Monday have annihilated the entire population of London, as it spread itself slowly through the home counties. Not only along the road through Barnet, but also through Edgware and Waltham Abbey, and along the roads eastward to Southend and Shoeburyness, and south of the Thames to Deal and Broadstairs, poured the same frantic rout. If one could have hung that June morning in a balloon in the blazing blue above London every northward and eastward road running out of the tangled maze of streets would have seemed stippled black with the streaming fugitives, each dot a human agony of terror and physical distress. I have set forth at length in the last chapter my brother’s account of the road through Chipping Barnet, in order that my readers may realise how that swarming of black dots appeared to one of those concerned. Never before in the history of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered together. The legendary hosts of Goths and Huns, the hugest armies Asia has ever seen, would have been but a drop in that current. And this was no disciplined march; it was a stampede—a stampede gigantic and terrible—without order and without a goal, six million people unarmed and unprovisioned, driving headlong. It was the beginning of the rout of civilisation, of the massacre of mankind. Directly below him the balloonist would have seen the network of streets far and wide, houses, churches, squares, crescents, gardens—already derelict—spread out like a huge map, and in the southward blotted. Over Ealing, Richmond, Wimbledon, it would have seemed as if some monstrous pen had flung ink upon the chart. Steadily, incessantly, each black splash grew and spread, shooting out ramifications this way and that, now banking itself against rising ground, now pouring swiftly over a crest into a new-found valley, exactly as a gout of ink would spread itself upon blotting paper. And beyond, over the blue hills that rise southward of the river, the glittering Martians went to and fro, calmly and methodically spreading their poison cloud over this patch of country and then over that, laying it again with their steam jets when it had served its purpose, and taking possession of the conquered country. They do not seem to have aimed at extermination so much as at complete demoralisation and the destruction of any opposition. They exploded any stores of powder they came upon, cut every telegraph, and wrecked the railways here and there. They were hamstringing mankind. They seemed in no hurry to extend the field of their operations, and did not come beyond the central part of London all that day. It is possible that a very considerable number of people in London stuck to their houses through Monday morning. Certain it is that many died at home suffocated by the Black Smoke. Until about midday the Pool of London was an astonishing scene. Steamboats and shipping of all sorts lay there, tempted by the enormous sums of money offered by fugitives, and it is said that many who swam out to these vessels were thrust off with boathooks and drowned. About one o’clock in the afternoon the thinning remnant of a cloud of the black vapour appeared between the arches of Blackfriars Bridge. At that the Pool became a scene of mad confusion, fighting, and collision, and for some time a multitude of boats and barges jammed in the northern arch of the Tower Bridge, and the sailors and lightermen had to fight savagely against the people who swarmed upon them from the riverfront. People were actually clambering down the piers of the bridge from above. When, an hour later, a Martian appeared beyond the Clock Tower and waded down the river, nothing but wreckage floated above Limehouse. Of the falling of the fifth cylinder I have presently to tell. The sixth star fell at Wimbledon. My brother, keeping watch beside the women in the chaise in a meadow, saw the green flash of it far beyond the hills. On Tuesday the little party, still set upon getting across the sea, made its way through the swarming country towards Colchester. The news that the Martians were now in possession of the whole of London was confirmed. They had been seen at Highgate, and even, it was said, at Neasden. But they did not come into my brother’s view until the morrow. That day the scattered multitudes began to realise the urgent need of provisions. As they grew hungry the rights of property ceased to be regarded. Farmers were out to defend their cattle-sheds, granaries, and ripening root crops with arms in their hands. A number of people now, like my brother, had their faces eastward, and there were some desperate souls even going back towards London to get food. These were chiefly people from the northern suburbs, whose knowledge of the Black Smoke came by hearsay. He heard that about half the members of the government had gathered at Birmingham, and that enormous quantities of high explosives were being prepared to be used in automatic mines across the Midland counties. He was also told that the Midland Railway Company had replaced the desertions of the first day’s panic, had resumed traffic, and was running northward trains from St. Albans to relieve the congestion of the home counties. There was also a placard in Chipping Ongar announcing that large stores of flour were available in the northern towns and that within twenty-four hours bread would be distributed among the starving people in the neighbourhood. But this intelligence did not deter him from the plan of escape he had formed, and the three pressed eastward all day, and heard no more of the bread distribution than this promise. Nor, as a matter of fact, did anyone else hear more of it. That night fell the seventh star, falling upon Primrose Hill. It fell while Miss Elphinstone was watching, for she took that duty alternately with my brother. She saw it. On Wednesday the three fugitives—they had passed the night in a field of unripe wheat—reached Chelmsford, and there a body of the inhabitants, calling itself the Committee of Public Supply, seized the pony as provisions, and would give nothing in exchange for it but the promise of a share in it the next day. Here there were rumours of Martians at Epping, and news of the destruction of Waltham Abbey Powder Mills in a vain attempt to blow up one of the invaders. People were watching for Martians here from the church towers. My brother, very luckily for him as it chanced, preferred to push on at once to the coast rather than wait for food, although all three of them were very hungry. By midday they passed through Tillingham, which, strangely enough, seemed to be quite silent and deserted, save for a few furtive plunderers hunting for food. Near Tillingham they suddenly came in sight of the sea, and the most amazing crowd of shipping of all sorts that it is possible to imagine. For after the sailors could no longer come up the Thames, they came on to the Essex coast, to Harwich and Walton and Clacton, and afterwards to Foulness and Shoebury, to bring off the people. They lay in a huge sickle-shaped curve that vanished into mist at last towards the Naze. Close inshore was a multitude of fishing smacks—English, Scotch, French, Dutch, and Swedish; steam launches from the Thames, yachts, electric boats; and beyond were ships of larger burden, a multitude of filthy colliers, trim merchantmen, cattle ships, passenger boats, petroleum tanks, ocean tramps, an old white transport even, neat white and grey liners from Southampton and Hamburg; and along the blue coast across the Blackwater my brother could make out dimly a dense swarm of boats chaffering with the people on the beach, a swarm which also extended up the Blackwater almost to Maldon. About a couple of miles out lay an ironclad, very low in the water, almost, to my brother’s perception, like a water-logged ship. This was the ram Thunder Child. It was the only warship in sight, but far away to the right over the smooth surface of the sea—for that day there was a dead calm—lay a serpent of black smoke to mark the next ironclads of the Channel Fleet, which hovered in an extended line, steam up and ready for action, across the Thames estuary during the course of the Martian conquest, vigilant and yet powerless to prevent it. At the sight of the sea, Mrs. Elphinstone, in spite of the assurances of her sister-in-law, gave way to panic. She had never been out of England before, she would rather die than trust herself friendless in a foreign country, and so forth. She seemed, poor woman, to imagine that the French and the Martians might prove very similar. She had been growing increasingly hysterical, fearful, and depressed during the two days’ journeyings. Her great idea was to return to Stanmore. Things had been always well and safe at Stanmore. They would find George at Stanmore.... It was with the greatest difficulty they could get her down to the beach, where presently my brother succeeded in attracting the attention of some men on a paddle steamer from the Thames. They sent a boat and drove a bargain for thirty-six pounds for the three. The steamer was going, these men said, to Ostend. It was about two o’clock when my brother, having paid their fares at the gangway, found himself safely aboard the steamboat with his charges. There was food aboard, albeit at exorbitant prices, and the three of them contrived to eat a meal on one of the seats forward. There were already a couple of score of passengers aboard, some of whom had expended their last money in securing a passage, but the captain lay off the Blackwater until five in the afternoon, picking up passengers until the seated decks were even dangerously crowded. He would probably have remained longer had it not been for the sound of guns that began about that hour in the south. As if in answer, the ironclad seaward fired a small gun and hoisted a string of flags. A jet of smoke sprang out of her funnels. Some of the passengers were of opinion that this firing came from Shoeburyness, until it was noticed that it was growing louder. At the same time, far away in the southeast the masts and upperworks of three ironclads rose one after the other out of the sea, beneath clouds of black smoke. But my brother’s attention speedily reverted to the distant firing in the south. He fancied he saw a column of smoke rising out of the distant grey haze. The little steamer was already flapping her way eastward of the big crescent of shipping, and the low Essex coast was growing blue and hazy, when a Martian appeared, small and faint in the remote distance, advancing along the muddy coast from the direction of Foulness. At that the captain on the bridge swore at the top of his voice with fear and anger at his own delay, and the paddles seemed infected with his terror. Every soul aboard stood at the bulwarks or on the seats of the steamer and stared at that distant shape, higher than the trees or church towers inland, and advancing with a leisurely parody of a human stride. It was the first Martian my brother had seen, and he stood, more amazed than terrified, watching this Titan advancing deliberately towards the shipping, wading farther and farther into the water as the coast fell away. Then, far away beyond the Crouch, came another, striding over some stunted trees, and then yet another, still farther off, wading deeply through a shiny mudflat that seemed to hang halfway up between sea and sky. They were all stalking seaward, as if to intercept the escape of the multitudinous vessels that were crowded between Foulness and the Naze. In spite of the throbbing exertions of the engines of the little paddle-boat, and the pouring foam that her wheels flung behind her, she receded with terrifying slowness from this ominous advance. Glancing northwestward, my brother saw the large crescent of shipping already writhing with the approaching terror; one ship passing behind another, another coming round from broadside to end on, steamships whistling and giving off volumes of steam, sails being let out, launches rushing hither and thither. He was so fascinated by this and by the creeping danger away to the left that he had no eyes for anything seaward. And then a swift movement of the steamboat (she had suddenly come round to avoid being run down) flung him headlong from the seat upon which he was standing. There was a shouting all about him, a trampling of feet, and a cheer that seemed to be answered faintly. The steamboat lurched and rolled him over upon his hands. He sprang to his feet and saw to starboard, and not a hundred yards from their heeling, pitching boat, a vast iron bulk like the blade of a plough tearing through the water, tossing it on either side in huge waves of foam that leaped towards the steamer, flinging her paddles helplessly in the air, and then sucking her deck down almost to the waterline. A douche of spray blinded my brother for a moment. When his eyes were clear again he saw the monster had passed and was rushing landward. Big iron upperworks rose out of this headlong structure, and from that twin funnels projected and spat a smoking blast shot with fire. It was the torpedo ram, Thunder Child, steaming headlong, coming to the rescue of the threatened shipping. Keeping his footing on the heaving deck by clutching the bulwarks, my brother looked past this charging leviathan at the Martians again, and he saw the three of them now close together, and standing so far out to sea that their tripod supports were almost entirely submerged. Thus sunken, and seen in remote perspective, they appeared far less formidable than the huge iron bulk in whose wake the steamer was pitching so helplessly. It would seem they were regarding this new antagonist with astonishment. To their intelligence, it may be, the giant was even such another as themselves. The Thunder Child fired no gun, but simply drove full speed towards them. It was probably her not firing that enabled her to get so near the enemy as she did. They did not know what to make of her. One shell, and they would have sent her to the bottom forthwith with the Heat-Ray. She was steaming at such a pace that in a minute she seemed halfway between the steamboat and the Martians—a diminishing black bulk against the receding horizontal expanse of the Essex coast. Suddenly the foremost Martian lowered his tube and discharged a canister of the black gas at the ironclad. It hit her larboard side and glanced off in an inky jet that rolled away to seaward, an unfolding torrent of Black Smoke, from which the ironclad drove clear. To the watchers from the steamer, low in the water and with the sun in their eyes, it seemed as though she were already among the Martians. They saw the gaunt figures separating and rising out of the water as they retreated shoreward, and one of them raised the camera-like generator of the Heat-Ray. He held it pointing obliquely downward, and a bank of steam sprang from the water at its touch. It must have driven through the iron of the ship’s side like a white-hot iron rod through paper. A flicker of flame went up through the rising steam, and then the Martian reeled and staggered. In another moment he was cut down, and a great body of water and steam shot high in the air. The guns of the Thunder Child sounded through the reek, going off one after the other, and one shot splashed the water high close by the steamer, ricocheted towards the other flying ships to the north, and smashed a smack to matchwood. But no one heeded that very much. At the sight of the Martian’s collapse the captain on the bridge yelled inarticulately, and all the crowding passengers on the steamer’s stern shouted together. And then they yelled again. For, surging out beyond the white tumult, drove something long and black, the flames streaming from its middle parts, its ventilators and funnels spouting fire. She was alive still; the steering gear, it seems, was intact and her engines working. She headed straight for a second Martian, and was within a hundred yards of him when the Heat-Ray came to bear. Then with a violent thud, a blinding flash, her decks, her funnels, leaped upward. The Martian staggered with the violence of her explosion, and in another moment the flaming wreckage, still driving forward with the impetus of its pace, had struck him and crumpled him up like a thing of cardboard. My brother shouted involuntarily. A boiling tumult of steam hid everything again. “Two!” yelled the captain. Everyone was shouting. The whole steamer from end to end rang with frantic cheering that was taken up first by one and then by all in the crowding multitude of ships and boats that was driving out to sea. The steam hung upon the water for many minutes, hiding the third Martian and the coast altogether. And all this time the boat was paddling steadily out to sea and away from the fight; and when at last the confusion cleared, the drifting bank of black vapour intervened, and nothing of the Thunder Child could be made out, nor could the third Martian be seen. But the ironclads to seaward were now quite close and standing in towards shore past the steamboat. The little vessel continued to beat its way seaward, and the ironclads receded slowly towards the coast, which was hidden still by a marbled bank of vapour, part steam, part black gas, eddying and combining in the strangest way. The fleet of refugees was scattering to the northeast; several smacks were sailing between the ironclads and the steamboat. After a time, and before they reached the sinking cloud bank, the warships turned northward, and then abruptly went about and passed into the thickening haze of evening southward. The coast grew faint, and at last indistinguishable amid the low banks of clouds that were gathering about the sinking sun. Then suddenly out of the golden haze of the sunset came the vibration of guns, and a form of black shadows moving. Everyone struggled to the rail of the steamer and peered into the blinding furnace of the west, but nothing was to be distinguished clearly. A mass of smoke rose slanting and barred the face of the sun. The steamboat throbbed on its way through an interminable suspense. The sun sank into grey clouds, the sky flushed and darkened, the evening star trembled into sight. It was deep twilight when the captain cried out and pointed. My brother strained his eyes. Something rushed up into the sky out of the greyness—rushed slantingly upward and very swiftly into the luminous clearness above the clouds in the western sky; something flat and broad, and very large, that swept round in a vast curve, grew smaller, sank slowly, and vanished again into the grey mystery of the night. And as it flew it rained down darkness upon the land. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. H. G. Wells (1992). The War of the Worlds. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022, from https://www.gutenberg.org/files/36/36-h/36-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

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