Before I begin I must first state that I am an old man—how old, I don't know. Possibly a hundred years, maybe more. I have never aged as other men do, nor can I recall a single moment of childhood. As far as I can recall, I have always been a man—a man of about thirty years. Even now, I appear as I did over forty years ago. Yet, despite my unchanging form, I know I will not live forever. Some day I shall die a real death from which there is no return.
I do not know why I should fear death, I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you who have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I believe, that I am so convinced of my mortality
I cannot fathom why I should fear death, I, who have experienced death's cold embrace twice and returned. And still, the shadow of it haunts me, as it does you who has never tasted its silence. Perhaps it is this very terror—this primal, unshakable dread—that keeps me so painfully aware of my own mortality.
Perhaps it is this conviction—that drives me to pen this account. I do not write to seek fame or redemption, but simply to leave behind a record of the extraordinary journey that was my existence.
I cannot fully explain the phenomena that defined my life; I can only record, as faithfully as memory allows, the experiences of an ordinary soldier of fortune. This is the chronicle of the strange and improbable events that transpired during the ten years my lifeless body lay undisturbed in an Arizona cave—a time when I lived in a realm far beyond the comprehension of Earth-bound minds.
This tale has never passed my lips, and no mortal shall read these words until I have crossed, for the final time, the veil of eternity. I understand well the limitations of human understanding; people often dismiss what they cannot fathom. I refuse to be derided by skeptics and scorned as a liar when I am simply recounting truths that, one day, science will vindicate.
Perhaps the revelations I gained on Mars—and the knowledge I impart here—will serve to hasten humanity's understanding of the enigmatic world that we call our sister planet. To you, Mars remains a realm shrouded in mystery, but to me, its secrets are no longer hidden.
My name is John Carter, though to many, I am better remembered as Captain Jack Carter of Virginia. At the close of the Civil War, I found myself adrift—armed with a captain's commission in a cavalry force that no longer existed and a small fortune in Confederate dollars as worthless as ashes. The state I had pledged my loyalty to had crumbled, its cause lost to the relentless march of history. I was left masterless, penniless, and without a trade, for war had been my only livelihood. Determined to claw my way out of ruin, I set my sights on the uncharted Southwest. There, I resolved to rebuild my fortune by prospecting for gold among the desolate landscapes where hope seemed as rare as rain.
For nearly a year, I roamed the wilderness in the company of another ex-Confederate officer, Captain James K. Powell of Richmond. Powell, a man of sharp wit and unyielding determination, had trained as a mining engineer before the war—skills that proved invaluable in our quest. Together, we endured the biting cold of winter nights, the searing heat of desert days, and the ever-present gnaw of hunger as we scoured the land for fortune.
Our persistence bore fruit in the winter of 1865. Against all odds, we stumbled upon a gold-bearing quartz vein more spectacular than anything we had dared to imagine. The ore glittered like fire under the harsh light of day, and even Powell, usually reserved, could not contain his excitement. His expert calculations confirmed what our eyes had already seen: the vein held a fortune—more than a million dollars' worth of gold, waiting to be claimed.
But we were ill-prepared for the scale of our discovery. Our tools were crude, scavenged from what little we could afford, and our labor was limited to our own calloused hands. It became clear that for the mine to yield its treasures, one of us would need to return to civilization to secure proper machinery and a team of workers.
Since Powell was well-acquainted with the terrain and skilled in the mechanical aspects of mining, we decided he was the best choice to undertake the journey. My role would be to stay behind and guard our claim, on the off chance wandering prospector might try to jump it.
On the crisp morning of March 3, 1866, we prepared for his departure. We loaded his provisions onto two of our sturdy burros. Powell, ever the practical man, checked the straps and adjusted the loads before mounting his horse. With a firm handshake and a parting smile, he bid me farewell and began his descent down the rugged mountainside toward the sprawling valley below, the first leg of his journey.
The morning unfolded in typical Arizona fashion—clear, bright, and brimming with a kind of raw beauty. From my vantage point, I could see Powell's small caravan picking its way carefully along the winding trails down the mountain. The glint of sunlight off his gear made it easy to follow their progress. Every so often, they would emerge on a ridge or plateau, their figures etched against the endless blue sky.
By midday, they were little more than specks in the distance. My last glimpse of Powell came around three in the afternoon. He was just entering the cool shadows cast by the range on the far side of the valley, his silhouette swallowed gradually by the wilderness.
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the mountains, the claim, and the creeping solitude of the Arizona desert.
About half an hour later, I glanced idly across the valley. To my surprise, I spotted three small dots in roughly the same place I had last seen my friend Powell and his two pack animals. At first, I dismissed the sight as insignificant—perhaps stray antelope or a group of wild horses. But as the minutes passed, an uneasy feeling began to creep over me.
I wasn't one to needlessly worry, yet no matter how much I tried to convince myself that all was well, the nagging doubt refused to fade. Those dots didn't move like animals, and something about their persistence along Powell's trail made my pulse quicken.
Since entering this territory, we hadn't encountered a single hostile Indian. Over time, we'd grown lax, even mocking the dire warnings we'd heard about the ruthless bands of marauding Apaches said to haunt these trails. Stories of ambushes, torture, and relentless bloodshed of every white party they came across seemed exaggerated—a distant danger meant for less prepared men.
Powell, I reminded myself, was no fool. He was well-armed, a seasoned Indian fighter, and not easily caught off guard. But I had spent years among the Sioux in the North, and I knew firsthand the cunning and patience of native warriors. Against a determined band of Apaches, even a man of Powell's skill didn't have a chance survive.
As time dragged on, my unease turned to dread. I could no longer sit idle. Slinging my carbine over my shoulder, I strapped two belts of cartridges around my waist, holstered my twin Colt revolvers, and prepared my saddle horse. The trail Powell had taken that morning now beckoned with an urgency I couldn't ignore.
Gripping the reins tightly, I urged my horse forward, each hoofbeat pounding in rhythm with the ominous thoughts swirling in my mind. If Powell was in trouble, I had to reach him before it was too late.
As soon as I reached more level ground, I urged my horse into a brisk canter. The rhythm of its hooves echoed in the stillness as I pushed forward, covering ground swiftly wherever the path allowed. By dusk, I came across the point where other tracks merged with Powell's. These were made by three unshod ponies, their imprints deep and erratic—a clear sign they had been galloping hard.
This discovery spurred me onward, but soon the growing darkness forced me to halt. I could go no further until the moon rose to light my path. As I waited, a flood of doubts crept in, uninvited. Had I imagined the danger? Perhaps my mind had conjured up threats no more real than the shadows around me, like the nervous fancies of a jumpy housewife.
Still, my resolve held firm. If I found Powell unharmed, perhaps he would laugh at my expense, but that mattered little to me. I've never been one to shy away from duty, no matter how it's perceived. It's a principle I've clung to all my life, one that's brought me more than a few rewards. The honors bestowed upon me by three republics, the decorations and friendship of an old and powerful emperor, and even the respect of several lesser kings—all these were earned not through luck but by the unswerving loyalty of a sword that has known the weight of blood too many times.
At about nine o'clock, the moon cast its silver light over the rugged terrain, bright enough for me to resume my journey. The trail lay clear before me, and I advanced swiftly, alternating between a brisk walk and an urgent trot. By midnight, I reached the water hole where Powell had intended to make camp.
To my surprise, the place was deserted. Not a single trace suggested recent habitation—no embers of a dying fire and no scattered gear.
What I did find, however, sent a chill down my spine. The tracks of the riders pursuing Powell—horsemen, I was now certain—showed no sign of pause except to water their mounts. They pressed onward, relentless, maintaining a pace equal to his.
I was certain they were Apaches. And if they intended to capture Powell alive, it could only be for their cruel delight in prolonged torture. The possibility turned my urgency into desperation. I spurred my horse forward, heedless of the risks posed by the treacherous mountain trail. Every stumble and jolt seemed a small price to pay if I could reach the red bastards before they caught up to him.
My grim speculations were abruptly shattered by the faint, echoing crack of two gunshots ahead. The sound sliced through the night air, distant but unmistakable. My heart lurched. Powell was in trouble—of that I was certain.
I leaned low over my horse's neck and drove him onward, faster than ever, urging him to his utmost speed. The trail narrowed and twisted perilously, but there was no room for caution. Powell needed me now, and every second mattered.
I had forged ahead for perhaps a mile or more without hearing further sounds, when the trail suddenly debouched onto a small, open plateau near the summit of the pass. I had passed through a narrow, overhanging gorge just before entering suddenly upon this table land, and the sight which met my eyes filled me with consternation and dismay.
I had forged ahead for what must have been a mile or more, the silence around me broken only by the whisper of the wind through the crags. The narrow, overhanging gorge I passed through seemed to press down with a palpable weight, as if the mountain itself were watching. Then, quite abruptly, the trail opened onto a small plateau, its surface eerily level near the summit of the pass.
The sight before me stopped me cold.
The plateau was alive with movement, dotted with a sea of Indian tepees that gleamed white against the rugged backdrop of the peaks. In the camp's center, a crowd of warriors—hundreds of them, perhaps half a thousand—had gathered, their attention fixed on something I could not yet see. The air thrummed with their murmurs and movement, though none seemed to notice my presence on the edge of the clearing.
Instinct screamed at me to retreat, to melt back into the shadows of the gorge before their sharp eyes turned my way. I could have done so easily, slipping away unseen, safe from whatever lay ahead. And yet, I stood rooted to the spot, captivated and unnerved in equal measure.
It wasn't bravery that kept me there; that much I knew even then. The thought of retreating, of choosing the safety of the gorge, simply didn't occur to me until long after. On reflection, this realization stripped any notion of heroism from my actions that day. Whatever claim I might have had to courage was as ephemeral as the wind that tugged at my cloak.
I have never considered myself a hero. In truth, when faced with danger, I act not from conscious bravery but from an instinct so deep-rooted that it bypasses deliberation entirely. In all the countless moments when my actions have brought me to the edge of death, I cannot recall a single time where I paused to weigh my options. Only later—hours or even days after the fact—do alternate courses of action present themselves to my mind. It seems my nature is such that duty compels me forward without the burden of hesitation or fear. And though some might call that reckless, I have never regretted that cowardice is not an option for me.
This time was no different. As the scene unfolded before me, I was certain of one thing: Powell was the focus of the warriors' wrath. Whether I thought or acted first, I cannot say. In the blink of an eye, my revolvers were in my hands, and I was charging straight at the mass of warriors. Shots rang out in rapid succession, and I let loose a war cry that echoed through the canyon like the roar of an army.
Alone against such overwhelming odds, it was madness. But madness has its merits. The element of surprise worked in my favor. Convinced by the ferocity of my attack that a regiment of soldiers was descending upon them, the red men scattered in every direction, scrambling for their weapons in a desperate bid to mount a defense. In that fleeting moment of chaos, the tide of battle shifted—if only by sheer audacity.
The scene before me, revealed in cruel clarity under the stark Arizona moon, struck me with equal measures of dread and fury. There, sprawled lifeless on the rocky ground, lay Powell, his body a grim pincushion of Apache arrows. The unmistakable stillness of death clung to him, but even so, I could not bear the thought of his corpse falling prey to the desecration of the braves. If I could not save his life, I would at least save his dignity.
Riding close to him I reached down from the saddle, and grasping his cartridge belt drew him up across the withers of my mount. A backward glance convinced me that to return by the way I had come would be more hazardous than to continue across the plateau, so, putting spurs to my poor beast, I made a dash for the opening to the pass which I could distinguish on the far side of the table land.
Spurring my weary horse forward, I leaned low from the saddle, my hand gripping Powell's cartridge belt with desperate resolve. With a strained heave, I pulled his lifeless form across the withers of my mount, his weight a sobering reminder of what I had lost.
The Indians had discovered I was alone, and soon a storm of shouts, arrows, and rifle balls followed me through the night. Fortunately, moonlight is an unreliable ally for precise aim. Their agitation at my sudden and unexpected appearance, combined with my speed as a moving target, worked in my favor. The deadly projectiles whizzed harmlessly past as I raced into the concealing shadows of the surrounding peaks before they could organize a proper pursuit.
I let my horse guide the way, trusting his instincts more than my own limited knowledge of the terrain. He veered into a narrow defile, one that climbed steadily toward the summit of the range instead of leading to the pass I had hoped would deliver me to the valley and safety. At first, I cursed my poor luck, but in hindsight, it was this very deviation that saved my life and set me on a path to the extraordinary events that defined the next ten years of my life.
My first inkling that I was on the wrong trail came when the shouts of the pursuing savages, once close and fierce, began to fade into the distance. They grew fainter and fainter, echoing far off to my left.
In that moment, I understood—my assailants had passed to the left of a jagged rock formation at the edge of the plateau. I, however, along with Powell's lifeless body, had been led by my horse, to the right of it.
I pulled up sharply, guiding my steed onto a small, level promontory that jutted out over the trail below. From there, I saw the dark figures of the savages disappearing around the point of a neighboring peak, their voices now lost to the wind.
I knew the Indians would soon realize their mistake. They would retrace their steps when they found no sign of me ahead, and the hunt would inevitably resume in the direction they'd missed. It was only a matter of time before they recovered my tracks and turned back.
I rode on, the weight of Powell's body a constant reminder of my precarious situation. It wasn't long before I came upon what appeared to be a promising path—wide, level, and winding around the face of a steep cliff. The trail stretched upward, heading roughly in the direction I wanted to go. On my right, the cliff soared several hundred feet into the sky, jagged and uncompromising. On my left, the land dropped abruptly into a deep, rocky ravine, the jagged stones below glistening ominously in the light.
I had been following the trail for what felt like miles, when a sharp turn to the right brought me face-to-face with the mouth of a large cave. The opening was narrow, just four feet high and about three to four feet wide. There, at the threshold of the cave, the trail abruptly ended.
It was morning now, though the transition from night to day was almost eerily instant, as it always was in Arizona. The light had broken with no herald, flooding the landscape suddenly, as if the sun had just decided to suddenly make its appearance.
Dismounting, I gently laid Powell on the ground. The desert air was still and hot, carrying the heavy scent of sagebrush. I knelt beside him, heart heavy with dread, but even the most careful examination couldn't disguise the truth. He was gone. I tried, futilely, to coax life back into him—water from my canteen dripped between his lips, my hands pressed to his face in a futile attempt to revive him. I rubbed his hands, over and over, my efforts relentless, though I knew the truth deep down.
I had known Powell well. He was the kind of man who earned your loyalty with every word, with every gesture. A true southern gentleman, polished in manners but as tough as any man I'd ever met. And a friend—more of a brother, really. To lose him in such a harsh, unforgiving place was a blow that hit harder than I could bear.
For an hour, I labored, knowing all the while that my efforts were nothing more than a final, foolish act of defiance against the inevitable. With a heavy heart, I finally stopped. There would be no miracle. No second chance. Only silence, the kind that follows when a good man is gone.
Leaving Powell's lifeless body where it lay on the ledge, I crept into the cave, my boots making little sound against the stone floor. The cavern opened up before me, vast and imposing—a great chamber perhaps a hundred feet in diameter and thirty or forty feet high. Its smooth, polished floor bore the marks of centuries of use, and scattered remnants of ancient habitation hinted at lives long since faded. Strange carvings adorned the walls, their meaning lost to time, but their presence undeniable.
At the back of the cave, shadows pooled so thick and impenetrable that I couldn't tell whether they concealed other chambers or merely the abyss itself.
I had barely begun to take in the enormity of the place when a sudden drowsiness swept over me. It was subtle at first—an almost pleasant lethargy that I attributed to the brutal ride, the tension of the chase, and the brutality of the fight. The adrenaline from the battle still buzzed faintly in my veins, but now it was giving way to an almost dreamlike drowsiness. I assured myself that I was safe for the moment; I could defend the trail to the cave with ease, and any pursuit would be sluggish at best. The cave, though cold and dark, seemed like a sanctuary.
But as the minutes ticked by, the pull of sleep grew harder to resist, and my limbs began to feel as though they were made of lead. It would have been so easy to simply lie down on the cool stone and give in, to close my eyes just for a moment. But I knew better. A moment's weakness, a careless nap, would be the end of me. My red enemies were never far, and if they came upon me in this state, there would be no escape.
I steeled myself, willing my legs to move, but my body betrayed me. With a sudden dizziness, I reeled and slammed into the wall. My vision blurred, and before I could regain my balance, my legs buckled beneath me. I collapsed onto the floor, my head spinning, the darkness closing in around me, as though the very cave itself was lulling me into oblivion.