In the silence of the waves

Brook Chine Cottage,

BrookGreen,

Isle of Wight,

England,

7^th September 1793

My dearest sister Mathilde,

I am trusting to God that this missive reaches you without being intercepted by the authorities, as I have no wish to place you and Antoine in any more danger than you already are from having a brother on the Committee’s proscribed list. As you will note from the address, I have at last reached England and some safety, albeit I still have some distance to go to reach Uncle Michel in Oxford.

After three months of weary, fraught travel, oft times in hiding, I at last, during the dark of the moon, embarked from an empty plage on the Cherbourg peninsular. The crossing of La Manche was not uneventful. A series of squalls from out of the south east late that night, drove us before them and for most of the next day as well.

We struggled to return to our course and avoid English patrol boats and ended up here on the west coast of Ile de Blanc, not as planned off Chichester. The captain with whom I had arranged passage refused to essay the mainland during daylight hours and put me ashore here just after dusk. We had come ashore in the longboat, with just enough tide to clear the Brook Ledge and found seven men and three ponies waiting. I was not alone in leaving the craft at that time, three barrels of Calvados brandy and two of Domingue rum as well as four bales of tabac went ashore.

The goods were quickly unshipped and taken up by those waiting, who loaded them on the ponies and disappeared into the darkness. The Captain introduced the remaining man to me as ‘Monsieur Wight’ who would provide me with comfortable accommodation until such time as my onward passage could be arranged at the next dark of the moon.

With little choice but to acquiesce or -God forbid- return to France, I followed the small light of the bullseye lantern ‘Mr Wight’ bore up the steep winding path through the chine that cleft the cliffs. At the top of the chine I was led towards the east for some two hundred yards along a path that on occasion came close to the cliff’s edge. At those times the soft susurration of the waves breaking on the sands below came to me but I forbore from going close enough to look over, not that would I have seen much in the stygian darkness.

We halted at an opening in a waist high wall, where the remains of a wooden gate hung drunkenly on broken hinges. My guide stepped through and I perforce followed. A darker area of night loomed before us and was I realised a cottage of some size. Mr Wight felt around above the lintel of the door, found a key and with it unlocked the heavy iron bound door and entered into the cottage gesturing for me to follow. A quick tour of the building and lighting of lamps and I was left alone. Thus sister dear I find myself safe if not quite settled as I had hoped for.

Your loving brother

Edmund

Brook Chine Cottage,

BrookGreen,

Isle of Wight,

England,

13^th September 1793

My dearest Mathilde,

I find myself in strange circumstances. Whilst the cottage is warm and comfortable enough and I am brought food from the village of Brook, none will speak with me. I know my English is not by any means fluent, but I had thought it sufficient to at least communicate on a basic level. It seems however, that I was wrong.

That aside, I am well provided for, fresh milk is left each morning along with a hand of hens eggs and late on the first afternoon one of the good wives of the village brought a large pot of wholesome stew -mutton with carrots and onions, thickened with some kind of grain- sufficient for a number of days, to simmer on the range. A loaf of coarse dark bread along with a small wheel of hard cheese and a piece of home cured bacon. A small hempen sack contained a mix of herbs and leaves for tissanes. Mr Wight had accompanied her and he brought a bottle of rum along with a pin of small beer and told me that the water from the pump was of good quality, while I would find at the back of the house, wood and logs for the range and the fireplaces.

So in those respects I am well catered for. As a bonus, I found in one of the rear rooms downstairs a small but welcome, gentleman’s library with books in English, French, Latin and Greek as well as ink and paper and so after writing my first missive to you, I have been able to pass the time reading or when the weather was clement with walks along the cliff tops, although I was told not to visit the village and to avoid contact with others. That is not difficult in this somewhat remote part of the island and I have not seen another soul in my perambulations.

Thus I have been here for six full days as of the date of this my second letter. The first having been taken by the woman who bought the milk on the second day. She unbent enough to say she would pass it to Mr Wight for forwarding to France. I did not enquire how this might be readily achieved, but assume that craft move both ways more frequently than the authorities might suppose or wish.

Sister dear, it is not of these matters that I wish to write, they are mundane, simple, everyday matters. For the first three days, I found the silence within this cottage almost soothing after the last few months of fear. I can only pray that you do not have occasion to know such terror yourself.

I digress. I indeed found the quietude calming, relaxing and when at the end of the day I sat in front of the fire with a bowl of stew and a book, the silence broken only by the quiet crackling of the fire I found myself enjoying the solitude. At least for those first days.

On the fourth day a fierce storm struck the island, racing up from the west. It shrouded the cliffs and the cottage with rain that blew horizontally in the winds. From the parlour windows of the cottage I could see a stretch of the foreshore to the west and the curling, crashing waves that were pounding upon the foot of the cliffs there.

Yet when I pondered upon it, I realised that while I could feel a rumble and shudder as the waves struck the cliffs on which the cottage stood, and hear their thunderous tumult when outside, I could not when within its stout walls, nor for that matter could I hear the wind or the rain striking the fabric of the cottage. Against the thick bulwarks of the walls that might be expected, yet against the bottle glass panes of the windows or the sturdy oak doors whose timbers had been salvaged from past wrecks, the wind and rain seemed to have no effect. Likewise the chimneys were silent, no hooting howls of the wind blowing mournfully across the top of the pots echoed down their length and that did puzzle me. I tried to envisage what clever series of baffles might stop sound but allow the escape of smoke without good answer. It was then I came to realise, that all sounds within the cottage seemed muted, less crisp and sharp to the ear as if muffled in thick cloth drapes.

With such inclement weather no further food was brought from the village that day. Not that I held anyone at fault for this, it was a truly foul day and likewise dangerous to essay that cliff top path in such conditions, where a misstep or gust might carry one over the edge to land on the shore some three hundred feet below. I had eggs which I might cook in the fat from the piece of slightly green bacon, bread, cheese, some little milk as well as the rum, so I would not starve. After the trials and tribulations of a fugitive in Revolutionary France, this period of time with ample food and drink along with warmth and shelter was a welcome interlude.

On the fifth day the storm abated somewhat in the early morning then returned with renewed vigour. The seas, wind and rain were hurling themselves at the coast as if determined to batter the land into submission and I was soon drenched when retrieving wood for the range and the fireplace in the front parlour where through the window, black and dark grey clouds boiled and churned over a heaving sea illuminated by great explosions of lightning.

Watching this display, I again dined on eggs and bacon, and after sipped on a pewter mug of rum and water, warmed by a loggerhead heated in the fire. I came to a realisation that despite the frequent coruscations of lightning that lit the sky and seas, I could hear no thunder and yet the storm seemed close at hand, close enough in certainty that I would hear such a cacophony as the lightning suggested.

It was then I began to feel the first sentiments of unease, of a dislocation from the world beyond the walls of the cottage. I seemed encased in a bubble of silence unlike any I had ever experienced. I spent the day alternating between reading and watching the ongoing fury of the storm. At one point in the late afternoon there was a curious trembling sensation through the very floor of the cottage and I went quickly to the window to stare into the gloom. In a incandescent explosion of lightning to the west, I saw a huge area of cliffs further down the coast sliding into the sea and a heaped mixture of sandstone and limestone boulders rose from the rampant waves.

I confess dear Mathilde to being somewhat unsettled by this event. The cliffs upon which the cottage perches are of the same composition as those now collapsed onto the water covered strand and are of a height with them. The manner with which the rain and waves had undermined or saturated the ground to cause this fall could just as easily be happening beneath my feet even now.

I contemplated making my way to the village and seeking succour there but the proposition of navigating that path in this storm held me back rather than any admonition to venture there. It was as well I did for shortly the storm seemed to gain in vigour and the waves crashing on the shoreline plumed white and high into the air mixing with the rain until it could not be told which was which. I heated rum and water, and with a book and a lantern repaired to bed where despite the warmth of the rum and blankets I spent a restless night.

I know not what disturbed my repose, for there were no sounds from the fury outside to be heard, nor did the building itself make the usual creaks and moans one might expect. Yet something kept me from sleep and when I did manage to drift off sleep was in fits and starts. I arose after some time had passed to find the storm still raging beyond the windows with scarcely a notable difference between morning and night. The sky was a bruised turmoil of black and purple clouds with only a faint lighter hue to the east to announce a new day.

When I descended the stairs they did not creak or groan under my feet, yet I could feel them flexing. In the parlour, the fire had gone out but I found the range still had a few embers which I coaxed into life. Once flames were heating the kettle above them, I lit the fire in the parlour. I broke my fast on bread, cheese, small beer and a tissane of the dried leaves and herbs. The flavour was poor but the warmth helped dispel the chill imparted by the restless night.

As I sat brooding in the chair in front of the fire, I felt for the first time a thrum, a threnody in the flags beneath my feet. The cottage, the very soil beneath it, was vibrating, like a struck tuning fork and I felt it through the soles of my feet, yet there was no accompanying sound. Throughout the storm lashed day that followed, the vibrations ebbed and flowed in intensity and I feared that this was a prelude, a warning that the cliffs beneath me were preparing for a rapid descent into the sea that would destroy both the cottage and myself.

In the late afternoon as I sat with a watered rum warmed by a loggerhead from the grate the storm at last began to break. A shaft of light in the west briefly danced on the high cliff tops and there was a general lessening of the darkness in that direction. I did not expect anyone from the village until the morning for the wind and the rain was still fierce enough to make the path treacherous. I took stock of what provisions were left to me and ate a makeshift supper of scrambled eggs with parings of bacon for flavour.

I was fortunate that the bottle of rum left by Wight was large and contained full strength spirit as yet uncut by water. I poured a generous tot into the pewter mug and added a similar amount of water, withdrew the loggerhead from the fire and plunged it into the liquid for a time. The aroma of rum rose on the steam coming from the mug as the contents seethed and bubbled. Returning the loggerhead to the coals I sipped on the drink and felt its heat warm my throat and stomach. I sat with the fire warming my exterior, the rum my interior, watching the storm move eastwards, its force abating as night fell, the seas calming.

I fully expected a quelling of the vibrations as the power of the waves lessened but found if anything they were growing in strength. Become more rhythmical, waxing and waning in a measured manner. As stars began to appear in the clearing skies to the west, I replenished and heated my mug, retired to bed and read until I felt drowsy.

I had hoped and wished for a night of repose and rest but such was not to be. Once again my sleep was disturbed and I spent the night tossing and turning, half awake most of the night yet without reason I could point to.

When finally I gave up any attempt to sleep, I went downstairs, made up the fire and waited for dawn and an arrival from the village. The wind was blustery, pushing horizontal bushes and shrub trees but the rain had departed and the sky cleared. The only thing to disturb me were the vibrations which were stronger and more resonant than before yet there was no sound. I grew concerned that the vibrations were become strong enough to cause damage to the cottage, if not its collapse. As I write, it occurs to me that it is Friday and if I were superstitious I would be alarmed, by the convergence of day and date. It is fortunate that…

Mon Dieu!

I must pause in my narrative for a moment dear sister. For the first time since I stepped within this cottage has come a sound that is not muted or muffled. A loud sharp report, reminiscent of the breaking of a wooden beam or slabs cracking under immense pressure. A sound of such intensity to make me consider that the very gates of hell were opening echoed throughout the house but I would venture it came from the vicinity of the kitchen. I must go and investigate before I continue for I fear a collapse of the cliffs and cottage and this its first presentiment…

The Grange

BrookGreen,

Isle of Wight,

England,

20^th September 1793

Madam,

The enclosed missive and purse was found in Brook Chine Cottage when I was summoned there by a good wife of Brook village who had gone to take your brother food. As he describes, a storm of the utmost ferocity has struck our island resulting in much loss of life both at sea and ashore and keeping all indoors for a number of days. When I arrived at the cottage I found all doors locked and windows shuttered, save those of the parlour where the embers of a fire still retained some warmth. It proved necessary to break into the cottage via one of the unshuttered windows, and once the door was unlocked we essayed a search of the rooms for your brother but found nothing amiss nor evidence of him save for the enclosed, some used dishes, and a mug containing the dregs of a drink.

A search of the surroundings resulted in no sign of your brother which I confess was not unexpected with the doors of the cottage locked and the keys on the inside. We have been unable to fathom how he left the cottage without unlocking a door or using a window nor left any trace of doing so without use of a key.

I regret Madam, that whilst we will continue a watch for your brother, I fear that some unknown and mysterious fate has befallen him that is presently beyond our ken.

I remain your obedient servant,

Jonathon Searcroft Esq.