The Serpent's Eye

by Brand, Thomas H.

  The storm lasted the entire day, but by yesterday evening the winds finally began to die down. While the sea is still choppy and uneven and the ship rolls alarmingly, compared to the violence we have already endured all seems comparatively serene. I have found a sheltered spot here on deck to use this journal as an escape from the sharp scent of fear and bile that permeates the living spaces below. What I record does not matter overmuch, I simply seek a way to distract my mind.

  Friday, 17th May 1816

  The weather continues calm. The storm seems to have passed, and we sail cleanly through the South Atlantic. The wind remains strong and part of me fears it is building again, but it does mean we are once again making good speed. It is the strange balance mankind has with nature; harnessing it for our needs and yet helpless to its greater power.

  Mr. Doungan seems to be over the worst of his discomfort and slowly growing his sea legs. He has begun venturing from his bed, and we have at last had the opportunity to make a prolonged conversation. Having a cabin-mate with whom I can converse offers a great relief for me. He has even indicated that he would be interested in playing cards to pass our evenings. I have found myself longing for the jovial company of Arthur Cartwright. While Doungan seems pleasant enough, he is a naturally quiet man and lacks the same boisterous familiarity that I grew so fond of in Arthur.

  Monday, 20th May 1816

  The weather continues much the same, and the monotony of my days begin to grow. I am also feeling more unsure of myself. The ship cuts cleanly through the waves, but I seem to sense its every movement. I cannot recall feeling so unsettled on my inward journey. My stomach has not felt easy since the storm. While I am able to eat and hold my food, I cannot seem to settle the bile that has risen in my belly.

  Possibly due to this increased sensitivity, I have also found a heightening of my seasickness when I read or write, a malady I have not suffered before. I can manage a few minutes, but then my stomach churns and I am forced to put it aside. I had hoped that I might distract myself further with this journal, but it seems my constitution would dictate otherwise.

  Monday, 16th September 1816

  It has been some months since I last opened this journal. I had not originally intended for it to become a personal diary, and on my homeward voyage this intention was joined by the acute sickness I developed whenever I attempted to read or write aboard ship. And, of course, since my arrival back on England's shores my health has prescripted me from any such work.

  But now, as my convalescence comes to an end, I find myself seeking distraction. My aunt will not even hear of my returning to London, yet now my body is mostly recovered I crave something to occupy my thoughts. To that end I have sought this journal out once more. Part of the recovery of any great trauma, I firmly believe, is examining that which you have endured. Sitting here now in the pleasant Hampshire sunshine with the comforting smells of the farm filling the air around me, I shall recount my ordeal in the hope that it shall no longer weigh upon my thoughts.

  Upon leaving Buenos Aires and weathering that first storm, we continued on in fair condition for the majority of the voyage. While the weather was never as fine or as even as it was those first few days, we did not encounter any truly rough weather until the very end. I found myself handling the trip far less well than I had my outward journey. Perhaps it was some lingering effect of my fever, some weakening of my constitution, but now it took far less motion to unsettle my ear and stomach. I soon found I could not even think of reading whilst we were in motion, and even standing for too long would set my legs shaking.

  While I did not think my illness anything remarkable, it must have shown more on my face than I believed. I often felt the gaze of both sailor and passenger as I passed through the ship's walkways. The looks did not linger, and I did not catch them staring openly, but I felt their regard and I took it as indication that I had to do what I must to protect my wellbeing. Despite my unsettled stomach I ate all I could, and rested whenever I felt weak. I did not wish to exert myself and overwork my weakened constitution.

  It did not help that the motions of the ship at night soon led me to suffer uncomfortable dreams. I would wake sweating, with vague memories of images and visions that fled from my conscious mind. They did not tax me overmuch, but they did leave me each morning with a lingering sense of unease.

  From this point in my narrative I must admit to a vagueness of memory. While I am certain I was no more than casually unwell throughout the whole of the journey, I can no longer recall much of it. Since that final storm, the monotonous days that led up to it have blended together in my mind. I can recall snippets of our stops on the African coast, hazy images of unfamiliar ports and exotic peoples, but little else.

  Strangely enough, my clearest memories of this time are my dreams. Wavering and elusive as they were, they are yet my only certain memories; nightmares where our ship fell apart around me, or where I was trapped within some cell or box. I cannot recall precise details of individual nights, just the recurring themes and fears that returned night after night. As much as it defies explanation, their existence and frequency is more certain to me than any other aspect of my voyage.

  The cause of this amnesia struck us on the final leg of our journey. It is an event I find it hard to recount, even now.

  Having made our way from Africa and around the Spanish coast without incident, we at last left the Atlantic and were on the cusp of the English Channel. I can recall feeling excitement, that after so long I was finally to see my homeland again.

  That night the April Mercy was struck by the fiercest storm I believe any man could possibly imagine. The day had been calm, but in a matter of minutes our vessel was surrounded by a furious vortex of thick dark clouds that blew in and filled the previously empty sky. If I had not been on deck at the time and witnessed it with my own eyes I would not have believed any climate could alter so quickly. It was as if nature itself had decided to focus all its anger and hurl its full might against us. We passengers fled below decks while the brave crew desperately battled to defend their ship against the sudden tempest.

  The storm racked and tossed the ship back and forth across the Channel with wild abandon, tearing sails and flinging shattering timbers into the churning ocean. Several crewmen were washed overboard. For a week at least we were thrown back and forth across the Channel. My sickness returned with full force, and even had I wished to I could not have summoned the strength to leave my bunk. I could not eat. Each night I dreamt of the ship falling apart around me, only to wake to find myself still huddled in my blankets mumbling fevered prayers. Often I would feel Doungan's eyes on me as I lay there moaning, but had no strength to turn to him. I can half recall overheard conversations outside our door, the crew and officers expressing their fears for our survival, but I cannot be sure if they were real or just some fragment of my nightmares.

  When finally the winds died down enough for the ship to limp into Portsmouth harbour, the April Mercy was as close to a wreck as could still be afloat. It looked as if it had undergone a battle rather than a simple voyage. The wind still blew, even here in the harbour, and tattered sail and lengths of rope flapped in the air, snapping back against wet canvas and wood. More than one crewman sat with blooded bandages around useless limbs, while those who had escaped injury guided us in.

  I wish I could have felt more for those brave souls who had battled to bring us home, but at this point I was no more than a pitiable wreck of a man. The voyage from Buenos Aires had stripped me of what strength I had regained after my illness, and that final great storm had almost been too much to endure. I was now nothing but a thing of bone and rag, my memories in tatters. I cannot recall how long I had gone without a meal. The idea of my eating had been unthinkable for the duration of the storm. Gaunt and loose, I required carrying from my cabin. Once ashore I found I could not even stand, my legs tipping me aside whenever I made the attempt. I recall feeling the eyes of onlookers regarding us as we arrived. What sorry wr
etches we must have appeared.

  I was taken to a nearby doctor, who did what he could for the worst of the sickness and allowed me to rest. Here is my first clear memory; lying in the cold, bare room as my carer built up the fire and forced restoratives down my throat. Knowing that in my current state the next leg of my journey home to London was beyond me, I was able to give the address of an aunt living near the town of Romsey, not too far from Portsmouth. Thanking God for such serendipity, I dictated a letter and paid for it to be delivered. Doing so seemed to sap what little strength I had left to me, for having done so I fell at once back into oblivion.

  I sank into a delirium, and have no notion of what time passed before my cousin David arrived with his family's horse and trap. All I can recall are more dreams and illusions floating before my eyes; the half wrought nightmares that had followed me from abroad. I am told I lapsed once again into the fever. Clearly it had remained in my blood all this time, to burst out when my strength reached its lowest ebb. It had me firm in its grasp when David arrived, and I remember nothing of the trip to the farm or of anything before waking in my aunt's guest room with the English summer sun streaming through the window onto my face. I felt weaker than I had ever done in my life, even more so than when I had first contracted this illness, but for the first time in weeks I felt safe.

  For the whole of the last fortnight I have rested under the expert care of my dear aunt. The eldest sister of my mother, she and her husband own this good sized farm here in Hampshire. I spent a number of summers visiting this place during my childhood, and the familiarity of those memories does my spirit good. My cousins, all my own age, and their families make an extended workforce, working the land and caring for the dairy cows that make their trade. Since my arrival they have, to a man, tended me without rest or complaint. My days are spent sitting in the yard with the comforting smells of the animals all around me, their shabby old tomcat, which I can recall playing with as a kitten, curled in my lap.

  Oh, to be in England. Never have I appreciated my own country more. With each breath I feel my soul renew. Once strong enough, by my aunt's stringent judgement, I composed a number of letters; one to my mother to follow up my aunt's epistle on my condition, and another to the firm to appraise them of my whereabouts and wellbeing. By this time they would have been long expecting my return. I had been in no condition to pass on a London bound message when I left Portsmouth, and this was the first opportunity to do so.

  My body has now regained much of its strength and the dreams have retreated from my mind. My nights remain tinged with a feeling of disquiet I cannot seem to shake, but time will heal all. Now I begin to grow restless for stimulation. While I cannot say I am keen to leave the paradise of this English farmstead at such a glorious time of year, I know I cannot sit so inactive for much longer. My trunk sits in my room, unopened since my return other than to ensure all my papers were undamaged. I know soon I shall hear from my employers, and will have to begin my return to London. But for now, at least, I can rest.

  Wednesday, 18th September 1816

  Today I received a return letter from Mr. Dennings himself. It seems my idyllic rest must soon come to an end. They had been expecting my return some time ago, and had begun to fear the worst as reports of the weather across the Atlantic came in. He acknowledged my illness and need for recovery, but has dictated its end. Earl Sebastian is apparently champing at the bit to be done with this business, and has instructed I be brought to the Leer estates at the earliest opportunity to report in person. Mr. Dennings will travel here, and then together we shall carry onwards to Wiltshire.

  It is understandable if a certain moroseness overcomes me. I have greatly enjoyed my time here with my family. It has been a happy two weeks, even if I have been unwell. I shall be sorry to leave them. My aunt is unhappy with my recall coming so soon, and I have had to make it plain that the Earl is not the sort of man to be kept waiting, and also the importance this encounter has for my future career. In truth I would rather remain for a good while longer, but that is not my charge.

  I worry when I recall my state of mind last time I dedicated myself to my research. After the effect it had on me, I find I am not keen to return to it. However I must face my worries, and ensure my work is in order for Mr. Dennings' arrival. A Sandings shall not be found wanting in his duty. Hopefully the encapsulation of this business will be a simple task and the Earl will not wish more than a cursory explanation. Then this whole damn thing can be forgotten.

  Friday, 27th September 1816

  I am tired. Both travel and the experience of an interrogation by Earl Sebastian have sapped what strength I had. While I am not nearly as bad as I was when I returned to this country a month ago, if my aunt could see the state to which I have been reduced I wager she would have a few words to say even to the Earl.

  Mr. Dennings arrived at the farm late on Wednesday evening. A tall, sober man, Mr. Dennings has always put me in mind of a schoolmaster expecting me to make some slip in my Latin. But while he lacks the open nature of Mr. Caine, he is not an unpleasant man. He was most gracious to my family, commenting on my recovery and the quality of my aunt's nursing. The sight of my employer, ever the quintessential city gentleman, sitting to dinner with my rural farming cousins was a strange one. I have never dined with either of my employers before, and cannot say the scene was as I would have envisioned it.

  We left together the following morning. My cousin David took us to where we could take a coach to Salisbury and then on to Parrel House; the ancestral seat of the Leer family. I had never visited the place before, of course, so was keen for my first look at this famous home. As we made our way up the long driveway the impressive building rose up ahead. It dominated the lands around, yet I could not help but recognise the signs of relative poverty that marred it. The pathway was pitted and in poor condition, and the lawns more ragged than I would have expected from such a distinguished home. Once we pulled in I could also see that much of the masonry of the frontage needed work; there were many cracks and places where decoration had fallen. While Parrel House remains more than impressive, the effects of Edgar's mismanagement and disinterest can be plainly seen.

  We were greeted at the door by Earl Sebastian and his wife. They had been married just before I had left for South America. He was as I recalled him from our one previous meeting in London; a tall, stern man with dark hair and piercing eyes whose presence dominated those around him. Since the last time I had seen him he had grown a beard, and the addition only added to the authority of his appearance. The new Lady Leer, whom I had not met before, was a slim little thing, though her gaze showed a firm strength of character. I cannot imagine the Earl would have the temperament to tolerate a weak minded wife. I was given to understand Earl Sebastian had refused to consider marriage until he had come into the dignity, and so had wed relatively late in life. While I had been away they had been blesses with the birth of a son, one Edward Arthur. So now while the financial prospects of the family were still questionable, the bloodline at least was secure.

  We were shown to our rooms and informed that the Earl would speak to us in his study before dinner. It seemed, as ever, he wished to settle the business as soon as could be. I myself had no desire to drag things out and so readily prepared my notes. I was given time to wash and change, then a footman came to lead me to the study. Folders in hand, I made my way along the portrait-lined corridors to my destination.

  What hopes I had held that the interview would be concise and to the point were rapidly dashed. It seems that despite the Earl's wish to be done with the business, he would in no way condone it to be rushed. Indeed, he wanted a meticulous degree of detail. Sitting at his desk, with myself and Mr. Dennings seated opposite, he at once and without preamble instructed me to begin a discourse of my time in Buenos Aires. I told him of my arrival and interviews with the city's officials. At the appropriate points I produced my copies of all the documents pertaining to his father's arrival, marriage, and death w
ithin the city. Earl Sebastian took each and gave them a cursory glance to witness their contents before putting them to one side for Mr. Dennings to collect.

  The marriage forms and certificates of the birth of young Tobias brought a sneer from his otherwise sober expression. These were thrown aside with palpable distaste, with instructions to Mr. Dennings that they be dealt with in the correct manner. I assume this relates to the Earl's efforts to ensure the legal disownment of the mother and child, but they were not mentioned here.

  I had hoped from this point the interview would be concluded, but once the legalities were done the Earl Sebastian took me in his gaze and instructed me to recount for him the full tale of his father's time in the city; what he had been about, who he had fraternised with, and what activities he had undertaken. I quailed under his gaze, for he spoke in a manner which made me feel as if I was somehow culpable via association. I had not been expecting to have to give so much detail. Mr. Dennings spoke and told me it was required as the Earl wished to know as much as about his father's actions and dealings as possible, to pre-empt any unexpected consequences to the family that might somehow arise in the future. By knowing everything, the Earl could prepare for any eventualities.

  Girding myself, for I had wholeheartedly wished to avoid recounting these tales once again, I told the story of Earl Edgar's time in Buenos Aires as I had learned it; from his arrival to the city without his wife, his marriage to Maria Juanita, and his actions and personality within the city. As I spoke I felt a great unease, for I had no knowledge of how the son might react to hearing such things about the father. The Earl simply sat and listened, his gaze pinning me to the chair. My face reddened as I recounted the lewd accounts of Edgar's household, but nothing seemed to shake Earl Sebastian. He simply sat and listened, asking the occasional question on some matter or other, or verifying the validity of my source. He gave the impression of a man who had long ago accepted the lifestyle of his father, and had determined never to be shocked or embarrassed by it again.