by Clare Dudman
At Edwyn’s nod, Jacob begins to lead his horse away up the trail and the rest of his party follow, each man peeling away the women and children. Their voices fade and Silas looks around him – without so many able-bodied men the community on the beach looks diminished and vulnerable.
Nine
Silas sniffs himself. A distinct odour of kipper. It is too cold to wash, too cold even to undress. His shirt and trousers seem to have become part of him. Sometimes he thinks that shedding them would be like peeling away skin. He takes a few steps down the beach, rounding his shoulders against the cold. The hut has a roof now, but it is still not very comfortable, and there is a separate shelter on the beach for the kitchen. Someone is cooking bread in a pot. He stops, relishing the smell for a few seconds, then walks on. As he comes closer there are other smells too: bacon, porridge and the simple steamy smell of water being boiled for tea. He is hungry and he loiters close, hoping to be fed.
‘If you want breakfast, you’ll have to get me some water.’ Megan rises from where she has been stooping over the fire and hands him a bucket.
The water has to be carried from ponds a little way inland. He takes the bucket and runs to catch up with Selwyn Williams, who is similarly encumbered and striding in the same direction.
At first he answers Silas’ questions with nods. It is only when they arrive at the ponds that he seems to find something to say.
‘Lucky,’ Selwyn says, tipping his head in the direction of the water.
‘What do you mean, lucky?’
‘Lucky there was a storm. A week before you came – poured it down, it did. Lucky.’
They plunge their buckets into the deepest part and collect some water then begin to walk back.
‘Before that, it was dry as bone,’ Selwyn adds suddenly a few minutes later. It is so long since the rest of their conversation that Silas has to think back for a few seconds for his words to make sense. ‘What about a well?’ Silas asks. ‘Isn’t there water in the ground?’
The big man laughs a little and shakes his head. ‘Come,’ he says, ‘I’ll show you.’
Selwyn is the son of Wisconsin settlers. They loved their language and were keen to preserve it. However they soon became dispirited: their children learnt English at school, and having learnt it, used it almost exclusively to talk to those around them. Their Welsh culture, they realised, would be lost within two generations. So when they heard about the proposals for a new Welsh colony in Patagonia, they were enthusiastic: in an isolated colony surely their language would thrive. But Selwyn’s father now had an arthritic leg and his mother could only truly see when the light was bright. They were too old for new adventures, they decided, and so they volunteered their son in their place. So Selwyn was shipped across to Liverpool and thence on to Patagonia with little say in the matter. He didn’t much mind. Although his complaints seem to be many, they are, in truth, merely his pessimistic commentary on the world he finds around him. And since he finds conditions in Patagonia to be just as unsatisfactory as those in Wisconsin, he finds himself equally discontent – and at least in Patagonia no one laughs at his accent.
Silas and Selwyn walk a little way inland behind the tents housing the servants that have brought some of the animals overland from Buenos Aires.
‘Those men’ll be going back soon,’ Selwyn says. ‘The schooner’s waiting. Daresay they’ll be anxious to be gone.’
Selwyn slows at a patch of ground that has been cleared of bushes and has been trampled into a slight hollow. Silas goes to walk forward but Selwyn holds him back. ‘Careful.’ The ground is softer than it looks, each foot causes the sandy earth around it to break. It is disconcerting; even Silas leaves large wide footprints, and he has the impression he is treading on a crust which is covering a mighty hollow.
‘Over there,’ Selwyn gestures with a massive finger. ‘Slowly now, be careful.’
In front of them is a great hole. They ease themselves forward until they are lying at the edge with their heads just over the side. Once it had obviously been deeper than it is now; the ground around it has toppled over the side widening the top, but there is still a wide, deep cleft through the sand and then the rock. At the bottom Silas thinks he can see black-coloured water.
‘Our well,’ Selwyn says and smiles ruefully. ‘We were at it for days – an order issued by the Meistr before he and his wife set off on one of their many important missions to Buenos Aires.’ He sighs, eases himself back and sits up.
‘They all said it couldn’t be done, but the Meistr insisted. He took each one aside, in private, and had a few words.’
‘He speaks Spanish?’
‘Enough. We both do. Don’t know what he said, but each one came back with a scowl and got back to the digging sharpish. Didn’t last long though, whatever he said.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, we found the water, see. Brackish, of course, like I said it would be, and the men were so fed up they got themselves out and left me down there as punishment. Meistr’s representative, see.’ He grins sardonically to himself.
Silas stares at him. ‘For how long?’
Selwyn shrugs. ‘A day, a night, maybe two. I lost track.’
‘Weren’t you frightened?’
‘Only at the end. First I thought, well, a prank, I guess. They’ll get me out soon. But then, when it grew dark...’ He pauses, smoothes his beard with the palm of his hand, gets up, waits for Silas to follow him and starts walking back towards the tents. ‘Could hear them in the distance, see. They were... enjoying themselves, I suppose... they’d broken into our storehouse like children. And were eating and drinking everything.’
‘How did you get out?’
‘See that man?’ He points to one of the servants in the distance – a big man with blue-black skin.
‘I’d given up hope. I was so thirsty I was thinking I’d drink the water, even though it would probably kill me. There was a grey light, I remember that – either early morning or dusk, and then suddenly – a face peering over the edge! When I asked him why he’d helped me he just said “Lloyd” and crossed himself. I guess he’d figured that the Meistr would be back soon enough, and didn’t relish the consequences if Mr Lloyd found things not quite how he’d left them.’
Selwyn is abruptly quiet. Silas inspects his face. He looks drawn. Beneath the outer leather his skin looks quite bloodless and pale. They walk back to the tents. The servants look just like ordinary men. They nod at Selwyn and Silas as they pass.
‘And now you just carry on as if nothing has happened?’
‘What else can we do? This is a hard, cruel place, ffrind, make no mistake. And anyway, they’ll be gone soon with the schooner – maybe tomorrow or the next day.’
‘But where we’re going will be better, won’t it?’
Williams shakes his head gloomily then glances around to see if Lloyd is anywhere near. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it. One or two of the men have been south of here and they say it gets no better, just colder. And then there’s always the Indians.’
‘What about the Indians?’
They have reached the fire on the beach now. Selwyn pauses and looks around him. There are several other men there, warming themselves near the flames. At the word ‘Indians’ several of the men have stiffened where they sit and their heads swivel with interest.
‘Well, the Indians round here, they’ve got a grudge, see. The land is theirs, they reckon, and they were expecting payment. And you know how they go about settling these things.’
The men look nervously at each other. They have all heard the stories, and on board the ship they have practised loading and taking aim with the rifles again and again. It was something Jacob organised with great relish, marching his little army of volunteers up and down the few yards of deck as if they were tin soldiers.
‘There was a colony just over there not so long ago.’ Selwyn points to the peninsula ahead of them. ‘They swooped down without warning one Sunday. Not one man escaped.�
� He slices the air with his hands along his forehead. ‘Scalped, each one of them. And the women and children...’ his voice fades and he shakes his head.
‘What happened to the women and children?’
He lowers his voice so they all have to crane forward to hear. ‘Slaves to the Indians... each one of them.’
Several of the men noisily draw in breath through their teeth while several others tut.
Selwyn takes a deep breath and then frowns as though it hurts him to continue. ‘Worse than death, that’s what everyone says. They mesmerise them, you know. Decent God-fearing folk are turned into savages… tribes with light-coloured women, and do you know what people say…?’ Selwyn pauses dramatically. The men around him hold their breath. ‘These women are put under a curse so they don’t want to come home again. They say they’re happier where they are. The Devil’s work, it has to be. How can a God-fearing woman be happy living like that?’
A few of the colonists echo his tuts while the rest look around them as if they are being watched.
‘How can we know if they’re close?’
‘You can’t. They creep around in big soft-skinned boots, see, and no one can hear them. But you can smell them, all right. They light fires, and they smell strongly of smoke. It’s like the Devil, isn’t it? Brimstone and ashes. The smell of Hell.’
The group is silent now, each face looking around.
‘Didn’t Edwyn Lloyd know this?’ Silas asks suddenly. ‘Didn’t he know about the desert, the cold, the Indians? I’m sorry Selwyn, but I don’t think all you say can be true. Surely the Meistr wouldn’t have brought out women and children – his own wife, brawd, if he knew it was like that.’
Selwyn raises his great bear-like head and glances towards the bay where Edwyn Lloyd is issuing orders to some of the sailors. ‘Well, what is paradise for one man is hell for another. My advice, fy ffrind, is not to expect too much, then you won’t be disappointed.’
Megan is getting better. A day ago he heard her laugh, and the sound had made him forget what he was doing and just look at her in gratitude. She’d been playing with Myfanwy on the sand, drawing pictures and then decorating them with stones and shells. Then the little girl must have said something because Megan had given a small joyful whoop and shoved her a little. It seemed like a sound from so long ago that Silas felt tears smarting in his eyes. He remembers Megan when he first knew her – walking arm and arm with her friends; the way she would glance over her shoulder to check that he was following and then that sound, that whoop of laughter, as she’d nudge her friend just as she nudges Myfanwy now. Inside the woman there is still the same girl.
The beach is bleak; when the wind blows it is cold and dry and both Myfanwy’s and Gwyneth’s mouths are chapped. Megan spreads a little grease on the corners of Myfanwy’s mouth and she moans at the pain.
‘I know, cariad. But it won’t be long now. When we reach the valley this cruel old wind will be gone.’ She glances at Silas for confirmation but Silas, as usual, is watching Edwyn Lloyd. Ever since Selwyn had told them about the Indians the men have been subdued and edgy. A few of them have been looking longingly at the Mimosa as if they are contemplating returning.
But now Edwyn Lloyd has clambered onto a trunk and has motioned for them to come forward to listen. His voice is steady and serious, his face still and straight. ‘Last night I dreamt of the valley.’ He pauses, and looks around at them, picking out one face at a time. ‘Oh brodyr, we are blessed. Truly it was as the good book says, “A land that floweth with milk and honey”.’
Silas looks around him. Everyone is listening, staring intently at Edwyn.
‘Yes, ffrindiau, Yr Wladfa is the start of great things – God’s kingdom on earth. I am sure that is what the dream was telling me. If only we persevere we will one day be a great nation – a people with power and influence.’
Silas folds his arms. Despite himself he is a little impressed at the drama of it all. Is it possible that the Lord has chosen them? That somehow they can make a great nation from a desert? He shakes the idea from his head. No, it’s just words. That’s all they are, words without meaning. They change nothing. He glances at Selwyn who nods back: do not expect too much.
The schooner has departed for Buenos Aires with the servants and the bay seems empty without her. The Mimosa is alone now, creaking impatiently at every turn of the tide. The women trudge back and forth with bottles, pans and buckets to the pool by the beach – the one they share with the animals. The water is cloudy at the edges where the mud is churned and some of the children cry when they go too close because it has a rankness that reminds Silas of a pig sty. They swing their pails far into the middle of the pond and pull them out, then carry them back to the beach to heat on the fire. The water is too precious to use for anything but cooking and it is too cold to risk washing in the sea. They get used to the smell of each other’s dirt.
The Mimosa’s lifeboat has still not returned from delivering supplies to the colonists at the valley to the south, and Gidsby is anxious to be off. Every morning Silas sees him pacing up and down the headland looking at the ocean, watching for the return of his lifeboat or a change in the weather. At last he demands to see Edwyn Lloyd. They walk off together down the beach from where snatches of only Gidsby’s strident voice carry up to the people at the fireside.
‘We have to go. We can’t wait forever.’
‘When, then?’
‘Well, you’re going to have to bloody do something.’
‘I don’t bloody care who you tell. Do what you bloody like.’
Selwyn looks quizically at Silas and then at the Mimosa. Whatever it was that Edwyn was using to hold the captain here is weakening.
Silas is needed to make up numbers. There are six of them altogether: Silas, two sailors, Edwyn, Selwyn and Miriam’s father, John Jones. They pick their way along the coast at low tide, escaping to the higher ground when the sea flows back in. Edwyn leads the way, striding out so the rest have to hurry to catch up. Beyond the first promontory they come across barrels floating in the sea and then, in the next bay, find the Mimosa’s lifeboat caught on a shallow platform of rocks. Waves are smashing over it, pushing it inland and the crew are passing the cargo from man to man onto the beach. The colonists and sailors join them and by the time the boat has sunk, later that evening, most of the supplies are safe.
It is too late to return so they make camp.
‘They’ll be waiting for us in the valley,’ one of the crew of the lifeboat says, looking towards the south.
‘Aye, if they’ve got there.’
‘Their stomachs will be empty by now.’
‘They will be well, gentlemen, the Lord will provide,’ Edwyn says.
‘Provide them with what?’ mumbles Silas but Edwyn gives no sign that he hears.
Silas shifts nearer to the fire and hugs his knees. It is beginning to rain again and the wind is bitter. Edwyn is smiling and looking into the distance. Sometimes it seems to Silas that the man has lost his sense.
The bay is empty now. The Mimosa has sailed away without her main lifeboat, the captain dismissed with a curt nod of the Meistr’s head. He had scuttled away onto his ship as if released from some spell, and could soon be heard, even from the shore, cursing his crew with renewed venom.
Silas looks around at the sand, bushes, cliffs, and their small huts and pitiful pile of supplies on the beach. Alone. Thousands of miles away from anything they’ve ever known.
Even though the bay is empty Silas has the uncomfortable feeling that he is being watched. He looks at Edwyn and then Selwyn – they too are looking around them: to the cliffs, and then inland, and then back to the cliffs again.
‘Well, if you’re not going to ask him, I shall.’ Megan shoves Gwyneth into his arms, and walks up to Edwyn with her arms folded.
Edwyn glances at her and flashes his smile. ‘Ah, Megan, isn’t it? Silas’ wife? How is your little one? Gwyneth, I believe?’ Edwyn removes his hat and bows slightly. �
��I’ve been meaning to offer my condolences. I should have spoken to you sooner. Cecilia has told me about your sad loss.’
Megan slumps a little. She’d be surprised that he knows, surprised and saddened at being reminded. ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly then straightens herself again with a shake. ‘I would like to know what you’re doing about my brother and his companions,’ she says. ‘They went with nothing. How do we know they’re not starving to death down there?’
Now it is Edwyn’s turn to look surprised. His face darkens slightly and he opens his mouth to respond but Megan interrupts him. ‘Because if you’re not going to do anything then I will.’
Empty words. It is obvious that there is nothing Megan can do, but a small group around them is listening now, and it is quite clear that Edwyn doesn’t like it.
‘I am doing something, chwaer.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘I am sending the sheep.’
‘How are you going to do that?’
‘Sit down, Megan, and listen, everything is in order.’
Silas grins to himself. The Meistr is irritated. He is obviously not used to women standing up to him. He has rarely heard Cecilia say a word.
‘John Jones is making himself ready,’ Edwyn continues. ‘He says he can drive the sheep south...’ Edwyn smiles suddenly, as if he has had an idea and looks at Silas ‘...if someone will volunteer to bring up the rear.’
The two look at each other. Edwyn’s smile is smug and his eyes are narrowed.
‘But I’m no shepherd!’ Silas says at last.
‘Nor is anyone else here. But I am sure you want to do all that you can to help your brother-in-law. Don’t worry. Just do exactly what John Jones tells you to.’
Now all eyes are on Silas. How neatly the man has shifted their attention. Gwyneth whimpers in his arms and beside him Myfanwy pulls at his trousers. ‘Dadda,’ she says softly, ‘what’s happened? I’m frightened.’