by Clare Dudman
In front of them the houses of the fire village gradually darken. Roof timbers collapse and walls fall, sending small cascades of sparks into the room. He glances towards Myfanwy and Gwyneth – two dark unmoving mounds – then reaches up beside him for one of the blankets from home. The yellows and blacks are shades of brown in the dying light of the fire. He snuffs out the tallow and its greasy smell drifts around them as they cover themselves with the thick cloth. There is little light left now but he can see the reflection of the fire’s glow in her eyes – and in the tears that are collecting on her cheeks. Beside them the tiny charred houses fall softly like snow from a steep roof.
Twenty
Everyone is crammed into the small warehouse they have built on the side of one of the earth walls of the Old Fort. Jacob stands on a small box so that everyone can see him while sacks of rice and flour have been arranged like pews and the women and children sit on these, the sacking itchy on the legs even through trousers and skirts. They are wearing their best clothes, but even these are starting to look bedraggled.
‘There are other wildernesses, ffrindiau,’ Jacob says, his voice strained with sincerity, ‘hot places where nothing grows at all, and the Lord has called his people even there, and helped them to build His kingdom...’
Silas’ mind starts to wander. From where he stands at the back he can just see the cliffs that skirt each side of the valley floor through the open door. On the southern side something rises: a bird, or maybe a wisp of smoke. It lasts just a minute. When he looks again it is gone. He glances around to see if anyone else has noticed but everyone else seems to be trying to pay attention to Jacob’s sermon.
‘Fountains burst forth from cliff, yea brodyr, water where there was just rock before. Corn grew where there was nothing but sand. Manna from heaven... then glittering cities where there was nothing but caves and shelters. A new land where His people can dwell in His glory! And that is what the Good Lord has promised us. Are we going to betray Him, brodyr?’ Jacob pauses, his arms stretched out, but nothing happens.
‘I said, are we going to betray Our Lord?’
‘No, brawd,’ says a single voice.
‘No, brodyr, we will serve Him and labour for Him. We will toil without rest, labour without looking for reward...’
A few people around Silas fidget on their sacks and exchange glances with each other. ‘Don’t think that lazy dog Tomas Price will think much of that,’ whispers one not quietly enough. His neighbour laughs and Jacob raises his voice ‘...knowing that the true paradise is in Heaven above. And what a place that is, ffrindiau – angels playing harps, glorious singing by the almighty chorus...’
There is more rustling and creaking as people shift on the sacks of grain, their eyes wandering. Hands play with hymn sheets and buttons on clothes. One young man shyly reaches out to hold hands with a young woman who sits next to him while another woman straightens her dress, smoothes it down and then straightens it again. When a child cries several people immediately rise to take her out.
The Meistr is sitting with Cecilia at the front. They sit upright, still as two statues, their faces calm and without expression. From time to time Edwyn bows his head to draw a finger across his eye, and sometimes Cecilia nudges the hat on her head. There is a smugness in the way they hold their heads, and in the way they politely join in with the amens and halleluyahs. But even Silas has to acknowledge the contrast in reception: whenever Edwyn Lloyd speaks the people sit with rapt attention. No one fidgets. When children cry they are told to hush. There is something in the way he makes his voice rise and fall, swell and fade, and then there is the vibrato that Silas hates but which catches his ear just as much as it seems to catch everyone else’s.
‘Let us pray,’ says Jacob, and Silas watches as the Meistr and his wife shuffle to their knees. His lips move without a sound. Her eyelashes flicker.
The service ends. Jacob appeals for another chorus of agreement but none is forthcoming. So Jacob orders Silas to give them a note for their hymn. Silas finds a ‘Soh’ from the middle of his range and leads them through the first verse. He has a large collection of hymns and songs in his head. It is something he has always found easy to learn. If the entire bible were to be put to music he is sure he could learn it in a month if not a week. Sometimes, when he is alone, he makes up new tunes for the words of old songs, and sometimes he makes up new words as well. One day he would like to find someone to write them down for anyone that is interested. It will be his legacy, something for Myfanwy and her children and her children’s children. These are your grandfather’s hymns, she could say, even though he couldn’t read a note and did not know many letters, he knew his songs and he knew more words than the entire congregation of Rhoslyn. It is something he first thought of a few years ago for Richard. His voice fades slightly. Richard. His singing dies away altogether. A few people next to him notice and give him sideways glances. The child had a promising voice and could sing several complicated old tunes nearly note-perfect. ‘I can hear them in my head, Dadda. It is as if there is someone in there singing them already – is there someone in your head singing too?’
Silas had enjoyed imagining the two of them sometime in the future, singing side by side in the choir, perhaps being picked out for duets – father and son together. Silas looks down, blinks. He can’t read the words but he waits for the letters to become clear again on the paper.
A small hand squeezes his. Myfanwy. ‘Sing, Dadda.’
He opens his mouth obediently. This is supposed to be a joyous day. Edwyn Lloyd has ordered it so. A holiday, he’d said. They had done enough building, digging and carrying for now, and were celebrating the start of the colony. There is a pig roasting on a spit and bread cooking in the oven.
After the blessing they burst noisily into the courtyard smacking their lips and inspecting the fire.
It is a fine day. One of the best they’ve had. The air has a clear quality quite different from the air in Wales – perhaps because it is drier. He looks around. He can see for miles. Something attracts the corner of his eye – something moving. It is another wisp of smoke, rising this time from the opposite direction, towards the northwest. It forms a thin neat column several feet into the air then stops. A second later another column of smoke rises. The air seems to be quite still because the smoke doesn’t spread, just widens slightly as it rises until there are three fat beads of smoke slowly rising in a column over the desert.
Silas turns back to the fire, but as he does so, another head turns with his. Selwyn Williams has seen them too. Their eyes meet. Selwyn nods, his expression hidden by his hat. Indians.
There is a wreck in the river that is revealed at low tide. After the meal the men go to the riverbank and examine it for timber. Apart from a few willows, and the planks carried down from Port Madryn by the Maria Theresa, it is their only source of timber. Jacob says that he believes he could easily remove the cabin intact from the deck and that this would make an excellent schoolroom.
‘You think so, do you?’ says the Meistr. ‘You don’t think this ferocious current and turbulent water would cause you any sort of hindrance whatsoever?’
The people around him laugh at Edwyn’s sarcasm, but Jacob seems quite oblivious to the ridicule.
‘Indeed not, Edwyn, I should think that if we could hitch up a few ropes from the bank…’
Silas drifts away. Even though he dislikes Jacob, he can’t bear to see him ridiculed. Megan’s brother has always been hopelessly impractical. Just because a man can read Latin it doesn’t mean he has more sense than anyone else. Silas himself can barely read, but he knows that trying to dismantle that wreck in such fast-flowing water would be suicidal. He looks back. He can no longer hear what is being said, but Jacob is still obviously causing much merriment.
Silas walks back towards the fort and is immediately convinced they are being watched. He turns around quickly but there is nothing there.
The warehouse is their committee meeting place as well as
their chapel and there is such a shortage of candidates that Silas finds himself elected as representative alongside Selwyn, Jacob, John and seven other men.
The Meistr, of course, is leader. His position was taken as read.
‘We will start with the potatoes and the maize,’ he says, ‘the land is cleared; all it needs is to be ploughed.’
‘Too cold, here, for maize,’ says Selwyn.
‘We’ll try using the oxen,’ the Meistr continues pointedly, as if no one has spoken.
‘Too late in the year for planting anything now.’
Edwyn sighs and looks at the doubting American. ‘Mr Williams, why are you always so full of such cheerful optimism?’
There is the usual trickle of laughter and Silas’ eyes meet Selwyn’s. He tuts almost silently and Selwyn nods back, his face grim and still. Brawd.
‘If the plough doesn’t work with the oxen we’ll try the horse. We must have faith, Mr Williams, otherwise we will accomplish nothing – surely you know that by now.’
As Edwyn commands so the work is done. Within a week the ground around them has been ploughed and planted, and soon, thanks to a recent light shower of rain, is covered in a patina of green.
The next Sunday Jacob revisits his sermon on transforming the wilderness, nodding at Edwyn each time he mentions a miracle. Afterwards he catches Silas at the doorway. ‘Have you seen, brawd?’ he asks, pointing to the strips of green visible in the distance. His grin is triumphant. ‘The Lord triumphs through Edwyn Lloyd!’ he says, ‘despite the naysayers,’ he adds, looking at Selwyn who is trying to get past. ‘Despite those with little faith.’
Now he looks back at Silas. ‘This is just the start! Imagine the valley filled with fields, acres and acres – wheat, potatoes, and maize! Milk and honey, milk and honey, just as Edwyn always said. Do you still doubt him?’
And with that he sweeps away, his long coat billowing.
Twenty-one
There is something thumping at the ground. Selwyn and Silas stop and listen.
‘Horses,’ says Selwyn. ‘Lots of them.’
‘Indians?’
‘Sh.’ Selwyn drops to the ground and holds his ear to where the mud is covered with a little grass. ‘They’re moving fast. Coming this way.’
Silas hears himself swallow.
‘Dadda?’ Myfanwy has appeared beside him and is sliding her hand into his.
Around them people pause: a spoon hovers over a pot, a spade stands sunk halfway into soil, a mother leaves her child half-dressed.
Selwyn shakes his head. ‘No, not Indians.’
The beat is too regular, deliberate and confident.
The spoon is dropped. The child is swept up into a blanket. The man with the spade pulls it from the ground and hurries back to the fort.
Soon they can see them: a narrow band, tightly packed, unfurling into a ribbon of bright colours and gold. Metal glints. The shod hooves of horses clatter on the stones. There is no stealth, no tentative scout. They have not been invited but they are coming anyway. Stand aside.
The horses are trotting sedately, their heads erect, great elegant beasts and on them soldiers, civilians and servants. Their faces fall slightly when they stop at the fort and the surrounding buildings; as if they had been expecting something more that what they see: poor people in their village of earth, smelling of river weed, dirty, clothes turned to rags. A few sheep bleat at their arrival, while the cattle and the pigs snort in the mud.
Spaniards. Silas decides that he doesn’t like them. Not that they’d call themselves Spaniards of course, Argentines, they’d say they were, if anyone could have understood them, as free of their mother country as the Welsh were free of theirs.
There are several tall dark-bearded soldiers in uniform, with long black boots and silver stirrups, jodhpurs and long navy-blue tunics embellished with gold braid on the sleeves and shoulders and red on their collars. If they mean to inculcate respect they have succeeded. Even the youngest children are silent as they dismount. Their faces are half hidden beneath the shade of their peaked caps, and the one of them who looks like he might be in charge is brandishing a sheaf of papers.
The officer barks out a question and looks around. Edwyn Lloyd steps forward and, after a gesture that could be a salute, he says a few words in Spanish.
Of course the man speaks Spanish. Silas plays with a small stone near his foot. Around him he hears appreciative voices admiring Edwyn’s linguistic skills. His eye catches Selwyn’s. They exchange smirks.
‘This is Colonel Julian Murga,’ Edwyn says, turning around to the colonists to translate from Spanish to Welsh, much as he translated Captain Gidsby’s words from English. More than a hint of smugness, Silas thinks, and wonders how much he truly understands. He expects it is less than the Meistr makes out because each of his words is accompanied by much gesticulating, and sometimes he notices that the Argentines look puzzled and look at each other to grin or shrug.
‘A good man,’ he continues. ‘He is here to validate our treaty with the government. Shall we show them a little Welsh hospitality, brothers and sisters?’
He leads them into the warehouse where the women have been busy preparing food for the guests – mainly meat and bread, but Mary Jones, John’s wife, has managed to find some dried fruit and made some small flat cakes upon her griddle. It is a cheerless party; the colonists and soldiers are hushed and stand around in small groups talking amongst themselves. Edwyn, however, is noisy. It is as if he is trying to fill the space with noise; his laugh is too loud, his gestures are too expansive, and his voice has a slightly strained edge. The officials seem to be taking it in turn to talk to him.
Silas nudges Megan towards Selwyn. He is standing close to Annie, who is helping Mary serve. Then, leaving the two women together to examine Gwyneth, who has been grizzling for the last couple of hours, he steers Selwyn forward to listen. Selwyn knows a little Spanish too; before they came down to Patagonia he had been obliged to spend some time in the capital, and although he claims to have tried very hard to remain completely ignorant he could not help but pick up a few words.
‘What’s he saying?’ Silas asks.
‘Stupid things,’ he tips his head to one side as if that helps his understanding, ‘…about their journey here… and now he’s asking about that government minister – Rawson.’
The topic of Dr Rawson seems to be causing much amusement because the soldiers suddenly burst into laughter. The Meistr looks less amused and asks Colonel Murga a question. Although he tries to disguise it with a smile he obviously does not like the reply. He asks another question and appears to like the answer to that even less.
‘What’s happening?’ Silas whispers, but Selwyn tells him to hush. He listens again, and for a few minutes after Murga has finished he is quiet.
‘What’s he said, Selwyn?’
He shakes his head. ‘That we’re Argentines now, just as much as they are.’
The officer talks a little more. There is a flippant tone to his voice. Arrogant, Silas thinks. They’re well matched. He watches his face and then looks back to Edwyn who is attempting to smile again: a flash of white through the growth of his beard.
Selwyn turns to Silas. His face is pale, set, angry: ‘I don’t believe it. The Meistr is just agreeing with everything they say. We’re being used, and the fool doesn’t seem to realise or care. If we are Argentines then this colony is Argentinean and they can claim Patagonia. That’s all they care about – getting a foothold here before the Chileans do.’
Edwyn Lloyd speaks again and Selwyn stops to listen. This time after they finish Selwyn says nothing, just presses his lips into a straight line.
‘What did he say?’ Silas asks, but Selwyn shakes his head.
The soldiers are laughing – one and then the next as if some particularly amusing joke is being passed along the line.
‘Tell me!’
‘Can you hear them laughing? He just asked them where the fertile land is. A big joke. It’s a
ll desert, apparently, and hadn’t anyone ever told him that?’
‘But I thought he’d been here, that’s what he said – cattle, tall trees, meadows...’
‘That’s what he told me too, but it’s all rubbish, apparently. Desert all the way to the Andes.’ Selwyn listens again. ‘Oh, oh no.’ He looks more downcast.
‘What? What are they saying?’
‘There was someone here before.’
‘We know that, the Welshman – the one who built this fort.’
‘No, not him, some of their own… Impossible – did you hear that? Like the English word. The crops grow, just a little, then the sun comes and everything fries. Too cold and then too hot.’
‘But they let us come, even so.’
‘Rawson, I heard him… he made promises. Told the Meistr he would look after us. But now they’re saying…’ He listens, frowns, and shakes his head. ‘No, it’s no good, I can’t tell what he’s saying.’ He stops. Beside them one of the officers has been left behind. He is smaller and younger than the rest and is nibbling at one of the cakes with a serious thoughtful expression as if he is not quite sure whether he likes it. ‘Just a minute,’ Selwyn says and steps forward and talks to him. He is less fluent than Edwyn, and the officer has to repeat things several times but eventually he returns to Silas. When he speaks Selwyn does so through clenched teeth, his words spat out through barely moving lips. ‘It’s what I thought. Everything the Meistr has promised us is lies. We are allowed some land, but that’s all. No more livestock, no more grain, no other help at all – and we’re under their thumb. That’s why they’re here – to make sure we know who’s in charge.’ He shakes his head. ‘We’ve been tricked, Silas. Everyone’s been tricked.’ His great, ungroomed beard sways from one side to the other, as if he is looking for something to kick. Instead he settles for a sack of grain and punches it too hard to make a seat. ‘Ah brawd, if I could, I’d go back to Wisconsin tomorrow.’ He sits on the sack and watches. Annie drifts up to him but when Selwyn barely responds to her words she drifts away again.