Inland, the estuary was lost in the distance, though the lowlands on either side seemed to gradually approach each other as the river mouth funnelled its way deep into the interior.
‘Where shall we land, Svein?’ asked Madoc.
The Norseman rolled his feverish eyes at his friend. ‘The nearest bit of earth, Madoc,’ he muttered hoarsely through his cracked lips. ‘Much as I love the sea, in my present state I would love to lie on some solid ground for a time.’
As one piece of land was the same as another for the moment, Madoc readily agreed.
They dropped the sail and, pulling with renewed strength, brought the Gwennan Gorn around the point of the sand bar and up as close as possible to the beach.
‘Almost touching the bottom, we can walk ashore from here,’ yelled the man in the bow with his line and sinker.
The water was very shallow, even the couple of feet that the little vessel drew was too much to get them closer than a hundred yards from the water’s edge.
‘The tide is about half risen,’ observed Einion, looking at the rim of seaweed further up the beach. ‘We could get in closer in a few hours.’
Madoc shook his head. ‘God knows what sort of wild creatures or even wild men may be here. I have no wish to be beached at a dangerous moment. As it is, we will be left high and dry at low tide, by the looks of it.’
At last the Gwennan Gorn came to rest in the peaceful waters of a great and distant land, for this was no island, unless it was the size of Britain itself. There was a feel about the horizon that told of an immense countryside. The size of the muddy river current was proof enough of some gigantic drainage area. In the far distance, hazy blue hills could be seen. They all felt in their bones that this really was the New World.
‘You shall be the first to set foot on the land, Madoc … to claim it for Wales,’ said Einion.
Madoc smiled at him. ‘I’ll set foot on it with pleasure, but I’ll not claim it for anyone, even Wales. I have a feeling that this country has the strength to look after itself. No one will claim it and survive the claim for long.’
With Meirion, he clambered into one of the coracles that was rapidly dropped over the side and paddled off easily towards the beach. They were sheltered from the ocean by a couple of milesof grass-covered sand and the waves on the beach were merely little ripples.
A few yards from the water’s edge, Madoc hopped over the side of the frail cockleshell and found that the water was barely up to his knees. He waded ashore ahead of Meirion and as he came up out of the water, he felt a strange sense of exultation.
Striding up a few more yards, he turned and looked back.
Like a toy ship, the Gwennan Gorn sat placidly at anchor, the great expanse of the landlocked bay behind her. He marvelled at the fact that that little pile of wood and leather had come untold thousands of miles from the Afon Ganol in Gwynedd, guided only by the wind, the sea and the skill of her crew.
He raised his hands to the sky, partly in worship of the powers that had guided them and partly to convey his joy to the ship. Then he collapsed onto the warm dry sand and felt the odd vertigo that solid land caused after so long on the pitching deck of a ship.
Meirion dragged the coracle to the edge of the wavelets, then lifted it clear of the water altogether. He flopped down alongside Madoc and dug his hands gleefully into the sand.
‘No dragons or devils of hell here, arglwydd,’ he said happily. ‘Just a beach and yellow sand, as if we were on the shore at Aberffraw.’
‘The new world looks much the same as the old, friend,’ agreed Madoc, lying back and staring up at the blue sky. ‘Old wives’ tales and the brooding melancholies of the wise men are as false as the minds that decide facts without any evidence, Meirion.’
‘This is a great land … I feel it to be so. What are we to do with it all, there are only a score or so of us?’
Madoc sat up with a laugh.
‘We may not be the sole owners, Meirion. For all we know, there may be castles and kings and princes here, just as at home. They may take exception to our arrival. Think what would happen in Wales if some strange vessel arrived in the Menai Straits and the crew stepped ashore and claimed the country for some distant prince!’
Meirion nodded. ‘Your royal father would cut their heads off for their audacity –but I see no signs of life here, no castles nor roads or habitations.’
Madoc looked around them. ‘It’s a wild place, true enough.But there are many such in Wales looking as desolate.’
They got up and walked up the beach into the grassy wasteland that stretched infinitely before them.
‘Little hopes of fresh water here, Prince,’ scowled Meirion. ‘The rain would sink into this sand like going into a sponge.’
Madoc agreed.
‘I do not think that we will stay long here … but we have some water left in our casks, enough for a few days. Let the crew come ashore for today and tonight, at least, just to give them a respite from the cramps of the vessel. Svein can be brought ashore in a coracle.’
Within an hour, everyone except a watchman was on the beach, running around like children on a holiday, except poor Svein, who lay on the sand, his head propped on a bundle of cloaks.
‘What think you of this land, Norseman?’ asked Madoc gently.
‘I’ll tell you better when I can see it from six feet above my shoes, when I am able to stand,’ gibed Svein weakly. ‘This fever and the raging ache in my shoulder make it hard for me to give deep thoughts to the scenery. But it seems a fair country.’
Madoc held a cup of water to his lips. ‘When you are recovered, we will press on up the river and see what is to be seen.’
‘How long will we stay?’ asked Einion.
‘In this spot or this land?’ asked Madoc, watching his brother’s face with amusement.
The younger man rubbed his jaw. ‘I have never thought of it until now. Getting here was job enough, without worrying about why we came.’
Madoc yelled with laughter and even Svein managed a grin.
‘Why did we come?’ asked Einion, defiantly.
Madoc laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘For me, it was an escape … but for all of us, it was an adventure, Einion. The urge that all men have to climb the nearest hill, see what is in the next valley.’
With that, his brother had to be content.
They stayed for two days on the grassy upper beach, rigging crude tents with hides from the ship and living off what was left from the stores. Foraging parties found many birds’ eggs in the grass and hunted a number of large seabirds. They also caught a few of the rabbit-like creatures that were the only animals thatappeared to live there.
When the tide went out, the Gwennan Gorn was left high and dry. Madoc took the opportunity to inspect the hull beneath the waterline. To his gratification, there was not the slightest sign of any damage or loosening-up of the timbers. The staghorns had done their job perfectly and, in spite of the battering the vessel had suffered during the hurricane, she was as sound as the day they left Aber Cerrig Gwynion. There was a great deal of waterweed and barnacle on the planking and, for a whole day, the crew were busy scraping this off with knives and other tools.
Svein’s wound began to suppurate, with evil-smelling pus running from the slash on his armpit. He became paler and more feverish, but thankfully showed no sign of delirium. The cause of the trouble, Alun of the Crooked Eye, remained manacled and ostracised.
‘What are we to do with this damned fellow?’ snapped Einion, who had the least love and the least patience with the troublemaker.
Madoc sighed. ‘I wish I knew … we cannot keep him tied up for ever. The other men seem to have rejected his notions of mutiny, but maybe this is because they have their feet on solid ground and fried hare and eggs in their bellies. Once the going becomes hard again, then the rebellious whispers of Alun Gam might take root in their minds.’
But he again put off the hour of decision, leaving Einion to keep a sharp eye on A
lun. There seemed nowhere for him to run, so on the third day, the leather thongs on his wrists and ankles were taken off and he was allowed to roam as he would, though a sharp lookout was kept by Madoc and Meirion at night-time … they had no desire to see him finish the work that he had begun on Svein, who was too weak to defend himself.
It was now early July and the sun was just beginning to sink lower from the zenith at each noontide. Their water began to run low after a few days on the sandy peninsula and, with no means of replenishing it, they reluctantly waded out to the Gwennan Gorn on the third morning and hauled up the anchor stones.
Early in the day, they had enough wind to take them gently up the great estuary. For some hours there was little to see, except the flat wooded land many miles away on each side. In the afternoon, the wind died away and the crew had to use the long oars. They pulled against a sluggish stream, slightly brown with mud. Occasionally, a branch or log floated past, on its journey to the sea from some unknown distance inland.
Towards evening, the land began to close in on them and Madoc, looked out for a suitable place to get ashore for the night.
‘The banks are still tidal and the water is getting more shallow as we move inland,’ he commented. The lineman was getting bottom in progressively shorter casts of his weight.
‘The banks all look the same … trees everywhere. We may as well land at the nearest point, there’s little to choose anywhere,’ suggested Einion.
They crept in until the line showed that they would soon be aground, then dropped their anchors. The muddy beach was about two hundreds yards distant and they used the coracles to ferry an advance party of eight men ashore, Madoc amongst them.
They found plenty of grassy clearings when they scrambled up the banks above the shore. The ground was firm and well drained, with no swamps. The trees were fairly low and though a number were quite unknown to the Welshmen, there were some familiar types.
‘Just like home … maybe we will see sheep and cattle in the next clearing,’ joked Meirion, as he dumped his coracle on the grass.
Within half an hour, they had discovered a stream of clear water running down to the estuary, a number of bushes with very edible-looking fruit upon them and – best of all – a number of small deer racing away through the trees.
‘We have everything here to survive for ever,’ rejoiced Meirion. ‘Build a few dwellings and we can relax for the rest of our lives.’
Madoc felt equally at ease in these pleasant surroundings.
‘Take the coracles back empty,’ he ordered Meirion. ‘Bring another seven men, but tell Einion to stay with the rest until morning. We can beach the Gwennan Gorn then and bring everything ashore to make a more permanent settlement.’
By noon next day, the vessel was high on the mud of the shore and everyone was busy in the clearing alongside the small stream. Svein lay under a rough shelter of branches and thatch, whilst aparty of men laboured to put up a rude hut of poles and branches, big enough to shelter all of them for the night.
Another group had gone off with bows and arrows to hunt deer, while the remainder, including the silent Alun, collected firewood and carried up the remaining stores and empty boxes from the ship.
That night, they ate the best meal since leaving Wales, three months before. There was venison, trout from the pools higher up the stream, fish caught on lines off the beach and fruit that looked sufficiently like wild strawberries to risk being used as a dessert.
After the meal, the thirty men sat around the blazing fire, with full stomachs and contented hearts. Even Alun could find little to complain about under his breath.
There was singing and joke-telling, almost as if they were back on the slopes of Snowdonia. Madoc took out his precious crwth – a small stringed instrument, part-harp, part-zither. Another man had a pibgorn, a type of flute with a cow’s horn at the end and, between them, they made sweet music that put the finishing touches to the celebration.
‘We are in a far land, Madoc,’ said Einion nostalgically. ‘This seems a paradise second only to our native Cymru.’
Madoc nodded in the firelight. ‘More of a paradise, for, so far, it has not been marred by the presence of men,’ he said rather, bitterly. ‘I fled not from Wales, Einion, but from those who make her hell to live in.’
Einion nodded. ‘But they seem a long way off now, brother,’
Madoc fervently agreed. ‘They are a long way off, no man has ever been farther from the shores of Gwynedd than we. By my calculations, we must have travelled some four or five thousand miles to get here.’
‘And still have not fallen off the edge of the earth!’ chuckled Meirion, who sat near them.
The evening moved into deep night, as they talked out their experiences and expurgated their past fears on the great ocean.
The fire crackled and glowed and the talk, stories and low singing carried on for hours until one by one, they pillowed their heads on the soil of this new land and went back to Wales in their dreams.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Two weeks later, the whole party moved camp to a place some miles higher up the river. As soon as they had settled in the clearing, Madoc sent foraging and exploring parties out, to find the lie of the land and obtain a good stock of game.
He went with one of the groups on an expedition up the bank of the river. They took two of the four coracles and made their way up the western side of the estuary for about twelve miles. Here the two banks began to close in on each other, though the land was still fairly flat.
The river started to divide, with large islands splitting it up into a number of separate channels. They began to explore one of these, but they became uneasy at being so far from the ship and the camp. The trip was worth the effort, as they came across a perfect campsite a few miles downstream from the place where the channels began to diverge.
This was a low spur sticking out from the otherwise regular line of the shore. There was a flat, grassy top to it and a sizeable river running down on one side to join the main estuary. It was well above any possible flood level and was elevated enough to give a good view in all directions. Moreover, because of the promontory running a few hundred yards out into the river, the water was deeper and the ship could be anchored literally within a stone’s throw of the camp.
Perhaps subconsciously, the site reminded the Welshmen of the typical hilltop fortification in their native land where, since early Celtic times, the tops of mountains and hillocks had been ringed with palisades against both human and animal marauders.
The day following their expedition, the ship was loaded up again and everyone clambered aboard. Svein, slowly mending, was able to walk to a coracle and be hauled up by willing hands onto the deck for the short journey up river.
When the tide began to flow, the Gwennan Gorn came off the mud and caught the remnants of the morning breeze to start herupstream. The incoming flood tide took her much of the way and, by mid-afternoon, she was snugly anchored under the spur of the land, which the men already jokingly called Castell Newydd – the new castle.
Once more, everything was offloaded, this time into the coracles, as the water was too deep to wade, even at low tide.
On the top of the ridge, they cut down a few stray saplings that were dotted across the grassy top of the ridge and began making a more permanent camp than they had at the other site.
Within three weeks, they had a palisade of posts and brushwood encircling an area some fifty yards across, with a large thatched hut in the centre. Around this were a few smaller shelters, some little more than a sloping roof of branches with a weatherproof covering of turf, stones and interlaced twigs. There was a gap in their fence, which was closed at night by dragging a hurdle of branches lashed together into a crude gate.
On the evening that the construction work was finished, Madoc ordered anespecially lavish meal, with as much meat as every man could eat. Afterwards, around the usual great fire on the stone hearth outside the ‘hall’, there was no music or stor
ytelling but a more solemn occasion.
Madoc stood up.The red light flickered on his tall, spare figure as he looked around at the circle of expectant faces.
‘Friends, we have been on this new soil for almost five weeks. We have done well, we have built soundly and we are well set for survival. But we have said nothing, whatever we have thought in our hearts, about what is to happen next.’
There was a low mutter of agreement. The men recognised that Madoc was at last bringing into the open the thoughts and fears that they had been pushing into the backs of their minds. They wanted to be led, to be invited to loosen their tongues, so that they could see themselves what secret feelings they possessed.
‘The Gwennan Gorn, the best ship in the world, brought us here safely. This is an immense land – though we have but scratched its skin with our explorations, I know we all feel in our deepest souls that here is no island, but some vast country. Perhaps it is another part of that country which Svein Olafsen’s countrymen found in the north, many years ago. Perhaps we shall never know how huge this land really is. But we haveto decide what we are to do about this new-found land.’
He saw Svein listening intently, lying propped on a heap of dry grass. On the other side of the fire, behind all the other men, was Alun, as silent and withdrawn as ever.
Meirion, by now tacitly acknowledged as the leader of the crew, under the more aristocratic trio of Madoc, Einion and Svein, spoke up.
‘What choices have we, arglwydd?’ he asked.
‘I see three things we can do,’ replied Madoc. ‘We can all stay here indefinitely or we can all get aboard the Gwennan Gorn and sail away hoping to find Wales once more.’
‘And the third?’ asked someone.
‘Some can stay here, some can go home.’
There was a silence whilst they all digested these alternatives.
‘We are thirty men, sitting on this hilltop,’came the voice of Svein. It had regained a little of the old strong rumble, Madoc was pleased to hear. ‘Thirty men, I repeat … not many to start a new nation.’
Madoc Page 18