Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems

by Lynette Roberts

  For unknown to the four

  The Government soldiers had camped near

  And broken Indian law.

  Suspicion grew, and Evans turned,

  Back to Lepá with Hughes:

  ‘We’d better turn as fast as we can

  It’s the Canyon Carbon we’ll choose.’

  Evans:

  The Tehuelche Indians think we’re spies:

  Or have seen us sift for gold.

  We’ll cross north of the Chubut River

  And leave these veins of gold.’

  Overawed with rocks of wrath

  The blood tint shadowed with vultures,

  We soon were filled with fear and foreboding

  Of Indian scalps and tortures.

  With no shoes, the hoofs were bleeding,

  Parry and Hughes collapsed.

  They took fresh mounts and strapped the men

  With cinch and hide to the packs

  And drove them forward with the mare

  Taking the stony route,

  To leave no trace and ride through streams

  Not to disturb a root.

  So they entered the Canyon Carbon,

  And rested dog and mount,

  Cutting sharp flints from out of the hoofs,

  Helping the sick dismount,

  Passing the maté gourd on its round,

  Nervous, too weak to eat;

  Hanging harness and skins on poplars;

  No rest for days, dead beat.

  They spoke of home, Trelew, Rawson:

  Hughes:

  ‘They’re gathering fuel stalks

  With sheepskin gloves to avoid the thorns.’

  ‘The shrilling wind through the hawks.’

  Hughes:

  Davies:

  [Quietly and with emotion.]

  ‘Wonder how my ‘china’ is?’

  (joking, ‘china’ means Spanish girl)

  Evans:

  ‘The corn with bad harvest

  And all that irrigation we did.’

  Parry:

  ‘The mare won’t sleep or rest

  One ear forward and one ear back

  She knows an Indian death.’

  Hughes:

  ‘What’s that?’ ‘To one man dead they kill

  Parry:

  ‘Fifty living horses… death

  Is Alhuemapu. Around the square grave,

  Standing dead on their legs,

  They wait to carry their skeleton riders

  To heaven on stilted pegs.’

  Quickly, Davies:

  ‘Loók at this skéleton with an árrow in his ríb!’

  Slowly, Evans:

  ‘The Malónes were a terrible race.

  They killed at sight, but here we’re safe

  Under the Évil Spírit’s rockfáce.’

  V

  They dozed, and at dawn were hungry, but moved –

  They packed away their guns

  And set off towards the Vale of Kel Kein.

  The sheepdog turns and runs

  As Evans, set on his favourite steed

  Raced to get fresh food.

  He returned with cavies tied to his horse

  And knew the food was…

  A piercing yell! The Indians’ War Cry! –

  Spears and bodies jerked high,

  As they leapt to their mounts unseen till now

  In pampas grass or sky.

  A flurry of frenzied beasts shot out,

  Evans:

  [Here speaks in action and in galloping away from the Indians and attacked by them as he speaks, he can only get quick glimpses of his friends. The speech though still in lines of 4 and 3 feet is therefore disjointed.]

  And clouds of dust. ‘We were stunned!

  Our horses leapt in terror they were through

  The tropilla on top of us, stunned, –

  With hardly a glance – Parry seated

  With a spear in his side – at the rear

  Young Davies falling a lance splintered through

  His neck… I pushed the spear

  And down… just in time, the Indians missed

  Hughes? at that moment the point

  Of a lance, cut my arm and I spurred

  And lashed the horse… the joint

  Read with speed and smoothly but accentuating change of 4–3 feet lines from iambic to anapest

  –.|–.|–.|–.

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  Of my arm held.’ A powerful plunge,

  Eyes out, the terrified steed

  He then bolted, to the hills, to the peak, with the Indians

  Pursuing, with neck breaking speed,

  And the tossing, of his mane, and the foam, as it floated,

  As they raced, to the chasm, only proved,

  That he flew, with a speed, that he could, not exceed,

  Even so, Evans lashed, as he moved,

  For a húndred yards ahéad, the dárk gorge gróws,

  The precipice expands,

  The horse flying leapt into the air… apart…

  They landed on trembling sands.

  Then mounted again without looking round;

  Climbing with loosening pack,

  As lóoser rócks fell dówn on thém

  The Indians halted. Turned back.

  Read with pronounced trotting rhythm, 4 and 3 feet lines of trochees

  –.|–.|–.|–.

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  Their yells echoed, but they would not jump:

  Two times, three times, four and

  Evans let his horse now trot, and

  Owl flew in his lap, and

  Swível-ling her head she hoot-ed

  Stumbling horse, but Ev-ans

  Nothing noticed, on he rode, the horse did

  Trot with two winged orphans

  To a saline lake the black silt cracked,

  The water powdered white;

  Through vampire flies, and stench and slime,

  To air so fresh and light

  That held caranchos and vultures circling

  Pin pointed to their prey,

  Above this Valley of Kel Klein

  Now five salt miles away.

  Evans:

  ‘Bydd myrdd o ryfeddodau’

  (This was the actual hymn which was sung in the Valley.)

  O mutilated beyond all rage:

  His three friends dead, and the sight

  And lament of their dogs graying the air

  With necks stretched out to night.

  His noble steed drooped. The sedge

  Half buried in sand, cut

  His hoofs while salt lay raw on the wounds

  He’d climb and take the rut

  Towards the marsh to water his beast

  Before the desert plains.

  A cloud of crimson wings arose

  The flamingoes flushed up rains

  And sprays of water over the two; –

  Tired and solemn with pain.

  The green shadow caught in the leaves

  Ease the throbbing brain

  As it shuttles out vision after vision, taut

  From the haunted mind;

  His friends neglected by him, yet close,

  As orange fruit to rind;

  Evans:

  Read with sense of peace.

  With what térror they hád fled as ‘dóves before háwks’.

  A fox lifted his head

  To swallow evening water the peace vibrating

  As other beasts were led

  To lift their muzzles, masks and beaks

  To some unknown grace

  Or favoured god: Evans prayed:

  Held a marsh birds face –

  Evans:

  ‘Chorlito’ warm to his hard cracked skin.

  The wild bird circled his sobs,

  And flew in brilliant clouds of r
ainbows

  Above the palpitating throbs

  Of his heart pulsing like a lizard

  On the flowering banks of the lake.

  That night, the horse’s back was raw:

  Into the middle of this lake

  He threw the recado-saddle, it sank

  Like the Golden Statue of Peru

  He greased the forelocks and mounted on sheepskin

  Coaxed the bleeding hoofs through

  The twenty miles of waterless land.

  He took the stiff route

  Avoiding the trail: then dismounted and walked:

  And after a compass dispute

  With stars, lead El Malacara

  Towards the Iamacan:

  So high: so dry: so lonely: that a Spirit

  Gripped his will and he ran

  With madness over the plain seeing

  High hipped sloths and curs

  That blot out his brain, blackness

  Swirls forward and unfurls

  A South West Wind as it rushes driving

  Before it screeching birds

  Caught up faster than sound driven

  From miles around, the lake birds,

  The herds hit by the hail, the horse,

  Evans beside it, fell,

  They clung as one drowning, the rising sand

  Hid them like a spell.

  Then found them at sunrise like a thirsty boulder

  Set in the sand. For miles

  And miles wounded and dead now lay

  In desolate sandbaked piles.

  VI

  Bones of Toxodons bleaching the sky,

  Exposed by drifts of sand,

  Stratas of quartz and fossils brought

  The eight footed horse to hand.

  Pumas, rheas, armadillos hit

  By hail as large as eggs

  By the atomic hand of God, lacerated,

  Groaning with broken legs.

  He stumbled out to get away,

  He saw fresh grass, a green spread

  Through the haze of his eyes, green water,

  But the parroquets lay dead:

  Their wings scattered green all over the plain.

  He tugged and pulled at his horse:

  For miles he faltered bent like a hag

  His twenty years bent to the course.

  The horse as though their fate were known,

  Pressed on, his tongue now hanging

  And swollen, sucking the dry stones for moisture,

  Limps white-eyed to the spring.

  The canyon grew higher and redder as they neared,

  A rider stood still on the ridge:

  Evans laughed but made no sound;

  Evans watched that ridge.

  And watched that rider. Should he move

  Evans – would – not show?

  The rider from the Welsh Colony

  Watched in the valley below.

  A team of guanacos. He saw Evans.

  He trembled at the tale.

  Muttered between sips of water:

  He trembled at the tale,

  And wail of absence of all. He took

  El Malacara; gave Evans

  His mount and favoured his return to Trelew;

  He’d wait for the wagon vans.

  Down towards the Chubut River

  Past the Iamacan,

  Evans sought the Indian trail

  Like the fox of man.

  It all was known and sweet to him,

  He spun through pampa blasts

  As it flickered high around his horse

  Like a sea of tossing masts.

  Then slower as he journeyed on,

  With sad reflection back,

  No friends, and no madrina bells,

  No flourish of hoofs on the track.

  The Chajá cried into the night,

  A wagon rumbled high

  With twenty horses leading abreast:

  Wistaria spread in the sky.

  As dawn arose, the Settlement,

  So quietly it would seem,

  No herd, or dogs had turned their head,

  It might have never been.

  A child had scampered out of bed

  Curled in the Patio sun,

  With corn cob hair and racoon bear,

  She sang this song to her son.

  ‘A ro ro mi niño,

  A ro ro mi sol

  A ro ro pedazo

  De mi corazon.’

  Patagonia

  From the early maps cut out in wood to those engraved and shining in their original glaze, we are able to trace the first shapes and histories of Patagonia by such distinguished cartographers as Ptolemy, W. Blaeu, and J. Jansson. During this period men of letters also contributed to this early form of documentation, and among them were Sir Walter Ralegh, Sir John Davis, Sir Francis Drake, and Michael Drayton. A.F. Tschiffely in This Way Southward* suggests that Fernão de Magalhaes may have obtained the idea of a sea passage existing between the Pacific and Atlantic Ocean by an early map which was issued in Portugal some years before he made the Strait discovery; and it was this tract of land, named after him as Tierra Magellan, that now exists as Patagonia. Today as we look at these maps, what do we find? Tribal men riding bareback or on saddles of extravagant height; Indians facing and going in no particular direction; sleeping in woven cloths slung to trees; or crouched in groups around a sheep gently cooking over the quiet embers. Monsters and beasts of the sea leer and prowl out of their shaded haunts; the scaled and heavy sea beasts drag their heavy crested tails through the hot dry sand; while the high-hipped Toxodons stand awkwardly out of the sea. Fish fly like birds over the surface of the Ocean. The ship Vittoria harbours triumphantly among the curving scrolls of the cartouche, and the men on this ship, once awake in their time, took back to their families the legends of ostriches, gold-dust, and hardy creollo sheep.

  This afternoon, when I had finished reading This Way Southward, which is a description of a tour made by a Mr Tschiffely around and into the interior of Patagonia and extending as far south as Tierra del Fuego, I was very much aware of this primitive and magical force of life still existing, besides having my own memories of this strange and illusive land. I remembered as well, how W.H. Hudson had called this region his Parish of Selborne and his description of the creollo sheep; Mr Tschiffely’s references to the long bones of Toxodons found in the sand; the woven cloths and guanaco furs pieced together by various Indians; the chapters on the various Tribes he encountered, and with the exception of one misunderstanding, the Indians’ devotion to the Welsh. This incident, and many others of the great hardships which are still endured by such persons as E. Lucas Bridges of Rio Baker, who in our lifetime was forced to suck putrid hide and eat the half-digested food from a guanaco’s stomach, links up with similar hardships which Fernão de Magalhaes had to resort to when he practically starved to death. The author’s best descriptions and sympathy are with these early 130 collected poems Tribes and pioneers; and this is only natural considering that he is, in a sense, a pioneer himself. He writes briefly but well, of the faith shown between the early Welsh Settlers and the preconceived dreaded savage Indians. A number of wild-looking Tehuelche Indians suddenly arrive at the Colony; one of the settlers describes this incident to Mr Tschiffely, and the author writes: ‘He was standing talking to a wild-looking Indian, when to his surprise, one of the Indian women knelt down beside the Welshman to mend his trousers which were torn at the bottom where he had caught them in a bush. Without saying a word, the Indian woman produced a needle, made out of a long thorn, threaded it with some finely cut ostrich sinew, and neatly mended the tear.’

  This act of humility, and the other of faith when the Indians brought the Welsh Colonists a guanaco to cook for them and said they would return to eat it towards the end of a few days; and that it was cooked, and they did return to eat it, shows how well both sides trusted each other. Of the one misunderstanding: this tragedy upset the Indian Chief so much when he heard about it
, that he went in person to apologise to the Welsh members of the Chubut Valley. When Mr Tschiffely wrote about this incident, which to me has all the epic simplicity and intangible wonder of Ibsen’s great plays, the Welshman who had experienced this miracle was still alive. He, and three other settlers, disheartened by a bad harvest, set out to find some gold-dust, and their direction took them towards the foot of the Andes where at that time, Indians were being badly attacked by Argentine soldiers. The Indians met these Welshmen and questioned their direction. They became suspicious, as the Welshmen, unknown to themselves were heading for the soldiers’ camp. They therefore asked the Welshmen, who had never covered this territory before, to return and speak with their Chief. This the settlers promised to do, but on the following day, thinking they were left alone, they suddenly decided to continue as quickly as possible in their original direction. The Indians, suspicious and skulking behind bushes, had seen them: ‘To their horror, the four Welshmen realised that they were being pursued; worse still, that they were cornered at the bend of the river, where deep precipices barred their flight. A number of yelling Indians were rapidly catching up with the terrified fugitives, three of whom were horribly slain. In his terror, John D. Evans, who was in front, riding a swift mustang, made straight for the precipice, across which his gallant animal, obviously realising the danger, made a tremendous leap, thus saving his master’s life, for no Indian had the courage to follow this desperate course.’ Towards the end of his tour, Mr Tschiffely one day entered Trevelin on a Sunday when everybody was at Chapel. On their return from the service, he met Mr Evans who took him out ‘to a shady glade where he halted in front of a big rock on which was carved:

  AQUI YACEN LOS RESTOS DE MI CABALLO EL MALACARA QUE ME SALVO LA VIDA EN ET ATAQUE DE LOS INDIOS EN EL VALLE DE LOS MARTIRES EL 4.3.84 AL REGRESARME DE LA CORDILLERA. R.I.P.

  JOHN D. EVANS.

  (Here lie the remains of my horse ‘Whiteblaze’, who saved my life during the attack of the Indians in the Valley of the Martyrs, on the 4th of March, 1884, as I was returning from the Cordillera.)’

  These accounts of hard and wild life, together with the mystery of much of the unexplored territory in Patagonia, are not sufficient in themselves to represent the modern conditions which exist today, if we are to know the Welsh Colony in its true perspective. We need more sincere travellers like Mr Tschiffely, besides the interpretation and sensibility which distinguished writers, artists and poets could contribute. A more comprehensive and up-to-date index of its natural history is also required. For instance, I have often wondered whether the colder regions of Patagonia ever had butterflies. Then, there is the more progressive side of the Welsh Settlers themselves. The fact that they overcame, and are overcoming, the great shortage of water. How through their tenacious spirit and persistence, over half a million acres of desert land were put under cultivation. How much of the valley – growing part fruit and corn – came into existence by the scientific irrigation system cut out by some of the early Welsh Settlers. Patagonia is no longer a backward sheep-rearing concern isolated from the outside world. They have the oil-field industry, chilled meat factories, fruit, wool, and wheat exports. There are the new methods of collecting water. Santa Cruz has water laid on, and Deseado; others are to follow. Sole reliance of depending on rain water is quickly disappearing, which is more than we can say of our lethargic methods of water collecting in the various rural villages of Wales. The vast lowlying tract of land in Patagonia has lent itself to flying, and many airlines run regularly so many times a week as far South as Tierra del Fuego. In this way both Argentine governed and private planes belonging to families and firms help to make this part of the world, not the most isolated, but the most up-to-date in transport. There could be much improvement in this field; and perhaps after the war, more transport with cargo will be carried by air in this way, overcoming the shortage of ships for export and the lack of good roads. The immediate petrol and tyre shortage will probably be restored at the end of the year. The Welsh people not only have contact with their wireless sets, but often make frequent visits to Buenos Aires. They also have ‘their own unofficial Parliament where important matters are discussed’. And these in Welsh. In fact, the Welsh language does not seem to be dying out as quickly as the English press is inclined to think. The same mistake is made with regard to the Welsh-speaking peoples in Wales. The language which is dying out in the Welsh Colonies both in the Chubut Valley and in the Settlement Colonia 16 de Octubre, is no other than the English language. I wish to make this clear, as Mr Tschiffely has been misquoted on this point. He writes: ‘looking back, it seems incredible that I had to go all the way to Patagonia to learn a few words of Welsh.’ The very fact that Eisteddfods are still held, shows that not only can many of its competitors express themselves in Welsh, whether in the plays, poetry, or choir singing; but that the audience to whom they speak, and the adjudicators themselves, must be fluent in their Cymric tongue. The last of these Eisteddfods was held at Trelew this year, when Evan Thomas of Gaimon, won the Bardic Chair.