A Place of Meadows and Tall Trees (16 page)

  They are aching: sore, chafed where they rub against the saddle or where sweat drips. Silas is tired of turning his head, tired of checking. He slumps with every footfall of the mare, until he feels himself in danger of falling, and forces himself back into his saddle. At the back of his head an ache is spreading over his skull. It is the strain of knowing they are being watched. He knows the eyes are still there. He can feel them on the back of his head. But he is tired of waiting for something to happen. He droops again.

They have been climbing for the last two days, but now, still keeping close to the river, they start to climb more steeply. The wind is stronger with more frequent gusts and the air is cooler. Plants cling more tightly to the ground, and in each depression there are the remains of winter ponds, crusted with salt, the footprints of birds like perfectly preserved fossils at the edges.

The summit of this hill leads on to a higher one and then beyond that to a hill that is even higher. Both horse and rider pant. The air must be thin. Silas looks around him. The land is bare – just rocks and sand. He sits up, feels oddly jubilant. They are almost at the highest point now. Something lifts from him as he realises. No longer the watched but the watchers. High and invincible. A view that stretches for miles. Nothing can touch them.

‘Closer to God!' Jacob cries out. He turns to Silas and John. ‘He has delivered us,
brodyr
! You see? Our faith has been rewarded.'

The valley spreads out before them to the east. From here it looks misleadingly lush, much greener than the higher land that surrounds it.

‘Our promised land,' Jacob says happily.

They have reached the end. Above them the river forces a way through a sheer-sided granite block and there appears to be no way through. Even so they attempt to scramble up and succeed in peering through a narrow gap. The land continues to rise in barren slopes towards distant mountains.

Jacob climbs higher up the rock face, reaches the end of a spur and pauses. Silas can see his jacket riding up and then down again as he breathes. He is only halfway to the top, with a great mass of rock still above him, but he plants his feet out wide as if he has conquered something significant and grins down on them. ‘You see, the Lord has thought of everything. He has given us a haven. No one can get through here. We are quite alone in our paradise! Praise be to His name!'

It takes some time for the rest of the people to assemble. The crops that seemed to be thriving by the river a short time ago are withering, but no one understands why; some of the colonists have been trying to save them by adding a little manure from the pig pen to enrich the soil, but it has proved hopeless. They are hot, tired and dirty but at the sight of Jacob they brighten – the fact that he and his companions have returned so quickly must be good news.

Caradoc dismisses Silas and John with a small wave of his stick, and Jacob is invited to the front to speak for all of them. Silas glowers, attempts to correct the inaccuracies in Jacob's account, which are many, but each time his words are swept away by Caradoc's hand. ‘It will be less confusing if only one speaks,' he says, and motions for Jacob to finish.

‘The end of the valley is impenetrable,' Jacob says. ‘It rises in a great mass that no man can cross.'

Silas looks around. Everyone seems to be smiling – even Megan. He tries to catch her eye but she is watching her brother with a studied determination.

‘So we are quite safe. There will be no attack from the west. The Lord has seen to that,' Jacob concludes and sits down with his arms folded.

‘But they can come from the north or the south,' Silas protests, ignoring Caradoc's glare. ‘There are breaks... in the escarpments... between the cliffs. Places easily breached. We saw them again and again. Why don't you tell them about that, Jacob? Have you caught the
Meistr
's disease of never speaking the truth?'

Caradoc frowns at Silas and tuts. ‘There is no need for that, Mr James.'

Silas looks around him; the majority are listening to him, so he continues, ‘There are places where a whole army of savages could break through, as quickly as they like, and the first we'd know about it would be an arrow in the back, or a knife at our throat when we woke.'

A woman at the back gives a small wail.

‘You are upsetting people,
bachgen
. There's no need for that.'

‘But Jacob is giving a false impression. The Indians could be at our doorstep any day they choose.'

Jacob's face reddens. At his waist the finger of one hand points half-heartedly in Silas' direction. His voice, when it comes, is high and strained. ‘Which is why I am about to tell you my plan, if you would just pause for a while to hear what I have to say. We should spread out, take the land allotted to us and spread out along the valley. The Lord has given us this land, so it is up to us to guard it and ensure it is safe.'

‘But surely you're not proposing we risk the women and children...'

‘But Silas,' Caradoc says, ‘your journey has told us the valley is empty for now.'

‘But we didn't search everywhere.'

  Caradoc raises his voice and talks over him. ‘Whichever way the Indians come, we'll keep a watch for them… warn each other, have a series of fires as they did in earlier times...'

‘But what if we don't see them?' A few people around him mumble their agreement.

‘We can't miss a whole tribe of people,' Caradoc says firmly, and for a few minutes everyone is quiet, looking from Silas to Caradoc.

‘Well, I think it's hopeless,' Mary says at last, ‘but I'll make sure that husband of mine builds a pyre, now he's back. It'll stop him getting in my way...'

Up until now the only structures that have been built outside Rawson have been shelters – one-roomed affairs, crudely built on the higher land out of reach of the river – just a place for a man to shelter from the wind, rain and sun when he goes out to his land to tend it. But now they are beginning to extend them in stone and brick, a bedroom and then a scullery with two or three cottages clustered together to form a hamlet where one colonist's land meets another.

Joseph Jones comes running and yelling along the path from the beach, followed by his oldest brother and sister, all three of them running, ‘A ship, a ship! Mam says to come at once!'

All is not well. This stretch of water with its treacherous sandbank has already claimed one ship. The Jones family are already there yelling warnings, the eldest three charging along the beach waving anything they can find, but if the captain can see, there seems to be little he can do.

A gust of wind drives her suddenly closer and there is a loud splintering and then a crash and the three youngest Jones children cover their ears.

‘Can't we do anything?' Jacob asks. He shifts from one foot to the other. ‘They might go under. They might all die.'

But all they seem to be able to do is watch while the ship comes closer and the splintering louder.

‘Go back!' yells Jacob, gesturing with his arms. ‘Back!'

But the ship comes closer still.

‘What's that captain doing?' Caradoc asks, ‘can't he bring her about?' Then he starts to wave and shout too, his stick describing directions in the air.

Silas watches with his arms folded. It will do no good. He remembers Gidsby saying that a ship in tight waters like these is as unpredictable and as uncontrollable as a woman. Steer one way and she'll go the other.

But this ship seems to pause and a small boat is dropped over the side.

‘Selwyn!' Jacob cries and they all run down to the side of the river to help him ashore.

‘Where's everyone else? Where's Edwyn?'

‘Buenos Aires,' he says. His mouth opens to say more but Annie forces her way through to hug him. ‘Selwyn!' she says, ‘have you missed me?'

‘But where's Edwyn?' Jacob asks plaintively.

Annie swings round to face him. ‘Leave him be now. Plenty of time for him to answer questions later.' Then turning to brush some dust from Selwyn's jacket, she picks up one of his bags. ‘I baked some bread this morning. Are you hungry?' Then, without waiting for a reply, grabs him by the arm, marches him back to the village.

The ship is laden with supplies he tells them later, as soon as Annie allows him to speak. ‘They've agreed to a grant,' he says, ‘£140 a month – so I bought us some more transport. Nice little ship, at least she was – called her the
Denby
. The
Maria Theresa
barely made it into port.'

Caradoc taps Selwyn lightly on his arm with his stick. ‘You've done well,
bachgen
. A good ambassador.'

But later Selwyn admits that it was the
Meistr
who was mainly responsible for this coup – stubbornly demanding day after day to see Dr Rawson and then the British Consul until something was arranged.

‘Where is he? Why didn't he come back?'

‘I don't know… something to do with Cecilia. He talked about sending her back.'

That night the colonists celebrate with singing and a feast of new food. It is January at last and 1866 has started well. Soon they will start sowing wheat again, earlier this time, that way the shoots might have a chance to establish themselves before it becomes too cold. They toast Selwyn and then Dr Rawson.

‘And Edwyn Lloyd!'

‘Yes, indeed – our absent friend!'

The merest mention of his name and the colonists are clapping and cheering. It is as if that meeting a few months ago never happened.

Megan shifts beside him and leans her head against him with Myfanwy asleep on her lap. He draws her to him and feels a comfort in their warmth in his arms.

‘All's well,' he tells her, trying to mean it.

She smiles and nods but it is just her mouth that changes, nothing else. It is as if he can see the thoughts flicker over her face. He holds her closer, but there is nothing he can do to make them go away.

Seannu and her sisters grumble. It is not time for us to move, Tezza says. We are getting too old. Then, when I tell them where I want them to go, they protest more loudly still. That is not our place, Yeluc. It is not where we go. It is not time. The spirits will be angry. But Mareea begins to pack away her skin, and presently Tezza joins her, muttering under her breath and shaking her head. You're trouble Yeluc. That's what they say, and they're right.

But then Seannu comes smiling from the
toldo
, big gaps in her mouth where her teeth have gone, her little dog in her arms. Maybe we can trade, Tezza, she says. Maybe they will take some of our skins and those feathers Mareea found. We could buy tea, cloth, sugar.

Then Tezza nods at the thought and begins to loosen the poles of the
toldo
. Yes, trade, she says. And I can see she is thinking about what she will buy.

Then they dismantle the
toldo
, put out the fire, lash everything we own onto the horses and slap them into a trot.

Where now? asks Tezza when everything is ready.

Just down the trail and to where the sun rises, I tell them. Where the Chubut curls before it meets the sea.

Where Si-las is, Seannu says, is that it? And she looks at me with her eyes narrow.

Yes, I say, I need to see what they do. I need to let our tribesmen know I am with them. I need to know they are safe.

It is May and every day the wind blows a little colder. As soon as the sun drops behind the mountains far to the west the coldness starts to penetrate and lasts well into the next day. A week ago they finished clearing the land of the shoots that withered away over the summer, and have sown more seeds directly on top. Since then there has been a fine rain.

Silas, Megan and Myfanwy walk along the riverbank. As they pass the patches of cultivated land, Megan inspects the ground on either side. ‘Something's growing again, look.'

Here and there are small spikes of green. They look fragile as if the smallest wind will sweep them away.

At last Selwyn has married Annie. Since he's returned from Buenos Aires she has rarely been from his side, escaping from her domestic chores at every opportunity, enticing him with her voluptuous charms, until they now seem one being instead of two, his hands constantly guided along some part of her ample anatomy until he goes an inch too far and is slapped back into place.

As Selwyn had promised the service has been short and songs are about to follow. No drink of course, but he has promised there will be enough meat to fill everyone's stomach. Instead of waiting with everyone else, Megan had suggested they take a walk to try and take their minds off their stomachs. But now, as they approach, Silas thinks he can smell bread baking and the fragrance of something sweet and his stomach rumbles. He thinks of cake, the sort his mother used to bake at Christmas when she had the money – dark and full of fruit.

Megan has stopped to inspect one of the small plants. She lets go of Myfanwy's hand and the child runs ahead of them. As the child heads for the river she threatens her gently: ‘I'll let you go, but you stay away from the river, understand? If you fall in there, it'll carry you away and no one will be able to save you.'

The little girl nods seriously, regards the river for a few seconds then runs along the path keeping pointedly away from the side.

Silas looks around them. Sometimes the desolation beyond the river overwhelms him. Beyond the fringes of the riverbank where they have planted the seed there is nothing but bare ground and scrubby vegetation. How could Edwyn not have seen? How could he bring them here and then go? The man has escaped to where everything is much more pleasant and civilised and abandoned them here in this: a wilderness with poisonous soil. Maybe he is not even in Buenos Aires any more but has accompanied Cecilia back to Wales. Wales. Sometimes he wants to go back so much it feels like an ache somewhere deep inside, close to his stomach. If Edwyn Lloyd's wife has returned then so – somehow – can Megan and Myfanwy.

Myfanwy has stopped ahead of them and is sitting on the ground waiting for them to catch up. Beside her is the
Denby
. It is still beached on the riverbank because no one has the energy and inclination to mend her. Silas stares at it, considering. Maybe he could persuade John and Selwyn to help him. Together they could make her seaworthy. Surely they could get her up to Patagones just up the coast, just a few hundred miles, and from there they could find a passage too, if not to Wales then to somewhere else.

‘Silas! Why don't you answer me?' Megan stands in front of him. ‘You're not listening. Why do you never listen?' She grabs Myfanwy's hand and strides on ahead.

They have almost reached the fort now; the earth walls seem smaller than they were, but the cannons are still in position – small pompous things, incapable of anything much except a loud noise. Over the last few months more cottages have been built outside the fort, on the higher ground, further from the river. It is quiet. At the entrance the mud is churned up as though there has been a horse stampede. Silas looks at it, and then glances at Megan who returns his puzzled expression; they don't have that many horses. They walk more slowly. Megan calls Myfanwy to come back to them and then grabs her – with her other hand she reaching for Silas. ‘Look,' she whispers.

But he has seen already.

Four tall Indians, one old man and his women, are walking, silently and haughtily, leading horses and clutching to themselves long cloaks of supple-looking skins decorated in faint daubs of red and yellow. It is too late to run; the Indians have half turned to look and are watching Silas and his small family approach. All they can do is keep on walking.

The colonists seem transfixed: Caradoc, Jacob and the bridegroom at the front in a line. All of them are still in their Sunday best. The new Mrs Williams has put flowers in her hair since the service to match her pale-coloured dress. It is a maiden's dress of fine cotton, and looks incongruous below her worn face and matronly body. Her chest swells from her waist rather like the chest of a strutting army officer or cockerel. She stands only just behind Selwyn beside Mary Jones and looks by far the fiercest of anyone there. Her face is scarlet and even from here Silas can hear her breathing noisily in and out. Perhaps she is annoyed that they have interrupted her wedding day. It is too late to bring out their guns. No one dare move. Instead, for a few minutes, they stay where they are, staring at each other. It is just as he said, although he is too frightened to feel triumphant; the Indians have crept up without warning. How long will it be before they summon the rest of their tribe and finish the business? Everyone knows what they do – kill the men and take the women and children as slaves. But when the Indians come to a halt in front of the three men they do nothing – just wait expectantly and silently.

Silas inspects them carefully. Their cloaks are held in place with their folded arms. The dun-coloured leather is decorated in splodges of chalky-looking pigment and joined together in a complicated pattern of shapes. Around the neck is a collar of fur that obviously continues inside the hide. The hair is held back with cloth bands, dirty looking, and the women's hair is arranged in two braids, like a child's. The older woman's hair is almost white and divided at the centre while the two younger women have darker hair cut off in the front to form an uneven fringe. All four of them are frowning as if the sun is in their eyes. They do not look friendly.

‘We have nothing,' Annie says, ‘you might as well go on your way. You'll get nothing from us.'

Caradoc looks at her sharply. The woman is unpredictable, rough, inclined to say what she thinks without much prompting. Silas has heard that she is used to fighting; a servant in some place that was close to being a brothel, before she was adopted by the family who brought her here.

‘Go on, off with you!'

Again there is just the sound of the river gently murmuring. Then one of Mary's babies gives a short wail and this seems to nudge the old Indian into speaking. His words come out slowly, creaking from him like twisted pieces of metal. He holds his hand to his mouth.

‘Heathen words,' Mary whispers loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘they make no sense.'

But Jacob tips his head to one side slightly then smiles in triumphant recognition. ‘I think they want some bread, I heard a word, something like
pan
,' he says. ‘It's a bit like Latin, I think they must be talking in Spanish.'

The Indian speaks again, and this time Selwyn looks at Jacob and nods. ‘Part Spanish, part something else.'

A new waft of sweetness reaches them. The Indians must know what it is, and what it means. No doubt they have tasted bread when they have traded with the settlers in Patagones. Mary sends Miriam into the warehouse where the cakes and bread are cooling and she returns with a small loaf in a cloth – a plait of dough with a brown and glossy top. The smell and sight of it makes each stomach grumble. Caradoc holds out his hands to receive it but she ignores him. Silas smiles. The girl is confident to the point of being brazen. She walks quickly up to the Indian and holds out the loaf. She is as tall and leggy as the tallest of his wives. He steps forward and takes it carefully in his hands as though it is a baby. Then he examines it, turning it over and over, holding it up to his nose and then holding it at arm's length and examining it again. Then he nods, breaks off a piece and passes it to one of his women, the woman that seems his equal in age with grey in her braids and a face as crumpled as last year's windfall. She chews and smiles and murmurs something to him then he breaks off another larger piece and feeds himself and then the other two younger women. He nods to Miriam and she goes back to stand next to her mother. Then he offers a piece to Caradoc.

If Caradoc were a bird he would be preening himself now, smoothing out his feathers and looking around him. Some of the fibres in his green suit are iridescent in the sun. He holds up his head, seems to swagger without moving much from where he stands. Obviously he thinks this token of bread is an acknowledgement that he is in charge. He looks around at Selwyn and then Jacob and Silas to see if they've noticed, which of course they have. They watch him break off a piece and put it in his mouth. He smiles. ‘Good,' he says, ‘well done, Mary. Good bread.'

The Indian, still chewing slowly, walks away from the fort followed by his women. Then, a few paces behind, come Caradoc, Jacob, Mary and Miriam. Selwyn waits for Annie, reaches up to put his arm around her shoulders, and then they walk forward together, with the rest of the colonists. The Indian walks a few paces onto the ground beside the fort. The earth is hard, but here and there are small aromatic bushes. He turns to squat before one that is still bright with old yellow flowers. Then he motions to the two younger women who gather up small bundles of dried-up twigs from around the other bushes. They bring them to the old man who is tapping out sparks from two stones he has removed from his saddlebag. Eventually the tinder catches light and the flames of yellow blossom are replaced with the bigger blooms of a small fire. After several minutes it burns down and the air is thick with scented smoke. There is no wind and so it ascends in a diffuse column. The Indian folds his arms. He seems to be looking for something – first in the hills to the north and then the west. Silas looks too, but there seems to be nothing there, just the lifeless slopes with their salt-like screed of fine rubble. But the Indian seems to be happy. He nods slowly and walks back into the fort.

The settlers follow in silence. Silas grabs hold of Megan's arm with one hand and Myfanwy's with the other. He will not let them go. Never. Not even if the Indians come. Even if they come at him with spears and arrows. With his last breath he will hold on. He looks again to the hills to see if he can see anything move, but it is perfectly still. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. If the Indians were coming, if they were riding towards them whooping, surely they would see them. He wishes he had his gun. Silas can see Selwyn looking, wondering too – what if they were to jump on him now and wrestle him to the ground? What would happen then? Would the rest of the Indians see? Would they come streaming from the hills? The old man and his women stop beside their horses at the entrance to the fort. They seem to be waiting for something. They look at the settlers and the settlers look back. For a few seconds nothing happens. Then Jacob swoops forward and grabs the Indian's hand, shakes it vigorously and lets it go. ‘Pleased to meet you,' he says.

The Indian inspects his hand for a few seconds and then looks at Jacob. Then he reaches forward and grabs Jacob's hand back, shakes it hard and lets it go again.

Jacob grins and holds out his arms suddenly so the Indian flinches back. ‘Come,' Jacob says, beckoning them forward with both arms, ‘follow me.' He turns, walks into the fort for a few feet and then turns and beckons again with his hand. The old Indian looks at his oldest woman who nods briefly with her head, and then he follows behind Jacob, into the warehouse.

Inside the barn someone has managed to find tablecloths to lay over the boxes and cases to make them look like tables, and on them are several loaves of bread thinly sliced for the wedding, some jars of jam, some honey oozing from its small comb on a plate, and some sugar. There are also some big teapots and an assortment of mugs and cups. Some of the adults gasp while the children just stand silently and point – it's been a long time since there was so much to eat and drink. Jacob smiles and urges the Indians forward. ‘Come, eat,' he says, but the Indians do not move. ‘Eat!' he says, miming with his hands and mouth, but still they stand. The two younger women with the dark, partly shorn hair talk quietly to each other.

So Jacob tries again, walks up and down past the table, naming the bread, the jam, the honey, then when they still do not move, their faces motionless and impossible to read, he takes a few small slices on a plate with a spoonful of honey and hands it around, repeating the words slowly as if they are young children: ‘
Bara a mêl, bara a mêl
.'

The Indians' tent is pitched close by the river. Silas watches them assemble it using poles and skins. It seems to be the job of the two younger women, hammering one line of poles and then another, one row higher than the next until the highest row forms the opening. Then they take vast skins and throw them over the poles, anchoring the edges down with small rocks. It is a curious thing, like a cup half buried in the ground, one side open towards the sea and away from the wind from the west. As soon as the awning is assembled the two women begin to gather tinder for a fire, while the older woman unloads pots and more skins from the horses. At first the old man does little but sit on the ground near where the fire is being built and smokes a long pipe, but then he removes a bag full of tools and sorts them: there are knives and a couple of guns, and several things that Silas cannot identify.