A Place of Meadows and Tall Trees (5 page)

One of the women tuts and Edwyn's face colours slightly. ‘Mr Bowen, you are not to go out there alone.'

But the man doesn't turn.

‘William, come back at once!'

‘Shall I go after him, Edwyn?' Jacob asks, but Edwyn shakes his head. He is still watching the boy go. ‘Such stupidity,' he mutters, then looks at Jacob and smiles. ‘Not yet, my friend. We mustn't allow the reckless actions of one man to threaten the survival of the rest. We must get you ready. Make sure you are all properly equipped.'

Now Lloyd's movements are slightly quicker and more agitated. He makes frequent glances into the desert and when he does so, his fists clench tightly. The
Meistr
is angry, Silas thinks, and trying to conceal it. Silas wonders if anyone else notices the two small lines deepening in the centre of his forehead, or the quiet tutting as he waits for each man to acquire a gun, a ration of food, a blanket, a shovel or spade. When one of the servants asks a question the
Meistr
gives an impatient answer back, and repeatedly punches a fist into his palm as he waits for the man to return with a horse and a barrel of water.

‘Just to tide you over, until you reach the valley,' he says to Jacob, Gidsby has been very kind...'

Jacob looks up, his mouth open. ‘The captain… kind?'

‘Yes, yes. The captain…!' Edwyn retorts. ‘He has kindly loaned us his lifeboat to deliver the rest of our supplies to the valley by sea. The sand bank won't trouble a small boat like that, not like it might ground the
Mimosa
. His men are loading it for us now.'

William Bowen has long disappeared.

‘He should have listened to you,' Jacob says, as one of the women calls after him to come back.

Edwyn waves away his words with an impatient flick of a hand. ‘You must try to catch up with him.' He looks around him. ‘Now, let me see… Mr James?'

Silas turns.

‘I hear you can hold a note.'

Silas nods hesitantly. The last song he sang sent Richard to sleep.

Edwyn inspects his face. ‘What do you say? A song to send our friends and brothers on their way?'

Silas doesn't answer. He looks at the trail of William Bowen's footprints. The sand gradually gives way to a light soil, but the land is desert: cold and dry. He imagines the boy stopping, looking around and realising he is lost.

‘Maybe if we make enough din, he'll hear us.'

Maybe William Bowen is already cold, shivering, walking frantically around in circles…

The children and women are clamouring excitedly around now, exchanging kisses and hugs with those about to depart. It is becoming noisy – the laughs are too loud, and the conversation is beginning to have a frantic and desperate edge.

‘Silas, a song, if you please,' Edwyn interrupts loudly, and there is quiet.

Silas looks around. Every eye is on him.

‘Just a note we need,' Jacob says, ‘to get us going.'

‘Dadda?' Myfanwy is at his side. ‘Are you going to sing?'

Silas takes a breath. How can he refuse. His voice wavers and almost stops. It's been so long. He swallows away the hurt, and tries again. By the time he reaches the end of the fourth line he is caught up in it. He opens his mouth wider: ‘
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
…'

It always finds him: this joy springing up from somewhere, this sound that makes him feel powerful. They are all joining in now, each face transformed. This elation – they all feel it: eyes shut, mouths wide open – each man, each woman. Even Edwyn is swaying in time with the song, his voice strong and controlled. It is as though, just for that instant, they have become a single being with one voice.

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.

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.