Tierra del Fuego

by Francisco Coloane

  We sat down in the little sitting room of the workers’ house. The servant had already made the stove, and it took only one match to give us a decent fire. Handler went out, and soon returned with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  “Let’s have a drink first to kill the worms . . .” he said, smiling for the first time.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But it might be an idea to clear up this mess first and then drink.”

  “All right,” he said, abandoning the bottle reluctantly and sitting down in another chair facing the stove, inside which the fire was already cheerfully throwing up sparks. “But it seems as if you’re the one who’s going to have to clear it up for me!”

  “Handler, do you really not remember anything you did in the last three days?”

  “Nothing at all, I assure you! My last memory is of some kind of diabolical noise, along with the blow on my head when I fell off the horse . . . After that, nothing, until I heard a vague noise of water, which woke me up . . . It was your voices in the canteen, and when it cleared I saw your faces . . . But I swear to you I thought I was still on the ground outside the Milodón Cave!”

  “And you don’t remember the two of us riding together all night?”

  “No.”

  “Or what you told me?”

  “No.”

  “My God, it’s as if you never lived through those three days!”

  “That’s exactly right. For those three days, I have the feeling I wasn’t alive!”

  “You must have been in some kind of other world when I found you beside the fire in the Milodón Cave.”

  “The fire?”

  “You’d made a fire out of dried dung when I found you, and as we sat by it you told me a strange story.”

  “Yes, the floor of that cave has a layer of prehistoric manure some five feet high . . . According to Rudolf Hauthal, the paleontologist, it belongs to gripotherium domesticum, a megather­ium that was domesticated by the interglacial men of Patagonia and confined in the cave as if in a large stable . . . Maybe what I told you has some connection with that?”

  I told Handler everything he had told me, as accurately as I could, just as I have tried to do it here.

  “That’s an amazing story of yours,” he said when I had finished.

  “It’s your story,” I replied. “All I’ve told you is what you told me.”

  “How strange!” Handler said. “That blow to my head would seem to have caused amnesia, but the really strange thing is that what I told you in that state corresponds exactly to Hauthal’s excavations in the Milodón cave at the end of the last century!

  “In fact,” he went on, “Hauthal found two empty burial places, as well as human remains of the prehistoric man who lived in Patagonia. These remains were below the layer of manure, together with those of four animals previously unknown to science, belonging to four different orders. To judge by the skulls that were found, along with other bones and pieces of skin, one of these animals was the size of a rhinoceros and looked more like an anteater than a sloth. Hauthal proved that the cavemen killed this big toothless animal, cut it up and ate it raw, because they didn’t yet know how to use fire. The skulls, which can be seen in the museum at La Plata, and the pieces of skin in the museums at Santiago and Punta Arenas, reveal that they had been killed with blows from clubs and that primitive man used sharp pieces of stone to cut the animals up.

  “Lehman-Nitsche and Santiago Roth studied and classified Hauthal’s discoveries, which included the remains of a giant armadillo and a cat bigger than any previously known.

  “But what most drew the attention of these scientists were the remains of a small horse, which is now known by the technical name onohippidium saldiasi. Even the hooves of this curious animal were found, one of them still including the last phalange with the cartilage and some hair in the root. It was fine hair, bright yellow in color. There’s no doubt that it was a distant ancestor of the horse, which died out in Patagonia leaving only that one trace . . . The horse of the dawn of life!”

  “But what about when you thought ordinary ostriches were great dinosaurs?” I asked, totally spellbound by Handler’s scientific knowledge.

  “Ah!” he said, as if searching in his memory. “Those giant reptiles that used to dominate the whole of Patagonia, which, as you know, is actually an ocean bed, pushed to the surface by seven upheavals! Well, the English scholar Huxley made an important discovery, confirmed later by Scope and other scientists, that these old dinosaurs are the link between certain reptiles and certain birds—birds belonging to the same family as the ostriches, the largest of our living birds.”

  And there Handler broke off, while the fire, although hidden and tamed within its walls of iron, continued blazing wildly.

  HOW THE CHILOTE OTEY DIED

  About nine hundred men met on the Turba Plateau to decide on their next move. They were the only ones left standing from the five thousand who had taken part in the workers’ uprising in the Patagonian territory of Santa Cruz.

  They hid their horses in a depression on the slope and walked to the centre of the high plateau, which rose above the pampa like a solitary island in the middle of a calm, flat, gray sea. The plateau rose to about a thousand feet: it was possible for them to look out over the whole of the surrounding country, especially the ranch buildings, a cluster of red roofs, some three miles to the south, whereas no human eye could have seen them, those nine hundred men gathered on that surface with its large peat bogs and little clearings of tussock grass. Far away, to the west, were the distant blue peaks of the Patagonian Andes, the only things that stood out on that vast horizon.

  The nine hundred men advanced to the centre of one of the peat bogs and sat down on the mounds, forming a dense human ring almost totally camouflaged by the dark color of the peat. In the center of the ring was a small clearing of pampa, where the tufts of grass gleamed like green steel as they moved.

  “Are we all here?” someone asked.

  “Yes!” several of the men replied, looking around as if recognizing each other.

  Many of them had fought against the troops of Lieutenant Colonel Varela’s Tenth Cavalry, but others—survivors of the massacres at Río del Perro and Flood Plain Eleven and other actions fought on the shores of Lake Argentino—were meeting for the first time.

  This lake, set in a pass on the ridge of the Andes, gives rise to the Santa Cruz River, which crosses the wide Patagonian pampa before flowing into the Atlantic. In times long past, there had been a strait here, which had joined the Pacific and the Atlantic, like the present-day Magellan to the south, and had carved in its bed the gigantic flood plains and plateaus that ascend in colossal parallel steps from the river to the high pampa. Thanks to these flood plains on the south bank, the leader of the uprising, a breaker of colts nicknamed Facón Grande, because of the long knife, the facón, he always carried in his belt, had successfully used guerilla tactics to separate the three squadrons that comprised the Tenth Cavalry. Relying more on their bolas, lassos and knives than on the inferior firearms they had at their disposal, they had initially kept Colonel Varela’s forces at bay. The river itself, so deep it was impossible to cross, had often helped Facón Grande and his stockmen, herders and horse breakers to escape from the troops, using fords known only to the Teheuelch Indians and themselves.

  “Looks like it’s going to rain!” a tall, slim horse breaker said.

  Those who were sitting near him looked up at the unsettled sky and saw a heavy storm cloud making its way through the others like a big black bull.

  “The rain won’t get as far as here!” said a small man with clear, watery eyes and a face blue with cold, wrapping himself in his thin white canvas poncho.

  The breaker turned his dark, angular face and smiled sardonically at the certainty with which the little man talked about the destiny of a cloud.

  “Let’s wait until it gets here,” he replied. “Then we’ll see!”

  “I bet you it won’t get here,” t
he other insisted.

  “How much do you want to bet?”

  “I have forty nacionales here!” the man in the white poncho replied, taking a few banknotes from his wide belt and putting them down on the grass, under the handle of his riding crop.

  In his turn, the breaker took out some money and put it down next to the other banknotes.

  At that moment, an agile, vigorous man of medium height, about forty years old, got up from the ring of men and walked into the small clearing. He was dressed in the typical uniform of a herder—spurs, short boots with his pants tucked into them, a leather shirt, a neckerchief, a guanaco-skin hat with earflaps to protect against the wind—and behind him, in his belt, was the long knife with its silver handle.

  Facón Grande put his hands in the pockets of his pants and pressed down with his clenched fists, as if leaning on something invisible, then lifted his heels off the ground and swayed a little. He frowned and stared down at the ground. A stronger gust of wind passed over the plateau and the tufts of tussock grass stared back at him with their steely glare. The nine hundred men waited, as quiet and dark as if they were slightly higher mounds of peat.

  Suddenly, they all moved at once and the ring closed in.

  “Right,” the man said, finally stopping his swaying and steadying himself on his feet. “We all know the situation, so there’s no point in wasting words. By tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest, the Tenth Cavalry will have reached the last ranch we still hold. That traitor Mata Negra has probably told them we have to come this way in order to get across the Payne Mountains and reach the border. The ranch owners will have given them fresh horses, whereas ours are exhausted and won’t hold out much longer . . . They’ll surround us and pick us off like baby guanacos. The only thing we can do is hold them off from inside the shearing shed while the rest of us escape through the Payne Mountains.”

  There was some agitation in the ring of men at the word “us” . . . Did Facón Grande, one of the instigators of the uprising on the Santa Cruz River, include himself among those who were supposed to escape across the Payne Mountains, while the others stayed in the shearing shed and kept shooting until they were down to their last cartridge?

  A murmur swept through the dark ring of men like ­another cold gust of wind.

  “Let’s draw lots to see who stays!” one man said.

  “No, not that!” another cried.

  “It has to be of our own free will!” several said.

  “Who is this ‘us’?” another man asked with cold sarcasm.

  Facón Grande rose to his full height, leaned forward like someone walking into a strong wind, and lifted his arms as if calming the air, or as if taking the reins of an invisible horse. The murmuring ring of men fell silent.

  “Those of us who started this have to finish it!” he said in a more subdued voice, which seemed to come from somewhere between his feet, among the mounds of peat. Lifting his heels again, he looked over the heads of the men sitting in the front row, and asked, in a clearer voice, “How many of those from the other side of the Santa Cruz River are left?”

  By way of response, some forty hands rose into the air above the nine hundred heads. Facón Grande raised his, too, holding up the invisible reins, as if he were now about to place his foot in the stirrups of an imaginary horse.

  “What do you think?” the little man in the white canvas poncho said, nudging the breaker of colts beside him, who had been one of the first to put up his hand.

  “There was no other way to do it . . . Facón Grande has done the right thing.”

  “No, I meant about the cloud,” he said, gesturing at the sky.

  “Ah!” the breaker said, also looking up with an ice-cold grimace of surprise.

  Both men could see that the black bull of a cloud had broken and was releasing its contents like a watering can over the plain in the distance. The rain advanced in a gauze of glistening little arrows, but as it approached the edge of the plateau it vanished completely, and all that remained was a gap in the clouds, through which a ray of sunshine passed lighting up the rainy pampa.

  “It’s a nice feeling, watching the rain when you’re dry!” the breaker said sarcastically.

  “Yes, it’s a nice feeling!” the man in the white poncho replied, bending to pick up the money he had won on the bet.

  The men started to disperse through the peat in the direction of the slope where they had hidden their horses. The west wind blew more fiercely through the gap left by the storm cloud, and beneath the clear patch of sky, the bare landscape looked even more desolate.

  There were no farewells of any kind. Those who were leaving for the Payne Mountains looked downcast, more sad than happy to be on their way to salvation in those blue peaks. Facón Grande’s forty stockmen, equally grim-faced, immediately set off on their mission.

  Then, suddenly, from among the multitude heading for the mountains, a rider detached himself and galloped off in pursuit of the stockmen’s rearguard. The members of both groups turned as if in a final parting glance and watched that white canvas poncho flapping in the wind.

  “Another bet?” the breaker asked sardonically, as the man came up alongside him.

  “It’s just that . . .” the man in the poncho said hesitantly.

  “What?”

  “I’m taking your money . . . and you’re staying here to watch my back . . .”

  “You’ll have more use for the money than me!” the ­breaker replied, irritably.

  “Had to be a chilote1 . . .!” one of the other stockmen said roughly, under his breath.

  The little man blinked his light, weak eyes and cringed, as if he had received a violent blow. “Here’s your money!” he replied in a hoarse voice, adding, “I don’t need it either!”

  “A bet is a bet, friend,” another man said. “Take it and go!”

  “What’s the matter with that man?” Facón Grande asked, reining in his horse.

  “It’s gambling money,” the breaker explained. “We bet on a cloud and he won. Now apparently he wants to give it back to me, he thinks I’m going to need it . . . Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “I didn’t turn back because of the money,” the man in the poncho said, turning to Facón Grande. “The thing about the money just came out . . . I came back because I want to fight the Tenth Cavalry.”

  Those who had been listening to this exchange, all the while pretending not to, now turned abruptly to look at the man.

  “But you’re not from the other side of the Santa Cruz River,” Facón Grande said.

  “No. I was a dairy farmer on the Primavera ranch when the uprising started. But I got involved, and here I am. I want to see it through to the end, if you’ll let me.”

  “What do you think?” Facón Grande asked the other men.

  “If it’s what he wants,” several voices replied gravely, “let him stay.”

  Before vanishing into the distance, many of those who were on their way to the Payne Mountains turned to take one last look back, and saw the white poncho bringing up the rear of Facón Grande’s column, flapping in the wind like a great handkerchief waving goodbye.

  By nightfall, they were already entrenched in the ranch’s shearing shed. They had put thick bales of wool at the entrance and exit, with just enough space between them to be able to aim their weapons over quite a wide area. From the outside, though, it would be virtually impossible for anyone to put a bullet in between the gaps in these invincible stockades of wool. They took turns at sentry duty, so that everyone had a chance to get some rest as the night advanced.

  “It’s just stupid pride, getting involved in this!” the ­breaker of colts said to the man in the white poncho, as they put a couple of sheepskins down on the ground beside the stockades.

  “I’ve made my bed,” he replied, “now I have to lie in it!”

  “It rubbed you the wrong way when they said, ‘Had to be a chilote’ . . .”

  “Yes, that did annoy me. Though I’d
already decided to stay when I rode back . . . I want to fight, too! Why not? But tell me something: why do they look down on chilotes around here? Just because we were born on the island of Chiloé? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “No, it isn’t because of that. It’s because chilotes are ­usually the bosses’ lackeys. They make themselves scarce when there’s a strike, and afterwards they’re the first to put their hands out for whatever benefit has been gained . . . It hurt me, too, when the man said, ‘Had to be a chilote,’ because I was born on Chiloé.’”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Tenaún . . . My name’s Gabriel Rivera.”

  “I’m from the island of Lemuy . . . Bernardo Otey, at your service.”

  “How’d someone from Lemuy end up so far inland? The people of Lemuy just hunt seals and otters.”

  “Before long there won’t be any seals and otters left . . . The gringos are finishing them off. It may be a risk, coming over this side of the Gulf of Penas, but I’ve got to, the wife and kids have to eat . . . That’s why people end up here.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Four, two boys and two girls . . . They’re reason enough not to rush into joining any strikes . . . What would they say if they saw me coming home empty-handed? At times, we’ve even had to borrow money from a relative or neighbor for the boat journey here, and we still have to pay them back! But you can’t go around telling the whole world that kind of thing . . . That’s why we’re a bit suspicious of strikes . . . Isn’t it the same for you? Don’t you have family in Tenaún?”

  “No, I don’t have family. I came to Patagonia when I was a boy. My uncle brought me, he was a sheep shearer. He died soon afterwards and I stayed . . . I still remember him, I still think about how he filled my head with stories about Patagonia.” The breaker folded his hands behind his neck and continued, in a nostalgic tone, “He used to play the guitar and sing love songs and ballads from this region. I remember the time he said to me, ‘Things are good in Patagonia . . . you eat roast lamb every day . . . and ride horses as tall as hills . . .’ Where is Patagonia? I asked him one day. ‘There’s Patagonia!’ he replied, pointing to a band of blue and pink on one side of the sky. From that day on, that was what Patagonia was for me, and I pestered him until he brought me. Once I got here . . . Hell, the horses weren’t as tall as hills and that piece of sky was still blue and pink, but further away than ever! . . .