A Place of Meadows and Tall Trees

by Clare Dudman

  Thirty-nine

  Like the Indians the colonists pack horses and ride. It doesn’t take them so long to reach Port Madryn this time. They follow the scar that the Argentine soldiers made almost two years ago. There is no getting lost, no running out of water. They know exactly where they will go and exactly what they will do. First they slaughter most of the animals that remain: there is not a single pig left, and not a single sheep. Then they pack all they can carry, and then that little bit extra that they love. Then, just before they kick the rump of the nearest cow to send it on its way in front of them, they take firebrands and touch each hearth with its flames. They smell it burn. They can hear it crackling behind them and they don’t look back. What they have started the Indians will finish. Then they follow the track until they reach Port Madryn again. And then they stop and look around them. The cold beach. The caves. The sea. It is as though the last two years have never happened.

  The decision had been simple and made soon after Silas, Caradoc, Selwyn and Jacob had returned.

  ‘We can’t stay here.’

  ‘The Río Negro is no better.’

  ‘Santa Fe might be worth a try.’

  ‘So we go there.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Any dissenters?’

  Of course there are always some.

  ‘Overruled.’

  Caradoc had folded his arms, nodded and told them he would return with Silas and Jacob to Buenos Aires on the new clipper that brought them here to report their decision. Dr Rawson, Caradoc reassured everyone, would be quite happy.

  Selwyn would stay with his wife to help look after his child, a large, healthy boy, who had entered the world very noisily but safely.

  That night Megan had clung to Silas and begged him to stay with her too. ‘Tell me about Santa Fe again,’ she’d said, and her eyes had smiled as he had talked.

  ‘We want another child.’

  And they had looked at Myfanwy asleep beside them.

  ‘She needs a brother or sister.’

  And for the rest of that night she had been his Megan again; drawing him to her, soft and smiling, murmuring when at last she slept.

  In the morning she’d clung to him again. ‘Don’t go.’

  But he had shaken his head. ‘I have to.’

  At Patagones their ship drops anchor. They have made good time from the Chubut, but now the captain needs to take on more supplies. Patagones is not a place they particularly relish, though it is pretty enough, with steeply inclined streets of adobe houses, a church and fort. Silas leans over the rail of the modern little ship that has brought them here and waits for the instruction to disembark. There is something run down about Patagones, he thinks, the houses are not quite white, the adobe crumbles away from the walls and the scrubby vegetation has been allowed to grow unchecked over walls. Yeluc hates the people here, he reminds himself, and looks at the small taverns, each one faded, and the plaster chipped. Stray dogs wander around the place and there are a couple of lame-looking horses eating whatever weed is growing from the track. They do not appear to belong to anyone; perhaps they have strayed in from the Pampas. Silas is glad they are not staying long.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jacob grabs his arm tightly. ‘Look Silas, is that what I think it is?’

  The Denby. They’d recognise it anywhere. They know each plank of wood, each kink in the ropes, each patch in the sails. She had been declared unseaworthy by the port authorities in Buenos Aires and they had been forbidden to return in her, yet someone has managed to sneak her out, someone who must be good at persuading people and getting his own way.

  ‘Edwyn Lloyd!’

  Silas hangs onto the rails, a sudden feeling of dread making him weak. Jacob sounds so joyful, so excited to see the man. It is as if the sight of him causes him to lose all sense. If Edwyn Lloyd is here it can only mean that he has something to tell them, something that couldn’t wait.

  ‘I bring great news,’ he says as soon as they see him. Silas realises that his voice has regained its strength – in Buenos Aires he was intense but quiet, his voice hardly raised above an exclamation – on board the Denby it booms over the deck. ‘We have another agreement with the government. I have managed to persuade them to support us a little longer in the Chubut. We can stay, ffrindiau!’ he says – as if it is what they had always wanted.

  He stands with his arms raised slightly from his side as if he is going to embrace them. His eyes are wide, light, elated. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? They have agreed to most of the conditions that I’ve asked for. We will be well-supplied, comfortable for at least another year.’

  Jacob is smiling as if he has seen something he loves.

  Caradoc, with a puzzled frown, looks at Edwyn and then at Jacob. ‘What are you talking about, man?’ he says crossly. ‘We told you – we’ve had enough. We left them all packing up to go. They’ll be waiting for us at Port Madryn by now.’

  Edwyn’s face loses its shine. ‘You’ve told them to leave?’

  ‘Yes. It was what we decided. We can’t just tell them to turn round and go back.’

  ‘But they have to. The Argentines have decided. It’s the Chubut or nothing. They won’t help us go anywhere else. They won’t countenance it.’

  ‘But… but… I thought...’ Caradoc’s splutterings end in silence. He presses his lips together and glares at Edwyn.

  Edwyn turns to Silas. The Meistr’s smile is wide, loose, quite unlike the tight smiles he used to smile before. It doesn’t stay in one place but seems to slop around his face. A lie. Silas is certain of it. There is no new agreement, no promise of supplies – just some notion that has appeared in Edwyn’s head. He’s lied before, why shouldn’t he be lying now?

  They take a bunk in the Denby; as Edwyn says, it gives them more of a chance to discuss what they will do next. Silas lies in the cabin alone, thinking of the Chubut and then the Paraná: one river unpredictable, treacherous, opaque and sluggish, the other like a small languid sea, warm, the surface catching small sparks of sunlight, clean and transparent. Santa Fe was like a dream of a glittering paradise; somewhere Megan would be happy and like the girl that he married. He punches his hammock. He is determined to go. There is no reason to trust anything Edwyn Lloyd says. Even if it is true that the government will no longer help them move elsewhere there have to be other ways. There will be others who will want to come too, the Jones family perhaps or the Williams. Edwyn Lloyd has cheated them once; they will not want to be cheated again.

  Yet Edwyn Lloyd seems to have lost none of his ability to persuade. Jacob, of course, had been like a faithful hound whose beloved master had returned; he had keeled over immediately, wagging his tail and exposing his pink belly. Caradoc, however, is proving more difficult to convert.

  Silas sees Edwyn Lloyd eye him up, consider his strategies and decides on offering a bone. The first one proves insufficiently enticing.

  ‘The Argentines have been most generous,’ he says, ‘they say they are going to extend our grant indefinitely.’

  ‘We had a grant before, Edwyn; we can’t go on like that forever. We need to be independent.’

  ‘It was an extremely dry year. Everyone is talking about it.’

  ‘But that could happen again, couldn’t it? What would we do then?’

  The four men row ashore, walk around the streets, buy a little meat and bread from one of the traders there – a rough-looking man with a large elaborate crucifix shining from the grime of clothes – and sit on the shore to eat and drink. Behind them there are shouts and raucous laughter from one of the taverns, and presently an Indian staggers out, his face pale. He manages just a few paces before he tips over and is sick onto the track.

  ‘This is an evil place,’ Jacob says. ‘Full of the Devil’s work.’

  ‘And we should get as far away as we can,’ Silas says.

  Caradoc nods. ‘As soon as possible.’

  By evening Edwyn is trying again. When he thinks there is no one else around he corners Cara
doc on the deck of the ship. Silas presses himself against the cabin and watches unseen.

  The Meistr smiles broadly and holds out his arms as if welcoming Caradoc into an embrace. ‘Caradoc! I’ve been meaning to speak to you.’

  Caradoc plants his stick in front of him. ‘You have? What for?’ His eyes travel warily over the Meistr’s face, and the tip of his tongue licks the inner edge of his top lip.

  ‘Jacob believes that without you no one would have survived.’

  Although he shakes his head and tuts, Caradoc is clearly pleased. He stands a little taller and a small smile settles on his lips. ‘Does he, indeed.’

  ‘Yes, he says that the way you dealt with the Indians was masterful.’

  ‘Well, I just used my common sense, and of course as a minister…’

  There is a pause, and Silas shifts slightly to ease the numbness in his foot. He manages to glance at their faces – both are cautiously smiling.

  Over dinner the talks begin again.

  ‘How many have said they wish to go to Santa Fe?’ asks Edwyn, ‘It was unanimous, I think you said?’

  ‘No, not unanimous.’ Jacob tells him. ‘There are some who wished to stay.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Edwyn turns to Caradoc. ‘What do you say? More than twenty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A fair proportion then?’

  Caradoc shifts warily in his seat. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  Edwyn smiles again. ‘I know, I know, it must be difficult to tell. But the rest – do they all want to go to Santa Fe?’

  ‘No, some of them have said they’d prefer Buenos Aires, or even this place – God help them.’

  ‘So the colony would be divided. Is that so?’

  ‘Well yes…’

  ‘And so there would be no Welsh spoken within a generation.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Reverend Gabriel Thomas has seen this, Caradoc. Unless a colony is large, self-sufficient and isolated from more dominant tongues, the language and culture are lost.’

  Caradoc is silent for a few seconds and examines the watch chain threaded into his waistcoat.

  ‘How can you say that?’ asks Silas. ‘Surely every case is different.’

  Edwyn shakes his head.

  ‘Maybe it would be better if we were try to stay together,’ Caradoc says quietly. He looks up at Edwyn and nods curtly. ‘Maybe it would be better to do as Edwyn says – stay in the Chubut and give it another try.’

  Silas knows that the Meistr is looking at him but he refuses to look up.

  ‘Silas?’ Edwyn says gently. It is halfway to a question.

  Silas keeps his head bowed and says nothing. He is alone and defeated.

  ‘Silas, I need to have the assent of you all.’

  It is as if something is opening inside. A gulf of nothingness, and if he moves or says anything he will fall into it.

  ‘Silas?’ Edwyn touches him lightly on the arm. ‘Will you come with me and take some air on the deck?’

  There is not much to see: land, river, land, ocean, land, river, land ocean. For two circuits neither of them speaks.

  At the start of the third Edwyn stops. He smiles. ‘What’s troubling you, fy ffrind?’

  The same smile that he smiled at Caradoc. The same gesture.

  Silas speaks through clenched teeth. ‘Are we friends?’

  Edwyn’s hands drop. ‘I would certainly hope so,’ he says quietly, and for a few seconds holds Silas’ eyes with his own. ‘Why are you being so obstinate, Silas?’ he says at last. ‘The Chubut is our only hope now. Why do you refuse to see that?’

  ‘Because if we go back there we will all die. Nothing will grow.’

  ‘But last year was dry – an exception. Dr Rawson told you that.’

  ‘What has he told us? We have learnt everything we know through you – or Selwyn.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me, Silas?’

  Silas is looking at the ocean. It is morning and the sun is reflected there, as if it is lighting a shimmering passageway east. Home to Wales. He feels an ache in his chest. It catches his breath. He glances briefly at Edwyn. ‘No,’ he says, defiantly looking at him. ‘You’ve lied to us more than once, deceived us and then abandoned us. Why should I believe anything you tell me now?’

  Edwyn Lloyd lowers his eyes slightly and then turns away. ‘I was doing my best, Silas,’ he says softly. ‘I know I made mistakes, but I was just trying to do what I could.’ He pauses, takes a breath. ‘I know we shall succeed in the Chubut if we give it time.’

  ‘We gave it time! You haven’t been there, you left us.’

  ‘I was exiled.’

  ‘You exiled yourself – to a warm civilised city.’

  ‘It’s not what you think. It wasn’t easy. I had to work hard on the colony’s behalf. I had to do things I didn’t like. I had to…’ He pauses, breathes in deeply and continues. ‘I had to make friends, influential ones that could help us. I had to do certain things, things I didn’t like… my wife, Cecilia...’

  ‘Is in Wales.’ Silas finishes for him meaningfully.

  ‘She found it difficult...’

  ‘But at least she didn’t starve. At least her children didn’t die.’

  Edwyn doesn’t reply. Silas waits. He cannot see his face any more; it is turned from him. His narrow shoulders are slightly hunched. Silas notices that his jacket is hanging from them as if a much larger man used to be inside. It quakes slightly.

  ‘Perhaps we can continue this discussion later,’ Edwyn says, and without turning around he walks quickly to the cabin and shuts the door.

  The next time Silas encounters the Meistr he looks drawn – in just a few hours he seems to have lost his colour and the skin under his eyes has darkened and sagged. The eyes themselves look at Silas sorrowfully and appealingly. Silas is careful not to feel pity. The man is a liar, he tells himself. A cheat. Nevertheless when Edwyn opens his mouth he listens.

  ‘Silas,’ he says, ‘please think again. I need your support.’ ‘Why? It seems to me you have everything worked out.’

  They are alone at the captain’s table. Edwyn’s voice is quieter than Silas has ever heard it before, weak in fact, as if he is ill or very old. For a few seconds there is silence. The clock on the wall ticks.

  ‘Silas, I need a strong man on my side. A partner. Someone who is not easily swayed and knows his own mind.’ Edwyn pauses a few seconds, tilts his head as he waits for him to respond but Silas says nothing. ‘The whole venture depends on you now, brawd. I need you to agree. Only if the decision is unanimous can we hope to start again in Chubut.’

  The clock ticks again. Silas thinks of the cold Chubut river and then he thinks of the warmer gold-flecked Paraná.

  Eventually Edwyn sighs and then clears his throat. ‘Silas, I have a proposal. Would you be willing to give the Chubut another nine months before coming to a decision?’

  ‘I’ve made my decision.’

  ‘But it’s the wrong one, man!’ His voice cracks. He looks down, rubs his forehead in his hands. ‘Just give it a little more time.’

  ‘We’ve given it enough.’

  ‘Please, Silas.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At the end of it, if there is no improvement, I shall recommend that the colony is removed to Santa Fe. I shall put everything I have behind that instead. You will have my backing and you will have Dr Rawson’s and the Emigration Committee’s in Liverpool. I shall see to it. But please give the Chubut another chance, ffrind. Please.’

  Nine months. So much can happen in nine months. Silas stands and looks out of the cabin window at the shore. There is a woman sitting at the door of her cottage, knitting.

  ‘Silas?’

  He stands, walks the short length of the room and back again. A child comes running up to the knitting woman and she passes her a little wool to play with. The same scene could be repeated anywhere, even in the Chubut. In spite of everything, there have
been moments of contentment, if not happiness. Another nine months. Perhaps they could survive. If they moved to Santa Fe they would have to start all over again. Find a space, build a house, and clear the ground. Tiredness moves up quickly from his legs. They couldn’t do it alone. But even if he got a few people to come with them, without any aid from the government it would all end in disaster. He looks at Edwyn and nods once.

  It is as if the sun has suddenly come out. Edwyn stands, smiles, and gives Silas a light punch to his chest. ‘Good,’ he says, ‘I’ll send Guillermo a message and let him know. He wanted us all in agreement. He sent me after you. The government had come to a decision to back us just after you’d all sailed: but if we couldn’t all agree there’d be nothing for any of us.’ Then, just as he goes through the door the smile changes to something more familiar and hidden.

  That private smile. Silas feels cheated but he doesn’t quite know why. He kicks at the table leg. It collapses at its hinge and the table thuds against the wall. Stupid. He throws himself down on a chair. The shimmering dream of happiness darkens and disappears into the widening void. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He thumps his head hard against the wooden wall. Nine months. How could he throw away his dream so easily? He thumps it again. Nine months in a wilderness, in the cold, in the wind.

  On the shore the woman continues to knit. Nine months before he sees paradise. Somehow part of the fault is hers. It is as if Edwyn has told her to knit, told her to mesmerise him with her hands. Told her to trick him. If he could, he would reach out, snatch the needles from her hands, take her work and unravel it, row by row, stitch by stitch.

  Forty

  The colonists are waiting for them, as promised, on the beach at Port Madryn. Silas sees their smoke as soon as they sail into the circular bay past the Península Valdés. There are several fires, a collection of irregular dark shapes on the pale sand, and when they get closer, he hears them shouting and calling. The old Denby drops anchor where the Mimosa creaked two years ago. Everything looks the same. They row ashore and the colonists stream out to greet them, exclaiming at the sight of Edwyn.