by Tom Williams
James turned on the last man in the patrol who stood staring as if he could not believe what he had just seen. As James advanced toward him, he let his musket fall to the ground and ran for his life. For a moment, his sergeant, his sword arm useless, looked as if he would, nonetheless, try to make a solitary stand. James did not attack but waited, offering the wounded man a chance to escape.
The Sergeant looked at James and at the crowd of gauchos who had gathered around the fight, fingering their knives. There was a moment of stillness and then the silence was broken as Molly, her torn clothes soaking the blood from the street, screamed.
At her cry, the Sergeant turned and fled.
‘They’ll be back,’ said one of the gauchos. ‘You’d best be off.’
William looked at Molly, still standing in her bloodied clothes, and hesitated, uncertain whether to stand by his master or see to the girl’s safety. Before he could decide on what to do, Molly, as if suddenly aware of her situation, turned and vanished away down the road. As she did so, Miguel stepped forward from among the gauchos.
‘I know a safe place. Follow me.’
It was clear to both James and William that they needed no safe place. It would be some time before reinforcements arrived and they could by then be drinking innocently anywhere in the city or, indeed, just go home. But they were more than happy to follow Miguel.
He led them to a stable block, just three streets from where the fight had been. Burke had no intention of staying there. It was too close to the scene of the fracas and three men lurking in a stables would be obvious suspects where the same three men relaxing in a bar might be overlooked (for all that one had blood on his sleeve from elbow to wrist). For the moment, however, he was happy to wait, giving Miguel a chance to decide what to do next.
Miguel himself seemed to have no idea what to do. Having bolted the door behind them he started to describe the fight, thrilling over every blow Burke had inflicted, whilst explaining that he himself had been ready to join in had his efforts been needed. After he had run through this narrative twice, as if to convince himself that he had really seen it happen, he sat silent in the dim light of the stable for a while.
William decided to see if he could move things along.
‘It seems Mr Burke would be a valuable addition to our forces,’ he said.
Miguel started, as if the idea had taken him by surprise.
‘We certainly need men like him,’ he said.
James appeared to give the matter some thought.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m only in the country for a few months but I’d certainly be pleased to assist you gentlemen in any way that I can. If the way those soldiers behaved to that poor girl tonight is any indication of the state of affairs here, any lover of freedom will be more than happy to put himself at the service of your struggle.’
There was a pause while Miguel again seemed to be struggling to work out how he should respond.
This time it was James who prompted him.
‘I’d sure be proud to meet your leader.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Miguel had never dealt with a situation like this before and obviously had no idea how to proceed. ‘Our leader’s identity is a closely guarded secret.’
‘But you know who he is?’
Miguel bristled. ‘Of course I do. He trusts me to pass on his commands to our comrades in the city.’
Calzada Castanio’s comments and the fact that Miguel seemed to have made his headquarters in a gaucho haunt had already made James suspect that the subversion was being organised from the countryside but he welcomed Miguel’s unwitting confirmation of this.
‘Well, I’d love to meet up with him,’ he drawled. ‘It’s certainly going to be difficult to sign up to the fight if I don’t.’
‘You could sign up with me.’
Burke surveyed the young man with a lazy smile on his lips.
‘I don’t think so, son. No offence.’
It was difficult to be sure in the poor light but William was almost certain that he saw Miguel blush.
‘I’ll speak to my leader.’
‘Well, when you’ve spoken with him, you let me know. I’d best not be seen around The Angel for a bit but I’ll keep in touch with William here and he’ll pass on any messages.’
Burke unbarred the door.
‘I guess I’ll be on my way now. It’s been an entertaining evening.’
And, leaving Miguel staring into the night, he was gone.
Chapter Four
A week after he met Miguel, James was woken early by William, who entered his room carrying a tea tray.
Burke accepted a cup appreciatively. ‘If you keep bringing me my morning tea, O’Gorman’s man is going to get slack.’
‘He’s slack already. After he reckons he’s cleaned your boots, I clean them again.’
‘I thought I detected British Army spit and polish. Consider your efforts appreciated. But where does O’Gorman’s man fail on the tea front?’
William poured a cup and passed it to his master.
‘Doesn’t warm the pot. But that’s not why I’m here.’
‘I had surmised that. I imagine you have heard from Miguel.’
‘He reckons it’s safe for you to show yourself at The Angel again. He says to be there tonight and you’ll meet the man you need to see.’
James sipped at his tea.
‘I’d better be there, then, hadn’t I?’
*
As Burke entered The Angel there was a sudden hush, followed by wild cheering and applause. He had to push his way through the press of men reaching to shake his hand before he got to Miguel who was sitting with a gaucho he had not seen there before.
‘This is Pedro.’
‘Good to meet you, Pedro.’
James sat down. The two men eyed each other, weighing up what they saw.
Pedro looked like many of the other gauchos. His leather belt was decorated with silver coins, showing him to be a man of moderate wealth, but his clothing suggested that he was by no means rich. He seemed to be in his thirties but his tanned and weather-beaten face made it hard to be sure of his age.
‘You want to join our struggle?’
Miguel had put a glass in front of James, who took a sip before he replied.
‘I am in this country only a short time but I have told young Miguel here that I would be willing to assist in any way that I could.’
‘Miguel tells me you’re a fighting man.’
‘I try to be a peaceable person but I can fight when I need to.’
‘And you feel you’d be wasted on breaking windows.’
James made no reply but simply smiled. He and Pedro, it seemed, understood each other.
‘Tomorrow I’ll be riding to the estancia where my commander in this struggle would be delighted to make your acquaintance. Do you have a horse?’
‘I can hire one.’
‘That will not be necessary. Can you find the stables where Miguel took you?’
So Miguel had taken him to a stables used by the revolutionaries. James despaired at the efforts of amateurs in affairs like this.
‘Meet me there an hour after dawn.’
It seemed to James that all that needed to be said had been said. He finished his drink and left.
An hour after dawn he was at the stables. He was alone. In his Yankee persona, there was no reason why William should accompany him. James had left him to rest for a few days and to ensure that Molly was well recovered from her ordeal.
Pedro was waiting with two horses in broad, high-backed saddles like the one that James had bought the day after his arrival in Buenos Aires. The saddles were covered in a sheepskin, providing a sumptuously comfortable ride. At first, James thought this an unnecessary luxury but in the hours that followed he was to realise that it was a simple necessity given the distances that had to be covered in this vast country.
They set off to the north-west, following a road for the first ten miles. After that t
heir route branched off onto what was little more than a wide cart track. They moved on for hours at a steady trot, meeting no one and seeing no sign of habitation until late in the afternoon. Then, miles ahead over the plain, Burke saw a cluster of buildings. As they grew closer, he could make out the post house that marked the centre of the settlement. There were a couple of other buildings. He recognised a military guard post with a watchtower and judged the other ramshackle structure to be an inn. The whole place was hardly even a hamlet, but it marked the point at which Pedro swung off the track to head across the pampas. Here the sea of coarse grass, growing nearly to the horse’s belly, stretched forever ahead. Their path was simply marked as a gap in the waving green. They swung their horses’ heads to the west and trotted on, chasing the setting sun across the open plain.
As the shadows lengthened, Pedro pushed them faster, anxious to reach the farm before dark.
James’ first view of the estancia took his breath away. He had been expecting some solid farmhouse, such as he might find in England. Instead, he saw a long, low building, its brilliant white plaster caught by the last of the sun. Two wings projected toward him and, between these, a red tiled portico stretched the whole length of the building. In the centre was a tower, built not for display but as a watchtower. A guard standing atop it was already shouting to announce their approach.
The building was surrounded by a low earthen embankment and a shallow ditch and, to James’ astonishment, he saw small six-pounder cannon mounted at the corners. The effect was more that of a small fort than of a farm. Indeed, the only immediate evidence of agricultural activity was a kitchen garden beside the track, but this looked scarcely big enough to supply the people who lived there. The money the farm made came from the cattle, some of which he saw in the distance.
As they approached, Burke saw a tall man with a dark, lean face and a hawk-like nose appear from the house. Something about the way he held himself made Burke sure that here was the owner of the estancia.
The man waited as they approached and stood beside James’ horse as he dismounted. As James eased himself gratefully from the saddle, his host stepped forward to greet him, embracing him and kissing both cheeks.
‘Señor Burke, I am Paco Iglesias. I have heard of your enthusiasm for striking against our oppressors, and I welcome you to my home. You have travelled far and must be hungry, so let us first attend to that.’
He turned and, an arm around James’ shoulders, led him toward the house. Pedro shouted a farewell as he wheeled off around the main building to one of the scattering of outbuildings that lay behind it. Sr Iglesias explained that Pedro would eat there in the canteen with the rest of the men but James was invited to join the patron and his wife in the main house.
Señora Iglesias was a homely, rather plump lady, whose appearance contrasted with that of her husband. Paco Iglesias introduced her with obvious pride and then four children, all under six, were paraded for James almost like soldiers turning out for inspection. James made appropriate admiring remarks and Señora Iglesias beamed at each compliment until her husband declared that it was time they went to bed and his brood trooped out.
Sr Iglesias, his wife, and their guest ate alone. Sra Iglesias plied James with questions about fashions in North America, how he liked the country and whether or not he was married, while beef in every guise was thrust before him. Each of the dishes was carried in by a maid who was the first full-blood Indian that James had seen. He was uncomfortably reminded of the negroes that he had seen serving the planters in Haiti. The thought made him uncomfortable and he asked, as tactfully as he could, about relations with the Indians.
Sr Iglesias sighed. ‘In truth, relations are not good. The whites take their land for cattle and they move away. If they resist, the army comes and they die. Soon, none will be left. I do not say this is right or this is wrong but it is the way that the world goes.’
‘But I see many people in Buenos Aires who have Indian blood.’
His host shrugged.
‘Of course. When the first settlers arrived, they brought no women with them. And relations with the Indians are not always bad.’ He gestured toward the maid. ‘Theresa seems happy working here. But she will probably end up living as the wife of one of my gauchos and their child will be brought up as a white. So, whether we kill them or cleave to them, their nation will still be doomed.’
‘So they will all end up Spaniards?’
‘No!’ There was sharpness in his tone as he spoke. ‘They will not be Spaniards. They will be the children of this land – not any part of the Spanish Empire. It will be a free country ruled by those who live and die here.’
Sra Iglesias sighed. It was clearly a speech she had heard before and her husband checked himself. ‘But such talk is not proper for the dining table. We will eat and make good fellowship. Business will wait. Tomorrow I will tell you of our dreams for the future and how we plan to make those dreams come true.’
*
He slept that night on a feather bed, and woke soon after eight, still stiff, but with some of the aches from the previous day’s long ride now easing. He followed the smell of coffee to find Sra Iglesias busy in the kitchen. Her husband was, she said, already about his business, but would come back soon. She put coffee and bread, fresh from the oven, on the table, but James had hardly time to finish his mug before Sr Iglesias returned to the farmhouse with all the energy of a man who had been up since dawn and was anxious to complete the mornings chores before the sun was much higher in the sky.
He slapped James on the back in an enthusiastic greeting that nearly had his guest choke on his coffee.
‘You are refreshed, I hope. Drink up. I want to show you how we do things here.’
Iglesias led Burke to the rear of the house, where he had seen Pedro heading the night before. In the daylight, he realised that what he had thought of as a few buildings round a farmyard was more like a miniature settlement. Buildings were dotted around with neat paths between them. There was even a tree – the first that Burke had seen since leaving Buenos Aires. His host noticed that he was looking at it. ‘El Ombu,’ he said. ‘The only trees that can live here. I think that my grandfather probably built here because of that tree. They’re impressive, huh?’
James agreed that it was impressive. It stood only some thirty feet high but it must have measured the same around its enormous trunk. It marked the centre of the group of buildings and Sr Iglesias stood in a shade as he pointed to each in turn.
‘Foreman’s house; blacksmith; barns; mess hall – with the kitchen block and the well next to it; stables are over there. There’s a corral round the back.’
Leaving the ombu tree, Iglesias led James to a long wooden building, neatly painted in white like all the others. As he opened the door, James saw what was obviously a bunkhouse. Beds were arranged along the length of the building, most with small chests in the spaces between them and spare clothes neatly hanging from pegs on the wall.
‘You’ll be sleeping in here.’
James nodded. It was hardly the comfort he was used to in Buenos Aires, but it would serve well enough. The beds, as far as he could tell from looking at them, were comfortable and the place was spotless. It looked as much like a barracks as a ranch bunkhouse. He noticed, too, that there seemed to be more accommodation than he would have thought needed for a ranch such as this. He thought of the cannon that guarded the front of the house, the sentry who had warned of their approach, and the brisk efficiency of the few men he had seen around the place. Altogether, he felt more as if he were in a military headquarters rather than an agricultural establishment.
As they left the bunkhouse, James noticed two big trail wagons, standing in a corner between the buildings. They seemed incongruous, reflecting a pioneering age that the rest of the estancia seemed to have outgrown. Iglesias saw the direction of his gaze and smiled.
‘We have no need of those wagons now but I cannot bring myself to part with them. Those were the wagons
my grandfather brought out here when he laid his claim to this land just two generations ago.’ He swept out his arm in a gesture that encompassed the whole farm and the land around it.
‘We built this. My grandfather. My father. Me. The gauchos and the Indians like Theresa. This is our land: a land that could be rich beyond imagination. The Spaniards call it La Plata but we call it the Land of Silver – Argentina. And we will fight to make Argentina free – just as your father fought for your country, Yankee.’
James looked at the buildings about him and the grassland stretching to the horizon. It was as unlike the countryside of Kilkenny as could be imagined.
He realised, with a start, that this was the first time he had thought of Ireland since his visit to San Ignacio. His childhood home belonged to a life that he had put behind him. And yet, when memories of the place did come unbidden to his mind, he felt the faintest tug. It must be a fine thing, he decided, to love your country so much that you would be happy to die for it.
He turned back to Iglesias. His grandfather had been born in this country and his father. His children would grow up here and there would be land enough that none of them would be forced abroad to seek his fortune. It seemed to James that La Plata was a land of opportunity and Sr Iglesias one of the luckiest of men.
‘I understand,’ he said.
There was a moment of silence and Iglesias seemed lost in his own thoughts as he gazed out across the pampas.
Pedro appeared from the direction of the corral, and, with an almost visible effort, Iglesias brought his attention back to the moment.
‘I will leave you with Pedro. He is my foreman here. You said that you wanted to learn something of how we run cattle here in La Plata. You can do no better than to ride with him for a few days. That’s the best way to learn how we make this place pay. Then we will speak again.’
He shook James by the hand and turned abruptly back to the house.
