There is something thumping at the ground. Selwyn and Silas stop and listen.
‘Horses,’ says Selwyn. ‘Lots of them.’
‘Indians?’
‘Sh.’ Selwyn drops to the ground and holds his ear to where the mud is covered with a little grass. ‘They’re moving fast. Coming this way.’
Silas hears himself swallow.
‘Dadda?’ Myfanwy has appeared beside him and is sliding her hand into his.
Around them people pause: a spoon hovers over a pot, a spade stands sunk halfway into soil, a mother leaves her child half-dressed.
Selwyn shakes his head. ‘No, not Indians.’
The beat is too regular, deliberate and confident.
The spoon is dropped. The child is swept up into a blanket. The man with the spade pulls it from the ground and hurries back to the fort.
Soon they can see them: a narrow band, tightly packed, unfurling into a ribbon of bright colours and gold. Metal glints. The shod hooves of horses clatter on the stones. There is no stealth, no tentative scout. They have not been invited but they are coming anyway. Stand aside.
The horses are trotting sedately, their heads erect, great elegant beasts and on them soldiers, civilians and servants. Their faces fall slightly when they stop at the fort and the surrounding buildings; as if they had been expecting something more that what they see: poor people in their village of earth, smelling of river weed, dirty, clothes turned to rags. A few sheep bleat at their arrival, while the cattle and the pigs snort in the mud.
Spaniards. Silas decides that he doesn’t like them. Not that they’d call themselves Spaniards of course, Argentines, they’d say they were, if anyone could have understood them, as free of their mother country as the Welsh were free of theirs.
There are several tall dark-bearded soldiers in uniform, with long black boots and silver stirrups, jodhpurs and long navy-blue tunics embellished with gold braid on the sleeves and shoulders and red on their collars. If they mean to inculcate respect they have succeeded. Even the youngest children are silent as they dismount. Their faces are half hidden beneath the shade of their peaked caps, and the one of them who looks like he might be in charge is brandishing a sheaf of papers.
The officer barks out a question and looks around. Edwyn Lloyd steps forward and, after a gesture that could be a salute, he says a few words in Spanish.
Of course the man speaks Spanish. Silas plays with a small stone near his foot. Around him he hears appreciative voices admiring Edwyn’s linguistic skills. His eye catches Selwyn’s. They exchange smirks.
‘This is Colonel Julian Murga,’ Edwyn says, turning around to the colonists to translate from Spanish to Welsh, much as he translated Captain Gidsby’s words from English. More than a hint of smugness, Silas thinks, and wonders how much he truly understands. He expects it is less than the Meistr makes out because each of his words is accompanied by much gesticulating, and sometimes he notices that the Argentines look puzzled and look at each other to grin or shrug.
‘A good man,’ he continues. ‘He is here to validate our treaty with the government. Shall we show them a little Welsh hospitality, brothers and sisters?’
He leads them into the warehouse where the women have been busy preparing food for the guests – mainly meat and bread, but Mary Jones, John’s wife, has managed to find some dried fruit and made some small flat cakes upon her griddle. It is a cheerless party; the colonists and soldiers are hushed and stand around in small groups talking amongst themselves. Edwyn, however, is noisy. It is as if he is trying to fill the space with noise; his laugh is too loud, his gestures are too expansive, and his voice has a slightly strained edge. The officials seem to be taking it in turn to talk to him.
Silas nudges Megan towards Selwyn. He is standing close to Annie, who is helping Mary serve. Then, leaving the two women together to examine Gwyneth, who has been grizzling for the last couple of hours, he steers Selwyn forward to listen. Selwyn knows a little Spanish too; before they came down to Patagonia he had been obliged to spend some time in the capital, and although he claims to have tried very hard to remain completely ignorant he could not help but pick up a few words.
‘What’s he saying?’ Silas asks.
‘Stupid things,’ he tips his head to one side as if that helps his understanding, ‘…about their journey here… and now he’s asking about that government minister – Rawson.’
The topic of Dr Rawson seems to be causing much amusement because the soldiers suddenly burst into laughter. The Meistr looks less amused and asks Colonel Murga a question. Although he tries to disguise it with a smile he obviously does not like the reply. He asks another question and appears to like the answer to that even less.
‘What’s happening?’ Silas whispers, but Selwyn tells him to hush. He listens again, and for a few minutes after Murga has finished he is quiet.
‘What’s he said, Selwyn?’
He shakes his head. ‘That we’re Argentines now, just as much as they are.’
The officer talks a little more. There is a flippant tone to his voice. Arrogant, Silas thinks. They’re well matched. He watches his face and then looks back to Edwyn who is attempting to smile again: a flash of white through the growth of his beard.
Selwyn turns to Silas. His face is pale, set, angry: ‘I don’t believe it. The Meistr is just agreeing with everything they say. We’re being used, and the fool doesn’t seem to realise or care. If we are Argentines then this colony is Argentinean and they can claim Patagonia. That’s all they care about – getting a foothold here before the Chileans do.’
Edwyn Lloyd speaks again and Selwyn stops to listen. This time after they finish Selwyn says nothing, just presses his lips into a straight line.
‘What did he say?’ Silas asks, but Selwyn shakes his head.
The soldiers are laughing – one and then the next as if some particularly amusing joke is being passed along the line.
‘Tell me!’
‘Can you hear them laughing? He just asked them where the fertile land is. A big joke. It’s all desert, apparently, and hadn’t anyone ever told him that?’
‘But I thought he’d been here, that’s what he said – cattle, tall trees, meadows...’
‘That’s what he told me too, but it’s all rubbish, apparently. Desert all the way to the Andes.’ Selwyn listens again. ‘Oh, oh no.’ He looks more downcast.
‘What? What are they saying?’
‘There was someone here before.’
‘We know that, the Welshman – the one who built this fort.’
‘No, not him, some of their own… Impossible – did you hear that? Like the English word. The crops grow, just a little, then the sun comes and everything fries. Too cold and then too hot.’
‘But they let us come, even so.’
‘Rawson, I heard him… he made promises. Told the Meistr he would look after us. But now they’re saying…’ He listens, frowns, and shakes his head. ‘No, it’s no good, I can’t tell what he’s saying.’ He stops. Beside them one of the officers has been left behind. He is smaller and younger than the rest and is nibbling at one of the cakes with a serious thoughtful expression as if he is not quite sure whether he likes it. ‘Just a minute,’ Selwyn says and steps forward and talks to him. He is less fluent than Edwyn, and the officer has to repeat things several times but eventually he returns to Silas. When he speaks Selwyn does so through clenched teeth, his words spat out through barely moving lips. ‘It’s what I thought. Everything the Meistr has promised us is lies. We are allowed some land, but that’s all. No more livestock, no more grain, no other help at all – and we’re under their thumb. That’s why they’re here – to make sure we know who’s in charge.’ He shakes his head. ‘We’ve been tricked, Silas. Everyone’s been tricked.’ His great, ungroomed beard sways from one side to the other, as if he is looking for something to kick. Instead he settles for a sack of grain and punches it too hard to make a seat. ‘Ah brawd, if I could, I’d go back to Wisconsin tomorrow.’ He sits on the sack and watches. Annie drifts up to him but when Selwyn barely responds to her words she drifts away again.
Silas looks around him. The rest of the colonists and soldiers are looking more happy and relaxed. It is pointless to say anything now. It is better to wait. Everyone will find out soon enough.
Megan comes over to him with Gwyneth held over her shoulder. ‘I’m worried about her, Silas; she’s not feeding properly. And I think she’s got a fever.’
The baby is listless, her eyes half shut. He feels her face. She does feel hot but then his hands are cold. ‘Maybe it’s nothing,’ he says, but he examines the child’s face again. She seems tired. Her eyelids droop. For a few seconds she looks beyond him through half-shut eyes as if she is already dreaming and then she falls asleep.
Myfanwy comes to hold his hand. ‘Why are you looking at Gwyneth?’ she asks.
‘Just to make sure she’s asleep, cariad fach.’
In the yard the Argentines are making speeches.
‘What are they saying Dadda?’
‘I don’t know, cariad. Go and ask Mr Williams.’
She sidles up to Selwyn but he shakes his head and waves her away.
She runs back to her father and tugs at his sleeve. ‘Mr Williams won’t speak to me.’
He pats her on the head. ‘Never mind. Perhaps he’s trying to listen.’
She looks back at Selwyn for a few minutes still holding on to her father’s sleeve, and then tugs it again. ‘Dadda?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Williams is crying.’
‘No he’s not.’
‘Well, he looks like he is.’
‘Men don’t cry, Myfanwy. He must just have sand in his eyes.’
‘But he looks sad.’
‘No, he’s happy. We all are. Look, they’re putting up a flag.’
The flag is fastened on a pole outside the warehouse. It is pale blue and white and a yellow sun with a face is shining from the middle. Not the red dragon standing on a green field clawing at the white air, spoiling for a fight. For a few seconds there is silence, then Edwyn Lloyd yells out a hurrah with Jacob following immediately, then a bedraggled applause from some of the younger women. Cecilia, Silas notices, is mute and pale, looking first at her husband then at the flag and then at her husband again. He glances again at Gwyneth on Megan’s shoulder and brushes his finger against her face. She seems less hot than before.
Now there are more speeches, in Welsh this time and it is the Argentines’ turn to be bored. Jacob first, then finally Edwyn Lloyd.
‘And in honour of that man,’ Edwyn Lloyd says, ‘we have decided to call our first settlement Rawson, because without Dr Rawson, minister of the interior, none of this would have been possible.’
Jacob leads the hurrahs this time, and this time the soldiers join in – at first just with their voices, and then, at Murga’s nod, with their guns, quickly lifted from their shoulders and fired into the air. Myfanwy buries her head into her mother’s skirts and begins to cry. The guns fire again and there is some more muted applause and cheering. Most of the children are crying now, and a couple of the very young ones are screaming. Silas’ eyes meet Selwyn’s and then look away again. The American is standing on his own looking out of the settlement to the river.
The guns fire again and Silas catches his breath. Gwyneth has not cried, not moved, not even flinched. She hangs over Megan’s shoulder like a rag.