On the expedition we spoke four languages—Spanish, English, German and Welsh, but English was more used than the others.
On one occasion we had to light a couple of fires to signal some of the men who were out looking for horses; one of these spread rather much, but was easily put out with a spade. It is strange how small an area burns in that part of the country, even with a high wind to help the flames. The weather was windy and bitterly cold.
I extract the following from my diary:
"October 10, evening.—I write this by the camp-fire. The men take it in turns to cook. Two armadillos (Dasypus minutus) have been caught by the Germans. They are strong little beasts; you can hardly pull one, which has half buried itself in the ground, out with both hands. We roast them whole with hot stones and they taste like chicken. Fritz and Hollesen went for the horses this morning and found three of the Trelew troop gone, the Tordillo, the Zaino, and the Blanco, and this although one was maneado and the other two tied together. This is a great hindrance. We got the waggon ready on the interminable pampa and decided to strike down at once for the Rio Chico by way of a large cañadon four and a half leagues long. This will add some days to our journey to Colohuapi. But if we continue losing and searching for horses, shall we ever get there? One day we cover twenty-one miles, the next nothing, because of strayed horses. Nor can you soga them up, for the grass is poor and they must have a large range. Here we are in this huge country looking for horses upon and about a pampa intersected by many cañadones, each of which would take an entire week to explore thoroughly. At breakfast I decided to march, sending Jones, who is a good tracker, off to see if he could find the horses where he found them yesterday.
"We have a big buck-jumper, a piebald, which is a strong horse suited to the waggon. It took an hour and a half to get him harnessed, and we started on the back track, for the cañadon we must strike lies a league behind us. Barckhausen was to ride an untamed black horse with the strangest light blue glimmering eyes, which for some reason makes me repeat over and over to myself the lines of Q.:
"His glittering eyes are the salt seas' prize,
And his fingers clutch the sand.
"Rather far fetched, but so it always is. One notices how much in camp-life a man gets into the habit of a 'Punch, brothers, punch'—a haunting phrase which he applies to everything. In one case it is some grim and grotesque oath that he mentally lives on, sometimes it is a line of a hymn, sometimes it is a bit of an advertisement. There are few books in the camp, and mine not out yet from the tin box. The Welshmen have a Bible in their own language; Hollesen has a paper of short stories about missing heirs and such like; Scrivenor has 'Pickwick.'