CHAPTER II.THE LANDING.
Besides Mr. Williams’ John, who had been despatched at full speed to St.David’s to rouse the inhabitants, another man was sent to give the newsto the Lord-Lieutenant of the county, while others wended their way tovarious points on the range of mountains which divides Pembrokeshire intotwo parts; the result of their mission being apparent when night fell andbeacons flared along the line of heights from Vrenny Vawr to CarnEnglyn—the mountain of the angels, so named from the angel-visitsreceived by a pious hermit who dwelt thereon, and who probably lackedmore ordinary society.
Many other messengers were sent in various directions, but though in thisway persons at a distance were warned of danger, many of those who dweltclose by were as yet insensible of it. Chiefest of these was the ownerof the old manor house, Trehowel, situated just above the bay where theships were lying-to—of which house we shall hear more anon. Mr. Mortimerwas of a generous and confiding disposition—and, as a bishop should be,he was in truth—much given to hospitality. He was, moreover, about tocelebrate the marriage of his son, and he had made ample provision ofcakes and ale, not to mention meats and spirits for this purpose. Thewedding was to be on the following day (Thursday, the 23rd of February,to be exact); the new daughter-in-law was much to his mind, and thereforeheart and hand were even more lavish than usual, when, looking outseaward from amidst the bridal greenery, his spirit was stirred withinhim by the sight of the British flag.
Nothing would serve this hospitable gentleman but that the Englishofficers should partake of his good cheer; so his orders flew forth inevery direction—compliments and invitations to the officers, anddirections to the servants as to the setting forth of a sumptuous repast.
In the meantime one of the great ships, heaving anchor, had quietlyslipped round the corner—by which I would say, rounded the next headland,Pen Anglas, in an undemonstrative manner. Thus coming in sight of themen occupying the fort near Fishguard; these fired as in duty and fairobservance bound—a salute to the flag that had braved a thousand years,and had never in all that considerable period of time been put to a vileruse than the present, when—hey presto! down came the British colours witha run, and up flew the tricolour in its stead—the red, white, and bluecolours of the Republic of the French.
The astonishment of those men in the fort at this unexpectedtransformation-scene must have been akin to an electric shock such as maybe produced on the unwary by the careless placing of a hand on a magneticeel. They had been completely deceived by the mock flag, and were moreunprepared for the change than those men who had already scrutinised thethree frigates with very doubtful eyes as they made their way along thecoast of Pembrokeshire.
All disguise was now over; the enemy showed under their true colours atlast, and convinced even the most liberal-minded (including Mr. Mortimer)that they were not English. Though truly if they had desired to appearunder their most appropriate colour they should have sailed under theblack flag of piracy, for the men on board these frigates were littlebetter than freebooters. Many of the older persons present were mindedto take them for a new and enlarged edition of the _Black Prince_—apirate ship which had eighteen years previously brought his broadside tobear on the town of Fishguard, and kept up an animated fire all day withhis six-pounders. However, he caught a Tartar—the master of a smugglingcraft, who returned the fire with such goodwill, aided by clever handsand a cannon at the edge of the cliffs, that the _Black Prince_ sheeredoff. “Set a thief to catch a thief;” but it were ungrateful to think onthat proverb.
It was this circumstance which caused the fort at Fishguard to beerected, one of whose nine-pounders had just, in courtesy, saluted thefrigate, who, not caring to face the other seven guns of the fort inanger, turned round speedily, and rejoined her companions at Carn GwastadPoint without loss of time.
On her way she intercepted a sloop which had—perhaps out of curiosity,perhaps from some nobler motive—ventured too near; probably the master ofthe sloop had not expected this sudden rearward movement—anyway he foundhimself a prisoner, and his boat a prize. I had jumped up from myreclining position, and stood watching his fate with anxiety and awe,knowing him to be a friend (for I was a Fishguard boy, and intimate withall the varieties of seamen to be found there), but being, at thatdistance, unable to tell which friend.
All the other boats in the bay stood out to sea with all speed, scuddingaway with white sails stretched, reminding even a matter-of-fact boy whoabhorred poetry, similes, and all such inventions of schoolmasters,suggesting even to me the sudden, outspread, white wings of a flock ofducks frightened by the unwelcome appearance, from round the corner, of afox. They got away safe, but the captive sloop was towed in triumph bythe frigate back to Carn Gwastad, where she found her sister ships werealready disgorging their freight of soldiers.
The sun was setting as the first boats set down their load on Britishsoil. There were not many spectators of this act (the only one of a likenature since 1066, as far as my knowledge—not very profound—of historywent), the inhabitants of the district, when they perceived that thelanding was to be on their own coast, having dispersed as quickly as aswarm of ants amongst whom a foreign body is introduced—each one makingwith the utmost speed for his own home in order to retreat with hisvaluables (including his family) further into the interior. I, however,was but young, and concluded that my family, who lived in Fishguard,could very well take care of themselves; while it was possible that myfather, who was a somewhat stern parent, might not even accept the (tome) absolute necessity of keeping an eye on the French as a valid excusefor departing from my studies at St. David’s without leave from mymaster. I had a certain amount of fear of the French, I do not deny it;but it was as yet in the abstract, and was a very different thing fromthe absolute fear I had of my father when I caught him (and he caught me)in a bad mood. Besides, though I considered curiosity a childish andfeminine quality, and as such infinitely beneath my dignity, still I mustown I did feel a sort of craving desire to know what those people weregoing to do next. So, hidden in a gorse bush on a headland whichcommanded the creek, I watched the sun go down like a red ball into thesea, throwing a light as of blood on the muskets in the boats beneath me,making the dark figures that swarmed over the sides of the ships lookdarker and more grimy, lighting up the three-coloured flags that unfurledthemselves to the night breeze. Then there came a long path of crimsonright across the grey sea, which, dying out as the sun set, showed thatthis fair day was gone—a day too fair and sweet to be the setting forfoul deeds.
Suddenly there rose a shriek, or, rather, a succession of shrieksbreaking through the twilight quiet, and a young woman shot out like anarrow from the back door of Trehowel, darted past me without pausing toanswer a question, and, shrieking all the time, fled away into theinterior, clutching tightly in her hand a foaming jug of beer. I heardafterwards that she ran on for miles, still clutching that jug of beer,which she had been drawing for the (supposed) English officers; when atlast her master had awakened to the fact that the French were actually athis doors. She ran thus for miles, not even stopping to drink the beer.
She was shortly after followed by Mr. Mortimer himself, who came acrossthe courtyard laughing in spite of the seriousness of the occasion, forhe must needs smile at a joke. He spied me, for indeed I had jumped upto question Sally, and he came towards me.
“The poor maid has had a scare,” said he, with a twinkle still in hiseye. “But, in truth, Dan, my boy, I suppose it is time to be off.”
“Oh, there’s a pity,” said I; “about Master Mortimer’s wedding—and allthe meats and drinks!”
“Well, yes, I never meant them for the parley-vous,” said he, mountinghis horse which one of his farm-boys had brought out; “but I dare saythey’ll enjoy them all the same—they won’t be wasted.”
He turned in the saddle to give a last look at his old house, standingdark against a yellow-green twilight sky, pranked out with all themockery of boughs and flowery arches. The tr
ees in the courtyard had notyet put forth their leaves, but branches of myrtles and ever-bloominggorse and great bunches of primroses had made the place gay. Mr.Mortimer’s face changed as he looked; he made no movement with the reins;he was very loath to leave his home. In his mind’s eye he was viewingthe heap of smoking ruins he might see when next he came, and he seemedto be resolving to meet fate and the French on his own threshold, when awoman’s quick step came out of the now-deserted house.
“Oh, master,” she cried, running up to us, “ar’n’t you off yet! Quick,there isn’t a minute; they are coming up the hill. For the youngmaster’s sake,” she whispered. “Remember, you have got the money and thepapers. Quick!”
He nodded, then shaking his rein, rode off without a word.
“And what are you going to do, Nancy?” said I. “Isn’t it time for you tobe off too?”
“Oh, no odds about me. I’ll slip off somehow, but I must get the silverspoons first.”
Then she turned from me, and her voice broke suddenly.
“Wherever is Davy—oh, wherever is he?” she sobbed.
“Cheer up, Nancy, my maid,” said I, being well acquainted with her, andonly ten years younger—an inequality made up for by my superior stationand parts. “Wherever Davy is he’s in mischief—that you may take yourdavy of; but he always comes out of it somehow.”
I hope the reader will pardon this expression, but I was not at this timeeven a curate—being but fifteen—and the chance of my ever attaining thatstation seemed but remote.
At this moment the clang of arms and the sound of high-pitched voicesbroke on our ears.
“I’ll have those spoons if I die for it!” exclaimed Ann, who was not muchgiven to the melting mood. “Run, Dan, make for Fishguard as fast as youcan.” And without another word or a sign of personal fear, Ann Georgedisappeared into the house.
I will not deny now, after the lapse of so many years, that my heart atthis moment beat unpleasantly fast. I had already watched the landing ofsome of the French troops, but from a considerable distance, and therehad been something unreal about the scene, something like to play-acting,or a dream; but now that I actually heard their voices, the effect wasvery different. They were really here, close by; there was no mistakeabout it. I had an almost overwhelming desire to take to my heels andrun for it, but in spite of a very real fear, two feelings restrainedme—one was a hesitation on account of Nancy, whom it seemed mean todesert; the other was that curiosity to which I have already alluded, andwhich powerfully possesses most of the inhabitants of these regions, butmore especially the females. The twilight was rapidly sinking intodarkness as I crouched lower among the bushes and peered out with eyeswhich doubtless resembled those of a frightened bird. Never hare in itsform felt more of a flutter at the heart than I experienced as thosescreeching, and yet savage, voices drew nearer and nearer. I did notunderstand French, but if I had I trust I should not have understood thenature of the expressions those men were using. It must be rememberedthat at that time we were accustomed to think of a Frenchman as of atwo-legged tiger—which we spelt with a y—and then perhaps the horror thatthrilled me may be understood. Suddenly the vague terror was turned intoreality, as between me and the dusky sky loomed forth a wild figure, thenanother and another, then a confused crowd.
I could stand no more. With one bound I passed from behind my bushes inthrough the back door of the house—
“Nancy, hang those spoons!” I spoke in Welsh, and I fear my expressionwas still more forcible. “Come this minute, I’ll wait no longer.”
“Why, who asked you to wait?” said Ann George, ungratefully. “I thoughtyou’d be half-way to Goodwick ere this.”
At this moment her speech was interrupted by a sound as of thunder at thefront door, while the parlour window came flying into the room before thebutt-ends of French muskets. Even Ann George thought it now high time totake her leave.
So we departed as quickly and as silently as possible through the backdoor, while the front door was being shivered to atoms, and the enemy waspouring into the house over its remains. Quickly, indeed, we went nowand the falling night favoured us; the enemy’s own noise too rendered theslight addition of our footfalls totally unobservable. All the spacebetween Trehowel and the cliffs swarmed with Frenchmen, and the uproarwas bewildering.
“They’ll make short work with your master’s ale, Nan,” I gasped, as weran along under the cover of the earthen banks topped with gorse.
“Aye, and of the wine and the spirits, and of all the poor young master’swedding feast. Oh, indeed, I wish I had known they were coming when Iwas baking those pies and brewing that ale!”
I did not waste my breath by inquiring the reason of this aspiration, forthe hill was rather heavy on my lungs, and her meaning was obvious. In avery short time we had reached Brestgarn, the abode of a worthy divine,the Rev. David Bowen, whom we found about to depart hurriedly, he havingbeen no quicker to hear the alarming tidings than his neighbour atTrehowel; but, having heard it, he and his family were off for theinterior as fast as horses and fright could take them. Only one of hisservants, a man named Llewelyn, volunteered to stay behind, to keep, asfar as in him lay, an eye upon his master’s place and goods.
“Let us go to the top of Carnunda,” suggested this man. “We can seeeverything from there.”
Carnunda is a rock situated just above most things in this region; moreespecially just under it lies the tiny village and church ofLlanunda—Unda being manifestly a saint, though I cannot truthfully say Iever heard anything about him—or her.
We got up to the top of this carn then, and there snugly ensconcedbetween huge boulders of stone—the place is large enough to hold six orseven hundred men, well protected by natural rock-work—we gazed on thescenes all around us.
First at the creek beneath us. It was now pitch dark—for the night wasas black as the day had been bright—but the three tall ships of war werelighted up with cressets of fire; the lugger was there and the capturedsloop, and the sea around them was alive with boats, still conveyingtroops to the land. The torches that they carried were reflected on thewaves, elsewhere inky black—but here bearing long broken lines of light.Dark figures swarmed at the landing place, if so one could call, what wasmerely some flat slabs of rock; and all up the cliffs we saw ant-likebeings crawling, and even (by the aid of a little imagination) we couldfancy we heard their strong exclamations at the steepness of thepath—made even steeper to them by the nature of their occupation, forthey were rolling casks (evidently heavy) of gunpowder from where theboats landed them up to the top of the cliff. Some of these dark figurescarried torches which shed a fierce glow for a small space through theblack night. As we looked, one of the casks which had been by mucheffort shoved up to well-nigh the top of the cliffs, suddenly slippedfrom the Frenchmen’s hands and rolled rapidly down the declivity—the rollspeedily becoming a succession of jumps and plunges, till with a wildleap the cask fled over a final precipice and disappeared in the sea.
“Thank the Lord for that,” said Llewelyn.
Nancy and I laughed aloud. It is impossible to give any idea of theexultation that we felt.
“What words they are using over that!” said Nancy.
“Oh, don’t I wish we were near enough to hear them!” said I, totallyunmindful of my future profession.
But shortly after we had even greater cause of rejoicing. The enemy (aswe had already learnt to call them) were disembarking their cannon, andlowering these unwieldly articles of war into a long boat, but zealoutstripping discretion, they so over-weighted the boat, that lurchingforward heavily she upset, and the whole of her cumbrous cargo wasshortly at the bottom of the sea. It was a satisfaction even to think ofit. Aye, and we may think of it still, for to this very day thoseforeign cannon are rolling about and rusting in the unquiet waters ofCarrig Gwastad creek—a proof, should one ever be needed, of the truth ofthis strange story.
“Thank the Lord again,” said Llewelyn.
The Fishguard Invasion by the French in 1797 Page 3