The Fishguard Invasion by the French in 1797
Page 9
FRIDAY._THE THIRD DAY_.
CHAPTER VIII.THE GATHERING AT GOODWICK.
Nor many hours did the little den hold me after all, for in the earlymorning I woke with the feeling that something strange was astir. Thencame a vague terror—the memory of my yester-morn’s awakening, and then asense of jubilant triumph as I recalled the Frenchmen’s offer and thestout answer of our chief. Surely they would capitulate now without moretalking or more fighting. I should have liked to have witnessed a littlefighting well enough—from a distance. But then a fight is a veryuncertain thing, it twirls about so, you never know where it will get tonext, or where you are sure to be in it, or still more, safe to be out ofit.
The men quartered in our house were astir early, and perhaps their heavyfootfalls had more to do with rousing me than my own excitability. Stillquick-silver seemed to be running about all over me as I hastilyswallowed my breakfast—which, however, I did full justice to—and thenrushed out of the house to join everybody else on the road to Goodwick.What a throng there was! Every man, woman, and child in Fishguard andall the country round seemed to have turned out, and to be making for thegreat sands at Goodwick. The people gathered from every direction, east,west, and south, until the semi-circle of hills was dark with them.Chiefly, however, the throng came from the east and south, for Trehowellay to the west, and there were but few of the natives left in thatdirection; besides which the steep white road that mounts the hill onthat side of the sands was left clear for the descent of the enemy. Noone wished to interfere with them needlessly; quite the contrary: at allevents, till they had got within reach of our trained men. In themeantime we would give them a wide berth lest they should turn and rendus.
Suddenly a wild voice and a wild figure smote our senses—both eyes andears.
“The dream, the dream!” it yelled. “The dream is coming true!”
“What dream? What is it?” asked every one, but there were more askersthan answerers.
“Use your ears and listen!” continued the wild voice. “Use your eyes andsee!”
“Whoever is he, Jemima?” I asked, finding myself near a reliable woman.Nancy stood some little way off leaning against a cart.
“Why, it’s old Enoch Lale,” said Jemima. “I know him well enough, helives over there under Trehowel, by Carreg Gwastad, just where theseblacks landed.”
Why Jemima always persisted in calling the French “blacks,” I know not;possibly because they were foreigners, possibly she meant blackguards.
“My dream! I told it to ye, unbelieving race, aye, thirty years ago!”yelled the old man.
“’Deed, that’s true for him,” remarked Jemima. “I heard him tell it manya time, years and years ago. Well, I always thought he was soft, but nowhe seems real raving.”
“Thirty years ago I had the vision, and you know it, men and neighbours.”
“Yes, yes, true for you, Enoch Lale,” answered many a voice in the crowd;chiefly this response came from elderly persons who had doubtless heardthe tale many a time.
“But I haven’t heard it. I wasn’t born then,” I remarked.
Whether Enoch Lale heard this gentle protest, or whether he was resolvednot to be baulked of his story, I cannot say. “I only know,” hecontinued, “I had a vision of the night, and the future was revealed tome in a dream; yea, and more than a dream, for I rose up out of my bedand went down on to the rocks and there—on Carreg Gwastad—the Frenchtroops landed, and I saw them—aye, as plain as ever any of you saw themtwo days ago. And that was thirty years ago, yet it has come true! Butwait, and listen! and ye shall hear the brass drums sounding, as I heardthem sound that night! Listen! Listen!”
“Come down off that cart and be quiet, Enoch Lale, or you’ll be having afit. We all know, you’ve told your dream often enough; why you woke meup that very night to tell it.”
And the prophet was taken possession of by a quiet elderly woman, hisbetter half.
“Well, we got rid of old I-told-you-so rather suddenly,” I observed toJemima. “But it is very queer about his dream.”
“There’s a many things,” replied Jemima, “as we don’t know nothingabout—and dreams is one of them.”
It was marvellous to watch the gathering of troops and people. The hillsto the south of the bay were covered with peasant men, and thered-whittled women who had done such good service to their country, andwhose conduct has never been rewarded by any faintest token of gratitudeor even of recognition by that country.
At the foot of these hills came a marsh, bounded by a road on the otherside of which were the famous sands—where were stationed in a compactbody the Castle Martin Yeomanry Cavalry. Ere long these men were drawnout of their trim ranks for a difficult and dangerous duty; but of thatanon.
The infantry was drawn up in a field on the east side of the bay, justunder Windy Hill, to which farm the field belonged. The force consistedof the Cardiganshire and Pembrokeshire Volunteers—about three hundredstrong: together with the Fishguard Fencibles. Numerically weak we wereindeed, but on our own ground and with right on our side. Added to whichwe had had the pleasing news of the enemy’s faint-heartedness: so thataltogether we felt ourselves animated by the courage of lions.
Major Ackland had had his promised interview with General Tate in theearly morning at the French headquarters in the old house of Trehowel.The interview had been a short one, and much to the point; he declinedaltogether to parley, or parlez-vous. He insisted on instant andunconditional surrender; then sticking spurs in his horse he gallopedaway without any compliments.
Lord Cawdor and his staff were riding up and down the sands when thegallant Major appeared bringing the glorious news that the French werecoming, and at once, and that they were prepared to surrender atdiscretion. But the Colonel still continued his work of inspecting thewhole of the British troops. He still thought, perhaps hoped, that theremight be a passage of arms.
Then came a time of deep silence when each individual among usconcentrated his senses in his ears. I, being but a boy, allowed my eyesa little freedom; most other eyes were concentrated on the road where theFrench would first appear, but I permitted mine to gaze around me, when Iat once made a discovery. The cart against which Nancy had leantcontained a man, the outline of the back of whose head seemed strangelyfamiliar to me. I could only see the back of his head for he was leaningout of the cart with his face turned away from me, but towards anotherperson who was standing on the other side of the cart. Some bushes,behind which the cart had been drawn up, prevented a clear view, so Ishifted my position a little—in fact, went straight up to the group, whoseemed to be placing rather a blind confidence in their retiredsituation, and in the magnetic attraction of the enemy. I rounded thecart; the young man was, as I had imagined, Davy Jones, wounded foot andall; the young woman was, as I had guessed, Nancy George. Their headswere very near together, perhaps they were talking about splints.
“Why, Nancy!” I exclaimed, “is that you?”
“Yes, of course it is, Master Dan—and why shouldn’t it be?” cried Nancy,as red as a turkey-cock, and as inclined to show fight.
“Oh, all right. I only thought you must be somebody else,” I returned,politely.
Davy broke into a roar of laughter, and Ann, in spite of her indignation,showed her row of white teeth.
“Go away, you tiresome boy, and look out for the French,” was herrecommendation.
“And not for the—” but my sentence was cut short by a shove from Nan’svigorous arm which sent me flying for some paces.
“Take care of the spoons, Ann!” was my parting shot, as I made my way alittle further down the hill.
We all sat down on the ferny slopes and waited and listened. As ageneral rule nobody talked, which showed how grave was the occasion. Infront of us was the sea dark grey to-day as was the sky; the sandssometimes almost golden, were, on this dull February day, only anothershade of grey; and the great boulders of rock which cropped up everywherewere of the sam
e colour. And this greyness seemed to suit this scenebetter than the brightness of Wednesday would have done; for though itwas a day of triumph to us we could not forget that it was a day ofhumiliation and bitterness to these hundreds of men who were approachingus on the other side of the hill. The tide was coming in, but withoutany sparkle and dash, sullenly; and the south-west wind blew in gusts thestrength of which told plainly of power in reserve: one could feel thatit was capable of violence.
So were the people who sat waiting—apparently quietly—for their enemies,on the hill-slope, which rose into a natural amphitheatre on all sides(save one) of the scene: whereof the flat sands formed the arena orfloor. What a place this would have been for one of the old Roman shows;for a moment I seemed to see the gladiators struggling for life or death,to hear the cruel roar of the lions, to watch the fighting, tearing, andrending in the arena, and to witness what struck me most with awe—thefierce lust for blood which filled the spectators, one and all, as theyshouted and craved for more—more blood. I woke up suddenly with a startto find I had been dozing on the hillside, where the people were sittingquietly enough, Britons not Romans, perhaps some of them descendants ofthese very gladiators who had been
“Butchered to make a Roman holiday.”