The Fishguard Invasion by the French in 1797
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CHAPTER IX.THE CAPITULATION.
Suddenly the listening people caught a far-off sound; it came nearer andnearer rapidly, one’s ears seem to go out to meet it.
“Here they come!” came in a hoarse growl from hundreds of gutturalthroats—speaking of course in Welsh.
“Hst,” came the return growl from the other portion of the crowd.
The sound became louder and louder; it was plainly the beating of brassdrums. A sort of thrill—sometimes called goose-skin passed over me, andI doubt not over most of my neighbours. Enoch Lale’s dream was thethought that stirred us; there was something of second-sight about itthat awed one even in the morning air and among that crowd of livingbeings. For a minute I saw again the spectral army of Enoch’s vision.Then, being a boy, the practical aspect of the matter struck me.
“I hope the wife hasn’t taken the poor old fellow out of ear-shot,” Iobserved to Mr. Mortimer, near whom I had placed myself. “He heard thosedrums thirty years ago, sir—and he’d like to know he was right.”
“No doubt, most of us do,” assented Mr. Mortimer. “Oh, Enoch’s somewhereabout, never fear. Hush, my boy, look there!”
All our senses were focussed in our eyes, something shining and moving wesaw, and what could that be save the bayonets of the enemy? Still theshrill clanging of the brass drums went on, broken only by the thud ofthe sea breaking upon the sand. Every head was turned towards the west(even Nancy’s and Davy’s for I looked to see) towards the rockystronghold of Carnunda, past the houses and trees of Goodwick, all alongthe white road which runs like a riband placed aslant on the hill-side.
The glittering points turned the corner and came into full view; it wasat exactly two o’clock that the first of the Frenchmen appeared in sight.On they came, a moving mass of dark blue, carrying no colours, neithergay tricolor nor white flag of peace, but beating their drums so as toput a good face on the matter. A moment later this was changed.
As the column rounded the corner of the road, our hills suddenly startedinto life and their silence was broken by a prolonged yell so fierce andthreatening that the French recoiled and then halted. I could not, evenat the moment, blame them; there seemed every probability that they wouldbe massacred. The Welsh had jumped to their feet as with one bound, andthey were making up for their long silence now, the men all brandishingevery conceivable kind of weapon, the women shaking their fists at theinvaders and screeching at them at the top of their voices. I had only apocket-knife about me and concluded to keep that for my bread and cheese,of which I was badly in want at this moment.
Jemima Nicholas dashed past me, rushing down the hill at full speed witha pitchfork in her hands, followed by some other war-like women of herstamp—some of them armed with straightened scythes. I got out of theirway quickly. “Come on, my daughters!” yelled the fierce cobbler—for thatwas her trade—“come on and cut them down into the sea!”
There is no doubt that she certainly wished to do it, indeed, there was amanifest disposition on the part of the peasantry, male and female, tocome at once to close quarters with the enemy. Then rushed a suddenthunder of hoofs along the shore, as Lord Cawdor and his yeomanrygalloped in front of the angry people, ordering them back and impressingtheir commands with the flat of their drawn swords.
Strong guards were also posted in every path that led from the hills tothe sands, while the road on which the French were now meditating a hastyretreat was especially strongly guarded by detachments of theCardiganshire Militia and the Fishguard Fencibles. At last, seeing theseprecautions against popular fury and that no sudden violence was nowlikely to occur, the French once more took heart and resumed theirdownward march and drums. They were accompanied by Lord Cawdor’saide-de-camp, the Hon. Captain Edwardes, and by Mr. Millingchamp, whobore a large white flag of truce; these had already given the order to“open pans and shed priming” and to march on peaceably: and they wereobeyed.
Colonel Colby marched his men down from Windy Hill, and as he passed thespot where I was, I heard him say, “Let us all be ready, my boys, perhapsthey may disappoint us still.”
But the gallant colonel’s hopes of a fight were doomed to beunfulfilled—and so were Jemima’s—the French troops were thoroughlydemoralised and had no fight in them. They marched on to the sands incolumns, halted before Lord Cawdor and his staff backed by a handful ofmen (for most of our troops were employed in keeping back the excitedpopulace), and then quietly laid down their arms and marched on.
When they had thus deposited their old flint guns some of them lookedaround them. It is impossible to describe the chagrin depicted on theirfeatures when they realised how trifling (numerically speaking) was theforce to which they had succumbed. Still greater was the annoyance theyexperienced when they discovered that the scarlet flash which had soscared them was produced—not by the red coats of a body of regulars—butby the whittles worn by a parcel of women! These individuals now allowedthe fallen foe to have a near view of their tall hats and scarletmantles, for dashing down the hills on to the sands in spite of theguards (who were indeed too much occupied in looking after the piles ofmuskets to heed minor matters) these bellicose dames and damsels gatheredclosely around the Frenchmen, addressing manifold observations to them intheir Welsh tongue, in the use of which most of them possessextraordinary fluency.
But their Gallican sisters also can talk and scold. I had by this timegot very near to the unlucky commander of the expedition, General Tate;and I was close by when Madame Tate who had accompanied the troops flewat him like a fury. She, too, had discovered the paucity of our numbers,and that Lord Cawdor’s “ten thousand men” were—in Spain perhaps—and thatthe English regulars were—well, very irregular forces attired in scarletwhittles. Her remarks as to the conduct of the campaign were evidentlyof a most uncomplimentary nature; though I cannot say I understoodFrench, I understood that. In my heart I felt sorry for General Tate.
“Look here, mum,” I ventured to remark, “if you want to have it out withsomebody, here’s a lady of your own weight and age. Tackle Jemima.”
Madame Tate, though understanding never a word, turned furiously onJemima, who returned the shower of epithets. The General, giving me alook of pure gratitude, hastened away, and I followed his example.
The troops were marched away in columns by fours, and, guarded by ourmen, set off at once for their various destinations—chiefly gaols; ourbands now taking up the strain and making the welkin ring with joyousairs, to which we added all our lungs’ strength of voice in songs andcheers.
So ended the famous capitulation of the French on Goodwick Sands.