Nor many hours did the little den hold me after all, for in the early morning I woke with the feeling that something strange was astir. Then came a vague terror—the memory of my yester-morn’s awakening, and then a sense of jubilant triumph as I recalled the Frenchmen’s offer and the stout answer of our chief. Surely they would capitulate now without more talking or more fighting. I should have liked to have witnessed a little fighting well enough—from a distance. But then a fight is a very uncertain thing, it twirls about so, you never know where itwill get to next, or where you are sure to be in it, or still more, safe to be out of it.
The men quartered in our house were astir early, and perhaps their heavy footfalls had more to do with rousing me than my own excitability. Still quick-silver seemed to be running about all over me as I hastily swallowed my breakfast—which, however, I did full justice to—and then rushed 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 and all the country round seemed to have turned out, and to be making for the great 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 Trehowel lay to the west, and there were but few of the natives left in that direction; besides which the steep whiteroad that mounts the hill on that side of the sands was left clear for the descent of the enemy. No one wished to interfere with them needlessly; quite the contrary: at all events, till they had got within reach of our trained men. In the meantime we would give them a wide berth lest they should turn and rend us.
Suddenly a wild voice and a wild figure smote our senses—both eyes and ears.
“The dream, the dream!” it yelled. “The dream is coming true!”
“What dream? What is it?” asked every one, but there were more askers than answerers.
“Use your ears and listen!” continued the wild voice. “Use your eyes and see!”
“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, he lives over there under Trehowel, by Carreg Gwastad, just where these blacks 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 many a time, years and years ago. Well, I always thought he was soft, but now he 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 personswho had doubtless heard the 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 resolved not to be baulked of his story, I cannot say. “I only know,” he continued, “I had a vision of the night, and the future was revealed to me in a dream; yea, and more than a dream, for I rose up out of my bed and went down on to the rocks and there—on Carreg Gwastad—the French troops landed, and I saw them—aye, as plain as ever any of you saw them two days ago. And that was thirty years ago, yet it has come true! But wait, and listen! and ye shall hear the brass drums sounding, as I heard them sound that night! Listen! Listen!”
“Come down off that cart and be quiet, Enoch Lale, or you’ll be having a fit. Weall know, you’ve told your dream often enough; why you woke me up that very night to tell it.”
And the prophet was taken possession of by a quiet elderly woman, his better half.
“Well, we got rid of old I-told-you-so rather suddenly,” I observed to Jemima. “But it is very queer about his dream.”
“There’s a many things,” replied Jemima, “as we don’t know nothing about—and dreams is one of them.”
It was marvellous to watch the gathering of troops and people. The hills to the south of the bay were covered with peasant men, and the red-whittled women who had done such good service to their country, and whose conduct has never been rewarded by any faintest token of gratitude or even of recognition by that country.
At the foot of these hills came a marsh, bounded by a road on the other side of whichwere the famous sands—where were stationed in a compact body the Castle Martin Yeomanry Cavalry. Ere long these men were drawn out of their trim ranks for a difficult and dangerous duty; but of that anon.
The infantry was drawn up in a field on the east side of the bay, just under Windy Hill, to which farm the field belonged. The force consisted of the Cardiganshire and Pembrokeshire Volunteers—about three hundred strong: together with the Fishguard Fencibles. Numerically weak we were indeed, but on our own ground and with right on our side. Added to which we had had the pleasing news of the enemy’s faint-heartedness: so that altogether we felt ourselves animated by the courage of lions.
Major Ackland had had his promised interview with General Tate in the early morning at the French headquarters in the old house of Trehowel. The interview hadbeen a short one, and much to the point; he declined altogether to parley, or parlez-vous. He insisted on instant and unconditional surrender; then sticking spurs in his horse he galloped away without any compliments.
Lord Cawdor and his staff were riding up and down the sands when the gallant Major appeared bringing the glorious news that the French were coming, and at once, and that they were prepared to surrender at discretion. But the Colonel still continued his work of inspecting the whole of the British troops. He still thought, perhaps hoped, that there might be a passage of arms.
Then came a time of deep silence when each individual among us concentrated his senses in his ears. I, being but a boy, allowed my eyes a little freedom; most other eyes were concentrated on the road where the French would first appear, but Ipermitted mine to gaze around me, when I at once made a discovery. The cart against which Nancy had leant contained a man, the outline of the back of whose head seemed strangely familiar to me. I could only see the back of his head for he was leaning out of the cart with his face turned away from me, but towards another person 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 I shifted my position a little—in fact, went straight up to the group, who seemed to be placing rather a blind confidence in their retired situation, and in the magnetic attraction of the enemy. I rounded the cart; the young man was, as I had imagined, Davy Jones, wounded foot and all; the young woman was, as I had guessed, Nancy George. Their heads were 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 her recommendation.
“And not for the—” but my sentence was cut short by a shove from Nan’s vigorous arm which sent me flying for some paces.
“Take care of the spoons, Ann!” was my parting shot, as I made my way a little further down the hill.
We all sat down on the ferny slopes andwaited and listened. As a general rule nobody talked, which showed how grave was the occasion. In front of us was the sea dark grey to-day as was the sky; the sands sometimes almost golden, were, on this dull February day, only another shade of grey; and the great boulders of rock which cropped up everywhere were of the same colour. And this greyness seemed to suit this scene better than the brightness of Wednesday would have done; for though it was a day of triumph to us we could not forget that it was a day of humiliation and bitterness to these hundreds of men who were approaching us on the other side of the hill. The tide was coming in, but without any sparkle and dash, sullenly; and the south-west wind blew in gusts the strength of which told plainly of power in reserve: one could feel that it was capable of violence.
So were the people who satwaiting—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 or floor. 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, and rending in the arena, and to witness what struck me most with awe—the fierce lust for blood which filled the spectators, one and all, as they shouted and craved for more—more blood. I woke up suddenly with a start to find I had been dozing on the hillside, where the people were sitting quietly enough, Britons not Romans, perhaps some of them descendants of these very gladiators who had been
“Butchered to make a Roman holiday.”
“Butchered to make a Roman holiday.”
Suddenly the listening people caught a far-off sound; it came nearer and nearer rapidly, one’s ears seem to go out to meet it.
“Here they come!” came in a hoarse growl from hundreds of guttural throats—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 brass drums. A sort of thrill—sometimes called goose-skin passed over me, and I doubt not over most of my neighbours. Enoch Lale’s dream wasthe thought that stirred us; there was something of second-sight about it that awed one even in the morning air and among that crowd of living beings. 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,” I observed to Mr. Mortimer, near whom I had placed myself. “He heard those drums 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 somewhere about, never fear. Hush, my boy, look there!”
All our senses were focussed in our eyes, something shining and moving we saw, and what could that be save the bayonets of the enemy? Still the shrill clanging of the brass drums went on, broken only by the thud of the sea breaking upon the sand. Every headwas turned towards the west (even Nancy’s and Davy’s for I looked to see) towards the rocky stronghold of Carnunda, past the houses and trees of Goodwick, all along the 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 was at 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, neither gay tricolor nor white flag of peace, but beating their drums so as to put a good face on the matter. A moment later this was changed.
As the column rounded the corner of the road, our hills suddenly started into life and their silence was broken by a prolonged yell so fierce and threatening that the French recoiled and then halted. I could not, even at the moment, blame them; there seemedevery probability that they would be massacred. The Welsh had jumped to their feet as with one bound, and they were making up for their long silence now, the men all brandishing every conceivable kind of weapon, the women shaking their fists at the invaders and screeching at them at the top of their voices. I had only a pocket-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 with a pitchfork in her hands, followed by some other war-like women of her stamp—some of them armed with straightened scythes. I got out of their way quickly. “Come on, my daughters!” yelled the fierce cobbler—for that was her trade—“come on and cut them down into the sea!”
There is no doubt that she certainlywished to do it, indeed, there was a manifest disposition on the part of the peasantry, male and female, to come at once to close quarters with the enemy. Then rushed a sudden thunder of hoofs along the shore, as Lord Cawdor and his yeomanry galloped in front of the angry people, ordering them back and impressing their commands with the flat of their drawn swords.
Strong guards were also posted in every path that led from the hills to the sands, while the road on which the French were now meditating a hasty retreat was especially strongly guarded by detachments of the Cardiganshire Militia and the Fishguard Fencibles. At last, seeing these precautions against popular fury and that no sudden violence was now likely to occur, the French once more took heart and resumed their downward march and drums. They were accompanied by Lord Cawdor’s aide-de-camp,the Hon. Captain Edwardes, and by Mr. Millingchamp, who bore 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 were obeyed.
Colonel Colby marched his men down from Windy Hill, and as he passed the spot where I was, I heard him say, “Let us all be ready, my boys, perhaps they may disappoint us still.”
But the gallant colonel’s hopes of a fight were doomed to be unfulfilled—and so were Jemima’s—the French troops were thoroughly demoralised and had no fight in them. They marched on to the sands in columns, halted before Lord Cawdor and his staff backed by a handful of men (for most of our troops were employed in keeping back the excited populace), and then quietly laid down their arms and marched on.
When they had thus deposited their oldflint guns some of them looked around them. It is impossible to describe the chagrin depicted on their features when they realised how trifling (numerically speaking) was the force to which they had succumbed. Still greater was the annoyance they experienced when they discovered that the scarlet flash which had so scared them was produced—not by the red coats of a body of regulars—but by the whittles worn by a parcel of women! These individuals now allowed the fallen foe to have a near view of their tall hats and scarlet mantles, for dashing down the hills on to the sands in spite of the guards (who were indeed too much occupied in looking after the piles of muskets to heed minor matters) these bellicose dames and damsels gathered closely around the Frenchmen, addressing manifold observations to them in their Welsh tongue, in the use of which most of them possess extraordinary fluency.
But their Gallican sisters also can talk and scold. I had by this time got very near to the unlucky commander of the expedition, General Tate; and I was close by when Madame Tate who had accompanied the troops flew at 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 that the English regulars were—well, very irregular forces attired in scarlet whittles. Her remarks as to the conduct of the campaign were evidently of a most uncomplimentary nature; though I cannot say I understood French, 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 with somebody, here’s a lady of your own weight and age. Tackle Jemima.”
Madame Tate, though understandingnever a word, turned furiously on Jemima, who returned the shower of epithets. The General, giving me a look of pure gratitude, hastened away, and I followed his example.
The troops were marched away in columns by fours, and, guarded by our men, set off at once for their various destinations—chiefly gaols; our bands now taking up the strain and making the welkin ring with joyous airs, to which we added all our lungs’ strength of voice in songs and cheers.
So ended the famous capitulation of the French on Goodwick Sands.
We could still hear the festive strains of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,”—every road was full of soldiers—guards and guarded, some on their way to Haverfordwest, some to Milford, some to Carmarthen, some, for the present, only as far as Fishguard. Their number (sixteen hundred, without stragglers who dropped in later) taxed the resources of this thinly inhabited country to the uttermost, both as regarded the food and the housing of their prisoners. Vast relief was felt when the greater number of them were shipped off to the place from whence they came.
“Where are you going, master?” asked Ann George, coming up to Mr. Mortimer as he was moving away, having now beheld the end of this strange scene of the bloodless surrender of sixteen hundred men to a very insignificant force; surely one of the strangest sights ever witnessed on the shores of this happy island.
Nancy had taken no part in the action of her aunt Jemima; she was not the woman to jeer a fallen foe, so she had remained quietly by the cart till all was over, then had turned to her master.
“Where are you going, master?” asked the faithful servant.
“Back to my own house; for I suppose it is mine again now,” said he, with a sort of groan as he thought of the manner in which the old home had been desecrated.
“I’ll come too,” said Nancy, “the place is bound to be topsy-turvy, sir, and agentleman can’t do aught to straighten it. I’ll come too.”
“Better not, Nancy, there are a lot of drunken vagabonds about still—too drunk to know they’ve capitulated. And some of the officers who were afraid to trust to the white flag and our word are at Trehowel still.”
However, Nancy was not to be put off so; she would go. She had been in service for some years at Trehowel and she considered that the kitchen belonged to her, and it went to her heart to think of the damage done. She could have no peace till she could begin to repair it, and to set things once more in order to receive home the bride, as now the strangely postponed wedding would surely take place.
Davy Jones went too—I suppose because Nancy did; they seemed great friends now, though previously the young woman hadbeen in the habit of giving him the cold shoulder, I imagine because of his habit of smuggling; but I did not take much interest in the matter as a boy, not understanding the fair sex; indeed, even in after years I doubt if I ever quite succeeded in fathoming their method of reasoning. However, it is quite certain that as Nancy permitted it Davy was quite content to go wherever she did, and he gave her and me also a seat in his cart. I went too, for I thought that if there was anything to be seen I might as well see it; and I had heard that General Tate had gone back there after the surrender—on parole. I had some curiosity to see him again, and I thought it due to myself to witness the end of this affair, of which I had chanced to see the very beginning.
As we went up the steep hill from Goodwick, we were joined by a party of the Fishguard Fencibles, sent to look after thescattered inebriates, and to take the swords and words of the retiring French officers. When we got to Brestgarn we encountered the grinning face of Llewellyn, about whom Nancy and I had had many an uneasy thought. He told us that his captors had not ill-treated him beyond making him work for them, that they had kept a sharp eye on him for a day and two nights and then he had managed to escape. He had hidden for a while, but as soon as possible had returned to look after his master’s goods. Llewellyn was a very ordinary looking man with unpolished—even uncouth manners, but it struck me that he had a stronger sense of duty than is usual.
Trehowel: General Tate’s Headquarters
A few steps further brought us to Trehowel. Out rushed all the dogs, barking, jumping, tail-wagging—absolutely wild with delight at the recovery of their own master. A grey-haired gentleman cameforward and addressed Mr. Mortimer with much courtesy—
“Sir, the dogs know you. I presume you are the master here?”
“I was so once. Down, Gelert! Quiet, Corgé!”
The officer then introduced himself to Mr. Mortimer as General Tate. He went on to say that he had understood that the Welsh people were ripe for revolt and that they might march throughout Wales and even a good deal further with wooden swords. That it had been a great disappointment to him to find this was not the case, that it had also been a source of annoyance to him to be deserted by his ships, but that the most unpleasant sensation he had ever experienced had been the failing of heart he had felt as his foot touched Welsh soil.
I listened with all my ears to this interesting discourse, which happily I was able tounderstand, for General Tate being an Irishman spoke English perfectly.
Our attention was diverted by a cry—a cry of surprise which broke from Nancy with a suddenness which startled all of us. We all turned hastily round and beheld the girl standing as if petrified, with her arm stretched out and her hand pointing towards a man who stood a few yards from her—apparently one of the stragglers among the French soldiers, for he was clothed in the same way as the majority of them—a British soldier’s uniform which had been dyed a rusty brown. The man looked dumb-foundered but Nancy found her tongue.
“So it is you, James Bowen, who have betrayed your own people to strangers. Uch a fi, traitor; I could strike you where you stand!”
“Shall I do it for you, Nancy?” suggested Davy, ready to hobble out of the cart.
“No, he is not worth it. Let him go to gaol with his friends,” said Nancy, scornfully.
James Bowen looked utterly bewildered; he had evidently been drinking heavily and had not even heard of the surrender; had he done so he would hardly have come back to Trehowel, but would have made off into the interior. But Nancy’s contempt roused him somewhat.
“It was your own fault,” he said, sullenly, “you drove me away from here, you drove me to the bad.”
“And I suppose I drove you to steal a horse and then to break out of gaol, and to run off to France, and to fetch back foreigners here—showing them the entrance to Carreg Gwastad Creek! I helped in that too, perhaps?”
“You needn’t pretend to be so particular, you’ve taken up with a smuggler yourself,” growled James.
Nancy’s face flamed, but she took a step nearer to Davy and placed her hand in his defiantly.
“It is truth indeed, and I’m going to marry him too, for if he is a smuggler, he is an honest boy and isn’t a traitor. I’d have thought nothing of the horse or the gaol—but to betray your own people to strangers—let me get out of the sight of you. ‘Cursed for ever and throughout all ages be the traitor.’”
And with this vigorous denunciation of a crime so utterly hateful to the Welsh people, that they even abhor giving evidence in a court of justice, Nancy turned her back on the traitor at once and for ever, and hastily entering her domain at Trehowel, proceeded to restore the silver spoons to their own place.
The kindly dusk hid much of the damage that had been done; and after three days’absence, at the same hour as when she had quitted it, Nancy George was restored to the sovereignty of the kitchen at Trehowel.
And so ended in gladness of heart and rejoicing, Friday the 24th day of February, 1797; and so ended in pain and tribulation to themselves the three days’ invasion of the French at Fishguard.
As I have already mentioned, some of the prisoners were sent to Haverfordwest Gaol—which, being situated in the old castle, was a commodious and roomy resort; others were placed, temporarily, in the churches of St. Mary, St. Thomas, and St. Martin: others again were sent to Carmarthen, under the escort of the Romney Fencible Cavalry, the officers being conveyed on horseback and allowed their parole; but the greater part of the French force finally found themselves confined in the Golden Prison at Pembroke. They were taken there andalso to Milford by water; and not a few died on board the vessels, being closely shut up under deck. Finally, five hundred of them were safely landed and incarcerated in the Golden Prison, the state of which, with all this overcrowding, could hardly have been so delightful as its name might lead the imaginative to suppose.
Here we will leave them for awhile, returning once more to myself and my own belongings. My kind mother would not let me return at once to my master at St. David’s, she looked upon me as “her miraculously preserved boy,” and must keep me for a bit to gloat her eyes upon. My father, being a man who loved a quiet life, consented. And so I was still in Fishguard when the Royal Proclamation came down, which commanded us to set aside a day of general thanksgiving for our preservation from the dangers which threatened ourbeloved country. This command reached us about a fortnight after the danger had passed, posts being rather slow in those days. Indeed, had we had to wait so long for more substantial help, we had been in parlous straights long since. However, “All’s well that ends well”—and we had fared through, by the aid of Providence, our own exertions, and the brandy-laden wrecks.
So we all repaired to our several parish churches; my mother hanging proudly on my arm, and regarding me as one to be specially thanked for. Indeed, I was not ill-pleased myself to perceive some nods of heads and pointings of fingers among the old crones and young maids as we passed along. This feeling seemed also to actuate Davy Jones, who limped along arm in arm with Nancy; she, even then not assuming the dependent position, but giving him her arm, as it were, in order to help him along.She even explained to us that, it being her “Sunday out” she had come all the way from Trehowel for this purpose. I may own that I distrusted that limp of Davy’s; it struck me he liked to play the maimed hero.
“Why, Davy,” I remarked, very audibly. “I saw you at market on Friday, and you weren’t limping a bit. Do you want to have the old women to look at you or Nancy—.”
“To arm me?” said Davy, with a wink. “That’s it, my boy. What’s the old women to me? But Nancy—.”
Here Nancy stopped the dialogue by dragging her admirer forward in a most hasty manner, with but slight regard for his wounded limb. The service proceeded as usual. The hymns occasionally tailed off into one voice which quivered and sank, dying out into silence; for as it was well known that the parson’s daughter receiveda shilling from her sire for pitching up the tune again every time it died a natural death, no one liked to be so crooked as not to assist nature when the melody became weak and low. Then the clear young voice came forth and we started afresh. I need hardly say there was no instrumental music.
We proceeded, then, in spite of the special occasion in much our usual manner, leaving most of the thanksgiving to parson and clerk, and lolling about at our ease thinking of nothing, when attention! we heard galloping hoofs along the street, which ran outside the church. At the gate, the horse was suddenly reined up on his haunches—a man flung himself off heavily, and quick feet came tearing up the path to the porch. In an instant every man, woman, and child in the church stood upright, ready for fight or flight.
The door burst open, and the expressmessenger rushed in, booted, spurred, and breathless.
“The French! the French!” was all that he could gasp. He was surrounded in an instant by eager questioners, his voice was drowned in a very Babel of noise.
Our worthy divine then assumed command of his congregation. He despatched the clerk to the vestry for a drop of brandy, and then standing square and upright in the pulpit he commanded the people to be quiet, and to allow the man to come unhindered into the pulpit, from where he would himself announce the news. These orders were obeyed, and John Jones having returned with the spirit, the parson administered it, and then desired the man to deliver his message.
It was briefly this; sundry large ships of war, filled with French troops, were making their way up St. George’s Channel straight for the port of Fishguard.
In an instant the cry rang through the church—“To arms! to arms!”
Then what a scene of confusion arose, fury, dismay, oaths and shrieks all mingled together, some women fainting, some in tears, the men roused and excited to the uttermost.
“Don’t go, don’t go, my son,” sobbed my mother; but curiosity overcame prudence.
“I’m not going to fight, mother, never fear, but I must go and look on,” was my answer.
“Oh Dio, not again, not again!” urged Nancy, thinking of the single combats.
“I’m not going to walk across the sea to tackle a frigate, I promise you,” said Davy, with a laugh. But Nancy was not to be put off so.
“All right, come. I’m coming too,” she said, and in another instant they were without the church door, where, indeed, we allfound ourselves shortly. We tore down to the cliffs as the possessed swine might have raced; many of us ran to man the fort, but I remained on the higher ground where I could have a better view and see further out to sea.
And soon there was indeed a fair sight to see. Coming round the headland to the west of us, their sails filled with the brisk March breeze, appeared a stately squadron moving proudly under British colours; but having seen something like this before, some of us still doubted. The fort saluted, and this compliment was returned by the men-of-war without any changing of colours. We began to feel reassured, and soon our hopes were verified. A boat put off from the nearest ship and was rowed to shore in a style that swore to “British tar.” The officer landed and explained that the squadron was part of the Channel Fleet, sentto our assistance, and that it was under the command of the brave Sir Edward Pellew. We were very proud of the help rendered us by England, even though it had come a little late, but that was the fault of our roads not their goodwill; and though it had occasioned a worse scare than the real thing, but that was only our disordered nerves which acted up to the old proverb—“A burnt child dreads fire.”
The officer inquired very particularly as to the probable whereabouts of the French ships—the three frigates and the lugger. About this we could give him no information whatever. All we could say was, that the French left their anchorage at Carreg Gwastad on Thursday, the 23rd of February, at noon, and took a course directly across the channel towards the coast of Ireland. Our little sloops did not care to venture too near since one of them, theBritannia, hadbeen taken by the enemy, the cargo appropriated, and the sloop scuttled and sunk. They were, on the whole, persons to whom it was pleasanter to give a wide berth.
We heard afterwards that one of the ships struck on the Arklow Banks, she was much injured and lost her rudder; one of her companions took her in tow and made for France. They got as far as just off Brest, and then, in sight of home, cruel fate overtook them in the shape of two English ships, respectively under the commands of Sir H. B. Neale and of Captain Cooke. These two made short work of the Frenchmen, both ships were taken and brought over to Portsmouth, where they were repaired, commissioned in the British service, and sent to fight our battles, one of them—oh glory for our little town—bearing henceforth the name of “The Fishguard.”
The remaining frigate, accompanied bythe lugger, got safely into Brest, where no doubt they were exceedingly relieved to find themselves after their disastrous expedition.
The scare that our squadron had caused extended from St. David’s to Fishguard, all along the coast, in fact, from which the big vessels could be seen approaching the land. There were one or two other scares besides this, for our nerves had been shaken, and our imaginations set going; and truly for many a long year after the little phrase “Look out for the French!” was enough to set women and children off at speed, and perhaps even to give an uncomfortable qualm in the hearts of the nobler sex.
I went at Easter to pay a short visit to two maiden aunts who lived at Pembroke, where they kept a little millinery—shop I had almost said, but that would have vexed their gentle hearts—establishment. They were sisters of my mother, who came from this district, often called “Little England beyond Wales,” the people who live there being in fact Flemings, not Cymri, and the language they speak, being a Saxon dialect, is worth studying, not from its beauty, but from its quaintness and originality. Welsh is utterly unknown “down below,” as theNorth Pembrokeshire folks call the southern half of the county. My mother had great difficulty in acquiring even a superficial knowledge of Welsh, and she was always regarded as a stranger in Fishguard, though she lived there nigh upon fifty years. It was probably my early acquaintance with English (of a sort) that made my father decide to bring me up for the ministry.
However, to resume my story—which was strangely mixed up with that of the French prisoners—one of my chief pastimes during my visit to the worthy spinsters consisted in hanging about the entrance to the Golden Prison. The foreigners were allowed to employ their clever fingers in the manufacture of knick-knacks, made of straw, bones, beads, and other trifles, which they sold in order to provide themselves with anything they might require beyond the bare necessaries of life. My good aunts, Rebecca andJane Johnson, permitted these articles to be exhibited on a little table in their show-room, where ladies while idling away their time in choosing and trying on finery, might perchance take a fancy to some little object, and bestow some of their spare cash in helping the poor prisoners. What made my aunts first think of doing this kindly act was the representations of their assistant, a pretty young girl named Eleanor Martin, a daughter of the gaoler of the Golden Prison, who had had such a sudden accession to his numbers and his responsibilities.
One day Nellie had occasion to go to the prison with the money produced by these trifles, and she asked me if I would like to accompany her and see the Frenchmen at work. My answer may be readily imagined. So we set forth, and the first person whom we saw when we reached the limbo of incarcerated bodies, if not of despairing souls, wasnot by any means a repulsive object, being a remarkably pretty young woman, as like Nellie as two peas are like each other.
“Is’t thee, Fan?” asked Nellie. “Where be feyther?” Then, remembering her manners, she added, “My sister Frances, Master Dan’l.”
Frances and I were speedily friends, in fact, the young woman saw too many strangers to be troubled by shyness.
“Feyther’s main busy, and mustn’t be spoke to,” she observed, with rather a knowing look at her sister. “But the turnkey’ll let us in. It’s a mort easier to get in nor to get out of this old coop, Mas’r Dan’l.”
I quite assented to this proposition, but remarked that I hoped the turnkey would not make any mistake about us.
“No fear,” said Frances, “I was born here and knows the ways on it.”
“What’s that straw for, Frances?” I asked, for I loved to acquire information.
“For the Frenchers to make hats of. I brings them this much most days,” she answered, looking down on her big bundle.
I must really have been growing up lately, for (for the first time in my life) an instinct of gallantry seized me, and I offered to carry it for her. She declined in rather a hurried manner.
“I’d liefer car’ it myself, thanking you the same. It’s no heft at all, and maybe ye’d shed it about.”
“Not I,” said I, indignantly, my gallantry gone. “Do you think I’ve never carried a truss of straw before? That’s just like a girl. But what’s that in the middle of the bundle?” I continued, eyeing it curiously. “Why, it’s a bone, I believe!”
Frances threw the corner of her apron over the bundle in a very pettish manner, and tomy great surprise grew as red as a poppy. What was there to blush about in a bone? Nell struck in hurriedly—
“Yes, of course it’s a bone, Dan. And what could they make their buttons and ivory boxes out of but bone?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” I said, not liking to suggest “ivory” for fear, as tempers were ruffled, they might leave me outside.
“Then don’t go for to ax silly questions,” retorted Nell. “Can us go in, Roche?”
“Ay, my honies,” returned Roche, the turnkey, whom we had now reached. “Leastwise you and Fan can, in the coorse of natur; but who be this young crut?”[209]
“Oh, missus’ nevvy he be, as wants to see the Frenchers at work. ’Tis only a young boy, but we’d just as lief let him stay if you’d liefer not let him in.”
I did not feel grateful to my young friendfor this suggestion, which, however, was probably dictated by the wiliness of woman.
“Oh, take him in there, and leave him if you’ve a mind, my beauty. I reckon one more won’t make no odds in there.”
This he seemed to consider a first-class joke, for he guffawed till we were out of hearing.
After passing through a guard-room, in which there were several soldiers smoking and lounging about, who offered no opposition to our passing, Fan and Nell being of course well known in the prison, we found ourselves in a large and very dreary hall, paved with flag-stones and almost devoid of furniture. The inmates, however, seemed pretty cheery on the whole; there were apparently about a couple of hundred of them, of whom some were working, some singing, some playing cards or dominoes—alltalking. Yes, even the singing onestalked between the verses. The spring sunshine came through the iron-barred, skied-up windows, and, in spite of other discouraging circumstances, these children of the South were (what we never are) gay as larks.
They clustered around my companions with every mark of respect and admiration. I naturally didn’t understand their jabber, but one remark which was, I rather think, meant for English, caught my ear. “Zay are—some angels out of—ciel!”
“They say you’re angels out of the ceiling. What on earth do they mean?” I inquired.
“We knows what they mean well enough, don’t you trouble, my honey,” answered Nell, who was more friendly to me than her sister was.
I don’t think Fan had got over her annoyance about the bone; she still carried the bundle of straw with her apron thrown over it.
We now went to the part of the room where the men were busy with their manufactures, and here I had really cause for astonishment. With no tools except some wretched little penknives, these skilful-fingered fellows were turning out most lovely work in bone, wood, and slate. Some of them executed beautiful mosaic work by letting-in pieces of various coloured stones on a bed of slate; they afterwards ground and polished the whole till it resembled the far-famed Florentine mosaic. I perceived a grindstone in the corner of the room, which the leniency of the authorities permitted them to have and to use.
Others of the prisoners were deftly plaiting the straw in many fanciful devices, these plaits again being rapidly transformed into hats for men, women, and even dolls. A great many toys were to be seen in various stages of their formation, wooden whistles,ships, dolls, windmills, and many other objects of delight to childhood.
I scanned eagerly the faces of all I saw to discover the countenances of any of my more particular assailants; but I did not succeed in recognising one of them. There was such a remarkable similarity among them, each man was as like his neighbour as could be; all haggard, all unwashed, all unshaven. They excited pity, even in a boy’s unsentimental heart; and withal, now that they were not drunk with greed and brandy, they were so lively and merry. I was quite sorry I could not understand their jokes.
Fan did not make over her straw to any of these men, as I fully expected that she would; nor did they seem to expect it. I heard a great deal of talk about Monsieur le Commissaire, and there was a good deal of pointing of fingers and something about “chambre voisine.”
As Fanny sheered off I followed.
“Can’t I come into the voisin chamber?” I asked, not knowing the meaning of the word, “and see Mounseer the Commissary?”
Fan looked at me in a startled way, but Nell interposed hastily—
“Let him come, he’s main quick and might help; he’s not a cursed boy.”
I must explain that in this dialect cursed means malicious or ill-natured; it has the meaning, in fact, which Shakespeare followed when he spoke of “Kate the curst” in his “Taming of the Shrew.”
Frances looked doubtful, but went on, Nellie and I following. As we entered the little adjoining room a young man jumped up, and, running to Nellie, took her hand and kissed it with much fervour.
“Hallo!” I cried, “what d’you let that common fellow kiss your hand for?”
“He isn’t a common fellow—he’s anengineer!” cried Nell, angrily, “and you’re nothing but a dull young boy not to know a gentleman when you sees one!
“Beg pardon, mounseer,” said I, for Frenchy was bowing to me, and I wished to show we Welsh knew manners. But though he might be a gentleman, I still hold to it, he was grimy.
“I’ve brought you the money for the things sold in missus’ shop,” continued Nell; then turning to me, “This gentleman, as is an engineer, is main clever, and manages all the accounts.”
The engineer seemed to me to have been clever enough to have managed more than accounts; however for once discretion prevailed and I held my tongue. Then Nellie and this mounseer fell to their accounts, and seemed to have a great deal to say to each other in a mixture of French and English, which, not understanding very well, I foundstupid, and turned to look for Fanny and her friend, another grimy individual, who proved to be the commissary himself.
They also seemed much taken up with each other, and were conversing in the same lingo. I noticed that Fan had made over her bundle of straw to this man, and she seemed very busy talking over some arrangements. I approached, being willing to know what it was all about.
“Who ze plague is zis garçon?” asked the commissary.
“Oh, a young boy from down town—veal, savez-vous? Nong mauvais—a smart young chap obligant. Can portey kelke chose, vous savez.”
“Bon!” said the Frenchman, letting the word fly out like a shot, “we af some drifles to make car out of zis.”
I perceived at once that he had acquired his knowledge of English from Frances, as “car” for “carry” is pure Pembrokeshire.
“I shall be very glad to be of use,” I remarked. “What sort of things, Frances—gimcracks, I suppose?”
“Vat says he, là?” inquired the commissary.
“Yes, gimcracks of a sort—rather heavy, though, we find them,” said Fan, not stopping to translate. “If you’ll lend a hand, we’d get along better.”
“All right,” said I.
“Zey is kep’ in ze bockat,” remarked Mounseer, luckily indicating some pails in the corner by a gesture of his hand.
“Adoo, Pierre, I think we’d better alley,” remarked Fan. This, I must say, was the sort of French I liked.
“To nex’ time, my cabbage!” said Pierre.
Then while they were busy over the buckets I turned suddenly and beheld the engineer bestowing on Nellie an unmistakable kiss.
“Hallo!” I said.
“It’s only their foreign ways; like as if we was to shake hands,” cried Nellie, running forward and looking very rosy. “Come, catch a hoult on these pails, Dan’l; they’re main weighty for we maids.”
I did catch hold of a couple of pails, one in each hand, and found that the last part of Nell’s remark was true.
“Just feel the heft of un!” remarked Fanny.
I did feel it a good deal before I had done with it. Nellie also carried a pail, and Frances a large bundle, done up in some old sacking.
“What’s all that?” I inquired, as we made our way out of the prison.
“Dirty clothes,” said Frances, sharply. “They must have some clean linen, I suppose, though they are Frenchmen!”
It seemed to me that they managed toexist without it, but as the point was not material, and Frances appeared touchy, I held my tongue.
“This young boy has giv’ a hand with the sweepings, Roche,” said Frances, as we passed that functionary.
“Ay? Well, you and Nell be pretty well weighted too, surely,” drawled Roche.
“Oh, gimcracks, and clothes for the wash-’us (house),” answered the girl lightly, and in another moment we were in freedom—in the open air.
“Oh, poor chaps; how good it is!” said Nellie, drawing a long breath.
We went round to a piece of untidy waste land behind the prison.
“I’ll be bound your arms aches,” said Frances. “Drop the buckats, Dan’l, and thank ye.”
“Here!” said I, “drop your gimcracks on this dirty place—what for?”
“Oh, never mind what for; don’t argufy, my boy, them’s prison sweepings; the gimcracks is in Nellie’s pail.”
“Oh, I thought these were mighty heavy gimcracks. Well, let me carry Nell’s pail to the shop.”
“No, no!” cried Nell, stepping back, “I’d liefer car my own, don’t you trouble.”
“Then I’ll take your dirty linen,” said I, making a sudden grab at Frances’ bundle.
To my great surprise some bits of stone and a cloud of mortar flew out.
“Hallo!” I said.
“Look here, Dan’l,” said Fan, firmly, “we are greatly beholden for your help, but we don’t want no more at present. You go on with Dan’l, Nell, and leave me here to empt the buckats.”
Nell put down her pail, took my arm, and marched me off. I was inclined to be offended, but she soothed me down as anywoman can when she chooses. She assured me that both the engineer (whom she called Jack—probably Jacques was his name) and the commissary had taken a great fancy to me, and would undertake to teach me French if I would only go often enough.
I had not the least objection to going, as I found prison experiences amusing, but I could not quite understand the bucket-carrying part of it.
However, neither flattery nor a curiosity stimulus were unpleasing to me, so I went frequently.
A couple of weeks passed away thus, when one morning we were awakened early by a clamour in the street. All Pembroke was in an uproar. All that I could distinguish of the cries was one exclamation, “The French!”
Had they broken out, and were they going to sack the place? The panic reminded me of our feelings at Fishguard in the spring, but seemed more strange to me now, for in the interim I had become comparatively intimate with the foreigners, and had lost my fear of them. I jumped out of bed, draggedon a garment or two, and flung open my little lattice window.
“Where are the French?” I yelled.
“Away, away!” came the answer. “Clean gone.”
The idea occurred to me that if they had gone away clean they must have been in a very different state to their usual condition; however, my reflections were disturbed by the sudden appearance of my Aunt Jane; she burst in head foremost.
“Where’s Eleanor?” she gasped.
“Where are the French?” I answered lightly, “Away, away!”
“Are ye cursëd, boy, or only dull?”[223]queried my angry relative. “What d’ye mean?”
“Nothing,” I answered; “only I know no more about Nell than I do about the French. Isn’t she in the shop?”
“In the shop! My patience—she isn’t in the house, nor hasn’t been for hours. Her bed is cold; I doubt she never got into un, only topsy-turvied un a bit.”
“Nellie really gone!” I was beginning to grasp the situation. “Oh, Aunt Jane; she must have gone with Jack.”
“Who’s Jack, name o’ fortune? I heard tell of a Billy and a Tommy, but norra Jack.”
“Oh, this wasn’t a Pembroke Jack, but Mounseer Jacques Roux, Esq., an engineer.”
“A Mounseer!” Words failed my venerable relative; she sat down and went off into hysterics, which brought Aunt Rebecca to the rescue, and in the confusion I sidled down the stairs and escaped.
I made my way through the crowd to the Golden Prison, and here a light dawned, and many things became clear to me. A crowd of people were standing at what appeared to me to be a hole in the ground, about sixtyyards from the wall of the prison. I edged myself through the lookers-on till I had reached the hole; it was one end of a subterranean passage, the other end of which doubtless emerged—but a sick qualm came over me, and to make matters worse at this moment I espied—and was seen by—Roche the turnkey. He was looking very small, but assumed an air of bluster when he perceived me.
“Arrest that young chap there,” he ordered his assistants. “He was a helping o’ they sneaking scoundrels; I see un.”
In another moment the two men had me in tow, and being also propelled by the crowd in a few minutes, I found myself inside the Golden Prison. I did not find the place at all entertaining this time. However, there were some magistrates there, and one of them, a Dr. Mansell, ordered the men to loose their hold while he questioned me.
I told all I knew, and at the end was relieved, but mortified to hear him say, “There is no occasion to detain him, the boy evidently knew nothing about it. He was a young ass, but he is not the first of us who has been befooled by a woman.”
At this there was a general guffaw in which I tried to join, but I felt as small as Roche the turnkey. It appeared that all those pails and bundles had been full of earth, stones, and mortar, which the men had scraped out in making the tunnel. I went into the little inner room, and there in the floor, just behind where Pierre Lebrun used to sit, surrounded with bundles of straw, blocks of wood, etc., was the other end of the subterranean passage. They had absolutely scratched through the thick wall of the prison, and then grubbed like moles through sixty yards of earth, with no other implement than the bones of horses’ legs.
I did not care for the remarks of the bystanders, and I got out of that gaol as quickly as I could, but not before Dr. Mansell had asked me another question or two.
“I hear Frances Martin has absconded,” he said. “Can you tell me anything about Eleanor? She lives with your aunts, I think.”
“She is not to be found, sir,” I answered. “She is off with Jack, no doubt.”
“Jack?”
“Mounseer Jacques Roux, the engineer.”
“Ah, the fellow who managed the tunnelling. Why do you pitch upon him?”
“I didn’t—she did, because he used to kiss her.”
“Kiss! By George, didn’t that rouse your suspicions?” cried the doctor.
“No, sir, they said it was the French way of shaking hands.”
“Go along, softy!” cried the crowd, and Iwent. But as I went I heard the stentorian voice of Dr. Mansell proclaim—
“Five hundred guineas reward for the recovery of those two young women, dead or alive!”
In a few hours handbills to this effect were posted all over the place, and, as soon as practicable, in every town in the kingdom; by which the names of Frances Martin and Eleanor Martin must have become well known. Whenever I saw one of these placards it seemed to me as if I had had something to do with a great crime, and that part of the five hundred guineas would perhaps be given for my body some day—dead or alive.
I walked down to the shore to a little port on the outside of the town, the very place to which I had been on the previous Sunday with Nell. I remembered, with another qualm, the interest which she had taken inthe shipping, and how she had even begged me to ask some questions of the sailors, who, as usual, lounged about where they could smell tar. She said it was awkward for a girl to talk to these rough fellows, but that it was a pleasant variety for a young man. So, of course, I asked all the questions she desired about incoming sloops. I, thinking these questions referred to some sailor sweetheart, took no account of the matter at all. As we looked and talked we perceived a sloop in the offing coming in. The men said she would be in shortly, and that she was bringing culm for the use of Lord Cawdor’s household.
Nellie seemed very pleased and happy as she watched the sloop coming rapidly nearer, a brisk breeze from the south filling her sails and urging her onwards. The only boat actually in the harbour was Lord Cawdor’s yacht.
His lordship’s yacht was now nowhere to be seen; the sloop was still there, for owing to the breeze and the sailors’ hurry to get ashore on Sunday, they had run her aground, and there she was hard and fast, but not in the same state as on Sunday. A hundred Frenchmen had made their escape, creeping through their tunnel and jumping out at the other end like so many jack-in-the-boxes. Some of the fugitives made at once for the yacht, some for the sloop, which, to their great disappointment, they found aground. They boarded it, lashed the sailors’ hands and feet (these men now recounted the story, each man to a listening crowd, which we must hope was a slight solace for their sufferings)—they took compass, water casks, and every scrap of food and clothing they could find; then conveyed them aboard the yacht which they launched, and off they were. The tied-up sailors had seen nothing of anywomen, but between darkness and surprise it was a wonder they had noted as much as they had.
This was all that we could gather at the time; it was only enough to make us very uncomfortable about the fate of the two rash girls. My position was not made more comfortable by the constant reproaches of my two old aunts, who seemed to think me in some way responsible for Nell’s escapade. Altogether I was not sorry that it was decided to send me back at once to St. David’s; school was better than scorn. But the very night before I left Pembroke, my uncomfortable feelings were doomed to be deepened. The stern of the yacht was washed ashore with other timbers, on one of which his lordship’s name was inscribed. There could be little doubt of the fate of those on board. The weather had been rough and foggy, and these French soldierswere probably little skilled in navigation. So I departed to St. David’s with a heavy heart.
Some weeks passed in the usual course of classics and mathematics rammed in by main force, when one day there came a letter to me in Aunt Jane’s handwriting. I was surprised, for my aunts were not given to composition; but on opening the envelope I found Aunt Jane had written—nothing. She had merely enclosed, oh, greater surprise, a foreign letter. I had never had, and never expected to have, a foreign correspondent. What language would he write in—a quick hope flashed through me that it might not be Latin, any other I would give up quietly.
I opened the letter and perceived it was in English. It ran as follows:—
“Dear Mastr Danl,—I hope as this finds you well as it leaves me at present.You was main good to we, so I pens this line to say as I am no longer Eleanor Martin but Madam Roux. [Oh joy! I didn’t care what her name was as long as she wasn’t drowned.] Yes, me and Jack have married, only he likes it writ Jacques which is a mort of trouble. Howsomever we gets along lovely so likewise do Frances and her young man Peter which were a commisser and she is now Madam Lebrun. We did a main lot for they lads—which they was grateful. Praps you’d like to hear that after we got safe away in his ludship’s yat, after you’d kindly helpd we to burrow out o jail, we come in for three days fog. Short commons there was till we overtook a brig, gave out as we was shiprackt and was took aboord, Fan and me dressed as lads. That night we was too many for the crew of the brig, as nocked under and us made them steer for France, so here we be. The brig had corn aboord, sowe wasnt clemmed. We let the yat go. Hoping to see you soon, I remains,“Your humbel servant to command,“Nellie.”
“Dear Mastr Danl,—I hope as this finds you well as it leaves me at present.You was main good to we, so I pens this line to say as I am no longer Eleanor Martin but Madam Roux. [Oh joy! I didn’t care what her name was as long as she wasn’t drowned.] Yes, me and Jack have married, only he likes it writ Jacques which is a mort of trouble. Howsomever we gets along lovely so likewise do Frances and her young man Peter which were a commisser and she is now Madam Lebrun. We did a main lot for they lads—which they was grateful. Praps you’d like to hear that after we got safe away in his ludship’s yat, after you’d kindly helpd we to burrow out o jail, we come in for three days fog. Short commons there was till we overtook a brig, gave out as we was shiprackt and was took aboord, Fan and me dressed as lads. That night we was too many for the crew of the brig, as nocked under and us made them steer for France, so here we be. The brig had corn aboord, sowe wasnt clemmed. We let the yat go. Hoping to see you soon, I remains,
“Your humbel servant to command,“Nellie.”
Her ending wish was granted some years after, when peace was settled between England and France. Nellie and her husband, the engineer, came back to Wales and settled for a time in Merthyr, where they opened a large inn, he following his profession in the mines, both he and his wife roasting me unmercifully when I went to stay with them (a full-fledged curate), on the assistance I had once rendered to the French prisoners in a mining operation; but I hope all will understand that this assistance was unintentional on my part, and that I greatly condemn the unpatriotic conduct of the sisters.