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 news
to the Lord-Lieutenant of the county, while others wended their way to
various points on the range of mountains which divides Pembrokeshire into
two parts; the result of their mission being apparent when night fell and
beacons flared along the line of heights from Vrenny Vawr to Carn
Englyn—the mountain of the angels, so named from the angel-visits
received by a pious hermit who dwelt thereon, and who probably lacked
more ordinary society.
Many other messengers were sent in various directions, but though in this
way persons at a distance were warned of danger, many of those who dwelt
close by were as yet insensible of it. Chiefest of these was the owner
of the old manor house, Trehowel, situated just above the bay where the
ships were lying-to—of which house we shall hear more anon. Mr. Mortimer
was of a generous and confiding disposition—and, as a bishop should be,
he was in truth—much given to hospitality. He was, moreover, about to
celebrate the marriage of his son, and he had made ample provision of
cakes and ale, not to mention meats and spirits for this purpose. The
wedding 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 therefore
heart and hand were even more lavish than usual, when, looking out
seaward from amidst the bridal greenery, his spirit was stirred within
him by the sight of the British flag.
Nothing would serve this hospitable gentleman but that the English
officers should partake of his good cheer; so his orders flew forth in
every direction—compliments and invitations to the officers, and
directions to the servants as to the setting forth of a sumptuous repast.
In the meantime one of the great ships, heaving anchor, had quietly
slipped round the corner—by which I would say, rounded the next headland,
Pen Anglas, in an undemonstrative manner. Thus coming in sight of the
men occupying the fort near Fishguard; these fired as in duty and fair
observance 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 viler
use than the present, when—hey presto! down came the British colours with
a run, and up flew the tricolour in its stead—the red, white, and blue
colours of the Republic of the French.
The astonishment of those men in the fort at this unexpected
transformation-scene must have been akin to an electric shock such as may
be produced on the unwary by the careless placing of a hand on a magnetic
eel. They had been completely deceived by the mock flag, and were more
unprepared for the change than those men who had already scrutinised the
three frigates with very doubtful eyes as they made their way along the
coast of Pembrokeshire.
All disguise was now over; the enemy showed under their true colours at
last, and convinced even the most liberal-minded (including Mr. Mortimer)
that they were not English. Though truly if they had desired to appear
under their most appropriate colour they should have sailed under the
black flag of piracy, for the men on board these frigates were little
better than freebooters. Many of the older persons present were minded
to take them for a new and enlarged edition of the _Black Prince_—a
pirate ship which had eighteen years previously brought his broadside to
bear on the town of Fishguard, and kept up an animated fire all day with
his six-pounders. However, he caught a Tartar—the master of a smuggling
craft, who returned the fire with such goodwill, aided by clever hands
and a cannon at the edge of the cliffs, that the _Black Prince_ sheered
off. “Set a thief to catch a thief;” but it were ungrateful to think on
that proverb.
It was this circumstance which caused the fort at Fishguard to be
erected, one of whose nine-pounders had just, in courtesy, saluted the
frigate, who, not caring to face the other seven guns of the fort in
anger, turned round speedily, and rejoined her companions at Carn Gwastad
Point 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 of
the sloop had not expected this sudden rearward movement—anyway he found
himself a prisoner, and his boat a prize. I had jumped up from my
reclining position, and stood watching his fate with anxiety and awe,
knowing him to be a friend (for I was a Fishguard boy, and intimate with
all the varieties of seamen to be found there), but being, at that
distance, unable to tell which friend.
All the other boats in the bay stood out to sea with all speed, scudding
away with white sails stretched, reminding even a matter-of-fact boy who
abhorred poetry, similes, and all such inventions of schoolmasters,
suggesting even to me the sudden, outspread, white wings of a flock of
ducks frightened by the unwelcome appearance, from round the corner, of a
fox. They got away safe, but the captive sloop was towed in triumph by
the frigate back to Carn Gwastad, where she found her sister ships were
already disgorging their freight of soldiers.
The sun was setting as the first boats set down their load on British
soil. There were not many spectators of this act (the only one of a like
nature since 1066, as far as my knowledge—not very profound—of history
went), the inhabitants of the district, when they perceived that the
landing was to be on their own coast, having dispersed as quickly as a
swarm of ants amongst whom a foreign body is introduced—each one making
with the utmost speed for his own home in order to retreat with his
valuables (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 my
father, who was a somewhat stern parent, might not even accept the (to
me) absolute necessity of keeping an eye on the French as a valid excuse
for departing from my studies at St. David’s without leave from my
master. 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 from
the 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 and
feminine quality, and as such infinitely beneath my dignity, still I must
own I did feel a sort of craving desire to know what those people were
going to do next. So, hidden in a gorse bush on a headland which
commanded the creek, I watched the sun go down like a red ball into the
sea, 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 look
darker and more grimy, lighting up the three-coloured flags that unfurled
themselves to the night breeze. Then there came a long path of crimson
right across the grey sea, which, dying out as the sun set, showed that
this fair day was gone—a day too fair and sweet to be the setting for
foul deeds.
Suddenly there rose a shriek, or, rather, a succession of shrieks
breaking through the twilight quiet, and a young woman shot out like an
arrow from the back door of Trehowel, darted past me without pausing to
answer a question, and, shrieking all the time, fled away into the
interior, clutching tightly in her hand a foaming jug of beer. I heard
afterwards that she ran on for miles, still clutching that jug of beer,
which she had been drawing for the (supposed) English officers; when at
last her master had awakened to the fact that the French were actually at
his doors. She ran thus for miles, not even stopping to drink the beer.
She was shortly after followed by Mr. Mortimer himself, who came across
the courtyard laughing in spite of the seriousness of the occasion, for
he must needs smile at a joke. He spied me, for indeed I had jumped up
to question Sally, and he came towards me.
“The poor maid has had a scare,” said he, with a twinkle still in his
eye. “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 all
the meats and drinks!”
“Well, yes, I never meant them for the parley-vous,” said he, mounting
his horse which one of his farm-boys had brought out; “but I dare say
they’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, standing
dark against a yellow-green twilight sky, pranked out with all the
mockery of boughs and flowery arches. The trees in the courtyard had not
yet put forth their leaves, but branches of myrtles and ever-blooming
gorse 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 viewing
the heap of smoking ruins he might see when next he came, and he seemed
to be resolving to meet fate and the French on his own threshold, when a
woman’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 young
master’s sake,” she whispered. “Remember, you have got the money and the
papers. 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 to
be off too?”
“Oh, no odds about me. I’ll slip off somehow, but I must get the silver
spoons 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, and
only ten years younger—an inequality made up for by my superior station
and parts. “Wherever Davy is he’s in mischief—that you may take your
davy of; but he always comes out of it somehow.”
I hope the reader will pardon this expression, but I was not at this time
even a curate—being but fifteen—and the chance of my ever attaining that
station seemed but remote.
At this moment the clang of arms and the sound of high-pitched voices
broke on our ears.
“I’ll have those spoons if I die for it!” exclaimed Ann, who was not much
given to the melting mood. “Run, Dan, make for Fishguard as fast as you
can.” And without another word or a sign of personal fear, Ann George
disappeared into the house.
I will not deny now, after the lapse of so many years, that my heart at
this moment beat unpleasantly fast. I had already watched the landing of
some of the French troops, but from a considerable distance, and there
had been something unreal about the scene, something like to play-acting,
or a dream; but now that I actually heard their voices, the effect was
very different. They were really here, close by; there was no mistake
about it. I had an almost overwhelming desire to take to my heels and
run for it, but in spite of a very real fear, two feelings restrained
me—one was a hesitation on account of Nancy, whom it seemed mean to
desert; the other was that curiosity to which I have already alluded, and
which powerfully possesses most of the inhabitants of these regions, but
more especially the females. The twilight was rapidly sinking into
darkness as I crouched lower among the bushes and peered out with eyes
which doubtless resembled those of a frightened bird. Never hare in its
form felt more of a flutter at the heart than I experienced as those
screeching, and yet savage, voices drew nearer and nearer. I did not
understand French, but if I had I trust I should not have understood the
nature of the expressions those men were using. It must be remembered
that at that time we were accustomed to think of a Frenchman as of a
two-legged tiger—which we spelt with a y—and then perhaps the horror that
thrilled me may be understood. Suddenly the vague terror was turned into
reality, as between me and the dusky sky loomed forth a wild figure, then
another and another, then a confused crowd.
I could stand no more. With one bound I passed from behind my bushes in
through the back door of the house—
“Nancy, hang those spoons!” I spoke in Welsh, and I fear my expression
was still more forcible. “Come this minute, I’ll wait no longer.”
“Why, who asked you to wait?” said Ann George, ungratefully. “I thought
you’d be half-way to Goodwick ere this.”
At this moment her speech was interrupted by a sound as of thunder at the
front door, while the parlour window came flying into the room before the
butt-ends of French muskets. Even Ann George thought it now high time to
take her leave.
So we departed as quickly and as silently as possible through the back
door, while the front door was being shivered to atoms, and the enemy was
pouring into the house over its remains. Quickly, indeed, we went now
and the falling night favoured us; the enemy’s own noise too rendered the
slight addition of our footfalls totally unobservable. All the space
between Trehowel and the cliffs swarmed with Frenchmen, and the uproar
was bewildering.
“They’ll make short work with your master’s ale, Nan,” I gasped, as we
ran 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’s
wedding feast. Oh, indeed, I wish I had known they were coming when I
was baking those pies and brewing that ale!”
I did not waste my breath by inquiring the reason of this aspiration, for
the hill was rather heavy on my lungs, and her meaning was obvious. In a
very short time we had reached Brestgarn, the abode of a worthy divine,
the Rev. David Bowen, whom we found about to depart hurriedly, he having
been no quicker to hear the alarming tidings than his neighbour at
Trehowel; but, having heard it, he and his family were off for the
interior as fast as horses and fright could take them. Only one of his
servants, a man named Llewelyn, volunteered to stay behind, to keep, as
far 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 see
everything from there.”
Carnunda is a rock situated just above most things in this region; more
especially just under it lies the tiny village and church of
Llanunda—Unda being manifestly a saint, though I cannot truthfully say I
ever heard anything about him—or her.
We got up to the top of this carn then, and there snugly ensconced
between huge boulders of stone—the place is large enough to hold six or
seven hundred men, well protected by natural rock-work—we gazed on the
scenes all around us.
First at the creek beneath us. It was now pitch dark—for the night was
as black as the day had been bright—but the three tall ships of war were
lighted up with cressets of fire; the lugger was there and the captured
sloop, and the sea around them was alive with boats, still conveying
troops to the land. The torches that they carried were reflected on the
waves, elsewhere inky black—but here bearing long broken lines of light.
Dark figures swarmed at the landing place, if so one could call, what was
merely some flat slabs of rock; and all up the cliffs we saw ant-like
beings crawling, and even (by the aid of a little imagination) we could
fancy we heard their strong exclamations at the steepness of the
path—made even steeper to them by the nature of their occupation, for
they were rolling casks (evidently heavy) of gunpowder from where the
boats landed them up to the top of the cliff. Some of these dark figures
carried torches which shed a fierce glow for a small space through the
black night. As we looked, one of the casks which had been by much
effort shoved up to well-nigh the top of the cliffs, suddenly slipped
from the Frenchmen’s hands and rolled rapidly down the declivity—the roll
speedily becoming a succession of jumps and plunges, till with a wild
leap 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 the
exultation 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, totally
unmindful of my future profession.
But shortly after we had even greater cause of rejoicing. The enemy (as
we had already learnt to call them) were disembarking their cannon, and
lowering these unwieldly articles of war into a long boat, but zeal
outstripping discretion, they so over-weighted the boat, that lurching
forward heavily she upset, and the whole of her cumbrous cargo was
shortly at the bottom of the sea. It was a satisfaction even to think of
it. Aye, and we may think of it still, for to this very day those
foreign cannon are rolling about and rusting in the unquiet waters of
Carrig Gwastad creek—a proof, should one ever be needed, of the truth of
this strange story.
“Thank the Lord again,” said Llewelyn.