THE FATE OF THE CLOCK.
Great bonfires now lit up the side of the hill beneath Trehowel—in the
place still called the French camp—and scores of dark figures rushed
about with torches flaring wildly in their hands; the whole scene
reminding one forcibly of Pandemonium, that is, if one is capable of
being reminded of a place one has never seen and that one has no desire
to see.
Even the thought of it at the moment was unpleasant to me as bringing my
neglected studies to my mind, so I hastily turned my attention once more
to the French.
The boats and the sailors had now returned to their ships, having landed
the invading hordes (which was the term we usually applied to the Gallic
soldiers), who now seemed more bent on cooking than on conquering, on
supping than on surprising.
[Picture: Cottage at Castell]
We watched the erection of beams and bars over the huge fires; and the
slinging on to the bars of great pots and pans of all sorts—mostly
intimate friends of poor Nancy who watched all these proceedings with
many a groan and warm ejaculation as she thought of all her wasted
scrubbings in the back kitchen of Trehowel. The precise number of the
men who landed that night on a bit (though remote) of Great Britain was
fourteen hundred; of whom six hundred were regular troops, and eight
hundred were convicts of the basest sort, described, indeed, in the
pamphlets of the time as the sweepings of the gaols. Besides these,
there were two women; and had the fourteen hundred been animated by the
spirit which possessed these two of the weaker sex, the result might have
been much more unpleasant to the Principality than it actually was.
The Welsh woman beside me was not by any means deficient in spirit
either, it even sometimes took the form of temper, yet to my astonishment
I heard the sound of sobs which could only proceed from her, as Llewelyn
was hardly likely to relieve his feelings in this way.
“Oh, Master Dan, wherever is Davy?” she again asked. She called me
“master” when she remembered what I was going to be, otherwise my father
being only a small tradesman in Fishguard, I was more frequently called
Dan. I do not think I have given any description of Ann George, boys do
not, as a rule, think much of personal appearance; nor did I. My idea of
Nancy had been chiefly connected with the peppermints she had been in the
habit of giving me as a child; I thought her a person of a free and
generous disposition. She was a tall, fine young woman of five and
twenty, with dark hair and eyes (these last being dark grey not brown),
decided but pretty eyebrows, a well-shaped nose, and rather large mouth
which disclosed when she laughed or talked (which was frequently)
handsome white teeth. In short, she was the type of a good-looking Welsh
woman. She had also a healthy colour, a warm heart, and a splendid
appetite. It was not very surprising that she had (or had had) two
admirers.
I at once referred to this fact with a boy’s utter want of delicacy in
matters of sentiment.
“What are you bothering about Davy for? I thought it was Jim you liked.”
“Don’t you ever say that fellow’s name to me again, Dan’el,” said Nancy
with animation, her tears dried up and her eyes sparkling. “I hope never
to hear of James Bowen again so long as I live.”
I whistled. “Was that because he got into trouble for horse-stealing?
Why, as to that, Davy’s none too particular.”
“Dear anwyl, Dan, talk of what you understand, or hold your tongue! What
do I care for their customs and laws? ’Deed to goodness, nothing at all.
As to James Bowen if it had been only that—but there, a child like you
can’t understand things.”
“Can’t I!” I shouted, thoroughly incensed—of course we spoke in Welsh,
and used a good many more exclamations than I have set down here. “Can’t
I, indeed. I only know smuggling is—”
“Don’t quarrel, children,” said Llewelyn, who was of a quiet disposition.
“And don’t shout or you’ll bring the French upon us. Silence holds it
here. {80} Just look there!”
He pointed towards the opposite direction to that in which we had been
looking, and where the French were still clambering about the cliffs
dragging up the last of their barrels of ammunition and brandy. He
pointed towards the steep road which leads from Goodwick to Fishguard.
This road was thronged with people, horses, carts, furniture, cattle all
mixed together, and all (the animate ones at least) making their way with
such speed as their legs and the hill permitted away from the immediate
neighbourhood of the invaders. The lights which some of them carried,
and the glare from some gorse which had been set on fire, lit up the
straggling, toiling multitude.
Further off the semi-circle of hills blazed with warning beacons. It was
a sight never to be forgotten; a sight that had not been seen in this
island for centuries. From our high nest in the rocks we had but to turn
our heads to see all. In front of us to the north stretched the sea; a
little to the north-west was the creek where the French had landed, where
we could dimly discern the tall masts of the war-ships lighted up
fitfully by cressets of fire. At the top of the cliff was Trehowel, and
close by was the French camp surmounted by the tricolor flag. A little
nearer us was Brestgarn, where Llewelyn lived, and just at our feet was
the village and church of Llanunda. Goodwick lay to the east of us;
there was a steep hill down to it, a magnificent flat of sands, with sea
on one side and marsh on the other, and then a steep hill up from it
leading ere long to Fishguard. The sea came round the corner from the
north in order to form that deep and beautiful Goodwick Bay, where trees
and rocks, gardens and wild waves, luxuriant vegetation and marshy
barrenness are so strangely mixed. Behind all, to the south and
southeast came the mountains; and towards the fastnesses therein most of
these fugitives were wending their way.
“Deuks!” said Llewelyn, “they are coming out to see what they can get,
the scoundrels; I must run back to Brestgarn.”
“Let me come,” said I, on the impulse of the moment—though my knees shook
as I saw small dark clumps of men leaving the main mass and coming
towards us; but Llewelyn inspired confidence, and curiosity has a courage
of its own; then I suddenly bethought me of Ann George.
“But what will you do, Nancy?” I asked.
“I will go to my Aunt Jemima, I’ll be safe enough with her; don’t trouble
about me, my dear,” said Nancy, our short-lived quarrel being happily
over.
“That is in Fishguard, you can’t go there alone, wait a bit for me,” said
I, with youthful assurance.
“I can hide you at Brestgarn if you want to come, but better go on to
Fishguard,” said Llewelyn.
By this time, however, we were almost at the farm, for we had run down
the steep side of Carnunda without any delay.
As we drew near to the house we found from the uproar therein that it was
already full of Frenchmen. Very cautiously we approached a window and
peeped in. We saw a strange sight. The kitchen was filled with ragged
ruffianly fellows, all gesticulating with all their limbs, and screeching
with all their lungs. Of course we did not understand a word they said,
which, perhaps, was no loss under the circumstances. They were dressed
in all sorts of uniforms—some of them in a dusky red (our soldiers’ coats
dyed, as I afterwards heard), others wore the regular dark blue of the
French army. An enormous fire blazed on the hearth, on which they had
placed a large brass pan, geese and fowls only half-feathered had been
hastily thrown into it, and now they were literally cramming it with
butter, which they dug out of a cask they had dragged in from the dairy.
Suddenly a shout arose, apparently from the ground beneath us.
“Deuks!” said Llewelyn, again. “They’ve found the port.”
Llewelyn did not allude to any of the harbours in the neighbourhood, but
rather, it may be, to the lack of one, which had perhaps occasioned the
wrecking of a vessel from Oporto laden with the wine of the district.
“No odds, don’t fret for the wine,” whispered Nancy. “We’ll get plenty
again. I only hope there’s a good store of brandy in the houses, too.”
We got our brandy in a different way, but also inexpensively, and there
was at times a considerable stock of it, and tobacco, too, in the
farmhouse cellars.
Llewelyn, however, was much perturbed: he had volunteered to stay to look
after the household goods, and he didn’t seem to be able to do much. The
delight of the Frenchmen at such an unexpected treasure-trove was indeed
exasperating. Down flowed the generous liquid through throats the
outsides of which were much in want of shaving, elbows were raised, and
voices also in the intervals of quaffing. Suddenly one man paused in his
potations, the brass face of the old clock that stood in the corner had
caught his eye, and the loud ticking of it had caught his ear.
Screeching something that sounded like “enemy,” he levelled his musket
and fired straight at the clock. The bullet went through the wood-work
with a loud sound of splitting.
“Brenhin mawr!” yelled Llewelyn, forgetting all caution in his
exasperation. “The scoundrels have shot our eight day clock!”
Unfortunately his remark was overheard; and indeed his yell shot into the
midst of those rioting ruffians like a pebble into a wasp’s nest. Out
they flew, evidently infuriated; but we waited for no explanations,
taking to our heels on the instant, with the promptitude of extreme fear.
Nan and I were light of heel, and favoured by the darkness—yet more black
to those who came from that blaze of light—we got clear away; but turning
ere long to look, we perceived that Llewelyn had not been so fortunate,
he was older and a good deal heavier than we were; and then his righteous
anger had rendered him rather breathless before he began to run. He was
now surrounded by a crowd of foreigners, all jabbering and gesticulating
as hard as possible. Our hearts were sore at having to leave our
companion in this plight, but there was no help for it, to attempt a
rescue would have been, under the circumstances, worse than folly. So we
ran along across country, avoiding all roads, and making straight for
Goodwick.