GENERAL TATE’S LETTER.
I also retired to Fishguard in order to calm my mother’s mind about my
safety—and also to get my supper.
My mother was, as mothers are, overjoyed to see me, and gave me an ample
and excellent supper, liberally seasoned with more hero-worship. I
really believe she thought me capable of facing and fighting the whole
French force single-handed, and she considered that I had guided Ann
George through untold dangers into safety. The other way would have been
much nearer the truth, but she did not see it so. Ah well! after-life
has nothing half so sweet in it as that first truest love; and a little
knocking about against the harsh angles of the world soon takes off the
undue self-esteem it may have fostered. All I know is, I would be glad
to have somebody who believed in me utterly now.
[Picture: The “Royal Oak” at Fishguard]
The times were too exciting for a lad of my age to sit with his toes
under the table; my mother, too, was busily engaged in making
preparations to receive the strangers who were quartered in our house, so
as soon as supper was ended I fared forth into the street again to pick
up scraps of intelligence, and try to find out the latest news.
I was too full of excitement to care to go to bed, and I found most of my
fellow-townsmen were of my mind in this matter. I turned in first at
Jemima Nicholas’s house to see how she and her niece were getting on
after their novel experience of warlike tactics on a large scale.
Jemima, an immensely powerful woman, seemed only sorry that they had not
come to close quarters with the enemy: she was truly a Celtic Amazon who
took a pleasure in fighting for fighting’s sake.
Nancy, to my surprise, seemed to have been indulging in the luxury of
tears.
“What on earth is the matter with you, Nan?” I asked, with unfeeling
openness. “Your eyes are quite red.”
Nancy shot a glance of anger at me from the orbs in question, but
vouchsafed no answer.
“Why, don’t you know,” interposed Jemima, “that her young man was wounded
in the fight up there just now?”
“D’you mean Davy Jones?” I asked. “Oh, I knew one of the sailors got
shot; but I didn’t know which it was; I never thought of inquiring.”
“You unfeeling young heathen!” burst out Nancy. “But there, it’s no good
talking; boys have no more heart than cabbages.”
“A cabbage _has_ a heart, Nancy,” I retorted.
“Well, so’ve you—much the same sort,” cried Ann, too cross for similes or
logic.
Very much offended, I got up, but delivered this shaft before I departed:
“_All_ those sailors were my friends equally, so it made no odds to me
which of them was wounded. And how was I to know Davy Jones was your
young man, when it’s my belief you didn’t know it yourself yesterday.”
But the door slammed abruptly just behind my more backward leg, and the
rest of my remark was cut off.
I wended my way into the main street, and soon found the centre of
attraction to be the old hostelry, the “Royal Oak.” Men and boys, and
many of the gentler sex also, swarmed round its window and its quaint old
porch. The interior was filled with officers discussing the position of
affairs. With a good deal of trouble and squeezing, and being in those
days of an eel-like figure, I slipped and shoved myself close to one of
the windows, where, balancing on my hands and with my nose glued to the
pane, I inspected all those men of mark, and tried to find out what their
intentions might be.
This position might, affording as it did ample opportunity for the
horse-play of the rude, seem _infra dig._ to those who have only known me
in my later years; but it must be remembered I was then but a boy not
given to stand on my dignity and strongly moved by curiosity, or perhaps
I might call it by the higher title—desire of knowledge.
For a good space there was not much to observe, save the various uniforms
of the gentlemen and their manner of taking snuff and of laying their
hands on their swords. Of a sudden I felt rather than heard a thrill of
excitement in the crowd behind me: this soon resolved itself into a most
unmistakable pushing and making-way on the part of some, and of craning
forward and tiptoeing on the part of others around me.
With difficulty I turned my head, and I beheld a most unexpected sight.
Two French officers were striving to make their way through the
hindering, turbulent crowd, the nearer members of which shrank from them
as though they bore with them the plague, while the more distant ones
pressed forward to catch a sight of these foreigners in the same way that
people like to gaze on the more savage members of a menagerie. This
caused the strange lurch, the ebb and flow in the crowd. But still the
men kept on making for the door of the inn, and no one actually opposed
their passage.
One of them carried in his hand a white flag, and almost before I could
believe the evidence of my eyes—for the ears had no work to do, every one
being too much astonished to speak—the two envoys from the French camp
were disappearing through the entrance and being ushered into the
presence of Lord Cawdor and his officers.
Now I had reason to be proud of my ’vantage-place. Once more my face was
pressed, with considerable outside pressure indeed, against the pane, and
I saw with my own eyes that French aide-de-camp, Monsieur Leonard,
present, with many a bow and flourish, the written communication from his
general to Lord Cawdor. At the sight of those grimaces the crowd around
me awoke from their trance of astonished silence—from the absolute
stupefaction which had possessed them as it had possessed me.
Consciousness and speech returned to them, and took the outward form of
maledictions.
I, however, was more interested in watching the demeanour of the
gentlemen within than of my fellow-townsmen without the house. His
lordship, though his back was not so supple as the Frenchman’s, still
received the letter with every mark of good breeding; and after a few
formalities opened the communication.
“Mark all they do!” I whispered to one of my rib-bending neighbours, who,
being of a higher class and better parts than the rest, I imagined would
understand me. “Mark it well, Mr. Evans, for this is how History is
made!”
“History!” repeated Mr. Evans, blankly. “History happened long ago; this
is only to-day.”
“Hst!” said the crowd.
In fact, Lord Cawdor had now commenced to read the letter aloud to his
officers. It was, happily for us outsiders, and perhaps even for some of
the gentlemen within, in English; for the leader of the invaders, being
an Irishman, probably understood English at least as well as French,
while most of us understood it a good deal better. The letter was short:
it was briefly a proposal for the surrender of the entire French force,
on conditions. As I had subsequently the privilege of seeing it, I give
here the actual words of the letter:—
“CARDIGAN BAY,
“5_th_ _Ventose_,
“5_th_ _Year of the Republic_.
“SIR,—The circumstances under which the body of troops under my
command were landed at this place render it unnecessary to attempt
any military operations, as they would tend only to bloodshed and
pillage. The officers of the whole corps have, therefore, intimated
their desire of entering into a negotiation, upon principles of
humanity, for a surrender. If you are influenced by similar
considerations, you may signify the same to the bearer, and in the
meantime hostilities shall cease.
“Health and respect,
“TATE, _Chef de Brigade_.”
Lord Cawdor, however, did not signify the same to the bearer, but a
slight smile lit up his features, while the French officers went on to
explain that they were ready to capitulate on condition that they should
be sent back to Brest at the expense of the English Government. A low
murmur broke out among the onlookers. The Frenchmen’s ships had deserted
them and they wanted us to give them a free passage home. But Colonel
Knox had something to say to that. The uncertain light of lanterns and
candles (mostly dips, for the resources of the “Royal Oak” and, indeed,
of Fishguard, were limited) fell on his white hair and handsome uniform,
flickering on the gold of the embroideries, and no one but those who knew
would have believed that his fancy was as brilliant as that glittering
braid.
“We have ten thousand men now in Fishguard,” said he, “ten thousand more
are on the road. Unconditional surrender are our only terms.”
The messengers looked very blank when they understood the tenour of these
words, but they appeared still more impressed when Lord Cawdor in a stern
voice, but with his usual courtesy of manner, gave them an answer. He
informed them that he should at once write an answer to General Tate,
which he should send to him in the morning, but that they might tell him
in the meantime that his troops would be expected to parade for surrender
on the following day.
His lordship, who had hitherto been standing, sat down and consulted for
a few moments in an undertone with some of his suite. Then taking up a
pen, he quickly wrote an answer, dusted sand over it to dry the ink, and
standing up once more he read it aloud in clear and ringing tones. It
commanded the admiration and approbation of all present on both sides of
the window, except perhaps of the aide-de-camp and his fellow, who
probably did not understand the English tongue, and if they had would not
perchance have admired the style of the composition. We did,
however—that is, those of the crowd who heard it—and the rest taking it
on trust, we signified our approval by three cheers, delivered with
excellent intention, but in the usual disjointed Welsh fashion.
Lord Cawdor merely remarked in his letter that with his superior force
(save the mark!—and the old women!) he would accept of no terms except
the unconditional surrender of the whole French force as prisoners of
war. And that he expected an answer with all speed, this being his
ultimatum: Major Ackland would present himself at the camp at Trehowel
early on the following morning to receive this answer, for which Lord
Cawdor would not wait later than ten o’clock.
These were the actual words of the letter which was delivered on the
following morning at Trehowel to General Tate and six hundred Frenchmen,
drawn up in line, by his lordship’s aide-de-camp, the Hon. Captain
Edwardes, his white flag of truce being carried by Mr. Millingchamp.
“FISHGUARD, _Feb._ 23_rd._
“SIR,—The superiority of the force under my command, which is hourly
increasing, must prevent my treating upon any other terms short of
your surrendering your whole force prisoners of war. I enter fully
into your wish of preventing an unnecessary effusion of blood, which
your speedy surrender can alone prevent, and which will entitle you
to that consideration it is ever the wish of British troops to show
an enemy whose numbers are inferior. My major will deliver you this
letter, and I shall expect your determination by 10 o’clock, by your
officer, whom I have furnished with an escort who will conduct him to
me without molestation.
“I am, &c.,
“CAWDOR.”
The major referred to was Major Ackland who accompanied Captain Edwardes
to Trehowel.
We thought it very fine—and so it was; and the words we didn’t understand
we thought the finest. After this the French envoys were dismissed, with
their white flag still grasped firmly. They were also provided with a
strong escort to take them back safely to their own lines, and indeed
they required it, for by this time we had quite wakened up; and as the
two men were led forth from the inn blindfolded with thick shawls lest
they should spy the poverty of the force, we greeted them with a yell
which must have made their hearts shake. My countrymen are beyond all
comparison better at yelling than at cheering; it was cowardly no doubt
of it, considering the difference of our numbers; but when was a mob
anything but cowardly?
Of course to a boy it was pure delight, and my enjoyment that evening
made up for the cramp of the night before. The escort kept us at more
than arm’s length, but no friendly force could have kept us from running
after these representatives of the enemy, or from shouting at them, or
even from throwing a few stones and sticks at them. The men remembered
the wine and brandy, the women the slaughtered ducks and geese, and they
hurled stones and curses mixed at the two devourers we could get at. The
escort certainly received the brunt of the battle and most of the stones,
and sent back many objurations at us in return; but we were too hurried
to discriminate friend from foe.
We ran as far as a place called Windy Hall, {154} from whence there is a
wide-stretching view of Goodwick Sands and the most perfectly-exposed
down-hill slope that could possibly be desired for the final volley of
stones with which we wished them goodnight.
I was pretty well tired out by this time, so returned home to see how my
parents fared in these strange days, and to have a second supper, and
then to bed in my own particular little den, which usually I had only the
felicity of occupying in the holidays: and so the Thursday came to an
end.
FRIDAY.
_THE THIRD DAY_.