TREHOWEL ONCE MORE.
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 a gentleman 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 had been 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 the scattered 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.
[Picture: 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 came forward 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 to understand, 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.
SEQUEL.
_THE GOLDEN PRISON AT PEMBROKE_.