The Fishguard Invasion by the French in 1797 Read online

  WEDNESDAY._THE FIRST DAY_.

  CHAPTER I.THREE FRIGATES.

  In the year of our Lord, 1797, there was a right fair day in February.The day was a Wednesday, the twenty-second of the month, and it wasindeed the most pleasant day for that harsh season of the year that I cancall to mind on looking back through the course of a long life. But itwas not only the unusual beauty of it that made that Wednesday inFebruary a day of mark, or I might scarcely have kept it stored in acorner of my mind for seventy years well-nigh—remarkable as fine days arein this climate that is chiefly renowned for fine rain; but for thereason that this particular Wednesday was a day of utmost astonishment toall the dwellers on this North Pembrokeshire coast, and (I may venture toadd) a day of much consternation to most of them.

  [Picture: The French Frigates]

  A day still remembered by old Welsh fishwives, and still used by them asa means of terror wherewith to hush to sleep unquiet grandbabes, or tostir to patriotism stout but supine grandsons.

  I was, at the time of which I speak, but a youth of fifteen, asthoughtless and careless as most lads of that age; not very sensible todanger, save when it presented itself face to face with me at no morethan arm’s length, under which circumstances candour compels me to own Idid not always enjoy it. I trust that I may say without undue boastingthat I did not fear anything greatly as long as it was out of sight, forwhich reason I have often thought that had I been born a generation ortwo later, and had I selected a soldier’s career instead of that of adivine I might have fought excellently at a distance of a few miles fromthe enemy: though at close quarters I will admit that any unexpecteddanger might perchance produce a sense of amazement which theuncharitable might set down to faint-heartedness.

  But that my nephews, nieces, and neighbours generally may know the truthconcerning this matter—the landing of the French at Fishguard in 1797, I,Daniel Rowlands, clerk, being aged, but still of sound mind, have writtenthis narrative—which when duly set forth will, I hope, convince the mostsceptical as to the sort of spirit which animated my countrymen (if notmyself), and still more my countrywomen.

  On this fair morning then, at about ten o’clock, when I ought to havebeen pursuing my studies under the fostering care of one of the clergy atSt. David’s, I was in reality strolling along the headland of that name,led astray by the beauty of the day, which seemed too fair for book-lore;I was strolling along, doing nothing, thinking of nothing, wishing fornothing, yet, having found for the nonce the secret of true happiness,when I perceived a man on horseback approaching me at a furious rate. Inspite of the pace at which he was advancing I recognised him as a servantof Trelethin.

  “Whither so fast, John?” I shouted, in our own tongue. He was past me asI spoke.

  “The French, the French!” came back to me on the breeze mingled with thesound of his horses’ rushing hoofs. His voice or my ears failed, for Iheard no more save—when the thunder of the hoofs had ceased, the dullerbut more continuous thunder of the waves rolling in freshly at the footof the rocks.

  John’s words had left me much astonished. I knew—from my studies underthe divine above referred to—that the French lived in France, where someof them had lately been engaged in beheading the rest with the help of anewly discovered machine. So much I knew, but why John Trelethin shouldyell “French” at me as he passed, riding apparently for his life, I knewnot. What were the French to him or to me? As I advanced pondering thematter—but in a purely impersonal manner, and without any keeninterest—at a little distance further along the cliff I espied the ownerof Trelethin, John’s master, standing very firm on his legs against abackground of bright sea, his head inclining somewhat backward, whilewith both his raised-up hands he clutched a long spy glass, the small endwhereof was applied to his eye. Following the direction of hisspy-glass, I perceived a yet more astounding sight—astounding to us usedto the world of lonely waters that lay stretched out in front of ourhomes. Three ships of war were passing slowly along our coast not farfrom land, they were accompanied by a smaller craft, which Mr. Williamsinformed me was a lugger. As he had been a sailor I took his word forit—but it did not make things clearer. What did it all mean? What didthose vessels—or their inhabitants want here? They carried the Englishcolours, I saw that for myself when Mr. Williams obligingly lent me theinstrument.

  “Take a look for yourself, my boy,” he said—he was a man singularly freefrom pride—“Take a look at the blessed Frenchmen.” (He did not sayexactly blessed, but out of respect to my cloth I subdue his expressionsslightly.)

  “Frenchmen!” I cried. Then those were the French in those three vessels.I did not count the lugger, not being sure of her. Strange to say thefirst thought that flitted through my brain was one of pure joy; here wasan excuse, real, tangible, and startling, for having shirked my studies.With a little help from imagination (his and mine, which might act oneach other as flint on steel, for he was an excitable man), I trusted Imight so alarm my clerical guide and master as to make him quite forgetthe fact that I had given to St. David’s Head the time I should havegiven to my own. The excuse might be made effective even should theyprove to be not quite really French.

  “They’ve English colours, sir,” I said to Mr. Williams.

  “Foreigners are deceitful,” says he, “up to any tricks. I can see thescoundrels swarming on the decks.” (For by this time he again hadapplied the spy-glass.) “Ah!” he continued, handing the glass to hiswife who had joined us, “If it was but night now and a bit stormy, wemight put out a false light or two and bring them on the rocks in notime.”

  This was the moment afterwards immortalised by a local bard in thesewords—

  “Mrs. Williams Trelethin was know every tide From England to Greenland without guide. Mrs. Williams Trelethin was take the spy-glass, And then she cry out—There they Wass!”

  The three tall ships sailed on calmly, with the clear shining of the seaaround them, dark objects in all that flood of light. They wentnorthward—along our Pembrokeshire coast, where (had Providence so willedit) they might have made shipwreck on the sharp rocks anywhere. Howeverthe day was too fair to admit of any such hope.

  The alarm spread quickly; men and boys came bounding over the gorse inevery direction; even the women, with the curiosity of their sex, cameforth from their homesteads, leaving the cawl {51} and the children tomind themselves, while their natural caretakers gaped open-mouthed at thetall ships filled with untold dangers.

  The crowd on the cliffs followed in the direction of the ships, keepingthem ever in sight. Helter-skelter we ran along, crossing deep gullies,then along bare headlands covered only with gorse and large grey stones,then passing under a great mass of rock, like to some gaunt castle orfort (but alas, lacking cannon), then, at rare intervals, where a streamran into the sea, we would dip suddenly into a smiling little valleyfilled with trees and bushes. But the stones and crags prevailed greatlyover the softer scenes. I had now entered so fully into the spirit ofthis race that all thought of my studies passed away; the fear of thedominee was merged in the far greater fear of the French. And yet it wasnot wholly fear that possessed me, but a sort of tremor of excitement,and curiosity as to what might happen next. Noon passed, but nonestopped for food—nor even (till we came to a village) for a Welshman’scomfort in perplexity—a glass of cwrw da. {52}

  At two o’clock, for no apparent reason, the Frenchmen came to anchor.This was opposite to a rocky headland called Carn Gwastad, which forms aportion of Fishguard Bay, some distance to the west of the town of thatname, and, by reason of an intervening headland, quite invisible from it,and in truth from most other places. We had now come from St. David’sHead, a distance of full ten miles, and I, for one, was glad to sit downon a gorse-bush and meditate a little as to what all these things mightmean and where they were like to end, which I hardly dared to hope mightsomehow take the form of a bit of dinner for myself. To stay hunger Icomposed my mind for a nap while I reflec
ted dreamily that my elders weretaking more definite steps for the defence of their country; and theknowledge of this was gratifying to me.

  [Picture: Carregwastad]