The fear of the French returning suddenly shook the drowsiness out of my eyes. I gave them a final rub, then stumbled down the crooked steps after Nancy. How she could have guessed that it was now near dawn—as in our corner it was still pitch-dark—was a mystery to me; but probably the habit of waking up daily at an extremely early hour, as was the wont of milk-maids in those days, had accustomed her to know the time to a nicety.

We crept as quietly as we could down from our uncomfortable hiding-place, so stiff and cramped that we could only move with difficulty, and every bone made its particular position known with great accuracy, even to us who were totally unacquainted with anatomy. Then we carefully reconnoitred our situation.

Ransacked Farmhouse

As far as we could see, looking through the church windows on every side, we gazed only into the dim dusk of early morning into a lifeless world. No little bird as yet sent up his morning song; there were no sheep or cattle to be seen, their lawful owners or the invaders having driven them off to securer quarters or to sudden death, as the case might be. The church itself, after the late uproar, seemed very silent now; the fire had quickly died down, smothered by the pillow; only the heavy smell of smoke remained to prove that the wild doings of the night had not been a terrifying dream.

We crept along to the leper’s hole, using the other end of it now; for the unfortunate outcasts of former days had gazed through the tube into the church, while we unhappy fugitives looked warily from the interior into the porch, to see if haply some blue-coated soldier might have been left there on guard. But if this had been the case he had certainly declined to stay, which was not unlikely considering the lax discipline, or, rather, total want of discipline, which prevailed in the French force. At all events, the porch was empty.

So after a little getting behind each other and a slight backwardness in going forward, owing more to uncertainty of light than natural timidity, at last we ventured out boldly into the porch, and took a good look, our necks stretched out over the churchyard and round the country. The former seemed silent and deserted, the tombstones looming darkly into dim twilight, which still lay heavy on the land; nor could we even discern any sound of snoring. Carnunda was crowned with fires and thronged with soldiers, but it was not very near, and we thought we might slip away unnoticed. So, cautiously we closed the door behind us, and fared forth. The porch lay to the south of the church; we were stealing round the building to the north, or seaward side, as being further removed from Carnunda, when we were stopped by a sudden shout, proceeding apparently from the air above us. Our hearts stood still and our blood froze with terror—at least, I know mine did, and Nancy turned an ashy white in the grey dawn. In an instant we looked up to the place from which our enemy had spied us—the roof of the church, where he had been stationed as a sentinel. He sat astride on the ridge, which could be easily gained by means of a flight of steps, made on the outside of the roof, as a look-out place from which to signal to those at sea; but never designed for such a purpose as the present. The discipline had not been so lax as we hoped. For a moment we were stupefied, wishing only that one of the graves would open and take us in. Then we took to our heels. Down came the Frenchman clattering over the roof of the church, from the edge of which he dropped to the ground, only a distance of eight or nine feet; then he came full cry after us. His shouts had attracted the attention of a couple of his fellows, who were strolling along the cliffs in search of what they could devour, or, still better, drink. They joined the chase instantly, and all three came full tear after Nancy and myself, who had headed straight for the cliffs, as one of our own foxes would have done, though what we were to do when we gained them save plunge into the sea we knew not. However, we were not fated to gain them just at present, for one of the Frenchmen had outrun Nancy, whose limbs were still cramped, and who was weary from want of rest and sleep. I was stiff and tired too, but fear of the French made me fly, and would have done so I think had I been doubled up by rheumatism. However, though Nan was caught, and warned me of her disaster by a shrill scream, I am glad to say she preserved her usual Welsh spirit, as she plainly showed by fetching the Frenchman a sounding box on the ear. I hesitated what to do, divided between fear of the French and the desire of standing by my friend. I am glad to say I had advanced a few steps towards an attempt at rescue, when some dark body rushed past me in the dawning light, and ere I could even exclaim, the Frenchman lay flat on the ground. The other two, half drunk, and wholly stupefied, perceiving that things were going somewhat crookedly, departed as quickly as they could, making for the camp at Carnunda. Our rescuer had a mind to follow them, but Ann laid a restraining hand upon his arm.

“Oh, Dio bach,” [115] she said, “I am glad to see you this time, if I never was before.”

And she really looked as if she could have kissed him.

“Nancy, how came you here; why didn’t you go away with the rest?” asked Davy Jones, abruptly, his voice rough and angry. He had had too great a scare to be tender or even civil.

“Why, I had to stop and see to everything—and the silver spoons,” said Nancy, quite meekly.

“Hang the silver spoons,” said Davy. “Now what’s to be done with this carcase?” And he pointed to the unconscious Frenchman. “Get out of the way, Nancy, and I’ll shove him over the cliff.”“No, no, don’t waste time,” exclaimed Nancy; “we’ll have the whole lot after us in a minute; they’re as thick as ants on Carnunda. How can we get away?”

“Down the cliff as fast as you can. I’ve got a boat down below; if we can get to the caves we’ll do; but I had some of them after me a little while ago, and I landed here to get rid of them, and to find out what had become of you, for Llewelyn of Brestgarn told me you were somewhere near.”

“Llewelyn is a prisoner; did you see him? Is he safe?” asked Nancy, as we hurried along.

“Hush, quick and quiet; I’ll tell you in the boat,” whispered Davy.

We plunged down through dry bracken, gorse bushes, and large boulders of stone, interspersed with steep pieces of cliff. We jumped, slid, and tumbled down, clutching hold of grasses and ferns to stay our speed, and in a few moments we had reached the level of the sea.

The boat had been so cunningly hidden—with the dexterity of constant practice—that Nan and I quite failed to discover it. Davy, however, had it out in a trice.

“Jump in, boy, and give a hand to Nancy.”

Nancy did not require a hand, she jumped in very steadily, and took the rudder. Davy threw me one oar, took the other himself, and we were off, stealing noiselessly along under the great cliffs, where darkness still dwelt. But the sky over our heads grew lighter every moment, and we ruefully perceived that ere long it would be broad day. Yet it seemed safer to be on the water than on the land, where we could even now discern dim figures looking for us.

“Ah, what is that?” in a horror-struck whisper from Ann.That was a dark blue object, very unpleasing to behold, sodden with water, and wedged in a crevice of the cliffs.

“That is one of them,” said Davy, grimly, “cleft to the chin by a scythe in a Welshman’s hands. The ruffians had burnt his cottage, with his old mother in it; he caught this one, that’s all. I wish I had served that fellow up there the same, Nancy.”

“Where have you been, Davy?” I asked, to divert his remorseful thoughts, and unable to restrain my curiosity.

“Among these blacks of parlez-vous. They nabbed me last night as neat as could be—we had a bit of a scrimmage though. I was coming back from a little bit of business.”

“Oh, Davy, you shouldn’t!” from Ann.

“And I got in too near, never expecting ships here; who would? We were round the corner and on them almost, before we knew it; we made off then, but they saw us and gave chase. We made as fast as we could for a place I know, a good out-of-the-way cave—we’ve got a few about here, Nan—and they came after us. They’d some man who knew the coast among them, that I’ll swear; any stranger must have found out the sharpness of our rocks; but not a bit of it. On they came quite comfortable, and close behind us they were as we got to the mouth of the cave. Levi Mathias stood up in the bow of the boat ready to jump ashore when one of the French marines shot him. I hope to have something to say before that’s done with yet. Out tumbled our men anyhow, running through the surf and up the cliffs, into the darkness anywhere, for the Frenchmen carried torches as well as muskets. Well, they nabbed me.”

“You didn’t like to leave Levi,” said Nancy, softly.“I didn’t like to leave the brandy,” said Davy. “They got it, though, and me, tight enough. It put them into a good temper, however, and they didn’t shoot me through the head, like they did a farmer that they made help to roll up their casks of ammunition, when he tried to escape. They made me carry up one of my own kegs which went against the grain; then they took me to their chief.”

“Did you see the chief?” I asked, eagerly.

“’Deed to goodness, yes—General Tate—no more a Frenchman than I am; Irish, I’m thinking. He seemed very uneasy, and none of his men minded him. I had company—John Owen, of the sloop Britannia, laden with culm for Llanstinan—they didn’t care for culm, and were cross to him, and a mortal fright he was in, but had sense enough left to tell them a lot of lies. Then I saw Llewelyn, and had a word on the sly with him; he told me you were hereabouts; I watched my chance, and an hour or two ago I slipped down over the cliffs, seized this boat, and made off; but they saw me from one of the ships, and gave chase, and—”

A cry interrupted him, succeeded by a loud splashing of oars.

“And, hang them, there they are again. Why-ever couldn’t you hold your tongue, Dan?”

This was unjust, as Davy had done all the talking himself; but the present was no moment for arguing. We bent to the oars with a will and in silence, till my hands were blistered, my heart panting, and my back breaking, and still the enemy were gaining on us.

Nancy leant forward.

“Change with me for a spell, Dan. I can row.”On we went again, fast, faster, and still the other boat came on after us yet more rapidly—it was like a nightmare. We came in very close to the cliffs now, and Davy took both oars. In between two reefs of rocks we went—a deep channel, yet full of treacherous windings and turnings.

“I think we’ll do now,” said Davy. “Please Providence, they may easily be smashed to atoms here.”

And he looked gratefully at the sharp rocks.

But I turned after a little, and beheld that phantom-like pursuer still following us closely through the windings of the passage. The reefs had now become high cliffs, and seemed to close us in on every side; but as we came round another corner we saw before us a low archway. Through this we shot, and we found ourselves as it were at the bottom of a tea-cup, with precipitous walls on every side; just in front of us a little sandy beach. Davy pushed the boat towards a narrow slit in the rocks.

“Jump in there, my girl,” he said. “Don’t be afraid; if you slip, I’ll catch you.”

Nancy jumped at once, I followed her, landing half in and half out of the water, but quickly drawing myself up to be out of Davy’s way, who came with a mighty rush—at the same time spinning the boat to the other side of the creek—only just in time, the Frenchmen were in the archway.

“Go on as far as you can,” whispered Davy. “If they see this slit, they can only come one at a time, and—”

He didn’t finish, but it wasn’t necessary. Nan and I stumbled on in the interior, and found ourselves ere long in quite a large cave, where even in the dusky light we could discern objects extremely like kegs, also bales and packages of all sorts. Outside we heard the cries and screams of the Frenchmen, baulked of their prey; for (probably fortunately for themselves) they did not discover the narrow and hidden entrance to our cave. We were soon joined by Davy, who remarked that if they had a guide with them, there were a few things he didn’t know yet.

“There’s plenty of food here—and spirits—if we want to stay,” he continued; “but perhaps we may as well get to the top and see what is going on.”

CHAPTER VI.
WELSH WIVES.

We did prefer (as soon as we had got our breath again) knowing what was going on in our usual world overhead to remaining in ignoble security in Davy’s locker, for so we named his cave. Accordingly we scrambled and crawled and pushed our way up the far-end of the cavern, till at last the aperture resembled a chimney lined with ferns instead of soot more than aught else. We emerged at last into the open air full of morning sunshine, and perceived that we were now quite beyond the enemy’s lines and once more among our own people.

The first thing to be done in this situation was naturally—to talk; as good and true Celts we all agreed to that; and when we got into the high-road we found no dearth of people to talk to. They were gathering like ants from every quarter, and the one topic which each man liked to discourse on was simply this: how he was going to fight the French. The bonfires last night had aroused the country, and some of the men we met had come from distant parts of the county.

Among other items of news they told us that the men of St. David’s had rushed in a body to their cathedral, from the roof of which they had insisted on tearing off the lead; six blacksmiths had come forward, and had at once cast the said lead into bullets. Old and young, master and man, all had turned out. A dissenting minister was there (the Reverend Mr. Jones was his name), and after him marched all the men of his congregation. The news had come as he was preaching to them, and the worthy man had at once changed rhetoric for action. “Let us fight a good fight,” said he, and proceeded to put his words to the proof and himself at the head of his men.

A choleric major rode about the lanes near St. Dogmael’s collecting recruits. He met a Mr. Jones (another one): “Come along to fight the French,” was Major James’ greeting. But Mr. Jones had business which called him elsewhere.

“By the Lord Harry,” said the Major, drawing his sword, “if you don’t come this minute I’ll slice your head off like a turnip.”

The fear of the French was an unknown quantity, but the fear of the Major was very well known indeed, and Mr. Jones went.

We mingled exultantly with the throng of our people, and presently our eyes were gladdened by the sight of a gallant body of men—all well equipped and well mounted—the Castle Martin Yeomanry. These were joined by the Cardiganshire Militia, the Fencible Infantry of Colonel Knox, and some seamen and artillery, the whole under the command of Lord Cawdor.

We had got into Fishguard by this time, and we hung about the door of the “Royal Oak,” where a council of war was being held by our officers—namely, Lord Milford, Lord Cawdor, Colonel Knox, Colonel Colby, Colonel Ackland, Colonel Dan Vaughan, Major James, and the Governor of Fishguard Fort, Colonel George Vaughan. The troops formed in the turnpike road just outside the town, and here we three had to separate, for Davy wished to accompany the troops, Ann to join her Aunt Jemima, and I to get something to eat at my father’s house, for I had only had hasty snatches hitherto, and I had a growing boy’s appetite. My parent was so much astonished at the course of events that he was not even surprised to see me when I walked, as bold as brass, into his shop; and never even asked if I had taken French leave of my master. But before satisfying my natural filial affection I (together with Davy) escorted Nancy to the abode of her relative, who, however, was not at home. As we turned to go, Nancy having taken leave of Davy in an affectionate manner, because, as she said, he had appeared just in the nick of time, we espied that stalwart female, Jemima Nicholas, coming along the road from Goodwick surrounded by twelve Frenchmen, [129] whom she had had the courage and address to bring—probably allured by false promises—all the way from Llanunda; assisted by the military, she now conducted them into the guard-house at Fishguard.Leaving Nancy under the efficient protection of her aunt with light hearts, Davy and I went our several ways; but ere long, after recounting my adventures and receiving a large amount of hero-worship from my mother, I once more found myself on the road leading to the scene of action. It seemed impossible to keep away. On the top of a high rock I saw a crowd of people in a state of great and evident excitement. I hastened to join them, and perceived at once the reason of their gesticulations. There were the three tall men-of-war and the lugger, with all sail set, standing out from the land, and apparently sailing away with all speed to the place from whence they came. We could hardly believe our eyes. We looked at Carnunda; there floated the French flag, and the rocks were dark with men.

“The Lord hath delivered them into our hand,” said the Reverend Mr. Jones, who stood near.

This sight increased the confidence of our people amazingly, as much as (we afterwards heard) it struck dismay into the hearts of General Tate and his men, they not being animated by the spirit which moved the classic heroes to burn their boats so as to destroy the means of retreat and to force themselves to action. The base desertion of their comrades, the large supply of brandy in the farm-house cellars, and a providential but comic mistake, seem to have been the three principal causes of the failure of the French—one may say of the utter and singular collapse of their undertaking.

The mistake occurred in this manner. Large numbers of the country-women (among whom were Jemima and Nancy) had assembled on a hill commanding an extensive prospect, including the French outpost at Carnunda, desiring, with the curiosity of their sex, to see as much as possible of what was going forward. It was, by the way, the same hill on which I had also stationed myself. Most of the women wore their distinctive shawl, a scarlet whittle, this being the colour appropriated by the daughters of Pembrokeshire; while their Cardiganshire neighbours have adopted the white whittle. All of them at that time wore high black hats. Lord Cawdor, as he was riding about inspecting things in general, was struck by the resemblance of a mass of these women to a body of regulars, and he called upon the daughters of Cambria to give a proof of their patriotism by marching towards the enemy in regular order. The females responded by a considerable cackle, which, however, signified assent. I saw Jemima and her niece in the front of the regiment which moved forward boldly towards the enemy. Ere long a sudden dip in the ground rendered them invisible to the French, at which place, turning into a side lane, they came again to the back of the hill whence they had started, and renewed their former course; it was done almost in the way in which, I am told, these effects are managed in a theatre. This manoeuvre caused much laughter among the spectators, and no little puffing and panting to the fair sex who accomplished it, many of whom were somewhat stout and not very young. However, it had the desired effect. General Tate acknowledged afterwards that they had been taken for a regiment of regulars, and the French troops (greatly composed of convicts) utterly lost heart. If they had but realised that it took a matter of seven days for the news to travel to London, they need not have distressed themselves on the score of quick aid from England.In the meantime parties of marauders in a half-drunken state continued to prowl about the neighbourhood. A considerable number of militia and peasantry encountered five of these men, who were dragging with them a young calf. They dropped the calf and advanced to the combat, while our men, thinking the odds unfair, singled out five of our sailors (of whom Davy Jones was one), and Mr. Whitesides, a Liverpool gentleman who assisted, as a stranger, at the selection, dismissed them to their work with this benediction:—

“Take time, my boys, and do it well!”

The French soldiers fired, and one of our men fell, wounded in the foot; then it was the tars’ turn, and they fired with such judgment that three of the enemy lay flat on the ground, and the remaining two departed rapidly. One of the three proved to be dead, the other two badly wounded. This encounter of a few, with a multitude looking on, took one back to the old days of Arthur’s knights, or to the still older days of Goliath of Gath.

Considerable numbers of Frenchmen were by this time in a very unpleasing state of body and mind in consequence of rash indulgence in port wine and poultry boiled in butter. They were captured in small groups by the peasantry, who laid in wait for them behind the gorse bushes which abound in this region, and who jumped out on them with scant ceremony whenever they had a chance. A man belonging to Llanunda village, taking a cautious peep through his own little window from the outside, perceived one of the enemy making free with his food and wine; the Frenchman was enjoying himself thoroughly, he had made an excellent fire from most of the furniture, and he was toasting his legs thereat as he sipped the generous wine with the air of a connoisseur. This was more than the Taffy could stand. He had not saved that wine from a wreck at considerable personal risk to see it sending a glow through the veins of a foreigner; he flung himself into the room with a strong expression behind his teeth and a hay-fork clenched tightly in his hand. The Frenchman jumped up and thrust with his bayonet at the master of the house, who turned aside the blow, then, taking the foe on his pitchfork, tossed him into the fire, as he might have pitched a truss of hay on to the rick.

A party of marauders set forth with the view of plundering Manorowen, a gentleman’s seat in the vicinity; but being followed by a detachment of the Yeomanry, they returned in a very different manner from what they had anticipated.

And now we, on our knoll—and there were some thousands of us, including peasantry, fishermen, shopkeepers, and the resident gentry of three counties—raised a shout of pride and triumph as Lord Cawdor at the head of his small troop of Yeomanry Cavalry rode off to inspect the enemy at close quarters. The sinking sun shone on their glittering accoutrements and splendid uniforms, and a glow of satisfaction filled our hearts as we noted the fine chargers they bestrode, for a Pembrokeshire man loves horseflesh as truly as a Yorkshire man; and not even my cloth has ever restrained me from being a genuine Philhippos. The Castle Martin Yeomanry have always been celebrated for their horses; and indeed it was no matter of surprise to any one to hear, as we did hear afterwards, that General Tate mistook these men for the staff surrounding some English general, the main body of whose troops were defiling around the side of the mountain; in truth, as the courteous reader knows, none other than the old women. Lord Cawdor, at the head of his forty yeoman, trotted close under Carnunda, the stronghold of the enemy, who could, if they had possessed guns, have swept them all off the face of the earth. As it was they narrowly escaped falling into an ambush. A force of French soldiers were lying in wait for them a little further up the road, and had Lord Cawdor taken this route, as was his lordship’s first design, his men might have been surprised, though even in that case we may well believe they would have given as good as they got.

However, darkness falling suddenly, caused a change of plans; Lord Cawdor and the reconnoitring party rejoined the main body, and the British troops took up their quarters for the night in Fishguard.

CHAPTER VII.
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.

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,
“5th Ventose,
“5th 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. 23rd.

“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.