CHAPTER VII.GENERAL TATE’S LETTER.
I also retired to Fishguard in order to calm my mother’s mind about mysafety—and also to get my supper.
My mother was, as mothers are, overjoyed to see me, and gave me an ampleand excellent supper, liberally seasoned with more hero-worship. Ireally believe she thought me capable of facing and fighting the wholeFrench force single-handed, and she considered that I had guided AnnGeorge through untold dangers into safety. The other way would have beenmuch nearer the truth, but she did not see it so. Ah well! after-lifehas nothing half so sweet in it as that first truest love; and a littleknocking about against the harsh angles of the world soon takes off theundue self-esteem it may have fostered. All I know is, I would be gladto 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 toesunder the table; my mother, too, was busily engaged in makingpreparations to receive the strangers who were quartered in our house, soas soon as supper was ended I fared forth into the street again to pickup 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 myfellow-townsmen were of my mind in this matter. I turned in first atJemima Nicholas’s house to see how she and her niece were getting onafter their novel experience of warlike tactics on a large scale.Jemima, an immensely powerful woman, seemed only sorry that they had notcome to close quarters with the enemy: she was truly a Celtic Amazon whotook a pleasure in fighting for fighting’s sake.
Nancy, to my surprise, seemed to have been indulging in the luxury oftears.
“What on earth is the matter with you, Nan?” I asked, with unfeelingopenness. “Your eyes are quite red.”
Nancy shot a glance of anger at me from the orbs in question, butvouchsafed no answer.
“Why, don’t you know,” interposed Jemima, “that her young man was woundedin the fight up there just now?”
“D’you mean Davy Jones?” I asked. “Oh, I knew one of the sailors gotshot; 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 goodtalking; 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 orlogic.
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 mewhich of them was wounded. And how was I to know Davy Jones was youryoung 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 therest of my remark was cut off.
I wended my way into the main street, and soon found the centre ofattraction to be the old hostelry, the “Royal Oak.” Men and boys, andmany of the gentler sex also, swarmed round its window and its quaint oldporch. The interior was filled with officers discussing the position ofaffairs. With a good deal of trouble and squeezing, and being in thosedays of an eel-like figure, I slipped and shoved myself close to one ofthe windows, where, balancing on my hands and with my nose glued to thepane, I inspected all those men of mark, and tried to find out what theirintentions might be.
This position might, affording as it did ample opportunity for thehorse-play of the rude, seem _infra dig._ to those who have only known mein my later years; but it must be remembered I was then but a boy notgiven to stand on my dignity and strongly moved by curiosity, or perhapsI might call it by the higher title—desire of knowledge.
For a good space there was not much to observe, save the various uniformsof the gentlemen and their manner of taking snuff and of laying theirhands on their swords. Of a sudden I felt rather than heard a thrill ofexcitement in the crowd behind me: this soon resolved itself into a mostunmistakable pushing and making-way on the part of some, and of craningforward 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 thehindering, turbulent crowd, the nearer members of which shrank from themas though they bore with them the plague, while the more distant onespressed forward to catch a sight of these foreigners in the same way thatpeople like to gaze on the more savage members of a menagerie. Thiscaused the strange lurch, the ebb and flow in the crowd. But still themen kept on making for the door of the inn, and no one actually opposedtheir passage.
One of them carried in his hand a white flag, and almost before I couldbelieve the evidence of my eyes—for the ears had no work to do, every onebeing too much astonished to speak—the two envoys from the French campwere disappearing through the entrance and being ushered into thepresence of Lord Cawdor and his officers.
Now I had reason to be proud of my ’vantage-place. Once more my face waspressed, with considerable outside pressure indeed, against the pane, andI saw with my own eyes that French aide-de-camp, Monsieur Leonard,present, with many a bow and flourish, the written communication from hisgeneral to Lord Cawdor. At the sight of those grimaces the crowd aroundme awoke from their trance of astonished silence—from the absolutestupefaction which had possessed them as it had possessed me.Consciousness and speech returned to them, and took the outward form ofmaledictions.
I, however, was more interested in watching the demeanour of thegentlemen within than of my fellow-townsmen without the house. Hislordship, though his back was not so supple as the Frenchman’s, stillreceived the letter with every mark of good breeding; and after a fewformalities 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 wouldunderstand me. “Mark it well, Mr. Evans, for this is how History ismade!”
“History!” repeated Mr. Evans, blankly. “History happened long ago; thisis only to-day.”
“Hst!” said the crowd.
In fact, Lord Cawdor had now commenced to read the letter aloud to hisofficers. It was, happily for us outsiders, and perhaps even for some ofthe gentlemen within, in English; for the leader of the invaders, beingan 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 givehere 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 aslight smile lit up his features, while the French officers went on toexplain that they were ready to capitulate on condition that they shouldbe sent back to Brest at the expense of the English Government. A lowmurmur broke out among the onlookers. The Frenchmen’s ships had desertedthem and they wanted us to give them a free passage home. But ColonelKnox had something to say to that. The uncertain light of lanterns andcandles (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
knewwould have believed that his fancy was as brilliant as that glitteringbraid.
“We have ten thousand men now in Fishguard,” said he, “ten thousand moreare on the road. Unconditional surrender are our only terms.”
The messengers looked very blank when they understood the tenour of thesewords, but they appeared still more impressed when Lord Cawdor in a sternvoice, but with his usual courtesy of manner, gave them an answer. Heinformed 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 himin the meantime that his troops would be expected to parade for surrenderon the following day.
His lordship, who had hitherto been standing, sat down and consulted fora few moments in an undertone with some of his suite. Then taking up apen, he quickly wrote an answer, dusted sand over it to dry the ink, andstanding up once more he read it aloud in clear and ringing tones. Itcommanded the admiration and approbation of all present on both sides ofthe window, except perhaps of the aide-de-camp and his fellow, whoprobably did not understand the English tongue, and if they had would notperchance have admired the style of the composition. We did,however—that is, those of the crowd who heard it—and the rest taking iton trust, we signified our approval by three cheers, delivered withexcellent 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 exceptthe unconditional surrender of the whole French force as prisoners ofwar. And that he expected an answer with all speed, this being hisultimatum: Major Ackland would present himself at the camp at Trehowelearly on the following morning to receive this answer, for which LordCawdor would not wait later than ten o’clock.
These were the actual words of the letter which was delivered on thefollowing morning at Trehowel to General Tate and six hundred Frenchmen,drawn up in line, by his lordship’s aide-de-camp, the Hon. CaptainEdwardes, 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 Edwardesto Trehowel.
We thought it very fine—and so it was; and the words we didn’t understandwe thought the finest. After this the French envoys were dismissed, withtheir white flag still grasped firmly. They were also provided with astrong escort to take them back safely to their own lines, and indeedthey required it, for by this time we had quite wakened up; and as thetwo men were led forth from the inn blindfolded with thick shawls lestthey should spy the poverty of the force, we greeted them with a yellwhich must have made their hearts shake. My countrymen are beyond allcomparison better at yelling than at cheering; it was cowardly no doubtof it, considering the difference of our numbers; but when was a mobanything but cowardly?
Of course to a boy it was pure delight, and my enjoyment that eveningmade up for the cramp of the night before. The escort kept us at morethan arm’s length, but no friendly force could have kept us from runningafter these representatives of the enemy, or from shouting at them, oreven from throwing a few stones and sticks at them. The men rememberedthe wine and brandy, the women the slaughtered ducks and geese, and theyhurled stones and curses mixed at the two devourers we could get at. Theescort 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 hurriedto discriminate friend from foe.
We ran as far as a place called Windy Hall, {154} from whence there is awide-stretching view of Goodwick Sands and the most perfectly-exposeddown-hill slope that could possibly be desired for the final volley ofstones with which we wished them goodnight.
I was pretty well tired out by this time, so returned home to see how myparents fared in these strange days, and to have a second supper, andthen to bed in my own particular little den, which usually I had only thefelicity of occupying in the holidays: and so the Thursday came to anend.
The Fishguard Invasion by the French in 1797 Page 8
