SEQUEL._THE GOLDEN PRISON AT PEMBROKE_.
CHAPTER XI.THE GENERAL THANKSGIVING.
As I have already mentioned, some of the prisoners were sent toHaverfordwest Gaol—which, being situated in the old castle, was acommodious and roomy resort; others were placed, temporarily, in thechurches of St. Mary, St. Thomas, and St. Martin: others again were sentto Carmarthen, under the escort of the Romney Fencible Cavalry, theofficers being conveyed on horseback and allowed their parole; but thegreater part of the French force finally found themselves confined in theGolden Prison at Pembroke. They were taken there and also to Milford bywater; and not a few died on board the vessels, being closely shut upunder deck. Finally, five hundred of them were safely landed andincarcerated in the Golden Prison, the state of which, with all thisovercrowding, could hardly have been so delightful as its name might leadthe imaginative to suppose.
Here we will leave them for awhile, returning once more to myself and myown belongings. My kind mother would not let me return at once to mymaster at St. David’s, she looked upon me as “her miraculously preservedboy,” and must keep me for a bit to gloat her eyes upon. My father,being a man who loved a quiet life, consented. And so I was still inFishguard when the Royal Proclamation came down, which commanded us toset aside a day of general thanksgiving for our preservation from thedangers which threatened our beloved country. This command reached usabout a fortnight after the danger had passed, posts being rather slow inthose days. Indeed, had we had to wait so long for more substantialhelp, we had been in parlous straights long since. However, “All’s wellthat ends well”—and we had fared through, by the aid of Providence, ourown exertions, and the brandy-laden wrecks.
So we all repaired to our several parish churches; my mother hangingproudly on my arm, and regarding me as one to be specially thanked for.Indeed, I was not ill-pleased myself to perceive some nods of heads andpointings of fingers among the old crones and young maids as we passedalong. This feeling seemed also to actuate Davy Jones, who limped alongarm in arm with Nancy; she, even then not assuming the dependentposition, but giving him her arm, as it were, in order to help him along.She even explained to us that, it being her “Sunday out” she had come allthe way from Trehowel for this purpose. I may own that I distrusted thatlimp of Davy’s; it struck me he liked to play the maimed hero.
“Why, Davy,” I remarked, very audibly. “I saw you at market on Friday,and you weren’t limping a bit. Do you want to have the old women to lookat you or Nancy—.”
“To arm me?” said Davy, with a wink. “That’s it, my boy. What’s the oldwomen to me? But Nancy—.”
Here Nancy stopped the dialogue by dragging her admirer forward in a mosthasty manner, with but slight regard for his wounded limb. The serviceproceeded as usual. The hymns occasionally tailed off into one voicewhich quivered and sank, dying out into silence; for as it was well knownthat the parson’s daughter received a shilling from her sire for pitchingup the tune again every time it died a natural death, no one liked to beso crooked as not to assist nature when the melody became weak and low.Then the clear young voice came forth and we started afresh. I needhardly say there was no instrumental music.
We proceeded, then, in spite of the special occasion in much our usualmanner, leaving most of the thanksgiving to parson and clerk, and lollingabout at our ease thinking of nothing, when attention! we heard gallopinghoofs along the street, which ran outside the church. At the gate, thehorse was suddenly reined up on his haunches—a man flung himself offheavily, and quick feet came tearing up the path to the porch. In aninstant every man, woman, and child in the church stood upright, readyfor fight or flight.
The door burst open, and the express messenger rushed in, booted,spurred, and breathless.
“The French! the French!” was all that he could gasp. He was surroundedin an instant by eager questioners, his voice was drowned in a very Babelof noise.
Our worthy divine then assumed command of his congregation. Hedespatched the clerk to the vestry for a drop of brandy, and thenstanding square and upright in the pulpit he commanded the people to bequiet, and to allow the man to come unhindered into the pulpit, fromwhere he would himself announce the news. These orders were obeyed, andJohn Jones having returned with the spirit, the parson administered it,and then desired the man to deliver his message.
It was briefly this; sundry large ships of war, filled with Frenchtroops, were making their way up St. George’s Channel straight for theport of Fishguard.
In an instant the cry rang through the church—“To arms! to arms!”
Then what a scene of confusion arose, fury, dismay, oaths and shrieks allmingled together, some women fainting, some in tears, the men roused andexcited to the uttermost.
“Don’t go, don’t go, my son,” sobbed my mother; but curiosity overcameprudence.
“I’m not going to fight, mother, never fear, but I must go and look on,”was my answer.
“Oh Dio, not again, not again!” urged Nancy, thinking of the singlecombats.
“I’m not going to walk across the sea to tackle a frigate, I promiseyou,” said Davy, with a laugh. But Nancy was not to be put off so.
“All right, come. I’m coming too,” she said, and in another instant theywere without the church door, where, indeed, we all found ourselvesshortly. We tore down to the cliffs as the possessed swine might haveraced; many of us ran to man the fort, but I remained on the higherground where I could have a better view and see further out to sea.
And soon there was indeed a fair sight to see. Coming round the headlandto the west of us, their sails filled with the brisk March breeze,appeared a stately squadron moving proudly under British colours; buthaving seen something like this before, some of us still doubted. Thefort saluted, and this compliment was returned by the men-of-war withoutany changing of colours. We began to feel reassured, and soon our hopeswere verified. A boat put off from the nearest ship and was rowed toshore in a style that swore to “British tar.” The officer landed andexplained that the squadron was part of the Channel Fleet, sent to ourassistance, and that it was under the command of the brave Sir EdwardPellew. We were very proud of the help rendered us by England, eventhough it had come a little late, but that was the fault of our roads nottheir goodwill; and though it had occasioned a worse scare than the realthing, but that was only our disordered nerves which acted up to the oldproverb—“A burnt child dreads fire.”
The officer inquired very particularly as to the probable whereabouts ofthe French ships—the three frigates and the lugger. About this we couldgive him no information whatever. All we could say was, that the Frenchleft their anchorage at Carreg Gwastad on Thursday, the 23rd of February,at noon, and took a course directly across the channel towards the coastof Ireland. Our little sloops did not care to venture too near since oneof them, the _Britannia_, had been taken by the enemy, the cargoappropriated, and the sloop scuttled and sunk. They were, on the whole,persons to whom it was pleasanter to give a wide berth.
We heard afterwards that one of the ships struck on the Arklow Banks, shewas much injured and lost her rudder; one of her companions took her intow and made for France. They got as far as just off Brest, and then, insight of home, cruel fate overtook them in the shape of two Englishships, respectively under the commands of Sir H. B. Neale and of CaptainCooke. These two made short work of the Frenchmen, both ships were takenand brought over to Portsmouth, where they were repaired, commissioned inthe British service, and sent to fight our battles, one of them—oh gloryfor our little town—bearing henceforth the name of “_The Fishguard_.”
The remaining frigate, accompanied by the lugger, got safely into Brest,where no doubt they were exceedingly relieved to find themselves aftertheir disastrous expedition.
The scare that our squadron had caused extended from St. David’s toFishguard, all along the coast, in fact, from which the big vessels couldbe seen approaching the land. There were one or two other scares besidesthis,
for our nerves had been shaken, and our imaginations set going; andtruly for many a long year after the little phrase “Look out for theFrench!” was enough to set women and children off at speed, and perhapseven to give an uncomfortable qualm in the hearts of the nobler sex.
The Fishguard Invasion by the French in 1797 Page 12
