Carregwastad Point – 1797, by Dave Rigby

My insides ache and I’ve nothing left to bring up. Brest seems a lifetime away. Sea birds wheel and call, spray continues to batter the deck and we are soaking wet, but at long last, dry Welsh land is in sight. Now we can escape the ship and leave the foul- smelling heads behind. As far as I can recall, it is still the 22^nd of February.

The regulars in their black uniforms despise us, but then we irregulars are a motley bunch – deserters, convicts, political dissidents and royalists. A rabble in other words.

I leap from the small boat onto a tiny sandy shore and follow the men ahead of me up a steep, rocky, winding path to the clifftop. I turn to find the Vengeance has disappeared into the night. There will be no going back.

The regulars are well armed, but the rest of us have to make do with whatever pitiful pieces we can find or steal. I hear a group of four or five hardened men talking in low voices and before I know it, they’ve melted away into the darkness, looting in mind. Maybe I’d be wise to do the same, but I’m not like them. I’m only here because of my politics – politics of the wrong kind.

Lafitte rounds us up, curses when he realises so many are missing and puts the fear of God into us should there be any further desertions. But there will be, I’m sure of it. Rain sweeps across the fields as tents are erected and farmhouses seized, local families turfed out into the dark and the wet. Sheltering in a derelict barn we await orders. I think I’m hallucinating when a wonderful aroma of hot food drifts towards me. There’s a shout from the farmhouse of come and get it, an unexpected and welcome surprise. As we spoon mutton stew into our mouths and drink hot coffee, Lafitte tells us we’ll be heading for the town of Fishguard, three miles distant. Despite the desertions, he speaks with confidence about our ability to strike against the British soldiers, who are few in number. He sounds convinced that ordinary Welsh men and women will join our cause in pursuit of their liberty.

This is nonsense. My own brother, who has spent time in their country, told me that with few exceptions, the British regard both the revolution and the Corsican with suspicion and hatred.    

Lafitte calls me over to a small room at the back of the farmhouse and asks me if it is true I can speak English fluently. I tell him that is the case. He mutters something to the senior officer seated at a bureau in the corner and then dismisses me.

Desertions continue and we are attacked by local men and even some women armed with knives and pitchforks. Eventually we establish some semblance of order. Our scouts have spotted a group of British soldiers heading our way. We head across fields and take up our positions above a high walled lane, muskets at the ready. We catch them unawares, see men falling on the muddy track and watch as survivors retreat rapidly inland.

Daybreak on the 23^rd brings bad news. Most of the 800 irregulars have now gone, lured by the prospects of looting and the rumours of copious quantities of Portuguese wine available from a recent wreck. That leaves us with only 600 regulars and those irregulars like me who have not had the sense to escape.

The up to date word from our scouts is that the British, far from being few in number are many and well armed. Attacks on us by armed farmers continue. The weather is dreadful. As the day wears on, it becomes obvious that our cause is hopeless. It is agreed that a deputation should be sent to the British to discuss a conditional surrender. Two officers will march to Fishguard. I am to accompany them, to act as interpreter.

We descend the steep hill into the town and enter the Royal Oak tavern where we have been told the senior British officers are gathered. Their Lord Cawdor appears to have little time for the idea of a conditional surrender. He is blunt and dismissive and as I translate his comments, my heart sinks. We will surrender on the beach by ten the following morning or he will order an attack.

Back at the farmhouse we report the bad news. There is talk of continued resistance, but I can tell the officers know the score. They will have to agree to Cawdor’s terms.

On the morning of the 24^th we march, heads held high, drums beating, colours flying the three miles to the sands at Goodwick. The townsfolk line the walls and shout and jeer as we form into ranks on the beach.

After the formalities are completed, we are told we will be taken to a town called Haverfordwest.

Imprisonment awaits.

This story is based on events relating to the last invasion of the British mainland by hostile foreign troops, which took place near Fishguard in 1797.