Jessi: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. This fic is dedicated to Jackidy and is part of our pact to spam the Fishguard invasion. Hers was out first though, because I am a filthy procrastinator!
18th February, 1797
The Vengeance, sailing from Camaret
Francis Bonnfoy leant against the Vengeance's rail, stylishly bored in an attempt to compensate for the dreary British uniform that had been purloined for this task. From under his blonde lashes he watched his Legion Noire and the Chef de Brigade the Directory had put in charge. On many of the soldiers there still were wrist and ankle irons. Some of the more dangerous-looking ones still trailed short lengths of prison chain, the jingling noise they made an oddly cheerful accompaniment to their hard, dull eyes and grim mouths. Chef de Brigade Tate at seventy years old, was the oldest man on the ship (as a nation, Francis did not count). He wasn't even French, but an Irish-American from South Carolina!
And their orders – to destroy Bristol, Angleterre's second-largest city, cross over into Le Pay de Galles' land and march north to Chester and Liverpool.
However, the Directory had give four ships over to the command of Commodore Jean Joseph Castagnier: the fourteen-gun Vautour; the Constance with its twenty-four guns and the pride of the French Navy, the most modern frigates they possessed, the Vengeance and the Résistance with forty guns apiece. There were fourteen hundred men, ready to fight against England, to bring Napoleon's war to Arthur's heartland. And there was the Directory's greatest weapon.
The British poor that had for so long suffered under the English nobles and kings would be liberated by Francis' men. Thousands, perhaps tens-of-thousands, of British citizens throwing off their shackles and marching with the Black Legionnaries. After all, France was the nation of l'amour and who would choose England's temper over Francis' love.
Francis Bonnfoy smirked and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword.
22nd February
Fishguard, Wales
The nation of Wales was content. There may have been a war on but there had been plenty of war in his long existence. In his one-thousand-and-three-hundred years Wales had been attacked and conquered and suppressed but Gwydion ap Bledri was still here to enjoy this mild February day. Wales sat outside the Royal Oak pub, hands laced behind his head, chair leaning back and his booted feet up on a low wall. It was good to back home again, even if it was on his younger brother's orders, even it was Sir Benfro Saesneg – the English-speaking part of Pembrokeshire – the Little England beyond Wales.
The chances of an invasion in Wales were slim indeed. Richer targets were easily accessed by the Bristol Channel and even Arthur knew this. The Royal Pembrokeshire Militia weren't even here but on the other side of the British Isles, in Norfolk on military exercises. Wales' scarlet infantry coat was unbuttoned and his Brown Bess Musket was propped up against the wall behind him along with his sabre.
There came a clattering of hooves down the street which came to a halt not far from where Gwydion dozed. This was a common enough occurrence that Wales didn't even react until a quavering voice said,
"Sir?"
At that Gwydion opened one bright green eye. A young soldier in the infantry's red coat, one hand clutching the reins of his horse and his eyes fixed on the captain's insignia that Arthur had granted the older nation.
"I have a message here, for Lieutenant Colonel Knox – of the Fishguard Fencibles."
Wales heaved himself out of his chair, flipping his long, brown queue (these days quite unfashionable) over his shoulder, "Rydw i Captan ap Bledri y hennw catrawd."
"B-beg pardon, sir?" the young soldier blinked in confusion. Wales sighed and looked up and down the street in case Arthur Kirkland was skulking about.
"I am Captain ap Bledri of the Fencibles," Gwydion's English was quite unpractised. He refused to speak it to England out of principle and Ireland and Scotland had been guarding their own corners of the British Isles for sometime, "I can take your message."
"Yes, sir," the boy handed him a set of sealed orders. Gwydion was already planning to open it (England's correspondence rarely went without a thorough inspection by his older brothers) when the young soldier piped up again, "They say the French could be here by the morrow, sir."
"The French?"
"French ships attacked shipping in Illfracombe Bay, sir," the boy wrapped a hand around his sabre and puffed out his skinny chest, "and they were spotted in Swansea Bay. They say a whole fleet of French ships are heading here!"
Gwydion glanced down at the orders in his hands. The French were coming here? With the Royal Pembrokeshire away and only the home-guard Fencibles left?
"Cach."
Later that day,
Fishguard Fort
Through the spy-glass Gwydion could read the ship's name plate as she sailed into the harbour. The colours she flew were British but there still was the tell-tale accent in Résistance. The dark-haired nation snapped the instrument closed, not wanting to look at the soldiers that were waiting on the deck. The Fishguard Fencibles were less than three hundred strong, even if they had their nation unknowingly in their midst.
Wales realised he'd began to sing under his breath and swallowed the words, instead turning to the soldiers awaiting his orders,
"Fire a shot from one of the guns. I want the villagers and the rest of the militia warned," he ran his eyes over their meagre ammunition – eight nine-pound guns but only three rounds and sixteen cartridges between them. Damn Arthur and his penny-pinching!
He covered his ears as the solitary gun roared, the sound echoing over Fishguard. As soon as the noise died away he had already turned back to his men, bellowing his orders, just like the old days.
"I want the Lieutenant Colonel found! The rest of you will-"
"Sir!" Gwydion spun round, ready to punish the offender but the sight before him rendered the Welshman speechless.
The Résistance was turning! At first Gwydion thought that the ship might have readying herself to fire onto Fishguard, though he had little experience in naval warfare (that was more Arthur's field of expertise). But her stately turn continued until she was heading back the way she came, leaving the harbour for the Irish Sea beyond.
Orders were being called in different parts of the fortress and those Fencibles that were with Gwydion were filing down the stairs. Wales hefted his Brown Bess, fingers curling around the familiar stock of his trusty India Pattern, and followed. On the way he began to sing a battle march.
23rd February
Pembrokeshire, Wales
Francis frowned. Three of his Legionnaires were rolling casks from a small house, oblivious to the angry curses in Welsh coming from the owner. Earlier he'd seen another go by with plate looted from the local church. This would definitely hinder their efforts to make the people rise up with them. He'd have to send a report back to the Directory… but of course that would have to wait until their task was complete.
Castagnier had claimed his part in the whole affair was done – and this after his incompetent crew sent all their four-pounder guns to the bottom of the sea. And Tate had agreed! All he'd insisted on was that the Vautour be sent to Brest with a report, no doubt glowing and heavily padded, to be forwarded to Paris.
Meanwhile Francis Bonnfoy would be stuck on this miserable island with Le Pay de Galles' terrible weather and Angleterre's lethal cooking… The nation's shoulders slumped and he let out a whimper.
Yet another Legionnaire passed him, musket thrown over his shoulder and a keg under his arm. The coat of arms of Portugal decorated the wood… a Portuguese ship must have run aground near here. Portugal was Spain's neighbour and France enjoyed Antonio's cooking.
Of course, anything was better than what England served up. Licking his lips, France went off in search of some good, strong wine.
Same day,
On the road between Haverfordwest and Fishguard
When Lieutenant Colonel Knox was found he'd been attending a party but to his credit he immediately hurried to Fishguard Fort. He'd only just finished buckling on his sabre before he was striding out of the fort and leading his men out. They'd returned shortly after along with another part of his command lead by a young Lieutenant.
And Gwydion was glad they had when an hour later a runner slipped into the fort with the news that the French force was fifteen-hundred strong. So now they were marching to Haverfordwest, to meet up with the Pembrokeshire Fencibles that were stationed there.
They would still be outnumbered. Wales knew as only a nation could. He could feel the trudge of invaders as innumerable pinpricks of heat along his leg. Grumbling he gathered his reins in one hand so he could work a finger under his boot to scratch.
"Captain Bledri," hissed Knox, "you are a captain in His Majesty's Army. Act like it!"
"Ap Bledri, sir," was all that the nation replied, absorbed in his efforts to inch his hand further down his legs.
Knox narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The Welshman had been transferred to the Fishguard Fencibles from the Royal Pembrokeshire Militia, just before the regiment left for exercises in Norfolk. On that day he'd been bickering hotly with a harassed-looking blonde. Knox had been surprised to see a Major's insignia on the blonde's jacket and more surprised that it didn't stop Captain Bledri (ap Bledri, he reminded himself) from shouting in Welsh and making obscene gestures.
Had any of his inferiors acted in this manner towards him, Knox would have given the man fifty lashes. But Major Arthur Kirkland had replied with equal heat in English, only stopping when the Englishman had turned on his heel and marched into the Lieutenant Colonel's office with ap Bledri smirking at his back.
Captain ap Bledri's charmed life didn't stop there. Knox began to think there was more to the captain than met the eye. Perhaps he was secretly a member of the aristocracy. One of his acquaintances had told him of a similar man in his command in Scotland, also a captain, by the name of McMillan.
"Sir," the Welshman raised a hand, pointing south along the road. Coming towards them were soldiers. The Welshman reached for his Brown Bess before Knox spotted the British uniforms. Between Fishguard and Haverfordwest the two regiments met.
France crouched behind the wall, shoving several bottles aside with his foot to make more room. It was not a moment too soon. A bullet clipped the edge of the nation's shelter, whining over his head, close enough for Francis to feel a breeze.
Ungrateful bastards! All he and his Legionnaires wanted was to help the British citizens. And now they were firing on them! He'd even seen the Welsh crawling over the roof of the cathedral, stripping the lead from the roof of their own church to make bullets.
And on top of it he'd drunk far too much port – the mere thought of Angleterre's cooking had triggered some sort of survival instinct within the nation, his body taking in as much alcohol and decent food as it could. Groaning, France started to crawl away, wanting nothing more than a quiet place to curl up and feel sorry for himself in.
Wales was bent nearly double, his head resting on his horse's neck, and peals of helpless laughter making his shoulders shake. Lord Cawdor gave him a black look and Knox hissed at him to be quiet but the dark-haired nation was unable to stop.
A dozen Frenchmen, all in the various stages of hangovers, were being marched towards Fishguard. Their wrists were bound and they were being menaced with a pitchfork by a terrifying apparition in Welsh dress. Her name was Jemima Nicholas and she was, apparently, a forty-seven-year-old cobbler. That thought just provoked further giggles from Gwydion and he slumped so far down that he was in danger of falling from his horse.
"March on," said Cawdor with a disgusted sigh, "We'll be at the beach by dusk and then we-"
"Captain ap Bledri!" face burning with embarrassment Knox watched as the Welshman suddenly quietened and turned his horse, "Where are you going?"
"I have a plan, sir!"
Still giggling Wales reined in his horses beside the French and their captor,
"Jemima Fawr, prynhawn da!"
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.
Tate glanced up from the missive, his gaze drawn to the cliffs. Hundreds, if not thousands of soldiers stared back, each in the scarlet coat and black hat of the British Army. He looked back at his own rebellious troops but his eyes were drawn inexorably towards the opposing force.
He sighed and called for a messenger.
25th February
Francis Bonnfoy crawled out from underneath the hedgerow to be confronted with two vague scarlet blurs chatting to each other in some strange and foreign tongue. As the blonde nation focussed more and more the blurs resolved themselves into vaguely human-shaped figures and the language he identified as Welsh.
Suddenly there was a ring of metal and a sabre was hovering an inch from his face,
"Francis!" came a cheerful voice, coming from a brown-haired Celt with a wolfish grin, "Shwmae."
Major Arthur Kirkland manoeuvred his horse carefully through the press of humanity. Not only did he have to avoid the assorted soldiery and French prisoners but there were also hundreds of women, every single one of them wearing their traditional scarlet and black hats.
"What the fuck's been going on here?"
His confusion only grew worse when he reached the Royal Oak Pub. A dejected and ill-looking France was bound with rope and tied to the wall. Next to him an officer was dozing in a chair, booted feet resting on the wall…
Oh no, though Arthur as a single green eye opened. When a wide smirk spread across Gwydion's face the nation of England mentally braced himself.
"Shwmae, Arthur," the Welshman stood and stretched languidly. He then gestured to the captured nation besides him, "Mae hyn yn hawdd!"
As the older nation burst into peals of laughter, Arthur prayed to whatever gods were listening that Scotland and Ireland never found out.
Historical Notes
The Little England beyond Wales is a region of Pembrokeshire and Camarthenshire where the culture and language are English. It began with Norse and Flemish settlers and continues to this day.
Gwydion looks around for Arthur before speaking English. Many English people are convinced that Welsh people ony speak Welsh when there was English people around... Of course I've never done anything like that, at least to English people. ;p
Translation Notes
French
Angleterre – England
Le Pay de Galles – Wales
Welsh
Rydw i Captan ap Bledri y hennw catrawd – I am Captain ap Bledri of that regiment
Cach – Shit
Jemima Fawr, prynhawn da – Jemima the Great, good afternoon
Shwmae – Hello
Mae hyn yn hawdd! – This is easy!
Jessi: "In Wales they loved their women so much that they put them on the flag". Behold the glory that is Welsh womanhood (is both Welsh and a woman). All this really happened, even Jemima Fawr (google it – it's unspeakably hilarious).
And that was the last invasion of Britain.