CHAPTER XXVII.
PATRIOTIC HANDBILLS.
On June 10, 1803, Gillray published an extra-sized picture of ‘French Invasion—or Buonaparte Landing in Great Britain.’ The French fleet is nearing land, and boats, full of armed men, are putting off. Bonaparte, and a large body of troops, including cavalry, have landed; but, before they can scale the cliffs, and are yet on the shore, a few artillerymen, with two guns, have utterly routed them. It is Sauve qui peut. Napoleon, joining in the flight, throws away his sword; the army is utterly demoralised, the ground being strewn with dead.
I. Cruikshank drew a not very interesting caricature, (June 10, 1803) of ‘The Scarecrow’s arrival, or Honest Pat giving them an Irish Welcome.’ Napoleon, as a skeleton, is leading an army of skeletons, who are wading through the sea. He is just putting his foot on the shore, and, to encourage his troops, calls out, ‘Now, my boys, halloo away—vil frighten Mr. Bull out of his wits, we vil make them quake like the Dutch, the Italian, the Swiss, and the rest of our Friends.’ But a sturdy Irishman receives them with a shovelfull of mud in their faces. ‘Och it is your own pratty figure it is, Master Bonny, d’ye think that Pat was to be blarney’d by such Scare Crows. No, no, Bother, the time is gone by: Pat’s Eyes are wide open, and, look ye, if you don’t immediately jump into the Sea to save your lives, I will shovel you all there to save mine.’
Here is a stirring appeal to the army:—
BRAVE SOLDIERS.
Defenders of your Country.
The road to glory is open before you.—Pursue the great career of your forefathers, and rival them in the field of honour. A proud and usurping Tyrant (a name ever execrated by Englishmen) dares to threaten our shores with Invasion, and to reduce the free born Sons of Britain to Slavery and Servitude. Forgetting what English Soldiers are capable of, and ranking them with the hirelings of the powers who have fallen his prey on the Continent, he supposes his threat easily executed. Give him a lesson, my brave Countrymen, that he will not easily forget, and that France may have by heart, for a Century to come! Neither the vaunting Hero (who deserted his own Comrades and Soldiers in Egypt), nor the French Army, have ever been able to cope with British valour when fairly opposed to it. Our Ancestors declared that One Englishman was ever a match for Three Frenchmen—and that man to man was too great odds in our favour. We have but to feel their sentiments, to confirm them—you will find that their declaration was founded on experience; and that even in our day, within these three years, an army of your brave Comrades has convinced its admiring Country, that the balance is still as great as ever, against the enemy. Our Edward, the illustrious Black Prince, laid waste the country of France, to the Gates of Paris, and, on the Plains of Cressy, left 11 Princes and 30,000 men dead upon the Field of Battle—a greater number than the whole English Army boasted at the beginning of the action. The same heroic Prince, having annihilated the Fleet of France, entirely routed her Army at Poictiers, took her King prisoner, and brought him Captive to London, with thousands of his Nobles and People, and all this against an Army six times as numerous as that of the English! Did not our Harry the Fifth invade France, and at Agincourt oppose an Army of 9,000 men, sickly, fatigued, and half starved, to that of the French, amounting to 50,000; and did he not leave 10,000 of the enemy dead upon the field, and take 14,000 prisoners, with the loss of only 400 men?
Have we not, within this century, to boast a Marlborough, who, (besides his other victories) at Blenheim slew 12,000 of the French, and made 14,000 Prisoners, and in less than a month conquered 300 miles of Territory from the Enemy? Did not the gallant Wolfe, in the year 1759, gain the Heights of Abraham with a handful of British Troops, and, afterwards, defeat the whole French Army, and gain possession of all Canada, &c.?
And are not the glories of our Abercromby and the Gallant Army of Egypt fresh in your minds? An Army of 14,000 Britons, who landed in the face of upwards of 20,000 troops of France, and drove from a country, with whose strongholds they were acquainted, and whose resources they knew how to apply, a host of Frenchmen, enured to the Climate, and Veterans in arms? Did they not cut in pieces that vaunted Corps of Buonaparte’s, whose successes against other Powers had obtained for it the appellation of Invincible—And is not their Standard (all that is left of it) a trophy, at this moment, in our Capital?
The Briton fights for his Liberty and Rights, the Frenchman fights for Buonaparte, who has robbed him of both! Which, then, in the nature of events, will be most zealous, most active, and most terrible in the Field of Battle? the independent supporter of his country’s cause, or the Slave who trembles lest the arms of his comrades should be turned against himself; who knows that his Leader, his General, his Tyrant, did not hesitate, after having Murdered 4,000 disarmed Turks, in cool blood, to Poison 300 of his own sick Soldiers, of men who had been fighting his battles of ambition, and been wounded in his defence—English Soldiers will scarcely credit this, but it is on record, not to be doubted, never to be expunged. But more; read and blush for the depravity even of an enemy. It is not that these bloody deeds have been perpetrated from necessity, from circumstances however imperious at the moment; they were the acts of cool and deliberate determination, and his purpose, no less sanguinary, is again declared in the event of success in his enterprise against this Country. Feeling that even the slavish followers of his fortune were not to be forced to embark in this ruinous and destructive expedition, he declares to them, in a public proclamation, or decoy, that when they have landed in this Country, in order to make the booty the richer, No Quarter shall be given to the Base English who fight for their perfidious Government—that they shall be Put to the Sword, and their Property distributed among the Soldiers of the Victorious Army!!! Say, is this the conduct of a Hero? is this the man who is destined to break the spirit of Englishmen? shall we suffer an Assassin to enter our blessed Country, and despoil our fields of their produce—to massacre our brave Soldiers in cool blood, and hang up every man who has carried arms? Your cry is vengeance for the insult—and Vengeance is in your own hands. It must be signal and terrible! Like the bolt from Heaven, let it strike the devoted Army of Invaders! Every Frenchman will find his Grave where he first steps on British ground, and not a Soldier of Buonaparte’s boasted Legions shall escape the fate his ambitious Tyrant has prepared for him!
BRITONS STRIKE HOME!
Or your Fame is for ever blasted,—Your Liberties for ever lost!!!
This is very bombastic and ‘high-falutin,’ but Englishmen were in a very grievous fright, nevertheless.
Still harping on the prospect of a French landing, we have a caricature by T. West (June 13, 1803) of ‘Britannia correcting an Unruly Boy.’ Britannia has got Boney across her knee, and, having taken down his breeches, is administering such a sound castigation with a birch rod, called the United Kingdom, as to bring forth copious streams of blood. Needless to say, our hero is repentant, and prays ‘Oh forgive me this time and I never will do so again. Oh dear! Oh dear! you’ll entirely destroy the Honors of the Sitting.’ But the stern matron still keeps on, with ‘There take that, and that, and that, and be more careful not to provoke my anger more.’