No doubt Plymouth's consistent hostility to the King's party throughout the war is in part explained by the results of this wretched state of affairs, and by the persecution of their Vice-Admiral, the heroic member for St Germans, Sir John Eliot.
As soon as the war broke out, Plymouth's sympathies were plainly shown, and before long Sir Ralph Hopton made an attack on the town. On December 1, 1642, Royalists and Parliamentarians 'stood upon the Lary for the space of three hours' facing one another, but each too cautious to make the first move and leave a point of vantage. The siege was seriously undertaken three months later, when Hopton concentrated all his forces upon the town. As Plymouth could always be supplied by sea, there was no chance of its being starved into submission, and already it was gravely doubted whether the town would ever be taken. By the beginning of July nearly all the Royalist forces had been drawn off, and Plymouth set to work with great energy to strengthen the defences by building a new wall. Tradition says that even women and children took a share in the work. In August an attack was made by Colonel Digby, but the town was at this time threatened by a greater danger—the treachery of Sir Alexander Carew, commander of the Fort and of Drake's Island. 'He was proved an Apostate,' says a contemporary account, 'and went about to betray that island and the town of Plymouth into the hands of Cornish cavaliers, but was prevented by the fidelity of his honest soldiers.' Sir Alexander was arrested by order of the Mayor, and sent to London, where eventually he was beheaded.
Prince Maurice marched on the town after he had taken Dartmouth, and there followed three weeks of assaults and skirmishes, much hard fighting, and many desperate struggles. In the end the besiegers succeeded in capturing Mount Stamford, a fort on the south of the Cattewater, 'the first and only advantage gained by the Royalists during the protracted and often revived siege.' An invitation to surrender on lenient conditions made the townspeople waver, but the Governor, Colonel Wardlaw, stood firm. All were ordered to take a solemn vow and covenant, which pledged each one to take part in the defence 'to the utmost of my power.' And the town, hitherto 'divided and heartless in its defence, now grew to be united.'
On Sunday, December 3, there fell the Sabbath-day Fight, and the most critical moments of the siege. Prince Maurice and 'all the gallantry of his army' threw their whole force against the garrison, who advanced to meet them. 'The Roundheads were outnumbered ten to one, and driven back in absolute rout for the space of three fields.' Joined by a small number of reinforcements, they rallied after an interval, and charged the enemy, who yielded. The garrison pressed their advantage. 'The retreat, followed up, became a rout,' and the acutest danger was past.
Not long afterwards the siege was raised for a time. The poor people had suffered much from the scarcity of food, though once they had been cheered by a wonderful supply. 'There came an infinite number of pilchards into the harbour within the Barbican, which the people took up with great ease in baskets, which did not only refresh them for the present, but a great deal more were taken, preserved and salted, whereby the poor got much money.' It was not only by endurance that the women had shown their courage, for in the midst of some of the engagements they had brought out provisions 'for the refreshing of our soldiers, though many women were shot through the clothes.'
Assaults, occasional sorties, and intervals of comparative peace followed one another till, in September 1644, the King appeared in person before the town, and tried first by force of arms and then by offering very indulgent terms to bring about its surrender. The answer to the King was not sent till the day after his summons had been received, but 'if not speedy, it was decided—"Never."' A second futile assault was made by the Royalists, and then the King and Prince Maurice with their troops, turned their backs on Plymouth. For four months longer the blockade was continued, and at the end of that time Sir Richard Grenville made a very determined effort, attacking at four points simultaneously. A desperate struggle ensued in which he gained nothing and lost three hundred men killed, and many hundreds wounded. Another twelve months passed without any serious attempt to storm the town, and in January, 1646, on Fairfax's advance upon Dartmouth the siege was finally raised, the Royalists marching away in such haste that guns, arms, and ammunition were left behind.
Charles II paid several visits to the town, and on one occasion he attended the service at St Andrew's Church where a state canopy and throne had been prepared for him and where sufferers were brought to him to be 'touched for the king's evil.' A ridiculous incident marked another visit. The Mayor, rather agitated by the honour of entertaining the King, and anxious to find the best means of giving him pleasure, had the happy inspiration of inviting His Majesty to look at the outworks that had protected Plymouth 'in the time of the late war.' The King's reply was 'on a sudden' to walk to the landing-steps, get into his pinnace, and start for Mount Edgcumbe. The Mayor in great dismay, followed by the Aldermen, who had come in their robes in state to attend on the King, hurried down to the water's edge and taking possession of a wherry, they started off as fast as they could in pursuit. It is satisfactory to know that by the time they succeeded in catching up the King he had quite recovered his usual good-humour.
Plymouth was to some degree affected by the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, for it had always been a refuge for the Huguenots—the Rochellers, as they are often called in sixteenth-century chronicles—and now many of them fled to this shelter. The first party of about fifty people crossed the Channel in an open boat, and their flight was followed by a great number of refugees. These settled in the town, and many of their descendants married English people, and the little colony became absorbed into the general population. A curious glimpse of the original refugees is given in a letter written in 1762 by Mr Pentecost Barker, of Plymouth, to the Rev. Samuel Merivale. He says: 'Those, of whom I remember many scores, who came from France in 1685-6, etc., are mostly dead, and their offspring are more English than French, and will go to the English Church, though some few may come to us. What an alteration Time makes! There was ... a French Calvinist Church and a Church of England French Church here, besides a Church at Stonehouse. Many women in wooden shoes—very poor, but very industrious—living on limpets, snails, garlick, and mushrooms.'
In the latter half of the eighteenth century Plymouth vibrated with the excitement of fights and victories at sea, several engagements being fought at a short distance off the coast. Many prizes and some of our own disabled ships were brought into the harbour, 'dismasted and riddled French battleships,' sometimes even with 'their decks blackened with powder and coursed by the blood of the victims.' Unless the local annals are closely studied, it is almost impossible to realize the rapid succession of these events, and the effect they must have produced on the townspeople. A sarcastic picture has been drawn of a student attempting to work in the midst of the bursts of enthusiasm that perpetually thrilled the town. He is first interrupted by 'a shout in the street, and the servant rushed in to announce that the enemy had landed,' and the Volunteers were going out to meet them. The student, having disposed of this report, settles to work again, when 'the strains of a soul-stirring march, with abundant drum, were borne on the air, and the servant again bounded into the room to proclaim the return of the—th Regiment, "with only 200 returned out of 600, sir, colours shot through and through, poor fellows, all looking terribly tanned—here they are, sir, just passing the door." The pageant is witnessed by the student, and as the tumult subsides he resumes his scholarly pursuits. Soon a great gun shakes every window in the house. "What can this mean?" Enter Sam once more. "I beg your pardon, sir, but they say a man-of-war's in the Sound, bringing in two ships of the line, French prizes. All the people are running to the Hoe, sir; I hope you'll let me go." Down goes the book once more, and the student is as mad as his neighbours as the victorious ship and her prizes, with the Jack flying triumphantly over the tricoloured flag, sails majestically into the harbour amid deafening cheers.... Such was the average Plymouth day.'
Several times the town was threatened by a French invasion and badly scared, but the greatest fear was felt in 1779, when for four days the united French and Spanish fleets lay off the Sound. Plymouth had every reason to be afraid; for, had the enemy but known it, there were at that moment but two small armed vessels to defend the harbour. Crowds of women and children left the town in haste and confusion, thousands of country-people tramped to the coast to have a look at the enemy. A few private persons made single-handed efforts to strengthen the defences, and a little later 'the bustle was again revived by the hourly arrival of troops, baggage, waggons, and powder.'