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Dafydd and Goliath

Written by Terry Howard

North Anglesey Coast  of Wales, August 1635

Squire Dafydd Jones sat at dinner wearing a new velvet jacket over a shirt of the finest linen. The silver on the table sparkled from having been polished and repolished. The finest of everything he had graced the table. His campaign to win the hand of the Lady Elizabeth, a swan whom he had known when she was still a duckling, in the face of rather stiff competition from Lord Sir Anthony Marshall was not going well. The English gentleman had the clear advantage of being frequently at court in London. Dafydd sensed this meeting would be his last chance to sway Elizabeth’s father. So he pulled out the stops and spread an elaborate feast.

Over dinner, Elizabeth was friendly enough, but not really warm. Her father was polite, but Dafydd could see the man was wondering what advantage he gained by marrying his daughter to a country squire on the North Anglesey Coast of Wales. Dafydd stressed that Lady Elizabeth would have a comfortable life as his wife, on the strength of the lands he kept in sheep if nothing else. But he talked at length of reopening the flooded copper mine which had once been the backbone of his family’s fortune. It was obvious to Dayfdd that Lord Wycliffe was of the opinion there was no way to keep the mine dry without costing more to bail it than the copper was worth.

****

Actually, Lord Wycliffe was wishing Elizabeth would just state a preference. He would be content either way, as long as she was happy, but the lass told him it was for him to decide.

“Father,” she'd said with a pleasant laugh when he had outright asked her, “that is a decision you will have to make. Surely you don’t expect a young lady to have enough wisdom to decide something like that?”

The only reason to marry her to Jones would be to give her a quiet, peaceful life. If it weren’t for the common fact that the Englishman was known for chasing skirts and had already fathered several spurious offspring, there really wouldn’t be any discussion at all. There probably wasn’t any reason, really, to discuss the matter further anyway. Still, Squire Jones had sent the invitation to dine and to view the project he was working on, which would allow him to reopen the mine. Lord Wycliffe admitted to a mild curiosity. The project was, of late, a frequent topic of conversation at many dinner tables. Jones was not the only mine owner with a water problem. If the mine could indeed start producing again, then perhaps there was something to discuss after all. So, the three of them sat at the table enjoying an excellent cut of beef and a surprisingly good wine.

****

First came the sound of the blast, then the shockwave, followed by falling debris, and finally shouts of “Fire!”

Dafydd threw his napkin onto his barely touched plate, and rushed to the door. The assembly shed was missing half its roof and the walls were engulfed in flame. He sprinted to join a bucket brigade dousing the flames with water being drawn from the trough near the well much faster than the trough could be refilled. When the water was gone, there was nothing to do but to stand and watch the shed burn.

George, the foreman, noted Dafydd dropping his, now ruined, new coat over the face of the man lying on the ground. He started walking toward the estate’s young owner.

“George, how bad is it?”

“Well, Squire, you can see the building is a complete loss.”

"Damn the building, man," Dafydd nearly shouted. The young squire rarely raised his voice. George's eyebrows went up. Calming himself, Dafydd asked, "How many people did we lose?"

“I think six, including Harold,” George said. At the naming of Harold, Dafydd closed his eyes and bit his lip. “The others, one was a new hire, four were mayflies.”

A voice behind Dafydd asked, “Mayflies?”

George spoke past Dafydd to answer Lord Wycliffe’s question. “Mayflies is what I call them, sir. People just ...