Chapter 18: In The Name Of King Lewis.
While we were appeasing our appetites, I got from the deserters an
inkling of our locality. They had been marching, as I knew, from
St. Malo to Rennes, but instead of keeping to the highroad through
Combourg, they had taken a short cut that saved several miles. It
passed through several hamlets, some of which, they said, could be
avoided; but there were others which we must take on our way, and
it was in these that we should be put to the test.
I asked the men if they knew of any spot on the coast where we
might find a boat to convey us across the Channel, and after
consulting together they decided that the only likely place was the
little fishing town of Cancale, about ten miles east of St. Malo.
It had a harbor on the Bay of St. Michel, whence the luggers sailed
forth a little before sunset. I would rather have chosen a smaller
place, and one more distant from our late prison, but the men
assured me that there was no other so easily accessible, or so
likely to furnish the boat we needed; so I determined to put all to
the hazard and make for Cancale. It was, as nearly as they could
tell, about five and twenty miles from our present position, so
that we could not hope to reach it before night, and we had to
reconcile ourselves to the prospect of another day's march across
country on the morrow.
We set off, a strange company indeed. One of the deserters led the
way; behind him went the cart containing the French captain and his
men, now passing as deserters, and all gagged; then came seven of
my comrades with their hands tied, the other two deserters marching
one on each side of them; and the rear was brought up by the bosun,
Joe and myself, and the two men being attired as French soldiers
and having their heads bandaged, their supposed wounds being
sufficient to account for their silence if they were addressed.
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