"Pardon, monsieur," he said, "what matters it? That brute of a captain is only a German Swiss; there are plenty such in the king's army; and your French is as good as his."
My spirits rose at this, and having told my comrades what he had said, I determined to lose no more time in putting my plan into execution. The changes of clothes were quickly made, not without some struggles on the part of our victims, and a vast deal of violent language from the captain, whom Joe again half choked with straw. We soon had him and his men rigged up, gagged and manacled as deserters; we borrowed (without leave) kerchiefs of various colors which the Frenchmen had about them, and of them made bandages for those who were to pass as wounded. Joe donned the sergeant's clothes, and the bosun those of the largest of the company, though they were a sad misfit.
It struck us that we should make the imposture more complete if we got a cart in which to convey our wounded men, so when the preparations were otherwise complete I, attired as the French captain, mounted his horse and, accompanied by two of the quondam deserters (now appearing quite respectable infantrymen), set off to find a farm where in the name of King Lewis I might demand what we needed. We had to go some three miles before we came to a likely looking farmhouse, and there, assuming an authoritative and hectoring manner quite foreign to my amiable disposition, I secured a wagon and two horses, for which I gave the farmer a formal receipt.
The sight of his dairy reminded me that I was hungry, and I added to my requisition a good store of food, for which I knew my comrades would bless me. For driver I picked out the stupidest looking yokel I could find among the farmer's men, and then we returned to the ruined farmhouse in triumph and not a little haste, for I was eager to set my teeth in the bread and cheese we were conveying.
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.
Having plenty of time before us, we chose devious and little frequented roads, the deserters who led us being fortunately familiar with the district. We avoided the villages when we could, but towards evening came to a hamlet which it was impossible to shun, since only through it could we gain a ford at a stream that crossed our route.
The appearance of a party of soldiers aroused great interest among the villagers. They came about us, asking who we were and whither we were going. They were greatly excited when they learned that we were escorting deserters and recaptured English prisoners. The real deserters told a glib story of the furious fight they had had with the villains (pointing to the unhappy officer and his men). The villagers threw up their hands with shrill exclamations at this moving recital, and, going up to the cart, gazen open-mouthed and not without a secret sympathy at the prostrate forms.