We had resolved, however, that the great high road to France would not be the very best, perhaps, for our purpose--the road which, passing through Portugal into Spain at Miranda and Tuy, runs through Valladolid and Burgos up to Bayonne and France, for these towns were in the kingdoms of Leon and Castile, and here all were, we learnt, for Philip and France; but we knew also that with other parts of Spain it was no so. Away on the eastern shores, Catalonia and Valencia had declared for Charles of Austria and the allies. Nearer to where we were, namely, in Galicia, above Portugal, they wavered. Yet 'twas said now that they inclined toward us, perhaps because Vigo is in Galicia and, therefore, they had had a taste of how we could be either good friend or fateful foe. Certainly we had shown we could well be the latter!
"Yes," I said to Juan, my finger on the chart; "this way will be our road. Across the frontier where the Minho divides the two countries, then up its banks to Lugo, and so through the Asturias to Biscay and Bayonne. That is our way, and, after all, 'tis not much farther than t'other. And safer, too. If Galicia leans to us, so may the Asturians. If not, we shall be no worse off than if we traversed Leon, Castile and Navarre."
"Vogue la galère!" cried the boy, who generally varied his exclamations from Spanish to French and French to English--whichever came uppermost--"I care nothing. We shall be together, mio amigo; that's enough for me."
"Together for a time," I put in; "for a time. Remember, once we reach Flanders--if we ever do--which is more than doubtful--my service claims me. 'Tis war there, hard knocks and buffets for me--for you the first sloop or vessel of any sort that will run you over to the English coast."
"Oh, la, la!" said Juan, "'tis not come yet. We have a month, at least, together, and perhaps even then we will not part. This great soldier, this fierce captain you speak of, this English lord who contends with France--perhaps he will let me fight too. Give me--what is it you call it?--a pair of colours. Then we could fight side by side, Mervan, could we not?"
I nodded and muttered: "Perhaps," though in truth I thought nothing was more unlikely. In some way I had come to have none too great an opinion of the youth's courage or capacity for fighting, remembering how he had paled, nay, almost shuddered, at the sight of those poor dead ones floating in Vigo harbour; while for the "pair of colours"--well, there was plenty of interest being made on all sides by those of influence in England to obtain such things for their own kith and kin. There would be mighty little chance for this young stripling to be received into any regiment. Therefore I went on with our plans, saying, as I still glanced at the chart:
"That must be the road. And from Lugo across the mountains to Baos, then to Elcampo, and so to Bilbao up to Bayonne. That is the way."
"To Lugo," he repeated, meditatively. "To Lugo. Humph! To Lugo. That is the way they went, you know--Chateaurenault and his captains--when they fled from you."
Now I started when he said this, for I had, indeed, forgotten the slight rumour I had heard to that effect--forgotten it amidst all the excitement of the stirring times that had followed the battle and the taking of the galleons. Yet now the fact was recalled to my mind, I did not let it alter my determination, and after a moment's reflection, I said:
"Still it matters not. They will not have gone that way for the same reason that we shall go it. On their road to France! Chateaurenault will not stay there, but rather push on to Paris to give an account of his defeat--make the best excuses he can to his master. Nor will he come back--an he does, he will find nothing here. His ships are sunk or being carried to England, and 'tis so with the galleons that are not themselves at the bottom of the ocean. 'Tis very well. To-morrow we set out for Lugo, take the first step on our road."