And while we lay along the roadside he went up and down, sorting out men who could swim well, and there were more than half who could do so, and more yet who said they were swimmers though poor at it.
Then he told me his plan.

How that the men who could not swim must go over first in the boats, and then the arms of the rest should be ferried over while they swam, and so little time would be lost: but all must be done in silence and without lights.

So we ate and slept a little, and then, when it grew dark, started off across the meadows.

And there the collier guided us well, having taken note of all the ground we had crossed in the morning, as a marshman can.
It was dark, and a white creeping mist was over the open land when we reached it.

But over the mists to our left we could see the twinkle of Danish watchfires, where they kept the height over Bridgwater; and again to the right we could see lights of fires at Stert, where the ships lay.
But at Combwich were no lights at all, and that was well.
Presently we reached a winding stretch of deep water, and though it was far different when I saw it last, I knew it was the creek in which our boats lay, and up which Dudda and I had fled, full now with the rising tide.
We held on down its course until Dudda told me in a low voice that we were but a bowshot from the boats, and that now it were well for the men to lie down that they might be less easily noticed.
So the word was passed in a whisper down the line, and immediately it seemed as if the force had vanished, as the white mist crept over where they had stood.
Now Dudda and I went down to the boats and there found, not the two we had left only, but a third and larger one beside them.