Fire and Sword

by Edward Marston

  ‘Good evening, my friends,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you’ve been talking about. I, too, wish to see the hateful Duke of Marlborough and his army ground into the dust. Allow me to buy you all a drink so that I may toast your success.’

  Crevel giggled. ‘I never refuse a glass of wine,’ he said, peering at Daniel through bleary eyes, ‘but I do like to know the name of the person who bought it for me.’

  ‘My name is Marcel Daron and I’m a wine merchant by trade. That’s why I insist on buying a better vintage than the one you’ve been drinking so far.’ He snapped his fingers and the landlord bustled over. Daniel whispered into his ear and the man scuttled off. ‘The sooner you win this war, the sooner I can export my wine again.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll win it, Monsieur Daron,’ said Crevel, drunkenly. ‘By God’s grace, we’ll beat the Grand Alliance this year.’

  ‘You sound confident.’

  ‘We are,’ put in another man. ‘We have a larger army and better commanders. Our enemies have been very lucky so far.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Crevel. ‘They’ve escaped by the skin of their teeth time and again. We came close to routing them at Ramillies. I was there. We had victory within our grasp.’

  It was not how Daniel remembered it but he didn’t contradict the major. The battle had been a resounding triumph for the Allies. Major Crevel had been one of thousands of French officers who fled from the field in a panic. Pretending to be impressed, Daniel asked for details of Ramillies. The two flagons of wine that arrived at the table helped to lubricate the reminiscences of Crevel and his party. They gave the impression that the Allies had come close to extinction on the battlefield. In fact, as Daniel knew well, they’d suffered only limited casualties. It was the French army that had been cut to shreds.

  ‘What manner of man is the duc de Vendôme?’ asked Daniel.

  Crevel cackled. ‘A stranger one than you’ve ever met, my friend,’ he said with a knowing wink at his friends.

  ‘Is he as sanguine as you seem to be?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’ asked one of the men, eyeing Daniel with mistrust. ‘Just because you bought us a drink, don’t think you have the right to question us.’

  ‘I apologise,’ said Daniel, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I was simply making conversation. I’ve only just arrived in the town and what I really want to know is where I can find a warm woman for the night.’

  ‘We could all do with one of those,’ declared Crevel, banging the table for emphasis. ‘I like them warm and willing.’

  ‘Then you’re a man after my own heart.’

  ‘And she must be French – I’ll none of these Flemish doxies.’

  ‘Nor me,’ agreed Daniel, ‘they’re as plain as pikestaffs and as cold as a night in Siberia.’

  ‘Stick a hot pizzle in them and it’ll come out as an icicle.’

  When the raucous laughter died down, they discussed local brothels they’d either visited or heard reports about. Feigning interest, Daniel said he’d call on one of them later. Crevel offered to do so with him but, when he tried to rise from the table, he collapsed back down onto his chair again. Ribald comments were made at his expense. Now that the talk had moved away from military matters, the men were more relaxed and unguarded. Daniel felt that he’d been accepted. He kept plying them with wine. When he mentioned a recent visit to Paris, all of them had boastful stories about their conquests in the French capital. Crevel nodded off to sleep at one point but woke up on cue when a fresh supply of wine arrived at the table.

  ‘What kept you, landlord?’ he complained. ‘I’m dying of thirst.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said one of the others. ‘He’s drunk more than the rest of us put together.’

  ‘My throat is parched.’

  ‘Then let’s slake your thirst,’ suggested Daniel, raising his cup.

  ‘To victory in the field!’

  ‘To victory in the field!’ they chorused.

  ‘And in the bedchamber,’ added Crevel, wildly.

  He took a long sip of wine then realised that he was in dire need of using the privy. Two of his friends helped him to his feet. Seeing his opportunity, Daniel got up.

  ‘Let me take him,’ he said, grabbing the major’s arm. ‘I have to go out there myself.’ He got a firmer grip on Crevel. ‘Come on. We can manage it together.’

  Looping an arm around Daniel’s neck, Crevel staggered out with him. The privy was in the courtyard at the rear of the tavern. It was dark outside but a lantern was hanging beside the door. Daniel got the major there and helped him inside. Then he stepped back into the shadows. As he did so, he was seized roughly from behind and pushed up against a wall. A dagger was held at his throat by one of Crevel’s friends. His voice was dripping with suspicion.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What’s your game?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Daniel was in great danger. It was evident from the tone in the man’s voice that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill his captive if he made a false move. He jabbed with the dagger. Daniel felt momentary pain then blood trickled slowly down his neck.

  ‘I saw you watching us from the corner,’ said the other, coldly. ‘You were waiting for your chance to move in and ingratiate yourself. Well, not all of us were as drunk as you thought even though you kept buying us more wine. I can still see and think clearly. What’s more,’ he went on, sniffing noisily, ‘I can still smell and what I’ve got in my nostrils is a nasty stink.’

  ‘That’s because we’re too near the privy,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Don’t jest with me,’ warned the man. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’ve told you. My name is Marcel Daron.’

  ‘What’s your real name?’

  ‘That’s it, I swear it. I’m a wine merchant.’

  ‘And why does a wine merchant suddenly turn up here at the very moment when the army happens to be in Valenciennes?’

  Daniel shrugged. ‘It’s just a coincidence, my friend.’

  ‘I’m no friend of yours,’ said the other, ‘and I’m certain that you’re no friend of ours. You gave yourself away when you offered to help Major Crevel out here. You wanted to get him on your own so that you could wheedle information out of him. I knew there was something peculiar about you.’ The dagger point drew more blood. ‘Now for the last time, tell me who you are or I’ll slit your throat.’

  ‘I really am Marcel Daron,’ said Daniel, earnestly.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘It’s the gospel truth.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘I’m breaking my journey on the way to see my sister in Lille.’

  ‘You put your life in jeopardy by travelling alone?’

  ‘I rode here with a score of others and will not venture on until I can enjoy the safety of numbers again. I know there’s a war on,’ said Daniel, ‘and that perils may lie ahead. Believe me, I’d much rather have stayed at home to look after my business. But my sister is grievously sick. She begged me to visit her.’

  The man put his face close. ‘I don’t think you have a sister.’

  ‘I can prove it to you. I have a letter from her in my pocket. And you’ll be able to see from my papers that I really am Marcel Daron. Step nearer to that lantern,’ advised Daniel, ‘and you’ll be able to read more easily. Here,’ he continued, taking out a sheet of paper. ‘See for yourself what poor Hortense wrote.’

  Glancing down to take it from him, the man gave Daniel the vital fraction of time that he needed. He moved like lightning. Seizing the wrist of the hand that held the weapon, he bunched the other fist and used it to deliver some fierce punches to the man’s face, splitting his nose, closing both his eyes and knocking him senseless with a blow to the chin. As he slumped to the ground, the officer let go of the dagger. Daniel picked it up at once, easing it between the ribs and into the heart. He didn’t bother to retrieve the letter from his phantom sister. It was really a tave
rn reckoning.

  Daniel opened the privy door and found that Major Crevel was fast asleep. After hauling him out, he dragged the corpse into the privy and closed the door on it. Then he pulled up Crevel’s breeches and more or less carried him across to the stables. Daniel’s horse was already saddled in readiness for a quick departure. Reaching into a saddlebag for some lengths of rope, he bound Crevel hand and foot then used a handkerchief as a gag. The major was too drunk and fatigued to know what was going on. When he was lifted bodily and draped over one of the other horses, he made no complaint. Daniel used another rope to secure his cargo before leading both horses out of the courtyard.

  Inside the tavern, the other officers continued to roister. It was a long time before they began to wonder where their friends were. One of them eventually went outside to investigate. When he discovered the corpse in the privy, he raised the alarm and a search began but there was no hope of their finding Major Crevel. He was lying in a ditch over a mile away, snoring up to heaven, blithely unaware of the fact that he was no longer in his uniform.

  Even though it was far too big for him, it was being worn by Daniel along with Crevel’s boots and hat. He knew that a major in a cavalry regiment would have far less trouble from any French patrol he met than a bogus wine merchant riding on his own. The disguise got him safely out of enemy territory. Night was a willing accomplice. Nobody noticed the baggy coat and the voluminous breeches in the darkness. When he was stopped by a patrol, Daniel had been treated with the utmost deference. It was an uplifting experience. He enjoyed his brief promotion to the rank of major even if it happened to be in the wrong army.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Emanuel Janssen.

  ‘I went for a walk with Beatrix,’ replied his daughter.

  He smiled fondly. ‘And I suppose that you just happened to go past the shops in the course of your stroll. You’ve been looking at new dresses again, Amalia, haven’t you?’

  ‘It does no harm to look.’

  ‘Of course not – I wasn’t criticising you. It’s only natural that a young woman like you should want to see the latest fashions.’

  She sighed. ‘There’s no such thing in Amsterdam, Father.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  ‘Clothing here is so drab and dull.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it’s that bad.’

  ‘You don’t have to wear such dresses,’ she argued. ‘For the most part, they’re so plain and uninteresting. It’s the one thing I miss about our time in Paris. The ladies there dressed beautifully.’

  ‘Your memories of Paris are much happier than mine.’

  ‘Think of that day you took me to Versailles. It was amazing to see the King and his court in their finery. The ladies’ dresses were magnificent and so intricate.’

  ‘I felt that some of them were rather gaudy,’ he said.

  ‘There was so much bright colour,’ recalled Amalia. ‘Wherever I turned, my eyes were dazzled. It was a different world. There’s nothing like that anywhere in our country. The only real colour in Amsterdam is right here in front of us.’

  She pointed to the vivid tapestry on the loom. They were in the large workshop at the rear of the house, the place where Janssen created his masterpieces, sewing them from the back and viewing the front of the tapestry in a mirror to make sure that he was keeping exactly to the design. Though she loved watching her father at work, Amalia had no ambitions to emulate him. She restricted herself to needlework, seeing it as a female accomplishment rather than a source of income. Weaving tapestries was an art practised by men like her father, a self-effacing genius whose handsewn work hung in several European palaces. Whenever she thought about the future – and she did so most days – she never envisaged having to toil at a loom or sew battle scenes with meticulous skill. Her abiding fantasy was one of domestic bliss with a certain British officer.

  Her father was well aware of her high expectations.

  ‘When did you last hear from Captain Rawson?’ he asked.

  ‘It must be almost a month now, Father.’

  ‘I suspect that you can tell me the correct day and the precise hour when his letter arrived.’

  ‘I’m always so pleased to hear from him,’ she said, cheerfully.

  ‘Well, don’t fret if there’s a long wait for the next letter. The captain moves around so much that it’s difficult for him to write to anyone, especially when he’s on French territory. You simply have to be patient, Amalia.’

  ‘I accept that.’

  ‘And you must prepare yourself for the possibility of bad news.’

  She frowned. ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Captain Rawson is a soldier.’

  ‘He knows how to look after himself, Father.’

  ‘When he goes into battle, anything can happen.’

  ‘Daniel is always very careful.’

  ‘Yet he sometimes puts courage before caution,’ said Janssen. ‘Look how he contrived to rescue me from the Bastille. He took the most terrible risks to do that. A careful man wouldn’t even have tried to get me out of there.’

  ‘Things are different now.’

  There was such a hopeful note in her voice that her father couldn’t bring himself to contradict her. He’d seen the way that she and Daniel Rawson had fallen in love and had given their romance his blessing. At the same time, however, he was realistic enough to know that a soldier’s life could come to a sudden end at any moment. Daniel never hid from action. Instead, he deliberately went out in search of it. When he’d been commissioned to make a tapestry depicting the battle of Ramillies, Janssen had been delighted to have Daniel as his adviser but he’d quailed at some of the details he’d learnt. Glorious victories were based on blood and agony. Even during such a triumphant battle, there’d been hideous deaths among the Allies as well and many who survived were afflicted with horrendous injuries. Given the way he’d taken part in a cavalry charge – a fact that Janssen chose to keep from Amalia – Daniel could easily have been one of the casualties at Ramillies. Next time, fortune might not favour the daring captain.

  Loving his daughter dearly, Janssen didn’t want to dash her hopes. He was an old man now, his hair and beard silvered by time, his shoulders rounded by long years at his loom. Most of his life was behind him. Amalia, however, had a whole future ahead of her and Janssen wanted it to be as happy and fulfilled as possible. On almost every test of suitability, Daniel Rawson would make an ideal husband for her. What cast a menacing shadow over any thoughts of marriage was the fact that he was engaged in a war that had already claimed thousands and thousands of victims. Janssen prayed that Amalia would not be one more stricken woman, doomed to pass her days by weeping over the grave of her dead lover.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, summoning up a grin. ‘Things are different now.’

  ‘Daniel leads a charmed life,’ she said, confidently.

  ‘That’s why he met you, Amalia.’

  With a light laugh at the compliment, she kissed him on the cheek in gratitude. Though her father embraced her warmly, his face was lined with apprehension.

  Major General William Cadogan was a big, genial man in his early thirties with a reputation as an inveterate gambler. He was also a brilliant cavalry officer and a resourceful Quartermaster General of the Confederate army. But it was his work as head of intelligence that brought him into contact with Daniel Rawson. It fell to Cadogan to collate all the information gathered from prisoners and deserters, or from those who’d been captured by the French then exchanged. He also maintained his own cadre of spies. In this way, he built up a clear picture of the activities of the enemy.

  ‘By what strange and mysterious witchcraft did you learn all this?’ he asked in wonderment.

  ‘I happened to be in the right place at the right time, sir.’

  ‘That’s arrant nonsense, Daniel, so don’t try to fool me. It’s almost as if you rode into the heart of the enemy camp.’

  ‘I went to an inn nearby,’ explained Daniel, ‘and
waited until some of the officers came there for a drinking bout. When I bought Major Crevel some wine, he was kind enough to reward me with details of the French plans.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ said Cadogan, ‘and I want to hear the full story. No more of your modesty either. You’ve earned the right to boast a little.’

  ‘I was lucky, sir.’

  ‘You were both lucky and infernally clever, if I know you.’

  Daniel gave him an abbreviated account of events at the inn near Valenciennes and Cadogan was soon laughing heartily. Even the details about the killing of the French officer didn’t stop his guffaws. He loved the notion that a tavern bill had been passed off as a cry for help from a non-existent sister in distress. Cadogan saved his real mirth for the news that Crevel had been stripped of his uniform and left in a ditch. He positively rocked with laughter.

  The two men were in Cadogan’s tent, sharing a drink while they talked with easy familiarity. They had much in common. Both had fought in Ireland and taken part in the attacks on Cork and Kinsale under the command of the future Duke of Marlborough. Cadogan had been a cornet in the Enniskillen Dragoons while Daniel had been a humble corporal in a Dutch regiment. Both had shown conspicuous gallantry throughout their careers. When Cadogan married a Dutch heiress, he learnt her native language and was able to converse fluently in it with Daniel. It brought them closer together.

  ‘It must have been a terrible shock for Major Crevel,’ said Cadogan. ‘To wake up half-naked in a ditch, I mean.’

  ‘I think our picquets had an even greater shock,’ noted Daniel. ‘They thought they’d captured a French officer and they carried me off as if I was a wondrous prize. Imagine their disappointment when they discovered that I was a captain in a British regiment.’

  ‘They should have applauded your audacity, Daniel.’