Drums of War

by Edward Marston

  'I'm simply obeying orders.'

  'But they could arrest you at any minute.'

  'They could, Amalia,' he agreed, cheerfully, 'but they'll have to catch me first and I'm determined not to be caught. That's why I chose the perfect hiding place.'

  'And where's that?'

  'It's inside the Bastille.'

  Henry Welbeck's voice had developed over the years into something akin to the boom of a cannon gun. It had a volume and intensity that compelled his soldiers to listen even as it threatened to burst their eardrums. Drilling his men that afternoon, he yelled out his orders and excoriated anyone who failed to obey them correctly. After the criticism received from Major Cracknell, he paid especial attention to the alignment of his men, keeping them in serried ranks that were perfectly symmetrical. The sergeant didn't notice anyone watching him until the drill was over. Out of the corner of his eye, he then caught sight of a figure standing beneath a tree. It was not the fault-finding major this time. It was a potato-faced drummer boy. The youth took time to pluck up enough courage to approach Welbeck. All that he got by way of a greeting was a bellicose question.

  'What do you want, lad?'

  'I'd like to speak to you, Sergeant.'

  'Who are you?'

  'Private Dobbs, sir. I'm a drummer.'

  'Then why aren't you practising with your drumsticks? You've no need to be in this part of the camp at all.'

  'I needed to tell you something,' said Dobbs.

  'Well, speak your mind then bugger off.'

  'First of all, you ought to know that he didn't send me. In fact, if he knew I was here, he'd probably punch me on the nose.'

  'It might improve your appearance,' said Welbeck.

  'I came of my own accord. Tom would never come himself.'

  'Tom?'

  'Your nephew, Sergeant.'

  'I don't have a nephew in this regiment.'

  'He said you'd deny it.'

  Welbeck checked himself from making a sharp retort. He could see that Dobbs was already in a state of trepidation. It was unfair to rebuke someone who was acting out of simple friendship. He'd already worked out that the youth must be the same Hugh Dobbs who'd tormented Tom Hillier on his arrival and had taken a beating as a consequence. Clearly, they had now settled their differences.

  'I don't like people who run to me with tales,' warned Welbeck.

  'I know, Sergeant, and I've never done this before - not even on my own account. When I joined this regiment,' said Dobbs, 'the other drummers had great sport with me. It's what any new recruit must expect. One day, they stripped me naked and threw me into a patch of nettles. It stung for weeks but I never thought to report it.'

  'I'm not interested in your memoirs, Dobbs.'

  'No, sir, and nor should you be. Tom is different, though.'

  'Private Hillier's affairs are nothing to do with me.'

  'That's what he told me.'

  "Then why didn't you have the sense to listen to him?'

  'I worry about him,' said Dobbs, earnestly. 'I know what it's like to fall foul of a sergeant. I did it myself once. When it's an officer, it's far worse. He can grind you into the dust.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'His name is Major Cracknell.'

  'Be very careful what you say, lad,' Welbeck cautioned. 'You're not in the army to question any decision made by an officer. Your duty is to obey. If you have grudges, you keep them to yourself.'

  'This is more than a grudge, Sergeant.'

  Welbeck held back the expletive that jumped to his lips. If anyone from the ranks came to him with a complaint, they usually received short shrift. He told soldiers that they had to address their own problems and not turn to him like a child running to its father. When disagreements between the men spilt over into violence, the sergeant invariably banged heads together, telling the disputants that they had to learn to get along. Facing this new situation, however, he was torn between involvement and indifference, wanting to know the details yet needing to remain detached from it all. After minutes of pondering, he reached a decision.

  'What happened?' he asked.

  Dobbs told him about the way that they'd been caught by Major Cracknell and about the punishment meted out to Hillier. There had been a second incident on the same day when the major found a spurious excuse to subject the drummer to further punishment. On that occasion, Hillier had been made to run in a wide circle with a heavy pack on his back. Dobbs talked about the ugly red weals, left on his friend's shoulders by the straps.

  'It started all over again this morning,' Dobbs continued. "The major singled out Tom again and made him—'

  'That's enough!' snapped Welbeck, interrupting him. 'I want no more of this whining. This regiment is full of people with grudges against certain officers and they're almost always without any foundation. I suggest that you do as Private Hillier seems to be doing and that's to keep your mouth firmly shut.'

  'I thought you'd like to know.'

  'Then you were badly mistaken, lad.'

  Dobbs was crushed. 'Yes, Sergeant,' he mumbled.

  'Don't bring any more of these silly stories to me.'

  'No, Sergeant.'

  'Be off with you!'

  Wounded by the rebuff, Dobbs scampered off. Welbeck looked after him and was grateful that his nephew had such a good friend. He was impressed that Tom Hillier had taken his punishment without feeling the need to complain and was struck by something else as well. It was evident that Dobbs knew nothing of the warning that the sergeant had issued to Hillier about Major Cracknell. The drummer had kept it to himself. That pleased Welbeck. Where an officer was concerned, however, the sergeant was powerless to intervene. If he so wished, a major could beat someone from the ranks black and blue without even needing an excuse to do so. Hillier was in grave danger.

  His third night as a turnkey at the Bastille followed the same dreary pattern as the others except that, on this occasion, Rivot unloaded more of the drudgery on to Daniel. Now that the new man was familiar with the routine, Rivot kept sneaking off for short, unscheduled rests. This allowed Daniel to be more generous with the distribution of water and to converse with some of the prisoners. Those who stirred from their straw to come to the door were extremely grateful for what they saw as a concession. When Rivot was on duty, they had virtually no human contact. Suddenly, they had a friend who showed interest in them. Daniel was astonished to learn that one of the ragged inmates had once been a member of the Parlement.

  'How did you end up here?' asked Daniel.

  'I spoke my mind,' replied the man.

  'How long have you been imprisoned?'

  'Over two years.'

  'When will you be released?'

  The prisoner gave a hollow laugh. 'There's no talk of release down here. I'm locked up for having the courage of my convictions. And I'd do the same again,' he went on with a battered dignity. 'If I see corruption in government, I have to speak out.'

  'Do you have a wife and family?'

  'I did have. They're dead to me now.'

  'You must have been a person of consequence at one time.'

  'That's why I was dragged from my bed one night and arrested. They were afraid I'd persuade others to join in my crusade. I had to be silenced.'

  It was a salutary tale and there were others just like it. Talking to some of them, Daniel could see how paltry their so-called crimes were and that they were really victims of rank injustice. All that he could do was to offer them a sympathetic ear and as much water as they wanted. His main interest was in someone confined in less sordid conditions. It was not until the turnkeys reached their break in the middle of the night that he was able to go in search of Emanuel Janssen. Daniel came up from the cachots, gulped in fresh air then crossed the courtyard to a tower on the eastern side of the building. He went swiftly up the stairs, looking into rooms at every level for the Dutchman. Turnkeys who saw him assumed that he had business higher up the tower. Halfway up the circular stone stairca
se, he reached an open area with a large wooden bench against the wall. Lying full length on it, snoring contentedly, was one of the gaolers.

  Daniel tiptoed past him then looked into the next cell. It was cold, bare and featureless. At the same time, it was more spacious than the cells below ground and was occupied by only one person. The candle burning in the corner shed enough light for him to see a body on the mattress, concealed by a sheet. When the man turned over in his sleep, Daniel's heart began to pound. Amalia had described her father's silver hair and beard. It had to be Emanuel Janssen. Daniel took a small stone from his pocket. Wrapped carefully around it was a message written in Dutch. Putting an arm through the bars, he tossed it at the man's head so that it grazed his temple.

  Janssen came awake immediately, rubbing his head and trying to sit up. It took him time to open his eyes properly. When he did so, he saw Daniel outside the bars, holding a finger to his lips to enforce silence then using it to call him over. Janssen was bewildered. He was a sorry figure, stooping, round-shouldered and looking much older than Daniel had expected. He shuffled across to the door.

  'Read the message I threw at you,' whispered Daniel.

  Janssen rallied at the sound of his own language. 'Who are you?' he murmured.

  'I'm a friend. Your daughter and the others are safe.'

  'You've seen Amalia?'

  'She sends her love.' Daniel glanced over his shoulder. 'I must go. I'll be back.'

  Janssen reached through the bars to grab Daniel's shoulder and to ask the question that had troubled him throughout the whole of his incarceration.

  'Where's the tapestry?'

  Chapter Eleven

  Alphonse Cornudet had worked on the river for many years, rowing passengers from one bank of the Seine to the other when they were too lazy to walk to the nearest bridge or when they preferred a more leisurely way of crossing the wide stretch of water that slid through the nation's capital like a capricious serpent. In spring and summer, he took families for a day out on the river or delivered small cargo to certain destinations or carried lovers to sheltered spots along the banks where romance could burgeon. Cornudet served all needs and tastes. He was a short, balding, barrel-chested man with a weather-beaten face that always wore the same sad, world-weary expression. Toughened by a lifetime of pulling on oars, his compact frame had deceptive power and stamina. Nothing short of a blizzard deterred him. For a tempting fare, he was ready to battle against the strongest wind or the heaviest rain.

  After his third night as a turnkey, Daniel permitted himself a longer time in bed the following morning. He then had a late breakfast and went down to the river to make arrangements. Cornudet was sitting on the wharf with his legs dangling over the side. Moored below him was his skiff. Daniel could see the smoke coming from the old man's pipe. When he got closer, he could smell the tobacco.

  'Good morning, Monsieur,' he said.

  'Good morning,' returned Cornudet, looking up. 'Oh, it's you again, Monsieur Daron.'

  'How are you today?'

  'I'm still alive, as you see.'

  'We may need your boat tomorrow.'

  The old man grunted. 'Will you need it or won't you?'

  'I can't be sure.'

  'I have other customers, Monsieur.'

  'Yes, I appreciate that.'

  'I can't be at your beck and call.'

  'I'll pay you to keep your boat free tomorrow morning,' said Daniel, taking out a purse. 'We may or may not make use of it then. I'm sorry that I can't be more definite, Monsieur Cornudet, but there are other people involved.'

  'How many of them are there?'

  'That, too, has yet to be decided.'

  'Is there anything you do know?' asked Cornudet without removing the pipe from his mouth. 'Have you any idea in which direction you wish to go, for instance?'

  'We'll go downstream and leave the city that way.'

  'Am I to take you there and back?'

  'No, you'll drop off your passengers at a given place.'

  'And what place is that, Monsieur?'

  'It's yet to be determined.'

  'I like to know where I'm going,' said Cornudet, irritably. 'That's little enough to ask of a customer. Where exactly are you heading?'

  'We're going to Mantes.'

  The old man snatched the pipe from his mouth. 'You want me to row you all that way? he asked. 'I think you should hire a bigger boat and one with a sail. Mantes is too far for me.'

  'You won't go anywhere near it,' Daniel assured him. 'You'll lose your passengers well before then.'

  Mantes was over thirty miles away and he had no intention of visiting the pretty riverside town. It was a destination that he invented on purpose. If Daniel did manage to get Janssen out of prison and convey four fugitives out of Paris, pursuit would be inevitable. Guards at every gate would be questioned as would those who kept watch on the river. Boatmen were bound to be asked about passengers who'd recently hired them. Alphonse Cornudet would say that the people he'd rowed out of the city were on their way to Mantes. It would send the chasing pack in the wrong direction.

  The old man was grumpy but Ronan Flynn had insisted that he was trustworthy. Once engaged, Cornudet was very dependable. He simply liked to be paid well for his services.

  'Take this, Monsieur,' said Daniel, fishing in the purse for some coins. 'It will show you how keen we are to retain your services.'

  'I'm the best boatman on the river.'

  'Then you deserve to be well paid.'

  'Thank you,' said Cornudet with something approaching a smile as Daniel pressed coins into his hand. 'You are very kind.'

  'There'll be more when we get there.'

  'I'll be interested to see where it is, Monsieur Daron.'

  'I'll have made up my mind by tomorrow,' promised Daniel, 'though it may be the next day when we actually leave. Whatever happens, I'll be here to see you in the morning.'

  Cornudet pocketed the money. 'I'll be waiting.'

  Even a river veteran like the old man could not be expected to row five people downstream, especially as they would have luggage with them. In any case, Daniel reasoned, it would be foolish of them to try to escape from the city together. The party needed to split into two groups and leave by different means. To that end, he mounted his horse and rode towards the western gate. He was now dressed as Marcel Daron again. Challenged by the guards, he produced his forged documents and answered a volley of questions about how he'd spent his time while in the city and why he was leaving. There were far more guards than he'd encountered on his way into Paris and they were obviously on the alert. At length, he was given his papers and waved through. He cantered out the gates and went in the direction of the Seine.

  After a couple of miles, he found a quiet spot on the river that seemed to fit all his requirements. Shielded by some trees, it was on a bend where it would be easy to unload passengers from a skiff. Travel by water was slow. To have a chance of outrunning any pursuit, they had to move fast by land. Having made his decision, Daniel rode back to Paris and took care to enter by a different gate so that he wouldn't be recognised by the guards who'd seen him earlier. There was far less trouble getting into the city. It was only those wanting to leave who were being questioned and, in some cases, searched. The hunt for Jacques Serval's killer was clearly still going on. When a guard stood back to let Marcel Daron go into the capital, he didn't realise that he had just let the wanted man slip through his fingers.

  Daniel was familiar with the geography of Paris now. He was able to take a short cut that took him through a maze of streets to Ronan Flynn's bakery. As he arrived at the shop, he saw that the Irishman had finished work for the day and was about to return home in his cart.

  'Wait!' he called.

  'Holy Mary!' cried Flynn, seeing him approach. 'What the devil are you doing here?' Daniel's horse trotted up to the cart. 'I thought you'd be well clear of us by now.'

  'I was missing the pleasure of your company.'

  'You lying h
ound, Dan Rawson! No red-blooded man on earth would spend time with an old rascal like me when he's got someone like Amalia dancing attendance on him. In your place, I know exactly what I'd be doing right now and it's not simply holding hands with her.' He whistled in admiration. 'I'd no idea a Dutch woman could be so gorgeous.'

  'I need to ask you another favour, Ronan.'

  Flynn closed an eye. 'It's not another boat you're after, is it?'

  'No, I've hired Monsieur Cornudet on your recommendation. I'm sure that he won't let us down.'

  'If he does,' vowed Flynn, raising a fist, 'he'll have to answer to me. Alphonse knows that you're a friend of mine.'

  'I'm an extremely grateful friend, Ronan.'

  'You're not as grateful as I was when you saved me from being shot as target practice by my captors. Until you suddenly came along, I thought my time on this earth was up. A whole heap of gratitude was piled up that day, Dan.'

  'That's why I felt able to come to you.'

  'So what's this new favour you want from me?' asked Flynn, rubbing his hands together. 'I suppose there's no chance that you want me to take care of Amalia for you, is there?'

  'None at all,' said Daniel with a laugh. 'I'd offer you Beatrix but she may not have the same appeal.' Flynn groaned in disapproval. 'All that I have for you this time is a very simple request.'

  'What is it?'

  'Where can I find a small coach?'

  Emanuel Janssen was beginning to wonder if it had all been a dream. Awakened in the night by one of the turnkeys, he'd been told that his daughter, assistant and servant were all safe and well. Equally reassuring was the news that the tapestry on which he'd laboured so long had been rescued from the house. Brief details of what had happened had been contained in the letter delivered to him by means of a stone tossed through the bars. Because it was unsigned, he didn't know who his benefactor might be or if it was all some cruel joke being played on him by the gaolers. The most extraordinary thing about the letter was that it held out the possibility of escape. How it might actually take place was not specified but it had given Janssen the first surge of hope since he'd been imprisoned.