Drums of War cr-2

by Edward Marston

  When the sky began to lighten outside, Daniel turned to glance through the window. The first thing he saw was his own reflection and he was jolted. Having dressed in the dark earlier on, he'd not been able to inspect the coat that had been torn and scuffed during the death grapple with Jacques Serval. Now that he did so, he saw to his amazement that the tear had been expertly mended and the dirt had been brushed off. The repair could only have happened while he was asleep with the coat over the chair beside him. Daniel couldn't believe that someone could remove the garment without disturbing him.

  Though he'd washed his hands before they left, Flynn's face and hair were still flecked with white flour. The cart was now loaded with bread and loaves were delivered to various customers.

  Dozens were dropped off at the market. Flynn didn't only deal in large deliveries. Daniel was touched to see him hand over two loaves to an elderly couple, too infirm to walk all the way to the shop. It was towards the end of the round that Daniel finally caught sight of the Bastille. While Flynn was delivering bread to a tavern in an adjacent boulevard, Daniel slipped around the corner into the Rue Saint-Antoine.

  He stared up at the forbidding exterior of the Bastille. It was an enormous structure. Built as a gate during the Hundred Years' War, it had been considerably extended to create a looming fortress. The irregular rectangle had eight towers that seemed to climb up into the sky. What made it particularly daunting was that the walls and the towers were the same height and connected by a broad terrace. It meant that soldiers inside the stronghold could move quickly to the point of attack without having to go up and down the circular staircases in the towers. A wide moat completed its defences.

  Somewhere inside the prison was Emanuel Janssen. Finding a means of rescuing him seemed an impossible task. Yet it had to be attempted. On the ride back to the bakery, Daniel heard very little of Flynn's hearty monologue because his mind was fettered to the Bastille.

  Charlotte Flynn had been uneasy at the threat of having her home invaded by strangers. Now that they were actually there, however, she found them less intrusive than she feared. Dopff helped to make and serve breakfast while Beatrix seized a broom and started to clean the house. All of Amalia's maternal instincts were aroused when she set eyes on Louise and she couldn't stop smiling as she cuddled the baby. When she was alone with Charlotte in the parlour, she was reluctant to yield up the child to its mother.

  As Daniel had advised, Amalia did not reveal how much of the French language she'd mastered. Instead, she spoke haltingly and deliberately groped for words so that conversation with Charlotte was laboured. There was one thing that she wished to make clear.

  'While we here,' she said, 'we help, yes?'

  'Thank you,' replied Charlotte, gratefully. 'Until last week, we had a servant but Ronan caught her stealing and got rid of her. We are looking for someone else.'

  'With baby, the help you need.'

  'We know that.'

  Sensing that Amalia was in some kind of trouble, Charlotte warmed to her. The two of them went off to market together. While Charlotte chose the food, Amalia insisted on paying for it. As a reward for her generosity, she was allowed to carry the baby on the journey home. When they got back to the house, it was visibly tidier. Beatrix felt much happier in her role as a servant and knew how to keep out of the way. Seeing the food bought at the market, Dopff's face became more expressive than ever. It was clear that he was volunteering to prepare the next meal.

  Daniel and Flynn eventually returned and walked in on a quiet domestic scene. Amalia was rocking the baby in its wooden crib while Charlotte was mending a dress. At the sight of needle and thread, Daniel recalled the repair made to his coat and wondered if Charlotte had been responsible. Since he'd been away from his wife and child for so long, it was evident that Flynn would appreciate some time alone with them. Daniel therefore invited Amalia to join him in a walk. They stepped out into the sunshine.

  'What have you been doing?' she asked.

  'I watched Ronan make bread then helped to deliver it.'

  'Why did you do that, Captain Rawson?'

  'His delivery round took him close to the prison where your lather is being held,' explained Daniel. 'I wanted to take a look at it.'

  Amalia came to a halt. 'Where is it?'

  He'd deliberately not told her before because he knew that she'd be distressed. Amalia had been in Paris for several months. In that time, she'd surely have heard of the Bastille and been aware of its reputation. It was a place where political prisoners were kept in chains and where those who'd offended the King in some way were routinely dispatched. Many who entered the grim portals never came out alive again. Emanuel Janssen could not be in a worse place.

  'Well,' she pressed, 'which prison is it?'

  She had to be told. 'The Bastille,' he said. 'Oh!'

  Amalia almost swooned and he had to support her with both hands for a moment. Thanking him for his help, she eased him away and made an effort to compose herself. They continued their walk.

  'I can see why you didn't tell me earlier,' she said.

  'You've had enough distress in the last twenty-four hours, Miss Janssen. I had no wish to add to it.'

  'That was considerate of you.' She turned to him in despair. 'I've heard the most terrible stories about the Bastille. We drove past it in a coach once and the very sight of it frightened me. I'm horrified to think that Father is locked up in there.'

  'It shows that he's still alive,' said Daniel, trying to strike an optimistic note. 'That's a sign of clemency.'

  'Should I make an appeal for mercy to the King?'

  'Oh, no, Miss Janssen. It would certainly be rejected and you would give your whereabouts away. After what happened to the man who watched your house, the police will be looking for you and the others. That's why I brought you to a part of the city where they'd be unlikely to search. I want them to think that you've left Paris.'

  'I could never do that while Father is still here.'

  'You may not have to,' he said.

  'Is there any chance at all that he can be rescued?'

  'I think so, Miss Janssen.'

  'How will you go about it?'

  'I'm not sure yet but, thanks to Ronan, an idea is forming in my brain. It may require me to leave you alone at the house for a while.'

  'Where will you be, Captain Rawson?'

  'Perhaps you ought to stop calling me that,' he suggested. 'It's not wise to keep reminding me that I'm a British soldier. If that name slips out in front of Charlotte, she'll become too curious. It might be safer if you called me "Daniel" from now on.'

  'In that case, I will — Daniel. And in view of what you've already done for us in the short time you've been here, I think you're entitled to call me by my Christian name.'

  'Thank you, Amalia. I regard that as a privilege.'

  Their eyes locked for a moment. Daniel's smile was broad and Amalia's more cautious but both acknowledged that they had just crossed a little boundary. Their friendship had deepened and they were drawn insensibly closer. It was a very pleasant feeling and Daniel luxuriated in it until he remembered the repair to his coat.

  'There's something else I must thank you for, Amalia.'

  'Is there?'

  'During the night, you brushed and mended my coat.'

  'But I didn't. Had you asked, I'd have been happy to do so. I may not aspire to the heights of making a tapestry but my father taught me a long time ago how to use a needle.'

  Daniel was puzzled. 'If it wasn't you,' he said, 'who was it?'

  'Well, it was certainly not Beatrix,' she replied. 'She lay snoring beside me all night. That leaves only one person.'

  'It has to be someone capable of moving silently in the dark.'

  'Kees can do that. He's the one you have to thank, Daniel.'

  Seeing his uncle walking towards him, Tom Hillier quailed. It was one thing to be ignored by Henry Welbeck but he sensed that it would be even worse to be berated by him. The sergeant was kno
wn for his ability to harangue recruits. Judging by his dour expression, he was about to turn his venom on his nephew. Hillier swallowed hard.

  'Good morning, Sergeant,' he said, meekly.

  'I need a word with you, lad.'

  'Have I done anything wrong?'

  'Yes,' said Welbeck, darkly. 'When you joined the army, you made the mistake of signing your life away to a lost cause. However, that's behind you. What you have to do now is to make the best of a bad situation.'

  'That's what I've tried to do, sir.'

  'So I hear. You've been fighting with one of the other lads.'

  Hillier flushed. 'Who told you that?'

  'I have my spies.'

  'It was only in fun, Sergeant. Hugh Dobbs and I are friends really. He's helped me a lot with my drumming and he seems to know everything that happens in this regiment. Hugh's been telling me about Captain Rawson.'

  'Don't believe all of it.'

  'He described how the captain took part in a Forlorn Hope.'

  'We're all involved in a Forlorn Hope,' moaned Welbeck. 'Army life is one long, pointless charge up a hillside with the enemy firing at will. It's not bravery, it's sheer bloody lunacy.'

  'Then why have you stayed in uniform so long?'

  'That's my business.'

  'Mother says that you…' His voice trailed off as he saw the menace in Welbeck's eye. 'I'm sorry, Sergeant. I won't mention the family again.'

  'This is your bleeding family now,' said Welbeck with a gesture that took in the whole camp. 'You're in a madhouse under canvas.'

  'I think that's being unfair.'

  'I've been here long enough to find out.'

  His nephew avoided argument. 'Then I'll accept your word, sir.'

  Welbeck stood back to weigh him up. His nephew's uniform was too tight but he looked smart and alert. Much of the early wonder had been sponged off his face by cold reality. Hillier was no longer in thrall to the idea of bearing arms. It was now a commitment he'd made rather than a patriotic duty that set his heart alight. There was something about him that Welbeck had never noticed before. He had a definite resemblance to his mother. The sergeant was looking at his sister's nose, chin and pale complexion. Hillier even had some of his mother's mannerisms. Welbeck had never been close to his sister but he felt an impulse of affection towards her now.

  'What was the name of that friend of yours?' he asked.

  'Hugh — Hugh Dobbs.'

  'Was he the one who hid your drum in a tree?'

  'You've been talking to Captain Rawson, haven't you?'

  'That's neither here nor there, lad. All I want to know is this. If Hugh Dobbs knows everything that happens in the 24 ^th Foot, has he ever mentioned the name of Major Cracknell to you?'

  Hillier pondered. 'No, I don't think so,' he said at length.

  'Be on guard against him,' warned Welbeck.

  'Why is that?'

  'It doesn't matter — just do as I tell you.'

  'I've never even heard of Major Cracknell.'

  'You will.'

  'What business could he have with me, Sergeant?'

  'You're my nephew.'

  'I thought you didn't have a nephew any more, sir.'

  Welbeck gave him a hard stare that slowly evanesced into a grudging smile. He stepped forward to pat Hillier on the shoulder.

  'I like what I've heard about you, Tom,' he said, briskly, 'but not everyone in this regiment will want to be your friend. I've told you a name to remember. It's Major Simon Cracknell. Watch out for him and don't tell anyone I gave you this warning.'

  In taking Daniel close to the Bastille, Ronan Flynn had unwittingly given him an idea relating to Emanuel Janssen. Flynn had delivered bread to a tavern nearby. It might well be the place where some of the turnkeys from the prison came to drink. If not, there was bound to be another tavern within walking distance of the edifice. After telling his friend that he was going away for a while, Daniel left the others in the care of the Flynn family and rode to the Marais, a quarter inhabited largely by people with money and position. In the boulevard close to the Rue Saint-Antoine, he located the tavern that Flynn had visited that morning. The one thing he did know about the Fleur de Lys was that it would serve excellent bread.

  Daniel took a room at the tavern and immediately changed out of his guise as a wine merchant. Putting on more workaday apparel and a large cap, he went out to study the Bastille in more detail and to walk along the bank of the Seine. To rescue the tapestry-maker from the prison was the major problem but a second one then had to be solved. Daniel would have to spirit four people out of the city. Since the police would certainly be searching for the Dutch contingent, it would be another test of his initiative. As he watched the boats and barges gliding serenely past on the glistening water, he wondered if the river might be the best route out of Paris.

  Returning to the tavern, he lay on his bed and spent hours considering the possibilities. Each one involved putting himself into jeopardy but Daniel was accustomed to doing that. His personal safety was never a concern. What he had to ensure was the security of other people. His orders had been to find and rescue Emanuel Janssen but it was Amalia who occupied his mind. He was aware of the intense stress under which she'd been and the indignities she'd suffered. The only way that Daniel could bring relief was to reunite her with her beloved father. His fondness for Amalia was an additional spur. He longed to take the nagging anxiety out of her life and help her to return home.

  When evening gently squeezed the last daylight out of the sky, Daniel returned to the Rue Saint Antoine and watched the Bastille from a distance. At a rough guess, he decided, the walls had to be around eighty feet high, ruling out any hope of climbing into the prison or of climbing out again. Emanuel Janssen was a middle-aged man who worked at a loom all day. He could hardly be expected to descend a very long rope in the darkness, especially as he might not be in the best of health as a result of his incarceration. The one conceivable exit was through the front doors. In order to bring him out of the Bastille, Daniel first had to get inside it himself.

  Assuming that the turnkeys worked in shifts, he was pleased to see that he was right. Various men trudged up to the entrance in twos and threes. Those whom they replaced on duty eventually started to come out. Many dispersed to go to their homes but, as Daniel had predicted, some preferred a drink after a long day in the macabre surroundings of the prison. Instead of going to the tavern where he was staying, however, they walked along the river until they reached a smaller and noisier establishment. Daniel followed a group of them into the tavern. When they sat around a table and drank heavily, he stayed within earshot. After a while, when the wine had helped them to relax somewhat, Daniel hobbled across to them as if he had an injured foot.

  'Did I hear someone mention the Bastille?' he said.

  'Yes,' answered a thickset man with warts all over his face. 'We're all prisoners there.' The others laughed. 'Who are you?'

  'I was a soldier until I got shot in the foot. I've had to look for something else to do. A friend suggested they always need turnkeys at the Bastille.'

  'That's right, my friend. The stench kills off three of us a week.' The others shook with mirth. 'What's your name?'

  'Marcel Daron.'

  'Where are you from?'

  'I was born here in Paris but joined the army when I was a lad.'

  'Oh?' said the man with the warts, indicating the one-eyed turnkey who sat beside him. 'Georges was a soldier until he lost his eye at Blenheim. What regiment were you in?'

  'I was a trooper in the Royal-Carabinier,' replied Daniel, thinking of his brief time in the courier's stolen uniform. 'I fought at Blenheim as well.'

  'Tell us about it,' goaded the one-eyed man.

  It was clear that they didn't trust him and that he would have to win their confidence. As they aimed questions at him, he was able to answer them all convincingly because he'd been at the heart of the battle. He reeled off the names of the French generals and talked about
their disposition on the battlefield. At the start, Georges, the former soldier, was the most suspicious but Daniel's detailed knowledge persuaded him that he had no cause to be wary.

  'He's telling the truth,' announced Georges.

  'Then he can pull up a seat and join us,' said the wart-faced man. When Daniel ordered a flagon of wine, he got a slap on the back. 'You can come here any time you wish, Marcel.'

  As the wine flowed, Daniel spent the first few minutes getting to know their names and finding out how long they'd worked at the prison. All of them grumbled about their work but none actually talked about giving it up.

  'Long hours and poor pay,' said Georges. "That's all we get at the Bastille. Then there's the stink, of course. The straw's never changed in some cells. I'd hate to be locked up in those shit- holes.'

  'What sort of prisoners are they?' asked Daniel.

  'There's only one kind, Marcel. Whatever they're like when they go in there, they soon end up the same. It doesn't matter what they did to get locked away. All we see is a lot of miserable, godforsaken wretches, crawling slowly towards death.'

  'Our work is boring,' said Philippe, the man with the warts. 'We lock them up, we feed them and, if they're very lucky, we take them out for exercise. Most of them never leave their cells. And if they try to complain, we have some fun knocking them about.'

  Georges smirked. 'That's what I enjoy,' he said. 'When one of them dared to throw food at me today, I beat him black and blue. That'll teach him.'