Drums of War cr-2

by Edward Marston

  'But I don't want it to,' protested Hillier. 'I don't need any help. I can fight my own battles.'

  'Not if you're up against a vicious tyrant like Major Cracknell. If he has his knife in you, Tom, he'll twist it until you beg for mercy. You need an officer on your side.'

  'Captain Rawson wouldn't bother about someone like me.'

  'He'd bother about anyone being unfairly treated,' said Dobbs. 'He's that sort of man. Speak to your uncle, that's all you have to do. Don't you want to have Captain Rawson defending you?'

  'He's not even here in camp, Hugh.'

  'He soon will be, I daresay. Captain Rawson never stays away for too long. He's probably on his way back this very minute.'

  Daniel arrived for his second night at the Bastille in a more sanguine frame of mind. He knew what would be expected of him and, though his duties were deeply unpleasant, they were not taxing. The burden on him had eased slightly. In moving Amalia and the others out of the house, he'd rid himself of some anxieties. He no longer had to worry about getting Flynn into serious trouble or of arousing Charlotte's suspicions to the point where she would feel endangered. Nor did he have to worry about his charges. Daniel had settled all three of them in a respectable tavern that ensured them a degree of comfort and privacy without leaving them feeling obligated to anyone. Amalia's safety was paramount to Daniel. He could now forget her for a while and concentrate on her father.

  Night duty began with another trudge through the cachots in the uninspiring company of Jules Rivot. If anything, the stench was stronger, the rats more abundant, the cries of the prisoners more pitiable and the mood of his fellow-turnkey even more morose. Rivot belonged underground. He was a human mole going endlessly back and forth along his runs with blind resignation. He was not a creature of daylight. The subterranean darkness suited him. It was Daniel who carried the lantern. Rivot could find his way around by instinct. He only spoke to give Daniel a curt command. As a source of information about the other parts of the prison, he was useless.

  When the gaolers broke off for refreshment, some of them slipped away to relieve themselves, either urinating in a corner or climbing up to one of the garderobes in the nearest tower. Daniel took the opportunity to visit the gatehouse. Crossing the courtyard in the eerie light from flaming torches, he knocked on the heavy oak door. After a few moments, it was opened by a portly man of middle years. From the way that the duty sergeant rubbed his piggy eyes, Daniel guessed that he'd been taking a nap. Rudely awakened, the man was brusque and unwelcoming.

  'Who are you?' he demanded.

  'Marcel Daron, sir,' replied Daniel.

  'What are you doing here?'

  'I have a favour to ask.'

  'You should be on duty.'

  'We're having a rest, sir. I'll go back down to the cachots in a matter of minutes. I simply wanted to find out if what Sergeant Bermutier said is true.'

  'Bermutier?' There was a note of respect in the man's voice.

  'He was kind enough to offer me work here, sir.'

  'So?'

  'I overheard him say that the Comte de Lerebour was being held in one of the towers.'

  'What's that to you, Daron?'

  'I served under him in the army, sir. He was a fine commander. If he's here, I'd like to visit him to pay my respects.'

  'Lerebour, Lerebour,' said the other. 'I don't recall the name but then we have so many prisoners here. In which tower is he held?'

  'Sergeant Bermutier didn't say, sir.'

  'Let me have a look.'

  Daniel was in luck. He'd invented the name of the Comte de Lerebour but coupled it with that of Bermutier. It was enough to get him through the door of the gatehouse. The sergeant opened his desk, took out the ledger and flipped through the pages by the light of a candle. Over his shoulder, Daniel saw all the names that had been crossed out with a date beside them. He was not sure if they'd been released, executed or simply allowed to rot away in their cells. At all events, the numbers had mounted up over the years. The sergeant eventually came to the lists of those currently held in the middle levels of the towers. Daniel peered intently as the sergeant's stubby finger went up and down the various names. In the end, he snapped the ledger shut and spun round.

  'He's not here,' he said.

  'Are you sure, Sergeant?'

  'You must be mistaken.'

  'I could've sworn that I heard the Comte de Lerebour's name,' said Daniel, scratching his head. 'Mind you, there were a lot of us milling around when Sergeant Bermutier spoke. With all that noise going on, I might have misheard him.'

  The sergeant was terse. 'Go back to your duties.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And don't bother me again.'

  'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir.'

  'Get out!'

  Pushing Daniel through the door, he shut it firmly in his face. As a result, the duty sergeant did not see Daniel's broad smile. The Comte de Lerebour was not detained in the Bastille but Emanuel Janssen certainly was. His name was on the list and Daniel now knew exactly where to find him. Though work in the cachots was dispiriting he was now able to rejoin Rivot with something akin to enthusiasm.

  The War of the Spanish Succession was not merely a conflict played out on a series of battlefields around Europe. During the months when bad weather and a lack of provisions curtailed any fighting, it continued by other means. Allies had to be courted, money had to be raised, soldiers had to be found and plans for campaigns in the following year had to be discussed and agreed upon. No commander on either side combined military prowess with diplomatic skills as effectively as the Duke of Marlborough. When he was not leading his men into battle, he was keeping in constant touch with his allies and soothing them with honeyed words. Adam Cardonnel never stopped admiring his political shrewdness.

  'You are Restraint personified,' he observed.

  "There are times when one must learn to subordinate one's personal feelings, Adam,' said Marlborough. 'In my dealings with the Dutch, alas, those occasions are all too frequent.'

  'I fear they are, Your Grace. After our untimely withdrawal from the River Yssche, you behaved impeccably. Any other commander-in-chief would have stormed off to The Hague to confront the whole States-General.'

  'What would that have achieved?'

  'You'd have had the satisfaction of speaking your mind.'

  'True,' said Marlborough, 'but I'd also have stirred up all those who oppose this war. They'd be glad of an excuse to turn on a tetchy commander-in-chief from England. There are too many of them who wish to open peace negotiations with France. That's why we can't afford to antagonise the Dutch. Policy must come before petulance.'

  'It's not petulance, Your Grace, but justifiable fury.'

  Marlborough smiled. 'Some of that fury was assuaged by the dismissal of General Slangenberg. I regard that as a small triumph.'

  The two men were travelling in a coach over a bumpy road. With their entourage, they were on their way to Dusseldorf, the city on the Rhine in which the Elector Palatine had chosen to reside in preference to the badly damaged Heidelberg. Marlborough was confident that he could persuade Johann Wilhelm II to provide an appreciable number of troops for the Italian campaign when it resumed in the following spring. He was also assured of a welcome that befitted the victor at the battle of Blenheim. Marlborough had another reason for looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with the Elector.

  'He's such a cultured man,' he recalled. 'His court has given work to many artists and musicians over the years.'

  'The same could be said of Louis XIV's court,' said Cardonnel drily. 'Versailles has an art collection second to none.'

  'I doubt if even King Louis has as many paintings by Rubens. The Elector seems to own a vast number of them. I envy him the time to look at them. Having an art gallery presupposes leisure.'

  'We shall enjoy it one day, Your Grace.'

  'Not if we continue to be baulked by the Dutch and hampered by some of our other allies. Then there is the small mat
ter of our own Parliament,' said Marlborough. 'Every letter I receive from Sidney Godolphin tells of growing disillusion with this war. The Tories seem never to have heard of what we did at Blenheim or, if they have, they choose to disregard it. Thank heaven we still have so many staunch friends back in England.'

  'None stauncher than Her Majesty, the Queen,' said Cardonnel.

  'My dear wife must take some credit there, Adam. Queen Anne and the Duchess are as close as sisters.'

  'I've known sisters who do nothing but squabble.'

  'Happily, that's not the case here.' Marlborough was jolted as the coach came to a sudden halt. 'What's going on?'

  'A courier,' said his secretary, looking through the window. 'He's riding hard. He must be bringing a billet-doux from Slangenberg.'

  Marlborough laughed and waited for the horseman to arrive. Even though he was in transit, he received a regular supply of dispatches and private correspondence. It kept him in touch with events elsewhere and alleviated the monotony of travel. When the courier pulled up outside the coach, Marlborough descended to take a pile of letters from him. After enquiring about the man's journey, he thanked him for the latest delivery then climbed back into the coach. He immediately began to sift through the missives. Spotting one that had been sent from Paris, he opened it first. His jaw tightened as he read the message. 'Is it bad news, Your Grace?' asked Cardonnel. 'Yes, Adam,' said Marlborough, passing the letter to him. 'One of our most reliable agents in Paris has been discovered and hanged. As for Emanuel Janssen, it appears that he's entombed in the Bastille.' 'The Bastille!'

  'Daniel Rawson has been sent on an impossible mission.' 'Quite so,' agreed the other. "The captain is doomed to fail. How could he even think of getting Janssen out of there?'

  Daniel moved quickly. Snatching only a couple of hours' sleep, he left the tavern and rode to Ronan Flynn's bakery. The Irishman was about to set off on his cart to deliver bread. He greeted his friend with a flour-covered grin.

  'You're just in time to help me deliver these, Dan,' he said. 'Very well but you must do something for me in return.' 'I always return a favour.' 'You've proved that, Ronan.'

  Tethering his horse to the back of the cart, Daniel sat beside Flynn so that they could talk as they rolled through the streets. Their conversation was interrupted by stoppages. Daniel helped to unload bread and hand it over to the various customers. Towards the end of the round, he had enough time to broach the subject that had taken him to the bakery in the first place. 'Do you know anyone with a boat?' he asked. 'To be sure I do,' replied Flynn, jovially. 'The French navy has hundreds of them. They've got boats, ships, yachts and anything that sails on water.'

  'That's not what I had in mind, Ronan.' 'I know. I was only pulling your leg.'

  'It was a serious question.'

  'Then I'll give you a serious answer. As it happens, I do know someone who plies his trade on the Seine. When I first got married to Charlotte, I paid him to row a couple of miles downstream.'

  'How big is the boat?'

  'It's big enough to take three or four passengers.'

  "Then it might be what we need.'

  'Are you thinking of leaving us then?'

  'I have to, Ronan.'

  'Well, don't tell me where you're going for I've a terrible loose tongue, so I have. I'd probably shout the news all over Paris.' He tugged on the reins to bring the horse to a halt then jumped off the cart to deliver an armful of bread. He soon leapt up beside Daniel again. 'When might you want this boat?'

  'I'm not certain — as early as tomorrow, perhaps.'

  'Then you'd better meet the fellow this morning. He's getting old but he knows the river and he'll do whatever you pay him to do.'

  'He'll be well rewarded.'

  'If there's a lot of money involved,' said Flynn, eagerly, 'then I'll row you myself.'

  'You have a wife and child to consider.'

  'Ah, I see. There could be hazards.'

  'How do I find this man?'

  'I'll take you to him when I've finished delivering bread.'

  'Thank you,' said Daniel. 'I'm very grateful. You've been a true friend, Ronan.'

  'Oh, I'm not doing it for your sake, Dan. It's for my own benefit. I want my wife to stop asking what you're all doing here and whether or not you'll bring the police down on us. I'll be glad to wave you off,' he teased. 'As long as you leave Amalia behind,' he added, wickedly. 'She can work beside me at the bakery. I'll teach the little darling how to make bread — among other things, that is.'

  While she was pleased to leave the Flynn house, Amalia was not entirely happy in the tavern that Daniel had found for them. It guaranteed their anonymity but they were no longer enjoying the hospitality of friends. Kees Dopff was patient and undemanding, quite content to spend the day guarding the tapestry or taking a walk near the river. Beatrix, however, was less able to cope with the waiting.

  'The police are still looking for us, aren't they?' she asked.

  'I expect that they are,' said Amalia.

  'They're bound to find us one day and then what will happen?'

  'Try not to think about that.'

  'I can't help thinking about it, Miss Amalia.'

  'Captain Rawson has a plan.'

  'How can he get all of us out of Paris?'

  'I don't know, Beatrix, but I believe that he can.'

  'Why does he keep leaving us alone like this?'

  'I'm sure there's a good reason,' said Amalia. 'All that we can do is to watch and pray.'

  'Oh, I've been praying every hour of the day,' confessed the servant. 'I've been praying that we all get safely back to Amsterdam but that's like asking for a miracle.'

  They were still at the tavern. Though Amalia tried valiantly to still Beatrix's doubts, she still had several of her own but she didn't voice them in case she turned the servant's fears into complete panic. When Daniel finally called on them that afternoon,

  Amalia wanted to fling herself into his arms in gratitude but Beatrix's presence deterred her. Sensing the taut atmosphere, Daniel managed to reassure the older woman a little before asking her to leave them alone so that they could have a private conversation. As soon as the door closed behind the servant, Amalia gave vent to her feelings, taking Daniel by both hands and imploring him to tell her where he'd been.

  'I've been searching for a boat,' he explained.

  She was perplexed. 'A boat?'

  'I want you to leave the city by river.'

  'What about Father?'

  'God willing, he may be able to quit Paris at the same time.'

  'How will you get him out of the Bastille?'

  'I think I may have found a way,' said Daniel. 'First, however, I need you to describe him to me.'

  'Why do you want me to do that, Daniel?'

  'I need to know how old he is, how tall, how fat or how thin. Tell me everything, Amalia. I have to be able to recognise him at a glance.'

  'There's a chance that you'll see him, then?' she said, excitedly.

  'I hope so. Your father's being held in one of the towers at the Bastille. Prisoners get far better treatment there. It's likely that he's still in good health.'

  'Thank goodness!' she exclaimed.

  'Tell me what he looks like.'

  Amalia gave a detailed description of her father and there was a mingled respect and affection in her voice. Since her mother's early death, she'd been brought up almost exclusively by Emanuel Janssen and the bond between them was very strong. Daniel was interested to hear that the tapestry-maker was stout, bearded, in his fifties and of medium height. The plan forming in his mind took on more definition.

  'Do you have any idea when we might leave?' she asked.

  'It could be as soon as tomorrow or as late as next week.'

  Her face crumpled. 'Next week?

  'I have to seize the moment when it comes, Amalia,' he said. 'It will depend on a number of things over which I have no control.'

  'The longer we stay, the more worried everyone
becomes.'

  'I could see that Beatrix is suffering badly.'

  'Unless we leave soon, Daniel, she'll vex herself to death.'

  'I said this to you when we first met and I must say it again. You must all be ready to leave at a moment's notice. In your case, Amalia,' he said, feasting his eyes on her face, 'you must disguise yourself in some way.'

  'Why must I do that?'

  'Everyone guarding the exits to the city will have been furnished with a description of a beautiful young lady with fair hair and blue eyes. If you're seen looking like that,' he went on, 'you'll be recognised at once. There'll be guards on the river as well as at the gates.'

  'What about my passport, Daniel? It bears my name.'

  'His Grace thought about that in advance. The Duke of Marlborough always looks ahead for possible difficulties. It's the secret behind all our victories in the field. I not only travelled with a forged passport for myself — as Marcel Daron — but I've brought papers for you and the others.'

  'Does that include Father?'

  Daniel grinned. 'We can hardly leave him behind.'

  'Oh, you've done so much for us, Daniel,' she said, taking him by the arms. 'I can't believe that anyone else would have gone to such lengths to help us.'

  '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.