Drums of War (15 page)

'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 known 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.'

They
were an uncouth bunch and, in the normal course of events, nothing would have
induced Daniel to befriend them. Since he wanted to penetrate the Bastille,
however, he would have to do so as part of its large staff. The men laughed,
sang, joked and boasted about the way they mistreated the prisoners. At the end
of the evening, Philippe wrapped an arm around Daniel's shoulders and grinned
at him.

'Do
you still want to be a turnkey, Marcel?' he asked.

'Yes,'
said Daniel. 'I guarded prisoners in the army. I liked it.'

'Meet
me outside the main gate at noon tomorrow. I'll take you along to meet someone.
I can't promise anything, mind you,' he added, drunkenly, 'but I'll put in a
good word for you.'