Drums of War (21 page)

'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 staircase, 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?'

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 hound, 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.

As
he sat on the chair in his cell and pretended to read one of the books he was
allowed to have, Janssen brooded on the strange event in the night. One way to
verify that it had occurred was to read the letter again but he had already
obeyed the sender's order to destroy it. After reading it several times and
savouring each line, the pattern-maker had swallowed the missive. Nobody else
would ever see it now. Had it been a dream? Was he being taunted by the men who
kept him there? Or, worst of all, was his mind finally crumbling in the
sustained horror of confinement, leaving him prone to wild fantasies? Janssen
was confused.

What
helped him to cling tightly to hope was the character of the man who'd visited
him. He'd been friendly, sincere and spoke in Dutch. His letter had reinforced
the impression of someone who could be trusted. Any attempt at escape would
involve great danger and considerable daring yet Janssen was not frightened at
the prospect. During his fleeting appearance, the nocturnal stranger had
imparted confidence. It gave the Dutchman an inner strength. There was no
chance of his having weird dreams in the coming night. Responding to the advice
in the letter, he'd remain wide awake.