Drums of War (30 page)

Are
you all right, Daniel?' cried Amalia.

'I'm
a little wetter than I intended to be.'

'You're
not hurt in any way?'

'No,'
he said, winding the harness up. 'If truth be told, it was rather bracing. When
I've dried off a little, I can address my mind to the thorny problem of how we
carry on without our coach.'

The
delay was deliberate. Hillier soon realised that. If he'd been punished on the
morning he'd been caught, he would now be nursing his wounds but at least the
worst would be over. By postponing the event until the following day, Major
Cracknell guaranteed a sleepless night for the drummer. The longer he waited,
the more fearful loomed his sentence. He could almost feel the skin being
stripped from his back.

There
had been some relief. Thanks to Sergeant Welbeck's intervention, he had now
been given a meal and allowed to visit the latrines. Even more encouraging was
the fact that his uncle had finally recognised his existence. In front of a
vindictive officer, the sergeant had defended his nephew. That meant a lot to
Hillier.

He
was a scapegoat, receiving the punishment that Dobbs and the others should be
sharing. Yet he refused to yield up their names. It was not simply out of fear
of repercussions. They were his friends. If one of them had been caught in his
place, Hillier felt certain that his own name wouldn't have been volunteered.
Those in the lower ranks looked after each other. When he thought of what lay
ahead for him, he shuddered. Flogging was a barbaric punishment and he'd seen
its effects. One of the other drummers, flogged for drunkenness, still had
livid marks across his back months after he'd received his lashes. Hillier had
seen them. He wondered how long he'd bear his own gruesome souvenirs.

The
most troubling aspect for him was not the physical agony but the sheer
humiliation. Hillier would be flogged in front of the whole regiment. Since it
was a first offence committed by a new recruit who'd obviously been misled,
some officers would have been inclined to leniency. Major Cracknell wasn't one
of them. He wanted Hillier to suffer and Sergeant Welbeck to suffer with him.
Under the guise of imposing discipline, the major was also able to work off his
grudge against Daniel Rawson, the sergeant's close friend. Cracknell would
doubtless go out of his way to inform his enemy of Hillier's fate when the
captain returned to his regiment.

He
was pacing the tent anxiously when he heard a low whistle. At first he had no
idea where it came from then he saw something protruding under the canvas at
the rear of the tent.

It
was a small bottle of brandy held by someone.

'Tom?'
whispered a voice. 'Are you there?'

Hillier
crouched down. 'Hugh - is that you?'

'Yes.
Take a swig of this. It might help.'

Taking
the bottle, he uncorked it and took a long sip. It burnt his throat and coursed
through his body but it gave him new strength to face his ordeal. He corked the
bottle and slipped it back into Dobbs' hand.

'Thank
you,' he said.

'Don't
thank me, Tom. It belongs to Sergeant Welbeck.'

Hillier
had another reason to be grateful to his uncle. The brandy was starting to take
full effect now. His head began to swim. Minutes later the guard came in. The
prisoner was taken under escort to a patch of land behind the camp where the
regiment was drawn up in a hollow square. It was a spectacle that the rank and
file hated but they were forced to watch. The flogging of one soldier was also
a dire warning to others. Writhing with shame, Hillier kept his eyes down. He
stopped beside a wooden triangle and was ordered to remove his coat and shirt.
When his wrists were tied to the triangle, he was quite defenceless. His naked
back looked pale and stringy.

Major
Cracknell issued the command for the punishment to begin. A burly drummer took
a cat-o'-nine-tails from out of a bag and had a couple of practice swings
through the air. Hillier tensed, hoping that the brandy would dull the pain in
some way. If nothing else, he'd discovered that his uncle could be considerate.
When the first stroke came, it made his whole body convulse, biting into his
flesh like so many vicious teeth. Hillier recovered quickly, promising himself
that, however searing the pain, he'd hold back any cries. Another set of hungry
teeth sank into his back to be followed by a third and a fourth. Eyes closed
and body already covered with blood, he tried to count the strokes but he
drifted off into unconsciousness long before the tally had been completed.

They
were no longer able to stay overnight at an inn. If, as Daniel suspected, the
search for them had spread outside the capital, it would be too dangerous to
stop. Roads were patrolled, bridges were guarded and sentries were on duty at
key points on the frontier. Evading them all was paramount. What slowed the
fugitives down was that they no longer had the coach at their disposal. Five of
them now shared four horses. Since he was the only person able to ride
bareback, Daniel sat astride the coach horse with much of their baggage.
Janssen reserved the right to carry the tapestry. He and Amalia retained a
horse each while Dopff led the third horse by its reins so that Beatrix could
sit on it. While progress was tardy, they were able to hide more swiftly
whenever someone approached.

It
was a fine night with stars twinkling in the sky like distant candles. Instead
of stumbling along in complete darkness, they had a modicum of light. As ever,
Daniel led the way, relying on an inner compass to take him in the right
direction. They stopped by a brook to refresh themselves. Janssen had grown weary.

'I
think we should snatch a few hours' sleep,' he said.

'We
must press on,' argued Daniel.

'But
we're all dog-tired.'

'It's
better to move at night than in the day when we're more likely to be seen.
We're being hunted like animals. Do you want to be caught and sent back to the
Bastille?'

'Perish
the thought!'

'I
don't think you'd be offered a comfortable cell next time.'

'I'm
certain of it,' agreed Janssen. 'I'm just worried about Amalia. She almost fell
off the horse at one point and Kees must be exhausted, going on foot all the
time.'

'It's
tiring for all of us, I know,' said Daniel, 'but we simply must persevere. It
would be folly to stop now.'

'What
happens when dawn breaks?'

'We'll
simply have to be more circumspect.'

'How
far away is the border?'

'I'm
not sure.'

'Have
you
any
idea where we actually are?'

Daniel
was honest. 'No, I'm afraid not.'

Growing
increasingly fatigued, they forced themselves to move on, keeping to a track that
took them on a winding route through open countryside. Whenever they reached a
village or a hamlet, they went around it. At one point, they went through a
stand of trees and heard rustling noises in the undergrowth. An owl hooted
above them and startled the horses. Nocturnal creatures were all round them.
Daniel was used to marching through the night and going without sleep. For the
others, however, it was a wholly new and debilitating experience. Every time he
glanced at them, Daniel could see them flagging badly.

They
were at the bottom of a hill when he caught sight of some riders silhouetted
against the sky as they came over the crest. Daniel waved to the others to pull
off the track. They dismounted and led their horses behind some bushes. Not
daring to move or speak, they crouched behind the foliage until they heard the
sound of hooves and the jingling of harness. The riders were getting ever
closer. Eyes now accustomed to the darkness, Daniel peered through a gap in the
bush and saw that there were six of them. Certain that they were soldiers on
patrol, he hoped that they would ride past and go on their way without being
aware of the presence of the fugitives. His fear was that one of their own
horses would whinny or shift its feet in the long grass and make a noise.
Daniel and the others were on tenterhooks. To have come so far and to be caught
when they were so close to safety would be devastating. They could look for no
mercy whatsoever.

Ironically,
it was Dopff who gave them away. The man with no voice had been sneezing and
coughing for the last couple of miles. Hand clapped over his mouth, he was
doubled up as he tried to suppress the urge to sneeze again. When the impulse
passed, he thought it was safe to remove the restraining palm. Before he could
stop it, he was overcome by a secondary urge and sneezed aloud. Dopff put both
hands penitently across his mouth but the damage had already been done. Hearing
the noise, the soldiers came around the angle of the bushes to see what had
caused it. Six loaded muskets were pointed at the cowering group. They'd been
caught. Daniel's heart was a drum. Amalia shivered, Janssen's legs threatened
to give way and Beatrix burst into tears. Dopff was reciting his prayers and
begging the Almighty for forgiveness.

'Who
are
you?' demanded one of the
soldiers.

It
was a miracle. The man had spoken in Dutch. Fearing that they'd been captured
by French soldiers, the fugitives had never considered the possibility that
they'd already crossed the border. Overwhelmed with relief, they started
laughing and hugging each other. Daniel held Amalia in a warm embrace.

'What's
the jest?' asked the soldier.

'We'll
be happy to explain it to you,' said Daniel, beaming. 'My name is Captain
Rawson, attached to the staff of His Grace, the Duke of Marlborough, and I
admit that I've been critical of the Dutch army in the past. Let me say before
witnesses that I've never been so grateful to see some members of it as I am at
this moment in time.'

The
meeting was held at the home of Johannes Mytens. The visitors arrived
punctually and were shown into the parlour. After greeting his friend, Willem
Ketel introduced him to Gaston Loti. The Frenchman was tall, lean and
well-dressed. His full-bottomed wig framed a face that was pitted with age but softened
by a ready smile. Loti was intelligent, watchful and devious. As a merchant,
Ketel had learnt to speak French fluently and Mytens had a sound knowledge of
the language. They were therefore able to converse in French. Loti began by
making some flattering remarks about The Hague, hinting that it would be a
tragedy if such a fine city were ever to be under direct attack. Mytens bridled
slightly.

'It
would be equally unfortunate if Paris were to be under siege,' he said.
"The destruction of the magnificent French capital would be a sad sight to
behold.'

'It's
one that will never be seen,' said Loti with easy confidence. 'No enemy would
ever get within striking distance of Paris.'

'Don't
be so complacent, Monsieur Loti.'

'It's
not complacency, sir, but common sense.'

'Even
the best armies can be beaten,' asserted Mytens, 'and yours has been humbled on
the battlefield more than once.'

'Gentlemen,'
said Ketel, diving in quickly before the argument became more heated. 'Paris
and The Hague are both wonderful cities. We are here to discuss how we can
ensure their mutual well-being in every conceivable way.'

'I
agree, Willem,' said Loti, 'and I apologise to my host if I appeared a trifle
arrogant. It's a fault of my nation, alas, and none of us is entirely free from
it.' His smile broadened. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

Mytens
nodded. 'I accept your apology,' he said, 'and tender my own in return. This is
an opportunity to bargain rather than bicker.'

'Bargain!'
echoed Ketel, sucking his teeth. 'That word is music in my ears. You two are
politicians and talk of compromise. I'm a merchant and therefore seasoned in
haggling.'

'There's
no need for haggling here, Willem,' said Loti. 'We have common needs and a
common aim. All we have to discuss is how best to achieve that aim.'

'Johannes
and I have already done that.'

'I
and my fellow-politicians have been debating the issue since this war first
started. It's not one that we sought, let's be clear about that. All that King
Louis did was to confirm the right of his grandson, the Due d'Anjou, to inherit
the Spanish throne.'

'It
was viewed elsewhere, not unreasonably, with great alarm,' said Mytens, jowls
wobbling. 'If France is allowed to annexe Spain, it would create an empire that
would hold us all in thrall. Does King Louis never tire of conquest?'

'It's
not his intention to conquer Spain,' replied Loti, calmly, 'but merely to
supervise the rightful succession. Your fears of a vast and aggressive French
empire are much exaggerated, Monsieur Mytens. What you seem to forget is that Louis
XIV is an old man. In a few years' time, he'll be seventy. At his age, he has
no appetite for a long and damaging war. He'd much rather live in peace and
enjoy the splendours of Versailles.'

'In
his position, I'd probably wish to do the same.'

'I'm
sure that we all would,' said Ketel, worried that his two friends were not
getting on as well as he'd imagined. 'What better life is there for a man than
to inhabit paradise and be able to select his mistresses from among the
greatest beauties of France?'