Drums of War (19 page)

'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 matter 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.'