Drums of War

Chapter Eleven

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.

Amalia Janssen had also done Daniel's bidding. In an effort to change her appearance, she'd darkened her hair with dye, taken the colour out of her cheeks with a white powder and put on some old clothing. She'd even bought a pair of spectacles to complete her disguise. What she could never do completely was to hide the beauty of her features and Daniel relished the opportunity to look at them again. Amalia was eager for his approval.

'Do I look different?' she asked.

'Yes, Amalia,' he said with a fond smile. 'You're different and yet essentially the same.'

'Will it help?'

'I'm sure that it will.'

He met all three of them at the tavern where they were staying and spent the first few minutes trying to calm Beatrix's frayed nerves. She could not understand why it was taking so long to put his plan into operation. Dopff, too, was plainly unsettled but his faith in Daniel remained steadfast. He considered the soldier to be their saviour. Without Daniel's intervention, they would still be living in fear in the same house, watched over night and day. They now had a degree of freedom and a promise of escape from the city. Most important of all was the hope that they'd be joined in their flight by his master. How that feat could be achieved, he didn't know but he was won over by Daniel's iron resolve. Beatrix didn't share Dopff's belief in their ultimate success but, after listening to Daniel, she at least began to fret in silence instead of expressing her anxiety aloud.

Wanting to speak alone with her, Daniel took Amalia for a walk. He was delighted when she took his arm so that they could stroll as if husband and wife. Pedestrians and carriages went up and down the boulevard but nobody accorded them more than a cursory glance. They fitted comfortably into the scene. When they reached the river, they went along the bank together until they got within sight of the wharf where Cornudet's boat was usually to be found. In fact, the skiff was now out on the water as the old man rowed some passengers upstream. Daniel indicated the wharf and told Amalia what he had in mind. She was thrown into a mild panic.

'I can't leave without Father,' she protested.

'He'll be with me, Amalia.'

'Why can't we be together?'

'It's safer if you go separately,' Daniel explained. 'The police are still hunting for you, Kees and Beatrix. Your descriptions will have been passed to everyone on guard at one of the exits. If all three of you try to leave together, you might be stopped. Even that disguise of yours may not save you.'

'Let me go in the boat with Father,' she urged.

'No, Amalia. He must come with me. If and when I do manage to get him out of the Bastille, it will only be a matter of time before his escape is discovered. A hue and cry will be set up. The city gates will be closed. We have to be through them before that happens. If your father leaves by boat,' Daniel pointed out, 'then you can easily be overhauled by a faster vessel because a search will certainly be made of the river. There's something else,' he added. 'When you're reunited after all this time, you'll simply want to hug each other. Anyone will see at once that you're father and daughter. Nothing can hide that fact, Amalia.'

'What about Beatrix?'

'She'll come with me.'

'Does that mean I'll be alone in the boat with Kees?'

'It's the best way to escape detection. The two of you will look like close friends, enjoying a trip on the river. You're far less likely to attract attention that way.'

'I suppose that's true,' she said, reluctantly accepting his logic. 'But I'd still rather be with Father.' She squeezed his arm on impulse. 'And I'd much prefer to be with you, Daniel.'

'Thank you, Amalia.'

'Instead of that, our servant will have the privilege.'

'Beatrix is our weak spot,' said Daniel, 'and the one person who could ruin everything. Were she in the boat when you were questioned by the river guards, her nerve might fail her. All three of you would be captured then.'

'If she travels in the coach,' Amalia argued, 'she could endanger Father for the same reason.'

'I don't think that will happen.'

'It could do, Daniel.'

'It's imperative that Beatrix leaves the city in the coach. I need both her and her luggage with me.' He rubbed her arm gently and ventured a kiss on her forehead. 'In due course, you'll realise why.'

In his fine house in Amsterdam, Emanuel Janssen had glass in his windows and a fire in every room to take off the autumnal chill. There were no such refinements at the Bastille. The wind howled all evening and blew the rain into his cell through the slits carved in the thick stone walls. He did, however, have other concessions. He had a comfortable mattress on which to sleep, a small table and a chair, some books and a wooden bucket in which he could relieve himself. From time to time, the bucket was emptied, a luxury that was denied those below ground or those in open cages under the roof. In a storm like the one now pelting the Bastille, prisoners in the calottes would be whipped by the wind and soaked to the skin. As his gaolers kept telling him, Janssen was comparatively lucky.

It was only since his nameless visitor had appeared during the previous night that the Dutchman dared to believe in luck. Until then, he had rued his ill fortune. With frightening speed, he'd gone from talking with the French king at Versailles to inhabiting a lonely cell in a prison. Instead of being treated with exaggerated respect, he was met by sneers and jeers. Instead of sharing a home with his beloved daughter, he was cut off from all contact with her. Speculating on what might have happened to her had caused him intense grief. For the first time, he'd now heard word of her.

The gaoler on duty that evening was a stocky man with bandy legs and a malicious sense of humour. To make the prisoner suffer, he taunted him with the prospect of execution, going into gory details about what would be done to him. He'd also told Janssen that his daughter had been arrested, deflowered and put to work in a brothel. Other falsehoods were used to torture the Dutchman.

'Do you see how lucky you are?' said the turnkey, waddling over to the bars. 'Listen to that rain outside. You're snug and warm and in the best possible place. You should be thankful for that.'

'I'd be more thankful if you'd empty my bucket,' said Janssen.

'Ask someone else.'

'It's almost overflowing.'

'Then you shouldn't shit so much,' said the man with a harsh guffaw. 'Or maybe we shouldn't give you so much food.'

Janssen said nothing. He knew enough French to issue a sharp retort but it would only be to his detriment. When he'd made even the slightest complaint in the past, he'd been denied the next meal or threatened with violence. To a man as fastidious as him, living in such dreadful conditions was a daily trial. Yet he'd learnt to hold his tongue for fear of reprisals. The men outside the cell held more than a set of keys. They controlled him completely. To upset them was to increase the severity of his deprivation. The sensible course of action was to be obedient and undemanding. Whatever the provocation, Janssen had to rein in his temper.

'Oh,' said the man, goading him, 'I've got some more news about that daughter of yours. Sergeant Bermutier has met her.'

'Has he?'

'Yes, I spoke to him when he was going off duty this evening. He told me he'd spent a whole night fucking her in every way known to man and woman. I thought you'd like to know that.'

'Thank you,' said Janssen, turning away in disgust.

'I know you think the French are all monsters but we have very soft hearts really. That's why we're going to let your daughter watch when you're executed next week.'

His grating laughter reverberated around the tower.

Rain made the decision for him. It lashed down so hard that Daniel had to seize the advantages it gave him. Scouring the streets, it kept people in their homes or shepherded them into taverns and other places where they could escape the downpour.

It made visibility much more difficult. Though he was only yards away from some of the other turnkeys who scurried towards the Bastille, he recognised none of the faces through the deluge. Everyone was keeping his head down. By the time he went into the prison, Daniel was drenched. His shoes splashed through the puddles that had formed in the undulations and water dripped off his cap on to his face. Having their own problems with the storm, the others ignored him.

From the shelter of the gatehouse, the duty sergeant checked the names of incoming gaolers, barking them out above the noise of the wind and the relentless patter of the rain. For once in his career as a turnkey, Daniel was glad to plunge into the dark safety of the cachots. Water was seeping in there from a broken drain but at least he was out of the storm. Some of the others took off their uniforms to wring them out or removed their sodden shoes to dry them before a brazier. Daniel was forced to keep his coat on. Hidden beneath it was the loaded pistol he'd acquired on his journey to Paris. A dagger was concealed in his breeches as were some short lengths of rope.

Everyone else was complaining about the rain but Daniel was hoping that the storm would last. It was an ideal accomplice.

Janssen, by contrast, was cursing the storm. He'd got used to the rain that was blown in on him. What troubled him was the swirling wind that invaded his cell, blowing out his candle time and again. Eventually, he gave up even trying to read and adjourned to his bed. Light from a lantern illumined the area outside, enabling him to watch every move made by his turnkey. In addition to Janssen, the man looked after other prisoners in the tower and he moved slowly between them, feeding them, giving them fresh water and making sure that everything was as it should be in their respective cells. Two of his charges were French aristocrats and they merited politeness from him. All that the Dutchman received was derision. When the turnkey had finished ministering to the prisoners, he drank from a flagon of beer before settling down on the long bench. As was customary, he was soon fast asleep.

The prisoner watched, waited and prayed. Hour followed tedious hour and nothing happened. The storm raged on outside. The turnkey began to snore and occasionally broke wind in his sleep. Janssen grew more and more weary. When another hour crept slowly by, his eyelids began to droop and he had to stifle a yawn. The man was not coming. It was the only conclusion to draw. Janssen had either had his hopes deliberately raised so that they could be dashed again or his earlier visitor had been unable to reach him again. All that he could do was to give up the struggle and surrender to sleep. Within minutes of closing his eyes, he was slumbering peacefully.

What brought him awake was a sharp nudge in the ribs. He tried to protest but there was a hand cupped over his mouth. When he squinted in the dawn light, he saw that there were two people in his cell. One of them lay full-length on the floor. The other one removed his hand from the prisoner's mouth.

'We have to be quick,' he said. 'Help me to take off his uniform so that you can put it on.'

Recognising the voice, Janssen did as he was told, buoyed up by the fact that his mysterious friend had somehow overpowered the turnkey, unlocked the cell and dragged the unconscious man into it. Between them, they stripped the turnkey. While Janssen clambered into the uniform, his rescuer tied the man up then lifted him on to the mattress. The last thing he did was to put a gag in place.

'We don't want him to call for help, do we?' he said.

'What's your name?' asked Janssen.

'Marcel Daron.'

'Why are you doing this?'

'Let's save explanations for later.'

He pulled the sheet over the turnkey so that it looked as if the prisoner was still asleep. Then he led Janssen out of the cell and locked it behind them, hanging the keys on a hook on the wall. Giving Janssen his cap, he told him to keep his head down. They descended the stairs at speed and stepped out into the courtyard that was still being swept by rain. The turnkeys who'd arrived to replace them did not even look up to see their face. They were too intent on reaching the shelter of the tower. Doing as he was told, Janssen stayed close to his rescuer and joined the men gathered at the gate. There was safety in the crowd. Nobody spoke to them. When the massive door swung open, they went out as part of a sodden exodus.

Janssen was overcome with gratitude but he dare not speak until the crowd began to disperse. Having been penned up in a cell for so long, he didn't mind the wind or the rain. The relief of getting out of the Bastille at last made him impervious to the elements. Only when the two of them were alone did he break the silence.

'What did you say your name was?' he said.

'Rawson,' replied the other. 'Captain Daniel Rawson.'

The rain was easing when they arrived at the wharf but that did nothing to lessen the intensity of Cornudet's grumbling. He had simply not expected them in such weather. Since the storm had been so fierce, he'd hauled his skiff out of the river and turned it over so that it would not get waterlogged. As he and Daniel lowered it back on to the Seine, the boatman was aggrieved.

'Why couldn't you pick a day when the sun was shining?'

'We have no choice, Monsieur,' said Daniel.

'I ought to be in bed, resting my old bones. My wife thinks I'm a fool to go on the river today?'

'Did you tell her how much you'll earn?'

'That's beside the point, Monsieur,' said Cornudet.

'Is it? I've only paid you half the fare. When you drop the passengers off, you'll get the remainder.'

'Where am I supposed to be taking them?'

'It's the best part of two miles downstream,' said Daniel. 'You'll know the place because I'll wave to you from the bank. We'll get there some time ahead of you.'

'I thought you'd be coming in the boat.'

'I've lightened your load for you.'

'Why did you do that?'

'I think they deserve to be alone,' said Daniel, indicating Amalia and Dopff, who stood side by side and gazed at each other as they'd been instructed to do. 'You may as well know the truth, Monsieur Cornudet. They're young lovers, running away to get married in Mantes. Take pity on them.'

The boatman's tone changed. 'Oh,' he said, amused, 'I am to help a romance to flower, am I? Why didn't you say so? That makes all the difference, Monsieur Daron. I'm not so old that I can't remember what it's like to be young and in love. You leave them to me,' he went on. 'I'll look after them.'

'Thank you,' said Daniel. 'I knew that you would.'

Now that the boat was bobbing on the water, the passengers could climb aboard. Dopff went first, carrying a bag but without the tapestry this time. Amalia paused at the top of the stone stairs for a whispered farewell to Daniel.

'When can I see him?' she begged.

'When we are well clear of the city,' he told her.

'I can't wait!'

'Forget about him for the moment. Remember that you're eloping with the man you love. Fasten all your attention on him.'

'Kees is more embarrassed than I am.'

'It's only for a short while.'

Amalia was concerned. 'What if you don't get out of the city?'

'Then you have no alternative,' said Daniel, kissing his fingers before touching her lips with them. 'You'll have to marry Kees then.'

The coach was a fairly ramshackle affair. It was no more than a wooden box on a cart but it served their purpose. Rolling over the cobblestones, it gave its occupants an uncomfortable ride. They were happy to endure it. Emanuel Janssen was overjoyed that he was travelling with his latest tapestry, neatly folded up at his feet. Seated beside him was Beatrix, ordinarily his servant but elevated to a new station on this occasion. Janssen did not object. After repeated humiliation in the Bastille, he was not one to stand on his dignity. He willingly acquiesced in everything that was asked of him. Beatrix had been less ready to comply but the promise of escape was enough to persuade her. They were finally leaving a place she'd come to hate and fear in equal proportions.

The rain was still persistent enough to make the guards huddle against the walls at the city gate. Only one of them stepped forward to challenge the coach driver. Daniel's hat was pulled down over his forehead so that nobody would identify him as the man who'd ridden out of Paris the previous day. To complete the disguise, he'd even changed his name. Instead of masquerading as Marcel Daron, he handed over the papers he'd taken from Jacques Serval after their fight. Satisfied that the driver was a French citizen, the guard thrust the document back at him.

'What about your passengers?' he said.

'Don't disturb them, Monsieur,' warned Daniel. 'They're fast asleep. I'm taking them to Mantes for a wedding.' He pulled some more papers from inside his coat and gave them to the guard. 'Neither of them is getting married, as you'll see.'

Shielding the papers from the rain with one hand, the guard read the names. One was the genuine passport that had allowed Beatrix Udderzook, a Dutch servant, into the city. The other was a clever forgery and would have got her out again as Emma Lantin, a Frenchwoman. In fact, it was being used to get Janssen out of Paris instead. The guard took a long time inspecting the papers and Daniel began to fear that Beatrix's name would arouse suspicion. After their flight from the house, the name of Amalia Janssen would certainly have been given to the guards at every exit. Daniel had hoped that the servant's name would not be known.

The man looked in the back of the coach and saw two stout women, leaning against each other and apparently asleep. Janssen was wearing a dress borrowed from his servant. The hood of his cape obscured his head and face. At Daniel's suggestion, he'd readily shaved off his beard.

The guard sniggered and handed the papers back to Daniel.

'You're right, my friend,' he said. 'They're an ugly pair.'

The turnkey who'd been knocked out by the butt of a pistol took a long time to recover consciousness. When he did so, he found himself bound hand and foot. A gag prevented him from doing anything but make a muffled noise. Realising that he was under a sheet, he began to thresh around until he rolled off the mattress and on to the floor. As the sheet was peeled away, he lay there half-naked, twitching violently like a large fish hauled on to the deck of a ship. The guard who'd been resting on the bench leapt up in alarm at the sight.

'Where's Janssen?' he demanded.

News of the escape spread around the prison like wildfire, causing anger and amazement. Emanuel Janssen was being held at the Bastille at the express command of King Louis. Nobody looked forward to conveying news of the escape at Versailles. There would be dire repercussions. The fugitive had to be recaptured as soon as possible. When the police were informed, riders were dispatched to every exit of the city with orders that nobody was to leave unless they were wholly above suspicion. Guards on duty were questioned about those whom they'd already allowed out that morning. Information was gathered from all sources and taken back at a gallop to the Lieutenant-General of Police. He scrutinised it for a long time before he pronounced his verdict.

'Janssen is still in the city,' he declared. 'Find him!'

Five miles away, dressed in a more manly fashion now, the tapestry-maker sat in the coach with an arm around his daughter. Beatrix was opposite them while Dopff was perched beside the driver. Since there were five of them, Daniel did not push the horse too fast. Nursing him along, he left the main road and plunged off into some woods where they could rest and eat some of the food stored in the coach. The rain had now stopped and the sun was peeping through the clouds. It was a portent of something but Daniel had no idea what it might be.