Fire and Sword

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

There was a pervasive gloom in the house in Amsterdam. It was almost as if the occupants were in mourning. The longer they waited for news about Amalia Janssen, the more depressed they became. Her father did his best to keep up the spirits of the others but even he was starting to lose hope. Unable to work, he instead watched Kees Dopff, his chief assistant, a short, skinny man in his late twenties who’d once been Emanuel Janssen’s most gifted apprentice. Dopff was a tireless worker, quick to learn, meticulous in all he did and devoted to his master. Conversations between them were largely one-sided because the little weaver had been mute from birth. Since he could use no words, Dopff had to communicate by means of his mobile features and gesticulating hands.

During a break from the loom, he turned to Janssen and offered him a quizzical smile. The old man shook his head.

‘There’s no news as yet, Kees,’ he said, regretfully. ‘I’ve been left in such a daze that I’ve lost count of the number of days that Amalia has been missing now.’ Dopff held up fingers on both hands. ‘Has it really been that short a time? It seems like months. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since Amalia was taken. I’m so grateful to have you to continue work on the tapestry because I’m far too tired and preoccupied to concentrate. However,’ he went on, straightening his shoulders, ‘we mustn’t despair. That’s what the Duke of Marlborough said. In his letter, he advised us to bear up and not succumb to fearful thoughts. He also promised to take every step possible to find out where Amalia is and seek to rescue her.’ Dopff nodded eagerly. ‘The trouble is that she could be hundreds of miles from here. Then again,’ he added, ‘she might still be here in Amsterdam. It’s conceivable that someone might be playing a cruel joke on us.’

Dopff stood up and used both hands to convey what he was thinking, tracing elaborate patterns in the air and reinforcing them with a range of facial expressions. Janssen was able to translate.

‘I agree with you, Kees,’ he said. ‘This whole distressing business is probably linked to the fact that we escaped from Paris. Well, you were there. You saw how desperate they were to recapture us.’ Dopff’s head bobbed again. ‘You had the better of it, I fancy,’ he went on, trying to lighten his misery with a touch of humour. ‘You and Amalia got away by boat. I had to be smuggled out of the city, dressed as a woman. I don’t think that Beatrix has ever forgiven me for wearing some of her clothes.’

The two men laughed at the memory. Janssen then left the workshop and went into the house, walking through to the voorhuis so that he could be close to the front door in case any mail was delivered. Beatrix was already there, pretending to dust the furniture while she hovered. She gave Janssen a dutiful smile.

‘Kees and I were just recalling our escape from Paris,’ he said.

‘I’d hate to go through that again.’

‘We all would, Beatrix. It was frightening.’

‘I think it took years off my life,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever feel the same again. Yet in some ways, this is even worse. When we had problems in France, we could do something about them. That’s not the case now.’

‘No, it isn’t. We simply don’t know where Amalia is or how we might go to her aid. Being kept in the dark like this is maddening.’

‘We should have heard something by now.’

‘I agree.’

‘The house is not the same without Miss Amalia.’

‘It feels so empty.’

‘Are they still searching the city?’

‘They’ve given up, alas,’ said Janssen, failing to keep a forlorn note out of his voice. ‘They found nothing.’

In the wake of his daughter’s abduction, he’d raised the alarm and a search had been set in motion by the authorities. A handful of witnesses had come forward but none of them had seen the actual kidnap. All that they remembered was a coach hurtling away from the place where Amalia had been seized. Janssen was a man of influence in Amsterdam so no effort was spared and the search was extended well beyond the bounds of the city. After days of disappointment, it was finally abandoned. The conclusion was that she was not there.

Beatrix had spent all her time brooding on the kidnap.

‘I don’t think Miss Amalia is still in Amsterdam,’ she said. ‘I’d know it if she was still close. Someone has taken her far away.’

‘Whoever he is, I do hope that he’s been treating her well.’

‘She’s very brave, Master Janssen. I saw that when we lived in Paris and you disappeared. Miss Amalia was a tower of strength for Kees and for me. She doesn’t deserve this to happen to her.’

‘I know, Beatrix,’ he said. ‘I keep repeating it to myself.’

‘I swear I’ll take more care of her next time,’ she said with passion. ‘If — God willing — there is a next time.’

‘I’m certain that there will be.’

His voice was firm but his mind troubled. He was trying to reassure himself as much as his servant. The disappearance of his beloved daughter had induced a kind of paralysis in him. He couldn’t work, relax, think, act or enjoy his food. He drifted aimlessly through each day in a kind of all-enveloping mist. It was unsettling.

‘This is no way for us to behave,’ he said, attempting to shake himself out of his lethargy. ‘We both have better things to do than to lurk out here, Beatrix. I suggest that we get on with them.’

‘Very well,’ she said, reluctantly.

After a glance through the window at the empty street, she retreated into the parlour. Summoning up his willpower, Janssen returned to the workshop and clapped his hands.

‘It’s time I did some work in here,’ he announced. ‘I’ve been resting far too long. I need something to engross me, Kees.’

His assistant gave him an understanding nod but that was all that he had time to do. Shortly after Janssen came in, the doorbell rang and he immediately turned tail and headed back to the voorhuis. Beatrix won the race to the door, flinging it open and snatching the letter from the hand of the messenger. She thrust it breathlessly at Janssen and watched him tear it open. As he read it, his face was ignited by joy.

‘Amalia is safe!’ he cried. ‘She’s with the British army. And look,’ he added, waving the enclosed note, ‘here’s a message in her own hand. She’s unharmed and in good health. Captain Rawson rescued her.’

Janssen was not simply talking to Beatrix and to the messenger who stood at the open door. His loud cry had brought Dopff and the other servants running. They gathered around him with mounting excitement as he read out what Amalia had actually written. It was wonderful news. They were so overcome by a collective relief and elation that they hugged each other for several minutes. The long and agonising wait was finally over.

Lieutenant Ainley was delighted to be given the privilege of escorting the two ladies around the camp. Neither Amalia Janssen nor Sophie Prunier wanted to be cooped up in a tent all day and so they readily accepted the invitation to combine a tour of inspection with a walk in the fresh air. The only thing that dampened Amalia’s enjoyment was the fact that Daniel was not escorting her. To stroll through the camp on his arm in such fine weather would have been a treat for her.

She’d met Jonathan Ainley more than once and liked his courteous manner and the way that he cheerfully venerated Daniel Rawson. What she didn’t know was that he had a good command of French and so was able to converse freely with Sophie. As the three of them walked between the avenues of tents, the women gathered many approving stares and admiring comments. Sophie didn’t need an interpreter. The looks on the men’s faces were self-explanatory. Civil and attentive, the lieutenant pointed out various aspects of the camp and talked about battles in which the army had been involved. Out of deference to Sophie’s presence, he chose not to dwell on the casualties suffered by the French and their allies.

Amalia sensed that he was developing more than a passing interest in their companion. Even in borrowed attire, Sophie was a striking young woman. Most of what Ainley said was directed at her and she, in turn, asked most of the questions. It almost reached a point where Amalia began to feel that she was in the way.

‘When will you return to Mons?’ asked Ainley.

‘I have to wait until my parents come home from Paris,’ said Sophie, ‘so I may be here for a few days yet.’

‘I won’t complain about that, mademoiselle.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

Amalia watched as she acknowledged the compliment with an engaging smile. She’d never seen Sophie’s smile before and realised how it released the full beauty of her face. Ainley was captivated. For the first time since their escape, Sophie was relaxed and able to enjoy something. Amalia was glad that the horrid memories of the woman’s ordeal had been put briefly behind her and that she could be in an army camp without feeling endangered.

‘And what do you do, Lieutenant?’ wondered Sophie.

‘I simply obey orders,’ he replied.

‘You have to give them as well, don’t you?’

‘It’s more a question of passing them on. The structure of command in an army is crucial. I occupy a particular place in it with very particular duties.’

‘How long have you served under His Grace?’ asked Amalia, determined not to be left out altogether.

‘Ever since this war started,’ he said. ‘Captain Rawson and I have served side by side — though he hadn’t attained a captaincy when we first met.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard the story of his career.’

‘It bears retelling time and again, Miss Janssen.’ He switched from English back to French. ‘You must be an admirer of Captain Rawson as well, I daresay.’

‘He rescued me,’ said Sophie. ‘I can never thank him enough. I was beginning to fear that I’d never get away from that camp.’

He was amused. ‘When you did so, however,’ he noted, ‘you ended up in another army camp. It was a case of jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.’

‘Oh, no, I think that I am very safe here.’

‘And why do you feel that?’

‘To begin with, it has gentleman like you in it, Lieutenant.’

Ainley was not sure how to cope with the flattering remark so he turned away. Amalia wasn’t watching him. Her eyes were on the smile that Sophie had given him. It was almost coquettish and it worried her. The Frenchwoman was behaving oddly and Amalia didn’t know why. Once again, she felt that she was intruding.

‘Well,’ said Ainley, facing them again, ‘you’ve seen almost everything there is to see.’

‘We haven’t seen the big guns yet,’ said Sophie.

‘I didn’t think that cannon would hold any appeal for you. Artillery is not something that usually interests ladies.’

‘I’m very interested,’ said Sophie. ‘What about you, Amalia?’

‘Yes, I’m happy to view the cannon,’ replied Amalia.

‘In that case,’ said Ainley, obligingly, ‘follow me.’

It took hours. Distraught at the loss of his sword, Daniel began the search by going from wagon to wagon and asking if anyone had the weapon. From the shifty looks he collected from certain people, he could see that they’d been involved in looting his supplies but none of them had even seen the missing sword. When he offered to pay handsomely for its return, he still had no response and had to accept that he’d not find the weapon among the camp followers. The one person he didn’t question was the blacksmith’s wife, Josette. Had she possessed the sword, he was certain that she’d have used it on him now that she realised that Daniel was responsible for her husband’s inability to enliven the marital couch at night.

The search took him on a meandering route that ended at the wagon owned by Alphonse and his father. The old man was there this time and he recognised Daniel instantly.

‘Why, it’s Gustave,’ he said, pointing. ‘My son told me that you’d come back. Where have you been?’

‘I had to leave camp for a while,’ said Daniel.

‘That was a mistake. You left your wagon unguarded.’

‘I know that. Almost everything in it has been looted.’

‘Well, don’t look at me,’ said the old man, truculently. ‘We never steal from friends. Josette drove your wagon away. Speak to her.’

‘I already have,’ said Daniel, ‘and she wasn’t pleased to see me.’

The old man cackled. ‘Did she try to hit you?’

‘I didn’t stay long enough.’

‘Josette has fire in her belly — and with a belly that size, that means a real inferno.’

Daniel waited until the old man stopped shaking with mirth.

‘I’m trying to find something that was in my wagon,’ he said.

‘Then you may as well give up now.’

‘This is too important to give up.’

‘Listen,’ said the old man, screwing up his one eye. ‘Most of what was stolen has already been sold or eaten. You’ll never find it.’

‘I’m not after the provisions.’

‘Your horse has vanished into thin air as well.’

‘That doesn’t worry me either.’

‘Really — then what are you after, Gustave?’

‘The only item that I want back is a sword. It was hidden under the seat and now it’s gone.’

‘Oh?’ The old man was curious. ‘And why would you be carrying a thing like that?’

‘It’s a family heirloom,’ lied Daniel. ‘It belonged to my father and I promised to keep it for his sake.’

‘Did he serve in the army?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Which army was that?’

‘It was the French army, of course. He was a true patriot.’

‘What about you, Gustave?’ asked the old man, regarding him shrewdly. ‘Would you call yourself a true patriot?’

‘Yes, I would,’ affirmed Daniel.

‘You’d be willing to die for France?’

‘If it was necessary, I would.’

‘Then you’d better volunteer for the army,’ said the old man, ‘because that’s the only way you might get your sword back.’

Daniel’s eye lit up. ‘You know where it is?’

‘I might do.’

‘Then please tell me — I must know.’

‘Earlier today, I went for a walk along the stream.’

‘That’s where my wagon was left,’ said Daniel.

‘I know. I saw it. I also saw the soldiers who were climbing all over it. I took care not to get too close,’ continued the old man, ‘because some of them are too free with their bayonets. I watched them search all over and underneath the wagon.’

‘Did they find anything?’

‘Yes, they did. I didn’t get a proper look at what it was because they were all clustered together but I think it must have come from under the seat.’

‘It was my sword!’

‘If it was, the army has it now, Gustave. I daresay it’s been handed over to a senior officer. You may have lost it for ever.’

When they put their minds to it, Burgundy and Vendome could work effectively together. Their meeting that afternoon bordered on friendliness. They dealt with correspondence together, reviewed the latest intelligence and — should battle arise — discussed the deployment of their men. It was only when Vendome was about to leave that the commander-in-chief introduced a note of discord.

‘I’m pleased to see that you’ve come to your senses at last,’ he observed. ‘It’s very gratifying.’

Vendome tensed. ‘I’m not sure that I follow.’

‘Your mind is now centred on the task in hand, my lord Duke. It’s no longer befuddled by your obsession with a captain in the British army.’

‘It was not an obsession.’

‘Let’s not be pedantic. We’ll call it an undue interest, shall we?’

‘You can call it what you like, my lord,’ said Vendome, sharply. ‘I see it as a legitimate subject of concern.’

‘Then let’s leave it at that,’ said Burgundy with a patronising smirk. ‘Suffice it to say that you’ve learnt your lesson.’

‘And what lesson was that, may I ask?’

‘That it’s wrong to give priority to a single individual when we have a whole army to fight.’

‘Yet that’s exactly what you do,’ rejoined Vendome. ‘I’ve just spent a couple of hours listening to you repeating Marlborough’s name over and over again. You, too, it seems, have your gaze fixed on a single individual.’

‘Marlborough is their captain general.’

‘Captain Rawson is a valued member of his personal staff and is entrusted with missions that nobody else could accomplish. That alone makes him a person of exceptional interest.’

‘The fellow made you look like a fool.’

‘I see no fool when I peer into a mirror, my lord.’

‘Why do you keep arguing over my choice of words?’ said Burgundy, irritably. ‘Let me rephrase what I’m trying to say. You set a trap for Captain Rawson and he cleverly eluded it. I would have thought you’d be glad to forget about him altogether.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Vendome.

‘Why go on scratching the itch of your complete failure?’

‘The failure was by no means complete. It was tempered with success. Even you were impressed at the way I contrived to get one of our ablest spies — Sophie Prunier — inside the British camp.’

‘That was a pleasing stratagem, I admit.’

‘Then you’ll also admit that the capture of Captain Rawson is a pleasing stratagem when I bring him before you.’

Burgundy sniffed. ‘It will never happen.’

‘Would you care to place a wager on that?’

‘I wouldn’t demean myself by doing so. Mademoiselle Prunier, I am sure, is a lady of immense ability but even she is not going to walk into our camp with the captain over her shoulder.’

‘I fancy that he’ll walk into the camp on his own, my lord.’

‘That’s a preposterous notion!’ said Burgundy, laughing.

‘It’s not too late to accept that wager.’

‘I don’t have the slightest interest in Captain Rawson.’

‘Well, you should do — your grandfather certainly will.’

Burgundy flicked a hand. ‘Be off with you!’

‘Very well, my lord,’ said Vendome, frothing at being dismissed in such a peremptory manner. ‘But I may be back before long and I’ll be ready to accept your apology.’

Turning on his heel, he swept angrily out of the tent.

When he joined his father at their wagon, Alphonse found the old man in a reflective mood. Nudged out of his reverie, he told his son about the conversation with Gustave Carraud.

‘I met him earlier,’ said Alphonse, ‘and told him what happened to his wagon. He was keen to speak to Josette.’

‘What did you make of him?’

‘He seemed very upset that his wagon had gone.’

‘That’s the funny thing,’ said the old man, stroking his chin. ‘It wasn’t the wagon that he was worried about. He didn’t even mind that his horse had been stolen. How can he stay in business with no animal to pull the wagon? It doesn’t make sense. All that he was after was his sword.’

‘I didn’t know he had a sword,’ said Alphonse.

‘Gustave told me it was hidden under the seat. I knew he didn’t find it there because I saw soldiers searching the wagon this morning. I think they took the sword away.’

‘What does he want with it?’

‘He claimed that it belonged to his father.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘No,’ said the old man, ‘and I don’t believe that he’s a sutler. None of us would dare to leave our wagon unguarded for a few days. That’s what Gustave did. Where did he sneak off to in the night?’

‘I wondered about that.’

‘I’ve been thinking, Alphonse.’

‘Well?’

‘There may be money in this for us,’ said his father. ‘There’s something else I remembered about him, you see. Gustave wanted to be shown around the camp.’

‘That’s right — I took him. We went everywhere.’

‘Put all those things together, Alphonse. He arrives here out of nowhere. He beats you and Victor in a fight. He gives us wine to buy our friendship. You walk around the camp with him. The next minute, he’s nowhere to be seen. And when he comes back, the only thing that he’s really after is a sword.’ The old man narrowed the lids on his remaining eye. ‘Do you see what I mean?’

Alphonse needed time to absorb all that he’d been told and to weigh its significance. His brain was slow but it eventually reached the same conclusion as his father.

‘We need to speak to someone,’ he decided.

‘Leave that to me,’ said the old man. ‘I know how to haggle. We have useful information. That costs money.’

Daniel was agitated. The chances of getting his sword back seemed remote. If it was in the hands of the army, it meant that they’d had a specific reason for searching the wagon. They must have known who its putative owner was. That being the case, it was almost certain that a link had been established between the arrival of a sutler by the name of Gustave Carraud and the disappearance of two women from custody. Daniel was in a quandary. Common sense told him to get out of the camp as soon as possible but nostalgia urged him to continue the search for his sword. It was a question of head versus heart. As he sat beside the stream, a fierce battle was raging within him.

Another factor had to be considered. Henry Welbeck was hiding in the woods not far away, waiting to ride back to Terbanck with his friend. He would already be fretting. Daniel had assured him that he would soon return with his sword, possibly even with his wagon. That plan had been shattered. He was now cut adrift in the enemy camp with no means of warning Welbeck that his mission might take a great deal longer than anticipated. Daniel scolded himself for being too confident. Having made false assumptions, he was now suffering the consequences.

Should he go or should he stay? Daniel agonised over the decision until it was suddenly taken out of his hands. As he gazed at the stream, he noticed human figures dancing on the water and turned round quickly to discover that he was facing a dozen bayonets.

‘Where the hell are you, Dan Rawson?’ said Welbeck to himself. ‘I want to get out of this bleeding place.’

Though he had the cover of the woods, he could never feel safe being so close to the French camp. His one source of comfort was the ample supply of food and drink they’d brought with them. Crouched beside the horses in the clearing, he munched some bread and cheese. He’d reloaded the pistol that Daniel had given him and carried a dagger as well but the weapons didn’t reassure him. The wood was full of wild animals. Welbeck never actually saw any of them but the horses were aware of any potential danger. Every so often, they’d neigh, become restive and pull at their reins. When he heard a noise in the undergrowth yet again, Welbeck jumped to his feet and drew the pistol in readiness, hoping that he wouldn’t have to fire a shot in case it was heard by any French soldiers on the road nearby. The sound of something scuttling rapidly away allowed him to relax a little and put the weapon back in its holster.

Finishing his meal, he brushed the crumbs from his clothing then made his way furtively back towards the road. Welbeck hid in the thickets where Daniel had earlier concealed himself, remaining out of sight yet able to see the road in both directions. Once he’d worked out how to use it, the telescope proved a useful aid. Settling down, he found that he’d just put one knee into some animal dung. As he was trying to wipe off the mess with a handful of grass, an insect stung him on the back of the neck. Welbeck killed it with a slap but it had bequeathed a sharp pain. He swore at Daniel under his breath.

‘Why on earth did I let you talk me into this, you bastard?’

Vendome studied the papers with interest then held them up.

‘These appear to be in order,’ he said, blandly.

‘Does that mean I can be released?’ asked Daniel.

‘Oh, no — these papers are the property of Gustave Carraud.’

‘That’s my name, Your Grace.’

‘It’s one of them, I grant you. I’m told that you also answer to the name of Marcel Daron when you pose as a wine merchant. I’ve no doubt that you have other names at your disposal as well and that, in each case, your papers will be expertly forged.’

Daniel had been hauled off to Vendome’s quarters and was being held by two guards. Raoul Valeran, who had been in charge of the arrest, was also there, anticipating extravagant praise if not a tangible reward for his work. When he was searched, Daniel had his pockets emptied and was deprived of the dagger he was carrying. His situation seemed hopeless but he wrested a tiny moment of joy out of it. On the table in front of Vendome was what looked very much like Daniel’s missing sword. He had difficulty in keeping his eyes off it.

‘Let’s dispose of Monsieur Carraud, shall we?’ said Vendome, holding the papers over a candle until they caught alight. He tossed them to the ground where they were consumed by flame. ‘That takes care of that, I think. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell us your real name.’

‘I’m Gustave Carraud,’ said Daniel, doggedly.

‘And what is your occupation?’

‘I’m a sutler.’

‘Then where is your wagon?’

‘It’s down by the stream.’

‘Yes, so I believe. It’s more or less empty and your horse has gone. How can you conduct business without something to sell?’

‘The wagon was pillaged.’

‘Why didn’t you take more care of it?’

‘I was…distracted for a while,’ answered Daniel.

‘That’s not surprising,’ said Vendome with an oily smile. ‘A woman like Mademoiselle Janssen would distract any man and so would Mademoiselle Prunier. You obviously have an eye for beautiful women.’

‘I think you’re confusing me with someone else.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He turned to Valeran. ‘Show him.’

Valeran stepped forward and lifted the sword from the table.

‘Have you ever seen this weapon before?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Daniel, averting his gaze.

‘Look at it more carefully.’

‘I don’t need to — it’s an army sabre.’

‘A British army sabre,’ corrected Valeran, ‘and it belongs to Captain Daniel Rawson of the 24^th Foot.’

‘I’ve never heard that name before.’

‘It was Captain Rawson who rescued the two ladies to whom His Grace has just referred. The captain is very close to Amalia Janssen which is why she was taken hostage. Sophie Prunier was also held in custody and, unable to resist helping someone in distress, the captain agreed to take her with him as well.’ He glanced at Vendome to see if his questioning met with the other’s approval. ‘Does any of this sound familiar to you?’

‘I’m afraid that it doesn’t,’ said Daniel.

‘Are you speaking as Gustave Carraud or as Marcel Daron?’

Daniel remained silent. Unable to resist looking at his sword, he weighed up the possibilities of escape if he suddenly seized it. The weapon was only two feet away, balanced on Valeran’s outstretched hands. There were four people in the tent with Daniel and all of them were armed. Outside, he’d seen two guards. Even if he managed to hack his way out of Vendome’s quarters, he wouldn’t get far.

Valeran seemed to read his mind. He held the sword closer.

‘Go on, Captain Rawson,’ he urged. ‘Take it. I know it’s yours.’

‘I’m a sutler. I have no need of a sword.’

‘You’re a soldier. You have no need of a wagon, especially as you’ve no idea how to protect it.’

‘My name is Gustave Carraud,’ said Daniel, stoutly.

‘Are you still clinging to that ridiculous lie?’

‘My papers were in order.’

‘What papers?’ asked Vendome, taking over. ‘I see no papers. Monsieur Carraud has been burnt out of existence so you must be someone else. We’ve spoken to one of the sutlers you befriended,’ he went on. ‘He told us how you disappeared from the camp for days and came back with some flimsy excuse. I had a feeling that we’d be seeing you again, Captain Rawson. You were so desperate to reclaim your sword, weren’t you? That’s the mark of a true soldier.’

Daniel was caught. They knew far too much about him. He wondered which of the sutlers had betrayed him. Alphonse had been too ready to accept him and Josette too eager to assault him. It had to be the old man. Daniel had been wrong to admit that he cared far more about a sword than he did about his horse and wagon. In doing so, he’d lowered his guard. Alphonse’s father had been astute enough to realise that Gustave Carraud had something very important to hide. The arrest had been set in motion by the old man.

‘Do you still deny that you are Captain Daniel Rawson?’ said Vendome, walking across to confront him.

‘I do,’ replied Daniel.

‘Then perhaps it’s time for you to meet an old friend.’

Vendome gave a nod and Valeran went briskly out of the tent. Though he showed no sign of it, Daniel was profoundly alarmed. He feared that Henry Welbeck had been apprehended as well. A spasm of guilt shot through him. In bringing his friend, he’d imperilled him. Daniel could speak French fluently but Welbeck had only a limited grasp of the language. He could never pass for a Frenchman. If caught, his disguise would be useless. Daniel’s face was impassive. Yet inwardly, he was berating himself.

As the tent flap was drawn back, he braced himself for the sight of his friend but it was not the sergeant who was led in by Valeran. It was a big man in the blue uniform of a major. Strutting across to him, the newcomer snatched off Daniel’s hat so that he could take a good look at him. He required only a couple of seconds. Satisfied, he drew back his hand and delivered a resounding slap across Daniel’s face.

‘That’s him,’ he said with leering certainty. ‘Marcel Daron.’

‘Thank you, Major Crevel,’ said Vendome. ‘You’ve proved his identity beyond doubt. Henceforth, however, you must call him by his real name — Captain Daniel Rawson.’