'Who is this friend of yours?' asked Amalia.
'He's a mad Irishman,' said Daniel, 'and his name is Ronan Flynn. We met when he served in the British army but he later joined a French regiment. That's when we were on opposite sides.'
'Is he ready to help an enemy?'
'We're good friends, Miss Janssen, and we're no longer on the battlefield. Ronan owes me a favour, that's all I'll say.'
'How much does he know about us?'
'Precious little,' said Daniel, 'and I wish to keep it that way. Kees is not going to tell them anything and I doubt if your servant speaks much French but you're obviously an intelligent young lady. I daresay you have some knowledge of the language.'
'I like to think that I do, Captain Rawson.'
'Don't admit that or you're likely to be interrogated.'
'Am I?'
'Ronan won't ask you any questions but his wife is a different matter. Charlotte is French and can't be expected to show the same sympathy to foreigners.'
'I understand.'
'Do you like children?'
The question surprised her. 'Yes, of course I do.'
'They have a baby daughter,' said Daniel. 'I only caught a glimpse of her but she's a gorgeous child. Ronan loves showing her off. Luckily, I'd had time to wash the blood off my face before he handed her over to me or I'd have frightened her.'
'You still haven't told me what happened with that man.'
'We exchanged blows, Miss Janssen.'
'Won't he run off and summon help?' she asked. When Daniel remained silent, she gulped. 'You didn't kill him, did you?'
'I stopped him from bothering you ever again.'
Amalia reeled from the shock. 'No wonder you were covered in blood,' she said. "This is terrible, Captain Rawson. I had no idea you'd have to go to that extreme.'
'My hand was forced.'
'I can see now why we had to leave in a hurry.'
'It's only a matter of time before the body is found,' said Daniel. 'When that happens, the first place they'll go to is your house. We need to be as far away as possible.'
'What about my father?'
'We'll talk about that later.'
'I want to know now,' she insisted. 'Where is he?'
'Your father is being held, Miss Janssen. He's in prison.'
Her face fell. 'Prison? What have they done to him? Is he being fed? Has he been tortured? Father's not a strong man. Being locked up will break him, Captain Rawson.' She tried to hold back tears. 'How can we possibly reach him if he's held in prison?'
'There has to be a way,' said Daniel, thoughtfully. 'All that I have to do is to find out what it is.'
When they finally reached their destination, they were given a cordial welcome by Ronan Flynn and his wife. Charlotte had prepared a meal for them so they all sat around the table together. Even Beatrix, who, as a servant, always ate apart as a rule, was allowed to join them. Dopff was very impressed with the cooking and went into an elaborate mime to congratulate Charlotte. There were some awkward moments but the supper passed off without incident. Having always had her own bedchamber, Amalia was unhappy that she had to share her bed with Beatrix but accepted the situation without complaint. Dopff was content to sleep in the bare attic as long as he could have the tapestry beside him. Daniel agreed to spend the night downstairs.
The visitors adapted slowly to a house that was very much smaller than the one they'd just left and possessed none of its luxuries. They all seemed to be on top of each other. When the women had finally retired, and when Dopff was snoring in the attic, Flynn produced another flagon of wine so that he and Daniel could talk over a cup of it in private. The first thing the Irishman did was to clap his friend heartily on the shoulder.
'You always did have an eye for the ladies, Dan,' he said. 'She's a real beauty is that Amalia. If it wasn't for the fact that I have a lovely wife waiting for me upstairs, I'd be very jealous.'
'I'm simply here to look after her,' said Daniel.
'It always starts that way.'
'I'm serious, Ronan. The girl is young and innocent.'
Flynn laughed. 'They're the best kind.'
'There's nothing like that going on.'
'Well, there damn well ought to be, man,' said Flynn, nudging him with an elbow. 'Look at those eyes of hers. Think of that divine face. Saints in heaven, Amalia could seduce the Pope!'
'She's a frightened woman who needs protection.'
'Then why aren't you in her bed, protecting her?'
Daniel sipped his wine until Flynn had finished his jocular teasing. When they'd first met, they'd been two of a kind, lusty young soldiers who fought bravely on the battlefield and took their pleasures where they could find them. Flynn had now settled down into family life but he had some warm memories. Daniel tried to steer him away from them so that they could talk about something more serious.
'What made you give up army life?' he asked.
'Old age and the sight of Charlotte Rousset,' replied Flynn.
'Was that her maiden name?'
'Yes, Dan, but she didn't hold on to it much longer once I'd met her. I worship that woman. She's changed my life and given me that little angel of a daughter. And that's not all,' he went on. 'When her father heard that I had a little money to invest, he took me into the family business. I'm a baker now, un boulanger de Paris. You tasted some of my bread earlier on.'
'It was delicious, Ronan.'
'The only problem is that I have to be up so early to make sure the servant has lit the ovens. Then we toil away while the city sleeps. When the bread is baked, I help to deliver it with the horse and cart. We've a lot of customers and they expect fresh bread every morning.'
'Which do you prefer - being a soldier or being a baker?'
'If you'd asked me twenty years ago, I'd have said that nothing could compare with army life. It was tough, I grant you,' said Flynn, 'and it could wear you down at times, but it was just the thing for a young fellow like me with fire in his belly. I craved the excitement of it all. I loved the danger.'
'You loved other things as well, as I recall,' said Daniel.
'That was my downfall, Dan. It wasn't the women. I think every man has the right to spread his love far and wide. No, it was the drink and the fighting. When I'd had too much of the one, I couldn't get enough of the other.' He gave a rueful laugh. 'I probably did more damage to my fellow-soldiers with my fists than I ever did to the enemy with a musket. It's the reason I never rose higher than a corporal. I had warning after warning but there was no heeding them when the drink had a hold on me.'
'You knocked out a captain, didn't you?'
'He was a lieutenant, actually,' said Flynn, 'and he deserved every blow. But striking an officer is a crime. When they'd finished flogging me, they threw me out of the regiment altogether.'
'Is that when you went over to the French?'
'No, Dan, I had a spell of drifting all over the place, taking whatever job I could lay my hands on. But I couldn't stay out of the war too long. I had friends in an Irish regiment serving the French so I threw in my lot with them.' He looked quizzically at Daniel. 'What about you? When we first met, we were both black-hearted corporals. Then you got yourself promoted.'
'I was lucky,' said Daniel, modestly.
'That's nonsense, man! Luck doesn't come into it. I know what it takes to work your way up and why so few people manage to do it. Captain Daniel Rawson, is it?' he added with a twinkle. 'I like it, Dan. It has a ring to it.'
'Thank you, Ronan.'
'It also gives the game away. If someone like you tricks his way into Paris, then it's to do with something more important than wishing three Dutch guests on the Flynn household.'
'It is,' confessed Daniel, 'but I'd rather not go into details.'
'It's probably better if I don't hear them, Dan. I count myself a loyal Frenchman now. On the other hand, I have to think of my wife and child. You and your friends are welcome to stay here as long as you don't endanger us.'
'If it reaches that point, Ronan, we'll move out immediately.'
'Then I won't pry any further.'
He poured them both a second cup of wine and they shared army reminiscences for a while. When his friend was in a mellow mood, Daniel turned to another subject.
'What do you know about the Bastille?' he asked.
'I know that I'd much rather be outside its walls than inside.'
'It's in the Rue Saint-Antoine, isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Flynn, 'and I get quite close to it when I deliver my bread. It gives me the shivers. My father-in-law would love to have the contract to provide bread for the Bastille itself but one of his rivals has got that. Mind you,' he went on, 'the bread probably only goes to the turnkeys. They starve any prisoners locked away in there. What are you interested in the Bastille for?'
'I've heard so many tales about it. If your delivery round takes you in that direction, you must have a wide circle of customers.'
'They've heard how tasty Flynn bread is. Strictly speaking, it's Rousset bread because my father-in-law taught me everything I know. There's a real art to baking, Dan. It took me a year to master it.'
'I'd like to see you at work, Ronan.'
'You won't get much sleep if you do that.'
'Who cares?' said Daniel, intrigued by the fact that Flynn would be going close to the Bastille. 'I'm used to broken nights. Would I be in the way if I came with you to the bakery tomorrow?'
'No,' said Flynn, 'you can help to load the cart.'
'In that case, I'll snatch a few hours' sleep while I can.' He drank the last of his wine. 'I can't thank you enough, Ronan. You helped us in our hour of need. We simply couldn't have stayed where we were.'
When the body of Jacques Serval was discovered that night, the police were informed at once. While some of them removed the corpse, others rushed to the house occupied by the Dutch visitors. Two constables were sent around to the rear of the building to block off any attempt at escape then someone banged loudly on the door. When there was no response, he pounded even harder with his fist. Still nobody stirred within the house. Forced entry was required. Two of the heftiest men threw their combined strength at the door until the lock gave way and it swung open on its hinges. Policemen poured into the dark house with lanterns and searched every room. When they met again in the hall, it was the sergeant who summed up the situation.
'They've gone,' he declared, purple with fury. 'We must catch them before they can leave Paris.'
Chapter Eight
Tom Hillier was disappointed. Army life was neither as thrilling nor as rewarding as he thought it would be. He had left the safety of his farm and family back in England in the hope of adventure abroad and it had not been forthcoming. Expecting to take an active part in famous victories, he'd twice been denied the chance to march into battle and had spent most of his time being drilled or moving from place to place. The novelty of being in a foreign country had soon worn off. He began to feel homesick. Of all the things that had disillusioned him, the most painful was the way in which his uncle had effectively disowned him. Though he'd only known Welbeck from the sergeant's letters, and from what his mother had told him about her brother, Hillier had an image of him as a hero and wanted to emulate his achievements. Yet he'd been rebuffed in the most hurtful way.
Set against the disappointments was one consolation. Having fought the drummer who'd been teasing him remorselessly, he not only won the contest but made himself a real friend in the process. In beating Hugh Dobbs, he'd earned his respect. Dobbs was a sturdy, potato-faced youth of eighteen summers with a roguish grin and a dislike of authority. He gave Hillier a lot of useful advice about the technique of drumming and told him lively tales about the regiment's involvement in the victory at Blenheim. Dobbs also acted as a kind of unofficial biographer to Daniel Rawson and the new recruit never tired of hearing tales of the captain's exploits. As they lay side by side that night in the tent they shared with the other drummers, Dobbs resumed his narrative.
'Do you know what else Captain Rawson did?'
'No,' said Hillier, attentively.
'I overheard Lieutenant Ainley talking about it,' said Dobbs, 'so it must be true. When the captain was sent across the border to act as a spy, he captured some dispatches from a French courier then dressed up in the man's uniform and delivered them in person to Marshal Villeroi.'
Hillier gaped. 'He rode into the French camp?'
'He rode out again as well with Villeroi's dispatches to King Louis. Who else would have the nerve to do that?'
'Who else would take part in a Forlorn Hope?'
'Yes,' said Dobbs, 'Captain Rawson has done that twice now. When we reached the Danube last year, he joined in the Forlorn Hope at the Schellenberg. Most of the others were killed on the slope but he survived to fight on.'
'Tell me about Blenheim again.'
'Be quiet, you two!' someone called out. 'We're trying to get some sleep over here.'
'I'm sorry,' said Hillier before whispering to Dobbs, 'Tell me about Blenheim.'
'Ask me tomorrow,' suggested Dobbs, yawning.
'I want to hear it now.'
'Your uncle is the person to ask. Sergeant Welbeck was right in the thick of it. All that we did was to beat the drums.'
'I'd rather listen to you,' said Hillier. 'I want to know what it's like to be in a battle.'
'Tomorrow, Tom — I'm tired.'
'All right, but answer me this before you doze off. Is it true that Captain Rawson is no longer in camp? I heard a rumour that he was seen riding off days ago in civilian clothes.'
'I heard the same thing.'
'Where was he going?'
'He wants to take on the French fucking army all on his own.'
Hillier laughed aloud until someone threw a boot at him. The conversation was over. He lay on his back and gingerly rubbed the side of his head where the boot had hit him. Hillier then closed his eyes. It was time to dream again of the military glory that had so far eluded him.
After sleeping on the floor downstairs, Daniel came awake when he heard the sound of footsteps in the room above. Ronan Flynn was on the move. By the time that the Irishman crept downstairs, Daniel was dressed and wide awake. After a mouthful of bread and a drink, they harnessed the horse between the shafts and set off on the cart. The bakery was half a mile away so the journey gave them time to talk. They raised their voices over the clack of hooves and rattle of the cart.
'So this is how bakers live, is it?' said Daniel.
'We start early and finish early.'
'Then it's better than working on a farm. When I was a lad, we started early and finished late. In summer we never seemed to stop.'
'What happened to the farm?'
'It was commandeered when my father fought against the King's army at the battle of Sedgemoor. He was taken prisoner. Father was sentenced to hang at the Bloody Assizes. Mother and I had to flee to Amsterdam.'
'What rank did your father hold?'
'He was a captain.'
'So you followed in his footsteps.'
'Not exactly, Ronan. My father fought against His Grace - or Lord Churchill as he was then - while I serve under his command.'
'I'd much rather be on the Duke's side.'
'Then you should've drunk less and kept out of brawls.'
'Ah,' said Flynn, expansively, 'a man can't deny his own nature. I was born to fight and given the strength for it. And if I hadn't ended up in the French ranks, I'd never have met Charlotte.'
'You have a lovely wife,' said Daniel, enviously. 'I'm grateful that she made us feel so welcome last night. But we don't wish to be a burden on her while we're here. Beatrix will help around the house and Kees will take his turn in the kitchen. I'm told he's a wonderful cook. Amalia says that he makes all the meals at home.'
'What about her? How will Amalia pass the time?'
'When she sees that daughter of yours, I'm sure she'll want to hold her. Anyone would dote on Louise. She's a deligh
t, Ronan.'
'That's because she takes after her mother. She's got Charlotte's beauty and my brains. That should stand her in good stead.' He gave a sigh. 'To be sure, I'd rather bring my child up in Ireland but she'll have a much better life here. I have to accept that. If I went home, I'd have no earthly notion of what to do. Here in Paris, I have a trade.'
'You had one when you were in the army, Ronan.'
Flynn guffawed. 'Yes,' he said, 'I was paid to kill people then. Nowadays, my bread tries to keep them alive.'
Daniel was fascinated to see the bakery in operation. He had watched army bakers preparing bread in vast quantities and dispensing with any subtleties as they did so. At the Rousset bakery, a large, low building with a number of ovens, far more attention was given to each individual loaf. They arrived to find the place already warmed up. A servant was bringing the ingredients in while Flynn's two assistants were making a start.
'Does your father-in-law still work here?' asked Daniel.
'Emile has more or less retired, Dan. He pretends that he's still in charge by looking in each day but I run the bakery. We'll probably be gone before he even gets here.'
'He obviously trusts you, Ronan.'
'With good reason,' said Flynn. 'I look after his daughter, his grandchild and his bakery. What more can a man ask?'
While he was talking, Flynn was already putting on a white apron and moving to one of the tables. Daniel stood back out of the way. Watching from a corner, he admired the speed and precision with which the Irishman shaped a loaf, albeit in a snowstorm of flour. Though the assistants were industrious, they had nothing like the skill of their employer. Nor did they take such an obvious delight in their work. Having got him into trouble as a soldier, Flynn's enormous hands were now put to more delicate use than knocking people unconscious. Two of the large ovens were set aside for him and they'd been the first to be lit. As a result, it was Flynn's bread that was first to be baked. Bringing it proudly out of an oven, the Irishman set it out on a tray. The aroma was enticing.
Drums of War Page 9
