Drums of War cr-2

by Edward Marston

  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 h
is 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 P
aris 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.