Drums of War

'Good morning, Sergeant,' he said, meekly.

'I need a word with you, lad.'

'Have I done anything wrong?'

'Yes,' said Welbeck, darkly. 'When you joined the army, you made the mistake of signing your life away to a lost cause. However, that's behind you. What you have to do now is to make the best of a bad situation.'

'That's what I've tried to do, sir.'

'So I hear. You've been fighting with one of the other lads.'

Hillier flushed. 'Who told you that?'

'I have my spies.'

'It was only in fun, Sergeant. Hugh Dobbs and I are friends really. He's helped me a lot with my drumming and he seems to know everything that happens in this regiment. Hugh's been telling me about Captain Rawson.'

'Don't believe all of it.'

'He described how the captain took part in a Forlorn Hope.'

'We're all involved in a Forlorn Hope,' moaned Welbeck. 'Army life is one long, pointless charge up a hillside with the enemy firing at will. It's not bravery, it's sheer bloody lunacy.'

'Then why have you stayed in uniform so long?'

'That's my business.'

'Mother says that you…' His voice trailed off as he saw the menace in Welbeck's eye. 'I'm sorry, Sergeant. I won't mention the family again.'

'This is your bleeding family now,' said Welbeck with a gesture that took in the whole camp. 'You're in a madhouse under canvas.'

'I think that's being unfair.'

'I've been here long enough to find out.'

His nephew avoided argument. 'Then I'll accept your word, sir.'

Welbeck stood back to weigh him up. His nephew's uniform was too tight but he looked smart and alert. Much of the early wonder had been sponged off his face by cold reality. Hillier was no longer in thrall to the idea of bearing arms. It was now a commitment he'd made rather than a patriotic duty that set his heart alight. There was something about him that Welbeck had never noticed before. He had a definite resemblance to his mother. The sergeant was looking at his sister's nose, chin and pale complexion. Hillier even had some of his mother's mannerisms. Welbeck had never been close to his sister but he felt an impulse of affection towards her now.

'What was the name of that friend of yours?' he asked.

'Hugh — Hugh Dobbs.'

'Was he the one who hid your drum in a tree?'

'You've been talking to Captain Rawson, haven't you?'

'That's neither here nor there, lad. All I want to know is this. If Hugh Dobbs knows everything that happens in the 24 ^th Foot, has he ever mentioned the name of Major Cracknell to you?'

Hillier pondered. 'No, I don't think so,' he said at length.

'Be on guard against him,' warned Welbeck.

'Why is that?'

'It doesn't matter — just do as I tell you.'

'I've never even heard of Major Cracknell.'

'You will.'

'What business could he have with me, Sergeant?'

'You're my nephew.'

'I thought you didn't have a nephew any more, sir.'

Welbeck gave him a hard stare that slowly evanesced into a grudging smile. He stepped forward to pat Hillier on the shoulder.

'I like what I've heard about you, Tom,' he said, briskly, 'but not everyone in this regiment will want to be your friend. I've told you a name to remember. It's Major Simon Cracknell. Watch out for him and don't tell anyone I gave you this warning.'

In taking Daniel close to the Bastille, Ronan Flynn had unwittingly given him an idea relating to Emanuel Janssen. Flynn had delivered bread to a tavern nearby. It might well be the place where some of the turnkeys from the prison came to drink. If not, there was bound to be another tavern within walking distance of the edifice. After telling his friend that he was going away for a while, Daniel left the others in the care of the Flynn family and rode to the Marais, a quarter inhabited largely by people with money and position. In the boulevard close to the Rue Saint-Antoine, he located the tavern that Flynn had visited that morning. The one thing he did know about the Fleur de Lys was that it would serve excellent bread.

Daniel took a room at the tavern and immediately changed out of his guise as a wine merchant. Putting on more workaday apparel and a large cap, he went out to study the Bastille in more detail and to walk along the bank of the Seine. To rescue the tapestry-maker from the prison was the major problem but a second one then had to be solved. Daniel would have to spirit four people out of the city. Since the police would certainly be searching for the Dutch contingent, it would be another test of his initiative. As he watched the boats and barges gliding serenely past on the glistening water, he wondered if the river might be the best route out of Paris.

Returning to the tavern, he lay on his bed and spent hours considering the possibilities. Each one involved putting himself into jeopardy but Daniel was accustomed to doing that. His personal safety was never a concern. What he had to ensure was the security of other people. His orders had been to find and rescue Emanuel Janssen but it was Amalia who occupied his mind. He was aware of the intense stress under which she'd been and the indignities she'd suffered. The only way that Daniel could bring relief was to reunite her with her beloved father. His fondness for Amalia was an additional spur. He longed to take the nagging anxiety out of her life and help her to return home.

When evening gently squeezed the last daylight out of the sky, Daniel returned to the Rue Saint Antoine and watched the Bastille from a distance. At a rough guess, he decided, the walls had to be around eighty feet high, ruling out any hope of climbing into the prison or of climbing out again. Emanuel Janssen was a middle-aged man who worked at a loom all day. He could hardly be expected to descend a very long rope in the darkness, especially as he might not be in the best of health as a result of his incarceration. The one conceivable exit was through the front doors. In order to bring him out of the Bastille, Daniel first had to get inside it himself.

Assuming that the turnkeys worked in shifts, he was pleased to see that he was right. Various men trudged up to the entrance in twos and threes. Those whom they replaced on duty eventually started to come out. Many dispersed to go to their homes but, as Daniel had predicted, some preferred a drink after a long day in the macabre surroundings of the prison. Instead of going to the tavern where he was staying, however, they walked along the river until they reached a smaller and noisier establishment. Daniel followed a group of them into the tavern. When they sat around a table and drank heavily, he stayed within earshot. After a while, when the wine had helped them to relax somewhat, Daniel hobbled across to them as if he had an injured foot.

'Did I hear someone mention the Bastille?' he said.

'Yes,' answered a thickset man with warts all over his face. 'We're all prisoners there.' The others laughed. 'Who are you?'

'I was a soldier until I got shot in the foot. I've had to look for something else to do. A friend suggested they always need turnkeys at the Bastille.'

'That's right, my friend. The stench kills off three of us a week.' The others shook with mirth. 'What's your name?'

'Marcel Daron.'

'Where are you from?'

'I was born here in Paris but joined the army when I was a lad.'

'Oh?' said the man with the warts, indicating the one-eyed turnkey who sat beside him. 'Georges was a soldier until he lost his eye at Blenheim. What regiment were you in?'

'I was a trooper in the Royal-Carabinier,' replied Daniel, thinking of his brief time in the courier's stolen uniform. 'I fought at Blenheim as well.'

'Tell us about it,' goaded the one-eyed man.

It was clear that they didn't trust him and that he would have to win their confidence. As they aimed questions at him, he was able to answer them all convincingly because he'd been at the heart of the battle. He reeled off the names of the French generals and talked about their disposition on the battlefield. At the start, Georges, the former soldier, was the most suspicious but Daniel's detailed knowledge persuaded him that he had no cause to be wary.