Drums of War

Night duty began with another trudge through the cachots in the uninspiring company of Jules Rivot. If anything, the stench was stronger, the rats more abundant, the cries of the prisoners more pitiable and the mood of his fellow-turnkey even more morose. Rivot belonged underground. He was a human mole going endlessly back and forth along his runs with blind resignation. He was not a creature of daylight. The subterranean darkness suited him. It was Daniel who carried the lantern. Rivot could find his way around by instinct. He only spoke to give Daniel a curt command. As a source of information about the other parts of the prison, he was useless.

When the gaolers broke off for refreshment, some of them slipped away to relieve themselves, either urinating in a corner or climbing up to one of the garderobes in the nearest tower. Daniel took the opportunity to visit the gatehouse. Crossing the courtyard in the eerie light from flaming torches, he knocked on the heavy oak door. After a few moments, it was opened by a portly man of middle years. From the way that the duty sergeant rubbed his piggy eyes, Daniel guessed that he'd been taking a nap. Rudely awakened, the man was brusque and unwelcoming.

'Who are you?' he demanded.

'Marcel Daron, sir,' replied Daniel.

'What are you doing here?'

'I have a favour to ask.'

'You should be on duty.'

'We're having a rest, sir. I'll go back down to the cachots in a matter of minutes. I simply wanted to find out if what Sergeant Bermutier said is true.'

'Bermutier?' There was a note of respect in the man's voice.

'He was kind enough to offer me work here, sir.'

'So?'

'I overheard him say that the Comte de Lerebour was being held in one of the towers.'

'What's that to you, Daron?'

'I served under him in the army, sir. He was a fine commander. If he's here, I'd like to visit him to pay my respects.'

'Lerebour, Lerebour,' said the other. 'I don't recall the name but then we have so many prisoners here. In which tower is he held?'

'Sergeant Bermutier didn't say, sir.'

'Let me have a look.'

Daniel was in luck. He'd invented the name of the Comte de Lerebour but coupled it with that of Bermutier. It was enough to get him through the door of the gatehouse. The sergeant opened his desk, took out the ledger and flipped through the pages by the light of a candle. Over his shoulder, Daniel saw all the names that had been crossed out with a date beside them. He was not sure if they'd been released, executed or simply allowed to rot away in their cells. At all events, the numbers had mounted up over the years. The sergeant eventually came to the lists of those currently held in the middle levels of the towers. Daniel peered intently as the sergeant's stubby finger went up and down the various names. In the end, he snapped the ledger shut and spun round.

'He's not here,' he said.

'Are you sure, Sergeant?'

'You must be mistaken.'

'I could've sworn that I heard the Comte de Lerebour's name,' said Daniel, scratching his head. 'Mind you, there were a lot of us milling around when Sergeant Bermutier spoke. With all that noise going on, I might have misheard him.'

The sergeant was terse. 'Go back to your duties.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And don't bother me again.'

'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir.'

'Get out!'

Pushing Daniel through the door, he shut it firmly in his face. As a result, the duty sergeant did not see Daniel's broad smile. The Comte de Lerebour was not detained in the Bastille but Emanuel Janssen certainly was. His name was on the list and Daniel now knew exactly where to find him. Though work in the cachots was dispiriting he was now able to rejoin Rivot with something akin to enthusiasm.

The War of the Spanish Succession was not merely a conflict played out on a series of battlefields around Europe. During the months when bad weather and a lack of provisions curtailed any fighting, it continued by other means. Allies had to be courted, money had to be raised, soldiers had to be found and plans for campaigns in the following year had to be discussed and agreed upon. No commander on either side combined military prowess with diplomatic skills as effectively as the Duke of Marlborough. When he was not leading his men into battle, he was keeping in constant touch with his allies and soothing them with honeyed words. Adam Cardonnel never stopped admiring his political shrewdness.

'You are Restraint personified,' he observed.

"There are times when one must learn to subordinate one's personal feelings, Adam,' said Marlborough. 'In my dealings with the Dutch, alas, those occasions are all too frequent.'

'I fear they are, Your Grace. After our untimely withdrawal from the River Yssche, you behaved impeccably. Any other commander-in-chief would have stormed off to The Hague to confront the whole States-General.'

'What would that have achieved?'

'You'd have had the satisfaction of speaking your mind.'

'True,' said Marlborough, 'but I'd also have stirred up all those who oppose this war. They'd be glad of an excuse to turn on a tetchy commander-in-chief from England. There are too many of them who wish to open peace negotiations with France. That's why we can't afford to antagonise the Dutch. Policy must come before petulance.'

'It's not petulance, Your Grace, but justifiable fury.'

Marlborough smiled. 'Some of that fury was assuaged by the dismissal of General Slangenberg. I regard that as a small triumph.'

The two men were travelling in a coach over a bumpy road. With their entourage, they were on their way to Dusseldorf, the city on the Rhine in which the Elector Palatine had chosen to reside in preference to the badly damaged Heidelberg. Marlborough was confident that he could persuade Johann Wilhelm II to provide an appreciable number of troops for the Italian campaign when it resumed in the following spring. He was also assured of a welcome that befitted the victor at the battle of Blenheim. Marlborough had another reason for looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with the Elector.

'He's such a cultured man,' he recalled. 'His court has given work to many artists and musicians over the years.'

'The same could be said of Louis XIV's court,' said Cardonnel drily. 'Versailles has an art collection second to none.'

'I doubt if even King Louis has as many paintings by Rubens. The Elector seems to own a vast number of them. I envy him the time to look at them. Having an art gallery presupposes leisure.'

'We shall enjoy it one day, Your Grace.'

'Not if we continue to be baulked by the Dutch and hampered by some of our other allies. Then there is the small matter of our own Parliament,' said Marlborough. 'Every letter I receive from Sidney Godolphin tells of growing disillusion with this war. The Tories seem never to have heard of what we did at Blenheim or, if they have, they choose to disregard it. Thank heaven we still have so many staunch friends back in England.'

'None stauncher than Her Majesty, the Queen,' said Cardonnel.

'My dear wife must take some credit there, Adam. Queen Anne and the Duchess are as close as sisters.'

'I've known sisters who do nothing but squabble.'

'Happily, that's not the case here.' Marlborough was jolted as the coach came to a sudden halt. 'What's going on?'

'A courier,' said his secretary, looking through the window. 'He's riding hard. He must be bringing a billet-doux from Slangenberg.'

Marlborough laughed and waited for the horseman to arrive. Even though he was in transit, he received a regular supply of dispatches and private correspondence. It kept him in touch with events elsewhere and alleviated the monotony of travel. When the courier pulled up outside the coach, Marlborough descended to take a pile of letters from him. After enquiring about the man's journey, he thanked him for the latest delivery then climbed back into the coach. He immediately began to sift through the missives. Spotting one that had been sent from Paris, he opened it first. His jaw tightened as he read the message. 'Is it bad news, Your Grace?' asked Cardonnel. 'Yes, Adam,' said Marlborough, passing the letter to him. 'One of our most reliable agents in Paris has been discovered and hanged. As for Emanuel Janssen, it appears that he's entombed in the Bastille.' 'The Bastille!'