Drums of War (14 page)

'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 delight, 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.

'There
you are, Dan,' he said, inserting a new batch into the oven. 'When it's cooled
down a little, you can have a taste.'

'Thank
you. It smells wonderful.'

'Tempt
the nose and fill the belly — that's my motto.'

As
the hours rolled by, Paris came slowly awake and the noise from the street
steadily increased in volume. Traders went past on their way to market,
followed by housewives in search of the best bargains and the freshest meat.
Some of the bread was destined for a stall there. It would still be warm when
it was handed over. There was a shop at the front of the bakery and many of the
loaves were stacked on the shelves in there. The old woman who ran the shop was
a distant relative of Emile Rousset. She lumbered in well before the place was
due to open. Candles burnt in the bakery but much of the light came from the
ovens. Every time one of them was opened, a bright glow illumined the whole
room and filled it with a gust of warm air. The assistants chatted amiably to
each other. Flynn liked to sing Irish songs out of tune as he worked.

When
the sky began to lighten outside, Daniel turned to glance through the window.
The first thing he saw was his own reflection and he was jolted. Having dressed
in the dark earlier on, he'd not been able to inspect the coat that had been
torn and scuffed during the death grapple with Jacques Serval. Now that he did
so, he saw to his amazement that the tear had been expertly mended and the dirt
had been brushed off. The repair could only have happened while he was asleep
with the coat over the chair beside him. Daniel couldn't believe that someone
could remove the garment without disturbing him.

Though
he'd washed his hands before they left, Flynn's face and hair were still
flecked with white flour. The cart was now loaded with bread and loaves were
delivered to various customers.

Dozens
were dropped off at the market. Flynn didn't only deal in large deliveries.
Daniel was touched to see him hand over two loaves to an elderly couple, too
infirm to walk all the way to the shop. It was towards the end of the round
that Daniel finally caught sight of the Bastille. While Flynn was delivering
bread to a tavern in an adjacent boulevard, Daniel slipped around the corner
into the Rue Saint-Antoine.

He
stared up at the forbidding exterior of the Bastille. It was an enormous
structure. Built as a gate during the Hundred Years' War, it had been
considerably extended to create a looming fortress. The irregular rectangle had
eight towers that seemed to climb up into the sky. What made it particularly
daunting was that the walls and the towers were the same height and connected
by a broad terrace. It meant that soldiers inside the stronghold could move
quickly to the point of attack without having to go up and down the circular
staircases in the towers. A wide moat completed its defences.

Somewhere
inside the prison was Emanuel Janssen. Finding a means of rescuing him seemed
an impossible task. Yet it had to be attempted. On the ride back to the bakery,
Daniel heard very little of Flynn's hearty monologue because his mind was
fettered to the Bastille.

Charlotte
Flynn had been uneasy at the threat of having her home invaded by strangers.
Now that they were actually there, however, she found them less intrusive than
she feared. Dopff helped to make and serve breakfast while Beatrix seized a
broom and started to clean the house. All of Amalia's maternal instincts were
aroused when she set eyes on Louise and she couldn't stop smiling as she
cuddled the baby. When she was alone with Charlotte in the parlour, she was reluctant
to yield up the child to its mother.

As
Daniel had advised, Amalia did not reveal how much of the French language she'd
mastered. Instead, she spoke haltingly and deliberately groped for words so
that conversation with Charlotte was laboured. There was one thing that she
wished to make clear.

'While
we here,' she said, 'we help, yes?'

'Thank
you,' replied Charlotte, gratefully. 'Until last week, we had a servant but
Ronan caught her stealing and got rid of her. We are looking for someone else.'

'With
baby, the help you need.'

'We
know that.'

Sensing
that Amalia was in some kind of trouble, Charlotte warmed to her. The two of
them went off to market together. While Charlotte chose the food, Amalia
insisted on paying for it. As a reward for her generosity, she was allowed to
carry the baby on the journey home. When they got back to the house, it was
visibly tidier. Beatrix felt much happier in her role as a servant and knew how
to keep out of the way. Seeing the food bought at the market, Dopff's face
became more expressive than ever. It was clear that he was volunteering to
prepare the next meal.

Daniel
and Flynn eventually returned and walked in on a quiet domestic scene. Amalia
was rocking the baby in its wooden crib while Charlotte was mending a dress. At
the sight of needle and thread, Daniel recalled the repair made to his coat and
wondered if Charlotte had been responsible. Since he'd been away from his wife
and child for so long, it was evident that Flynn would appreciate some time
alone with them. Daniel therefore invited Amalia to join him in a walk. They
stepped out into the sunshine.

'What
have you been doing?' she asked.

'I
watched Ronan make bread then helped to deliver it.'

'Why
did you do that, Captain Rawson?'

'His
delivery round took him close to the prison where your lather is being held,'
explained Daniel. 'I wanted to take a look at it.'

Amalia
came to a halt. 'Where is it?'

He'd
deliberately not told her before because he knew that she'd be distressed.
Amalia had been in Paris for several months. In that time, she'd surely have
heard of the Bastille and been aware of its reputation. It was a place where
political prisoners were kept in chains and where those who'd offended the King
in some way were routinely dispatched. Many who entered the grim portals never
came out alive again. Emanuel Janssen could not be in a worse place.

'Well,'
she pressed, 'which prison is it?'

She
had to be told. 'The Bastille,' he said. 'Oh!'

Amalia
almost swooned and he had to support her with both hands for a moment. Thanking
him for his help, she eased him away and made an effort to compose herself.
They continued their walk.

'I
can see why you didn't tell me earlier,' she said.

'You've
had enough distress in the last twenty-four hours, Miss Janssen. I had no wish
to add to it.'

'That
was considerate of you.' She turned to him in despair. 'I've heard the most
terrible stories about the Bastille. We drove past it in a coach once and the
very sight of it frightened me. I'm horrified to think that Father is locked up
in there.'

'It
shows that he's still alive,' said Daniel, trying to strike an optimistic note.
'That's a sign of clemency.'

'Should
I make an appeal for mercy to the King?'

'Oh,
no, Miss Janssen. It would certainly be rejected and you would give your
whereabouts away. After what happened to the man who watched your house, the
police will be looking for you and the others. That's why I brought you to a
part of the city where they'd be unlikely to search. I want them to think that
you've left Paris.'

'I
could never do that while Father is still here.'

'You
may not have to,' he said.