Drums of War (17 page)

'Yes,
sir.'

'My
name is Bermutier -
Sergeant
Bermutier.'

'I'll
be here on time, Sergeant,'

Bermutier
gave him full details of how long he'd be expected to work, where he'd be
assigned and what wage he could expect if he proved himself capable. Daniel
thanked him before being let out through the door. As it closed behind him with
a loud thud, he was profoundly grateful. Even during his brief visit to the
place, he'd felt extremely oppressed by the high, thick walls of the Bastille.
He could imagine how much worse it was to be imprisoned there.

Ronan
Flynn was a genial host. Unfailingly pleasant to Amalia and Dopff, he was so
impressed by the way that Beatrix had cleaned the house that he jokingly
offered her a permanent job there. Amalia didn't even bother to translate the
words into Dutch for her servant. She knew that Beatrix was as eager as she to
leave Paris altogether and would hope never to set foot in France again. While
they were there, however, it was important for the visitors to express their
gratitude by giving the Flynn family ample time on their own. That was what
prompted Amalia to take Beatrix for a walk that afternoon. Dopff, meanwhile,
retreated to the attic.

Alone
with his wife and child, Flynn sat in a chair and dandled Louise on his knee,
chuckling as she gave him her toothless grin and happy burble. Charlotte
watched them fondly. Her thoughts then turned to their guests.

'They're
very good,' she conceded. 'They've been no trouble while you were at the
bakery. Amalia looked after Louise for me.'

'They
all adore her.'

'Yes,
she's getting a lot of attention from them.'

'She
deserves it,' he said, lifting the child high to shake her before bringing her
down and planting a kiss on her forehead.'

'Where
is your friend, Daniel?'

'He'll
be back in a few days, my darling.'

'A
few
days",
echoed Charlotte. "They've
already been here two nights. I thought they'd have been on their way by now.'

'Dan
has some business to see to first.'

'What
kind of business?'

'He
didn't say.'

'There
are lots of things he hasn't told you, Ronan. He hasn't said why they're all
here, for a start. And he hasn't explained why they're all so nervous.'

'They're
nervous because they're in a strange house in a foreign country and unable to
speak the language.'

'Then
what are they doing here? Why come to Paris when they can't speak French and
when they have nowhere to stay?'

'Who
knows?' said Flynn, tolerantly. 'I don't want to poke my nose into their
business. I told you how Dan Rawson came to my aid when I was captured by the
enemy. He risked his life to do that, Charlotte, and it's not something you
forget in a hurry, believe me. I owe him a great deal. These people are

Dan's
friends and I was willing to help. I'd hoped that you'd be just as willing, my
darling.'

'I
am,' she said, 'in some ways.'

Seeing
her concern, he put the baby gently into the crib then took his wife by the
shoulders. He kissed her tenderly.

'Something
is upsetting you, isn't it?'

She
shook her head. 'It puzzles me, Ronan, that's all.'

'What
does?'

'Why
they seem so ill at ease and whisper in corners.'

'You
can't accuse Kees of whispering anywhere,' he said with a laugh. 'The poor
fellow can't utter a word.'

'He's
the one who puzzles me most. I never know what he's thinking. Have you seen
what he has up there in the attic?'

'A
lot of dust and spiders' webs, I daresay.'

'I
slipped up there when he was in the garden.'

'You
shouldn't pry, Charlotte.'

'This
is our house,' she said with spirit. 'I've the right to go anywhere I like in
it. That's why I went up to the attic.'

'And
what did you find there?' asked Flynn.

'I
found a tapestry. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and must be
worth a small fortune. Do you understand why I'm so puzzled now?' she asked.
'Why does a man like that have such a valuable tapestry with him?'

'Follow
me and do as I do,' ordered the Frenchman.

'I
will,' said Daniel.

'And
don't breathe in too deeply.'

'Why?'

'You'll
soon find out.'

Daniel
arrived for work late that evening to be met by another duty sergeant. He was
issued with a nondescript uniform, the most significant feature of which was
the thick leather belt to which a large metal ring of keys was attached. His
partner for the night was Jules Rivot, a fat, slovenly man in his forties with
a dark complexion. Rivot's manner was less than friendly and his face was a
study in solemnity. Daniel could smell the beer on his breath. He trailed round
obediently after the Frenchman. Rivot was slow and methodical. Patently hating
the work, he unloaded as much of it as he could on Daniel.

'Give
this one more water,' he said.

'Yes,'
replied Daniel, filling a cup with a brackish liquid out of a wooden bucket
before passing it through the bars to a prisoner. 'What about food?'

'He
gets none till breakfast and only if I'm in a good mood.'

That
seemed highly unlikely to Daniel but he said nothing. Rivot's warning had been
timely. The reek was so powerful at first that it made him retch. He'd been
assigned to the
cachots,
cold, dark, slimy,
vermin-infested cells below ground where people were locked away and often
forgotten. Some had clearly been there for a very long time because their
clothes had worn away to shreds. One man, a human skeleton with hair down to
his shoulders and a beard down to his chest, was almost naked. Rivot showed
them no compassion. He simply held up his lantern so that he could see the
occupants of each cell. The prisoners knew better than to try to talk to him
but the sight of a new face roused a few of them. They came to the doors and
gave Daniel ingratiating smiles.

'Ignore
the bastards,' advised Rivot. 'They all want favours.'

'They
don't seem to get any of those.'

'Not
when I'm on duty.'

'Are
all the prisoners kept in these foul conditions?'

'These
are the ones nobody cares about,' said Rivot. 'We bury them underground like so
many corpses. It's just as bad in the
calottes,
the cells under the roof. They're open to the weather up there. They get soaked
by the rain and burnt by the sun. In winter, some of them freeze to death.'

'What
crimes have they committed?' asked Daniel.

'It
doesn't matter.'

'Are
they thieves or kidnappers?'

'They
upset important people.'

Daniel
knew that the King had sent many of the inmates there by means of
lettres de cachet,
a pernicious document that had
victims thrown into a rank cell without any judicial process. There was no
appeal against such an indeterminate sentence. Louis XI V's favourites were
also indulged. If one of them suffered a slight or was openly insulted, the
offender could find himself deprived of his liberty on a royal whim. During
their dismal tour of the
cachots,
Daniel checked every name and looked through every set of bars. Relieved that
Emanuel Janssen was not among the miserable wretches kept there, he feared that
the Dutchman might be housed instead under the roof and exposed to the
elements. In some weathers, that amounted to continuous torture.

Some
time during the night, they had a break from their duties and shared a tankard
of beer and a piece of bread with the other turnkeys. Rivot preferred to eat in
silence but one of the men was more talkative. He told Daniel that not everyone
in the Bastille was treated like those in the
cachots.
Those imprisoned on the middle
level of the towers had a more comfortable time. Being locked up was their only
punishment. To relieve the boredom, they were allowed books, writing materials,
visitors, pets and, if they could afford to pay for it, excellent food and
wine.

'We
had a Duke in there last year,' confided the man, 'and he lived in luxury. He
was even allowed to have his mistress in the cell twice a week.' Nudging
Daniel, he cackled. 'It must have been interesting to watch them in bed
together. They say she was a beauty.'

'Who
looks after prisoners like that?' asked Daniel.

'Not
the likes of you and me. We only deal with the dross down here, my friend. Only
the lucky ones get to work up there. They can earn a lot of money sometimes.'

'By
taking bribes, you mean?'

'By
doing a few favours,' said the man.

Daniel
was heartened for the first time. It might be that Janssen had been given
privileges as well. If he was imprisoned somewhere on the middle level of a
tower, his health might not have deteriorated. His tapestries had earned him
substantial rewards. Janssen would be rich enough to buy concessions from his
gaolers. That vague hope helped to sustain Daniel through the long, malodorous,
depressing hours below ground with inmates who might never see the light of day
again. He put up with Rivot's bleak companionship and learnt not to be startled
when a rat darted across his path. When his stint finally came to an end, he
climbed back up into the courtyard and had to shield his eyes from the sun for
several minutes.

He
looked up at the imposing towers, wondering in which one of them Janssen was
being kept. Daniel would never have the time or opportunity to search them all
in rotation. He had to find another way to locate the tapestry-maker. He
remembered the ledger that the duty sergeant used to check people in and out.
That would surely contain the names and whereabouts of prisoners as well.
Daniel had to gain access to it somehow. For the time being, however, he had to
content himself with what he'd so far achieved. He was inside the Bastille and
he'd acquired a convincing disguise. Further progress would have to wait. What
he needed most now was fresh air, the chance to wash and a reviving sleep.

Major
Simon Cracknell came into Tom Hillier's life when he least expected it. The
drummer had been on the edge of the camp with Hugh Dobbs, throwing missiles
playfully at him and trying to dodge the ones that were aimed at him. Twigs,
clumps of grass and handfuls of earth flew through the air until Cracknell
suddenly appeared. Both of the youths immediately dropped their next missile and
stood self-consciously to attention.

'Is
this
how you spend your time?' said
the major, looking at the dirty marks on their uniforms. 'You should be ashamed
of yourselves.'

'We're
sorry, Major,' said Dobbs.

'How
long have you been in the army?'

'Four
years, sir.'

'Then
you should have grown out of these childish games.'

'We
were doing no harm, sir.'

'Yes,
you were,' said Cracknell. 'Apart from anything else, you were soiling your
uniforms. This regiment prides itself on its appearance and your coats are
covered in filth. What the devil did the pair of you think you were doing?'

'It
won't happen again, Major,' said Dobbs. 'Tom and I didn't mean to get dirty. It
was just horseplay.'

'Disappear
and clean up that uniform. No, not you, Hillier,' said Cracknell as he tried to
leave with Dobbs. 'I want to speak to you.'

'Yes,
Major,' said Hillier, stopping in his tracks.

'What
do you have to say for yourself?'

'I
apologise, sir.'

'How
often does this kind of thing happen?'

'It's
the first time, sir.'

'Don't
tell lies, boy!'

'Hugh
Dobbs and I have never done this before.'

'Then
what's this I hear about your getting into a fight?'

Hillier
was startled. 'That was nothing, sir,' he said, guiltily.

'It's
evidence of gross indiscipline and I deplore it.' He stood very close to the
young drummer. 'Do you know who I am?'

'I
think that you must be Major Cracknell, sir.'

'And
how did you decide
that
, I wonder?' said the officer,
leaning over to whisper in his ear. 'Could it be that your uncle told you about
me, perhaps?'

'I
have no uncle in this regiment, sir.'

'What
else is Sergeant Welbeck?'

'The
sergeant made it clear to me that family ties have no place in the army, sir.
I've accepted that I'm no longer his nephew.'