Drums of War (22 page)

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 his 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.