He poured them both a second cup of wine and they shared army reminiscences for a while. When his friend was in a mellow mood, Daniel turned to another subject.
'What do you know about the Bastille?' he asked.
'I know that I'd much rather be outside its walls than inside.'
'It's in the Rue Saint-Antoine, isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Flynn, 'and I get quite close to it when I deliver my bread. It gives me the shivers. My father-in-law would love to have the contract to provide bread for the Bastille itself but one of his rivals has got that. Mind you,' he went on, 'the bread probably only goes to the turnkeys. They starve any prisoners locked away in there. What are you interested in the Bastille for?'
'I've heard so many tales about it. If your delivery round takes you in that direction, you must have a wide circle of customers.'
'They've heard how tasty Flynn bread is. Strictly speaking, it's Rousset bread because my father-in-law taught me everything I know. There's a real art to baking, Dan. It took me a year to master it.'
'I'd like to see you at work, Ronan.'
'You won't get much sleep if you do that.'
'Who cares?' said Daniel, intrigued by the fact that Flynn would be going close to the Bastille. 'I'm used to broken nights. Would I be in the way if I came with you to the bakery tomorrow?'
'No,' said Flynn, 'you can help to load the cart.'
'In that case, I'll snatch a few hours' sleep while I can.' He drank the last of his wine. 'I can't thank you enough, Ronan. You helped us in our hour of need. We simply couldn't have stayed where we were.'
When the body of Jacques Serval was discovered that night, the police were informed at once. While some of them removed the corpse, others rushed to the house occupied by the Dutch visitors. Two constables were sent around to the rear of the building to block off any attempt at escape then someone banged loudly on the door. When there was no response, he pounded even harder with his fist. Still nobody stirred within the house. Forced entry was required. Two of the heftiest men threw their combined strength at the door until the lock gave way and it swung open on its hinges. Policemen poured into the dark house with lanterns and searched every room. When they met again in the hall, it was the sergeant who summed up the situation.
'They've gone,' he declared, purple with fury. 'We must catch them before they can leave Paris.'
Chapter Eight
Tom Hillier was disappointed. Army life was neither as thrilling nor as rewarding as he thought it would be. He had left the safety of his farm and family back in England in the hope of adventure abroad and it had not been forthcoming. Expecting to take an active part in famous victories, he'd twice been denied the chance to march into battle and had spent most of his time being drilled or moving from place to place. The novelty of being in a foreign country had soon worn off. He began to feel homesick. Of all the things that had disillusioned him, the most painful was the way in which his uncle had effectively disowned him. Though he'd only known Welbeck from the sergeant's letters, and from what his mother had told him about her brother, Hillier had an image of him as a hero and wanted to emulate his achievements. Yet he'd been rebuffed in the most hurtful way.
Set against the disappointments was one consolation. Having fought the drummer who'd been teasing him remorselessly, he not only won the contest but made himself a real friend in the process. In beating Hugh Dobbs, he'd earned his respect. Dobbs was a sturdy, potato-faced youth of eighteen summers with a roguish grin and a dislike of authority. He gave Hillier a lot of useful advice about the technique of drumming and told him lively tales about the regiment's involvement in the victory at Blenheim. Dobbs also acted as a kind of unofficial biographer to Daniel Rawson and the new recruit never tired of hearing tales of the captain's exploits. As they lay side by side that night in the tent they shared with the other drummers, Dobbs resumed his narrative.
'Do you know what else Captain Rawson did?'
'No,' said Hillier, attentively.
'I overheard Lieutenant Ainley talking about it,' said Dobbs, 'so it must be true. When the captain was sent across the border to act as a spy, he captured some dispatches from a French courier then dressed up in the man's uniform and delivered them in person to Marshal Villeroi.'
Hillier gaped. 'He rode into the French camp?'
'He rode out again as well with Villeroi's dispatches to King Louis. Who else would have the nerve to do that?'
'Who else would take part in a Forlorn Hope?'
'Yes,' said Dobbs, 'Captain Rawson has done that twice now. When we reached the Danube last year, he joined in the Forlorn Hope at the Schellenberg. Most of the others were killed on the slope but he survived to fight on.'
'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
