Edward Marston

Soldier of Fortune

It was work that Charles Catto chose to do on his own. He had to visit places where Frederic Seurel's nationality would provoke hostility. His friend therefore stayed behind in their lodging while Catto began his search, aware that Seurel would come into his own later when their quarry had been run to earth. Catto not only knew the London inns frequented by soldiers, he was able to pass himself off convincingly as a former member of the British army.

At the first two places he visited, he had no luck. The name of Daniel Rawson meant nothing to any of the discharged soldiers, carousing noisily and boasting about their military triumphs. All that they wished to do was to drink, smoke their pipes, play cards, sing out of tune and flirt with the resident prostitutes at the Drum, a lively tavern in Southwark, he had better fortune. The atmosphere was so boisterous that Catto had to shout in order be heard above the din but someone did eventually recognise the name that he mentioned.

'Captain Rawson?' said the man. 'Yes, I know him.'

'So he's a captain, is he?'

'That's right, sir.'

'What can you tell me about him?'

'I can't tell you nothin' with my throat so dry.'

'Let me buy you some more ale,' offered Catto, ready to pay for information. 'Take that seat in the corner and I'll join you.'

The man followed his suggestion. Though still in his twenties, he seemed much older and had good reason to curse his army career. In one skirmish against the French, he had lost an arm, an eye and all of his good looks. He was in constant pain yet his injuries had not dimmed his respect for Daniel Rawson.

'He was the best officer I ever served under,' he said when Catto brought two tankards across and sat beside him.