Prince of the Caribbean

By Michael Weintraub

Set against the Monmouth Rebellion of 1685, Tim Dawkins finds his quiet life in Brixham torn away as his father, a tinker and gunsmith is arrested for selling a pistol to a nobleman who used it in the killing of an officer at the Battle of Sedgemoor. Tim escapes and is kept hid from the soldiers by the town tavern keeper until he learns that his father has been sentenced is to be transported as slave labor to the Caribbean. He then sets off to see his father one last time, and with the aid of a wagon driver who finds him along the road to Taunton Castle, makes his way to the docks of Bristol just in time to see his father taken on board the last vessel putting out. Tim sneaks aboard, and hides below to avoid being seen; but after falling asleep in the cargo hold he awakens hours later to find the ship has put out and he now an unintended stowaway.
Tim is soon discovered and sentenced by the harsh-tempered captain to the same fate as the jailed rebels. He is literally thrown into the brig, only to be with his father as he dies uttering “I won’t rest till I see you in safe hands”.
Just as life seems to be at an end for Tim, he is shaken by a cannon ball crashing through the hull as the ship engages in battle. Now sinking the captain surrenders and the ship is boarded by pirates; Tim is liberated and on emerging topside he comes face to face with his would be rescuer, Raphael Sabatini’s legendary mercenary-turned-physician-turned pirate, Peter Blood. As the English sailors take to the longboats Tim pleads with Peter to take him with them instead; Peter reluctantly agrees and places him in the care of the two men who found him in the brig, the gentle giant Ben Croft and scrawny Dandy; but once aboard The Arabella a fire rises inside Tim. He throws an iron bolt at the captain he blames for his father’s death, striking him in the eye and knocking him over the side of the longboat, almost drowning him.
Peter decides that it’s best for Tim to find a proper situation in a friendly port rather than keep him on board a pirate ship; but they soon learn from the Governor of Tortola, the pirate known as Black Henry, that Tim blinded the captain, and in seeking revenge has placed a bounty on his head so high as to turn any man honest. With no safe haven, Peter resignedly makes Tim part of the crew and brings him on his day to day voyage between “Perdition and Purgatory”, as the men without a country wait for the other side of the calendar, the day when James II will be dethroned. But for Peter the waiting is more than that as he harbors an aching heart for his lost love, spouting Shakespeare all the while.
Tim’s journeys with Peter take him on a tour of the Caribbean of the 17th century; from French boucaniers of Hispaniola, Dutchmen sailing from Curacao, Jewish arms merchants on Sint Eustatius and on to battling Spanish Conquistadors; and all whom he meets believe that Tim is really Peter’s son, including the man they find stranded on their private island, ‘Nuthin’ Atoll’: London’s most well-known black Shakespearean actor. Throughout this journey Tim comes into his own amongst the men of the crew, demonstrating resourcefulness and quick thinking, courage under fire, prowess with the pistol and of all things, a natural-born master of the sword second only to Peter. But neither his skills or bravery will be of any avail when he faces what will be the young man’s most frightening challenge: the affections of the Governor’s daughter. Hoping to ease his own aching heart, Peter enlists Tim’s friends in a plan to further the cause of love and reunite his young Romeo with a most willing Juliet.

Filled with historic references with a humorous blending of British slang and Shakespeare, “Prince of the Caribbean” is anything but a pirate story, but rather a boy’s coming of age under the guidance of an unlikely but colorful collection of foster fathers, each of whom is grabbing at the last shred of a life torn away from them, a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Weintraub
• Release date: Jun 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463036563

Michael Weintraub

I earned my B.A. in English/Writing from Hofstra University (1978) during which time I studied with then writer-in-residence Sam Toperoff (greatest influences: G.B.S. and Vonnegut) just love a good B&W swashbuckler and gumshoe film, and am hopelessly addicted to Brit-Coms. A chiropractor by training but actor by nature, I now teach Anatomy and Physiology at Pace University and Westchester, Bronx and Orange Community Colleges. My completed works include “Prince of the Caribbean” (© 2019 Smashwords) “The Shamus: A Gumshoe’s Odyssey” (Sci-Fi/Fantasy, © 2011 Smashwords)-- a dutiful retelling of Homer’s classic tale, “The Anatomy and Physiology Survival Kit” (Non-fiction, reference ©2012, 2017 Kendall Hunt Publishing), “A Million Lights For Joey” (TV Movie 90 minutes: Holiday/Family), how an eight-year-old Jewish girl from Queens tries to get one million Christmas lights on her house so an angel will bring her older brother home from the war in Viet Nam, and “Parables: A Tool for Self-Evolution” (New Age; self-published): channeled divination cards and readings.

Book preview

cover.jpg

Prince of the Caribbean

By

Michael Robert Weintraub

Copyright 2018 Michael Robert Weintraub

Published by Michael Robert Weintraub At Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

For my Jenny,

Chapter 1

Young King David

He was born a tinker’s son, or at least that was what his father Robert Dawkins wanted people to believe; a simple man doing simple things with his craft, repairing metals and fashioning new articles for everyday convenience in one’s home. He was a talented man with his hands. But he used his talents in other areas that he kept quietly on the side, which in the long run became unfortunate for during the reign of King James II it was not so much a crime to fashion weapons but rather to whom one would sell them. And in Brixham, and all of Devon County for that matter, few men had any love of the new monarch they would come to call The Usurper and would gladly see him tossed off the throne. And like so many men in those early days of February 1685 he too looked forward to the day that the Duke of Monmouth would cross the Channel and send the tyrant packing.

But we need to go back 15 years from the present tense to happier times for Robert Dawkins and his new bride Jayne. They had a comfortable start in life together; he acquired a shop in the upper village near the harbor on Fore Street, above which they made a home and there, with his forge and hands he honed his crafts, one as tinker and the other as gunsmith and knife maker. And as already said he was quite talented and whatever he fashioned had a distinct beauty to it. Even the simplest pot for the hearth for a common house was a work of art. And call it vanity or pride he stamped all that he made with his trademark, RD/Brixham so that all would know who had created such finery and where to find the artisan. And as fate would have it this tiny stamp would become the vehicle of his doom.

Jayne Dawkins was a religious woman of strong faith; her husband, on the other hand, was more interested in the requirements of providing for the current life than the one that waited for all of us ahead. But he was dutiful in his devotion to her and like a good spouse he kept the Sabbath and attended St. Mary’s Church with her every Sunday and sang his Hymns. And all the while that he sat and listened to the Vicar’s sermons he wondered what would the Great Judge think of him when his time on Earth was up, as a man who fashioned pistols and knives which had only one purpose in life, to take it. And so he kept this part of his business secreted from his loving wife knowing that she would disapprove of it regardless that a great part of his financial success came from its commerce. And to further keep it hidden he never sold either of those products from his shop but rather on his monthly sojourns throughout the many towns in Devon, for part of his commerce came from traveling on a regular basis.

And how he would return home each time with such a purse full of coppers, silver coins and even gold pieces, all of which he would always hand over to her saying Mother, place these in a safe spot for days to come, her never knowing that the copper and silver came from the sale of his copper and tin products. But it was for the fine pistols and knives that he was paid in gold. And he thought it best to live the life of a simple tinker while they were young and have the gold waiting for them when they were older, for why else would they call them the golden years.

And as life would have it with the commerce between husband and wife, Jayne was soon with child and now Robert worked all the more industrious in preparation for raising a family. But sorrow so often befalls joy, and Jayne, like Eve and so many of her daughters through the ages, was condemned to bear her child in pain and suffering, and in the act of giving life she gave up her own to the sepsis that followed leaving her husband both widower and father. And so this is how Timothy Dawkins came into the world.

Robert Dawkins was not the first man to find himself a father and without a wife; many men would have blamed themselves, or the blamed the child, and even blamed God Himself and descended into anger and drink. But Robert Dawkins looked into the face of his newborn son and saw the face of his beloved Jayne. He could hear her voice telling him to not grieve but to be joyful with the life she had given him to share his with. And so he thought of her strong faith and knew she would say it is God’s Will and God’s Plan. And he vowed at that moment to keep his faith and devote his life to his son and her memory.

It was at her funeral that Jayne’s sister offered to take the boy and raise him as her own. It would free him of the responsibility and give him the chance to start life again with a new wife she told him. But he refused saying he would raise their son himself because it would be what Jayne wanted. And within months many women came to his shop to court him, offering to be wife and mother to the boy because that’s what a man needed. But he would have no other than his Jayne for there was no room in his heart for anyone else except her memory and his son. And with them both there it was filled to the brim.

And so Robert Dawkins took it upon himself to be both mother and father to young Tim. He kept him at his side all the day while he worked his craft in his downstairs shop, and by night he read out loud to him from the family Bible while he lay in his cradle. And in keeping with what would be his late Jayne’s wishes he took the boy to St. Mary’s Church every Sunday. But immersed in the waters as he was, he found no solace there, always feeling the loneliness of her loss.

When the boy was old enough Robert became his son’s teacher, both of the art of the tinker and metal smith by day and reading and writing by night, and it soon became Tim’s turn to do the evening reading. By day the boy was an excellent apprentice, scrutinizing his father’s hands as he worked. But what interested him more than the pots and pans were the pistols that his father meticulously fashioned and embellished with artistic engraving. But Robert never engaged the boy’s hands in those areas, keeping him to the craft of the tinker.

Once, when Tim was 10 or so, he asked why his father never taught him any part of the art of gun making.

Better to become a fine tinker for now Tim, so when you’re of age we can place you as apprentice with a silversmith in a big city like London. So you move up in life.

But Tim was his father’s son and said all he wanted was to be just like his father in every way.

They had this conversation many times until one day Robert spoke with his son at length. People are just like metals he began. When you’re a tinker you work with common ones; copper, brass and pewter, and the folk you come in contact with are just the same. Nothing wrong with them mind you, just common, salt of the earth, going nowhere in life except the next morning. Silver now, or even gold; well, now you’re talking precious metals and upper class and refined types. Folk that plan for tomorrow, for the future and not just the next day. You’d be working with people that can help you pull yourself up in life Tim, be more than just a commoner. Those are the like you want be knobbing your elbows to. Now the metals I use for pistols, well, the type that come looking for them you’ll want no need to associate with. Trust your old Dad on that one lad. For no matter the cut of their clothing or the clarity of their speech, there’s a reason why they want them—and they won’t be using them to serve another man tea.

I’m old enough to know what they’re for, Father. It’s just I could help you more in your trade. All you need do is let me try my hands at it. And who says I even want to apprentice with a silversmith and leave Brixham. I always thought you wanted to change that shop sign to ‘Dawkins and Son’. And what’s wrong with the people we know? And who says wealthy people are better to be around. And I’ve heard too many stories of how money doesn’t bring happiness. Why don’t you at least teach me?

Robert sat quiet for a moment. Because your mother wouldn’t approve of it, Tim. She’d have no part of it. And I honor her memory by raising you as she would see fit, rest her blessed soul.

Tim could see how sad his father became at this. She told you this about your gun making, Father?

She never knew. I kept it secret from her. And it was only because I could make more money by selling them. And I wanted more for her. I wanted a better life for her—and you, but that was before you were born. But I gave her every penny I took in. That part I didn’t hide.

Why would she have protested? It’s not crime to make them and sell them. It’s only a trade, a profession.

It’s because of what they’re used for, Tim. He paused for a moment. You never knew your mother, Tim. I’m sorry for that. She was a saintly woman. She believed in the words of the Bible to the letter. And what did God tell Moses to tell the children of Israel? Hmm?

Tim knew the answer his father was looking for and quietly responded Thou shall not kill.

Right. And for that reason I knew she wouldn’t approve of me making and selling anything that could be used in the taking of another life. And while there’s still a breath of air in me I must honor her spirit by never teaching you the ways of those arts. He looked upward as if waiting to hear his wife’s approval.

But Father, guns and knives don’t kill men—it’s the men that use them.

Robert chuckled. Oh, if your mother were only here. What a row you two would have. Trust me lad, I learned early enough not to tread there with her, God bless her. And that’s that now, isn’t it, my fine young master-tinker-to-be.

But what if I choose to do things my way?

You’re still just a boy, Tim. So for now, you’ll have to be content being a good son and do as your father says. When you’re a man you can make your own decisions. So until then we’ll have no more of this, eh?

Yes, father.

Stick to throwing stones. I’ve watched you at it. Good arm you’ve got there lad, and aim—Oh I’d pity Goliath at 100 yards if he came in your eye sight. Now who needs a gun when you can fling a rock like you do.

And the man was right about that regarding young Tim’s prowess at throwing stones. Yes he apprenticed each day by his father’s side and took with him on his regular rounds of the towns of Devon County. But he still had time to be a boy, throwing stones and climbing tall trees. But one day in particular his ability with a rock in hand brought him local fame.

It was a cold, gray day in December 1684. As Tim stepped out of the shop that morning he heard a commotion of people yelling and running into any door they could find.

Mad dog! Mad dog! Run! he heard one man cry out and in looking into the street he saw a woman and her young daughter fleeing. The child stumbled and fell. The mother stopped to pick her up and froze as she looked down the street to see the rabid animal charging for them. Without even thinking Tim dashed into the street, and swooping down on his right while still running at breakneck speed he snatched a stone from the gutter and jumped in front of the two. And with a cold stare into the animal’s eyes he waited until it was in range and threw, striking the poor animal between the eyes, killing it on the spot.

Tim stood in a daze; he knew he had killed the beast, but he had never killed anything before; not even a bird or squirrel. People who saw what he had done came running back into the street cheering at him, calling him a hero. But he felt more like crying than rejoicing. Before he knew what was happening two men hoisted him up on their shoulders and started to parade him around as everyone joined in calling out thanks to the brave young lad who saved the two.

His father emerged from the shop to see what was about.

There’s the lad’s father! someone cried out. Your boy’s a hero Robert Dawkins!

What’s all this then? he asked

He’s saved Mrs. Bartlett and her daughter from that rabid beast in the street—Just like young King David and the lion! said the town baker.

They carried Tim over to the shop. Robert looked upward into his son’s eyes and could see the anguish he was harboring. Well done, Tim. Well done, lad. He motioned with his arms towards his son and the men holding him eased him down. Robert swept an arm around him and pressed Tim into his side. There’s a brave lad, eh. You’ve done well Tim. I’m proud of you. He spoke quietly.

You should be, Bob Dawkins! That boy ran into the street, stared the beast down and with one throw sent it to its Maker! Just as quick as pudding! said Tom Croyden, the tavern keeper. How say I open the pub and we all drink to our hero! And all the men in the small crowd answered Aye! To Tim! and cheered.

But Robert slowly raised his free hand and with quiet smile said Thank you friends, thank you all. But I can see the all the excitement has shaken the boy. I think it best I take him in for now and let him rest a bit. Sighs of understanding murmured about in response. Perhaps we’ll stop by later this evening, Mr. Croyden. You understand.

Aye, Robert nodding. A wee bit too much excitement for one day, eh young Tim? Like you say, maybe later. He turned and motioned for the others to go about their business and leave the father and son alone. But as Robert turned to their shop door Mrs. Bartlett, the woman Tim had saved, knelt before him down and kissed him on the cheek.

God bless you, Tim. Thank you for coming to our rescue. Tim remained silent. She stood up and looked into Robert’s eyes. Your good wife Jayne is surely watching from Heaven right now and is proud of her son, Robert Dawkins. You do her honor by the boy you raised. God bless you. She took her daughter by the hand and walked away.

They stepped into the shop; Robert closed the door behind them and looked into his son’s face. Well then… and opened his arms wide. Tim dove into them and wrapped his arms around his father and began to cry.

I killed it, Father! I killed it, Father! I killed that poor dog!

There now, Tim

I didn’t even know what I was doing! I wasn’t even thinking. I just saw them in street looking so frightened—and then I saw that dog running towards them—and then I just suddenly hated that dog with all my might—and I just wanted to kill it! I really wanted to kill it—and I did! He cried even harder now.

All right now, settle down, settle down son. He held him and slowly rocked from side to side. Tim began to quiet down a bit. But while still sobbing, almost at a whisper

I killed it…I killed it…

Robert knelt down and held Tim in front him at arms’ length. And in a reassuring tone That’s right Tim. You did kill it. But the animal was sick, diseased in the brain. What you did was mercy to the poor thing for it would have soon died painfully. You saved it from that pain. And you saved Mrs. Bartlett and her child from that animal—for if the animal bit them they both would face the same horrible death. What you did today was the right thing, Tim. And yes, you are a hero because it was very brave of you to jump in front of them to shield them from the beast. He paused. Brave, but foolhardy. You could have been attacked by that dog as well.

I wasn’t even thinking. I just… I just felt that I had to do what I did.

Robert smiled. Well, ‘angels rush in where fools fear to tread’. And you, young Tim Dawkins, are no fool. And you’re no angel either for that matter, but you’ve surely have one watching over you. Perhaps it’s your mother. But don’t press your luck any further, understand?

Tim forced a smile. Yes Father.

Good. Right then Tim, lets’ get the shop in order. How say we make some flatware today, eh?

***

God Save the King

February 1685 brought great change to the British Empire; King Charles II had died and in his place his younger brother James II took to the throne. But Charles’ illegitimate son by his mistress, James Scott the Duke of Monmouth, claimed to be the rightful heir. And so rebellion brewed both in the Dutch Netherlands and South West England where more men favored the Duke rather than their newly crowned King.

As for young Tim, almost 15, all this politicking about who should be King was far removed from his daily endeavors. He was now of age to be an apprentice but he continued on working with his father in their shop. What did change is that Robert now knew he could leave his son in his stead to take care of the shop while he traveled about Devon on his monthly rounds to drum up business. Tim was also at the age where he began to test the waters of moving on from boyish activities. He no longer took to playing in the forests outside of upper Brixham and climbing the tall trees that were destined to be cut down and used for masts, but rather sit at the docks and watch the tall ships sail in and out, often wondering if any were indeed pirates and what adventures they could tell him. And while gazing off to the horizon he often wondered what a sight the townspeople saw when Drake burned the Spanish Armada back in 1588.

Life was good for the Dawkins’; Robert was enjoying the profits of his trade while Tim continued to enjoy the notoriety of his bravery; often enough townsfolk that he never met would stop him and ask You’re him, aren’t you? And although he was used to it and knew what they meant he’d modestly reply I beg your pardon sir, or ma’am’ as the case would require. Young King David who smote the beast they’d say. And again, he’d modestly reply Yes Sir or Yes Ma’am and not act boastful. And there was always a hearty pat on the back and a Well done lad!

But once his father left him on his own Tim took to a new pastime; now he was again going to the forest, but not to climb trees. Instead he was taking a pistol with him and secretly practicing his marksmanship. He soon found that the accuracy he displayed with throwing stones translated equally, if not better, to the pistol and ball. And while he had the shop to himself he used all that he observed looking over his father’s shoulder and crafted his own weapon. This he kept well-hidden for he never really knew when his father would return from his rounds.

It was early June now; Robert and Tim were at work in the shop when a fine looking coach drew up in front. A very well-to-do gentleman emerged and entered. Robert immediately greeted him:

May I be of service to you Sir?

Robert Dawkins?

I am, Sir.

And peering over his Robert’s shoulder, eyeing Tim Your son, Mr. Dawkins?

Yes, Sir.

So… This is him, is it? he asked with an enthusiastic but affected air.

Sir?

Young King David that all of Devon is all agog over. He chuckled. Well done lad. Good show.

Thank you sir Tim answered. He eyed the gentleman inquisitively, thinking him manner of speech a bit odd.

Ah. I see you’ve heard of my son’s reputation here in Brixham.

Brixham you say? All of the West Country knows of him sir. Not often that we have ‘royalty’ here in the West Country, at least for the time being. But that will soon change.

Sir?

Never you mind, Mr. Dawkins. Well, as I said, all of Devon knows of your son, but as I understand, only a very few men know of you.

Not to be boastful sir, but nearly everyone in Brixham and many throughout Devon know of me.

But of course they do he said playfully As a tinker. But I’m not here, if you’ll excuse the pun, to ‘tinker’ about. He chuckled. Robert looked inquisitively into the gentleman’s face. A friend of a friend told me that you were the man to see for me to acquire a ‘friend’ he continued, leading Robert on. One that would always stand by me if ever I were to be in a dire situation. Robert stood silent and only motioned with his opened hands as if to ask ‘what is it’. Hmm. As you can see Mr. Dawkins I am a man of wealth, and the last situation I wish to find myself in is at the hands of some ruffian highwayman with no means of protection on behalf of my person.

Ah. I understand now sir. Please forgive—

But he cut him off No need for an apology sir. I know the times require one to be scrupulous about whom we furnish with such ‘products’. I assure you I am no rebel. The aristocracy does not take to undermining the throne with felonious bastards of questionable heritage. Hi Ho and God save the King, eh?

Yes. God save the King.

Jolly good. Now. What have you for my needs?

Robert walked over to a cabinet and returned with 5 small wooden pistol cases. He placed them separately on a table and proudly opened each to display his craftsmanship. The gentleman’s eyes opened wide. Bravo sir. They are beautiful pieces. He lifted one from its velvet lined case and held it up close, examining every small detail. And reading aloud R. D., Brixham.

A vanity of mine sir.

Vanity you say? This is a work of art sir. Does not the master of oils sign each of his paintings? Hmm? And so should you. Any road, I’ll take them all, and any others you may have ready for sale.

All???

The man smiled, and then began Mr. Dawkins. Men such as myself, know similar men with similar needs. The times are changing as I’m sure you know and the roads are not safe to travel as have been in times past. I am well coined today and will not dicker with you on price. How much shall I pay you? He withdrew a bag of coins from under his coat and emptied it onto the table; gold pieces spilled out into a small pile. Charles! he called out; a young man quickly came through the door to attend. The gentleman silently motioned to the boxes as if to say ‘take them all’; his assistant quickly closed the boxes, gathered them up and dashed back outside to the coach.

Is that enough to cover the cost Mr. Dawkins?

Robert was counting up the pieces and replied This is actually a bit more than I was going to ask.

Then keep the balance for your young King David over there. And to Tim A reward, Master Dawkins, for bravery. Good show! You should be proud to have such a fine boy, Mr. Dawkins.

Robert, a bit puzzled about the amount of money being left on his table quietly answered Yes. I am very proud of him.

As you should. Well, I’m off. Good day to you both. He turned to leave, but before he could make his way out through the door Robert called out

Excuse me Sir? The man stopped and turned back.

Yes, Mr. Dawkins?

I didn’t catch your name, for my records.

No, you didn’t, did you. He smiled broadly as he gave an exaggerated glance to the pile of gold coins he left on the table. Let’s make it our little secret. Hey? He turned and quickly left the shop, climbed into his coach and took off. An uncomfortable silence followed the fading jingle of the bells on the door.

What an odd man Tim broke the silence. Robert looked over to his son. I mean, his manner of speaking, father. He sounded rather, affected, you know. I mean, no one in Brixham speaks like that.

No. I grant you no one I know does, but then, no one in Brixham seems to be as wealthy as that man. And when you have that much money you can afford to be odd and affected. He smiled.

Ah. So those are the types you want me to be hob-knobbing with as a silversmith in London. Tim chuckled. I think I prefer the common folk I grew up with. Tim paused. And there was something strange about him though. I mean, who buys five pistols?

A rich man with four friends. Like he said.

And he seemed to be a bit of hurry… and leaving us all that extra money. And he didn’t even wait to try them out. You’ve always told me your buyers always wait to see how they feel in their hands and if the pistol shoots straight, not that it wouldn’t. But still.

Yes. Robert thoughtfully replied. He did seem rather odd. But, look at all this. Hey? He motioned towards the gold coins.

Indeed Father! And now we’re all sold out of pistols.

Not exactly. A wry smile formed on his face. There’s still one left.

Oh. I thought you sold them all to him. Which one is left?

Yours.

Father?

Yes Tim. The one you made while I was out doing the county rounds.

Father, I can’t say I know—

Now don’t complicate the matter. Robert cut him short as he braced his hands on his hips as he always did when he was about to reprimand Tim. A good shop keeper keeps stock of his stock. He continued to smile. There’s enough materials missing to make a good pistol, and each time you say you’re going down to the docks you come back smelling of burnt powder. Tim looked down to floor. And now you’re looking away so I won’t see the guilty look on your face. He chuckled. You do that every time I catch you at some kind of mischief, Timothy Dawkins. You can’t fool your father. So, be a good lad, fish it out and let’s have a look, eh?

Yes Father. Tim said conceding. Tim walked over to a cabinet, slid his hand and arm, up to the elbow behind it and withdrew the pistol. He walked penitently to his father and handed him the gun. Robert examined it with great scrutiny and then R.D. ‘and Son’, Brixham. He looked at Tim and broke about laughing.

Tim smiled and asked You’re not angry then?

Angry? I’m bloody jealous! And you did all this by yourself?

Well, I have been watching you since I was a child Father.

That you have, Tim. I hope your mother will forgive me but you’re your father’s son, that’s for sure. It’s a beautiful piece, son. And I have to admit, I am proud of you. I just wanted something better for you.

Like being about types like that odd toff?!

Toff is it? Now where did you ever hear language like that? Ohhh. So you’ve also been hanging about Mr. Croyden’s pub have you?

Just outside, Father. Not old enough to go in yet. Old Tom always steps out to bring me a pint of cider.

Robert smiled. Old Tom is it? Well then. We’ve had a good day’s business, haven’t we? Let’s say we go see Old Tom. I’ll have an ale and—

And one for me?! Tim’s face lit up.

I was going say you’ll have your ‘usual’ cider. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up Tim; once you do you’ll wish you had taken your time getting there. Now then; put that back where you had it before and leave it be.

Yes Father,

Good lad.

They made their way down the street to Thomas Croyden’s Public House; upon entering they found themselves walking into what seemed a heated discussion amongst the men assembled. There was just so much loud arguing going on that one could barely make out what any single man was actually saying until Mr. Croyden let out a booming Oi! from behind the counter which silenced all.

Now that I have your attention, I’ll have no more of this talk in my pub. He said this forcefully with a glare in his eyes. They say fences make good neighbors. Well if there’s any thing that’ll cut down a fence quick as puddin’ it’s politics and church. Get me? Now this here is my pub. And I choose to make it a place where a soul can sit down, have a pint and enjoy a chat with a friend. So’s if you want to bang your bloody heads into each other’s and shout about who should be sittin’ on the throne then take it outside! I’ll have none of it in here. Get me? He paused, and then more quietly You all mark my words; we’re livin’ in dangerous times now we are. And it’s time for every man among you to watch what you say and who you say it to, otherwise your mouth will talk your neck right into the hangman’s rope. Get me? He glanced over all the