The Daring Times of Kipper Caulkin: Drums Aflame!

By Mike Fuller

1745
Bonnie Prince Charlie is hunted by British forces throughout Scotland.
Three drummer lads are ensnared in the terrifying realities of war, as they move steadily toward their own destinies. Comradeship, adventure, and fear-filled trials follow the paths of the three young lads until their terrible climax at the battle of dragon’s teeth ridge and a firing squad!
Kipper—thirteen, an orphan from a poor house in Whitechurch. He is determined to make his mark in life as a drummer boy, as did his boyhood friend Tom.
Jacko—thirteen, a young London pickpocket with a wicked sense of humor. He is given the choice of magistrates, transportation to the Indies, or service in a local militia. It is Jacko’s last chance, and he knows it.
Fancy—fourteen, a hardened poacher and street thief. Fancy is always looking for an easy way out. He cares for nothing and nobody. He is fully prepared to commit murder to get whatever he wants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546294122

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© 2005 Mike Fuller. All rights reserved.

First published under pseudonym: Mike Woodstock

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/01/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9413-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9412-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

DEDICATIONS

My loving thanks, go to my five kids.

Maggie, John, Trev, Grant and Selena.

The order in which their names appear, is in order of seniority. Grant and Selena are twins, but sad to say, Selena was born one minute later than Grant, hence the fact that his name is quoted before hers. I’m sure that she will forgive me for that!

If it had not been for these kids, geeing me up to carry on my writing, I have no doubt that all would have fallen by the wayside. As it is I have finally made it.

The fruits of their labours, as well as my own, will now stand as testament to our endeavours.

Thanks again kids!

Mike Fuller. July…..2018

In Memory of

‘GentlemanJim’

James Peter Hook

A good soldier who would have made a damned good sailor!

A great friend and a fine brother-in-law, without who’s help, this book would never have been finished!

We’ll all miss you Jim, more than you could ever have known.

Rest easy now mate, you’ve earned your peace.

June… 2007…….Mike Fuller

CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Kipper

Chapter 2   FANCY

Chapter 3   JACKO

Chapter 4   BULL’S-EYE

Chapter 5   DEATH AND DE-JA-VU

Chapter 6   THE STAND AT ‘DRAGON’S TEETH’

Chapter 7   ‘FARE THEE WELL MAH’ BONNY LAD’

Chapter 8   ‘FIRING SQUAD’

CHAPTER

1

KIPPER

The woman pulled the heavy shawl tighter about the thin shoulders of the small boy shivering in her embrace, as she huddled in what little shelter she could find from the pelting rain.

For three days now, in the lee of the wall opposite the Poorhouse, she had watched the comings and goings through the great black oaken doors.

Each day she’d approached that dark and forbidding place, and each day she’d turned back again, but she knew sooner or later she would have to seek their help. The poor mite in her arms hadn’t had a meal since she’d got here and although he never complained, she knew that the ravages of hunger were gnawing deeply into his belly.

Now, what with the rain as well adding to their misery, she knew that the time had come to face up to the truth of her situation… Destitution!

This was the dreaded word that she had become familiar with over the last nine months as she’d moved from farm to farm seeking work and begging the few scraps of food that she could to feed them both.

For a woman with a young-un to care for, it was almost impossible to get the work. Time and again, she’d been turned away as soon as the boy was spotted.

Times were hard enough for the men seeking jobs. No-one needed the added responsibility of a small boy let loose on the farm, and his mother couldn’t be expected to work as hard as she might, if she was always looking out for the lad.

Her husband, Tom had been a labourer on a farm just outside the small town of Blatchley, in the shire of Beckingham. He’d been a tied man for fourteen years and the tiny limestone cottage that was their home, had been taken from her, when he died of blood poisoning; the result of one of the heavy cart horses breaking his thigh with an ill-tempered kick they said.

The farm owners had not thought it worth the price to call a doctor to his wound, fearing that after paying for his medicaments, they’d still end up with a cripple on their hands.

They had been good enough to pay what the furnishings and fripperies of the cottage were worth, but that money had all gone now and she was left with but two stark choices.

She could remain outside praying for a miracle, or she could throw herself on the mercy of the parish of Whitechurch and hope that they would allow her, as a stranger to the community, to enter their Poorhouse. At least there, her son would receive food and clothing, and in the event of anything happening to her, he would be cared for.

She knew, that she herself would not be leaving, except in one of the pauper’s boxes that her husband had been buried in. For the last two weeks she had begun to cough up those tiny tell-tale flecks of blood and the pain from her chest had become like hot irons searing inside her. She knew the signs of consumption as well as any, and the weight of this evidence pushed her into the only solution to her problem; the Poorhouse! She looked once more, through the curtain of rain, at the grim dark walls of the building across the street. Then, lifting herself wearily to her feet, she took the child by the hand and giving him a smile of encouragement, walked purposefully towards the gates.

We’ll be all right here Kipper! They’re sure to give us a bowl of something at least! They might even give us a bed for the night. How d’yer fancy that?

The five year old nodded his assent. He’d heard the same words a hundred times in the past few weeks and was long past the point of caring. His stomach hurt terribly and he was soaked through. The water was trickling icily down his legs through the thin wet cotton of his trousers, and the cut down farming smock that he wore did nothing to hold back the miserable lashing of the driving wind and rain, as he pressed himself closer to her.

For over a week now, they had been sleeping in hedgerows and hayricks and the thought of spending another night, fending off the rats and vermin of the fields that had come to share their warmth repelled him. All that the young boy wanted now, was to lie down in a soft, safe place and sleep forever. But while his ma’ kept going, so would he. She was all he had to cling to in this terrifying and unfriendly world.

He only wished that his pa’ were with them. If he had been, they’d be sure of food and rest. Pa’ had left them after hurting his leg and ma’ had told him that his pa’ had gone to a place called Heaven. This was nowhere near where they were now, and he was unlikely ever to come back again.

The woman’s footsteps faltered as she timidly approached the huge black doors, but steeling herself, she raised the ornate cast iron knocker and dropped it once. The dull metallic thud it gave, seemed hardly enough, but she stepped back and waited, her eyes fixed on the wide metal grill that served as a peep hole.

The wind and rain beat at her thin and emaciated body as she clung protectively to the boy at her side. From within, came the sound of rattled keys and a rough ‘Cough!’ as the wooden ‘Keep Plate’ was pushed back and a bloated, unshaven face with blood-shot eyes surveyed her through the grill.

What you want ‘ere then girl? The voice was coarse and a little slurred, as though the owner were slightly drunk, and carried no hint of interest in her at all.

Please! She said, indicating the young boy. Please! Do you have room for the lad? Getting no response, she added. I can work.

She waited on the reply, as the face lifted to peer down at them both through the metal grid.

You ain’t from round ‘ere, are yer? There was a hint of suspicion in his voice. I ain’t seen you afore. Where you from? If you ain’t from these parts, you got no call ‘ere.

He started to slowly close the keep plate. The woman stepped closer reaching for the grill, her voice taking on a higher tone, as desperation gripped her.

I told you, I can work. Anything! I sew, scrub, cook and can carry my own with the needle-work.

The man stopped, with the plate half closed. Needlework, yer say?

Yes! I can do most of the country stitching and crochet work. I’ve done so for years.

There was still suspicion on the man’s face, as he peered through the gap of the grill. You ain’t from those Travellers on the green, are yer? If you are, it’ll be the rod you’ll be facing if you step in ‘ere. We don’t ‘ave no truk wiv’ the likes of you!

of

The man’s rum soaked breath expelled harshly into the woman’s face, as she pressed eagerly closer to the grillwork on the door.

No! No! My husband was a tied man, from Blatchley town! She waited, holding her breath, as the man debated with him-self.

Not usual this ain’t… Not usual at all… Need to see the Parish Beadle ‘bout this… But ‘e ain’t ‘ere’… He shook his head with indecision. It ain’t rightly up to me!

The woman snatched at the grill frantically, her fingers searching for and holding the keep plate back; frightened that the man was about to deny them entry. The skin of her cheek impressed itself painfully into the fretwork of the metal, as she pleaded for consideration.

It can’t hurt nothing surely! Just one night. I told you. I’ll work. I’m used to labour. Anything! It’s been three days. The boy’s starved. Just a bowl of hot oats would do. Just one!

The face behind the grill was silent, as the woman nodded at it, willing the man to agree. He stared back, craftily appraising her worth.

You can do needlework. Right? And you’ll do anything! That’s what you said. Anything. Right? The bloodshot eyes hooded lecherously and the mouth opened wider with a leering grin, exposing rotten stumps of teeth in their red and swollen gums.

She nodded, not daring to trust her voice. If that’s what it took, to get food for the boy, and a bed! By the smell of his breath, he’d had a good jug-full anyway, and with luck and a little flattering, he’d be asleep before the making of her!

With a grunt of assent, the man turned the key and opened the great door slightly, allowing just enough room for the two of them to squeeze through. The tension that the woman had placed herself under, almost caused her to faint with relief.

She leaned back against the closed door and let go a heavy sigh.

Bless you sir! she said. Bless you for the merciful man you are, and there’s no mistake.

The man ignored her praise, and turning away, walked unsteadily through the arched walkway from the gate, with the woman and the boy following him closely.

Every now and then, the man would give a little sideways skip, as though in danger of losing his balance. Then they came to another door that the man unlocked using a key from a large collection, attached to a hook secured to the leather belt round his waist. He closed and locked the door behind them, then led them into an open paved square.

In the centre of the square stood a larger than life statue of a monk sculpted in limestone. One arm was flung wide, pointing away to the north, the other arm was held across the chest with a bible clutched in its hand. Beneath the statue on the side of the plinth on which it stood, were the words-

‘SEEK YE THE NEEDY AND THE POOR OF SPIRIT.

SUSTAIN THEM BY WORD AND DEED.

ST. AIDAN GUIDE US.’

Staggering slightly once more as he passed this by, the man crossed the square and entered a small door at the side of the building opposite. He leaned against the jamb of the door and ushered them inside, making sure that as the woman passed him, he was in a position to press him-self against her.

They had entered a small hall that obviously served as the eating area. Three long tables with wooden benches were lined abreast reaching down to the wall at the far end. The walls the room were whitewashed and the tables were scrubbed and clean.

The man pushed slowly past her, the keys at his belt jangling as he rubbed his groin roughly against her thigh once more. He gave another lecherous grin, then turned and led the way between the tables to a door at the far end. He pulled the door open.

Rose! He gave a short, sharp bark of a cough! Then he tried again. Rose! Blast yer woman. What the ‘ell’s keeping yer?

The room they had entered was the kitchen and the smell of cooking sent sharp stabbing pains through the woman’s stomach. She gave the boy’s hand a little squeeze and pulled him closer, knowing that he too, would be feeling the tearing agony in his tiny body. She looked down at him and winked and he gave a quick smile in response.

A large middle aged woman dressed in a long white smock and white cotton cap appeared from the store cupboard doors, just beyond the long stone sink at the end of the kitchen. She bobbed a quick curtsey and nodded in the direction of the woman.

Rose! These two are in need of vittal’s. See what yer can find. Not too much mind! We don’t want them running off, soon as their bellies is full!

He looked to the woman and the boy. You can have yer vittal’s and I’ll be back in a trice. Then he turned back to the cook once more.

I’m gonna ‘ave ‘er! He said, waving his thumb in the direction of the woman.

In place of Maggie. That girl’s been feeding off us too long fer no returns. I’ve warned ‘er before. So it won’t come as no surprise to ‘er!

He left, shutting the door behind him.

Rose motioned to the woman and boy to be seated.

What’s yer name then dearie?

Beth! said the woman. Beth Caulkin. Beth was my mother’s name.

Rose smiled and looked down at the young boy. He yours then? No doubt he’ll turn a few hearts when he’s older. Good-looker that one! She leaned across the table and chucked him under the chin. I’ll bet your starved, poor mite! Soon ‘ave something for yer! The soups ‘bout done!

She turned to the open fire set back into the brickwork of the wall over which a large black cast iron pot was hung and lifted the lid with her long wooden stirring spoon. She dropped the lid onto a stone shelf at the side of the fire, then stirred the pot.

The steam curled upward in mouth-watering clouds as she took a ladle that hung from the metal crane supporting the pot and spooned it into two wooden bowls that she’d lifted from a shelf beside the fire. She pushed one to the boy, then grabbed a loaf of bread and tore a piece from it.

You set too with that me lad, pay no mind to manners! You just fill yer self.

She nodded in benign approval as she watched the mother and child, bend their heads greedily to the soup soaked chunks of bread.

The bowls were soon cleaned, and after wiping round the bowl with a last piece of bread, the boy pushed his from him, a warm glow of contentment flushing his face. Rose took his bowl and that of the mother and carried them to the stone sink. She looked over her shoulder as she rinsed them under the pump.

What’s the lad’s name then? She asked kindly.

We call him Kipper! That was the name his dad gave him since the day he was born. Said he weren’t no bigger than one!

Rose nodded at the sink as she shook the water from the bowls. Then Kipper it is! Shouldn’t ‘ave much trouble remembering that! You full then Kipper?

She turned away from the sink to face the boy. Kipper nodded to her, his hands clasped in front of his distended stomach. The pangs of hunger were gone and his belly felt heavily full.

What about you dearie? You had enough? She looked to Beth, wiping her hands on her apron.

That’s the first for three days and I’m obliged to you Rose! But I’ve no room left for more! She expelled a deep sigh! Can’t say when I’ve tasted better either!

Rose blushed beneath the unexpected praise. It weren’t nothing but vegetables, anyone could have done as well! It’s just because your full. Makes yer feel that much better!

She turned, embarrassed, back to her cooking, stirring furiously at the soup pot, a smile of delight creeping slowly across her plump features. It had been a long time since, that anybody had given compliment to her cooking.

Who’s the man that allowed us in then? asked Beth.

"That’s Mr Grimes. Bert. ‘e’s my husband. Me an’ him has the running of this place. I just does the cooking, the cleaning of the hall, and makes sure the young-un’s is kept healthy like. He sees to the running of the rest of the place, the needlework, and the farm.

There’s two other people what comes in during the day to help with the general running of the place. That’s the Queegley’s. John helps at the farm, overseeing the boys. And his wife Mary teaches the young girl’s needlecraft, and ‘The Graces’ then takes all the young-un’s for their hours schooling. After they gets back from their work!

We ‘as a Watchman what looks after the gate at night. That’s ‘Jolly Higgins’, but I dare say you won’t never meet him, because he’s only here during late hours, and he stays close to the gate at the ‘Lodge’.

Ain’t no one allowed to the gate at night, accepting of course, us what ‘as business there!

Oh! And of course there’s the Curate! He comes every Sabbath morn to see to the Churching like."

All the while she was talking, Rose’s voice became softer and more intimate as she relaxed visibly in the