Hi Everyone

   I am back bright eyed and bushy tailed. I sense a feeling of apathy among some of my followers. few chose to comment of the sample chapters those that did evidently found them not to their liking. The object as i said was to show the editorial process we go through but i sensed a feeling of regret i chose to do this some thought what was on offer was the final publication draft which of course was far from the truth. Therefore i have deleted the unrefined text in case it upset anyone else.  

 To those who may not know I am an author. Above is the initial design for our front cover, not bad is it?
Dead Men Lie is our title and our wed site is davidtprocterbooks.co.uk and sample chapters are on Amazon Kindle. We have had a little sale on which is drawing to a close so if anyone wishes to purchase a copy of this exciting book i would suggest you do so within the next few days as the price returns to normal in May.
There that is the advert completed now to discuss something which i fail to understand.

 Many authors give away copies of their books and are suitably impressed when they reach the heady heights in some best seller list. But pause a moment you haven't sold anything. You have given away 200 300 copies and for what? A brief moment of notoriety. Your next book if you do not give it away will sell a limited amount your hard work will have been for nought.

 I for one will continue to sell my book at the list price if it sells well so be it my hard work will have been worth it but even it I only sell a few each month that will do me. Eventually Dead Men Lie will gain the attention it deserves and we will not have compromised our integrity. Free offers work in the right place and at the right time but to allow massive free downloads does nothing but compromise every other author out there we either have to do the same or make a stand for sanity I am making that stand. Surely you can see that our work is worth a reward? having been in business for longer than a lot of you may have been alive i have never given anything away. No special offers no special deals my trade is my worth and if people want to share my knowledge and skills that i expect them to pay the going rate same with my books i do not sit here day after day and not expect my writing to be appreciated and rewarded.

 having said all that some of you who visit this site may be unaware of my writing so i have for a limited periods only placed here a sample chapter of dead men Lie nothing sinister there the same can be viewed on Kindle's web site. However should anyone wish to read the rest of this exciting book then you must cross my palm with silver part with your money as you would in any book shop. There will be those who will decry my position but i would rather be a poor author than one that gives my work away to anyone who asks.      

That's it that's my rant now i await the backlash but i can accept all manner of insults after all i have been banned in my home town what else can happen????

 For those who wish to read the sample of Dead Men Lie it follows here and i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. Allow me to take you back in time, To the colonies ruled by England in the year 1769  
When revolution was in the wind and men were debating which way their loyalties must lay. When King George was blind to the fate awaiting him and the spies that were sent out to garner favour for the fledgling country of America.  

Copyright © 2012 David T Procter

  

ISBN 97809562056-2-9

E-mail davidtprocter@mail.com         

www.davidtprocterbooks.co.uk                                   

      

  

                                                Foreword

                            “Death is not the end, simply the beginning”    

                                                 (Anonym)                                                                                   

    This introduction was never meant to be dark or foreboding. What I desired to explain, to investigate and clarify, was simply how one death can have serious ramifications for others. To that end, I searched for a suitable quotation that best summed up what I was attempting to explain. I discovered myriad eminent phrases, all very profound, but none quite touched upon the sentiment I desired. Which was why, eventually, I decided to use the anonymous quotation above. I unreservedly apologise to the author (whoever they were) for using their words, while expressing my admiration for their wisdom and eloquence.

    This brings me to the essence of this, my story. Unfortunately, death awaits us all, it is inevitable and unavoidable. It is neither selective, nor compassionate; it does not wait while its intended victims place their affairs in order. In fact, our time on this mortal coil appears haphazardly random. Who, then, is the more fortunate when our time draws to a close? Is it the accidental victim who succumbs in a moment, gone before they realise what they are about to endure? Or those that live for years awaiting death’s icy touch, with time to deal with any outstanding matters, to make their peace with God and those they invariably leave behind? Neither pleasant but both inevitable. There are some, who see death as the last great adventure, one that can only be experience the once, and can never be retold to others. Should we then fear death? Of course, just a little, but as Benjamin Franklyn said in 1789 one year before his own departure, “Nothing is certain but death and taxes.”  We all die; it is what we leave behind by which we are judged.        

    According to some religious groups, death is said to be the start of a greater enlightenment. Is that true? None of us will know until, I fear, it is too late. Many indigenous peoples believe that while our bodies wither to dust, our inner essence lives on, to continue ad- infinitum. If we are to believe such teachings, why then do we fear what is, inevitable? Of course, mortality should not to be taken for granted, nor, perhaps should we fear our demise. Only after we have taken that last giant step will we be able to answer the last great question, “Is there life after death?” By then, unfortunately, it will be too late. What is unequivocal is that we all succumb; we breathe our last and leave this mortal coil. How we depart is usually out of our hands. We take our last breath in all manner of ways but eventually death comes in two guises, either swiftly or protracted. We can only hope for the former, as that is supposedly and hopefully painless. The latter decrees that we have had time to ponder our frailties and lack of foresight in concluding any outstanding and unfinished business.

   As rational beings we do have a choice; suicide is an option but to the majority our final moments are at the behest of a greater force that we can ever possess. Most would ask for a swift departure, as that would, hopefully, involve little knowledge. To simply pass away having lived a long and worthwhile life, to have achieved and fulfilled all our personal goals. Maybe to simply fall asleep and never wake up, free of illness or pain. Or to die a glorious death in the throes of some heroic deed. All too often though our desires never come true. Unfortunately, there is a more painful alternative. All too often those final hours can be long and drawn out. Unless we are very fortunate, our final demise is invariably alone, desperate and consumed in both pain and misery. There is, I believe, no such thing as a glorious death. Inevitably we meet our maker alone, afraid and desperate, consumed by a degree of pain and misery. Swift or prolonged, our demise is no proof of purity of thought and mind. Many a cruel and vindictive person has died swiftly, while a god fearing innocent has endured a long and painful demise. 

    So we depart; what then? Unfortunately, no matter how prolonged or swift, no matter how well we have prepared, invariably we leave behind chaos. Many families have been torn apart in the months following a death. Even when a will exists there will be disagreement and acrimony between family members. Our last instructions usually ask for a loved one to act as executor, to discharge our debts and divide our estate.  All well and good when the value is but a small amount but what occurs when a larger sum is involved? Aunt Jean’s prized figurine pales into insignificance when compared to those who have to deal with matters involving finances which the deceased left unresolved.

     Many family disputes have turned into court cases because one member didn’t receive what they had desired, or had supposedly been promised. The inevitable repercussions and consequences that occur are made worse if the departure was unexpected. Since man took his first faltering steps, the death of one individual can influence and drastically affect the actions of others. Ideas given form do not remain secret. They are rarely carried to the grave, they do not die, but return to haunt those left behind. How many mourning

iii

relatives have subsequently been visited by those seeking payment for something the deceased failed to complete, or pay for? How many families have been left destitute, due to the failure of some grand scheme or business

venture which fails with the demise of the only person who might have forced it through to a conclusion?

    Perhaps then those criminals condemned to die were in fact the more fortunate. At least they had time to prepare, to put their affairs in order, to make amends to their God. Not so the unfortunate majority, the innocents to whom death came through disease, poverty or battle. To them, the winged angel of death strikes without the benefit of being able to settle their affairs. Who then is the more fortunate? Only time will tell. Suffice to say that perhaps this is the origin of the expression, ‘Death isn’t the end’. It isn’t the closure we expect. No matter how well we prepare, events can return to

haunt those we once loved. The deceased can, from their grave, reach out to manipulate, control and dictate the future of those left behind. The bereaved have time to ponder such questions, sometimes the answers are clear, unequivocal; sometimes they are shrouded in deceit and intrigue. Whichever course they take may prove to be traumatic, and manipulated by those who treat death as a means to further their own tarnished reputations.

    The residents of Stormouth, a mixture of wealthy landowners, merchants, sailors and ne’er-do-wells, muddled along unhindered. Unconcerned with the wider issues of the day until death came seeking new disciples. The winged angle came in the form of a man, with lust in his breast, who deemed himself above such erstwhile measures like decency and honesty. No longer would wealth and power rule; no longer did such influence guarantee freedom from prosecution. Stormouth was about to learn the error of its ways.

    As would a woman, who, defiled and abused, would become the catalyst that would bring about the downfall of those that resisted change. She would suffer, would be denounced and cast out before she found the strength to resist those that wished her harm. Her terror began when she was forced to succumb to his evil intent, used and abused, leaving only once his lust had been satisfied. Death took him and she takes succour from his agony. Her problems, though, are only just beginning, as he takes his revenge from beyond the grave. Like her, you too, one day, will have to face your immortality; you will be forced to place your life… and death in the hands of others. When that time arrives, I wish you well, but consider the actions of those who failed to make amends. Those poor souls who have to suffer the consequences.

             

                                 PART ONE

                                 The Colonies

                                 January 1769

     

                                           Chapter One

                A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step          

                      Lao-Tzu Chinese philosopher 604BC-531BC

    Samuel Worthington wasn’t the sort of man to show emotion. Especially not among this seething mass of humanity. But today a tear escaped and ran openly down his face to be hastily cuffed aside before anyone saw it. Angrily he turned away, unable or unwilling to watch any more of this abomination. The crowd, though, watched, in sullen silent anticipation as if expecting, even at this late moment, some reprieve. Their hopes though were dashed as with a slap to the mare’s rump the noose tightened and the victim fell. Immediately a collective gasp of anguish rose in protest as Jeremiah Jones kicked, twitched and fought against death. His mumbled cry silenced as the crowd bayed their disapproval of his treatment.

    Death was the ultimate punishment, and he whispered a silent prayer as he awaited the dark angel to release his client from further pain. However he knew that unless the hangman was skilled, which this one was obviously not, his client would take time to die. Time in which, as he saw, the boy would be further degraded. Jeremiah’s bowel involuntarily emptied, bringing a gasp of horror from the women, while his own punishment was an accusing stare. Jeremiah glared at him, through bulging, accusing eyes as if pleading for him, the man employed to save him, to end his torment. His client died, killed by the establishment and began his last great adventure.

    “May God have mercy upon you and may you find eternal peace,” he whispered. Having witnessed such events all too often, he knew the hangman was a necessity. However the vileness, they had just witnessed, was not justice but legalised murder. His client had been hanged for the murder of a soldier, if true, a crime that warranted such action. But he suspected there was more to it than that. Unable to discover the truth, he felt he had failed and as a result Jeremiah Jones had become the newest disciple of the angel of death. The experience left him drained, devoid of any good intentions towards his fellow man. Breathing deeply he turned his collar up, as protection from the chill wind, and began his journey home. “Fools” he cursed as he fought his way through the now silent crowd.

    Accusing eyes followed him as he passed and he lowered his head in shame, sensing the underlying feelings of the townsfolk. Jones had become something of a symbol to the town, passions had been aroused, passions which had daily drawn spectators to his trial. Crowds of excited women had attended the Courtroom, to catch a glimpse, to bring him food. Voicing their feelings, the boy’s supporters had shouted his innocence, in some vain attempt at convincing those in power that he should be released. They expected justice to be observed. This though was Boston, where ideals meant little to those in authority. The law was reinforced by red coated soldiers, men whose word was taken as fact, no matter what the truth was. Jeremiah’s guilt was unequivocal; he had admitted the offence from the start. The question was why? Why had he had been forced into such actions? That answer had never been revealed, despite his best efforts. The Judge had refused his pleas for clemency, stating that soldiers, even drunken ones, were to be obeyed. The reasoning galled Samuel Worthington, the sentiment was illogical even illegal but he suspected ulterior motives were at work. Politics were involved and Boston was alive with such matters. The crux of the matter, the very point he had attempted to make was that politics were more important than justice.  Despite his reputation as a gallows thief, he had failed to defy the hangman this time.

    “Shame!” A woman’s voice shouted, instantly joined by others as the enormity of what had occurred became reality. Many were reluctant to accept that the military were there to protect, not suppress them. 

    “Faking cullies,” another added, reinforcing their displeasure with the throwing of a ripe fruit which splattered among the assembled dignitaries. Worthington sensed their anger saw belligerence etched upon their faces and wished no part of what, he was sure was to happen. With emotions running high, he sensed a change in the crowd, their actions, if unchecked might become deadly.

    “Horse turds.” That insult was followed by a deluge of fruit, a torrent which forced a bespattered and fearful town Alderman to act.

    “Clear the square!” The order, so easily given, was, he was sure, the precursor to evilness.

    “Not again surely!” Worthington prayed. The English were known for their swift justice. The broadsheets he read from England carried many a story of soldiers quelling rioters in the shires with the use of arms. Fear was no less a problem here and that fear was forcing them to act irrationally. Their remedy was once again levelled muskets. The situation was desperate, soldiers were arranged in ranks, their weapons aimed at their kith and kin all that separated them from disaster was a command. Scared and confused men were on the brink of enforcing bad laws with force of arms.  He was about to

witness a violation and there was nothing to be done. “No” He shouted, his voice lost in the upsurge of noise. The crowd, ignoring the threat and incensed by the hanging were becoming belligerent, they shouted and hurled abuse at the soldiers who remained impassively sullen.  He wanted to run and hide not through fear but so that he could speak out in the future as to why this occurred. All that was required was a spark and the situation would ignite, thankfully that spark failed to materialise as common sense, in the shape of the Town Sergeant prevailed. He spoke to the Officer who paused, then commanded his men to stand down. A moment of panic had been averted, but feelings were so raised, such good fortune could not continue

   “Barbarian,” he whispered silently. This wasn’t what he had envisaged for himself twenty odd years ago, when he had arrived, with joy in his heart, and a vision of a new life. But his world was changing again and not in the way he liked. The essence of what they sought in this new land had somehow become lost. Jeremiah’s death was proof of the pointlessness of it all. Here was supposed to be where common sense and salvation would prevail, yet it seemed they were making the same mistakes they wished to leave behind. Those changes disturbed him; he saw it here on the faces of this crowd; fear was becoming common place.   

    “A tragedy Mr Worthington.” Drawn from his despair, he turned at the sound of the voice which sounded genuinely concerned. “Some would say grossly unfair.”  

    “Indeed! To which do you refer, sir, the boy’s death or the crowd’s demeanor?” Worthington enquired. The man who walked beside him was a merchant by the name of Elijah Forest, a man known to all, especially to Samuel Worthington, solicitor of the town of Boston. “If the former then I concur. His death served no purpose and should have been avoided because the boy was innocent….. Or so I believe.”

    “I concur; I witnessed your eloquent and persuasive closing statement. A veritable masterpiece sir.”

   Worthington stopped, turned and stared, wondering what he wanted. The merchant was well dressed, of aging years, a man who had prospered and was known for his generosity and benevolence. A man that went nowhere without his trademark church warden pipe held snugly in the palm of his right hand, the stem of which was always clamped delicately between yellowing teeth.   

    “You were present?” He asked quizzically. Forest, he thought was not the sort to attend such things. “You saw…..the inequality….The way he was dealt with?” Was it possible that another had witnessed the same injustices that he had? “The boy deserved far better of us but the odds were against him, I fear.” Worthington had struggled to break the witnesses; the soldiers had lied and any right minded man would have seen that. Forest was such a man. Maybe with his voice added to his own he could still obtain justice for the boy. Too late to save him, but a least his name could be vindicated.

    “I saw an honest; God fearing soul destroyed through no fault of his own…or your’s for that matter.” Forest added solemnly

    “You are too kind…..I fear, sir, the trial was a travesty, a sham, I deplore what our system is becoming. I did my best but was hampered.” Worthington sighed and shook his head in sorrow. It was true he had done all he could, but his task had been difficult from the very first day. The evidence had been weighed against them, while the boy had refused to speak out. Add to that the fact that the prosecution witnesses were soldiers. Drunken rogues admittedly, but men who had been granted immunity from reproach or punishment by a King in England. “The fact that I knew the boy made his conviction more worrying. Thank Goodness his mother was not present to see his fate

    “Indeed, sir.” Forest agreed. The solicitor, he saw, was annoyed; that anger he would use to his own advantage. All that was required was to push him a little harder and the trap would be sprung. For the moment, Forest allowed him to vent his anger. His time would come, when he would plant the seed of doubt.   

    “Watched him grow, I did. He was no more capable of committing that crime as I am of speaking to the King. Rot his cold black German heart!” Worthington spat and grimaced at the very thought of being anywhere near the King of England. Forest grabbed his arm in caution as a squad of soldiers marched towards them.

    “Take care my friend. Many would consider it advantageous to give your name to the Governor.” Forest warned, glancing left and right in alarm.                       

    “Rot his heart as well, Forest….As God is my witness I have lived by the word of the law; it has been my mistress for more years than I care to remember. My dear wife died while I was before the bench in Philadelphia and yet, today, I am ashamed of my profession.” He paused and dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets.  “Today I saw a youth hanged, murdered on the word of liars.”

   “Liars? A trifle harsh surely. They were certainly obtuse, but to accuse them thus is dangerous my friend. Do you have proof?” Forest asked

    “What is the use of proof, when it can be ignored as it was in there?” The solicitor said pointing vaguely in the direction of the town where the trial had been carried out. “That boy worked his fingers to the bone providing for his elderly mother and his siblings. His diligence was what convinced me to take his case. His silence though…. harmed us. My God, sir, it did. If only he had spoken out earlier I could have acted. Instead, he says nothing until it is too late. He finally explained to me last night that he had been protecting her from the soldiers. Drunken louts, foisted upon them under this infernal Quartering Act. What could I do? Sentence had been passed. The Judge had retired and no one was prepared to listen. My God, sir, is it any wonder such things occur? When ordinary citizens are forced to take them in; to feed and care for them. How many others are in the same position?” Samuel had wanted to say all this in court but had failed to do so.

    “Too many. It is a most disagreeable Act but what occurred to bring him to such an end? Why could you not get a stay of execution?” That was a question Samuel had no answer to. He had sent a note to the Judge pleading his client’s case, stating what he had been told but nothing had come back. Without a note to halt the proceedings, Jeremiah’s fate had been sealed.    

    “According to what Jeremiah did say, those men were the vilest, nastiest men ever to have left England’s shores. He was forced to watch as his mother was ill-treated and abused. Regrettably, as you know, there is no recourse; no authority to appeal to no matter what type of soldier is foisted upon them.”

    “True it is something that needs to be looked at again. Is that why he turned?” Forest asked. He had seen something in Worthington’s mannerism during the hearing that had convinced him that he might be worth approaching.   

    “It is. He told me that he returned that night to find his siblings cowering beneath a table while these animals mistreated the mother. His temper finally snapped and he attacked. Why he only killed Corporal White remains a mystery, he never enlightened me nor would he speak out in Court. That reluctance sealed his fate. The Court believed the surviving soldiers; took their word against his. They were compelled to convict, even with my pleas for clemency they would not commute his sentence. Said it would send a message to others who defied the word of the King.” Worthington explained.

    “It would appear their minds were made up, no wonder you heard nothing from the Judge….You said, during the hearing, that the woman had marks about her body…..yet they were dismissed as insignificant, why?”

    “It would seem sir, that you were the only one taking heed of my defence.” Worthington sniffed, was it the cold or his emotions? Now wasn’t the time to concern himself with such trifles. “They deemed it as of no consequence but it should have been taken into account. Are we to believe she harmed herself? I do not think so. Her bruises were distinct sir; marks that matched the shape of a man’s hand. My belief is that someone held her, held her roughly. Their actions were justified by their lies. Did you hear what their reasoning was? They dared to say she was clumsy…..”

    “A clumsy cow if memory serves.” Forest added helpfully “and that she had made those marks herself while gathering water.”

   “Hummmph!” The sound was derogatory, a sort of guttural contempt from deep within the throat. Samuel had said as much in court and had been condemned for his thoughts. “As you say sir. That was when I knew I was beat. It repulsed me to see the army closing ranks; protecting their own and sacrificing the boy. I would even dare to suggest that money changed hands. I suspect the jury was bought and that too repulsed me.”                        

    “Might have aided his defense if he had spoken out sooner. Why did he remain silent?” Forest asked. The solicitor shook his head in mystified dismay.

    “I cannot say. I pleaded for him to tell the court what had happened but his silence condemned him. He alone knew the truth, but his knowledge meant nothing because he chose to remain mute when it mattered most. His cause wasn’t helped either when the mother inexplicitly died in her sleep. Doctor Megaw said the cause was miasma. What would he know? He’s pickled more often than not, wouldn’t know miasma from measles. Oh I know the superstitious amongst our brethren think it comes in on the ships; ‘The Devils Kiss’ they call it but are we really to believe that?”

    “A respected man, Megaw. Can’t deny that.”

    “Respected by whom? The innkeepers?” Worthington’s anger was obvious, he needed to lay the blame for what had occurred at someone’s door and the doctor it seemed was as good as anyone. “She never died from some foul invisible air. More likely the truth is that those bruises were inflicted by possibly the same man that killed her. However without proof or the boy speaking out we had no case.”

    “That is the end then. Add his name to the ever increasing number of villains indicted and convicted in the name of justice.” Forest made to walk away; the crowd was dispersing and he had information to pass on to those that mattered. Worthington was a man who might be worth speaking with; he was disillusioned and ripe for plucking.                            

    “I could have saved him. I should have done more. He was scared you see, scared of them more than he was of death.” Forest stopped and looked back. It seemed the solicitor still had accusations and recriminations to make. If that was the case, then maybe he was closer to turning than he had envisaged. He waited for Worthington’s reply, for they would, he hoped, tell him if he was a disciple ready to be inducted, or simply a man who was frustrated with what was occurring. Someone who spoke out in anger at a case lost, not a radical who desired change.

    “Nothing to be done though is there?” The merchant prompted.

    “Is there not?” Suddenly, Worthington grabbed the merchant’s arm tightly. “Do you truly believe that? For if that is the case why do we bother? Surely that was why our forefathers came here. Were they not seeking a better life, free from persecution and tyranny? If that is not the case then why do we suffer as we do, if not to build a life that will benefit those who follow us? Mark my words Forest, if we do not force change then more youths like poor Jeremiah will die before we see real change.” Worthington’s voice rose to such a level that Forest was forced to act. Taking hold of the solicitor he led him quickly towards an alleyway between a smithy and a laundry house. Insurrection was born in many a strange place but never had the merchant imagined such a humble beginning for their cause. Two men of wealth, standing and of certain years, stood hidden in the shadows and spoke of things that could land them upon the gibbet as sure as night followed day. Once certain that they would not be overheard, Forest warned.

    “Be careful sir. Words spoken too loudly have a habit of reaching the wrong ears.”

    “I say nothing that can be interpreted as anti-establishment. Besides which I said far worse in Court.” Worthington said carefully. Forest paused as if he was considering his next statement cautiously and with diligence. When he spoke his words were whispered softly.    

    “Some would say we need a change in the accepted order. Would you agree to such a statement?” It was time for the solicitor to think carefully before replying.

    “Such a statement, if overheard, would endanger that person and any that listened to them.” Worthington admitted candidly. Forest was a man of integrity; a man that held position and status within the community. A man from whom Worthington had never heard such questions asked before.

    “Of course it would, my friend, but have you never considered, albeit when alone and in the privacy of your own council, how much better off this land would be under self-governance?”

    “I have pondered the possibility.” Worthington admitted. In fact he had considered such events on more than one occasion. Until now he had kept his own council and spoken to no one of his thoughts. The reasons for such ideas were to be seen everywhere, not just in the leaflets distributed by the separatists. King George was draining the enterprise from the colonies. Each year brought a new Bill, a new Act which took money back to England and restricted the colonists from expanding.

    “You are not alone. There are many such as you who have thought similar things. Some are prepared to speak out, others seek more progressive

methods. All though, are united in the same cause.” Forest paused and inhaled deeply. This was the moment when he would discover if he had chosen well. “Would you be prepared to join their struggle?” There, the invitation had been made. Now he must wait and see what the response would be. Would Worthington be tempted or would he call out for the soldiers? Might the merchant’s next meal be his last, exposed as the traitor he was? Anxiously he waited while the solicitor pondered his next move.

    “Who are these so called idealists? Am I to understand that this is an offer to join them?” Samuel Worthington asked guardedly, unsure as to what his response would be. 

    “What would your reply be if such a thing was to happen?” Forest enquired anxiously.

    “You speak of treason and you know the punishment for such a crime…..However I might be persuaded to hear more of what these people have to offer.”

   “My dear friend thank you for understanding. It would be a pleasure to

have you join our little group. But you have to realise that I have to discuss

this with others; we will send word when we are sure.” Forest declared his relief obvious. “Go home friend. We will be in touch and I implore you to be careful, there are those who would like to discover our group.” With that, Forest nodded politely, turned and walked away. Worthington could not be sure, but as Forest turned the corner he thought he heard a faint tune drifting upon the winter wind. He had made a pact; he hoped he would live to see its outcome.