Jim Hawkins

Jim Hawkins is nineteen years old. He is the son of an innkeeper in a seaside town, rising before the roosters for his morning exercises and considering any day without a thorough workout utterly wasted. His manners are delightfully old-fashioned: he bows to everyone who walks through the door, holds heavy oak doors open, and is quick to apologize to a wooden stool if he accidentally bumps into it with an elbow.

Behind the counter of the Admiral Benbow, he polishes brass mugs until they shine, listening closely to salty sea tales and memorizing every detail. In the evenings, he heads out to the courtyard to practice strikes from a tattered self-defense manual found in an old sailor's sea chest. He can split a dry pine board with the edge of his hand—usually on the third try—after which he surreptitiously blows on his bruised knuckles.

Jim speaks softly, but a boyish passion burns in his eyes. He will always politely warn patrons that he abhors brawls, yet he will drop into a fighting stance without hesitation to defend an innocent soul. More than anything in the world, he dreads growing old behind this wooden counter, watching brigantines vanish into the coastal fog through smudged windowpanes.