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Treasure Island
by Robert Louis Stevenson
TREASURE ISLAND
To
S.L.O.,
an American gentleman
in accordance with whose classic taste
the following narrative has been designed,
it is now, in return for numerous delightful hours,
and with the kindest wishes,
dedicated
by his affectionate friend, the author.
TO THE HESITATING PURCHASER
If sailor tales to sailor tunes,
Storm and adventure, heat and cold,
If schooners, islands, and maroons,
And buccaneers, and buried gold,
And all the old romance, retold
Exactly in the ancient way,
Can please, as me they pleased of old,
The wiser youngsters of today:
—So be it, and fall on! If not,
If studious youth no longer crave,
His ancient appetites forgot,
Kingston, or Ballantyne the brave,
Or Cooper of the wood and wave:
So be it, also! And may I
And all my pirates share the grave
Where these and their creations lie!
CONTENTS
1. THE OLD SEA-DOG AT THE ADMIRAL BENBOW 11
2. BLACK DOG APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS … . 17
3. THE BLACK SPOT … … … … . 24
4. THE SEA-CHEST … … … … . 30
5. THE LAST OF THE BLIND MAN … … . 36
6. THE CAPTAIN’S PAPERS … … … . 41
7. I GO TO BRISTOL … … … … 48
8. AT THE SIGN OF THE SPY-GLASS … … 54
9. POWDER AND ARMS … … … … 59
10. THE VOYAGE … … … … … 64
11. WHAT I HEARD IN THE APPLE BARREL … . 70
12. COUNCIL OF WAR … … … … . 76
13. HOW MY SHORE ADVENTURE BEGAN … … 82
14. THE FIRST BLOW … … … … . 87
15. THE MAN OF THE ISLAND… … … . 93
16. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR:
HOW THE SHIP WAS ABANDONED … … 100
17. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR:
THE JOLLY-BOAT’S LAST TRIP … … 105
18. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR:
END OF THE FIRST DAY’S FIGHTING … 109
19. NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS:
THE GARRISON IN THE STOCKADE … . . 114
20. SILVER’S EMBASSY … … … … 120
21. THE ATTACK … … … … … 125
22. HOW MY SEA ADVENTURE BEGAN … … . 132
23. THE EBB-TIDE RUNS … … … . . 138
24. THE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE … … . 143
25. I STRIKE THE JOLLY ROGER … … . . 148
26. ISRAEL HANDS … … … … . . 153
27. “PIECES OF EIGHT” … … … . . 161
28. IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP … … … . 168
29. THE BLACK SPOT AGAIN … … … . 176
30. ON PAROLE … … … … … 182
31. THE TREASURE-HUNT—FLINT’S POINTER … 189
32. THE TREASURE-HUNT—THE VOICE AMONG
THE TREES … … … … . . 195
33. THE FALL OF A CHIEFTAIN … … . . 201
34. AND LAST … … … … … . 207
TREASURE ISLAND
The Old Buccaneer
1
The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow
SQUIRE TRELAWNEY, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these
gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole
particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning
to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the
island, and that only because there is still treasure not
yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17__
and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral
Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut
first took up his lodging under our roof.
I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came
plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following
behind him in a hand-barrow—a tall, strong, heavy,
nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the
shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and
scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut
across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him
looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he
did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that
he sang so often afterwards:
“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have
been tuned and broken at the capstan bars. Then he
rapped on the door with a bit of stick like a handspike
that he carried, and when my father appeared, called
roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought
to him, he drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering
on the taste and still looking about him at the cliffs
and up at our signboard.
“This is a handy cove,” says he at length; “and a
pleasant sittyated grog-shop. Much company, mate?”
My father told him no, very little company, the more
was the pity.
“Well, then,” said he, “this is the berth for me.
Here you, matey,” he cried to the man who trundled the
barrow; “bring up alongside and help up my chest. I’ll
stay here a bit,” he continued. “I’m a plain man; rum
and bacon and eggs is what I want, and that head up
there for to watch ships off. What you mought call me?
You mought call me captain. Oh, I see what you’re at—
there”; and he threw down three or four gold pieces on
the threshold. “You can tell me when I’ve worked
through that,” says he, looking as fierce as a
commander.
And indeed bad as his clothes were and coarsely as he
spoke, he had none of the appearance of a man who sailed
before the mast, but seemed like a mate or skipper
accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. The man who
came with the barrow told us the mail had set him down
the morning before at the Royal George, that he had
inquired what inns there were along the coast, and
hearing ours well spoken of, I suppose, and described as
lonely, had chosen it from the others for his place of
residence. And that was all we could learn of our guest.
He was a very silent man by custom. All day he hung
round the cove or upon the cliffs with a brass
telescope; all evening he sat in a corner of the
parlour next the fire and drank rum and water very
strong. Mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only
look up sudden and fierce and blow through his nose
like a fog-horn; and we and the people who came about
our house soon learned to let him be. Every day when
he came back from his stroll he would ask if any
seafaring men had gone by along the road. At first we
thought it was the want of company of his own kind that
made him ask this question, but at last we began to see
he was desirous to avoid them. When a seaman did put
up at the Admiral Benbow (as now and then some did,
making by the coast road for Bristol) he would look in
at him through the curtained door before he entered the
parlour; and he was always sure to be as silent as a
mouse when any such was present. For me, at least,
there was no secret about the matter, for I was, in a
way, a sharer in his alarms. He had taken me aside one
day and promised me a silver fourpenny on the first of
every month if I would only keep my “weather-eye open
for a seafaring man with one leg” and let him know the
moment he appeared. Often enough when the first of the
month came round and I applied to him for my wage, he
would only blow through his nose at me and stare me down,
but before the week was out he was sure to think better
of it, bring me my fourpenny piece, and repeat his orders
to look out for “the seafaring man with one leg.”
How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely
tell you. On stormy nights, when the wind shook the
four corners of the house and the surf roared along the
cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a thousand
forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions. Now
the leg would be cut off at the knee, now at the hip;
now he was a monstrous kind of a creature who had never
had but the one leg, and that in the middle of his
body. To see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge
and ditch was the worst of nightmares. And altogether
I paid pretty dear for my monthly fourpenny piece, in
the shape of these abominable fancies.
But though I was so terrified by the idea of the
seafaring man with one leg, I was far less afraid of
the captain himself than anybody else who knew him.
There were nights when he took a deal more rum and
water than his head would carry; and then he would
sometimes sit and sing his wicked, old, wild sea-songs,
minding nobody; but sometimes he would call for glasses
round and force all the trembling company to listen to
his stories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I
have heard the house shaking with “Yo-ho-ho, and a
bottle of rum,” all the neighbours joining in for dear
life, with the fear of death upon them, and each
singing louder than the other to avoid remark. For in
these fits he was the most overriding companion ever
known; he would slap his hand on the table for silence
all round; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a
question, or sometimes because none was put, and so he
judged the company was not following his story. Nor
would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he had
drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed.
His stories were what frightened people worst of all.
Dreadful stories they were—about hanging, and walking
the plank, and storms at sea, and the Dry Tortugas, and
wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main. By his own
account he must have lived his life among some of the
wickedest men that God ever allowed upon the sea, and
the language in which he told these stories shocked our
plain country people almost as much as the crimes that
he described. My father was always saying the inn
would be ruined, for people would soon cease coming
there to be tyrannized over and put down, and sent
shivering to their beds; but I really believe his
presence did us good. People were frightened at the
time, but on looking back they rather liked it; it was
a fine excitement in a quiet country life, and there
was even a party of the younger men who pretended to
admire him, calling
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