Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson (the top 100 crime novels of all time TXT) 📖

guns out of five remained in a state for

service. Mine I had snatched from my knees and held

over my head, by a sort of instinct. As for the

captain, he had carried his over his shoulder by a

bandoleer, and like a wise man, lock uppermost. The

other three had gone down with the boat.

 

To add to our concern, we heard voices already drawing

near us in the woods along shore, and we had not only

the danger of being cut off from the stockade in our

half-crippled state but the fear before us whether, if

Hunter and Joyce were attacked by half a dozen, they

would have the sense and conduct to stand firm. Hunter

was steady, that we knew; Joyce was a doubtful case—a

pleasant, polite man for a valet and to brush one’s

clothes, but not entirely fitted for a man of war.

 

With all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as

we could, leaving behind us the poor jolly-boat and a

good half of all our powder and provisions.

 

18

 

Narrative Continued by the Doctor: End of the

First Day’s Fighting

 

WE made our best speed across the strip of wood that

now divided us from the stockade, and at every step we

took the voices of the buccaneers rang nearer. Soon we

could hear their footfalls as they ran and the cracking

of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket.

 

I began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest

and looked to my priming.

 

“Captain,” said I, “Trelawney is the dead shot. Give

him your gun; his own is useless.”

 

They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool as

he had been since the beginning of the bustle, hung a

moment on his heel to see that all was fit for service.

At the same time, observing Gray to be unarmed, I

handed him my cutlass. It did all our hearts good to

see him spit in his hand, knit his brows, and make the

blade sing through the air. It was plain from every

line of his body that our new hand was worth his salt.

 

Forty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and

saw the stockade in front of us. We struck the

enclosure about the middle of the south side, and

almost at the same time, seven mutineers—Job Anderson,

the boatswain, at their head—appeared in full cry at

the southwestern corner.

 

They paused as if taken aback, and before they recovered,

not only the squire and I, but Hunter and Joyce from the

block house, had time to fire. The four shots came in

rather a scattering volley, but they did the business:

one of the enemy actually fell, and the rest, without

hesitation, turned and plunged into the trees.

 

After reloading, we walked down the outside of the

palisade to see to the fallen enemy. He was stone

dead—shot through the heart.

 

We began to rejoice over our good success when just at

that moment a pistol cracked in the bush, a ball

whistled close past my ear, and poor Tom Redruth

stumbled and fell his length on the ground. Both the

squire and I returned the shot, but as we had nothing

to aim at, it is probable we only wasted powder. Then

we reloaded and turned our attention to poor Tom.

 

The captain and Gray were already examining him, and I

saw with half an eye that all was over.

 

I believe the readiness of our return volley had

scattered the mutineers once more, for we were suffered

without further molestation to get the poor old

gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade and carried,

groaning and bleeding, into the log-house.

 

Poor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise,

complaint, fear, or even acquiescence from the very

beginning of our troubles till now, when we had laid him

down in the log-house to die. He had lain like a Trojan

behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every

order silently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of

our party by a score of years; and now, sullen, old,

serviceable servant, it was he that was to die.

 

The squire dropped down beside him on his knees and

kissed his hand, crying like a child.

 

“Be I going, doctor?” he asked.

 

“Tom, my man,” said I, “you’re going home.”

 

“I wish I had had a lick at them with the gun first,”

he replied.

 

“Tom,” said the squire, “say you forgive me, won’t you?”

 

“Would that be respectful like, from me to you,

squire?” was the answer. “Howsoever, so be it, amen!”

 

After a little while of silence, he said he thought

somebody might read a prayer. “It’s the custom, sir,”

he added apologetically. And not long after, without

another word, he passed away.

 

In the meantime the captain, whom I had observed to be

wonderfully swollen about the chest and pockets, had

turned out a great many various stores—the British

colours, a Bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink,

the log-book, and pounds of tobacco. He had found a

longish fir-tree lying felled and trimmed in the

enclosure, and with the help of Hunter he had set it up

at the corner of the log-house where the trunks crossed

and made an angle. Then, climbing on the roof, he had

with his own hand bent and run up the colours.

 

This seemed mightily to relieve him. He re-entered the

log-house and set about counting up the stores as if

nothing else existed. But he had an eye on Tom’s passage

for all that, and as soon as all was over, came forward

with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.

 

“Don’t you take on, sir,” he said, shaking the squire’s

hand. “All’s well with him; no fear for a hand that’s

been shot down in his duty to captain and owner. It

mayn’t be good divinity, but it’s a fact.”

 

Then he pulled me aside.

 

“Dr. Livesey,” he said, “in how many weeks do you and

squire expect the consort?”

 

I told him it was a question not of weeks but of

months, that if we were not back by the end of August

Blandly was to send to find us, but neither sooner nor

later. “You can calculate for yourself,” I said.

 

“Why, yes,” returned the captain, scratching his head;

“and making a large allowance, sir, for all the gifts

of Providence, I should say we were pretty close hauled.”

 

“How do you mean?” I asked.

 

“It’s a pity, sir, we lost that second load. That’s

what I mean,” replied the captain. “As for powder and

shot, we’ll do. But the rations are short, very short—

so short, Dr. Livesey, that we’re perhaps as well

without that extra mouth.”

 

And he pointed to the dead body under the flag.

 

Just then, with a roar and a whistle, a round-shot

passed high above the roof of the log-house and plumped

far beyond us in the wood.

 

“Oho!” said the captain. “Blaze away! You’ve little

enough powder already, my lads.”

 

At the second trial, the aim was better, and the ball

descended inside the stockade, scattering a cloud of

sand but doing no further damage.

 

“Captain,” said the squire, “the house is quite

invisible from the ship. It must be the flag they are

aiming at. Would it not be wiser to take it in?”

 

“Strike my colours!” cried the captain. “No, sir, not I”;

and as soon as he had said the words, I think we all agreed

with him. For it was not only a piece of stout, seamanly,

good feeling; it was good policy besides and showed our

enemies that we despised their cannonade.

 

All through the evening they kept thundering away.

Ball after ball flew over or fell short or kicked up

the sand in the enclosure, but they had to fire so high

that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft

sand. We had no ricochet to fear, and though one

popped in through the roof of the log-house and out

again through the floor, we soon got used to that sort

of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket.

 

“There is one good thing about all this,” observed the

captain; “the wood in front of us is likely clear. The

ebb has made a good while; our stores should be

uncovered. Volunteers to go and bring in pork.”

 

Gray and hunter were the first to come forward. Well

armed, they stole out of the stockade, but it proved a

useless mission. The mutineers were bolder than we

fancied or they put more trust in Israel’s gunnery.

For four or five of them were busy carrying off our

stores and wading out with them to one of the gigs that

lay close by, pulling an oar or so to hold her steady

against the current. Silver was in the stern-sheets in

command; and every man of them was now provided with a

musket from some secret magazine of their own.

 

The captain sat down to his log, and here is the

beginning of the entry:

 

Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship’s

doctor; Abraham Gray, carpenter’s mate; John

Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and Richard Joyce,

owner’s servants, landsmen—being all that is left

faithful of the ship’s company—with stores for ten

days at short rations, came ashore this day and flew

British colours on the log-house in Treasure Island.

Thomas Redruth, owner’s servant, landsman, shot by the

mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin-boy—

 

And at the same time, I was wondering over poor Jim

Hawkins’ fate.

 

A hail on the land side.

 

“Somebody hailing us,” said Hunter, who was on guard.

 

“Doctor! Squire! Captain! Hullo, Hunter, is that

you?” came the cries.

 

And I ran to the door in time to see Jim Hawkins, safe

and sound, come climbing over the stockade.

 

19

 

Narrative Resumed by Jim Hawkins: The Garrison

in the Stockade

 

AS soon as Ben Gunn saw the colours he came to a halt,

stopped me by the arm, and sat down.

 

“Now,” said he, “there’s your friends, sure enough.”

 

“Far more likely it’s the mutineers,” I answered.

 

“That!” he cried. “Why, in a place like this, where

nobody puts in but gen’lemen of fortune, Silver would

fly the Jolly Roger, you don’t make no doubt of that.

No, that’s your friends. There’s been blows too, and I

reckon your friends has had the best of it; and here

they are ashore in the old stockade, as was made years

and years ago by Flint. Ah, he was the man to have a

headpiece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match were

never seen. He were afraid of none, not he; on’y

Silver—Silver was that genteel.”

 

“Well,” said I, “that may be so, and so be it; all the

more reason that I should hurry on and join my friends.”

 

“Nay, mate,” returned Ben, “not you. You’re a good

boy, or I’m mistook; but you’re on’y a boy, all told.

Now, Ben Gunn is fly. Rum wouldn’t bring me there,

where you’re going—not rum wouldn’t, till I see your

born gen’leman and gets it on his word of honour. And

you won’t forget my words; ‘A precious sight (that’s

what you’ll say), a precious sight more confidence’—

and then nips him.”

 

And he pinched me the third time with the same air

of cleverness.

 

“And when Ben Gunn is wanted, you know where to find

him, Jim. Just wheer you found him today. And him

that comes is to have a white thing