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

in his hand, and

he’s to come alone. Oh! And you’ll say this: ‘Ben

Gunn,’ says you, ‘has reasons of his own.’”

 

“Well,” said I, “I believe I understand. You have

something to propose, and you wish to see the squire or

the doctor, and you’re to be found where I found you.

Is that all?”

 

“And when? says you,” he added. “Why, from about noon

observation to about six bells.”

 

“Good,” said I, “and now may I go?”

 

“You won’t forget?” he inquired anxiously. “Precious

sight, and reasons of his own, says you. Reasons of

his own; that’s the mainstay; as between man and man.

Well, then”—still holding me—“I reckon you can go,

Jim. And, Jim, if you was to see Silver, you wouldn’t

go for to sell Ben Gunn? Wild horses wouldn’t draw it

from you? No, says you. And if them pirates camp

ashore, Jim, what would you say but there’d be widders

in the morning?”

 

Here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a

cannonball came tearing through the trees and pitched

in the sand not a hundred yards from where we two were

talking. The next moment each of us had taken to his

heels in a different direction.

 

For a good hour to come frequent reports shook the

island, and balls kept crashing through the woods. I

moved from hiding-place to hiding-place, always

pursued, or so it seemed to me, by these terrifying

missiles. But towards the end of the bombardment,

though still I durst not venture in the direction of

the stockade, where the balls fell oftenest, I had

begun, in a manner, to pluck up my heart again, and

after a long detour to the east, crept down among the

shore-side trees.

 

The sun had just set, the sea breeze was rustling and

tumbling in the woods and ruffling the grey surface of

the anchorage; the tide, too, was far out, and great

tracts of sand lay uncovered; the air, after the heat

of the day, chilled me through my jacket.

 

The HISPANIOLA still lay where she had anchored; but, sure

enough, there was the Jolly Roger—the black flag of piracy

—flying from her peak. Even as I looked, there came another

red flash and another report that sent the echoes clattering,

and one more round-shot whistled through the air. It was the

last of the cannonade.

 

I lay for some time watching the bustle which succeeded

the attack. Men were demolishing something with axes

on the beach near the stockade—the poor jolly-boat, I

afterwards discovered. Away, near the mouth of the

river, a great fire was glowing among the trees, and

between that point and the ship one of the gigs kept

coming and going, the men, whom I had seen so gloomy,

shouting at the oars like children. But there was a

sound in their voices which suggested rum.

 

At length I thought I might return towards the

stockade. I was pretty far down on the low, sandy spit

that encloses the anchorage to the east, and is joined

at half-water to Skeleton Island; and now, as I rose to

my feet, I saw, some distance further down the spit and

rising from among low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty

high, and peculiarly white in colour. It occurred to

me that this might be the white rock of which Ben Gunn

had spoken and that some day or other a boat might be

wanted and I should know where to look for one.

 

Then I skirted among the woods until I had regained the

rear, or shoreward side, of the stockade, and was soon

warmly welcomed by the faithful party.

 

I had soon told my story and began to look about me.

The log-house was made of unsquared trunks of pine—

roof, walls, and floor. The latter stood in several

places as much as a foot or a foot and a half above the

surface of the sand. There was a porch at the door,

and under this porch the little spring welled up into

an artificial basin of a rather odd kind—no other than

a great ship’s kettle of iron, with the bottom knocked

out, and sunk “to her bearings,” as the captain said,

among the sand.

 

Little had been left besides the framework of the

house, but in one corner there was a stone slab laid

down by way of hearth and an old rusty iron basket to

contain the fire.

 

The slopes of the knoll and all the inside of the

stockade had been cleared of timber to build the house,

and we could see by the stumps what a fine and lofty

grove had been destroyed. Most of the soil had been

washed away or buried in drift after the removal of the

trees; only where the streamlet ran down from the

kettle a thick bed of moss and some ferns and little

creeping bushes were still green among the sand. Very

close around the stockade—too close for defence, they

said—the wood still flourished high and dense, all of

fir on the land side, but towards the sea with a large

admixture of live-oaks.

 

The cold evening breeze, of which I have spoken,

whistled through every chink of the rude building and

sprinkled the floor with a continual rain of fine sand.

There was sand in our eyes, sand in our teeth, sand in

our suppers, sand dancing in the spring at the bottom

of the kettle, for all the world like porridge

beginning to boil. Our chimney was a square hole in

the roof; it was but a little part of the smoke that

found its way out, and the rest eddied about the house

and kept us coughing and piping the eye.

 

Add to this that Gray, the new man, had his face tied

up in a bandage for a cut he had got in breaking away

from the mutineers and that poor old Tom Redruth, still

unburied, lay along the wall, stiff and stark, under

the Union Jack.

 

If we had been allowed to sit idle, we should all have

fallen in the blues, but Captain Smollett was never the

man for that. All hands were called up before him, and

he divided us into watches. The doctor and Gray and I

for one; the squire, Hunter, and Joyce upon the other.

Tired though we all were, two were sent out for

firewood; two more were set to dig a grave for Redruth;

the doctor was named cook; I was put sentry at the door;

and the captain himself went from one to another, keeping

up our spirits and lending a hand wherever it was wanted.

 

From time to time the doctor came to the door for a little

air and to rest his eyes, which were almost smoked out of

his head, and whenever he did so, he had a word for me.

 

“That man Smollett,” he said once, “is a better man

than I am. And when I say that it means a deal, Jim.”

 

Another time he came and was silent for a while. Then

he put his head on one side, and looked at me.

 

“Is this Ben Gunn a man?” he asked.

 

“I do not know, sir,” said I. “I am not very sure

whether he’s sane.”

 

“If there’s any doubt about the matter, he is,” returned

the doctor. “A man who has been three years biting his

nails on a desert island, Jim, can’t expect to appear as

sane as you or me. It doesn’t lie in human nature. Was

it cheese you said he had a fancy for?”

 

“Yes, sir, cheese,” I answered.

 

“Well, Jim,” says he, “just see the good that comes of

being dainty in your food. You’ve seen my snuff-box,

haven’t you? And you never saw me take snuff, the

reason being that in my snuff-box I carry a piece of

Parmesan cheese—a cheese made in Italy, very

nutritious. Well, that’s for Ben Gunn!”

 

Before supper was eaten we buried old Tom in the sand

and stood round him for a while bare-headed in the

breeze. A good deal of firewood had been got in, but

not enough for the captain’s fancy, and he shook his

head over it and told us we “must get back to this

tomorrow rather livelier.” Then, when we had eaten our

pork and each had a good stiff glass of brandy grog,

the three chiefs got together in a corner to discuss

our prospects.

 

It appears they were at their wits’ end what to do, the

stores being so low that we must have been starved into

surrender long before help came. But our best hope, it

was decided, was to kill off the buccaneers until they

either hauled down their flag or ran away with the

HISPANIOLA. From nineteen they were already reduced

to fifteen, two others were wounded, and one at least—

the man shot beside the gun—severely wounded, if he

were not dead. Every time we had a crack at them, we

were to take it, saving our own lives, with the

extremest care. And besides that, we had two able

allies—rum and the climate.

 

As for the first, though we were about half a mile

away, we could hear them roaring and singing late into

the night; and as for the second, the doctor staked his

wig that, camped where they were in the marsh and

unprovided with remedies, the half of them would be on

their backs before a week.

 

“So,” he added, “if we are not all shot down first they’ll

be glad to be packing in the schooner. It’s always a ship,

and they can get to buccaneering again, I suppose.”

 

“First ship that ever I lost,” said Captain Smollett.

 

I was dead tired, as you may fancy; and when I got to

sleep, which was not till after a great deal of

tossing, I slept like a log of wood.

 

The rest had long been up and had already breakfasted and

increased the pile of firewood by about half as much again

when I was wakened by a bustle and the sound of voices.

 

“Flag of truce!” I heard someone say; and then, immediately

after, with a cry of surprise, “Silver himself!”

 

And at that, up I jumped, and rubbing my eyes, ran to a

loophole in the wall.

 

20

 

Silver’s Embassy

 

SURE enough, there were two men just outside the stockade,

one of them waving a white cloth, the other, no less a

person than Silver himself, standing placidly by.

 

It was still quite early, and the coldest morning that

I think I ever was abroad in—a chill that pierced into

the marrow. The sky was bright and cloudless overhead,

and the tops of the trees shone rosily in the sun. But

where Silver stood with his lieutenant, all was still

in shadow, and they waded knee-deep in a low white

vapour that had crawled during the night out of the

morass. The chill and the vapour taken together told a

poor tale of the island. It was plainly a damp,

feverish, unhealthy spot.

 

“Keep indoors, men,” said the captain. “Ten to one

this is a trick.”

 

Then he hailed the buccaneer.

 

“Who goes? Stand, or we fire.”

 

“Flag of truce,” cried Silver.

 

The captain was in the porch, keeping himself carefully

out of the way of a treacherous shot, should any be

intended. He turned and spoke to us, “Doctor’s watch

on the lookout. Dr. Livesey take the north side, if

you please; Jim, the east; Gray, west. The watch below,

all hands to load muskets. Lively, men, and careful.”

 

And then he turned again to the mutineers.

 

“And what do