Treasure Island Robert Louis Stevenson (beach read book TXT) 📖

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 colors 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! Hallo, 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.

XIX Narrative Resumed by Jim Hawkins⁠—The Garrison in the Stockade

As soon as Ben Gunn saw the colors 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 was 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 honor. 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 where you found him today. And him that comes is to have a white thing 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,” says 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 came ashore, Jim, what would you say but there’d be widders in the morning?”

Here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a cannon ball 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 our 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 toward 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 gray 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 farther down the spit, and rising from among low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty high, and peculiarly white in color. It occurred to me that this might be the white rock of which