TREASURE ISLAND
CHAPTER 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.