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.

****

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