ISLAND TALES: The Mysterious Island & Treasure Island. Robert Louis Stevenson

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.

      Chapter 4 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 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