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.