الفصل الفصل 18 · XVIII. Narrative Continued by the Doctor: End of the First Day’s Fighting

XVIII. 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.