19

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 you can go,
Jim. And, Jim, if you was to see Silver, you wouldn't
go for to sell Ben Gunn? Wild horses wouldn't draw it
from you? No, says you. And if them pirates camp
ashore, Jim, what would you say but there'd be widders
in the morning?"

Here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a
cannonball came tearing through the trees and pitched
in the sand not a hundred yards from where we two were
talking. The next moment each of us had taken to his
heels in a different direction.

For a good hour to come frequent reports shook the
island, and balls kept crashing through the woods. I
moved from hiding-place to hiding-place, always
pursued, or so it seemed to me, by these terrifying
missiles. But towards the end of the bombardment,
though still I durst not venture in the direction of
the stockade, where the balls fell oftenest, I had
begun, in a manner, to pluck up my heart again, and
after a long detour to the east, crept down among the
shore-side trees.

The sun had just set, the sea breeze was rustling and
tumbling in the woods and ruffling the grey surface of
the anchorage; the tide, too, was far out, and great
tracts of sand lay uncovered; the air, after the heat
of the day, chilled me through my jacket.

The HISPANIOLA still lay where she had anchored; but, sure
enough, there was the Jolly Roger--the black flag of piracy
--flying from her peak. Even as I looked, there came another
red flash and another report that sent the echoes clattering,
and one more round-shot whistled through the air. It was the
last of the cannonade.

I lay for some time watching the bustle which succeeded
the attack. Men were demolishing something with axes
on the beach near the stockade--the poor jolly-boat, I
afterwards discovered. Away, near the mouth of the
river, a great fire was glowing among the trees, and
between that point and the ship one of the gigs kept
coming and going, the men, whom I had seen so gloomy,
shouting at the oars like children. But there was a
sound in their voices which suggested rum.

At length I thought I might return towards the
stockade. I was pretty far down on the low, sandy spit
that encloses the anchorage to the east, and is joined
at half-water to Skeleton Island; and now, as I rose to
my feet, I saw, some distance further down the spit and
rising from among low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty
high, and peculiarly white in colour. It occurred to
me that this might be the white rock of which Ben Gunn
had spoken and that some day or other a boat might be
wanted and I should know where to look for one.

Then I skirted among the woods until I had regained the
rear, or shoreward side, of the stockade, and was soon
warmly welcomed by the faithful party.

I had soon told my story and began to look about me.
The log-house was made of unsquared trunks of pine--
roof, walls, and floor. The latter stood in several
places as much as a foot or a foot and a half above the
surface of the sand. There was a porch at the door,
and under this porch the little spring welled up into
an artificial basin of a rather odd kind--no other than
a great ship's kettle of iron, with the bottom knocked
out, and sunk "to her bearings," as the captain said,
among the sand.

Little had been left besides the framework of the
house, but in one corner there was a stone slab laid
down by way of hearth and an old rusty iron basket to
contain the fire.

The slopes of the knoll and all the inside of the
stockade had been cleared of timber to build the house,
and we could see by the stumps what a fine and lofty
grove had been destroyed. Most of the soil had been
washed away or buried in drift after the removal of the
trees; only where the streamlet ran down from the
kettle a thick bed of moss and some ferns and little
creeping bushes were still green among the sand. Very
close around the stockade--too close for defence, they
said--the wood still flourished high and dense, all of
fir on the land side, but towards the sea with a large
admixture of live-oaks.

The cold evening breeze, of which I have spoken,
whistled through every chink of the rude building and
sprinkled the floor with a continual rain of fine sand.
There was sand in our eyes, sand in our teeth, sand in
our suppers, sand dancing in the spring at the bottom
of the kettle, for all the world like porridge
beginning to boil. Our chimney was a square hole in
the roof; it was but a little part of the smoke that
found its way out, and the rest eddied about the house
and kept us coughing and piping the eye.

Add to this that Gray, the new man, had his face tied
up in a bandage for a cut he had got in breaking away
from the mutineers and that poor old Tom Redruth, still
unburied, lay along the wall, stiff and stark, under
the Union Jack.

If we had been allowed to sit idle, we should all have
fallen in the blues, but Captain Smollett was never the
man for that. All hands were called up before him, and
he divided us into watches. The doctor and Gray and I
for one; the squire, Hunter, and Joyce upon the other.
Tired though we all were, two were sent out for
firewood; two more were set to dig a grave for Redruth;
the doctor was named cook; I was put sentry at the door;
and the captain himself went from one to another, keeping
up our spirits and lending a hand wherever it was wanted.

From time to time the doctor came to the door for a little
air and to rest his eyes, which were almost smoked out of
his head, and whenever he did so, he had a word for me.

"That man Smollett," he said once, "is a better man
than I am. And when I say that it means a deal, Jim."

Another time he came and was silent for a while. Then
he put his head on one side, and looked at me.

"Is this Ben Gunn a man?" he asked.

"I do not know, sir," said I. "I am not very sure
whether he's sane."

"If there's any doubt about the matter, he is," returned
the doctor. "A man who has been three years biting his
nails on a desert island, Jim, can't expect to appear as
sane as you or me. It doesn't lie in human nature. Was
it cheese you said he had a fancy for?"

"Yes, sir, cheese," I answered.

"Well, Jim," says he, "just see the good that comes of
being dainty in your food. You've seen my snuff-box,
haven't you? And you never saw me take snuff, the
reason being that in my snuff-box I carry a piece of
Parmesan cheese--a cheese made in Italy, very
nutritious. Well, that's for Ben Gunn!"

Before supper was eaten we buried old Tom in the sand
and stood round him for a while bare-headed in the
breeze. A good deal of firewood had been got in, but
not enough for the captain's fancy, and he shook his
head over it and told us we "must get back to this
tomorrow rather livelier." Then, when we had eaten our
pork and each had a good stiff glass of brandy grog,
the three chiefs got together in a corner to discuss
our prospects.

It appears they were at their wits' end what to do, the
stores being so low that we must have been starved into
surrender long before help came. But our best hope, it
was decided, was to kill off the buccaneers until they
either hauled down their flag or ran away with the
HISPANIOLA. From nineteen they were already reduced
to fifteen, two others were wounded, and one at least--
the man shot beside the gun--severely wounded, if he
were not dead. Every time we had a crack at them, we
were to take it, saving our own lives, with the
extremest care. And besides that, we had two able
allies--rum and the climate.

As for the first, though we were about half a mile
away, we could hear them roaring and singing late into
the night; and as for the second, the doctor staked his
wig that, camped where they were in the marsh and
unprovided with remedies, the half of them would be on
their backs before a week.

"So," he added, "if we are not all shot down first they'll
be glad to be packing in the schooner. It's always a ship,
and they can get to buccaneering again, I suppose."

"First ship that ever I lost," said Captain Smollett.

I was dead tired, as you may fancy; and when I got to
sleep, which was not till after a great deal of
tossing, I slept like a log of wood.

The rest had long been up and had already breakfasted and
increased the pile of firewood by about half as much again
when I was wakened by a bustle and the sound of voices.

"Flag of truce!" I heard someone say; and then, immediately
after, with a cry of surprise, "Silver himself!"

And at that, up I jumped, and rubbing my eyes, ran to a
loophole in the wall.