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Chapter 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 *** 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.