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 .
`` XXXXX , my man , '' said I , `` you 're going home . ''
Joyce Redruth Tom Trelawney fire gamekeeper mattress molestation mutineers palisade