Chapter: NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS--THE GARRISON IN THE STOCKADE


As soon as Ben Gunn saw the colors 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 was
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 honor. 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 where
you found him to-day. 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," says 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 came ashore, Jim, what would you say but there'd be widders
in the morning?"

Here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a cannon ball 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 our
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 toward 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 gray 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 incloses 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 farther down the spit, and rising from among
low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty high, and peculiarly white in
color. 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 beside 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 defense, they said--the
wood still flourished high and dense, all of fir on the land side, but
toward 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 as we all were, two were sent out for firewood, two more were sent
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 to-morrow 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, beside
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 I ever 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 awakened 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.

 Jim resumes the narration by telling how Ben Gunn was happy to see the Union Jack fluttering on top of the stockade. He tells Jim that his friends are in control of the stockade. Ben Gunn doesnt join Jim, instead he asks Jim to first talk to them about his demand he mentioned earlier and come back to him where Jim found him first. Their conversation comes to a halt when a cannonball lands ten yards away from them. Jim moves carefully towards the stockade. From the thicket Jim could see the Hispaniola. The black flag of the pirates-the Jolly Roger now fluttering on the mast. Jim lies there for some time observing the destruction the pirates had done to the island. He hears the pirates yelling loudly in a highly spirited mood. Jim makes it to the stockade. He is welcomed warmly by the crew. Jim tells them what has happened since he has been on the island. Captain Smollet issues orders for everyone to proceed with their activities. Everybody is given a task. Two are sent to fetch firewood. Two more to dig a grave for Redruth; the doctor serves as the cook and Jim is appointed as a sentry. The doctor, while cooking, often comes to the door for a breath of fresh air. He inquires about Ben Gunn during these relaxing moments. After learning Ben Gunns craving for cheese, he keeps aside his Parmesan cheese, which he always carried in his snuff box, for Ben. They bury Redruth. The food was cooked. After supper the three leaders sit down to discuss their future plan of action. They can hear the sounds of the pirates who are just half a mile away. Jim dozes off after a long hard day. He is awakened when he hears Silver shout the flag of truce. It is another day on the island.

