Treasure Island

he Man of the Island

From the side of the hill, which was here steep and stony, a spout of
gravel was dislodged and fell rattling and bounding through the trees.
My eyes turned instinctively in that direction, and I saw a figure leap
with great rapidity behind the trunk of a pine. What it was, whether
bear or man or monkey, I could in no wise tell. It seemed dark and
shaggy; more I knew not. But the terror of this new apparition brought
me to a stand.

I was now, it seemed, cut off upon both sides; behind me the murderers,
before me this lurking nondescript. And immediately I began to prefer
the dangers that I knew to those I knew not. Silver himself appeared
less terrible in contrast with this creature of the woods, and I turned
on my heel, and looking sharply behind me over my shoulder, began to
retrace my steps in the direction of the boats.

Instantly the figure reappeared, and making a wide circuit, began to
head me off. I was tired, at any rate; but had I been as fresh as when I
rose, I could see it was in vain for me to contend in speed with such an
adversary. From trunk to trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running
manlike on two legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping
almost double as it ran. Yet a man it was, I could no longer be in doubt
about that.

I began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was within an ace of
calling for help. But the mere fact that he was a man, however wild,
had somewhat reassured me, and my fear of Silver began to revive in
proportion. I stood still, therefore, and cast about for some method of
escape; and as I was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed
into my mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, courage
glowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for this man of
the island and walked briskly towards him.

He was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; but he must
have been watching me closely, for as soon as I began to move in his
direction he reappeared and took a step to meet me. Then he hesitated,
drew back, came forward again, and at last, to my wonder and
confusion, threw himself on his knees and held out his clasped hands in
supplication.

At that I once more stopped.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Ben Gunn,” he answered, and his voice sounded hoarse and awkward,
like a rusty lock. “I’m poor Ben Gunn, I am; and I haven’t spoke with a
Christian these three years.”

I could now see that he was a white man like myself and that his
features were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was exposed, was
burnt by the sun; even his lips were black, and his fair eyes looked
quite startling in so dark a face. Of all the beggar-men that I had seen
or fancied, he was the chief for raggedness. He was clothed with tatters
of old ship’s canvas and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork
was all held together by a system of the most various and incongruous
fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry gaskin.
About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather belt, which was the
one thing solid in his whole accoutrement.

“Three years!” I cried. “Were you shipwrecked?”

“Nay, mate,” said he; “marooned.”

I had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible kind of
punishment common enough among the buccaneers, in which the offender
is put ashore with a little powder and shot and left behind on some
desolate and distant island.

“Marooned three years agone,” he continued, “and lived on goats since
then, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man is, says I, a man can
do for himself. But, mate, my heart is sore for Christian diet. You
mightn’t happen to have a piece of cheese about you, now? No? Well,
many’s the long night I’ve dreamed of cheese--toasted, mostly--and woke
up again, and here I were.”

“If ever I can get aboard again,” said I, “you shall have cheese by the
stone.”

All this time he had been feeling the stuff of my jacket, smoothing
my hands, looking at my boots, and generally, in the intervals of
his speech, showing a childish pleasure in the presence of a fellow
creature. But at my last words he perked up into a kind of startled
slyness.

“If ever you can get aboard again, says you?” he repeated. “Why, now,
who’s to hinder you?”

“Not you, I know,” was my reply.

“And right you was,” he cried. “Now you--what do you call yourself,
mate?”

“Jim,” I told him.

“Jim, Jim,” says he, quite pleased apparently. “Well, now, Jim, I’ve
lived that rough as you’d be ashamed to hear of. Now, for instance, you
wouldn’t think I had had a pious mother--to look at me?” he asked.

“Why, no, not in particular,” I answered.

“Ah, well,” said he, “but I had--remarkable pious. And I was a civil,
pious boy, and could rattle off my catechism that fast, as you couldn’t
tell one word from another. And here’s what it come to, Jim, and it
begun with chuck-farthen on the blessed grave-stones! That’s what it
begun with, but it went further’n that; and so my mother told me, and
predicked the whole, she did, the pious woman! But it were Providence
that put me here. I’ve thought it all out in this here lonely island,
and I’m back on piety. You don’t catch me tasting rum so much, but just
a thimbleful for luck, of course, the first chance I have. I’m bound
I’ll be good, and I see the way to. And, Jim”--looking all round him and
lowering his voice to a whisper--“I’m rich.”

I now felt sure that the poor fellow had gone crazy in his solitude, and
I suppose I must have shown the feeling in my face, for he repeated the
statement hotly: “Rich! Rich! I says. And I’ll tell you what: I’ll make
a man of you, Jim. Ah, Jim, you’ll bless your stars, you will, you was
the first that found me!”

And at this there came suddenly a lowering shadow over his face, and he
tightened his grasp upon my hand and raised a forefinger threateningly
before my eyes.

“Now, Jim, you tell me true: that ain’t Flint’s ship?” he asked.

At this I had a happy inspiration. I began to believe that I had found
an ally, and I answered him at once.

“It’s not Flint’s ship, and Flint is dead; but I’ll tell you true, as
you ask me--there are some of Flint’s hands aboard; worse luck for the
rest of us.”

“Not a man--with one--leg?” he gasped.

“Silver?” I asked.

“Ah, Silver!” says he. “That were his name.”

“He’s the cook, and the ringleader too.”

He was still holding me by the wrist, and at that he give it quite a
wring.

“If you was sent by Long John,” he said, “I’m as good as pork, and I
know it. But where was you, do you suppose?”

I had made my mind up in a moment, and by way of answer told him
the whole story of our voyage and the predicament in which we found
ourselves. He heard me with the keenest interest, and when I had done he
patted me on the head.

“You’re a good lad, Jim,” he said; “and you’re all in a clove hitch,
ain’t you? Well, you just put your trust in Ben Gunn--Ben Gunn’s the man
to do it. Would you think it likely, now, that your squire would prove
a liberal-minded one in case of help--him being in a clove hitch, as you
remark?”

I told him the squire was the most liberal of men.

“Aye, but you see,” returned Ben Gunn, “I didn’t mean giving me a gate
to keep, and a suit of livery clothes, and such; that’s not my mark,
Jim. What I mean is, would he be likely to come down to the toon of, say
one thousand pounds out of money that’s as good as a man’s own already?”

“I am sure he would,” said I. “As it was, all hands were to share.”

“AND a passage home?” he added with a look of great shrewdness.

“Why,” I cried, “the squire’s a gentleman. And besides, if we got rid of
the others, we should want you to help work the vessel home.”

“Ah,” said he, “so you would.” And he seemed very much relieved.

“Now, I’ll tell you what,” he went on. “So much I’ll tell you, and no
more. I were in Flint’s ship when he buried the treasure; he and
six along--six strong seamen. They was ashore nigh on a week, and us
standing off and on in the old WALRUS. One fine day up went the signal,
and here come Flint by himself in a little boat, and his head done up in
a blue scarf. The sun was getting up, and mortal white he looked about
the cutwater. But, there he was, you mind, and the six all dead--dead
and buried. How he done it, not a man aboard us could make out. It was
battle, murder, and sudden death, leastways--him against six. Billy
Bones was the mate; Long John, he was quartermaster; and they asked him
where the treasure was. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘you can go ashore, if you like,
and stay,’ he says; ‘but as for the ship, she’ll beat up for more, by
thunder!’ That’s what he said.

“Well, I was in another ship three years back, and we sighted this
island. ‘Boys,’ said I, ‘here’s Flint’s treasure; let’s land and find
it.’ The cap’n was displeased at that, but my messmates were all of a
mind and landed. Twelve days they looked for it, and every day they had
the worse word for me, until one fine morning all hands went aboard. ‘As
for you, Benjamin Gunn,’ says they, ‘here’s a musket,’ they says, ‘and
a spade, and pick-axe. You can stay here and find Flint’s money for
yourself,’ they says.

“Well, Jim, three years have I been here, and not a bite of Christian
diet from that day to this. But now, you look here; look at me. Do I
look like a man before the mast? No, says you. Nor I weren’t, neither, I
says.”

And with that he winked and pinched me hard.

“Just you mention them words to your squire, Jim,” he went on. “Nor he
weren’t, neither--that’s the words. Three years he were the man of this
island, light and dark, fair and rain; and sometimes he would maybe
think upon a prayer (says you), and sometimes he would maybe think of
his old mother, so be as she’s alive (you’ll say); but the most part
of Gunn’s time (this is what you’ll say)--the most part of his time was
took up with another matter. And then you’ll give him a nip, like I do.”

And he pinched me again in the most confidential manner.

“Then,” he continued, “then you’ll up, and you’ll say this: Gunn is a
good man (you’ll say), and he puts a precious sight more confidence--a
precious sight, mind that--in a gen’leman born than in these gen’leman
of fortune, having been one hisself.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t understand one word that you’ve been saying.
But that’s neither here nor there; for how am I to get on board?”

“Ah,” said he, “that’s the hitch, for sure. Well, there’s my boat, that
I made with my two hands. I keep her under the white rock. If the worst
come to the worst, we might try that after dark. Hi!” he broke out.
“What’s that?”

For just then, although the sun had still an hour or two to run, all the
echoes of the island awoke and bellowed to the thunder of a cannon.

“They have begun to fight!” I cried. “Follow me.”

And I began to run towards the anchorage, my terrors all forgotten,
while close at my side the marooned man in his goatskins trotted easily
and lightly.

“Left, left,” says he; “keep to your left hand, mate Jim! Under the
trees with you! Theer’s where I killed my first goat. They don’t come
down here now; they’re all mastheaded on them mountings for the fear
of Benjamin Gunn. Ah! And there’s the cetemery”--cemetery, he must have
meant. “You see the mounds? I come here and prayed, nows and thens, when
I thought maybe a Sunday would be about doo. It weren’t quite a chapel,
but it seemed more solemn like; and then, says you, Ben Gunn was
short-handed--no chapling, nor so much as a Bible and a flag, you says.”

So he kept talking as I ran, neither expecting nor receiving any answer.

The cannon-shot was followed after a considerable interval by a volley
of small arms.

Another pause, and then, not a quarter of a mile in front of me, I
beheld the Union Jack flutter in the air above a wood.

PART FOUR--The Stockade