Not long after that, the first strange event happened—the event that finally drove the captain away, though his troubles did not disappear with him.
It was a freezing winter, with long nights of frost and powerful storms. From the beginning, it was clear that my poor father was unlikely to survive until spring.
Every day he became weaker.
My mother and I had to manage the whole inn by ourselves. We were so busy caring for my father and keeping the business running that we hardly had time to worry about our unpleasant guest.
One January morning, before sunrise, the world outside was covered in frost.
The little cove looked grey and silent. Small waves gently touched the stones along the shore. The sun was still low, only lighting the tops of the hills and shining across the distant sea.
The captain had woken earlier than usual.
He walked down the beach with his old blue coat hanging around him. His cutlass swung at his side, and his brass telescope rested under his arm. His hat was pushed back on his head.
I still remember the white cloud of his breath trailing behind him as he walked away.
The last sound I heard from him before he disappeared around the large rock was a loud angry snort.
He was clearly still thinking about his argument with Doctor Livesey.
My mother was upstairs with my father, and I was setting the breakfast table, waiting for the captain to return.
Suddenly, the door to the parlour opened.
A stranger stepped inside.
I had never seen him before.
He was a pale, unhealthy-looking man. His skin looked almost yellow, like old candle wax. He was missing two fingers from his left hand.
Although he carried a cutlass, he did not look like a strong fighter.
I had always watched carefully for sailors because so many strange sea people came to our inn. But this man confused me.
There was something about him that seemed connected to the sea, yet he did not truly look like a sailor.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’ll have some rum,” he answered.
But before I could leave to fetch it, he sat down on a table and waved me closer.
I stopped, holding my napkin in my hand.
“Come here, boy,” he said.
“Come closer.”
I slowly stepped toward him.
“Is this table for my friend Bill?” he asked with a strange smile.
“I don’t know anyone named Bill,” I replied. “This table is for our guest. We call him the captain.”
The stranger smiled.
“Well, my friend Bill would probably be called the captain too.”
He leaned closer.
“He has a scar on one cheek and a very cheerful personality, especially after drinking. Let’s say, just for the sake of guessing, that your captain has a scar on his cheek.”
He paused.
“And let’s say that scar is on his right cheek.”
He gave me a knowing look.
“Then I suppose you know who I mean.”
“Is my friend Bill here?” he asked.
“He went out for a walk,” I said.
“Which way did he go, boy?”
I pointed toward the large rock and told him where the captain usually walked and roughly when he would return.
The stranger smiled.
“Good. This will be better than a drink for my old friend Bill.”
The look on his face was unpleasant.
I felt sure this man had some wrong idea about the captain, even if he truly believed what he was saying.
But it was not my business, and I did not know what I should do.
The stranger stayed near the inn door, watching outside like a cat waiting for a mouse.
Once, I stepped outside into the road.
Immediately, he called me back.
I did not return quickly enough for his liking, and his pale face suddenly changed. His friendly expression vanished, and he shouted at me with such a terrible curse that I jumped.
But as soon as I came back inside, he became friendly again.
He patted my shoulder.
“You’re a good boy,” he said.
“I rather like you.”
“I have a son of my own. He looks just like you, and he is the pride of my heart.”
Then his voice became serious.
“But boys need discipline. Discipline, understand?”
“If you had sailed with Bill, you wouldn’t stand there waiting to be told twice. That was never Bill’s way, and it was never the way of the men who sailed with him.”
Suddenly he looked toward the window.
“And there he is!”
“My old friend Bill is coming back, with his telescope under his arm.”
“Come on, boy. You and I will hide behind the door and give Bill a little surprise.”
The stranger pushed me back into the parlour and placed me in the corner behind the open door.
I was frightened.
But what frightened me even more was that the stranger himself seemed afraid.
He loosened his cutlass in its sheath and kept swallowing nervously, as if something was stuck in his throat.
At last, the captain entered.
He slammed the door behind him without looking around and walked straight toward the breakfast table.
“Bill,” the stranger said.
His voice sounded as if he was trying very hard to appear brave.
The captain spun around.
All the colour disappeared from his face.
Even his nose turned blue.
He looked like a man who had suddenly seen a ghost—or something even worse.
For the first time, I saw him look old and weak.
“Come on, Bill,” said the stranger.
“You know me. Surely you remember your old shipmate.”
The captain made a strange choking sound.
“Black Dog!” he whispered.
“Who else would it be?” the man replied.
He seemed more relaxed now.
“Black Dog himself, here to visit his old shipmate Billy at the Admiral Benbow Inn.”
“Ah, Bill, Bill. We have been through a lot together since I lost these two fingers.”
He raised his damaged hand.
“Enough,” said the captain.
“You found me. I’m here. Now tell me what you want.”
“That’s my old Bill,” said Black Dog.
“You always get straight to the point.”
“I’ll have a glass of rum from this fine young fellow here. Then we’ll sit down and talk honestly, like old shipmates.”
When I returned with the rum, they were already sitting at the captain’s table.
Black Dog sat near the door. He positioned himself sideways, keeping one eye on the captain and, I thought, another on his escape route.
“Go away and leave the door open,” he told me.
“I don’t trust people listening through keyholes.”
I left them alone and went into the bar.
For a long time, I tried my best to listen.
At first, I could only hear low voices.
But slowly, their voices grew louder.
I caught a few words from the captain, most of them angry curses.
“No! No! No! Enough!” he shouted.
Then again:
“If it comes to hanging, then let us all hang together!”
Suddenly, there was a terrible explosion of shouting.
A chair and the table crashed over.
Steel struck against steel.
Then came a cry of pain.
The next moment, I saw Black Dog running from the room.
The captain was right behind him.
Both men held drawn cutlasses.
Blood poured from Black Dog’s left shoulder.
At the doorway, the captain made one final powerful strike.
It would surely have cut Black Dog down if the blow had not hit our large signboard above the entrance.
The deep mark left by that strike could still be seen years later.
That was the end of the fight.
Black Dog ran down the road despite his wound. He moved with surprising speed and disappeared over the hill within moments.
The captain stood still, staring at the damaged signboard like a confused man.
Then he rubbed his eyes several times and slowly walked back inside.
“Jim,” he said.
“Rum.”
As he spoke, he stumbled slightly and grabbed the wall for support.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
“Rum,” he repeated.
“I need to get away from here.”
“Rum! Rum!”
I rushed to get it.
But I was so shaken that I dropped a glass and spilled some of the drink while trying to open the bottle.
Then I heard a heavy crash from the parlour.
I ran inside.
The captain was lying on the floor.
At the same moment, my mother came running downstairs after hearing the fight.
Together, we lifted his head.
He was breathing heavily.
His eyes were closed.
His face had turned a terrible colour.
“Oh dear,” my mother cried.
“What a terrible thing for this house! And your poor father is already so sick!”
We had no idea what to do.
We thought the captain had been badly injured during the fight.
I brought the rum and tried to pour some into his mouth.
But his teeth were tightly closed, and his jaws were as hard as iron.
Then the door opened.
Doctor Livesey entered to visit my father.
“Oh, doctor!” we cried.
“What should we do? Where is he wounded?”
“Wounded?” the doctor said.
“Not at all. He is no more wounded than you or me.”
“He has suffered a stroke, exactly as I warned him would happen.”
“Mrs. Hawkins, go upstairs and tell your husband nothing about this if you can.”
“As for me, I must try to save this man’s miserable life.”
“Jim, bring me a basin.”
When I returned, the doctor had already rolled up the captain’s sleeve.
His powerful arm was covered with tattoos.
One said:
“Good luck.”
Another said:
“A fair wind.”
Another read:
“Billy Bones his fancy.”
Near his shoulder was a picture of a man hanging from a gallows.
It was drawn with surprising skill.
“Interesting,” said the doctor, touching the picture.
“Now, Master Billy Bones—if that is truly your name—we shall see what your blood tells us.”
“Jim, are you afraid of blood?”
“No, sir,” I answered.
“Good. Hold the basin.”
The doctor opened a vein in the captain’s arm.
A great deal of blood was taken before the captain finally opened his eyes.
At first, he saw the doctor and immediately frowned.
Then he saw me and looked relieved.
But suddenly his expression changed.
“Where is Black Dog?” he cried.
“There is no Black Dog here,” said the doctor.
“Except the one you carry on your own back.”
“You have been drinking rum. You suffered a stroke, exactly as I told you.”
“And I have just dragged you away from death, although I had little desire to do so.”
“Now, Mr. Bones—”
“That is not my name,” the captain interrupted.
“I do not care,” said the doctor.
“It is the name of a pirate I once knew, and it is convenient enough.”
“Listen carefully. One glass of rum will not kill you.”
“But if you drink one glass, you will drink another, and another.”
“And if you do not stop, I swear you will die.”
“Do you understand?”
“You will die.”
“Now, try to stand. I will help you to bed.”
With great difficulty, we carried him upstairs and laid him down.
His head dropped onto the pillow as if he were about to faint.
“Remember this,” said the doctor.
“Rum means death for you.”
Then he left to visit my father, taking me with him.
“This is not the end yet,” he told me after closing the door.
“I have taken enough blood to calm him for a while.”
“He should stay in bed for a week.”
“That would be best for him—and for all of you.”
“But another stroke may kill him.”