Ben Gunn stopped as soon as he saw the flag. He grabbed my arm, pulled me down, and sat beside me.
“Now, there are your friends for sure,” he said.
“I think it’s more likely the pirates,” I replied.
“Pirates?” Ben shouted. “No, no! Think about it. This island only gets visitors like us—men looking for treasure. If Silver were in charge, he would never fly the Jolly Roger here. That must be your friends.”
He nodded toward the flag.
“There’s been fighting too. I reckon your friends won. They must have taken shelter in the old stockade that Flint built years ago.”
Ben’s eyes lit up with admiration.
“Ah, Flint was a clever man. Nobody could match him except maybe Silver. Flint feared no one. But Silver… Silver knew how to charm people.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe you’re right. Either way, I need to hurry and join my friends.”
“No, Jim,” Ben replied quickly. “Not yet. You’re a good boy, I can tell, but you’re still just a boy.”
He looked around carefully.
“Ben Gunn is smarter than he looks. Not even a barrel of rum could make me go where you’re going. Not until I meet your gentleman friend and he promises me something.”
He leaned closer.
“You remember what to say. Tell him, ‘A great deal more trust is needed.’”
Then he pinched me again, looking very pleased with himself.
“And when Ben Gunn is needed, you know where to find me, Jim. Right where you found me today.”
He lowered his voice.
“But whoever comes must carry something white in his hand and come alone. And tell him this: ‘Ben Gunn has his own reasons.’”
“I think I understand,” I said. “You have something to offer, and you want to speak with the squire or the doctor. You’ll be waiting where I found you. Is that right?”
“And when?” Ben asked.
“From noon until about six bells,” he answered.
“Good,” I said. “Now can I go?”
“You won’t forget?” Ben asked anxiously.
“Remember the words. ‘A great deal more trust’ and ‘Ben Gunn has his own reasons.’ Those are the important things.”
He held my arm a moment longer.
“Jim, if you meet Silver, you won’t betray Ben Gunn, will you?”
“No,” I said.
“Even if wild horses tried to drag it out of you?”
“No,” I promised.
“And if those pirates are camping on shore, what would you say?”
I looked at him.
“I suppose there will be trouble tomorrow morning.”
Before he could answer, a terrible explosion shook the air.
A cannonball ripped through the trees and landed less than a hundred yards away from us.
Without waiting another second, we both ran in opposite directions.
For the next hour, cannon fire continued to thunder across the island. The cannonballs crashed through branches and tore through the woods.
I ran from one hiding place to another, always feeling as if those deadly shots were chasing me.
At first, I was terrified. But as the attack continued, I slowly regained my courage.
I still did not dare approach the stockade, where the cannonballs were falling most often. Instead, I made a wide circle around the island and moved east toward the shore.
The sun was setting.
The evening breeze rushed through the trees and disturbed the grey surface of the sea. The tide had gone far out, leaving wide stretches of sand exposed.
After the heat of the day, the cold air cut through my jacket.
The Hispaniola was still anchored where she had been.
But there was one terrible sight.
The Jolly Roger—the black pirate flag—was flying from her mast.
As I watched, another flash burst from the ship.
A cannon fired.
The shot echoed across the island, and another cannonball flew through the air.
That was the final shot.
I stayed hidden for some time and watched what happened afterward.
Near the stockade, men were chopping something apart with axes. Later I learned it was their small boat.
Far away near the river mouth, a huge fire burned among the trees.
Between the fire and the ship, one of the small boats traveled back and forth. The men who had seemed so miserable before were now shouting happily as they rowed.
Their voices sounded strangely cheerful.
I suspected they had been drinking rum.
At last, I decided it was safe to move back toward the stockade.
I was near the low sandy point that surrounded the eastern side of the anchorage. As I stood up, I noticed a strange white rock rising above some bushes.
It was tall and isolated.
I remembered Ben Gunn mentioning a white rock.
Perhaps this was the place where a boat might someday be found.
I made my way through the woods until I reached the back side of the stockade.
The loyal men inside welcomed me warmly.
I quickly told them everything that had happened.
Then I looked around at our new home.
The log house was made from rough pine trunks. The walls, roof, and floor were all built from unfinished wood.
The floor stood a foot or more above the sandy ground in some places.
Outside the door was a small porch.
Under the porch was a spring that flowed into a strange basin.
It was actually an old iron ship’s cooking pot with the bottom removed and buried in the sand.
Almost nothing remained inside the house except the basic structure.
In one corner was a stone slab used as a fireplace, along with an old rusty iron frame for holding burning wood.
The trees around the hill and inside the stockade had been cleared away to build the house.
Looking at the remaining stumps, we could see that a beautiful forest had once stood there.
Most of the soil had disappeared after the trees were cut down.
Only around the little stream flowing from the iron pot did any plants remain—moss, ferns, and small creeping bushes.
The forest outside the stockade was still thick and tall.
On the land side it was mostly fir trees, while near the sea there were many oak trees.
The cold evening wind blew through every crack in the rough building.
Fine sand constantly fell onto the floor.
There was sand in our eyes.
Sand between our teeth.
Sand in our food.
Even the spring at the bottom of the iron pot was full of swirling sand.
It looked like a pot of porridge beginning to boil.
Our chimney was nothing more than a hole in the roof.
Only a little smoke escaped.
The rest filled the room, making everyone cough and making our eyes burn.
Gray, the new man who had escaped from the pirates, had his face wrapped in a bandage from a cut he received during the fight.
And poor old Tom Redruth still lay against the wall, covered by the Union Jack, waiting to be buried.
The situation was miserable.
But Captain Smollett would never allow us to lose hope.
He immediately gathered everyone and divided us into watches.
The doctor, Gray, and I formed one group.
The squire, Hunter, and Joyce formed the other.
Although we were exhausted, everyone was given a job.
Two men went to collect firewood.
Two others dug a grave for Redruth.
The doctor became the cook.
I was placed as a guard at the door.
The captain moved around constantly, encouraging everyone and helping wherever he could.
From time to time, the doctor came outside to breathe fresh air.
The smoke had nearly ruined his eyes.
Whenever he saw me, he always had something to say.
“That Captain Smollett,” he told me once, “is a better man than I am.”
He paused.
“And when I say that, Jim, you should know it means a lot.”
Another time, he came to the doorway and stayed silent for a while.
Then he looked at me.
“Is this Ben Gunn really a normal man?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” I replied. “I’m not even sure he is completely sane.”
“If there is any doubt, then he probably is,” the doctor said.
“A man who has spent three years alone on a deserted island cannot be expected to act like you or me.”
He thought for a moment.
“You said he wanted cheese, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Cheese.”
“Well, Jim, that proves something important.”
He opened his snuffbox.
“You have seen this before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have never seen me use snuff.”
“That’s because there isn’t snuff inside.”
He smiled.
“I keep a piece of Parmesan cheese in here instead. It is an excellent Italian cheese and very nourishing.”
He nodded.
“That is for Ben Gunn.”
Before supper, we buried old Tom in the sand.
We stood around his grave with our heads uncovered as the cold wind blew around us.
We had collected a lot of firewood, but Captain Smollett still was not satisfied.
“We need much more tomorrow,” he said.
After eating pork and drinking a strong glass of brandy mixed with water, the three leaders gathered together to discuss our situation.
Things looked desperate.
Our supplies were so low that we might be forced to surrender from hunger before help arrived.
But we decided our best chance was to weaken the pirates until they either abandoned the island or sailed away in the Hispaniola.
They had already been reduced from nineteen men to fifteen.
Two more were wounded.
And the pirate who had been shot near the cannon was badly hurt, perhaps even dead.
Whenever we had a chance to shoot, we would take it—but only when it could be done without risking our own lives.
Besides weapons, we had two other allies.
Rum and the island itself.
The pirates were already suffering from the first.
Even though they were half a mile away, we could hear them shouting and singing late into the night.
As for the island, the doctor believed it would defeat many of them.
“They are living in a swamp,” he said. “They have no proper medicine. Half of them may be sick before a week passes.”
“So,” he continued, “if we are not all killed first, they may be happy enough to leave in their ship.”
Captain Smollett sighed.
“The first ship I ever lost,” he said.
I was completely exhausted.
After tossing and turning for a long time, I finally fell asleep and slept like a piece of wood.
The others had already been awake for hours and had eaten breakfast.
They had also added another large pile of firewood.
Then I was suddenly awakened by noise and voices outside.
“Flag of truce!” someone shouted.
A moment later, another voice cried out in surprise.
“Silver himself!”
I jumped up immediately.
Rubbing my eyes, I rushed to a small opening in the wall to see what was happening.