We hurried across the patch of forest between us and the stockade as fast as we could.
With every step, the pirates’ voices grew louder behind us.
Soon we could hear their running feet and the sound of branches breaking as they forced their way through the bushes.
I realized we were about to face a real fight, so I checked my gun and made sure it was ready.
“Captain,” I said, “Trelawney is the best shot among us. Give him your gun. His own one is no good.”
The captain and the squire quickly exchanged weapons.
Trelawney remained calm, just as he had been since the trouble began. He stopped for a moment, checked the gun carefully, and made sure everything was working properly.
I noticed Gray had no weapon, so I handed him my cutlass.
It warmed my heart to see him grip the handle, sharpen his expression, and swing the blade through the air.
Every movement showed that he was a brave and capable man.
About forty steps farther on, we reached the edge of the woods.
The stockade stood right in front of us.
We reached the middle of its southern wall, and almost at the same moment, seven pirates appeared from the southwest corner.
Job Anderson, the boatswain, was leading them.
They stopped in surprise.
Before they could react, the squire and I fired, while Hunter and Joyce shot from the blockhouse.
The four shots were not perfectly timed, but they worked.
One of the pirates fell dead.
The others immediately turned around and disappeared into the trees.
After reloading, we walked along the outside of the stockade to check the fallen enemy.
He was completely dead.
The bullet had gone straight through his heart.
We had just started feeling pleased with our success when suddenly a pistol fired from the bushes.
A bullet flew past my ear.
At the same moment, poor Tom Redruth stumbled forward and fell heavily to the ground.
The squire and I fired back, but we could not see anyone to aim at.
Most likely, we only wasted our ammunition.
We quickly reloaded and rushed to Tom.
The captain and Gray were already examining him.
From one look, I knew the truth.
There was nothing we could do.
I think our quick return fire frightened the pirates away again, because they did not attack us while we lifted Tom over the stockade and carried him into the log-house.
Poor old Tom.
From the very beginning of our troubles, he had never complained.
He had never shown fear or anger.
He had stayed behind his mattress in the gallery like a true soldier.
He had followed every order quietly and faithfully.
He was the oldest person among us by twenty years.
And now this loyal old servant, who had always done his duty, was the one who had to die.
The squire fell to his knees beside him and kissed his hand.
He cried like a child.
“Am I going, doctor?” Tom asked.
“Tom, my friend,” I said, “you are going home.”
“I wish I could have fired at them once before I left,” he replied.
“Tom,” said the squire, “can you forgive me?”
“Would it be proper for me to say that to you, sir?” Tom answered.
“But if you wish it, then yes. Amen.”
After a short silence, he said softly:
“Perhaps someone could read a prayer.”
“It is the usual custom, sir,” he added, almost apologizing.
Not long afterward, without another word, Tom Redruth died.
Meanwhile, the captain had been carrying many things hidden in his coat and pockets.
He brought out the British flag, a Bible, a strong rope, pen and ink, the ship’s logbook, and several pounds of tobacco.
Inside the stockade, he found a long fir tree that had already been cut down and prepared.
With Hunter’s help, he stood it at the corner of the log-house where the logs crossed.
Then he climbed onto the roof and personally raised the British flag.
This seemed to make him feel much better.
He went back inside and began organizing our supplies as if nothing else mattered.
But he still kept watching Tom.
When everything was finished, he took another flag and carefully covered Tom’s body with it.
“Do not grieve too much, sir,” he told the squire while shaking his hand.
“He died well. A man who falls while doing his duty for his captain and owner has nothing to fear.”
Then he pulled me aside.
“Doctor Livesey,” he said, “how many weeks do you and the squire think it will be before help arrives?”
I told him it was not a matter of weeks but months.
If we were not back by the end of August, Mr. Blandly would send someone to search for us.
But he would not come earlier or later.
“You can judge our situation yourself,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose I can,” the captain replied, scratching his head.
“Even with all the help we can hope for, I think we are in a difficult position.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It is a pity we lost that second supply of food,” he said.
“That is what worries me.”
“We have enough powder and bullets.
But our food is another matter.
Our supplies are very low, Dr. Livesey.
So low that perhaps we are even lucky not to have another person to feed.”
He pointed toward Tom’s body beneath the flag.
At that moment, a loud roar filled the air.
A cannonball flew over the roof of the log-house and crashed into the woods behind us.
“Ah!” said the captain.
“Fire away, my friends. You do not have much powder left.”
The second shot was better aimed.
The cannonball landed inside the stockade and threw sand into the air.
But it caused no real damage.
“Captain,” said the squire, “the house cannot be seen from the ship.
They must be aiming at the flag.
Would it not be wiser to take it down?”
“Take down my colors?” cried the captain.
“No, sir. Never.”
After he said those words, I believe we all agreed with him.
Keeping the flag flying was not only brave.
It was also smart.
It showed the pirates that their cannon fire did not frighten us.
All evening, the pirates continued firing.
Cannonball after cannonball flew over us, fell short, or buried itself in the sand.
Because they had to shoot at such a high angle, the balls sank harmlessly into the soft ground.
We did not have to worry about them bouncing back at us.
One cannonball even went through the roof of the log-house and came out through the floor.
Soon we became used to it.
It was like some strange game.
“There is one advantage,” the captain said.
“The forest in front of us should now be clear.
The tide has gone out far enough.
Our lost supplies may be exposed.
Who will volunteer to bring back some pork?”
Gray and Hunter immediately stepped forward.
They armed themselves and quietly left the stockade.
But their mission failed.
The pirates were braver than we expected.
Or perhaps they trusted Israel Silver’s shooting.
Four or five pirates were already carrying away our supplies.
They were taking them to one of their small boats nearby.
They used their oars to keep the boat steady against the current.
Silver sat in the back of the boat, giving orders.
And every pirate now carried a musket from their own hidden supply.
The captain sat down and began writing in the ship’s log.
This was the beginning of his record:
“Alexander Smollett, captain; David Livesey, ship’s doctor; Abraham Gray, carpenter’s mate; John Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and Richard Joyce, servants of the owner—these are all the loyal members of the crew who remain, with supplies enough for ten days on short rations. They came ashore today and raised the British flag over the log-house on Treasure Island.”
Then he added:
“Thomas Redruth, servant of the owner, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin boy—”
At that moment, I could not help thinking about poor Jim Hawkins.
I wondered what had happened to him.
Suddenly, someone shouted from outside the stockade.
“Someone is calling from the land side,” said Hunter, who was standing guard.
“Doctor! Squire! Captain! Hello, Hunter! Is that you?”
I ran toward the door.
And there, climbing over the stockade, safe and alive, was Jim Hawkins.