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We raced through the woods toward the stockade, and we could hear the pirates running and shouting as they drew nearer.
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Branches cracked when the pirates crossed the thicket;
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I realized we were going to have a close brush with them, so I prepared my pistol.
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"Captain," I said, "Trelawney is our best marksman.
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Give him your gun. His gun is useless."
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They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool, checked to see that the weapon was ready to be fired.
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"Here's my cutlass, Gray," I said when I observed he was unarmed.
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He spat in his hand, knit his brows, and made the blade sing through the air.
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I could see our new man would be a valuable addition.
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Forty paces farther, we saw the stockade and approached it on the southeastern side.
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Almost at the same time, seven mutineers—with Job leading them—appeared at the southwestern corner.
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In the stockade, Hunter and Joyce started firing their weapons, and the squire and I stood where we were and fired too.
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One of the pirates fell, and the rest immediately plunged into the trees.
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After reloading, we walked around the fence to find the fallen enemy.
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He was stone dead—shot through the heart.
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We rejoiced over our good success, but at that moment, a pistol shot rang from the bushes and a bullet whistled past my ear.
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Poor Tom Redruth stumbled and fell.
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Both the squire and I returned the shot, but we were only wasting powder, so after we reloaded, we turned our attention to Tom.
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The captain and Gray were examining him, and I immediately saw that he wasn't going to live.
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The pirates had stopped firing, so we hoisted the gamekeeper over the stockade and carried him, groaning and bleeding, into the log house.
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The poor old fellow, who had never uttered one word of surprise, complaint, or fear, was laid down in the log house.
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He was the oldest among us, and now he was going to die.
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The squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand, crying.
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"Am I going, Doctor?" Redruth asked.
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"Tom, my man," I said, "you're going home."
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"I wish I could have shot one of them first," Redruth murmured.
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While Tom was dying, the captain pulled a great many items out of his own pockets—
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two British flags, a Bible, a coil of rope, pen, ink, the logbook, and tobacco.
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Outside the house, he found a tall fir tree that had been chopped down, and with the help of Hunter, he set it up at the corner of the house.
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Then he climbed onto the roof and ran up the flag.
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Cheered by the sight of the Union Jack, the captain re-entered the log house and started counting up all the provisions.
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"Tom," the squire said, "tell me you forgive me, won't you?"
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"There's nothing to forgive. I have great respect for you, sir . . . that's all, amen!" he replied and, without another word, he passed away.
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When Tom died, Captain Smollett came forward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.
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"He was a good man," the captain said to the squire as he shook his hand.
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"He died doing his duty. Let's hope we will all meet death in the same brave way."
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Then the captain pulled me aside. "Dr. Livesey," he said, "When do you and the squire expect anyone to come for us? A few weeks?"
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"No, months," I replied. "I told Blandly that he was to send a ship if we were not back by the end of August, but not sooner."
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"Well," said the captain, "even if we're very lucky, I should say we are in serious trouble."
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"What do you mean?" I asked.
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"It's a pity we lost that second boatload," the captain said.
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"As for powder and shot, we have enough.
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But the food rations are short, very short—so short, Dr. Livesey, that we're better off without that extra mouth to feed."
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And he pointed to the dead body under the flag.
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Just then, with a roar and a whistle, a cannonball passed over the roof of the log house and fell inside the stockade, scattering sand but doing no damage.
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"Captain," said Trelawney, "the house is quite invisible from the ship.
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It must be the flag they are aiming at. Wouldn't it be wiser to take it down?"
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"Take down the British flag?" the captain cried. "No, sir, I will not."
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As soon as he said it, I think we all agreed with him, because the flag improved our morale and showed our enemies that we despised them.
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All through the evening, they kept thundering away.
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Ball after ball flew over, fell short, or kicked up the sand in the enclosure.
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The pirates had to fire high, so most shots completely missed their mark or buried themselves in the soft sand.
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The balls didn't bounce in different directions,
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and though one popped in through the roof of the log house and out again through the floor, we soon got used to it.
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The captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:
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Alexander Smollett, captain; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner;
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John Hunter and Richard Joyce, owner's servants—being all that is left of the faithful ship's company—
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with stores for ten days at short rations, came ashore this day and flew British colors on the log house on Treasure Island.
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Thomas Redruth, owner's servant, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin boy—
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As he was writing, I was wondering about poor Jim Hawkins. Just then we heard someone shouting.
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"Doctor! Squire! Captain! Hello, Mr. Hunter, is that you?"
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And I ran to the door to see Jim Hawkins, safe and sound, climbing over the stockade.