We raced through the woods toward the stockade, and we could hear the pirates running and shouting as they drew nearer.
Branches cracked when the pirates crossed the thicket;
I realized we were going to have a close brush with them, so I prepared my pistol.
"Captain," I said, "Trelawney is our best marksman.
Give him your gun. His gun is useless."
They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool, checked to see that the weapon was ready to be fired.
"Here's my cutlass, Gray," I said when I observed he was unarmed.
He spat in his hand, knit his brows, and made the blade sing through the air.
I could see our new man would be a valuable addition.
Forty paces farther, we saw the stockade and approached it on the southeastern side.
Almost at the same time, seven mutineers—with Job leading them—appeared at the southwestern corner.
In the stockade, Hunter and Joyce started firing their weapons, and the squire and I stood where we were and fired too.
One of the pirates fell, and the rest immediately plunged into the trees.
After reloading, we walked around the fence to find the fallen enemy.
He was stone dead—shot through the heart.
We rejoiced over our good success, but at that moment, a pistol shot rang from the bushes and a bullet whistled past my ear.
Poor Tom Redruth stumbled and fell.
Both the squire and I returned the shot, but we were only wasting powder, so after we reloaded, we turned our attention to Tom.
The captain and Gray were examining him, and I immediately saw that he wasn't going to live.
The pirates had stopped firing, so we hoisted the gamekeeper over the stockade and carried him, groaning and bleeding, into the log house.
The poor old fellow, who had never uttered one word of surprise, complaint, or fear, was laid down in the log house.
He was the oldest among us, and now he was going to die.
The squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand, crying.
"Am I going, Doctor?" Redruth asked.
"Tom, my man," I said, "you're going home."
"I wish I could have shot one of them first," Redruth murmured.
While Tom was dying, the captain pulled a great many items out of his own pockets—
two British flags, a Bible, a coil of rope, pen, ink, the logbook, and tobacco.
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.
Then he climbed onto the roof and ran up the flag.
Cheered by the sight of the Union Jack, the captain re-entered the log house and started counting up all the provisions.
"Tom," the squire said, "tell me you forgive me, won't you?"
"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.
When Tom died, Captain Smollett came forward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.
"He was a good man," the captain said to the squire as he shook his hand.
"He died doing his duty. Let's hope we will all meet death in the same brave way."
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?"
"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."
"Well," said the captain, "even if we're very lucky, I should say we are in serious trouble."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"It's a pity we lost that second boatload," the captain said.
"As for powder and shot, we have enough.
But the food rations are short, very short—so short, Dr. Livesey, that we're better off without that extra mouth to feed."
And he pointed to the dead body under the flag.
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.
"Captain," said Trelawney, "the house is quite invisible from the ship.
It must be the flag they are aiming at. Wouldn't it be wiser to take it down?"
"Take down the British flag?" the captain cried. "No, sir, I will not."
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.
All through the evening, they kept thundering away.
Ball after ball flew over, fell short, or kicked up the sand in the enclosure.
The pirates had to fire high, so most shots completely missed their mark or buried themselves in the soft sand.
The balls didn't bounce in different directions,
and though one popped in through the roof of the log house and out again through the floor, we soon got used to it.
The captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:
Alexander Smollett, captain; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner;
John Hunter and Richard Joyce, owner's servants—being all that is left of the faithful ship's company—
with stores for ten days at short rations, came ashore this day and flew British colors on the log house on Treasure Island.
Thomas Redruth, owner's servant, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin boy—
As he was writing, I was wondering about poor Jim Hawkins. Just then we heard someone shouting.
"Doctor! Squire! Captain! Hello, Mr. Hunter, is that you?"
And I ran to the door to see Jim Hawkins, safe and sound, climbing over the stockade.