Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson [best sales books of all time txt] 📗

thought so,” cried the cook; “this here is a p’inter. Right up there is our line for the Pole Star and the jolly dollars. But, by thunder! if it don’t make me cold inside to think of Flint. This is one of his jokes, and no mistake. Him and these six was alone here; he killed ’em, every man; and this one he hauled here and laid down by compass, shiver my timbers! They’re long bones, and the hair’s been yellow. Ay, that would be Allardyce. You mind Allardyce, Tom Morgan?”

“Ay, ay,” returned Morgan, “I mind him; he owed me money, he did, and took my knife ashore with him.”

“Speaking of knives,” said another, “why don’t we find his’n lying round? Flint warn’t the man to pick a seaman’s pocket; and the birds, I guess, would leave it be.”

“By the powers and that’s true!” cried Silver.

“There ain’t a thing left here,” said Merry, still feeling round among the bones; “not a copper doit nor a baccy box. It don’t look nat’ral to me.”

“No, by gum, it don’t,” agreed Silver; “not nat’ral, nor not nice, says you. Great guns, messmates, but if Flint was living this would be a hot spot for you and me! Six they were, and six are we; and bones is what they are now.”

“I saw him dead with these here deadlights,” said Morgan. “Billy took me in. There he laid, with penny-pieces on his eyes.”

“Dead⁠—ay, sure enough he’s dead and gone below,” said the fellow with the bandage; “but if ever sperrit walked it would be Flint’s. Dear heart, but he died bad, did Flint!”

“Ay, that he did,” observed another; “now he raged and now he hollered for the rum, and now he sang. ‘Fifteen Men’ were his only song, mates; and I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was main hot and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin’ out as clear as clear⁠—and the death-haul on the man already.”

“Come, come,” said Silver, “stow this talk. He’s dead, and he don’t walk, that I know; leastways he won’t walk by day, and you may lay to that. Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for the doubloons.”

We started, certainly, but in spite of the hot sun and the staring daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shouting through the wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath. The terror of the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits.

XXXII The Treasure-Hunt⁠—The Voice Among the Trees

Partly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to rest Silver and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon as they had gained the brow of the ascent.

The plateau being somewhat tilted toward the west, this spot on which we had paused commanded a wide prospect on either hand. Before us, over the treetops, we beheld the Cape of the Woods fringed with surf; behind, we not only looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island, but saw⁠—clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands⁠—a great field of open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spy-glass, here dotted with single pines, there black with precipices. There was no sound but that of the distant breakers mounting from all around, and the chirp of countless insects in the brush. Not a man, not a sail upon the sea; the very largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude.

Silver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass.

“There are three ‘tall trees,’ ” said he, “about in the right line from Skeleton Island. ‘Spy-glass Shoulder,’ I take it, means that lower p’int there. It’s child’s play to find the stuff now. I’ve half a mind to dine first.”

“I don’t feel sharp,” growled Morgan. “Thinkin’ o’ Flint⁠—I think it were⁠—as done me.”

“Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he’s dead,” said Silver.

“He was an ugly devil,” cried a third pirate, with a shudder; “that blue in the face, too!”

“That was how the rum took him,” added Merry. “Blue! well I reckon he was blue. That’s a true word.”

Ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this train of thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they had almost got to whispering by now, so that the sound of their talk hardly interrupted the silence of the wood. All of a sudden, out of the middle of the trees in front of us, a thin, high, trembling voice struck up the well-known air and words:

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest,
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”

I never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the pirates. The color went from their six faces like enchantment; some leaped to their feet, some clawed hold of others; Morgan groveled on the ground.

“It’s Flint, by ⸻!” cried Merry.

The song had stopped as suddenly as it began⁠—broken off, you would have said, in the middle of a note, as though someone had laid his hand upon the singer’s mouth. Coming so far through the clear, sunny atmosphere among the green treetops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly, and the effect on my companions was the stranger.

“Come,” said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out, “that won’t do. Stand by to go about. This is a rum start, and I can’t name the voice, but it’s someone skylarking⁠—someone that’s flesh and blood, and you may lay to that.”

His courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the color to his face along with it. Already the others had begun to lend an ear to this encouragement, and were coming a little to themselves, when the same voice broke out again⁠—not this time singing, but in a faint, distant hail, that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the Spy-glass.

“Darby M’Graw,” it wailed⁠—for that is the word that best describes the sound⁠—“Darby M’Graw! Darby M’Graw!” again and again and again; and then rising a