Part 1

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Treasure Island This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Treasure Island Author: Robert Louis Stevenson Illustrator: Louis Rhead Release date: February 26, 2006 [eBook #120] Most recently updated: April 1, 2025 Language: English Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/120 *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREASURE ISLAND *** TREASURE ISLAND by Robert Louis Stevenson TREASURE ISLAND To S.L.O., an American gentleman in accordance with whose classic taste the following narrative has been designed, it is now, in return for numerous delightful hours, and with the kindest wishes, dedicated by his affectionate friend, the author. TO THE HESITATING PURCHASER If sailor tales to sailor tunes, Storm and adventure, heat and cold, If schooners, islands, and maroons, And buccaneers, and buried gold, And all the old romance, retold Exactly in the ancient way, Can please, as me they pleased of old, The wiser youngsters of today: --So be it, and fall on! If not, If studious youth no longer crave, His ancient appetites forgot, Kingston, or Ballantyne the brave, Or Cooper of the wood and wave: So be it, also! And may I And all my pirates share the grave Where these and their creations lie! CONTENTS PART ONE The Old Buccaneer I. THE OLD SEA-DOG AT THE ADMIRAL BENBOW . . . . 11 II. BLACK DOG APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS . . . . . . 17 III. THE BLACK SPOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 IV. THE SEA-CHEST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 V. THE LAST OF THE BLIND MAN . . . . . . . . . . 36 VI. THE CAPTAIN’S PAPERS . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 PART TWO The Sea Cook VII. I GO TO BRISTOL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 VIII. AT THE SIGN OF THE SPY-GLASS . . . . . . . 54 IX. POWDER AND ARMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 X. THE VOYAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 XI. WHAT I HEARD IN THE APPLE-BARREL . . . . . . 70 XII. COUNCIL OF WAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 PART THREE My Shore Adventure XIII. HOW I BEGAN MY SHORE ADVENTURE . . . . . . 82 XIV. THE FIRST BLOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 XV. THE MAN OF THE ISLAND. . . . . . . . . . . . 93 PART FOUR The Stockade XVI. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR: HOW THE SHIP WAS ABANDONED . . . . . . . . 100 XVII. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR: THE JOLLY-BOAT’S LAST TRIP . . . . . . . . 105 XVIII. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR: END OF THE FIRST DAY’S FIGHTING . . . . . 109 XIX. NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS: THE GARRISON IN THE STOCKADE . . . . . . . 114 XX. SILVER’S EMBASSY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120 XXI. THE ATTACK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 PART FIVE My Sea Adventure XXII. HOW I BEGAN MY SEA ADVENTURE . . . . . . . 132 XXIII. THE EBB-TIDE RUNS . . . . . . . . . . . 138 XXIV. THE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE . . . . . . . . 143 XXV. I STRIKE THE JOLLY ROGER . . . . . . . . . 148 XXVI. ISRAEL HANDS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 XXVII. “PIECES OF EIGHT” . . . . . . . . . . . 161 PART SIX Captain Silver XXVIII. IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP . . . . . . . . . . 168 XXIX. THE BLACK SPOT AGAIN . . . . . . . . . . . 176 XXX. ON PAROLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182 XXXI. THE TREASURE-HUNT--FLINT’S POINTER . . . . 189 XXXII. THE TREASURE-HUNT--THE VOICE AMONG THE TREES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 XXXIII. THE FALL OF A CHIEFTAIN . . . . . . . . 201 XXXIV. AND LAST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 TREASURE ISLAND PART ONE--The Old Buccaneer I The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17—, and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof. I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow--a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cove and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the capstan bars. Then he rapped on the door with a bit of stick like a handspike that he carried, and when my father appeared, called roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him, he drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste and still looking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard. “This is a handy cove,” says he at length; “and a pleasant sittyated grog-shop. Much company, mate?” My father told him no, very little company, the more was the pity. “Well, then,” said he, “this is the berth for me. Here you, matey,” he cried to the man who trundled the barrow; “bring up alongside and help up my chest. I’ll stay here a bit,” he continued. “I’m a plain man; rum and bacon and eggs is what I want, and that head up there for to watch ships off. What you mought call me? You mought call me captain. Oh, I see what you’re at--there”; and he threw down three or four gold pieces on the threshold. “You can tell me when I’ve worked through that,” says he, looking as fierce as a commander. And indeed bad as his clothes were and coarsely as he spoke, he had none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast, but seemed like a mate or skipper accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. The man who came with the barrow told us the mail had set him down the morning before at the Royal George, that he had inquired what inns there were along the coast, and hearing ours well spoken of, I suppose, and described as lonely, had chosen it from the others for his place of residence. And that was all we could learn of our guest. He was a very silent man by custom. All day he hung round the cove or upon the cliffs with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner of the parlour next the fire and drank rum and water very strong. Mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only look up sudden and fierce and blow through his nose like a fog-horn; and we and the people who came about our house soon learned to let him be. Every day when he came back from his stroll he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the road. At first we thought it was the want of company of his own kind that made him ask this question, but at last we began to see he was desirous to avoid them. When a seaman did put up at the Admiral Benbow (as now and then some did, making by the coast road for Bristol) he would look in at him through the curtained door before he entered the parlour; and he was always sure to be as silent as a mouse when any such was present. For me, at least, there was no secret about the matter, for I was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms. He had taken me aside one day and promised me a silver fourpenny on the first of every month if I would only keep my “weather-eye open for a seafaring man with one leg” and let him know the moment he appeared. Often enough when the first of the month came round and I applied to him for my wage, he would only blow through his nose at me and stare me down, but before the week was out he was sure to think better of it, bring me my four-penny piece, and repeat his orders to look out for “the seafaring man with one leg.” How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house and the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions. Now the leg would be cut off at the knee, now at the hip; now he was a monstrous kind of a creature who had never had but the one leg, and that in the middle of his body. To see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge and ditch was the worst of nightmares. And altogether I paid pretty dear for my monthly fourpenny piece, in the shape of these abominable fancies. But though I was so terrified by the idea of the seafaring man with one leg, I was far less afraid of the captain himself than anybody else who knew him. There were nights when he took a deal more rum and water than his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his wicked, old, wild sea-songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call for glasses round and force all the trembling company to listen to his stories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I have heard the house shaking with “Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum,” all the neighbours joining in for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, and each singing louder than the other to avoid remark. For in these fits he was the most overriding companion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for silence all round; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a question, or sometimes because none was put, and so he judged the company was not following his story. Nor would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he had drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed. His stories were what frightened people worst of all. Dreadful stories they were--about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and the Dry Tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main. By his own account he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men that God ever allowed upon the sea, and the language in which he told these stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the crimes that he described. My father was always saying the inn would be ruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over and put down, and sent shivering to their beds; but I really believe his presence did us good. People were frightened at the time, but on looking back they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country life, and there was even a party of the younger men who pretended to admire him, calling him a “true sea-dog” and a “real old salt” and such like names, and saying there was the sort of man that made England terrible at sea. In one way, indeed, he bade fair to ruin us, for he kept on staying week after week, and at last month after month, so that all the money had been long exhausted, and still my father never p