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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 sun-brown of a long life spent on the ocean.

He had a loud and rather alarming voice, and he came up to my father, one of the quietest men I ever saw, with a swing and a stamp that made the very hostess jump.

“ অভ্য up with the landlord!” he roared out. “Is there such a thing as a man to attend a Christian soul, or must I eat my dinner on the doorstep?”

My father was down in a moment, looking rather smaller than usual.

“What service will you take with me, friend?” he asked.

“Service!” roared the seaman. “Why, I’m a retired sea captain, and I’ve need of a quiet room and such humble accommodation as you can offer. I am on shore for a bit of rest. I hate the sight of land, but needs must when the devil drives; and I have a bit of money and intend to spend it where I can get rum cheap and oysters dear.”

My father bowed low. “We have a room, sir. It’s not grand, but it’s clean.”

“That’ll do for a sea dog in want of a rest,” cried the Captain. “And what’s your name, landlord?”

“Heath,” replied my father.

“And you, boy?” the Captain asked, turning his fierce eyes on me.

“Jim, sir,” said I.

“Jim! Well, Jim,” said he, “you’ll keep your ears open, and I dare say you’ll hear a yarn or two worth the listening. And now, landlord, about my traps. Is there a place where I can stow this chest? It’s full of valuables, and I don’t trust no man above ground with it.”

He pointed to his sea-chest, which was bound with brass and studded with nails. My father mentioned the cellar, and the Captain roared his approval.

“Right you are, then! And now, what’s to eat? Give me a hunk of bread, some cheese, and a bottle of rum—and be sharp about it!”

That was how the Captain—or Black Dog, as he was later called—came to lodge at the Admiral Benbow.

He was a very strange guest. He was there for a month, though he was not often indoors. He would sit in his room, with the shutters closed, for days on end, smoking a long clay pipe and drinking rum. When he did come out, it was generally to take a short walk down the road to the edge of the cliff, or to sit with his back to the wall in the corner of the public room, staring into the fire.

He was a man who seemed to be always listening, his head cocked like a bird’s, for any sound upon the road.

The other folks in the village, most of them simple folk who had never been to sea, were greatly impressed and a little frightened by him. When he paid his score, he did it with a heavy hand, often dropping a few pieces of silver on the table and telling my father to keep the change.

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re a man of the sea yourself, landlord?” he asked my father one day.

“No, Captain,” my father replied. “I was in the merchant service only, for a short time.”

“Ah, well! A lubber is a lubber for all that,” the Captain grumbled. “But I’ve seen a thing or two in my time, and I can tell you, I’ve had my share of scrapes.”

He would never speak of his past openly, but sometimes, when the rum was flowing freely, he would let slip a word or two that set my young imagination on fire. He spoke of the Spanish Main, of storms, of mutinies, and once, chillingly, he mentioned a man named Billy Bones, who had “sailed the seven seas and sent many a soul to Davy Jones.”

It was about a week after he arrived that the first incident occurred, the one that truly marked the beginning of our troubles.

II Black Dog Appears and Disappears

It was a dull, warm afternoon in the summer of 17—. The Benbow was quiet, and I was wiping down the benches in the public room when the door burst open with a sudden crash. In stumbled a man unlike any I had ever seen. He was tall and strongly built, but his face was as pale as wood ashes. He had a dark, ragged, and tarry coat, and he carried a cutlass, though not drawn, banging against his thigh.

He staggered up to the bar, his eyes darting everywhere.

“Rum!” he cried, his voice hoarse. “Rum! And halt!”

My father came forward cautiously. “Halt, sir? What do you mean?”

“No matter what I mean,” the stranger hissed. “Just bring the rum, before I help myself.”

My father was about to refuse when the door burst open again, and in strode the Captain, Billy Bones, looking grim and ready for a fight.

“Black Dog!” Billy Bones roared, his voice shaking the windows. “I knew you’d come sniffing!”

The stranger—Black Dog—turned pale as death when he saw the Captain. He dropped the idea of rum, drew his cutlass with a metallic scrape, and lunged towards the door.

Billy Bones was quicker. He snatched a heavy stick he kept by the chimney and met the charge. There was a great clash of steel and wood. The table in the center of the room went over with a crash.

Black Dog was nimble, but Billy Bones was surprisingly quick for his size, and his rage lent him unnatural strength. He swung the stick like a flail, catching Black Dog’s sword arm with a sickening crack.

Black Dog cried out, dropped his cutlass, and bolted out the door, limping badly. Billy Bones, breathing heavily, stood over the fallen weapon, his own body shaking.

“That dog!” he muttered, kicking the abandoned sword. “He’ll be back, landlord. He’ll be back for more than rum.”

My father, trying to be helpful, picked up the discarded cutlass.

“Keep that thing out of my house!” Billy Bones roared, snatching it from my father’s hand and wiping the blade clean with his sleeve. “And if that devil shows his face here again, you send him to me! I’ll settle accounts with him.”

He didn't utter another word about the incident, just called for rum, and sat staring into the fire, ignoring the wreckage of the room. I, however, was wide-eyed. I had never seen such a fight, nor imagined such characters frequented our quiet inn. The name Black Dog stuck in my mind like a burr.

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