Kidnapped (Illustrated): Being Memoirs of the Adventures of David Balfour in the Year 1751Stevenson, Robert Louis
History
Kidnapped (Illustrated): Being Memoirs of the Adventures of David Balfour in the Year 1751
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Adventure and adventurers -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Kidnapping -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
“And now,” said Alan, “let your hand keep your head, for the grip is
coming.”
Alan drew a dirk, which he held in his left hand in case they should run
in under his sword. I, on my part, clambered up into the berth with an
armful of pistols and something of a heavy heart, and set open the
window where I was to watch. It was a small part of the deck that I
could overlook, but enough for our purpose. The sea had gone down, and
the wind was steady and kept the sails quiet; so that there was a great
stillness in the ship, in which I made sure I heard the sound of
muttering voices. A little after, and there came a clash of steel upon
the deck, by which I knew they were dealing out the cutlasses and one
had been let fall; and after that, silence again.
I do not know if I was what you call afraid; but my heart beat like a
bird’s, both quick and little; and there was a dimness came before my
eyes which I continually rubbed away, and which continually returned. As
for hope, I had none; but only a darkness of despair and a sort of anger
against all the world that made me long to sell my life as dear as I was
able. I tried to pray, I remember, but that same hurry of my mind, like
a man running, would not suffer me to think upon the words; and my chief
wish was to have the thing begin and be done with it.
It came all of a sudden when it did, with a rush of feet and a roar, and
then a shout from Alan, and a sound of blows and some one crying out as
if hurt. I looked back over my shoulder, and saw Mr. Shuan in the
doorway, crossing blades with Alan.
“That’s him that killed the boy!” I cried.
“Look to your window!” said Alan; and as I turned back to my place, I
saw him pass his sword through the mate’s body.
It was none too soon for me to look to my own part; for my head was
scarce back at the window, before five men, carrying a spare yard for a
battering-ram, ran past me and took post to drive the door in. I had
never fired with a pistol in my life, and not often with a gun; far less
against a fellow-creature. But it was now or never; and just as they
swang the yard, I cried out: “Take that!” and shot into their midst.
I must have hit one of them, for he sang out and gave back a step, and
the rest stopped as if a little disconcerted. Before they had time to
recover, I sent another ball over their heads; and at my third shot
(which went as wide as the second) the whole party threw down the yard
and ran for it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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