The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 06Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 06
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
The appearance of the island when I came on deck next morning was
altogether changed. Although the breeze had now utterly failed, we had
made a great deal of way during the night, and were now lying becalmed
about half a mile to the south-east of the low eastern coast.
Grey-coloured woods covered a large part of the surface. This even tint
was indeed broken up by streaks of yellow sandbreak in the lower lands,
and by many tall trees of the pine family, out-topping the others--some
singly, some in clumps; but the general colouring was uniform and sad.
The hills ran up clear above the vegetation in spires of naked rock. All
were strangely shaped, and the Spy-glass, which was by three or four
hundred feet the tallest on the island, was likewise the strangest in
configuration, running up sheer from almost every side, and then suddenly
cut off at the top like a pedestal to put a statue on.
The _Hispaniola_ was rolling scuppers under in the ocean swell. The booms
were tearing at the blocks, the rudder was banging to and fro, and the
whole ship creaking, groaning, and jumping like a manufactory. I had to
cling tight to the backstay, and the world turned giddily before my eyes;
for though I was a good enough sailor when there was way on, this
standing still and being rolled about like a bottle was a thing I never
learned to stand without a qualm or so, above all in the morning, on an
empty stomach.
Perhaps it was this--perhaps it was the look of the island, with its
grey, melancholy woods, and wild stone spires, and the surf that we could
both see and hear foaming and thundering on the steep beach--at least,
although the sun shone bright and hot, and the shore-birds were fishing
and crying all around us, and you would have thought any one would have
been glad to get to land after being so long at sea, my heart sank, as
the saying is, into my boots; and from that first look onward I hated the
very thought of Treasure Island.
We had a dreary morning's work before us, for there was no sign of any
wind, and the boats had to be got out and manned, and the ship warped
three or four miles round the corner of the island, and up the narrow
passage to the haven behind Skeleton Island. I volunteered for one of the
boats, where I had, of course, no business. The heat was sweltering, and
the men grumbled fiercely over their work. Anderson was in command of my
boat, and instead of keeping the crew in order, he grumbled as loud as
the worst.
"Well," he said, with an oath, "it's not for ever."
I thought this was a very bad sign; for, up to that day, the men had gone
briskly and willingly about their business; but the very sight of the
island had relaxed the cords of discipline.
All the way in, Long John stood by the steersman and conned the ship. He
knew the passage like the palm of his hand; and though the man in the
chains got everywhere more water than was down in the chart, John never
hesitated once.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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