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
I took my way straight for the east coast of the island, for I was
determined to go down the sea side of the spit to avoid all chance of
observation from the anchorage. It was already late in the afternoon,
although still warm and sunny. As I continued to thread the tall woods I
could hear from far before me not only the continuous thunder of the
surf, but a certain tossing of foliage and grinding of boughs, which
showed me the sea breeze had set in higher than usual. Soon cool draughts
of air began to reach me; and a few steps farther I came forth into the
open borders of the grove, and saw the sea lying blue and sunny to the
horizon, and the surf tumbling and tossing its foam along the beach.
I have never seen the sea quiet round Treasure Island. The sun might
blaze overhead, the air be without a breath, the surface smooth and blue,
but still these great rollers would be running along all the external
coast, thundering and thundering by day and night; and I scarce believe
there is one spot in the island where a man would be out of earshot of
their noise.
I walked along beside the surf with great enjoyment, till, thinking I was
now got far enough to the south, I took the cover of some thick bushes,
and crept warily up to the ridge of the spit.
Behind me was the sea, in front the anchorage. The sea breeze, as though
it had the sooner blown itself out by its unusual violence, was already
at an end; it had been succeeded by light, variable airs from the south
and south-east, carrying great banks of fog; and the anchorage, under lee
of Skeleton Island, lay still and leaden as when first we entered it. The
_Hispaniola_, in that unbroken mirror, was exactly portrayed from the
truck to the water-line, the Jolly Roger hanging from her peak.
Alongside lay one of the gigs, Silver in the stern-sheets--him I could
always recognise--while a couple of men were leaning over the stern
bulwarks, one of them with a red cap--the very rogue that I had seen some
hours before stride-legs upon the palisade. Apparently they were talking
and laughing, though at that distance--upwards of a mile--I could, of
course, hear no word of what was said. All at once there began the most
horrid, unearthly screaming, which at first startled me badly, though I
had soon remembered the voice of Captain Flint, and even thought I could
make out the bird by her bright plumage as she sat perched upon her
master's wrist.
Soon after the jolly-boat shoved off and pulled for shore, and the man
with the red cap and his comrade went below by the cabin companion.
Just about the same time the sun had gone down behind the Spy-glass, and
as the fog was collecting rapidly, it began to grow dark in earnest. I
saw I must lose no time if I were to find the boat that evening.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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