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“Aye, that he did,” observed another; “now he raged, and now he hollered
for the rum, and now he sang. ‘Fifteen Men’ were his only song, mates;
and I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was
main hot, and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin’ out as
clear as clear--and the death-haul on the man already.”
“Come, come,” said Silver; “stow this talk. He’s dead, and he don’t
walk, that I know; leastways, he won’t walk by day, and you may lay to
that. Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for the doubloons.”
We started, certainly; but in spite of the hot sun and the staring
daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shouting through the
wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath. The terror of
the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits.
XXXII
The Treasure-hunt--The Voice Among the Trees
Partly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to rest Silver
and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon as they had gained
the brow of the ascent.
The plateau being somewhat tilted towards the west, this spot on which
we had paused commanded a wide prospect on either hand. Before us,
over the tree-tops, we beheld the Cape of the Woods fringed with surf;
behind, we not only looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island,
but saw--clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands--a great field
of open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spy-glass, here dotted
with single pines, there black with precipices. There was no sound but
that of the distant breakers, mounting from all round, and the chirp of
countless insects in the brush. Not a man, not a sail, upon the sea; the
very largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude.
Silver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass.
“There are three ‘tall trees,’” said he, “about in the right line from
Skeleton Island. ‘Spy-glass shoulder,’ I take it, means that lower p’int
there. It’s child’s play to find the stuff now. I’ve half a mind to dine
first.”
“I don’t feel sharp,” growled Morgan. “Thinkin’ o’ Flint--I think it
were--as done me.”
“Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he’s dead,” said Silver.
“He were an ugly devil,” cried a third pirate with a shudder; “that blue
in the face too!”
“That was how the rum took him,” added Merry. “Blue! Well, I reckon he
was blue. That’s a true word.”
Ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this train of
thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they had almost got to
whispering by now, so that the sound of their talk hardly interrupted
the silence of the wood. All of a sudden, out of the middle of the trees
in front of us, a thin, high, trembling voice struck up the well-known
air and words:
“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest--
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
I never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the pirates. The
colour went from their six faces like enchantment; some leaped to their
feet, some clawed hold of others; Morgan grovelled on the ground.
“It’s Flint, by ----!” cried Merry.
The song had stopped as suddenly as it began--broken off, you would have
said, in the middle of a note, as though someone had laid his hand upon
the singer’s mouth. Coming through the clear, sunny atmosphere among the
green tree-tops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly; and the
effect on my companions was the stranger.
“Come,” said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out;
“this won’t do. Stand by to go about. This is a rum start, and I can’t
name the voice, but it’s someone skylarking--someone that’s flesh and
blood, and you may lay to that.”
His courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the colour to his
face along with it. Already the others had begun to lend an ear to this
encouragement and were coming a little to themselves, when the same
voice broke out again--not this time singing, but in a faint distant
hail that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the Spy-glass.
“Darby M’Graw,” it wailed--for that is the word that best describes the
sound--“Darby M’Graw! Darby M’Graw!” again and again and again; and then
rising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out: “Fetch aft
the rum, Darby!”
The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from
their heads. Long after the voice had died away they still stared in
silence, dreadfully, before them.
“That fixes it!” gasped one. “Let’s go.”
“They was his last words,” moaned Morgan, “his last words above board.”
Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought
up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.
Still Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his head,
but he had not yet surrendered.
“Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby,” he muttered; “not one
but us that’s here.” And then, making a great effort: “Shipmates,”
he cried, “I’m here to get that stuff, and I’ll not be beat by man or
devil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I’ll
face him dead. There’s seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a
mile from here. When did ever a gentleman o’ fortune show his stern to
that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug--and him dead
too?”
But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers, rather,
indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.
“Belay there, John!” said Merry. “Don’t you cross a sperrit.”
And the rest were all too terrified to reply. They would have run away
severally had they dared; but fear kept them together, and kept them
close by John, as if his daring helped them. He, on his part, had pretty
well fought his weakness down.
“Sperrit? Well, maybe,” he said. “But there’s one thing not clear to me.
There was an echo. Now, no man ever seen a sperrit with a shadow; well
then, what’s he doing with an echo to him, I should like to know? That
ain’t in natur’, surely?”
This argument seemed weak enough to me. But you can never tell what will
affect the superstitious, and to my wonder, George Merry was greatly
relieved.

“Aye, that he did,” observed another; “now he raged, and now he hollered

for the rum, and now he sang. ‘Fifteen Men’ were his only song, mates;

and I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was

main hot, and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin’ out as

clear as clear--and the death-haul on the man already.”

“Come, come,” said Silver; “stow this talk. He’s dead, and he don’t

walk, that I know; leastways, he won’t walk by day, and you may lay to

that. Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for the doubloons.”

We started, certainly; but in spite of the hot sun and the staring

daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shouting through the

wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath. The terror of

the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits.

XXXII

The Treasure-hunt--The Voice Among the Trees

Partly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to rest Silver

and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon as they had gained

the brow of the ascent.

The plateau being somewhat tilted towards the west, this spot on which

we had paused commanded a wide prospect on either hand. Before us,

over the tree-tops, we beheld the Cape of the Woods fringed with surf;

behind, we not only looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island,

but saw--clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands--a great field

of open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spy-glass, here dotted

with single pines, there black with precipices. There was no sound but

that of the distant breakers, mounting from all round, and the chirp of

countless insects in the brush. Not a man, not a sail, upon the sea; the

very largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude.

Silver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass.

“There are three ‘tall trees,’” said he, “about in the right line from

Skeleton Island. ‘Spy-glass shoulder,’ I take it, means that lower p’int

there. It’s child’s play to find the stuff now. I’ve half a mind to dine

first.”

“I don’t feel sharp,” growled Morgan. “Thinkin’ o’ Flint--I think it

were--as done me.”

“Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he’s dead,” said Silver.

“He were an ugly devil,” cried a third pirate with a shudder; “that blue

in the face too!”

“That was how the rum took him,” added Merry. “Blue! Well, I reckon he

was blue. That’s a true word.”

Ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this train of

thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they had almost got to

whispering by now, so that the sound of their talk hardly interrupted

the silence of the wood. All of a sudden, out of the middle of the trees

in front of us, a thin, high, trembling voice struck up the well-known

air and words:

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest--

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”

I never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the pirates. The

colour went from their six faces like enchantment; some leaped to their

feet, some clawed hold of others; Morgan grovelled on the ground.

“It’s Flint, by ----!” cried Merry.

The song had stopped as suddenly as it began--broken off, you would have

said, in the middle of a note, as though someone had laid his hand upon

the singer’s mouth. Coming through the clear, sunny atmosphere among the

green tree-tops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly; and the

effect on my companions was the stranger.

“Come,” said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out;

“this won’t do. Stand by to go about. This is a rum start, and I can’t

name the voice, but it’s someone skylarking--someone that’s flesh and

blood, and you may lay to that.”

His courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the colour to his

face along with it. Already the others had begun to lend an ear to this

encouragement and were coming a little to themselves, when the same

voice broke out again--not this time singing, but in a faint distant

hail that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the Spy-glass.

“Darby M’Graw,” it wailed--for that is the word that best describes the

sound--“Darby M’Graw! Darby M’Graw!” again and again and again; and then

rising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out: “Fetch aft

the rum, Darby!”

The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from

their heads. Long after the voice had died away they still stared in

silence, dreadfully, before them.

“That fixes it!” gasped one. “Let’s go.”

“They was his last words,” moaned Morgan, “his last words above board.”

Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought

up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.

Still Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his head,

but he had not yet surrendered.

“Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby,” he muttered; “not one

but us that’s here.” And then, making a great effort: “Shipmates,”

he cried, “I’m here to get that stuff, and I’ll not be beat by man or

devil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I’ll

face him dead. There’s seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a

mile from here. When did ever a gentleman o’ fortune show his stern to

that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug--and him dead

too?”

But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers, rather,

indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.

“Belay there, John!” said Merry. “Don’t you cross a sperrit.”

And the rest were all too terrified to reply. They would have run away

severally had they dared; but fear kept them together, and kept them

close by John, as if his daring helped them. He, on his part, had pretty

well fought his weakness down.

“Sperrit? Well, maybe,” he said. “But there’s one thing not clear to me.

There was an echo. Now, no man ever seen a sperrit with a shadow; well

then, what’s he doing with an echo to him, I should like to know? That

ain’t in natur’, surely?”

This argument seemed weak enough to me. But you can never tell what will

affect the superstitious, and to my wonder, George Merry was greatly

relieved.