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Narrative Resumed by Jim Hawkins: The Garrison in the Stockade

           Ihadsoontoldmystoryandbegantolookaboutme.Thelog-housewasmadeofunsquaredtrunksofpine—roof,walls,andfloor.Thelatterstoodinseveralplacesasmuchasafootorafootandahalfabovethesurfaceofthesand.Therewasaporchatthedoor,andunderthisporchthelittlespringwelledupintoanartificialbasinofaratheroddkind—nootherthanagreatship’skettleofiron,withthebottomknockedout,andsunk"toherbearings,"asthecaptainsaid,amongthesand.

           Littlehadbeenleftbesidestheframeworkofthehouse,butinonecornertherewasastoneslablaiddownbywayofhearthandanoldrustyironbaskettocontainthefire.

           Theslopesoftheknollandalltheinsideofthestockadehadbeenclearedoftimbertobuildthehouse,andwecouldseebythestumpswhatafineandloftygrovehadbeendestroyed.Mostofthesoilhadbeenwashedawayorburiedindriftaftertheremovalofthetrees;onlywherethestreamletrandownfromthekettleathickbedofmossandsomefernsandlittlecreepingbusheswerestillgreenamongthesand.Veryclosearoundthestockade—tooclosefordefence,theysaid—thewoodstillflourishedhighanddense,alloffironthelandside,buttowardstheseawithalargeadmixtureoflive-oaks.

           Thecoldeveningbreeze,ofwhichIhavespoken,whistledthrougheverychinkoftherudebuildingandsprinkledthefloorwithacontinualrainoffinesand.Therewassandinoureyes,sandinourteeth,sandinoursuppers,sanddancinginthespringatthebottomofthekettle,foralltheworldlikeporridgebeginningtoboil.Ourchimneywasasquareholeintheroof;itwasbutalittlepartofthesmokethatfounditswayout,andtheresteddiedaboutthehouseandkeptuscoughingandpipingtheeye.

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