"We'll all swing and sun-dry for your bungling."
"Well now, look here, I'll answer these four p'ints; one after another I'll answer 'em.
I made a hash o' this cruise, did I?
Well now, you all know what I wanted, and you all know if that had been done that we'd 'a been aboard the HISPANIOLA this night as ever was, every man of us alive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold of her, by thunder!
Well, who crossed me?
Who forced my hand, as was the lawful cap'n?
Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed and began this dance?
Ah, it's a fine dance—I'm with you there—and looks mighty like a hornpipe in a rope's end at Execution Dock by London town, it does.
But who done it?
Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and you, George Merry!
And you're the last above board of that same meddling crew; and you have the Davy Jones's insolence to up and stand for cap'n over me—you, that sank the lot of us!
By the powers!
But this tops the stiffest yarn to nothing."
Silver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and his late comrades that these words had not been said in vain.
"That's for number one," cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his brow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house.
"Why, I give you my word, I'm sick to speak to you.
You've neither sense nor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you come to sea.
Sea!
Gentlemen o' fortune!
I reckon tailors is your trade."
"Go on, John," said Morgan.
"Speak up to the others."
"Ah, the others!" returned John.
"They're a nice lot, ain't they?
You say this cruise is bungled.
Ah! By gum, if you could understand how bad it's bungled, you would see!
We're that near the gibbet that my neck's stiff with thinking on it.
You've seen 'em, maybe, hanged in chains, birds about 'em, seamen p'inting 'em out as they go down with the tide.
'Who's that?' says one.
'That! Why, that's John Silver.
I knowed him well,' says another.
And you can hear the chains a-jangle as you go about and reach for the other buoy.
Now, that's about where we are, every mother's son of us, thanks to him, and Hands, and Anderson, and other ruination fools of you.
And if you want to know about number four, and that boy, why, shiver my timbers, isn't he a hostage?
Are we a-going to waste a hostage?
No, not us; he might be our last chance, and I shouldn't wonder.
Kill that boy?
Not me, mates!
And number three?
Ah, well, there's a deal to say to number three.
Maybe you don't count it nothing to have a real college doctor to see you every day—you, John, with your head broke—or you, George Merry, that had the ague shakes upon you not six hours agone, and has your eyes the colour of lemon peel to this same moment on the clock?
And maybe, perhaps, you didn't know there was a consort coming either?
But there is, and not so long till then; and we'll see who'll be glad to have a hostage when it comes to that.
And as for number two, and why I made a bargain—well, you came crawling on your knees to me to make it—on your knees you came, you was that downhearted—and you'd have starved too if I hadn't—but that's a trifle!
You look there—that's why!"
And he cast down upon the floor a paper that I instantly recognized—none other than the chart on yellow paper, with the three red crosses, that I had found in the oilcloth at the bottom of the captain's chest.
Why the doctor had given it to him was more than I could fancy.
But if it were inexplicable to me, the appearance of the chart was incredible to the surviving mutineers.
They leaped upon it like cats upon a mouse.
It went from hand to hand, one tearing it from another; and by the oaths and the cries and the childish laughter with which they accompanied their examination, you would have thought, not only they were fingering the very gold, but were at sea with it, besides, in safety.