Robert Louis

Stevenson

Treasure Island

Die Schatzinsel

Übersetzt von Heinrich Conrad
Synchronisation und Ergänzungen © Doppeltext 2012

TITELBLATT

PART I. THE OLD BUCCANEER

CHAPTER I. THE OLD SEA-DOG AT THE “ADMIRAL BENBOW”

CHAPTER II. BLACK DOG APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS

CHAPTER III. THE BLACK SPOT

CHAPTER IV. THE SEA-CHEST

CHAPTER V. THE LAST OF THE BLIND MAN

CHAPTER VI. THE CAPTAIN’S PAPERS

PART II. THE SEA-COOK

CHAPTER VII. I GO TO BRISTOL

CHAPTER VIII. AT THE SIGN OF THE “SPY-GLASS”

CHAPTER IX. POWDER AND ARMS

CHAPTER X. THE VOYAGE

CHAPTER XI. WHAT I HEARD IN THE APPLE BARREL

CHAPTER XII. COUNCIL OF WAR

PART III. MY SHORE ADVENTURE

CHAPTER XIII. HOW MY SHORE ADVENTURE BEGAN

CHAPTER XIV. THE FIRST BLOW

CHAPTER XV. THE MAN OF THE ISLAND

PART IV. THE STOCKADE

CHAPTER XVI. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR — HOW THE SHIP WAS ABANDONED

CHAPTER XVII. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR — THE JOLLY-BOAT’S LAST TRIP

CHAPTER XVIII. NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR — END OF THE FIRST DAY’S FIGHTING

CHAPTER XIX. NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS — THE GARRISON IN THE STOCKADE

CHAPTER XX. SILVER’S EMBASSY

CHAPTER XXI. THE ATTACK

PART V. MY SEA ADVENTURE

CHAPTER XXII. HOW MY SEA ADVENTURE BEGAN

CHAPTER XXIII. THE EBB-TIDE RUNS

CHAPTER XXIV. THE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE

CHAPTER XXV. I STRIKE THE JOLLY ROGER

CHAPTER XXVI. ISRAEL HANDS

CHAPTER XXVII. “PIECES OF EIGHT”

PART VI. CAPTAIN SILVER

CHAPTER XXVIII. IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP

CHAPTER XXIX. THE BLACK SPOT AGAIN

CHAPTER XXX. ON PAROLE

CHAPTER XXXI. THE TREASURE-HUNT — FLINT’S POINTER

CHAPTER XXXII. THE TREASURE-HUNT — THE VOICE AMONG THE TREES

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE FALL OF A CHIEFTAIN

CHAPTER XXXIV. AND LAST

IMPRESSUM

PART I. THE OLD BUCCANEER

CHAPTER I. THE OLD SEA-DOG AT THE “ADMIRAL BENBOW”

Squire Tre­lawney, Doc­tor Live­sey, and the rest of these gen­tle­men hav­ing asked me to write down the whole par­tic­u­lars about Treas­ure Is­land, from the be­gin­ning to the end,
keep­ing noth­ing back but the bear­ings of the is­land, and that only be­cause there is still treas­ure not yet lif­ted,
I take up my pen in the year of grace 17—, and go back to the time when my fath­er kept the “Ad­mir­al Ben­bow” Inn,
and the brown old sea­man, with the saber cut, first took up his lodging un­der our roof.
I re­mem­ber him as if it were yes­ter­day, as he came plod­ding to the inn door,
his sea-chest fol­low­ing be­hind him in a hand-bar­row; a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man;
his tarry pig-tail fall­ing over the shoulders of his soiled blue coat;
his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the saber cut across one cheek, a dirty, liv­id white.
I re­mem­ber him look­ing round the cove and whist­ling to him­self as he did so,
and then break­ing out in that old sea-song that he sang so of­ten af­ter­wards:
“Fif­teen men on the dead man’s chest,
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”
in the high, old tot­ter­ing voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the cap­stan bars.
Then he rapped on the door with a bit of stick like a hand­spike that he car­ried,
and when my fath­er ap­peared, called roughly for a glass of rum.
This, when it was brought to him, he drank slowly,
like a con­nois­seur, linger­ing on the taste, and still look­ing about him at the cliffs and up at our sign­board.
“This is a handy cove,” says he, at length; “and a pleas­ant sittyated grog-shop. Much com­pany, mate?”
My fath­er told him no, very little com­pany, the more was the pity.
“Well, then,” said he, “this is the berth for me.
Here you, matey,” he cried to the man who trundled the bar­row; “bring up along­side and help up my chest.
I’ll stay here a bit,” he con­tin­ued. “I’m a plain man; rum and ba­con and eggs is what I want,
and that head up there for to watch ships off.
What you mought call me? You mought call me cap­tain.
Oh, I see what you’re at — there”; and he threw down three or four gold pieces on the threshold.
“You can tell me when I’ve worked through that,” said he, look­ing as fierce as a com­mand­er.
And, in­deed, bad as his clothes were, and coarsely as he spoke, he had none of the ap­pear­ance of a man who sailed be­fore the mast,
but seemed like a mate or skip­per, ac­cus­tomed to be obeyed or to strike.
The man who came with the bar­row told us the mail had set him down the morn­ing be­fore at the “Roy­al George”;
that he had in­quired what inns there were along the coast, and hear­ing ours well spoken of, I sup­pose,
and de­scribed as lonely, had chosen it from the oth­ers for his place of res­id­ence.
And that was all we could learn of our guest.
He was a very si­lent man by cus­tom. All day he hung round the cove, or upon the cliffs, with a brass tele­scope;
all even­ing he sat in a corner of the par­lor next the fire, and drank rum and wa­ter very strong.
Mostly he would not speak when spoken to; only look up sud­den and fierce, and blow through his nose like a fog-horn;
and we and the people who came about our house soon learned to let him be.
Every day, when he came back from his stroll, he would ask if any sea­far­ing men had gone by along the road.
At first we thought it was the want of com­pany of his own kind that made him ask this ques­tion;
but at last we began to see he was de­sirous to avoid them.
When a sea­man put up at the “Ad­mir­al Ben­bow” (as now and then some did, mak­ing by the coast road for Bris­tol),
he would look in at him through the cur­tained door be­fore he entered the par­lor;
and he was al­ways sure to be as si­lent as a mouse when any such was present.
For me, at least, there was no secret about the mat­ter; for I was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms.
He had taken me aside one day and prom­ised me a sil­ver four­penny on the first of every month
if I would only keep my “weath­er eye open for a sea­far­ing man with one leg,”
and let him know the mo­ment he ap­peared.
Of­ten enough when the first of the month came round, and I ap­plied to him for my wage, he would only blow through his nose at me, and stare me down;
but be­fore the week was out he was sure to think bet­ter of it, bring me my four­penny piece,
and re­peat his or­ders to look out for “the sea­far­ing man with one leg.”
How that per­son­age haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you.
On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house, and the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs,
I would see him in a thou­sand forms, and with a thou­sand diabol­ic­al ex­pres­sions.
Now the leg would be cut off at the knee, now at the hip;
now he was a mon­strous kind of a creature who had nev­er had but one leg, and that in the middle of his body.
To see him leap and run and pur­sue me over hedge and ditch, was the worst of night­mares.
And al­to­geth­er I paid pretty dear for my monthly four­penny piece, in the shape of these ab­om­in­able fan­cies.
But though I was so ter­ri­fied by the idea of the sea­far­ing man with one leg,
I was far less afraid of the cap­tain him­self than any­body else who knew him.
There were nights when he took a deal more rum and wa­ter than his head would carry;
and then he would some­times sit and sing his wicked, old, wild sea-songs, mind­ing nobody;
but some­times he would call for glasses round, and force all the trem­bling com­pany to listen to his stor­ies or bear a chor­us to his singing.
Of­ten I have heard the house shak­ing with “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,” all the neigh­bors join­ing in for dear life,
with the fear of death upon them, and each singing louder than the oth­er to avoid re­mark.
For in these fits he was the most over­rid­ing com­pan­ion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for si­lence all around;
he would fly up in a pas­sion of an­ger at a ques­tion, or some­times be­cause none was put,
and so he judged the com­pany was not fol­low­ing his story.
Nor would he al­low any­one to leave the inn till he had drunk him­self sleepy and reeled off to bed.
His stor­ies were what frightened people worst of all. Dread­ful stor­ies they were; about hanging, and walk­ing the plank,
and storms at sea, and the Dry Tor­tu­gas, and wild deeds and places on the Span­ish Main.
By his own ac­count, he must have lived his life among some of the wick­ed­est men that God ever al­lowed upon the sea;
and the lan­guage in which he told these stor­ies shocked our plain coun­try people al­most as much as the crimes that he de­scribed.
My fath­er was al­ways say­ing the inn would be ruined,
for people would soon cease com­ing there to be tyr­an­nized over and put down and sent shiv­er­ing to their beds;
but I really be­lieve his pres­ence did us good.
People were frightened at the time, but on look­ing back they rather liked it; it was a fine ex­cite­ment in a quiet coun­try life;
and there was even a party of the young­er men who pre­ten­ded to ad­mire him, call­ing him a “true sea-dog,”
and a “real old salt,” and such like names, and say­ing there was the sort of man that made Eng­land ter­rible at sea.
In one way, in­deed, he bade fair to ruin us; for he kept on stay­ing week after week, and at last month after month,
so that all the money had been long ex­hausted, and still my fath­er nev­er plucked up the heart to in­sist on hav­ing more.
If ever he men­tioned it, the cap­tain blew through his nose so loudly
that you might say he roared, and stared my poor fath­er out of the room.
I have seen him wringing his hands after such a re­buff,
and I am sure the an­noy­ance and the ter­ror he lived in must have greatly hastened his early and un­happy death.
All the time he lived with us the cap­tain made no change whatever in his dress but to buy some stock­ings from a hawker.
One of the cocks of his hat hav­ing fallen down, he let it hang from that day forth, though it was a great an­noy­ance when it blew.
I re­mem­ber the ap­pear­ance of his coat, which he patched him­self up­stairs in his room,
and which, be­fore the end, was noth­ing but patches.
He nev­er wrote or re­ceived a let­ter, and he nev­er spoke with any but the neigh­bors,
and with these, for the most part, only when drunk on rum.
The great sea-chest none of us had ever seen open.
He was only once crossed, and that was to­ward the end, when my poor fath­er was far gone in a de­cline that took him off.
Doc­tor Live­sey came late one af­ter­noon to see the pa­tient,
took a bit of din­ner from my moth­er, and went into the par­lor to smoke a pipe
un­til his horse should come down from the ham­let, for we had no stabling at the old “Ben­bow.”
I fol­lowed him in, and I re­mem­ber ob­serving the con­trast the neat, bright doc­tor, with his powder as white as snow, and his bright,
black eyes and pleas­ant man­ners, made with the colt­ish coun­try folk, and above all, with
that filthy, heavy, bleared scare­crow of a pir­ate of ours, sit­ting far gone in rum, with his arms on the table.
Sud­denly he — the cap­tain, that is — began to pipe up his etern­al song:
“Fif­teen men on the dead man’s chest —
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the dev­il had done for the rest —
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”
At first I had sup­posed “the dead man’s chest” to be that identic­al big box of his up­stairs in the front room,
and the thought had been mingled in my night­mares with that of the one-legged sea­far­ing man.
But by this time we had all long ceased to pay any par­tic­u­lar no­tice to the song;
it was new, that night, to nobody but Doc­tor Live­sey, and on him I ob­served it did not pro­duce an agree­able ef­fect, for he looked up
for a mo­ment quite an­grily be­fore he went on with his talk to old Taylor, the garden­er, on a new cure for rheum­at­ics.
In the mean­time the cap­tain gradu­ally brightened up at his own mu­sic, and at last flapped his hand upon the table be­fore him in a way we all knew to mean — si­lence.
The voices stopped at once, all but Doc­tor Live­sey’s; he went on as be­fore, speak­ing clear and kind,
and draw­ing briskly at his pipe between every word or two.
The cap­tain glared at him for a while, flapped his hand again,
glared still harder, and at last broke out with a vil­lain­ous oath:
“Si­lence, there, between decks!”
“Were you ad­dress­ing me, sir?” said the doc­tor;
and when the ruf­fi­an had told him, with an­oth­er oath, that this was so, replied,
“I have only one thing to say to you, sir, that if you keep on drink­ing rum,
the world will soon be quit of a very dirty scoun­drel!”
The old fel­low’s fury was aw­ful. He sprang to his feet, drew and opened a sail­or’s clasp-knife,
and bal­an­cing it open on the palm of his hand, threatened to pin the doc­tor to the wall.
The doc­tor nev­er so much as moved. He spoke to him, as be­fore, over his shoulder, and in the same tone of voice,
rather high, so that all the room might hear, but per­fectly calm and steady:
“If you do not put that knife this in­stant into your pock­et,
I prom­ise, upon my hon­or, you shall hang at the next as­sizes.”
Then fol­lowed a battle of looks between them; but the cap­tain soon knuckled un­der, put up his weapon, and re­sumed his seat, grumbling like a beaten dog.
“And now, sir,” con­tin­ued the doc­tor, “since I now know there’s such a fel­low in my dis­trict,
you may count I’ll have an eye upon you day and night.
I’m not a doc­tor only, I’m a ma­gis­trate;
and if I catch a breath of com­plaint against you, if it’s only for a piece of in­ci­vil­ity like to-night’s,
I’ll take ef­fec­tu­al means to have you hunted down and routed out of this. Let that suf­fice.”
Soon after Doc­tor Live­sey’s horse came to the door and he rode away, but the cap­tain held his peace that even­ing, and for many even­ings to come.

Robert Louis Stevenson
Treasure Island / Die Schatzinsel
Zweisprachige Ausgabe
Übersetzt von Heinrich Conrad

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