Silver: Return to Treasure Island
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A rip-roaring sequel to Treasure Island—Robert Louis Stevenson’s beloved classic—about two young friends and their high-seas adventure with dangerous pirates and long-lost treasure.
It's almost forty years after the events of Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island: Jim Hawkins now runs an inn called the Hispaniola on the English coast with his son, Jim, and Long John Silver has returned to England to live in obscurity with his daughter, Natty. Their lives are quiet and unremarkable; their adventures have seemingly ended.
But for Jim and Natty, the adventure is just beginning. One night, Natty approaches young Jim with a proposition: return to Treasure Island and find the remaining treasure that their fathers left behind so many years before. As Jim and Natty set sail in their fathers' footsteps, they quickly learn that this journey will not be easy. Immediately, they come up against murderous pirates, long-held grudges, and greed and deception lurking in every corner. And when they arrive on Treasure Island, they find terrible scenes awaiting them—difficulties which require all their wit as well as their courage. Nor does the adventure end there, since they have to sail homeward again...
Andrew Motion’s sequel—rollicking, heartfelt, and utterly brilliant—would make Robert Louis Stevenson proud.
minutes, which was long enough to convince Natty even more deeply that we were not in danger from the maroons, I put to her the plan I had been devising. I told her I wanted to destroy the stockade before we left the island—to burn it until it had been obliterated, and could not be revisited or even recognized. I had expected this to surprise her but she replied quite calmly. “Why would you do that?” “Is it not obvious?” I said. “To destroy all memory of the evil here. To make the place whole
body emaciated does not do justice to the ravages it had suffered—especially since he had detached his wooden leg (from close by the hip) and laid it on the floor beside him. It would be better to say that his form seemed to be disintegrating, even as I looked at it: the collapsed folds of his trousers, the speckled brown stalk of his single leg, where it protruded beside its absent partner; the chest sunk beneath the grimy flounces of his shirt: all these led me to marvel that the spirit
shining bright as jewels, on the flowery mantle of the wreck. It began to be chill; the tide was rapidly fleeting seaward, the schooner settling more and more on her beam-ends. I scrambled forward and looked over. It seemed shallow enough, and holding the cut hawser in both hands for a last security, I let myself drop softly overboard. The water scarcely reached my waist; the sand was firm and covered with ripple-marks, and I waded ashore in great spirits, leaving the Hispaniola on her side,
came to her rescue. “I saw the wreck,” he said suddenly, without raising his head—at which Stone landed another kick on him. “No one asked you to speak, you skulk,” he muttered. “Speak when you’re spoken to, if you want to keep your head on your shoulders.” “It’s true,” Natty said quickly, to deflect Stone from this line of thinking. “We were traveling to one of the other islands, and were blown off course.” She did not want to add more, about who and how many had survived, thinking that every
clothed with tatters of canvas and sea cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was held together by a system of the most various and incongruous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick and loops of tarry gaskin. About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather belt, which was the one solid thing in his accoutrement, and squeaked very noisily whenever he moved. He might have been the jester in a medieval court. Natty felt as certain there was no compassion in this man as she was sure there