Treasure Island A Poetic Variation by J.D. River
Chapter 7 The Admiral's Costume
1/3
The Squire saw to Mother’s care,
And set the Benbow walls to right.
He brought me to his manor fair
To learn beneath its gilded light.
But restless weeks still dragged like mist—
No word of ship, nor chart, nor prize.
Old Redruth watched me, jawline fixed,
His rifle glinting, guarded eyes.
At last it came—a letter bold,
Its seal impressed with Bristol’s mark.
My fingers trembled on the fold,
As if it stirred some sleeping spark.
“Dear Hawkins—Fortune favors us at last!
The chart you found—remarkable, indeed!
It names a hoard from ages buried past,
And marks the isle where Flint did plant his greed.”
“The Doctor and myself have sworn to sail,
And chase this prize beyond the ocean’s pale.”
I set the page down on the bed.
My heart beat hot. My hands felt strange—
To sail where only stories led,
How swift the world begins to change.
And yet... I paused. The words ran fast—
Too glad, too rich, too finely spun.
Like sails too tight before the mast,
His joy eclipsed the danger run.
“I’ve bought a ship—the Hispaniola—trim,
Her timbers sound, her canvas white with pride.
No finer craft has ever dared to swim—
She’ll bear us where the Spanish fortunes hide.”
“And best of all—I’ve found a proper cook!
He has but one leg, but still commands the room.
He knew of Flint, or so he swears—
And damns the fate of privateers!”
One leg! I stopped—the page grew dim.
The candle guttered in its glass.
The room grew wide, the corners swam—
That omen lived; it had not passed.
“He knocks. He finds a way...” I'd heard.
And now the Squire praised his name.
What if the map, by fate or word,
Had summoned death to stake its claim?
I left the letter, crossed the floor.
The manor hushed, the windows dim.
My boots rang on the hallway door—
My thoughts bled back to memories grim.
The moon rode low, the road was bare.
The Benbow waited on the rise.
My mother lit a lantern there
That flickered like a pirate’s eyes.
2/3
We shared a meal, though little said.
She watched me close, but gave no sign.
Her gaze was lined with quiet dread,
Like stone that wears away with time.
"Come swift to Bristol, lad, and bring this word—
You'll serve as cabin boy aboard the ship!
The Doctor gives his blessing, so assured—
And soon we sail on fate's auspicious trip!
Tell none our aim, but rest in heart and hand—
For fortune waits for those who boldly stand!"
I packed a shirt, a coat, a book.
She touched my sleeve, then turned away.
The hearth lay bare. I dared not look—
What child could know the price we’d pay?
I dreamed of eyes behind the pane,
Of Pew’s tap-tap, and Captain’s song.
“He knocks. He knocks.” I heard again—
And feared we’d brought the dead along.
The window creaked, the latches moaned,
The coins all whispered in their bed.
I saw the map’s red cross had grown—
It bloomed like blood across the dead.
The sun rose red beyond the hill.
I tied my bundle, kissed her cheek.
The sea wind stirred, the air grew still—
We parted then, too drained to speak.
The coach arrived at break of day,
Old Redruth grim upon the seat.
His rifle clanked, he looked away—
I took one last look at my street.
The countryside passed slow and green,
With Redruth silent as a post.
The wheels gave voice to thoughts unseen—
Of Flint, and ghosts, and Bristol’s coast.
At midday halt, we watered horse,
A crossroads inn with weathered door.
Old Redruth stretched, then checked his course—
His first words since we'd left the shore.
"Boy," he said, his voice like stone,
"The Squire's a good man, true as steel.
But gold makes devils of the known—
And pirates cut more than they heal."
He spat and climbed back to his seat,
The reins held tight within his fist.
Those warning words, both harsh and neat,
Were all the talk that he'd assist.
We passed through lanes, and markets turned—
The cobbled roads grew wide and worn.
And every mile, the coach would jerk
As if it sought some fate, still born.
3/3
“That Silver fellow—what a useful sort!
He helped me hire a crew both sound and keen.
He keeps a shop, a wife, a leg once lost—
But such good sense! And never counting cost!”
The smell of brine came sharp and fast,
And gulls wheeled low on ragged wing.
Then up ahead, the masts rose high—
Their ropes like veins on something grim.
The coach wheels clattered over stone,
Past shouting men and painted signs.
The air was thick with salt and bone,
With voices pitched like weathered lines.
The coach rolled slow through alleys tight,
Past barrels stacked and crates of lime.
Men hauled the ropes from morning light
To bells that marked the harbor’s time.
The smell of pitch and iron nails,
Of rotting nets and salted fish,
Clung dense as tar above the rails
And turned the air both dark and rich.
“You’ll find me near the Admiral’s Arms,
In Bristol Harbor, beside the quay.
We sail tomorrow, free from harms,
With wind and tide to set us free!”
Old Redruth paid the coachman's fee,
Then slung my pack across his back.
We pressed through crowds toward masts and sea,
The streets alive with smoke and tack.
A lantern swayed above the door,
Its glass gone dim with years of brine.
A faded sign swung on the shore—
The Admiral’s Arms, our destined sign.
And there he stood—the Squire made grand,
With cutlass bright and plume in hand.
His coat too fine for rope or tar—
His boots still clean from carriage car.
He struck a pose, his chest held proud,
A captain crowned before the crowd.
No ship had sailed, no voyage set—
But in his mind, the seas were met.
I stared at him—his coat, his pride—
A boy's dream captain, gold-supplied.
He raised his blade with awkward grace—
A lord of seas to claim his place.
I have a treat for all two of you who are still interested in this adaptation. Today, both parts of the next Installment covering Chapters 7-8! #Poetry #WIP #CommentsWelcome
#TreasureIsland A Poetic Variation
Section II The Voyage
Installment 4 The Gentlemen's Game
Chapter 7 The Admiral's Costume