“Hawkins hasn’t had his breakfast.  Hawkins, help yourself, and back to your post to eat it,” continued Captain Smollett.  “Lively, now, my lad; you’ll want it before you’ve done.  Hunter, serve out a round of brandy to all hands.”

And while this was going on, the captain completed, in his own mind, the plan of the defence.

“Doctor, you will take the door,” he resumed.  “See, and don’t expose yourself; keep within, and fire through the porch.  Hunter, take the east side, there.  Joyce, you stand by the west, my man.  Mr. Trelawney, you are the best shot—­you and Gray will take this long north side, with the five loopholes; it’s there the danger is.  If they can get up to it and fire in upon us through our own ports, things would begin to look dirty.  Hawkins, neither you nor I are much account at the shooting; we’ll stand by to load and bear a hand.”

As the captain had said, the chill was past.  As soon as the sun had climbed above our girdle of trees, it fell with all its force upon the clearing and drank up the vapours at a draught.  Soon the sand was baking and the resin melting in the logs of the block house.  Jackets and coats were flung aside, shirts thrown open at the neck and rolled up to the shoulders; and we stood there, each at his post, in a fever of heat and anxiety.

An hour passed away.

“Hang them!” said the captain.  “This is as dull as the doldrums.  Gray, whistle for a wind.”

And just at that moment came the first news of the attack.

“If you please, sir,” said Joyce, “if I see anyone, am I to fire?”

“I told you so!” cried the captain.

“Thank you, sir,” returned Joyce with the same quiet civility.

Nothing followed for a time, but the remark had set us all on the alert, straining ears and eyes—­the musketeers with their pieces balanced in their hands, the captain out in the middle of the block house with his mouth very tight and a frown on his face.

So some seconds passed, till suddenly Joyce whipped up his musket and fired.  The report had scarcely died away ere it was repeated and repeated from without in a scattering volley, shot behind shot, like a string of geese, from every side of the enclosure.  Several bullets struck the log-house, but not one entered; and as the smoke cleared away and vanished, the stockade and the woods around it looked as quiet and empty as before.  Not a bough waved, not the gleam of a musket-barrel betrayed the presence of our foes.

“Did you hit your man?” asked the captain.

“No, sir,” replied Joyce.  “I believe not, sir.”

“Next best thing to tell the truth,” muttered Captain Smollett.  “Load his gun, Hawkins.  How many should say there were on your side, doctor?”

“I know precisely,” said Dr. Livesey.  “Three shots were fired on this side.  I saw the three flashes—­two close together—­one farther to the west.”

“Three!” repeated the captain.  “And how many on yours, Mr. Trelawney?”