<div align="center">The Author Robert Louis Stevenson
(1850-1894)
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Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Treasure Island for his young stepson. It was published in 1883 and has been famous ever since. Stevenson was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 19850. He was the son of an engineer and studied law before deciding to become a writer. Treasure Island was his first full-length novel. It was followed by several other popular stories, including The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Kidnapped and The Master Ballantrae. All of his most famous books have been adapted for TV or the movies. Stevenson, who was also a travel writer and poet, died aged 44.
<div align="center">Introduction
<span style="font-family:Tahoma">Billy Bones, Flint and Jim Hawkins</span></span>
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<span style="color:#999900">
Captain Billy Bones is my name. No pirate ever killed or robbed as many people as me… except old Captain Flint, of course.
Flint was a cruel buccaneer. Hundreds he killed. He hung ’em, made ’em walk the plank, keelhauled ’em till they drowned or stuck ’em with his cutlass.
I was one of Flint’s pirates. I was on his ship, The Walrus, on the day he went ashore on a deserted island to bury his fabulous treasure.
Old Flint took six sailors with him to help him bury it, but he came back all alone. He must have murdered them and buried them with his treasure.
He never told any of us where he hid that treasure; nor how he killed those sailors.
Much later he fell sick. He’d drunk too much rum. I was with him the day he went to Davy Jones’ Locker. That, for you yellow-livered landlubbers, is the bottom of the sea where sailors go when they die.
I’ll never forget his last words. “Get me a rum, Billy Bones,” he said. “Just one last rum, for an old sea dog.”
I went below decks to get him his rum.
By the time I returned, old Flint was dead and lying on his back with a map clenched in his fist.
The whole crew had gathered around him. You never did see a more terrifying gang of pirates.
None of ’em had everything they were born with. Some had eyes missing, other had lost a leg or an arm, or just a few fingers. Most of ’em were scared where other pirates had taken bits out of them with a cutlass. Others had terrible scars where Flint’s cat-o’-nine-tails had whipped them.
They weren’t fools though. They all trued ti grab the map in Flint’s hand.
I slashed at them with my cutlass and cut off Black Dog’s fingers. That stopped them in their tracks. I was the captain now that Flint was gone. The map was mine by right.
“Don’t worry, me lads,” I said, “I’ll treat you fair. If this ‘ere map shows where Flint’s treasure is, I’ll share it with every one of you. That’s my promise.”
But what’s the good of a pirate’s promise, eh? That night I filled my sea chest with all my possessions, a bag of Flint’s gold coins and the map. And while my shipmates snored away, I jumped ship.
I lowered my sea chest into one of the ship’s small boats and rowed ashore.
I landed in a cove on the south coast of England and went to look for a place where I could hide from my old shipmates for a while.
I found a lonely place called the Admiral Benbow Inn. It was run by a woman and her fourteen-year-old son, a fine young lad called John Hawkins.
My plan was to lie low for a while and then get another crew to set sail in search of Flint’s treasure. For sure, the map would let me straight to it.
But, like old Flint, my fondness for the rum got the better of me. I’ll not live long enough to find the treasure now…
But perhaps young Jim Hawkins will find my map. Then he can tell the rest of this story about the hunt for Flint’s treasure.
And he’ll tell it true…which more than lying, murdering pirate like me could ever do.
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