Squire
Trelawney, Dr. 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 sabre 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 pigtail falling over the shoulde rs of his soiled blue
coat; his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails; and the sabre cut
across one cheek, a dirty, livid 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," says 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.
Treasure Island
R. L. Stevenson
Publicado por primeira vez en Cassell and Company en Londres
1883
Ilustracións: N.C. Wyeth
Téndome pedido o fidalgo Trealwney, o doutor Lipio
ó fin, ocultando nada máis que a posición da illa (e iso só porque aínda queda
alí parte do tesouro), tomo a pluma no ano de gracia de mil e setecentos e...,
e volvo ós tempos de cando o meu pai rexentaba a “Pousada do Almirante Benbow”
e se veu instalar baixo o noso teito un home de mar moreno e cun corte de sabre
na cara.
Lémbroo
coma se fose onte: atravesando o limiar da pousada, o seu arcón mariñeiro
seguíndoo nun carriño de man. Era un tipo alto, forte, pesado, moreno cor de
noz; traía unha trenciña esfregándoselle ó camiñar polos ombros ensebados de
casaca azul; tiña as mans curtidas, cheas de cicatrices, con uñas negras e
rotas; e un corte de sabre sulcándolle unha das faulas cun recordo
branquicento, lívido, suxo... Lémbroo mirando a enseada en volta asubiando
mentres miraba –para logo romper coa vella canción mariñeira que despois tantas
veces nos cantaría...
“Quince homes sobre o arcón do
morto...
¡Io-hó-hó, e unha botella de
ron!”,
Con voz
berrona, vella e desengonzada, que parecía mesmo afinada e estragada entre as
barras do cabrestante. Daquela bateu á porta coa especie de bastón coma unha
barra ferrada que traía e apareceu o meu vello, e o suxeito esixiu sen
cerimonia un vaso de ron. E cando meu pai llo trouxo, bebeuno de vagar, coma se
fose bo cantor, gustándoo e regustándoo, en canto pasaba a ollada dos cantís da
costa ó letreiro da nosa hospedería.
-Velaí
unha baía xeitosiña, si señor, -dixo logo o fulano- e unha taberna ben situada.
¿E ten moita parroquia, patrón?
Meu pai
respondeulle que non; había poucos fregueses; tan poucos que ata daba pena.
-Ben,
entón este é o meu ancoradoiro... Ei, compañeiro. –Berroume ó rapaz que lle
empuxara o carriño-. Acércate e súbeme o cofre. Vou quedar por aquí un pedazo.
–E continuo para nós:- Eu sonlles un tipo fácil se contentar; ron e touciño con
ovos é todo, e un altiño coma aquel de alí para mira-los barcos saír... ¿E como
me han de chamar? Pódenme chamar capitán... Oh xa vexo que... Velaí... –Deixou
caer tres ou catro pezas de ouro na pedra do limiar-. Váiame dicindo cando eses
cartos de lle acaban –soltoulle ó meu pai con aires altivos de xefe supremo.
E
realmente, a pesar da ruína da súa roupa e do xeito basto de falar, non parecía
ter navegado como mariñeiro común senón como oficial ou patrón, afeito a ser
obedecido ou dar pau. O mozo que lle trouxo os trastes contounos que a
dilixencia o deixara na mañá anterior diante da “Hospedería Real”; que
preguntara que pousadas había ó longo da costa, e, oíndo falar ben da nosa, e
como –supoño- lle dixeron que quedaba afastada, escolléraa como lugar de
residencia: Isto foi canto puidemos saber do noso hóspede.
A Illa do Tesouro
Traducido por Xavier Alcalá
Publicado en edicións xerais de Galicia en Vigo 1984
Ilustracións:
Mervyn Peake
