Treasure Island: CH 1 | A Scarred Pirate Moves Into a Cliffside Inn | Classic Pirate Adventure Audiobook

Jim Hawkins has never left the Admiral Benbow Inn. Then Billy Bones arrives.

He’s a weathered, scar-faced pirate who takes the corner table by the window and never takes his eyes off the road. He pays in strange foreign coins, drinks rum from morning to night, and whispers warnings about a seafaring man with one leg. Jim takes his money. And watches the road too.

Treasure Island — Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic adventure retold for boys ages 8-14. 

New chapters weekly. Narrated by Reed Sterling.

For fans of pirates, buried treasure, and stories where ordinary kids get pulled into extraordinary danger.

Never Stop Exploring Unknown Worlds.

I am the author of serialized fiction books for kids, teens, tweens and young adults, including:

- Brickhaven: A Bricks Fan Fiction Adventure

- Colony In Danger: A Fire Ant Adventure

- Eagle's Edge: A Story of Rome, Gaul and the Making of a Soldier

- Treasure Island: A Classic Adaptation

- Iron Rails & Ruin: A Novel of Steam, Sorcery and the Lawless Montana Territory

📚 All five books -- are now available on Amazon: https://us.amazon.com/stores/Reed-Sterling/author/B0H2ZM86WQ

📖 Wanna check out all five series for yourself?  Get all five Chapter 1s free: https://compass-codex.kit.com/middle-school-reader-group

Thank you for listening!  This is Reed Sterling.  Remember: Never stop exploring unknown worlds.

Transcript

— Once Upon a Time...

SPEAKER_00 0:00

A scarred pirate walked into Jim Hawkins' inn one foggy evening and never left. He watched the road every single day like something was coming. It was. This is Compass and Codex. Never stop exploring unknown worlds. I'm Reed Sterling, and if you found this, you're the kind of person who wants a story that goes beyond the pages in your books. Good, you are exactly who I wrote this for. Every story on Compass and Codex goes somewhere important, to bring you stories that matter. This is the world as it actually is or was, or maybe how we wish it would be. And it turns out that the world is actually stranger and more exciting but more dangerous and more extraordinary than we ever thought. This is Treasure Island, a classic adaptation. Start here with chapter one. Don't skip ahead. You'll want to have been there from the beginning. This book is dedicated to my five brilliant kids who spent their childhood travelling with me, Long John Silver and Jim Hawkins, to a deserted island and a magical place in our imaginations. I'd give anything to travel there with you again. Chapter one The Old Sea Dog Scene one

— Billy Bones Arrives at the Admiral Benbow

SPEAKER_00 1:31

I was twelve years old when the old sea captain came to our inn. The Admiral Benbow stood alone on the windswept cliffs, its sign creaking in the constant gales that swept in from the sea. My father was ill then, growing weaker by the day, and I'd taken on more of the work, serving ale, changing linens, keeping the fire stoked against the damp. I knew every shadow and creak of that old building. Until he arrived, I thought I knew everything worth knowing in my small corner of the world. The evening he came was thick with fog. It rolled in from the sea like a living thing, swallowing the path that wound down to our door. The windows wept with condensation, and the few regulars, local men who worked the fishing boats, huddled close to the fire, their voices low against the moan of wind. I wiped down the counter with a cloth gone grey from use, watching my breath form clouds in the chill air. Father coughed from his room upstairs, a sound I'd grown used to ignoring because I could do nothing to help it. Jim, my mother called from the kitchen, check the latch on the door. This wind will tear it from its hinges. I'd just reached the heavy oak door when it burst open. The fog rushed in first, cold fingers of it wrapping around my ankles. Then came the man. He was tall and broad, his face weathered like driftwood left too long in salt water. A livid scar cut from his right temple to the corner of his mouth, pulling his face into a permanent half snarl. His coat, once navy, perhaps, had faded to the colour of storm clouds, and it hung heavy on his frame. But what caught my eye immediately was his hand, not the one gripping the door frame, but the other that hovered constantly near the cutlass at his belt. This be an inn? His voice rasped like rusted hinges. I nodded, unable to speak. Then I'll have a room and rum. He stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of tobacco, salt, and something else, something I couldn't name then, but later came to recognise as fear. He slammed the door behind him with his boot, then limped to the counter. His eyes never stopped moving, darting from the windows to the door to the men by the fire. Those eyes were the palest blue I'd ever seen, almost colourless like ice in deep water. Boy, he growled, are you deaf? Rum. I scrambled behind the counter, aware that the room had gone silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The bottle rattled against the glass as I poured, and when I pushed it toward him he laughed, a sound like stones grinding together. Steady hands make a good sailor, he said, then drained half the glass in one swallow. How much for a room? One with a view of the road. Before I could answer, he dug into his pocket and slammed down coins on the counter. They weren't like any money I'd seen before. Strange shapes, foreign markings, some dull with age and others gleaming as if freshly minted. One rolled toward me and I caught it reflexively. It was heavy, gold, with a face I didn't recognize pressed into its surface. That covers it, I'd wager, he said, and it wasn't a question. Yes, sir, I managed.

— Jim and Billy's Pact

SPEAKER_00 5:00

We have a room at the front overlooking the path. That'll do. He drained his glass and pushed it toward me for a refill. As I poured I noticed a tattoo on his wrist partially hidden by his sleeve, a ship with black sails. What's your name, boy? Jim Jim Hawkins. Well, Jim Hawkins, you tell anyone who asks that Billy Bones is keeping to himself and don't want no visitors. You understand? I nodded though no one had mentioned his name. Billy Bones. The name seemed to fit him, hard, sharp, stripped down to essentials. He took his refilled glass and his key and limped to the corner table by the window. It gave him a clear view of both the room and the road outside. He sat with his back to the wall, the cutlass still within easy reach. The locals finished their drinks quickly after that. No one met Billy's eyes, no one spoke above a whisper. One by one they left, pulling their coats tight against the fog and glancing back at our inn as if they might never return. Soon it was just us and the stranger. My mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a small woman but never showed fear. That night, though, I saw her shoulders tense when she spotted Billy. Will you be wanting supper, sir? she asked, her voice steady. Aye. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the foggy road. Whatever's hot. When she returned to the kitchen I followed, eager to escape those pale, restless eyes. Who is he? I whispered. Trouble, my mother said simply. She ladled Stew into a bowl. Stay clear of him, Jim. Men like that bring storms with them. But I couldn't stay clear. As the weeks passed, Billy Bones became a fixture at our inn. He paid well and drank more, always watching the road. Sometimes he'd stand at the window for hours, hand on his cutlass, scanning the horizon like a man expecting the gallows. And I watched him. I couldn't help it. In our small, forgotten corner of England, Billy Bones was a glimpse of something larger, dangerous and unknown. His weathered hands spoke of distant shores. The scars on his face told stories of fights I could only imagine. When he walked, the floorboards creaked in protest, as if even the inn knew he didn't belong. On that first night, as I lay in bed listening to his heavy footsteps above me, I felt something shift in my world. The Admiral Benbo had always been just an inn on a cliff, isolated and ordinary. But with Billy Bones' arrival it had become something else. A hiding place, perhaps, or a target. I didn't know then what he was hiding from. I didn't know what the future held for either of us. But lying there in the dark, with the fog pressing against my window and the stranger's boots scraping across the floor overhead, I felt the first stirrings of what I would later recognise as adventure and terror. Scene two Days passed,

— Billy Becomes a Fixture

SPEAKER_00 8:30

and Billy Bones made himself at home at the Admiral Ben Bow. He paid for a month in advance with those strange coins, then claimed the corner table by the window as his own. No one dared sit there even when he was upstairs in his room. It wasn't anything he said. It was the way his hand never strayed far from his cutlass, the way his eyes narrowed when strangers entered. The locals soon learned to drink elsewhere, and our common room grew quiet except for Billy's occasional outbursts when the rum took hold. He established his habits quickly. Each morning he'd limp down the stairs just after sunrise, demand a bottle of rum, and take up his position by the window. There he'd sit for hours, drinking steadily and watching the road with the intensity of a hawk tracking prey. Sometimes he'd pull out a brass spy glass and scan the horizon, muttering to himself. When the weather was clear, he'd walk along the cliff edge, still watching, always watching. What's he looking for? I asked my mother one morning as we prepared breakfast. Nothing good, she replied, her voice low. Your father says he's a pirate or smuggler hiding from the law or worse. My father's health continued to decline, and the burden of running the inn fell increasingly to my mother and me. Billy, for all his frightening appearance, paid well and caused little trouble beyond frightening away other customers. Still, I felt the weight of his presence like a shadow over our lives. One evening, after a week of storms that had kept everyone indoors, the rain finally stopped. The inn was empty save for Billy and me. My mother had gone to the village for supplies, and father was sleeping upstairs, his cough momentarily quieted. Billy sat at his usual place on his third bottle of rum. The silence between us stretched like a taut rope. I was wiping down tables when Billy suddenly thumped his fist against the window frame. Damned quiet tonight, ain't it, Hawkins? His words slurred slightly. Too quiet makes a man think too much. I nodded, unsure how to respond. You know what we'd do on ship when it got too quiet? He didn't wait for my answer. We'd sing, chase away the

— Captain Flint and the One-Legged Man

SPEAKER_00 11:00

ghosts. And then, without warning, he began. His voice was surprisingly clear, cutting through the silence like a blade. Fifteen men on a dead man's chest. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, drink and the devil had done for the rest. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. The words hung in the air, harsh and foreboding. My skin prickled. It wasn't just a song, it was a threat, a memory, a warning. Billy's pale eyes fixed on me as he continued. The captain's dead, and the mate's dead too. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. Dead men tell no tales, that much is true. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. He slammed his glass down, spilling rum across the table. That's how Flint's men would sing it, boy, before they slit throats. Flint? The name slipped out before I could stop myself. Billy's eyes narrowed. Captain Flint, the bloodiest pirate that ever sailed. He leaned forward. I sailed with Flint, boy. Saw things that would turn your hair white. I should have been terrified. I was terrified. But I was also transfixed. Billy Bones had seen the world beyond our cliffs, had sailed on ships I'd only glimpsed from shore. You sailed with pirates, I whispered. He laughed that same grinding stone laugh from his first night. Sailed with them. I was Flint's first mate for all the good it did me. He took another swig of rum. We took ships from here to Madagascar. Gold and silver enough to sink a ship. And Flint He stopped abruptly, as if catching himself. For a moment his mask slipped. I saw not the frightening figure who terrorized our inn, but an old man haunted by memories. Then his eyes hardened again, and he fixed me with a stare that froze me in place. Listen close, Jim Hawkins, he said, his voice dropping to a rasp. I'm telling you this once. If you see a seafaring man with one leg you run, you run and you don't look back, you understand? I nodded, my throat dry. Good. He reached into his pocket and pulled

— The Silver Fourpenny and the Bargain

SPEAKER_00 13:30

out a silver coin. Here's a fourpenny piece. Every month you get the same if you keep a weather eye open for that seafaring man. You see him, you tell me first, before your mother, before anyone. The coin felt heavy in my palm, payment for a service I didn't understand but somehow knew was dangerous. I should have refused. I should have told my mother. But the coin disappeared into my pocket, and my silence sealed our pact. In the days that followed Billy's drinking worsened. He'd start earlier each day, his eyes growing bloodshot, his hands trembling until the rum steadied them. But it was in these moments of deepest intoxication that the stories would come. Malabar, he mumbled one afternoon, staring into his cup. Sky so blue it hurts your eyes, women with skin like copper, gold just waiting to be taken. Another day. We took a galleon there, loaded with silver from Peru, fought for three hours before they struck their colours. Each fragment was a window into a world I couldn't imagine, violent, exotic, terrifying, but thrilling too. Maps came alive in my mind, coastlines and islands, palm trees and foreign ports. I found myself lingering near his table, hoping for more scraps of adventure. You ever killed a man boy? he asked me once, his voice slurred but his eyes suddenly sharp. No, sir, I answered, startled by the question. Good, don't start, it follows you. He tapped his temple. In here, they follow you. That night, lying in my narrow bed, I thought about Billy Bones and his ghosts. I thought about the one legged sailor he feared. I thought about distant shores and buried treasure and men who sang of death with bottles in their hands. I was afraid of Billy Bones, of his temper, his cutlass, the violence that seemed to hover around him like a storm cloud. But I was also drawn to him. In our small predictable world he was unpredictable, dangerous, real. He'd sailed oceans I'd only dreamed of, seen things I could scarcely imagine. And now, whether I wanted it or not, I was part of his story. The silver fourpenny weighed in my pocket like a secret, like a promise, like a threat. Each morning as I helped my mother prepare breakfast each evening as I swept the common room floor, I found myself watching the road just as Billy did, watching for a seafaring man with one leg. Scene three Weeks passed at the Admiral Benbow. January storms battered our cliffs, and few travellers braved the coastal road. Billy kept

— The Fog Rolls In

SPEAKER_00 16:30

to his routines, drinking, watching, occasionally breaking into those chilling sea songs when the rum took him deep enough. I found myself studying his habits, noticing how he tensed when strangers approached, how he checked each customer with those ice pale eyes. I kept my promise too, watching for the seafaring man with one leg, though I never spoke of it to my parents. The silver fourpenny pieces accumulated in a small box beneath my bed, payment for a vigilance whose purpose I didn't fully understand. As winter deepened I noticed changes in Billy. His drinking grew heavier, starting earlier each day. The bottle that once lasted him from morning to night now emptied by midday, requiring another. His eyes, always watchful, now darted about like trapped things. He'd freeze at ordinary sounds, a door closing, a pot clattering in the kitchen, his hand flying to his cutlass before recognition dawned. The glass boy, he demanded one morning, gesturing impatiently. I handed him his spy glass, and he trained it on the empty road for nearly an hour, muttering curses under his breath. Is something wrong, Mr Bones? I dared to ask. He rounded on me, eyes wild. Is something wrong? Is something he caught himself, his face twitching into what might have been meant as a smile. Nothing's wrong that rum won't fix. Now, be off with you. But everything was wrong. I could feel it. My father's illness had confined him permanently to bed, and my mother's face grew more lined with worry each day. The few regulars who still visited spoke in hushed tones of smugglers spotted along the coast, of revenue men searching the nearby coves, and Billy, Billy checked his pistol each morning, spinning the flint wheel, measuring the powder, preparing. Then came the fog. It rolled in one afternoon, so thick that standing at our door I couldn't see the path ten paces ahead. It muffled sound and smothered light, turning our isolated inn into an island adrift in a white sea. By evening we had no customers, who would venture out in such weather, only the desperate or the lost. My mother tended to my father upstairs. I kept the fire built high against the damp and cold, and Billy sat by his window, though there was nothing to see but fog pressing against the glass like a living thing. He'd emptied one bottle already and started on a second. Blind, he muttered, blind as newborn kittens, could be right outside, could be watching us now. His fingers drummed against the table, a nervous rhythm I'd never seen from him before. As the evening wore on, Billy's agitation grew. He paced from window to window, peering out into the blankness, then returning to his seat. His hands shook so badly that rum spilled down his chin when he drank. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill in the room. I noticed the bottle was nearly empty again. Without being asked, I fetched another from behind the counter. Part of me wanted to retreat upstairs away from Billy's strange mood, but curiosity, that same reckless curiosity that had drawn me to him from the beginning, pushed me forward. Your bottle, Mr Bones, I said, approaching his table. He didn't seem to hear me. His gaze was fixed on the fog shrouded road. I took another step closer, the bottle extended like an offering. Mr Bones. Still nothing. I had never seen him so distracted, so unaware of his surroundings. This man who noticed everything, whose survival seemed to depend on his vigilance, was lost in whatever terrors played behind

— Billy Bones Sees Something in the Fog

SPEAKER_00 20:30

his eyes. I was close enough now to see how his shirt clung to his back, soaked through with sweat. Close enough to smell the rum and fear on him. Close enough to hear the words he mumbled. He'll find me always said he would. Flint's old quartermaster doesn't forget doesn't forgive. I set the bottle on the table. The soft thud of glass on wood snapped Billy's attention back to the room. He stared at me as if seeing a ghost, then grabbed the bottle with a trembling hand. Nothing out there, I said, trying to sound reassuring. Fog's too thick for anyone to find their way. Billy's laugh was hollow. He doesn't need eyes to find me, boy. He's got hate to guide him. Hate burns brighter than any lighthouse. He took a long pull from the bottle, then turned back to the window. I should have left then, should have gone upstairs to the safety of my room. But I lingered, watching Billy watch the fog. The moment it happened, is burned into my memory. One second Billy was staring out at nothing, at fog and darkness. The next his entire body went rigid, the bottle slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. His face, that weathered, scarred face that had terrified our customers for weeks, drained of all colour. I looked out the door. The window and saw nothing, just fog thick and impenetrable. But Billy saw something or someone. His knuckles whitened on the window sill. The blood left his face so completely that his scar stood out like a line drawn in ink. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. I froze in place, the crash of the fallen bottle still echoing in my ears. This was Billy Bones, the man who'd sailed with pirates, who carried a cutlass stained with the blood of who knew how many men who sang of death as casually as others might sing of love. This was the man who had brought terror to our quiet inn. And he was terrified. Whatever could frighten Billy Bones must be truly monstrous. The realization washed over me like ice water. I suddenly understood the true meaning of his warning about the seafaring man with one leg. It wasn't just a stranger to watch for, it was something Billy Bones feared more than anything in the world. Do you see him? Billy whispered, his voice cracked and dry. Is he there? I looked again. Nothing but fog and the vague outline of bare tree branches. I don't see anyone. He's there, Billy insisted. His hand moved to his cutlass, gripping it so hard that his entire arm trembled. I can feel him, coming for

— The Warning

SPEAKER_00 23:30

what's mine, what's his His breathing came in short, sharp gasps. Not tonight, not yet, but soon. He turned to me suddenly, grabbing my arm with fingers like iron. Remember our bargain, Jim Hawkins. You watch for him, the seafaring man, one leg. If you see him, you run, run and don't look back. I nodded, unable to speak. Billy released me and slumped back into his chair, eyes still fixed on the window. The moment of pure terror had passed, but fear still hung around him like a cloud. He reached for the broken bottle, then seemed to remember it was shattered. Without a word, I fetched another. That night, lying awake in my bed, I listened to Billy's footsteps overhead, pacing, stopping, pacing again. I thought about what I'd witnessed. The Billy Bones who had first arrived at our inn was dangerous, threatening, a man to be feared, but now I understood that he was also hunted, a predator who had become prey, and whatever, whoever hunted him was coming closer. I could feel it, just as Billy could. Something was drawing near to our isolated inn on the cliff, something that made a pirate's blood run cold, something that would change everything. Treasure Island is the classic pirate adventure, full of action, adventure, and one of the

— Treasure Island CH 2 — What Comes Next

SPEAKER_00 25:00

greatest characters in literature. We will meet him later in this series. But for now, we know that Billy Bones is afraid, and when a pirate is afraid, something truly terrifying is on its way. Next chapter Black Dog arrives, then the blind man. Then everything changes for Jim. Thank you for listening to Compass and Codex. Never stop exploring unknown worlds.