Island of Thieves (20 page)

At the end of the meal, we all shook hands and promised to keep in touch. Señor Draque hugged me. Señora Draque kissed me on both cheeks. The journalist took my number and said he'd call me if he had any more questions.

The ambassador escorted us to the front door. Mom and Dad walked down the stairs to the street. Uncle Harvey and I were just about to follow them when the ambassador took hold of my uncle's arm, pulling him back into the warmth of the hallway.

“I have been asked to pass on the gratitude of my government,” he said, speaking in a low tone, not wishing to be overheard by my parents, the journalist, or anyone else. “We are very grateful for everything that you have done.”

Uncle Harvey smiled politely. “We're just pleased the manuscript's going to have a good home in your national museum.”

“I am not talking about the manuscript,” said the ambassador, still speaking quietly. “I must tell you about something that happened recently in my country. There was an incident in a small village named Las Lamos. The police heard reports of shooting in a hotel. Officers were sent to investigate. They found a man lying injured in the street. He had been hit by a car. They took him to the hospital, where he was identified as a criminal named Otto Gonzalez. He is still there now, kept under armed guard while he recovers from his wounds. Then he will be taken to prison. We have wanted to capture this man for many years, but it has always proved impossible. This time we are not going to let him escape. On behalf of all our citizens, I want to thank you, Mr. Trelawney.”

“You shouldn't be thanking me,” said my uncle. “You should thank my nephew.”

The ambassador turned to me. “I don't know what happened, Tom, and I don't want to know. But I would simply like to say,
muchas gracias.
A great threat has been lifted from our country. Thank you.”

I wasn't quite sure what to say, so I just mumbled something about it not being a problem, and ended up feeling a bit stupid. The ambassador didn't seem to mind. He shook both our hands again and wished us a very good night.

The big black door swung shut and we walked down the stairs to Mom and Dad, who had been waiting in the street. That was where we said goodbye to Uncle Harvey. I'd wanted to stay the night in the city, and I think Mom wanted to too, but Dad insisted on driving home right then. “Do you want a lift?” he asked. “We could take you back to your apartment.”

“Oh, don't worry,” said Uncle Harvey. “I'll just take the subway.” He kissed Mom on both cheeks and shook Dad's hand and then mine. “Bye, Tom,” he said. “It's been a pleasure to meet you properly. You've almost made me wonder why I don't have kids of my own. If I did, I'm sure they wouldn't be half as nice as you. Or half as much fun. You will come and stay again, won't you?”

“Yes, please. When?”

“Whenever you like.” He looked at Mom and Dad. “I know you probably don't trust me, but I'd look after him. I really would. And, I swear to all the gods, I'd never take him to Peru again.”

“Or anywhere else?” asked Dad.

Uncle Harvey grinned. “I can't promise that. Now, I'd better go. Busy day tomorrow. Good night, Sarah. Good night, Simon.” Then he turned to me. “Bye, Tom.”

Before I had a chance to reply, he turned on his heel and hurried up the street toward the subway. Uncle Harvey didn't do big goodbyes. Soon he'd vanished into the crowds.

And that was that. The end of the story. Uncle Harvey went home, I drove back to Norwich with Mom and Dad, and we all lived happily ever after.

Adios!

Francis Drake kept a book in which he entered his navigation and in which he delineated birds, trees and sea-lions. He is an adept at painting and has with him a boy, a relative of his, who is a great painter.

 

—the sworn deposition of Nuño da Silva, given on May 23, 1579, before the tribunal of the inquisition of Mexico.

 

He is called Francisco Drac, and is a man about thirty-five years of age, low of stature, with a fair beard, and is one of the greatest mariners that sails the seas, both as a navigator and as a commander. His vessel is a galleon of nearly four hundred tons, and is a perfect sailor. She is manned with a hundred men, all of service, and of an age for warfare, and all are as practised therein as old soldiers from Italy could be . . . He also carried painters who paint for him pictures of the coast in its exact colors. This I was most grieved to see, for each thing is so naturally depicted that no one who guides himself according to these paintings can possibly go astray.

 

—letter from Don Francisco de Zarate to Don Martin Enriquez, Viceroy of New Spain, April 16, 1579.

 

When Francis Drake sailed from England in 1577, he commanded a fleet of five ships. They left Plymouth in December and arrived in Morocco about a month later, then headed across the Atlantic to Brazil.

Drake and his crew battled hunger and thirst, storms and the Spanish. One by one, the ships sank or vanished, until a single boat was left, Drake's own, the
Pelican,
which by then had been renamed the
Golden Hind.

Every man on the voyage had a particular job. Some cooked. Some manned the cannons. Some clambered in the rigging. And one of them kept a journal, describing what he saw, illustrating his words with drawings and maps. He was a boy, aged somewhere between ten and fourteen, and he was the cousin of the captain.

John Drake grew up in Tavistock, a little village in Devon, just north of Plymouth. His father was a farmer, and must have been rich enough to send his sons to school, because John knew how to read and write. Not many people could do either in 1577. He must have been a decent artist, too. He probably would have spent his entire life in Tavistock, working as a farmer like his dad and sketching birds and flowers in his spare time, but one day his cousin turned up and invited him on a journey to the other side of the world.

They sailed across the Atlantic, down the east side of South America and up the west, past what is now the coastline of Chile, Peru, and Ecuador. No one knows how far north they went. Definitely to Mexico, probably to California, possibly to Alaska. Then they cut across the Pacific, skirted Indonesia, touched India, stopped off in Sierra Leone, and headed back to Europe.

The voyage took three years. When the
Golden Hind
returned to England, the crew had shrunk to a third of its original size, but the ship's holds carried a vast stash of gold, silver, and spices. Drake and his sailors were rich. So were the bankers who had invested in the voyage. Queen Elizabeth didn't do badly, either: she took a fifth of all the treasure.

With his share, Francis Drake bought himself a big house in Devon. The other sailors returned to their families and settled down to enjoy their success.

John Drake wasn't even twenty, but he was already a very wealthy man. He could have spent the rest of his life frittering away his money and telling stories about his adventures. But he was too young to retire. He wanted to go to sea again. He took command of a small ship, the
Francis,
and joined another expedition to South America, searching for more gold and more adventure.

His first voyage had been a triumph, but his second seemed to be cursed. One ship disappeared in a storm. Another crew mutinied. Sailing up the River Plate, which runs between Argentina and Uruguay, the
Francis
struck a rock and sank.

John Drake waded ashore with a dozen men, carrying a few possessions. They were attacked by Indians, then captured by the Spanish. Discovering the identity of their prisoner, the Spanish marched him across the Andes to Peru. When they reached Lima, he was handed over to the Inquisition, who wanted to know everything about him and his famous cousin.

That was the last anyone heard of him. John Drake vanished. So did his journal. No one knows what happened to either of them.

He might have been killed in prison. He might have been released and allowed to board a ship heading back to Europe. Or he might have decided to stay in Peru. Perhaps he went up into the Andes, spent the night in an isolated farmhouse, and met a girl, the farmer's daughter. There he stayed, rearing goats and chickens, and started a family. On long nights in the winter, he might have pulled his journal out of a drawer and traced the spidery black handwriting with his finger, remembering old friends, distant places, a voyage around the world.