The Cortés Enigma

by John Paul Davis

  “As you can see here,” she pointed out the most impressive of the coins, “the discovery of this provides helpful evidence about the ship’s possible identity. The date on which it sank can be no later than 1598 – the beginning of the reign of Philip III.”

  Ben looked at the coins, concentrating on the ones in the best condition. They were all silver and included a picture of the Spanish Crown. “What are the date ranges?”

  “The coins have all been dated to 1472 and 1555. Therefore logically the wreck occurred sometime after the last coin was minted and before the reign of Philip II ended.”

  Ben couldn’t argue with the logic. “What other theories have been put forward? Aside from the…sorry, what was that ship’s name again?”

  “The San Bartolome,” she confirmed. “None. As far as I’m aware, no other Spanish galleon or ship from the Netherlands is reported to have been lost in these waters in either the 1500s or 1600s. The site continues to be monitored on a regular basis, and other pieces of wreck continue to be salvaged from time to time.”

  “I understand there’s another tradition similar to the Armada story?”

  “You must be talking about the conquistadors?”

  Ben raised an eyebrow, unsure whether he was surprised or not. “You’re familiar with the legend?”

  A wry smile. “Of course. The legend of Cortés is a famous one around these parts.”

  “Judging from my time here, I was almost under the impression it was something people didn’t like to talk about.”

  She walked him along the corridor, ending in a large tidy office with several filing cabinets, a large desk and numerous photographs on the wall recording prominent moments in the museum’s past. One immediately caught his eye. The then curator and several members of staff and volunteers were standing alongside the British monarch at the grand opening.

  She opened one of the filing cabinets and immediately started digging through the contents. “Things like this aren’t as common as you might think,” she said, removing something and passing it over. It was a newspaper clipping dated 1992.

  Ben read it quickly, his eyes darting side to side. The words sickened him to the core. “You believe this to be true?”

  The woman was sceptical. “It’s only a theory.”

  It was a very disturbing one. According to the article, an amateur archaeologist from Somerset, England, had been found drowned in the waters off Tresco less than a week after coming to the isles, searching for the remains of ships.

  “He was searching for Cortés’s gold?”

  “I honestly don’t know. It makes for good reading, doesn’t it?”

  Ben returned the newspaper clipping and drew his hands through his long dark hair.

  “Interest in the Spanish galleon – the Bartholomew Wreck as we name it – has been ongoing ever since its discovery. Since my retirement from lecturing, I’ve been spending more and more time out here. Progress remains a priority.”

  Ben rubbed his mouth and chin, his attention alternating between the woman and the surrounding artefacts that lined the walls of the office. There were also several photographs of wrecks, particularly salvage operations. One was of the Bartholomew Wreck, dated 1980. Though the wreck was interesting, he personally doubted there was much to be found on the ship itself.

  “Where did the Cortés story come from? I mean, I’m assuming there’s evidence somewhere.”

  “I honestly don’t know. As we’ve already spoken, tradition dates a wreck right back to the 1500s, probably the 1580s. The Cortés tale, if true, should have been much earlier. Of course, Hernán Cortés died in 1547. There were coins on the vessel dated to 1555. Therefore, it couldn’t have been the same man.”

  Ben grinned. “But the tradition can’t be dated?”

  “The oldest version I’ve come across is this.” She leaned toward the nearby bookcase and passed him an old library-bound book.

  He flicked through the early pages, checking the copyright details. The book dated from 1812 – a history of the Isles of Scilly. “What am I looking for exactly?”

  “The book itself is only a partial history of the island – an antiquarian’s take on history and local lore, including the Cortés story. Unfortunately, in many places the author seemed incapable of telling the two apart.”

  Ben grinned. In other words it was historically worthless. “You mind if I borrow this?”

  “Of course. Be sure to return it before you leave.”

  The woman was a diamond. Despite the book containing written evidence for the legend, he knew it was still a long way from being an authentic history.

  “How about the wreckage? You think it was from a ship in the Armada?”

  They left the office and returned to the area where the wreck was on display. “In truth, we don’t know. The size of the ship would be consistent with that – but the same is true of ships from the Spanish Netherlands. It is a fact that the San Bartolome has never been found.”

  “How about bodies? Keepsakes? A captain’s log?” he said the last bit with a grin. “Nothing of the people?”

  “As far as I’m aware, nothing of the sort has been found. It can’t be ruled out, of course, that many of the crew successfully escaped before the ship hit the rocks. Any documents et cetera would have been destroyed by the sea. At least the content would no longer be legible.”

  That thought had already occurred to Ben. “Out of interest, what do you know about the Godolphins?”

  The question surprised her. “They were the leaseholders of the isles between the 1500s and 1800s.”

  “Leaseholders?”

  “That’s right. As I’m sure you’re already aware, the island was governed on behalf of the Duke of Cornwall. The islands themselves all form part of the Duchy of Cornwall, established during the reign of Edward III, and include the estates that made up the original earldom, established by Richard, the brother of Henry III.”

  “Apart from Hugh Town, right?”

  She nodded. “Hugh Town was purchased by the town itself in 1949. The Duchy still claims ownership of all freehold land on the isles. Though I must say they’ve been very good over the years at maintaining the sites of special historic, scientific and natural interest.”

  Ben nodded. “Who were the family?”

  “The Godolphins? Cornish landowners, many also became MPs. They really didn’t have much of a role in the day-to-day life.”

  Ben smiled. “Forgive me for asking. I was merely curious. I saw their mausoleum yesterday in the cemetery of Old Town Church.”

  “Yes. Though some are buried back in Cornwall or further afield. The mausoleum is one of the more famous parts of the cemetery.” She started to laugh. “As a matter of fact, one of them is supposed to haunt one of the local inns.”

  “Not the Gibbous Moon?”

  “You know, I think it might be.”

  “I hope to God it’s room sixteen,” quipped Ben. “It’s where my cousin’s staying.”

  Dr Phillips laughed slightly louder.

  “Tell me, is there any other cemetery in the Scillies? See, I was particularly interested in rumours of old graves, specifically of those who were shipwrecked. Would they all be buried on St Mary’s?”

  “Most would have been, yes. Though there are other cemeteries on Tresco and St Agnes. Once there was one on St Lide’s.”

  Confirmation of TF’s diary entry. “Whereabouts?”

  “The church is now largely a ruin. It was located on the top of the hill, which apparently was an area where St Lide may once have established a hermitage, though there are no formal records of that. Neither the church nor the cemetery has been used for many years. The island was abandoned in 1909.”

  Echoes of what Kernow had already told him. “What happened?”

  “The island has always been in an awkward location, particularly in the days of early shipping lanes. I think over the years the combination of bad weather and severe coastal erosion created hazardous living conditio
ns.”

  In theory that made sense, Ben thought. “Is the graveyard still there?”

  “Bits of it. Though sadly not much remains. The church itself is really a pigsty.”

  Ben’s mind was racing. “Just a thought here. If the ship went down in St Mary’s Sound, could St Lide’s have been the cause?”

  “In terms of being the source of the damage, yes,” she said. “But, depending on the extent of the damage, a ship might well have been able to continue to sail on for a time without sinking. Most of the wrecks discovered in this area were Dutch, and several didn’t crash but went down under artillery fire, either from the Star Castle or the Cromwell Castle.” She spoke of the two fortresses on St Mary’s and Tresco.

  As Ben looked at the wreck for the final time, the memory of the diagrams in the diary gnawed away at him. He smiled at the curator and offered his hand.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Dr Phillips. I’ll send this back real soon.”

  Ben found Kernow in the North Atlantic. He followed Dr Phillips’ directions from the museum and headed north, then west along to Garrison Hill until he reached a quaint 16th century inn with white walls, a black door and a large wooden sign that swayed softly in the afternoon breeze.

  Kernow was alone, sipping a pint of beer and reading a book about sailing. Fortunately he was only on his second.

  “I need to get to St Lide’s.”

  Kernow turned slowly, a hint of a smile forming across his bearded face. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, friend. What will it be?”

  “I just need a lift over there. How’s £500 sound?”

  Kernow berthed the boat on the north side of the island, the opposite side of the island to Hell’s Bay.

  “You’re sure two hours is long enough?” Kernow asked, tying up the boat. “For £500, I’d say that buys you an extra half hour.”

  Ben noticed the grin on his face as he said that. “I’ll bear it in mind,” he said, disembarking. “I hope you got something to read.”

  15

  11am

  Cortés thought he had seen it all. Never in his wildest dreams had he envisaged anything quite like this.

  Standing beside him, Pizarro was equally lost for words. What looked on the face of it to be three simple stones – albeit large ones – were, in fact, anything but.

  Pizarro looked at Cortés, bewildered. “Only a man of unique quality could possibly replicate such an ancient skill.”

  Cortés took a breath, speechless. Despite the cold, he found himself sweating: large beads of liquid fell from his right temple, leaving a trace down his tanned skin. Still he thought he was seeing things, dreaming, and at any moment he would awaken, back safe and warm in the bedroom of his ancestors.

  He looked again at the ancient manuscript, his attention solely on the map. Then he removed a print from his pocket, the coat of arms of his ancestors. He had grown up with it for over thirty years.

  But only now were things finally making sense.

  11:30am

  Chris stayed in Hugh Town on leaving the inn. Following Silver Street, the road that connected one side of Hugh Town to the other, he ignored the buzz of a passing helicopter as it appeared briefly above the Star Castle, before heading along one of the nearby side streets.

  It was after 11am, and the roads were deserted. According to the official statistics, there were over three hundred vehicles on St Mary’s, ranging from cars and vans to motorbikes and mopeds, but he was still to see anything like that many. Officially, St Mary’s was the only island where motors were legalised modes of petrol transport – at least except for golf buggies and lawnmowers. Elsewhere cars were officially banned, not that the decree was necessary. The main settlements were centralised, the facilities and tourist attractions accessible only by pathway.

  There was simply nowhere to drive.

  Chris continued along a small side alley and stopped in front of two buildings, a library and a pub. The library was old; from the outside its appearance reminded him of Diagon Alley. Most of the buildings in this part were Victorian if not older, their windows filled with various curiosities, from tinned fudge to antique porcelain dolls.

  As far as he could tell, the library was open.

  He entered and saw a deserted counter directly in front of him, furnished by a check-out register and one heck of a lot of dust. Three large bookcases stood to his right, filled with literature of all kinds, while a small doorway behind the counter was partially hidden by a loose red cloak.

  A woman appeared, grey haired, gaunt expression but friendly, probably somewhere in her early sixties.

  Chris smiled. “Hi there. Do you have anything on the history of the island?”

  “Phillips’ Encyclopaedia of Wildlife has a large selection on the various birdlife. Its focus is worldwide, not just the Scillies.”

  That didn’t help. “I was thinking more along the lines of human history.”

  The woman walked around the counter and led him along the second aisle of books. She studied them for several seconds before removing one particular title, a large hardback that dated back to the 1960s.

  It was in surprisingly good condition.

  Chris took the book and sat down at a nearby table. A quick glance at the book’s cover told him that it was a history of Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly, 1568–1850.

  He found a coffee machine located on the other side of the room and bought himself an espresso, black. It was still too early for lunch; the toast, pancakes and cereal that he had devoured less than two hours earlier were still sitting comfortably on his stomach. He didn’t fancy returning to the GM either, particularly as Valeria wasn’t working till five. Whiling away the time within the confines of the inn’s dark recesses was beginning to play havoc with his mind. Every now and then his thoughts wandered to TF and his last days.

  It still seemed incredible Ben was sleeping in the exact same room.

  Chris started to look through the book, focusing on the Scillies as opposed to Cornwall. He could see that the Godolphins featured prominently – according to this they had been the first governors of the isles.

  The vicar from Old Town had been half right at least.

  He started with the first: Sir Francis, governor during the reign of Elizabeth I. Supposedly the man was a prominent figure, a religious zealot who made a notable effort to improve the defences of the islands, particularly through the building of the Star Castle on St Mary’s and the planning of the Queen’s Castle on St Lide’s – Chris assumed that was the ruin Ben had been talking about. He was still to visit the Star Castle, but making out the large palace-like fortress, located on a hill on the west of the island, was not difficult. He had read somewhere the castle was now a luxury hotel.

  Two William Godolphins followed, both of similar, yet seemingly irrelevant pedigree, and after them a Sidney. Unlike the others, this MP was both a poet and a soldier, eventually meeting his end in the English Civil War. According to the book, his ghost was said to haunt the Gibbous Moon.

  The thought made him smile.

  The family estates were lost when the Roundheads captured them, but returned to Sidney’s brother, another Francis, on the accession of Charles II. On the death of a third Francis in 1766, the estates passed to his daughter and son-in-law, Thomas Osborne, fourth Duke of Leeds.

  At least that made sense of the Osborne names in the mausoleum.

  Following on from Thomas, two more Osbornes inherited the governorship before the Duchy of Cornwall sold the lease to the Dorrien-Smith family in the 1830s.

  At which point the family disappeared from history.

  At least on the Isles of Scilly.

  Chris double-checked everything. Despite their positions as governors of the isles, the majority of their lives and careers had been spent in England. The family seat was in Cornwall, a large estate that had been in their possession for centuries. The coat of arms was a double-headed eagle – so what else was new? He’d seen them all before
– apparently a symbol of their rule over the Scillies.

  He finished his coffee and returned to the counter. “Where would I go if I was looking for the official records?”

  “Official records?”

  “Yeah. Summons. Letters. County records. The works.”

  She walked from behind the counter, taking him through an open doorway on the other side of the room. The next room was larger, home to seemingly dozens of bookcases, some glassed, some open, containing everything from original literature to things from the 1600s.