by Josh Lacey
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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Historical Note Who Was John Drake?
Copyright © 2011 by Josh Lacey
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Andersen Press Limited.
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
Houghton Mifflin is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
www.hmhbooks.com
The text of this book is set in Adobe Caslon Pro.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lacey, Josh.
Island of Thieves / by Josh Lacey.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-547-76327-9
1. Drake, John, fl. 1577–1580—Juvenile fiction. 2. Drake, Francis, Sir, 1540?–1596—Juvenile fiction. [1. Drake, John fl. 1577–1580—Fiction. 2. Drake, Francis, Sir, 1540?–1596—Fiction. 3. Buried treasure—Fiction. 4. Uncles—Fiction. 5. Islands—Fiction. 6. Peru—Fiction. 7. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 8. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.L1281s 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011033893
Manufactured in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500354040
To Bella
1
I didn’t mean to burn down our garden shed. But now I’m glad I did. If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened. The island. The gold. It was all because of burning down that shed.
The first day of vacation I was sitting in there playing with a box of matches. Striking one. Watching it burn. Blowing it out. Throwing the dead stick on the floor and reaching for another.
I was bored.
You’re not allowed to say that word in our house.
Only boring people get bored, says Dad. Interesting people can always find something to be interested in.
You can’t be bored, says Mom. There’s so much to do here! Why don’t you play a game? Or call a friend? Or go for a bike ride?
But I didn’t feel like doing any of that stuff. So I hid in the shed and played with matches.
Suddenly I smelled smoke. I looked around. Flames were blazing up the walls. One of the matches must have still been burning when I dropped it on the floor. I sprang at the door, wrenched it open, and threw myself outside.
As I rolled across the grass, my clothes smoking, I saw my mom standing at the French windows, her mouth open in a silent scream. Then she ran to get her phone.
By the time the fire engines arrived, the shed had burned itself out. They drenched it anyway, making sure no sparks blew into any of the neighbors’ houses. The chief fireman gave me a long lecture about fire safety. So did Mom. And Dad. They were still discussing how to punish me when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Spencer, calling to say that she was very sorry, but they really couldn’t have me to stay. What if I burned down their shed too? Or even their house?
“It was an accident,” said Dad. “He’ll never do anything like it again.”
But Mrs. Spencer wouldn’t listen.
Dad sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. “I don’t believe it,” he groaned. “We’ll have to take him with us.”
“We can’t,” said Mom.
“Then what are we going to do?”
“Someone will have him.”
“Oh, yes?” asked Dad. “Who?”
My parents were having their first vacation together without children since my big sister, Grace, was born. My kid brother, Jack, was staying with his friend Bongo. Grace was staying with her friend Ruby. I would have been staying with Finn Spencer, but his parents wouldn’t have me now. After the shed incident, neither would anyone else.
“I don’t mind staying here,” I told my parents.
“No chance,” said Dad.
I had another suggestion. “I could share Gran’s room at the Home. I like playing chess with her friend Isaac. And the food’s not bad.”
But Mom vetoed that, too. “If no one will have you, we’ll just have to cancel the vacation.”
That was when Dad panicked. He called everyone he knew.
Everyone he could think of.
Even his brother.
Which was how I came to be sitting in the back of the family wagon at half past five on that Tuesday morning, whizzing down the interstate toward New York City.
Apparently I’d met Uncle Harvey a few times at weddings and funerals, but he’d never been to visit us in Norwich and I couldn’t even remember what he looked like. Just like Dad, he was British but lived in the States, although in his case I didn’t know why. Dad came here because he met Mom and married her and she wanted to be near her own parents when Grace was born. Uncle Harvey wasn’t married and had no kids. I guess he just preferred New York to London, which makes sense; it’s cold and damp over there and the food’s terrible.
The drive took hours. By the time we finally made it to Uncle Harvey’s street, Dad was flipping out. “We’re going to miss the plane,” he said, breathless with panic. “I knew we should have left earlier.”
“We’re going to be fine,” said Mom calmly. “Look, we’re here already. That’s number nineteen.”
Dad double parked, grabbed my bag from the trunk, and scanned the street for traffic cops, then raced up the steps and rang the bell. Mom and I followed right behind him. We stood on the top step, looking at the paint peeling off the front door and the trash bags stacked against a lamppost, spilling tin cans and orange peels. Two women jogged past. A man came out of another brownstone wearing a blue suit and carrying a racing bike. He put the bike in the road and swung himself onto the seat.
Dad rang the bell again. “Where the hell is he?”
“Simon!” said Mom.
“Sorry,” said Dad. “But where is he?”
“Asleep,” I mumbled. “If he has any sense.”
“He can’t be asleep. He knows we’re coming.” But Dad took out his phone and called Uncle Harvey. There was a long pause. Then: “Hello? Harvey? Where are you? We’re outside! Didn’t you hear the bell? It doesn’t matter. Forget it. Could you let us in?”
Six minutes later (Dad timed it), the front door was opened by an unshaven man wearing a long silk bathrobe decorated with yellow butterflies. “Simon! Sarah! How lovely to see you!”
I could see the relief on my parents’ faces. When Uncle Harvey hadn’t answered the door, they really thought they’d have to take me to Nassau. Their vacation would have been ruined. Now they could hand me over and get away for a whole week of sunbathing, reading books by the pool, and smoochy candlelit dinners.
“Here’s Tom,” said Mom, pushing me forward. “He’s very excited about staying so near Greenwich Village. Aren’t you?”
“Hi,” I said.
Uncle Harvey said hi back and shook my hand. He was taller than my dad, and thinner, too, and he looked much younger, although I knew the actual age
difference was only two years and five months.
Mom said, “Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Uncle Harvey. He had a mischievous smile. “We’re going to have a wild time together.”
“Not too wild,” said Dad. “Tom’s been in enough trouble recently.”
“That sounds interesting. What type of trouble? What have you done?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “Everyone just likes to get annoyed with me all the time.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Uncle Harvey.
I knew he didn’t. He was just saying so to be nice. But I still appreciated it.
Dad gave me a quick, awkward hug. “Bye, Tom. Be good.”
“Bye, Dad. Have a great vacation.”
Mom kissed me. Then she stepped back and looked at me nervously. “I hope we’re doing the right thing. You will behave yourself, won’t you?”
“Of course he will,” said Uncle Harvey. “Now stop worrying. I hereby give you permission to enjoy yourselves. Get thee to the airport and have a glass of wine.”
They didn’t argue. Just rushed down the steps and ran along the street to their car, not wanting to give my uncle the chance to change his mind.
We stood on the step together, Uncle Harvey and I, watching Mom and Dad drive off. Then my uncle turned to me and said, “So, Tom. Here we are.”
“Yup,” I said. “We’re here.”
“It’s nice to see you after all these years.”
“Uh, you too.”
“You look exactly how your father looked when he was your age. Maybe you look like me, too. What do you think?” He turned his head from side to side, showing me his profile.
I stared at my uncle’s face, searching for some connection between him and my father and myself, and finally I said, “I think we might have the same nose.”
“Of course we do,” said Uncle Harvey. “It’s the Trelawney nose. Passed from generation unto generation. Without this nose, you can’t be a Trelawney. Now let’s go inside.”
His apartment was on the fourth floor. As we trudged up the stairs together, Uncle Harvey said, “There is one thing I have to warn you about. I didn’t want to tell your father. I thought he might be upset. But you’re not going to mind, are you?”
“Depends what it is,” I said.
“Give me a chance and I’ll tell you. When your father rang, I said you could stay in my flat, and you can. The only thing is, I won’t actually be here. I’ve got to go abroad. On urgent business. But you can look after yourself, can’t you?”
“No problem,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll have a wonderful time.” He opened the door of his apartment and led me inside. “This is the perfect place for a bachelor. Treat it as your own. Invite friends round. Have parties. It’s all yours. Does that sound OK?”
“That sounds great,” I said.
“Good. I did try and explain this to your father, but he got so cross with me, I had to say I’d change my plans.”
“He’s been looking forward to this vacation for fifteen years,” I explained. “He and Mom haven’t been away together without kids since Grace was born. Not even for a weekend.”
“That’s what he said. I didn’t think he’d be very happy about you staying here alone—”
“He wouldn’t.”
“—so I thought we needn’t tell him. Is that terrible?”
“No,” I said. “That’s fine.”
“You really don’t mind?”
“When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
“I’m glad you see it like that, Tom. Strictly speaking, you’re probably a bit young to be left alone, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, already imagining how I would spend a week alone in New York City. And then, not wanting to discuss whether it was actually legal to leave me by myself in an apartment for a week, I asked, “Where are you going?”
“Peru,” said my uncle.
“Wow. Cool. What are you doing there?”
“Oh, it’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“It’s also a secret.”
“I won’t tell anyone—I promise.”
Uncle Harvey shook his head. “I’m sorry, Tom. You might be my nephew, but I hardly know you. How could I possibly trust you with such an important secret?”
“We could do a deal,” I said.
“A deal? What kind of deal?”
2
“I’ve actually just come back from Peru,” said Uncle Harvey. We were sitting at his kitchen table, drinking grapefruit juice from tall, thin glasses. Sunlight poured in from the big windows. When I’d told my uncle about burning down the garden shed, he’d laughed for a long, long time before wiping the tears from his eyes and agreeing that such an excellent story was definitely worth a secret or two in exchange. He just wished, he said, that I had a picture of my dad’s face when he saw what remained of the shed. Then he made me swear on my life not to spill a word to anyone, whoever it might be, and told me everything.
“I was mostly in Lima, the capital,” he said, “but I had a few days to spare so I did a bit of traveling. The day before I came home, I was staying in a small town in the Andes, miles from anywhere. In the afternoon, pottering about, as you do, I stumbled across a junk shop. Sitting on the shelf behind the counter was a silver necklace. Very simple, very pretty. The guy could see I was a gringo, so he tried to charge me two hundred dollars. I offered forty and he bargained me up to seventy. That was still way too much, but I needed a present for a girl, so I handed over the cash.”
I had a couple of questions—what’s a gringo, for instance?—but Uncle Harvey didn’t give me a chance to ask anything.
“The necklace was wrapped in a piece of paper,” he continued. “I didn’t really look at it. I just stuffed it in my pocket and hurried back to the hotel. Next morning, I had an early start. I packed the necklace in the bottom of my suitcase, and that’s where it stayed till I came home. In the evening I had a date with that girl. I dug out the necklace. I’d stuffed it in a sock, still wrapped up. I was just about to throw the paper away, but something caught my attention, I don’t know what. Call it instinct, call it luck, call it whatever you want, but I happened to notice one of the words on the paper was written in English. As soon as I saw that, I sat down and started working out what it said.”
He opened a blue folder and took out a single sheet of crinkly, browned paper.
“Here it is. This is what I found.” Uncle Harvey wiped the table with his sleeve and laid the paper carefully in front of me.
It was covered in black marks. Leaning down and looking at them, I realized they were letters. Words. Sentences. So tightly packed and squiggly that every one was an effort to decipher. At the bottom of the page there were two tiny sketches: a gull and a flower. I inspected them for a second, then pored over the spiky writing.
This is what I read:
12th. This daie we went ashore and toke stoke of muche fine fruit, no one knows the name. We procured wode too.
13th. Sailed Northwards.
14th. The same corse.
15th. About three aclock we found a frigate bownd for Panama. She was laden with Spanish clothes and honie and maize and wyne and much gold and more silver, too much for our owne shippes to carry. Our Captayne sent the crew ashore in a pinnace and we tok the frigate and we sailed to the South.
16th. We came to anchor among some islands. One of them we had visited before, some days earlier, and it was named by our Captayne the Islande of Theeves for the nature of the natives. Here we did land and got a lyttle water. There was not a native to be seen. Our Captayne took the pinnace ashore and I went with hym and six men also, who were sworne by God to be secret in al they saw. Here we buried five chests filled with gold and three more chests filled with silver. We placed them at the Northern tip of the Isl
ande in a line with the
That was where it ended. In midsentence. Just when it was getting interesting. I turned over the page, but there was nothing on the other side. I looked at my uncle. “This is cool.”
“I know.”
“So what are you going to do when you get to Peru?”
“Go back to that shop and find the man who sold me the necklace.”
“Has he got the rest of the pages?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“I don’t know his number. I don’t even know his name. That’s why I’ve got to go back there and find him.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “So this whole thing might be a waste of time?”
Uncle Harvey shrugged. “Life is about risk.”
“You can’t just fly to Peru because of a piece of paper!”
“That’s exactly what your father would say.”
“It’s what anyone would say.”
“Not me.”
“But it might be a forgery! Or a joke! Maybe someone wrote this a week ago for a play or a costume party!”
“They didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had it tested. I had the same doubts as you, Tom. I thought it couldn’t possibly be genuine. But who on earth would fake a piece of old English parchment and place it in a junk shop halfway up a mountain in the middle of the Andes? Would they do that just on the off-chance that an Englishman might happen to wander past? And if so, why? None of it made much sense, but I knew there was something going on here. Something interesting. So I packed it up and sent it to a friend of mine, a professor at Edinburgh University. He has access to all the latest wizardry. Here’s what he said . . .”
He reached for his computer, opened it up, fiddled around for a moment, and turned the screen to face me. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’m going to pack. My flight leaves this evening. Once I’ve got my stuff together, we’ll talk about keys and I’ll show you how to work the locks.”
He sauntered out of the room, leaving me to read this e-mail:
FROM: Professor Theodore Parker
