Island of Thieves

by Josh Lacey

  “This is very good, Tom,” he said in his thick accent. “When we’re back on the land, I buy you a drink. Many drinks.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and shook his hand.

  We got to work. Otto and Uncle Harvey dragged one of the chests out of the cave. We looked inside. Under the rotting wooden lid, the chest was stuffed with lumps of metal wrapped in old brown rags. We each grabbed one and pulled off the wrapping.

  It was like Christmas. With one big difference: this year, no one got socks.

  We stood there for a minute or two in a kind of daze, each of us holding a solid piece of gold in our hands, none of us saying a word. I don’t know why. I suppose we couldn’t quite believe that we’d actually found it. Up to now, the gold had seemed more like a dream or a story; the type of thing that would never really happen.

  But here it was, in our hands, ours. There were all sorts of questions still to be answered. Otto had the treasure now, but was he going to keep his side of the bargain? Would he try to double-cross us? How about us? Did my uncle have a cunning plan? Were we going to try to double-cross Otto and keep the treasure for ourselves? All that could wait till we were back on the mainland. We still had work to do here.

  Otto handed his lump of gold to me, then scrambled back down the cliff. My uncle and I wrapped the lumps up again, dropped them in the box, and stuffed the lid on the top, jamming it into place.

  Uncle Harvey took the rope and tied one end around the chest. Then he looped the rope about a jagged corner of rock at the top of the cliff and handed the other end to me. “Hold on tight.”

  “Yes, sir.” I wrapped the rope around my hands and braced myself against the cliff.

  Uncle Harvey lowered the chest over the edge. Even though the rope was looped around a rock, the weight still yanked me along the cliff and the taut cord burned my palms, but I managed to stop it from slithering away from me.

  My uncle hurried back and took hold of the rope. He looked at me. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Together, we let the rope slide slowly through our hands and lowered the wooden chest down the cliff toward Otto’s outstretched arms. Every time it banged against the side of the cliff, splinters of old wood were knocked off and fell away into the water.

  Once Otto had the chest safely stowed on the ledge, Uncle Harvey clambered down the cliff to join him. They untied the rope and lifted the chest between them. Then Miguel brought the boat closer to the shore. Together, my uncle and Otto heaved the wooden chest across the gap and swung it aboard the boat.

  We did the same maneuver seven more times, dragging each chest out of the cave, looping the rope around its middle and lowering it down the cliff, then loading it aboard the boat. With each repetition we could do it a little bit better, knowing when we needed our strength and when we could relax.

  The sixth chest got stuck on a jutting-out rock. It jammed there and tipped over. The lid slid off and a stream of silver coins spilled out, gushing down the cliff, bouncing off the rocks and spinning into the water.

  Scrabbling with both hands, Otto managed to save some of them. The others splattered into the waves before my uncle and I had a chance to yank the rope, pulling the chest upward, righting it again. We held it there for a moment, waiting for Otto to stuff his pockets with silver, then kept on lowering.

  That was our only disaster. Otherwise everything went well. It was exhausting work, though. By the end my arms ached and my hands were covered in red burns from the rope. Whenever I stopped for a rest, I noticed how cold I was. My clothes had been soaked on the boat. Now that I was on dry land, the chilling wind was biting into me. I could hear my mom’s voice. “Look at you, Tom! You’re going to catch pneumonia.” That would be ironic, I thought. Travel all the way to Peru on the trail of hidden treasure and end up with a cold.

  When the last chest had been loaded onto the boat, Uncle Harvey cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up to me, “That’s everything, isn’t it?”

  “That’s it!” I yelled back. “All eight of them.”

  “Come down here! Let’s get going!”

  The heavily laden boat was now much lower in the water and thus a lot harder to steer. Miguel was struggling with the wheel and the throttle. Waves were already lapping over the sides, and I could see dark water sloshing around in the bottom of the boat. I hoped it would take our weight.

  The boat came closer. Otto sprang aboard and said something to Miguel, who nodded and stepped aside. Otto took over the wheel. The boat was lurching on the waves, see sawing to one side, then the other.

  My uncle took a step backwards, giving himself a bit of a run-up, getting ready to leap aboard as soon as the boat came close enough. Just when he was about to jump, Miguel reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun.

  I didn’t have time to panic. I didn’t even have time to think. I just yelled a warning to my uncle, screaming his name at the top of my voice. The wind was loud, and the waves too, but he must have heard me because he lifted his head and glimpsed Miguel. As soon as he saw the gun, he threw himself sideways.

  The muzzle flashed. There was a loud bang. The gun jumped in Miguel’s hand. I couldn’t see where the bullet went, but Uncle Harvey hadn’t been hit. He was still moving. He had his arms raised. He was shouting something. I couldn’t hear what.

  In the boat, Otto was standing at the wheel. He seemed to be smiling. He glanced up at me, then back at my uncle. He said something to Miguel, who took aim again.

  Uncle Harvey was dodging back and forth along the cliff, doing what he could to present a more difficult target.

  Miguel fired. There was a loud bang and my uncle cried out. The impact whirled him around. He doubled over, grabbing his leg with both hands, and collapsed against the cliff.

  Miguel looked at Otto, who nodded.

  Miguel raised his gun once more and pointed the barrel at my uncle—who was now an easy target. A wounded animal, unable to dodge or duck. Just lying there, waiting to be finished off.

  I had to do something.

  But what?

  Yell? Scream? Try to distract Miguel?

  No, that wouldn’t help.

  I darted into the cave, grabbed a stone, turned, and hurled it down at the boat. I was aiming for the gun, trying to knock it out of Miguel’s hand, but I hit him on the shoulder instead.

  At exactly that moment, he fired again. I must have knocked him off-balance, because his shot missed my uncle.

  He turned to face me.

  I could see his expression. He was suddenly unsure of himself. He didn’t know which of us to kill first, my uncle or me. Then he lifted his arm.

  First I heard the sound of the bullet hitting the rock just beside my head. Then I heard the bang. I dodged back into the cave, putting a large chunk of island between me and the gun. I heard another bang. I didn’t see where that one went. Probably where I’d just been standing.

  The darkness was all around me. My heart was pounding. I reached down to the ground and grabbed another rock. This one was a lot bigger. Heavier, too. I needed both hands to pick it up.

  I stumbled out of the cave, lugging the rock at about knee height, and staggered on the ledge. There, I swung my arms, using the rock’s weight to get some momentum.

  Down below me, I could see the side of Otto’s face and the top of Miguel’s head and his outstretched arm, pointing the barrel of his gun at my uncle. He’d forgotten all about me. They both had. They were going to polish off my uncle first and then come for me later.

  My hands opened. I didn’t really aim. The rock was too heavy for that. I dropped it more than threw it.

  I staggered backwards, my arms suddenly as light as air without the weight of the rock to hold them down. Almost at once I saw that I had failed. The rock tumbled through the sky and plunged straight past Miguel, missing him completely, missing Otto, too, and landing in the bottom of the boat.

  I’d failed. I was dead. My uncle was dead. These thoughts were rushing through my
mind when I suddenly saw Otto and Miguel throwing themselves down and scrabbling around at their feet. A great jet of water spurted out of a hole in the bottom of the boat.

  Within seconds, Miguel and Otto were ankle-deep in water.

  They fumbled around, first trying to block the hole, then scooping up water with their cupped hands, but the sea was too strong for them.

  Otto yelled at Miguel. He must have given an order. Abandon ship.

  Miguel tucked his gun into his belt, stepped onto the rim of the boat, and threw himself into the waves.

  Otto was about to follow him, but something held him back. A rope must have wrapped itself around his shoe. Or his heel was jammed under one of the wooden chests. He bent down and tried to free himself.

  By now, the boat was below the water.

  I stood there, watching. I felt helpless, fascinated, repelled, horrified, all at once.

  Miguel had taken a couple of strokes, swimming toward the cliff, but now he turned back again, bobbing in the big waves, checking to see if his boss was following him.

  Otto must have known that he didn’t have much time because he was struggling desperately, his whole body wriggling, his hands grappling with whatever had caught his foot.

  He couldn’t free himself.

  The boat was sinking fast. He was waist deep. He grabbed the side and tried to pull himself out, but that didn’t work, either.

  The waves lapped at his chin.

  Otto bent back his head, opened his mouth and took a last gulp of air. Then he was pulled under the water by the weight of Francis Drake’s gold.

  25

  Miguel didn’t even hesitate. As soon as he saw what had happened, he dived after his boss. The waves closed over him. White foam frothed in the place where he had just been. Then the sea burst apart and he came out again, his mouth open, gasping for breath. Once he’d filled his lungs, his body twisted, his legs kicked, and he went down again.

  I stared at the water, waiting for Otto and Miguel to bob up, but nothing returned to the surface. Not a hand. Not a head. Not a boot. Not even a scrap of broken boat or discarded clothing. The relentless waves washed back and forth, giving no sign that they had just swallowed a boat, eight heavy crates, and two men.

  Had I just killed two people?

  I must have seen a thousand actors blown away in movies—ten thousand, maybe, if you added them all up—but none of that prepares you for witnessing the death of a real man. The funny thing was, I didn’t feel sickened or appalled. If anything, I felt empty. As if the experience had wiped me clean and, just for the moment, I wasn’t able to feel anything at all.

  I remembered why I’d dropped the rock on their boat. Because they were trying to kill me. And my uncle. Looking down, I could see him lying in a heap at the base of the cliff. He didn’t seem to be moving. Was he dead too?

  I shouted down to him. “Uncle Harvey! Uncle Harvey!”

  No answer. He didn’t move.

  With a sound unlike anything I’d ever heard in my life, a mixture between a scream and a shout and a gasp, a body burst out of the water.

  It was Otto. He bobbed up, his face a mask of agony, and dragged a desperate breath into his lungs.

  He was splashing around like a wounded animal. I don’t think he even saw me. All his attention was focused on himself.

  Down below me, my uncle was now moving. Sitting up. Holding his leg. I scrambled down the cliff to the ledge, then hurried along it to where he was sitting.

  I said, “Are you OK? Are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

  “Didn’t Miguel shoot you?”

  He didn’t answer me. He was looking at the waves. “Is that Otto?”

  I turned to look. There was Otto, making his way through the water, fighting against the powerful waves, trying to swim toward us.

  “We’ve got to help him,” said Uncle Harvey. “Give me a hand.”

  He kneeled on the ledge and stretched out his arm. Otto was still at least three yards away, and could hardly make any progress against the vast strength of the waves. Seeing my uncle’s outstretched hand, he fought harder, his arms digging into the water, his feet kicking, but he didn’t seem to be moving at all. If anything, the waves were pulling him out farther, taking him away into the depths.

  He just tried to kill us, I wanted to say. Can’t we leave him in there?

  That’s not very nice of me, I know, and I’m sorry, but there you go. That’s what I was thinking. Why should we save the life of a man who’d tried to kill us?

  Uncle Harvey yelled at me. “Come on! Help!”

  I didn’t argue. I just kneeled on the ledge beside my uncle and stretched out my arm toward Otto.

  He might have been an excellent swimmer, but the Pacific Ocean was a lot stronger than he was. The waves flung him out, then yanked him back in again. Again and again. Toward the cliff. Then into the swell. And out again. And in again.

  His strength was fading. He wasn’t struggling so hard now. The waves were grinding him down.

  I turned to my uncle. “I took a course.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of course?”

  “On rescuing people from drowning. I know what to do.”

  What could I remember of the course? Not much. It was just one afternoon in the Norwich town pool a couple of years ago. They taught us the basics. Mom made me do it. She wouldn’t let me go sailing otherwise. That was the deal: if I did the course, I could drive to Mystic with Finn and Mr. Spencer and go out on their boat.

  I yanked my jacket, my sweater, and my shirt over my head, all in a bundle. Then pulled them apart and thrust the shirt into my uncle’s hands. There wasn’t time to tell him how to use it. I’d just have to hope he could work it out for himself.

  I pulled off my sneakers, dumped them on the ledge, and threw myself into the water. With a couple of quick strokes, I was beside Otto. I cupped my hand under his chin and pulled him back. Luckily, he understood what I was doing. People panic. I remember the instructor warning us about that. Drowners thrash about in the water. By struggling, they drown themselves and the person who is trying to rescue them.

  My uncle had twisted one end of the shirt around his right wrist. Now he threw it out to me.

  The shirt was lying on the water, waiting for me, tempting me, offering itself, promising safety.

  Just out of reach.

  Closer, closer.

  And I grabbed it.

  Uncle Harvey hauled us in. He was poised precariously on the edge of the cliff, the waves battering against him, water running down his face, and I thought, Please don’t let the water drag you in, because that would be the end of us all.

  When I was near enough to the ledge, I pushed Otto through the water toward my uncle, who dropped my shirt and reached out with both hands. The swell pulled Otto closer to the jagged cliff. Too close. Banging his head. Another surge and he was pulled away again. His hands clawed helplessly at the water.

  I could see blood on his face. I grabbed him. Shoved him through the waves to my uncle again, who got him this time. Grabbing a handful of shirt. A handful of hair. Yanking him up.

  Together we heaved him out of the sea and rolled him up onto the ledge, me pushing and my uncle pulling. And I rolled out too, and we lay there, all three of us, coughing seawater onto the wet rock.

  26

  So there we were. Stuck on a ledge. Staring at the Pacific. Nothing between us and New Zealand except a gazillion gallons of water.

  Otto was breathing, but unconscious. His eyes were closed and his head turned away, but his tattoo stared up at me. The snake’s eyes were fierce, its sharp teeth poised, its body coiled and ready to spring. As if it were guarding its master while he slept.

  There was no sign of Miguel, but he must have been dead. He’d sacrificed himself to save his boss. Now he was five fathoms deep. Did I feel guilty about him? No. He’d tried to kill me and my uncle, and almost succeeded. If he’d been here, sitting on this roc
k, Uncle Harvey and I would have been dead. Simple as that. So, no, I didn’t feel guilty. I just felt pleased to be alive.

  And I wanted to stay this way.

  Otto was coming around fast. Give him a minute or two and he’d be back to his old murderous self.

  So—what next?

  I pulled my coat and shoes back on. I tipped back my head and stared at the sky. I couldn’t see the top of the cliff, but it was a long way up, I knew that much. I’d already seen its full height from the boat and remembered thinking: I’m glad I don’t have to climb up there.

  I looked at my uncle. He was wet through and shivering. So was I, of course, but I hadn’t been shot, so my situation was that much easier. One of his pant legs was red with his own blood. He had torn a square of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it around his thigh, applying a primitive tourniquet to the wound. When I asked him how he was feeling, he said he was fine and the wound was only superficial. I hoped he was telling the truth and not just trying to be brave.

  I said, “Let’s start climbing.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s start climbing. Up the cliff.”

  He leaned back and looked upward. Then he grinned at me. “You think you could do it?”

  “Of course I can. We both can.”

  “What will you do when you get to the top?”

  “Walk across the island, find a boat, and get back to the mainland.”

  “It’s a nice plan,” said my uncle. “There’s only one problem. With my leg like this, I’ll never make it up there. You’ll have to go on your own. Can you do that?”

  “No way,” I said. “We’re going to escape together. Come on, this is our only option. Let’s start climbing.”

  Uncle Harvey shook his head. “Forget about me. I’m old enough to look after myself. You’d better get moving before Otto wakes up.”

  Looking at my uncle, I realized I would never be able to persuade him to change his mind. He was behaving like a guy in a movie, the one who stays behind with a gun and a box of ammo, sheltering behind a rock, and blows away a bunch of baddies on his own, giving the others a chance to get away. That’s fine in a movie, but no one does that in real life. Not for me, anyway. If I couldn’t persuade him, I’d just have to force him. I gripped his arm with both of mine and tried to pull him up. “Come on, Uncle Harvey. Time to go.”