by Josh Lacey
“It all sounds amazing,” said Dad. He turned to Uncle Harvey. “Thanks, bro. You’ve really shown him around. I hope you’ve managed to have some fun too.”
“Oh, it’s been great,” said my uncle. “Tom is the perfect companion. We’ve had a really wonderful time together.”
“I can see that. It’s all been so cultural too. All those museums! I thought you might just spend the whole week playing computer games.”
“Not once,” I said, smiling proudly.
Mom was uncharacteristically silent. She was giving me one of her long, hard stares. Eventually she said, “You look different.”
“What do you mean?” I said nervously. “What kind of different?”
“I don’t know. Tanned, maybe. Have you been in the sun?”
“Oh, yes. The weather here’s been fantastic. Probably as hot as the Bahamas.”
Dad looked dubious. “I thought it had been raining all week. That’s what the paper said.”
“The paper must have got it wrong.”
Mom was still frowning. “No, it’s not just a tan. There’s something about your face. You look older, somehow.”
“It’s only been a week,” said Dad. “He can’t have aged that much.”
“I know he can’t,” said my mom. “But he has. Don’t you think he looks older?”
They both stared at me. I started feeling a bit uncomfortable. I knew it was impossible, but what if they could see something in my face? What if they could see that I was lying?
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said my dad. “In your mind, you remember him as a little boy. You still imagine him being five years old. You haven’t got used to our Tom growing up.”
“He’s not grown up,” said Mom.
“Yes, but he’s growing up. He’s getting older. You’ll be leaving home soon, won’t you?”
“Not that soon,” I said. “Give me a chance to be a teenager.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Mom. “You haven’t changed in a week, have you?”
“No,” I said.
“Maybe you just look a bit thinner. Harvey, have you been feeding him?”
“Oh, yes. All the time. I’ve been stuffing him like a pig.”
There was a slightly awkward silence, as if no one could think of what to talk about next, and then Uncle Harvey said, “So, tea?”
Tea would be lovely, said both my parents.
“Could you give me a hand, Tom?” said Uncle Harvey.
“Sure. No problem.”
I followed him into the kitchen. He put cups, milk, and sugar on a tray. “Tea for you?” he asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Coffee?”
“Ha, ha.”
“You never know, you might like it.”
“I already know I don’t.”
“Fair enough.” He poured boiling water into a teapot, placed it on the tray, and turned to me. In a whisper, he said, “Tom, I think you should—”
“I’m going to.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I just do.”
“Go on, then. What was I going to say?”
“You were going to say you’ve changed your mind and you were wrong about telling lies to my parents and actually it’s a really bad idea and I shouldn’t do it and what I should actually do is go out there and tell them what really happened last week.”
“Not bad,” whispered Uncle Harvey. “Pretty good, actually. So, how about it?”
“I’m going to,” I whispered back.
“When?”
“Right now.” I gestured at the door. “After you.”
“Oh, no. After you.”
I carried some cookies into the other room and Uncle Harvey followed me with the tray. We sat down. Uncle Harvey poured the tea and I told Mom and Dad about my trip to Peru. I’d hardly started when Mom said, “If this is a joke, it’s not very funny.”
“Don’t you want to know where I went?” I said. “Would you rather I lied to you?”
Dad told me to stop being silly, I was upsetting my mother, and they looked at Uncle Harvey as if they were appealing for help from the other adult in the room.
“The thing is . . .” said Uncle Harvey, and then he stopped. I think it was the first time I’d ever seen him lost for words. He picked up a cookie, broke it in half, and stared at the crumbs as if they held the secrets of the universe.
So I fetched my passport and showed them the stamps from Lima Airport.
Dad said, “These aren’t real. They don’t even look real. You did them yourself, didn’t you?”
Before I could respond, Mom told him to keep quiet, gave me one of her looks, and said, “Is this true?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Mom sighed. “You’d better tell us all about it.”
So I did.
Their tea went cold. They didn’t eat a single cookie. They just sat there, holding hands, listening to the story of John Drake and Otto Gonzalez and the Island of Thieves.
I expected them to be furious, but they weren’t. Not at all. The opposite, actually. Before I even got to the end of the story, they both jumped up and hugged me as if they were making sure that I was really there. Then they sat down again and I told them about Miguel and Otto and the cliff and the prison and the car and coming home. Mom cried, but she said they were tears of happiness, and Dad said, “It’s my fault. I’m an idiot. Why did I let him stay here? I should have known Harvey would do something like this.”
Uncle Harvey was about to reply, but I jumped in first. “I told you already, he didn’t want to take me with him.”
“He could have—” started my dad, but I interrupted him, too.
“It’s my fault,” I said. “It really is. Mine and no one else’s. If you want to blame anyone, blame me.”
“We don’t want to blame anyone,” said Mom, putting her hand on Dad’s knee. “You have to understand, Tom, we’re still feeling quite shocked. And amazed. And not quite sure what to think. But we’re not angry. Are we, Simon?”
“I am,” said Dad.
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. I’m angry with Harvey, anyway. And I’m probably quite angry with Tom, too.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Mom. “I don’t care what you did or where you went, or why. I’m just so glad you’re safe. My beautiful boy is here. That’s all I care about, Tom. Nothing else matters.”
33
I thought I wouldn’t see New York again till I was old enough to go on my own, but a month later I was back there, eating a five-course meal at the Peruvian embassy. A crisp white invitation had come in the mail from His Excellency the Ambassador. It was only addressed to me, but Mom and Dad said I couldn’t go without them, so Uncle Harvey wrangled two more invites.
We had dinner in a long room lined with enormous paintings of Great Peruvians. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and waiters carried dish after dish from the kitchens. To my relief, there was no more guinea pig, just some delicious fish and the best steak I’ve ever tasted. It was probably Argentinean, my uncle informed me in a whisper, not wanting to upset any proud Peruvian patriots sitting around the table.
There were ten of us. Our hosts were the ambassador and his wife. Then there was the director of the National Museum in Lima and a journalist from one of Peru’s main papers, who was writing a story about us. Down at the other end of the table were the old couple from the mountains, Señor and Señora Draque.
Did you notice that name?
Yes?
You’re probably wondering why we didn’t.
Well, we had a good excuse. We’d never actually heard it. We couldn’t speak their language and they couldn’t speak ours, so we’d never introduced ourselves.
Sure, the spelling had changed a little over the years and they pronounced it in a Spanish way—kind of like “drah-kay”—but it was the same name. The same family, too. Tomorrow morning, the director of the National Museum and the journalist were going to fly with the old couple to England, where they would visit Buckland Abbey, Sir Francis Drake’s home. They would be staying in a hotel in Tavistock, the town where John Drake was born.
Señor Draque was going to cross the Atlantic to see the land of his ancestors. It was the first time that he had ever been out of Peru. If you’d asked him a month ago, the old man would have said he didn’t have any connection to England. Now he knew he was the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson of John Drake.
I might have gotten the wrong number of greats, but you get the general idea. Four hundred and thirty years ago, John Drake settled in Peru and started a family. With his last breaths, he would have told his son to look after the journal that was sitting in a box under the bed. There’s a secret in there, he would have said, that will make you rich.
Maybe his son told his son the same thing too. But over the years, the story had got mixed up and forgotten. No one could read the funny foreign writing on those old bits of paper. Nor was anyone quite sure why they were taking up valuable space in the house. Eventually the manuscript was yanked out to make room for some shirts or a thick wooly blanket, and dumped in the barn, scattered amongst the straw.
There it stayed until the current Señor Draque used a piece of it to wrap up an old necklace.
When we got back to New York with the manuscript, Uncle Harvey had contacted the National Museum in Lima and asked if they’d like to buy it. The director said yes. But he also said: “Where did you get it?” Uncle Harvey ummed and ahhed, but eventually admitted the truth.
Which was why Señor and Señora Draque got all the museum’s money, rather than us.
Uncle Harvey was furious. The manuscript was ours, he said. After all, we had paid for it. Only sixty dollars, sure, but money is money, and the old couple had taken ours. He explained this to the director of the National Museum, who threatened to hire the most expensive lawyers on the planet and fight him in every court in the United States and Peru.
In the end, they made a deal. I don’t know exactly how much the museum gave Uncle Harvey, but it was enough to pay for our flights, buy a nice shiny new car for Alejandra, and have a few dollars left over.
During the negotiations, Uncle Harvey kept quiet about the treasure. Only three people on the planet knew the actual location of the gold. Him, me, and Otto. Maybe someone in the museum would read the manuscript and work it out. If not, one day, we might go back to Peru with a team of divers and again risk the wrath of the Pacific.
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!
Historical Note Who Was John Drake?
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, describ
ing 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.
