Текст книги "Inca Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

    "No madder than the thousands of men throughout history who have chased over the horizon after a nebulous dream." Ortiz paused, flicked the ash from his cigar, and then stared heavily at Pitt through somber eyes. "Be forewarned. The one who finds it, if it really exists, will be rewarded with success and then doomed to failure."

    Pitt stared back. "Why doomed to failure?"

    "An amauta, an educated Inca who could understand the text, and a quipu-mayoc, a clerk who recorded on the device, can't help you."

    "What are you telling me?"

    "Simply put, Mr. Pitt. The last people who could have read and translated the Drake quipu for you have been dead for over four hundred years."

    In a remote, barren part of the southwest desert, a few kilometers east of Douglas, Arizona, and only 75 meters (246 feet) from the border between Mexico and the United States, the hacienda La princesa loomed like a Moorish castle at an oasis. It was named by the original owner, Don Antonio Diaz, in honor of his wife, Sophia Magdalena, who died during childbirth and was entombed in an ornate, baroque crypt that stood enclosed within a high-walled garden. Diaz, a peon who became a miner, struck it rich and took an immense amount of silver out of the nearby Huachuca Mountains.

    The huge feudal estate rested on lands that were originally granted to Diaz by General, later President of Mexico, Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana, for helping to finance the despot's campaigns to subdue Texas and later launch a war against the United States. This was a disaster that Santa Ana compounded by selling the Mesilla Valley in southern Arizona to the United States, a transaction known as the Gadsden Purchase. The border shift left Diaz's hacienda in a new country a stone's throw from the old.

    The hacienda was passed down through the Diaz family until 1978, when the last surviving member, Maria Estala, sold it to a rich financier shortly before she died at ninety-four. The new owner, Joseph Zolar, made no mystery of the fact that he acquired the hacienda as a retreat for entertaining celebrities, high government officials, and wealthy business leaders on a lavish scale. Zolar's hacienda quickly became known as the San Simeon of Arizona. His high-profile guests were flown or bused to the estate and his parties were dutifully reported in all the gossip columns and photographed for the slick magazines around the country.

    An antiquarian and fanatical art collector, Zolar had amassed a vast accumulation of art objects and antiques, both good and bad. But every piece was certified by experts and government agents as having been legally sold from the country of origin and imported with the proper papers. He paid his taxes, his business dealings were aboveboard, and he never allowed his guests to bring drugs into his home. No scandal had ever stained Joseph Zolar.

    He stood on a roof terrace amid a forest of potted plants and watched as a private jet touched down on the estate runway that stretched across the desert floor. The jet was painted a golden tan with a bright purple stripe running along its fuselage. Yellow letters on the stripe read Zolar International. He watched as a man casually dressed in a flowered sport shirt and khaki shorts left the aircraft and settled in the seat of a waiting golf cart.

    The eyes below Zolar's surgically tightened lids glittered like gray crystal. The pinched, constantly flushed face complemented the thin, receding, brushed-back hair that was as dull red as Mexican saltillo tile. He was somewhere in his late fifties, with a face that was fathomless, a face that had rarely been out of an executive office or a boardroom, a face that was tempered by hard decisions and cold from issuing death warrants when he felt they were required. The body was small but hunched over like a vulture about to take wing. Dressed in a black silk jumpsuit, he wore the indifferent look of a Nazi concentration camp officer who considered death about as interesting as rain.

    Zolar waited at the top of the stairs as his guest climbed toward the terrace. They greeted each other warmly and embraced. "Good to see you in one piece, Cyrus."

    Sarason grinned. "You don't know how close you came to losing a brother."

    "Come along, I've held lunch for you." Zolar led Sarason through the maze of potted plants to a lavishly set table beneath a palapa roof of palm fronds. "I've selected an excellent chardonnay and my chef has prepared a delicious braised pork loin."

    "Someday I'm going to pirate him away from you," said Sarason.

    "Fat chance." Zolar laughed. "I've spoiled him. He enjoys too many perks to jump ship."

    "I envy your lifestyle."

    "And I yours. You've never lost your spirit of adventure. Always skirting death and capture by police in some desert or jungle when you could conduct business out of a luxurious corporate office and delegate the dirty work to others."

    "A nine-to-five existence was never in my blood," said Sarason. "I find wallowing in dirty dealings an exciting challenge. You should join me sometime."

    "No, thank you. I prefer the comforts of civilization."

    Sarason noticed a table with what looked like four weathered tree limbs about one meter in length lying across its surface. Intrigued, he walked over and studied them more closely. He recognized them as sun-bleached roots of cottonwood trees that had grown naturally into grotesque human-shaped figures, complete with torsos, arms and legs, and rounded heads. Faces were crudely carved in the heads and painted with childlike features. "New acquisitions?" he asked.

    "Very rare religious ceremonial idols belonging to an obscure tribe of Indians," answered Zolar.

    "How did you come by them?"

    "A pair of illegal artifact hunters found them in an ancient stone dwelling they discovered under the overhang of a cliff."

    "Are they authentic?"

    "Yes, indeed." Zolar took one of the idols and stood it on its feet. "To the Montolos, who live in the Sonoran Desert near the Colorado River, the idols represent the gods of the sun, moon, earth, and life-giving water. They were carved centuries ago and used in special ceremonies to mark the transition of boys and girls into young adulthood. The rite is full of mysticism and staged every two years. These idols are the very core of the Montolo religion."

    "What do you estimate they're worth?"

    "Possibly two hundred thousand dollars to the right collector."

    "That much?"

    Zolar nodded. "Providing the buyer doesn't know about the curse that stalks those who possess them."

    Sarason laughed. "There is always a curse."

    Zolar shrugged. "Who can say? I do have it on good authority that the two thieves have suffered a run of bad luck. One was killed in an auto accident and the other has contracted some sort of incurable disease."

    "And you believe that hokum?"

    "I only believe in the finer things of life," said Zolar, taking his brother by the arm. "Come along. Lunch awaits."

    After the wine was poured by a serving lady, they clinked glasses and Zolar nodded at Sarason. "So, brother, tell me about Peru."

    It always amused Sarason that their father had insisted on his sons and daughters adopting and legalizing different surnames. As the oldest, only Zolar bore the family name. The far-flung international trade empire that the senior Zolar had amassed before he died was divided equally between his five sons and two daughters. Each had become a corporate executive officer of either an art and antique gallery, an auction house, or an import/export firm. The family's seemingly separate operations were in reality one entity, a jointly owned conglomerate secretly known as the Solpemachaco. Unknown and unregistered with any international government financial agencies or stock markets, its managing director was Joseph Zolar in his role as family elder.

    "Nothing short of a miracle that I was able to save most of the artifacts and successfully smuggle them out of the country after the blunders committed by our ignorant rabble. Not to mention the intrusion by members of our own government."

    "U.S. Customs or drug agents?" asked Zolar.

    "Neither. Two engineers from the National Underwater and Marine Agency. They showed up out of nowhere when Juan Chaco sent out a distress call after Dr. Kelsey and her photographer became trapped in the sacred well."

    "How did they cause problems?"

    Sarason related the entire story from the murder of the true Dr. Miller by Amaru to the escape of Pitt and the others from the Valley of the Viracocha to the death of Juan Chaco. He finished by giving a rough tally of the artifacts he had salvaged from the valley, and how he arranged to have the cache transported to Callao, then smuggled out of Peru in a secret cargo compartment inside an oil tanker owned by a subsidiary of Zolar International. It was one of two such ships used for the express purpose of slipping looted and stolen art in and out of foreign countries while transporting small shipments of crude oil.

    Zolar stared into the desert without seeing it. "The Aztec Star. She is scheduled to reach San Francisco in four days."

    "That puts her in brother Charles's sphere of activity."

    "Yes, Charles has arranged for your shipment to be transported to our distribution center in Galveston where he will see to the restoration of the artifacts." Zolar held his glass up to be refilled. "How is the wine?"

    "A classic," answered Sarason, "but a bit dry for my taste."

    "Perhaps you'd prefer a sauvignon blanc from Touraine. It has a pleasing fruitiness with a scent of herbs."

    "I never acquired your taste for fine wines, brother. I'll settle for a beer."

    Zolar did not have to instruct his serving lady. She quietly left them and returned in minutes with an iced glass and a bottle of Coors beer.

    "A pity about Chaco," said Zolar. "He was a loyal associate."

    "I had no choice. He was running scared after the fiasco in the Valley of Viracocha and made subtle threats to unveil the Solpemachaco. It would not have been wise to allow him to fall into the hands of the Peruvian Investigative Police."

    "I trust your decisions, as I always have. But there is still Tupac Amaru. What is his situation?"

    "He should have died," replied Sarason. "Yet when I returned to the temple after the attack of our gun-happy mercenaries, I found him buried under a pile of rubble and still breathing. As soon as the artifacts were cleared out and loaded aboard three additional military helicopters, whose flight crews I was forced to buy off at a premium, I paid the local huaqueros to carry him to their village for care. He should be back on his feet in a few days."

    "You might have been wise to remove Amaru too."

    "I considered it. But he knows nothing that could lead international investigators to our doorstep."

    "Would you like another serving of pork?"

    "Yes, please."

    "Still, I don't like having a mad dog loose around the house."

    "Not to worry. Oddly, it was Chaco who gave me the idea of keeping Amaru on the payroll."

    "Why, so he can murder little old ladies whenever the mood strikes him?"

    "Nothing so ludicrous." Sarason smiled. "The man may well prove to be a valuable asset."

    "You mean as a hired killer."

    "I prefer to think of him as someone who eliminates obstacles. Let's face it, brother. I can't continue eliminating our enemies by myself without risk of eventual discovery and capture. The family should consider itself fortunate that I am not the only one who has the capacity to kill if necessary. Amaru makes an ideal executioner. He enjoys it."

    "Just be sure you keep him on a strong leash when he's out of his cage."

    "Not to worry," said Sarason firmly. Then he changed the subject. "Any buyers in mind for our Chachapoyan merchandise?"

    "A drug dealer by the name of Pedro Vincente," replied Zolar. "He hungers after anything that's pre-Columbian. He also pays a cash premium since it's a way for him to launder his drug profits."

    "And you take the cash and use it to finance our underground art and artifact operations."

    "An equitable arrangement for all concerned."

    "How soon before you make the sale?"

    "I'll set up a meeting with Vincente right after Sister Marta has your shipment cleaned up and ready for display. You should have your share of the profits within ten days."

    Sarason nodded and gazed at the bubbles in his beer. "I think you see through me, Joseph. I'm seriously considering retiring from the family business while I'm still healthy."

    Zolar looked at him with a shifty grin. "You do and you'll be throwing away two hundred million dollars."

    "What are you talking about?"

    "Your share of the treasure."

    Sarason paused with a forkful of pork in front of his mouth. "What treasure?"

    "You're the last of the family to learn what ultimate prize is within our grasp."

    "I don't follow you."

    "The object that will lead us to Huascar's treasure." Zolar looked at him slyly for a moment, then smiled. "We have the Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo."

    The fork dropped to the plate as Sarason stared in total incredulity. "You found Naymlap's mummy encased in his suit of gold? It is actually in your hands?"

    "Our hands, little brother. One evening, while searching through our father's old business records, I came upon a ledger itemizing his clandestine transactions. It was he who masterminded the mummy's theft from the museum in Spain."

    "The old fox, he never said a word."

    "He considered it the highlight of his plundering career, but too hot a subject to reveal to his own family."

    "How did you track it down?"

    "Father recorded the sale to a wealthy Sicilian mafioso. I sent our brother Charles to investigate, not expecting him to learn anything from a trail over seventy years old. Charles found the late mobster's villa and met with the son, who said his father had kept the mummy and its suit hidden away until he died in 1984 at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. The son then sold the mummy on the black market through his relatives in New York. The buyer was a rich junk dealer in Chicago by the name of Rummel."

    "I'm surprised the son spoke to Charles. Mafia families are not noted for revealing their involvement with stolen goods."

    "He not only spoke," said Zolar, "but received our brother like a long=lost relative and cooperated wholeheartedly by providing the name of the Chicago purchaser."

    "I underestimated Charles," Sarason said, finishing off his final morsel of braised pork. "I wasn't aware of his talent for obtaining information."

    "A cash payment of three million dollars helped immeasurably."

    Sarason frowned. "A bit generous, weren't we? The suit can't be worth more than half that much to a collector with deep pockets who has to keep it hidden."

    "Not at all. A cheap investment if the engraved images on the suit lead us to Huascar's golden chain."

    "The ultimate prize," Samson repeated his brother's phrase. "No single treasure in world history can match its value."

    "Dessert?" Zolar asked. "A slice of chocolate apricot torte?"

    "A very small slice and coffee, strong," answered Sarason. "How much extra did it cost to buy the suit from the junk dealer?"

    Zolar nodded, and again his serving lady silently complied. "Not a cent. We stole it. As luck would have it, our brother Samuel in New York had sold Rummel most of his collection of illegal pre-Columbian antiquities and knew the location of the concealed gallery that held the suit. He and Charles worked together on the theft."

    "I still can't believe it's in our hands."

    "A near thing too. Charles and Sam barely smuggled it from Rummel's penthouse before Customs agents stormed the place."

    Do you think they were tipped of?"

    Zolar shook his head. "Not by anyone on our end. Our brothers got away clean."

    "Where did they take it?" asked Sarason.

    Zolar smiled, but not with his eyes. "Nowhere. The mummy is still in the building. They rented an apartment six floors below Rummel and hid it there until we can safely move it to Galveston for a proper examination. Both Rummel and the Customs agents think it was already smuggled out of the building by a moving van."

    "A nice touch. But what happens now? The images engraved in the gold body casing have to be deciphered. Not a simple exercise."

    "I've hired the finest authorities on Inca art to decode and interpret the glyphs. A husband and wife team. He's an anthropologist and she's an archaeologist who excels as a decoding analyst with computers."

    "I should have known you'd cover every base," said Sarason, stirring his coffee. "But we'd better hope their version of the text is correct, or we'll be spending a lot of time and money chasing up and down Mexico after ghosts."

    Time is on our side," Zolar assured him confidentially. "Who but us could possibly have a clue to the treasure's burial site?"

    After a fruitless excursion to the archives of the Library of Congress, where he had hoped to find documentary evidence leading to the Concepcion's ultimate fate, Julien Perlmutter sat in the vast reading room. He closed a copy of the diary kept by Francis Drake and later presented to Queen Elizabeth, describing his epic voyage. The diary, lost for centuries, had only recently been discovered in the dusty basement of the royal archives in England.

    He leaned his great bulk back in the chair and sighed. The diary added little to what he already knew. Drake had sent the Concepcion back to England under the command of the Golden Hind's sailing master, Thomas Cuttill. The galleon was never seen again and was presumed lost at sea with all hands.

    Beyond that, the only mention of the fate of the Concepcion was unverified. It came from a book Perlmutter could recall reading on the Amazon River, published in 1939 by journalist/explorer Nicholas Bender, who followed the routes of the early explorers in search of El Dorado. Perlmutter called up the book from the library staff and reexamined it. In the Note section there was a she-t reference to a 1594 Portuguese survey expedition that had come upon an Englishman living with a tribe of local inhabitants beside the river. The Englishman claimed that he had served under the English sea dog, Francis Drake, who placed him in command of a Spanish treasure galleon that was swept into a jungle by an immense tidal wave. The Portuguese thought the man quite mad and continued on their mission, leaving him in the village where they found him.

    Perlmutter made a note of the publisher. Then he signed the Drake diary and Bender's book back to the library staff and caught a taxi home. He felt discouraged, but it was not the first time he had failed to run down a clue to a historical puzzle from the twenty-five million books and forty million manuscripts in the library. The key to unlocking the mystery of the Concepcion, if there was one, had to be buried somewhere else.

    Perlmutter sat in the backseat of the cab and stared out the window at the passing automobiles and buildings without seeing them. He knew from experience that each research project moved at a pace all its own. Some threw out the key answers with a shower of fireworks. Others entangled themselves in an endless maze of dead ends and slowly died without a solution. The Concepcion enigma was different. It appeared as a shadow that eluded his grip. Did Nicholas Bender quote a genuine source, or did he embellish a myth as so many nonfiction authors were prone to do?

    The question was still goading his mind when he walked into the clutter that was his office. A ship's clock on the mantel read three thirty-five in the afternoon. Still plenty of time to make calls before most businesses closed. He settled into a handsome leather swivel chair behind his desk and punched in the number for New York City information. The operator gave him the number of Bender's publishing house almost before he finished asking for it. Then Perlmutter poured a snifter of Napoleon brandy and waited for his call to go through. No doubt one more wasted effort, he thought. Bender was probably dead by now and so was his editor.

    "Falkner and Massey," answered a female voice heavy with the city's distinct accent.

    "I'd like to talk to the editor of Nicholas Bender, please."

    Nicholas Bender?"

    "He's one of your authors."

    "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know the name."

    "Mr. Bender wrote nonfiction adventure books a long time ago. Perhaps someone who has been on your staff for a number of years might recall him?"

    "I'll direct you to Mr. Adams, our senior editor. He's been with the company longer than anyone I know."

    "Thank you."

    There was a good thirty-second pause, and then a man answered. "Frank Adams here."

    "Mr. Adams, my name is St. Julien Perlmutter."

    "A pleasure, Mr. Perlmutter. I've heard of you. You're down in Washington, I believe."

    "Yes, I live in the capital."

    "Keep us in mind should you decide to publish a book on maritime history."

    "I've yet to finish any book I started." Perlmutter laughed. "We'll both grow old waiting for a completed manuscript from me."

    "At seventy-four, I'm already old," said Adams congenially.

    "The very reason I rang you," said Perlmutter. "Do you recall a Nicholas Bender?"

    "I do indeed. He was somewhat of a soldier of fortune in his youth. We've published quite a few of the books he wrote describing his travels in the days before globetrotting was discovered by the middle class."

    "I'm trying to trace the source of a reference he made in a book called On the Trail of El Dorado."

    "That's ancient history. We must have published that book back in the early forties."

    "Nineteen thirty-nine to be exact."

    "How can I help you?"

    "I was hoping Bender might have donated his notes and manuscripts to a university archive. I'd like to study them."

    "I really don't know what he did with his material," said Adams. "I'll have to ask him."

    "He's still alive?" Perlmutter asked in surprise.

    "Oh dear me, yes. I had dinner with him not more than three months ago."

    "He must be in his nineties."

    "Nicholas is eighty-four. I believe he was just twenty-five when he wrote On the Trail of El Dorado. That was only the second of twenty-six books we published for him. The last was in 1978, a book on hiking in the Yukon."

    "Does Mr. Bender still have all his mental faculties?"

    "He does indeed. Nicholas is as sharp as an icepick despite his poor health."

    "May I have a number where I can reach him?"

    "I doubt whether he'll take any calls from strangers. Since his wife died, Nicholas has become somewhat of a recluse. He lives on a small farm in Vermont, sadly waiting to die."

    "I don't mean to sound heartless," said Perlmutter. "But it is most urgent that I speak to him."

    "Since you're a respected authority on maritime lore and a renowned gourmand, I'm sure he wouldn't mind talking to you. But first, let me pave the way just to play safe. What is your number should he wish to call you direct?"

    Perlmutter gave Adams the phone number for the line he used only for close friends. "Thank you, Mr. Adams. If I ever do write a manuscript on shipwrecks, you'll be the first editor to read it."

    He hung up, ambled into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator, expertly shucked a dozen Gulf oysters, poured a few drops of Tabasco and sherry vinegar into the open shells, and downed them accompanied by a bottle of Anchor Steam beer. His timing was perfect. He had no sooner polished off the oysters and dropped the empty bottle in a trash compactor when the phone rang.

    "Julien Perlmutter here."

    "Hello," replied a remarkably deep voice. "This is Nicholas Bender. Frank Adams said you wished to speak to me."

    "Yes, sir, thank you. I didn't expect you to call me so soon."

    "Always delighted to talk to someone who has read my books," said Bender cheerfully. "Not many of you left."

    "The book I found of interest was On the Trail of El Dorado."

    "Yes, Yes, I nearly died ten times during that trek through hell."

    "You made a reference to a Portuguese survey mission that found a crewman of Sir Francis Drake living among the natives along the Amazon River."

    "Thomas Cuttill," Bender replied without the slightest hesitation. "I recall including the event in my book, yes."

    "I wonder if you could refer me to the source of your information," said Perlmutter, his hopes rising with Bender's quick recollection.

    "If I may ask, Mr. Perlmutter, what exactly is it you are pursuing?"

    "I'm researching the history of a Spanish treasure galleon captured by Drake. Most reports put the ship lost at sea on its way back to England. But according to your account of Thomas Cuttill, it was carried into a rain forest on the crest of a tidal wave."

    "That's quite true," replied Bender. "I'd have looked for her myself if I had thought there was the slightest chance of finding anything. But the jungle where she disappeared is so thick you'd literally have to stumble and fall on the wreck before you'd see it."

    "You're that positive the Portuguese account of finding Cuttill is not just a fabrication or a myth?"

    "It is historical fact. There is no doubt about that."

    "How can you be so sure?"

    "I own the source."

    Perlmutter was momentarily confused. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bender. I miss your point."

    "The point is, Mr. Perlmutter, I have in my possession the journal of Thomas Cuttill."

    "The hell you say?" Perlmutter blurted.

    "Indeed," Bender answered triumphantly. "Cuttill gave it to the leader of the Portuguese survey party with the request that it be sent to London. The Portuguese, however, turned it over to the viceroy at Macapa. He included it with dispatches he forwarded to Lisbon, where it passed through any number of hands before ending up in an antique bookstore, where I bought it for the equivalent of thirty-six dollars. That was a lot of money back in 1937, at least to a lad of twenty-three who was wandering the globe on a shoestring."

    "The journal must be worth considerably more than thirty-six dollars today."

    "I'm sure of it. A dealer once offered me ten thousand for it."

    "You turned him down?"

    "I've never sold mementos of my journeys so someone else could profit."

    "May I fly up to Vermont and read the journal?" asked Perlmutter cautiously.

    "I'm afraid not."

    Perlmutter paused as he wondered how to persuade Bender to allow him to examine Cuttill's journal. "May I ask why?"

    "I'm a sick old man," Bender replied, "whose heart refuses to stop."

    "You certainly don't sound ill."

    "You should see me. The diseases I picked up during my travels have returned to ravage what's left of my body. I am not a pretty sight, so I rarely entertain visitors. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Perlmutter. I'll send you the book as a gift."

    "My God, sir, you don't have to–"

    "No, no, I insist. Frank Adams told me about your magnificent library on ships. I'd rather someone like you, who can appreciate the journal, possess it rather than a collector who simply puts it on a shelf to impress his friends."

    "That's very kind of you," said Perlmutter sincerely. "I'm truly grateful for your kind generosity."

    "Take it and enjoy," Bender said graciously. "I assume you'd like to study the journal as soon as possible."

    "I don't want to inconvenience you."

    "Not at all, I'll send it Federal Express so you'll have it in your hands first thing tomorrow."

    "Thank you, Mr. Bender. Thank you very much. I'll treat the journal with every bit of the respect it deserves."

    "Good. I hope you find what you're looking for."

    "So do I," said Perlmutter, his confidence soaring over the breakthrough. "Believe me, so do I."

    At twenty minutes after ten o'clock the next morning, Perlmutter threw open the door before the Federal Express driver could punch the doorbell button. "You must be expecting this, Mr. Perlmutter, " said the young blackhaired man, wearing glasses and a friendly smile.

    "Like a child waiting for Santa." Perlmutter laughed, signing for the reinforced envelope.

    He hurried into his study, pulling the tab and opening the envelope as he walked. He sat at his desk, slipped on his glasses, and held the journal of Thomas Cuttill in his hands as if it were the Holy Grail. The cover was the skin of some unidentifiable animal and the pages were yellowed parchment in a state of excellent preservation. The ink was brown, probably a concoction Cuttill had managed to brew from the root of some tree. There were no more than twenty pages. The entries were written in the quaint Elizabethan prose of the day. The handwriting seemed labored, with any number of misspellings, indicating a man who was reasonably well educated for the times. The first entry was dated March 1578, but was written much later:

Mine strange historie of the passte sexteen yeares, by Thomas Cuttill, formerly of Devonshire.

    It was the account of a shipwrecked sailor, cast away after barely surviving the sea's violent fury, only to endure incredible hardships in a savage land in his unsuccessful attempt to return home. As he read the passages, beginning with Cuttill's departure from England with Drake, Perlmutter noted that it was written in a more honest style than narratives of later centuries, which were littered with sermons, romantic exaggerations, and clichés. Cuttill's persistence, his will to survive, and his ingenuity in overcoming terrible obstacles without once begging for the help of God made a profound impression on Perlmutter. Cuttill was a man he would like to have known.

    After finding himself the only survivor on the galleon after the tidal wave carried it far inland, Cuttill chose the unknown horrors of the mountains and jungle rather than capture and torture by the avenging Spanish, who were mad as wasps at the audacious capture of their treasure galleon by the hated Englishman, Drake. All Cuttill knew was that the Atlantic Ocean lay somewhere far to the east. How far, he could not even guess. Reaching the sea, and then somehow finding a friendly ship that might carry him back to England would be nothing short of a miracle. But it was the only path open to him.