'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 cliches. 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.
On the western slopes of the Andes the Spanish had already created colonies of large estates, now worked by the once-proud Incas, who were enslaved and greatly reduced in numbers by inhumane treatment and infection from measles and smallpox. Cuttill crept through the estates under cover of darkness, stealing food at every opportunity. After two months of traveling a few short kilometers each night to elude the Spanish and remain out of sight of any Indians who might give him away, he crossed over the continental divide of the Andes, through the isolated valleys, and descended into the green hell of the Amazon River Basin.
From that point on, Cuttill's life became even more of a nightmare. He struggled through unending swamps
