Maroon Rising (24 page)

T
he trail winding up and around the first hill was worn smooth. As we passed the northernmost end from where we’d left the Jeep, the guide stopped to point through the foliage toward a valley and dark growth beyond it.

“The caves are on that mountain over there.”

“Then why’re we over here?” Ray was rubbing his heel.

“He wanted to see the caves from a vantage point.” The guide stabbed a nod toward me.

“If it doesn’t seem promising, we can skip the whole hike,” I said. “Time is too important.”

The guide put his hands on his hips and looked at each of us.

“If you would be a little more forward with what you’re looking for, I could be more helpful.”

“Just what I showed you,” I said. “That’s all we know.”

We continued on for another thirty minutes until we reached a rocky outcropping near the top of the hill. We had a clear view of many other green hilltops about the same height—upright green eggs as far as the eye could see.

“This is an area heavy with Taino Indian history,” Keith said.

“Are there many petroglyphs here?” I said.

“I can show you some,” the guide said.

“Can we see the caves from here?”

We followed the guide to the outside of the rocky clearing. He pointed halfway down the next hill over.

“See the dark spots in the middle of those coconut trees there?”

From my backpack I removed my binoculars. The bush was thick and the distance too great for much detail, but I could see what looked like two, maybe three dark holes. I lowered the binoculars. From this distance, who knew how many caves there were?

“Well?” Keith said.

“Could be.”

Ray lowered his canteen from his mouth. “Why’d you bring me up here, Buck? I could have been flying overhead, doing aerial research—”

“Because you’re smart, Ray. I’m hoping you’ll see or think of something I might miss.”

That got me a faint smile and one of Ray’s maxims.

“Brains are best exercised with idle feet,” he said.

“So do you want to go down?” the guide said.

“Yes, let’s get going,” I said.

“We can either wind around all the way back down the way we came and cross the valley to that next hill or we follow a wet-weather drainage ditch from here and head straight toward it. That’s a little rougher—”

“Let’s take the most direct course. Time is—”

“Of the essence, I get it,” the guide said.

After passing through some dense brush, we found a dry creek bed that led straight down the mountain. It was slow going, and given Keith’s age and Ray’s physical condition it took longer than it should have. We had nearly reached the bottom when a sound caught my attention.

“You hear that?” Ray said.

“Radial engines?”

“Not just any radial engines—”

“Everyone get under cover!” I said.

“What’s the problem?” the guide said.

“Now, please!”

We all scrambled out of the trough of the creek bed and into the bushes. The origin of the sound appeared a moment later, flying through the valley where we were headed, at maybe one thousand feet above the ground.

“Looky there,” Ray said.

I watched the old Grumman Widgeon fly at slow speed between the mountains, the dove gray of her belly well matched against the partially cloudy sky.

“Betty.”

“Is it Dodson?” Keith said.

“Something I should know about?” the guide said.

I nodded to Keith, then told the guide it was a competitor looking for the same location.

I had no idea how Jack guessed our destination.

The plane faded into the distance, adjusting course to stay within the valley of the two mountains. I suspected they were cruising through the entire region looking for signs. Had they seen the Jeep? It was out in the open, and Stanley wouldn’t know to move it.

Dammit.

We moved on, now at a faster pace. Keith and Ray would have to keep up.

It took another forty-five minutes, but we made it up the mountain to the caves. Surrounded by dense forest, underbrush, and boulders, they were hard to see, much less access. And I still couldn’t tell how many there were. Our guide said they’d supposedly been hiding places for the Leeward Maroons back in the days of the first Maroon war.

I glanced toward Keith, who was still breathing hard.

“Yes … that’s correct.” He took a couple breaths. “This whole area was strategic … because getting here was so difficult.”

Ray had his shoes off again and was sitting on a boulder rubbing his feet. I could see they were blistered and red. “Still is,” he said.

While the others rested, I walked around to get a view from different angles—but still couldn’t see clearly enough to determine the number of caves or the configuration. No way to tell if they matched the Blue Mountain petroglyph and the mantelpiece.

“Ray, you come with me, we’ll check this first cave. Keith and Pierce, why don’t you check the next one?”

“What about me?” the guide said.

“Keep watch and listen to see if either group needs help or calls out that they found something.”

“What exactly are you looking for?” he said.

“We’re not sure,” I said, “but we’ll know if we find it. If the plane comes back, hide inside one of the caves before it can see you.”

He just stared back at me.

We each took a backpack that contained two flashlights, a canteen, a rope with carabiners, and flares. The hike up to the cave entrances took another fifteen minutes.

The opening to the first cave was roughly twenty feet wide and fifteen feet high, but the ceiling dropped down at a sharp angle toward the back of the cave.

“I hate caves, Buck,” Ray said. “You know I hate caves.”

“They’re just holes in the rocks—”

A swarm of bats dropped down from above and swooped toward our lights. The sound of guano slapped like hail against the stone floor.

“Ugh!” Ray said. “I’ve been hit by bat shit!”

I managed not to laugh and focused ahead on the depth of the cave. I continued forward, scanning my light from side to side, searching for any other openings, offshoots, wall carvings, or paintings. In the back of the cave, maybe sixty feet in, was a small passage that continued deeper into the darkness. We stopped, knelt down, and shined our lights inside.

“Don’t even think of asking me to go in there,” Ray said.

With only enough room to crawl, I went in—crab walking while still holding the flashlight. Another thirty feet in and it became too narrow for a man to pass through, much less hide treasure. I barely had enough room to turn around and get out.

Back outside we found Keith and Pierce sitting on rocks. They stood up when we stepped into the daylight.

“Anything?” Keith said.

Ray was brushing purple guano from his shirt. “The mother lode—of bat shit, that is. Disgusting.” He rubbed his hands in some weeds.

“How about you guys?” I said.

“Wasn’t much of a cave, really. More like a ledge.”

“Any more past that?”

“One, but it was also shallow and empty,” Pierce said.

“Where’s the guide?”

Keith glanced around. “I’m not sure—”

“Up here!” The guide was up on top of the rock outcroppings that made up the roof of the cave Ray and I had explored. “Looking for more caves, but nothing so far.”

A light rain began to fall.

Lovely.

When the guide returned, we were standing just inside the mouth of the bat-infested cave to avoid getting soaked. The sound of an animal’s wail—no, a horn of some kind—made us all look up.

“What was that?” Ray said.

“I don’t know—”

“That was an abeng, I’m quite sure,” Professor Keith said.

“Which is what?” I said.

“An animal horn, often from a cow or ram, used by our Maroon ancestors to convey information across a wide distance.”

“Who would be conveying information—”

The horn sounded again. It blew three distinct blasts.

“Stanley carries an abeng,” Keith said. “Warriors alerted others to the presence of British troops with blasts from the abeng. He must be sending us a message—we should return to the car.”

“British troops?” Ray said.

“Worse, could be Gunner,” I said.

T
he hike back took nearly ninety minutes, and as we emerged from the trail on the hill I could see Stanley sitting in the Jeep. Sweat had soaked through my clothing. The wasted morning had me tired and frustrated. The guide was knowledgeable, but this had been a fruitless effort, other than crossing a few caves off the list of a thousand in Jamaica.

Stanley climbed out of the Jeep as we approached.

“Were you using an abeng to warn us about something?” I said.

“Got another call from the kidnappers. They wanted an update and to remind me we only had twenty-eight hours left.”

I kicked at a rock—stubbed my toe and nearly fell. I glanced from face to face. Nobody was smiling.

“Anything else?”

Stanley sneered. “They say they mean business, Buck.” His voice was flat and his eyes stared blankly past me as he spoke.

I kicked at the rock again and this time it sailed and bounced off the side of the Jeep, leaving a ding in the door. “Dammit!”

Everyone stood staring at me, waiting for some direction or a plan. If only I had one.

“I need to clear my head.” I started toward my Jeep, then stopped and turned around. “I’ll be back—”

“I need to get to my office near Albert Town,” the guide said. Everyone turned to look at him. “There’s a jerk stand out front. We could meet there—”

I froze. “That’s the same place where Nanny was grabbed,” I said. “She said there was an outfitter nearby. Guess that was you.”

I pulled out in the Jeep and with the windows open and top down, let the air blow over me to try and cool off. There wasn’t time to waste, but I had to clear my head. It felt as if we were chasing our tails, yet my gut still said we were close. Something just had to break for us, and fast.

The potholed road rattled my thoughts as much as the Jeep. My hands were damp on the wheel, and even with the top down the steady breeze couldn’t keep sweat from making my body miserable.

The clock was ticking. If we didn’t turn up anything by tomorrow, I’d have to leave the island—Stanley had made that clear. He couldn’t risk Nanny being hurt because of my being perceived as competition. It wasn’t what the kidnappers had asked for, but assuming I couldn’t find the Morgan treasure, I’d at least surrender the island to them. I’d argued they could hurt her even if I left and we’d feel just as guilty. It didn’t matter. Neither option was good, and we both knew it.

Dammit!

I pulled over, got out my phone and squinted at the photos of circles and ovals from Morgan’s mantle at Firefly. The screen was too small to see any details well. I emailed the picture to Stanley and Ray and asked them to study it—maybe they’d see something I hadn’t.

Henry fucking Morgan, the greatest privateer in history.

I thought of his victories in Porto Bello, Cartagena, Maracaibo, and finally Panama, each employing hundreds and later up to a thousand men, each campaign utilizing unique strategies. Morgan’s creativity as a commander was still studied at war colleges. The use of surprise attacks and unconventional warfare—hell, he even sent hundreds of men in canoes up the Chagres River to reach Panama.

What must that have been like? A fleet of hand-hewn canoes, each with men and weapons, like a swarm of angry crocodiles paddling hard up the river in the deep of night. Their minds would have been focused on the coming battle, their thirst for riches. Morgan had been amongst them, calling the shots.

Did he steal the plunder from his men, or was it all a legend?

Would Nanny die because of it?

The answer’s up in the air. The answer’s u—

My body jerked and I grabbed the steering wheel tight.

“Son of a bitch! I’ve got it!”

I stomped on the accelerator—the Jeep responded with a lurch, then sped forward.

The drive to the jerk shack where Nanny had been jumped—where the guide had an office out back—took less than a half hour. I barely braked through the switchbacks that led up the hill.

I flew through the door, causing Ray to jump out of his seat. I spied bottles of clear rum on the table in front of Keith and the guide, who glanced up at me. Pierce was drinking coconut water straight from the husk. Stanley was holding an iPad he and Keith had been studying when I burst in.

“I’ve got it!” I said. “I had an epiphany.”

“And you gave us one,” Stanley said. “Come see.”

As anxious as I was to share my news, I bent down to see what had them excited. It was the picture I’d sent from my phone. The screen of the iPad was much larger, and the image—

“It looks much brighter than the original,” I said.

“We’ve been enhancing it on the photo app,” Keith said.

“The details are sharper,” Stanley said. “And look.”

He pointed toward the smaller oval shape, second from the right. I leaned closer. The picture had been enlarged to at least four times the original carving. Then he panned from left to right.

“Do you see it?”