Maroon Rising (25 page)

I took the iPad and scanned the circles and ovals. The fourth one—second from the right? I saw it.

“This one’s filled in with some cross-hatching, or could that be a fat X?”

“Whatever it is, it’s something,” Keith said.

I handed them back the iPad, my mind busy comparing this realization with my own. If I was right, the two might well be connected.

“What about you?” Ray said. “What did you find out?”

My attention shifted to the guide, now drinking water.

“Do you have your map handy?”

He went out to his truck and returned a moment later. With the restaurant empty aside from us, I dragged over another table and cleared it of salt, pepper, and napkin holder. The guide laid the map out, flattening it with his palm.

“Where are we now?” I said.

He dragged his finger up the road I recognized from earlier, then stopped an inch above where we’d entered the bush this morning. I placed my finger on the map, followed the road toward Albert Town, and stopped in the approximate location of the restaurant where we now were.

“Are there any caves you know of in this area here?” My voice sounded an octave higher.

He started a slow nod. “Yeah, the whole area is full of sinkholes, some caves—”

“Caves that have been connected with Maroons from the 1680s and 90s?”

“The area around Albert Town was a popular hideout. Accompong was the center of the world for the Leeward Maroons, but the area up there was strategic—a gathering place. They stored weapons.”

“Where did Njoni live?”

Keith, standing with his arms crossed, answered that one.

“Nobody knows exactly where he lived, but there’s a good chance it was in that vicinity.”

I turned back to the guide.

“Of the caves you know, are there five that are contiguous?”

The guide studied his map, then looked up, a fresh light in his eyes.

“I have seen some clustered caves there—rarely visited because of sinkholes, a lot of them hidden under thick brush.”

Everyone was on their feet now. I checked my watch.

We had a few hours of sunlight left.

“What did you find out, Buck?” Ray said.

“That the twenty-mile radius just got a whole lot smaller.”

“S
o what’s it here that’s got you so fired up?” Ray said.

The smile that bent my lips was irrepressible.

“The answer’s up in the air,” I said.

All three of them looked up, just as the guide and Pierce walked over to see what we were looking at.

“Those old canoes?” Ray said.

“How old would you say they are, Professor?”

Keith stepped closer and stood beneath them. There were two hand-hewn canoes suspended from branches, both hung upside down under a high plastic canopy. One was about two feet shorter than the other. They were faded, cracked, and dried out to a pale gray.

“Very old indeed,” he said. “Impossible to say without testing, but they could date back several hundred years—”

“Could they be from the 1670s?” I said.

He glanced up again. “I suppose. Impossible to tell the type of wood they’re made from, but they’re well preserved—”

“Are there any canoes from when Henry Morgan attacked Panama in any of the museums?”

Keith shook his head. “None that I’ve seen.”

I rubbed my palms together—couldn’t help it.

“If my theory’s correct, these canoes may have been two of the ones used by Morgan during and after that raid, then used to transport whatever treasure he’d secreted off his ship upon returning to Jamaica—”

“So this is about the legend of Morgan’s missing treasure?” the guide said.

I paused, then nodded. No point in hiding it any longer.

“I thought so, but there aren’t any navigable rivers near here that connect to the sea,” the guide said.

“Exactly,” I said. “I think these canoes may well have been carried from as far as the Rio Grande, across water when possible but also over land—to hide the treasure in caves near here. That’s how the Spanish used to cross Panama to Porto Bello in those days. They carried everything, including their boats, in portage.”

Everyone was staring wide-eyed at me, especially the guide.

“The road that leads toward the caves I mentioned earlier is right behind this restaurant,” he said.

I looked from face to face. “This could be it.”

Back in our vehicles we headed for a trail the guide said would take us closest to the caves. A quick whisper from Stanley—“We may have a rat on-island”—had me grinding my teeth, but given the limited amount of daylight remaining, I had to focus all my energy on the task at hand.

The drive in was on the most rugged of any trail we’d yet traveled. We had to drive around sinkholes and stop several times to clear debris, roll boulders out of the way, hold back tree limbs. We were now deep into Cockpit Country, where the erosion of the limestone plateau had left countless round-topped conical hills and valleys. Diverse tree and plant life made me feel like we were in Jurassic Park.

The trail ended abruptly at the foot of one of the many steep hills.

We’d driven as far as we could, and the sun was descending. The trip had taken an hour.

The group mobilized, donning backpacks, filling the canteens from a fifty-gallon jug the guide had provided. This time I’d brought the bigger duffel bag stocked with a full array of caving and rappelling gear. The guide produced his well-worn map and laid it out on the truck’s tailgate.

“We’re approximately here.” He tapped his finger on an area that seemed pretty close to the restaurant, but then we’d traveled slowly. “The caves I’m thinking of are in this area here.” He dragged his finger across multiple topographic circles to what looked like a wide valley.

He took the compass from his belt and adjusted the map so the symbol that pointed north was accurate, then calculated the most straightforward route to minimize climbing, maximize pace, and make the best use of our remaining sunlight.

“I’ll stay with the vehicles,” Stanley said. He held up his abeng. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

We set off into the wilderness. A sense of purpose drove us faster than Keith and Ray were comfortable with, but they didn’t complain.

The guide led, stopping occasionally to consult the compass and map, which he’d folded small to expose only the area we were in. Birds cried out and flitted from trees as we passed, but human conversation was minimal. We stayed in open areas or followed animal trails where possible. The temperature was mild and there was no humidity—perfect weather for a rigorous hike.

“The valley of the caves is below.” Our guide was pointing down from the hill we’d climbed. I managed to get myself atop a large boulder and lifted the binoculars to my eyes.

The valley—maybe two hundred yards wide—was a wasteland of sunken limestone holes, some of which held water. It would be a bitch to cross. I raised the binoculars a bit to scan the hill behind it, starting from the far left and working my way along its length.

A cave filled my vision—then another, and another. Then yet another cave!

The binoculars fell from my hands, the strap yanked at my neck.

“See anything?” Ray yelled up to me.

I turned to hoots and cheers from every one of them. My smile said it all.

W
e nearly lost Keith to a brush-hidden sinkhole as we crossed the valley, but we made it to the caves in one piece. Everyone now knew we were after Henry Morgan’s treasure, and that time was working against us. I hoped we’d have enough light to make it back to Stanley, but that would depend on what we found—or didn’t find—ahead.

The broad karst hill ahead stairstepped in plateaus of stone, and carved at the base was a near exact replica of the circles and ovals I’d first found at the Blue Mountain crossroads.

It took several deep breaths to absorb the breadth of the caves—from here it looked like the second and third had eroded into one, so I concentrated my focus on what would have been the second from the right—the one that had been etched in and was different than the others on the mantle’s etching at Firefly.

As we closed the distance I went over my mental checklist of notes I’d made from the archives Nanny had shared with me. Though the main texts had been largely undecipherable, there were some key words and phrases I counted on being relevant here—details I had yet to share with anyone. I recalled the symbols:

III =III ^III 0

I hoped these were some type of directions, like maybe: third passage or tunnel, third pipe up or chute, third tunnel or pipe or chute. No way to be sure until we checked, but that’s what I’d translated the drawing and words to mean.

We walked past each of the other caves—a huge pile of rubble lay in the middle of the second and third cave, confirming my assumption that two had become one. My brain didn’t seem to know quite how to react. We had located the mystery caves, but was there anything in them to find?

Outside the fourth cave, we dropped our gear. There were sinkholes on both sides of the cave entrance, and one held water.

“Ray and I will go in—”

“What?” Ray said. “Why me?”

“I can go,” Pierce said.

My glare at Ray, at an angle the others couldn’t see, caused him to purse his lips.

“No,” he said. “I’ll go.”

“The ground inside isn’t stable,” the guide said. “All these sinkholes and the collapse of the other two caves. There have been several earthquakes in the past few hundred years—inside may be totally impassible.”

“Great,” Ray said.

A distant sound echoed through the canyon. Was it wind? It sounded again, three times, in fast succession.

“That’s the abeng,” Keith said.

“Stanley?” I said.

“Or ghosts of the Maroons who fought and died here,” the guide said.

What message was Stanley sending us? Had the kidnappers called again, or worse? While I hoped he wasn’t in danger, I knew he’d agree we needed to press on, so I picked up the pace.

The sun was dropping fast.

“If you’re following old Maroon directions, ” the guide said, “you must know that they often reversed meanings on maps in case of capture or discovery.”

I stared at him for a long second, then turned to Keith. The professor nodded.

With that, I pulled the big duffel bag over my right shoulder and with my flashlight in hand and Ray right behind me set off into the cave.

The space inside was tighter than the one we’d checked this morning—God, was that just today? The roof was lower, too, and the cave itself far deeper.

“Do you think what the guide said was true?” I said. “That the Maroons reversed directions on their maps?”

“You’re asking me?” Ray said.

Morgan wasn’t a Maroon, but what about the notes from the archive? If Njoni made them, would they be reversed? His Port Royal letter had been a total fabrication—another form of reversal.

Damn.

I scratched the symbols from the archive into the dirt:

III =III ^III 0

“I’m thinking this could be some type of code for this cave,” I said. “I’m hoping the IIIs are Roman numerals for three, and if that’s the case, the equals sign could be a tunnel, the carat a turn or chimney, and the zero some kind of chute or other tunnel.”