Maroon Rising (9 page)

Nanny must have read my thoughts.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I’m used to it. Lots of stereotypes in this world, and a treasure hunter’s pretty easy to pigeonhole.”

“Your contributions to connecting missing links of world civilization are extremely valuable, Buck.” She placed her arm on my bicep and squeezed. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

I leaned closer to the table, and she let go of my arm.

“So what have you deduced from all this?” I said.

“Morgan was sailing around Jamaica, coming across the northern coast—”

“He should have been coming from the southwest.”

“May have been a storm, or the winds may have driven them there, we’re not sure,” she said. “Anyway, the diary refers to putting several canoes to shore near Port Antonio, in the dead of night.”

“The Rio Grande?”

“Could be. Njoni was known throughout the island, but after Morgan’s death, his heirs were more closely associated with the Leeward Maroons.”

Some people were walking over the bridge toward us, so Nanny gently scooped up the archival sleeves and placed them back in the box, which I could see had locking clasps. She closed and spun the numeric dials.

“Now what?” I said.

“I suggest we return to Moore Town and sort through these papers with Stanley.”

I dug my keys out of my pocket. “No time like the present.”

She smiled. “I’ll go get dressed.”

“I’ll get my Jeep.”

A
fter an hour of the ninety-minute drive from GoldenEye to Port Antonio, I was gripping the steering wheel so tight my neck ached. The same battered brown car had been traveling at the same distance behind us for too long now. When I sped up, it sped up. If I slowed down, it slowed down.

I kept my eye on the rearview mirror.

“Is this the only road to Port Antonio?”

“The A4 is the fastest road,” Nanny said. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Some roads cut in toward the coast more, but this is the most direct.”

Given the value of the documents she’d shown me, it was possible she or Colonel Grandy or even Michael Portland might have someone shadowing us.

We passed through several small villages and so did the brown shitbox. Nanny hadn’t once questioned my silence or my continual glances in the rearview mirror, and if she’d noticed we were being followed, she kept it to herself.

We finally passed over the Rio Grande River, drove into Port Antonio, and turned left toward the Errol Flynn Marina. “Where are you going?” she said.

“I want to stop in the ship’s store for something.”

I kept my eye on the rearview and counted to myself … fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen … there’s the shitbox.

“Ship’s store?”

I nodded.

Ship’s store was an exaggeration, but there was a small marine supply and provisions store I hoped would have what I was looking for. Besides, the turn allowed me a chance to see who was in—

Where had the little brown car gone?

“You want me to come with you?” she said.

I was half in, half out of the Jeep, looking back over my shoulder.

“No, you should probably stay here with the documents. And call the colonel and tell him we’re on our way.”

“Oh, right. Good point.”

Still no sign of the shitbox, so I entered the store. Just past a small selection of nautical charts I found a small magnifying glass and held it up to peer through. Satisfied, I took it to the counter and paid in cash—I was still a couple years away from being eligible for a credit card after my personal bankruptcy.

A pang of guilt stopped me in my tracks. I stared at my phone a long moment, then hit one of my saved numbers.

A familiar British voice answered on the third ring.

“Buck Reilly? I’ve been worried your silence meant you were in trouble, dear boy.” True to his paternal role in my life, Harry Greenbaum knew how to simultaneously express concern and impose guilt.

“Sorry, Harry. It’s been nip and tuck back here to say the least.”

“Here meaning Jamaica.” He paused. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you admonished to avoid Port Royal under penalty of law?”

“It’s a long story, hopefully one we’ll enjoy sharing over rum and a cigar, but bottom line is I was lured back to Jamaica by a direct heir to the Maroon legacy, and through her contacts we’ve gained new information that cast an entirely different light on the situation.”

The sound of Harry’s heavy breathing might have signaled excitement, but it was more likely that his advanced age and increasing weight were causing respiratory challenges.

“I just wanted to let you know I’m back on the hunt with fresh insight, and … it may be of far greater value than we’d originally projected.”

“Excellent news, Buck. I knew I backed the right horse. Do keep me apprised, won’t you?”

I promised to call again when I knew more and rang off.

Heading back to the Jeep I saw the A4 was shitbox-free, and off we went along the north coast, doubling back toward the Rio Grande.

“Get what you wanted?” Nanny said.

I handed her the little bag.

“Ah, smart,” she said when she looked inside.

“Did you speak with Colonel Grandy?” I said.

“He’ll meet us up river.”

My head snapped to the right—I thought I’d seen the shitbox again, but there was no vehicle in sight. If it
had
been following us, they’d either anticipated where we were going or given up. I drove on and ignored the mirrors, focusing instead on the road ahead.

Once the main shipping port for the banana trade, the mouth of the Rio Grande was an eighth of a mile wide. I tried to imagine what it had looked like hundreds of years ago when there was nothing here but river and tropical foliage. Only natives who knew the dense mountain ranges and the river itself would risk travel at night by canoe into that black wilderness, especially if those canoes were laden with silver, gold, and other valuables. Maroons? That made sense. Or possibly even Taino Indians, but Nanny hadn’t mentioned them.

I’d seen signs at the Errol Flynn Marina for boat rentals, but we wanted to travel silently. Another hour into the lush, steep contours of the green backcountry passed as Nanny guided me over unmarked roads to Berridale.

“The rafting camp is another two miles south,” she said.

“Good thing we have the Jeep.”

These mountains and the mass acreage of wilderness helped me appreciate how the Maroons had so successfully avoided the Spanish, then British troops that pursued them. The sheer size of the forest, combined with their skill in battle, made the Maroons as invincible as the Mujahideen of Afghanistan.

I steered the Jeep onto a narrow trail and pulled up out of sight.

“What are you doing?” Nanny said.

“Let’s take a closer look at those archives before we meet with the colonel.”

I opened the Jeep’s tailgate, and Nanny spread out the archival sleeves. Using my new magnifying glass and the Notes application on my phone, I jotted down what information I could read. Nanny translated some of the old African writing, and we gradually pieced together something significant: the men who’d spirited away “goods” from Morgan’s ship noted paddling against the current toward what we assumed eventually became known as Moore Town.

“Look at this.” Nanny pointed at text under the magnifying glass I was holding. “Talks about seeing a flash—or maybe reflection—on the Great Mountain at dawn. It must mean Blue Mountain.”

“How can you tell?” I held my arms wide. “There’s a hell of a lot of big mountains around here.”

“But Great Mountain is how the Blue Mountain Peak was known to Maroons in those times.”

I smiled at Nanny. “Nice to have an accomplished professor of archaeology who speaks the ancient dialects on the team,” I said.

It didn’t take us long to finish reviewing the drawings, notes, and Henry Morgan’s brief diary, and we were only on the road south another mile before reaching an outfitter who rented traditional bamboo rafts. I locked the Jeep, hoping it would be there when we returned. The advertised course was nearly seven miles downriver, ending at St. Margaret’s. Our plan was to float past the confluence of this river, more a tributary, and the Rio Grande—on which we’d paddle upriver toward Moore Town to meet Colonel Grandy. If men had taken treasure off Morgan’s ship by canoe and gone upriver, where were they headed? I hoped we’d find a clue of some sort by retracing their steps.

Taking a bamboo raft against the current on the mighty Rio Grande, though?

At least I’d have a paddle.

N
anny was arranging for the raft when my cell phone rang. I saw Johnny Blake’s name on the screen.

“Tell me something good,” I said.

“We got the permit, mon, for photography only, but we got it.”

I pumped my fist. The impromptu plan was coming together.

“What about the boats?”

“The rental people got boats, but what kind you want?”

Damn. I couldn’t be in two places at once. Then I came up with an idea. “Let me call you back about the boats, Johnny. Pick up the permit, though.”

“You still with the professor?”

“We’re going to take a raft up the Rio Grande, following a lead.”

“Yeah, mon, sound good.”

Nanny was still inside the rental hut when I disconnected the call. Since my measly percentage didn’t include expenses, I was off the hook as far as paying for anything on this trip. I scrolled through my few saved numbers until I found the one I wanted and hit send.

“Well, well, well, how’s the Jamaican beach bum?”

“Are there beaches here?” I said. “I’ve been too busy to sit on my ass.”

“What happened to your rock star buddy?” Ray said. “Thought you’d be fending off groupies by now.”

“Thom’s a country singer, Ray.”

I heard him sigh.

“Let me guess,” he said, “you’re not just calling to brag about the babes in Kingston?”

“Even better. I’m calling with good news. You being my best friend—”

“One of your only friends is more like it.”

Ray meant no malice, but the truth of his statement cut to the bone. I swallowed.

“Just kidding, Buck. Gosh, you know I—”

“I forgive you, and anyway, you’ll feel like shit in a second.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because there’s a plane ticket to Jamaica with your name on it waiting at the main counter there at EYW,” I said.

Silence.

“Still with me, Ray?”

“What kind of trouble are you in now?”

“Trouble? Hell, I’m going to cut you in on something big—not to mention the beautiful babes in Kingston you mentioned—and all I get are insults and innuendos?”

“You never call me from one of your exotic trips if you’re not in trouble—is it the Beauty?” His voice turned cold. “Have you hurt her?”

Ray and I had different perspectives on the 1946 Grumman Goose we’d repatriated from the bowels of a Cuban tobacco farm a few years ago. I thought of the fresh bullet holes in her wings and winced.

“As a matter of fact, we do need to patch a couple holes—above the waterline, mind you—but that’s not why I invited you. I need your piloting skills while I’m pursuing something that could make you some nice money.”