“Miss Nanny,” Johnny said. “Thank you so much for coming to see us.”
She nodded at Johnny and stopped in front of me, tall but not so tall she didn’t look up into my eyes.
“I’m glad you finally returned to Jamaica, Buck Reilly.” She extended her hand and took mine in a firm grip.
Johnny extended his hand too, but still focused on me, she took a moment to give him a shake.
“Thank you for arranging the introduction, Mr. Blake. But at the risk of being rude, I’d like to speak with Mr. Reilly alone.” She continued to study my face, her eyes probing mine.
I saw Johnny’s shoulders slump.
“Excuse me,” I said, then walked with him toward the lobby and patted him on the back. “Thanks, Johnny. I’ll fill you in on what I learn and we’ll see where this goes, if anywhere. In the meantime I know you’ll be keeping an eye on Port Royal for me.”
“All right, mon.” He walked away, and I returned to Nanny Adou.
“Coffee?” I said.
“No, thanks.” She sat on the couch across from me.
Questions filled my mind, but I held back. She leaned forward.
“Are you free for the next two hours? ”
“I am. May I ask why?”
“I’d like to take you to Moore Town. A man’s there waiting to meet you—Colonel Grandy.”
“You’d mentioned him before. What does he want with me?”
“You’re no stranger to Jamaica, Mr. Reilly—”
“Buck, please.”
“The way you went about your recent pursuit of the Port Royal excavation leads us to believe you might be an advocate for the Jamaican people.”
“How so?”
“Your application with its lack of … up-front fees and its promises to the selection committee was either naïve or honorable.” A faint smile. “Given your background, nobody believes you’re naïve. It’s possible you’ve changed since your days as King Buck. That’s what Colonel Grandy wants to see for himself.”
A tingle ran up from my fingertips.
“To what end?”
She smiled, revealing white, straight teeth. Her almond-shaped eyes, while narrowed, looked alert but not unfriendly.
“You won’t be disappointed, I assure you. And to anticipate your next question, yes—it does have to do with the Port Royal effort.”
I sat back in the chair and sipped now lukewarm coffee.
“A friend and I had dinner with Chris Blackwell last night,” I said. “He had an interesting theory about a legend related to the old letter that led me to the Port Royal project. What do you know about that?”
She smiled. “I’d rather you discuss this with Colonel Grandy, but I’ll be happy to share some history with you first.”
We both leaned in. A breeze swirled her light scent into my nostrils, inviting me closer.
“Some of the story is true, some parts are not. As you noted in your historical assessment in the application—”
“Wait—the applications were confidential.”
Now the smile was almost a smirk. “Many of the former slaves who sailed with Henry Morgan on his privateering campaigns were Maroons. One of these men was connected to the letter in question.”
“Connected how?”
“He wrote it. You need to understand that even though the Maroon community has been diluted over the years, there remains a core of elders who still speak the African dialects, practice the ancient ways, and curate our historic details. This piece of history has been held close, and given the value involved, you can imagine why.”
I could only nod.
“The letter you acquired some years ago was originally a diversion planned by the man, or men, who helped Morgan hide the valuables from the attack on Panama. After Morgan’s death in 1688 there was a massive search for the treasure conducted by former family members, privateer associates, and the authorities that felt swindled by Morgan. Just four years after Morgan’s death came the earthquake that sank a good portion of Port Royal, so those who had helped Morgan hide the loot produced the letter stating that it had been buried in the bowels of the Jamison House, a part brothel Morgan was known to frequent. This letter had been hidden with the rest of his papers.”
I felt as if I were filling with helium, getting lighter and lighter headed. If the treasure wasn’t buried in the sunken ruins of the Jamison House, where was it? What else did she or Colonel Grandy know?
“Of course the Jamison House had been selected because it was buried under tons of rubble a league beneath the sea.” She stopped and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “And the letter was the document you acquired.”
The wheels inside my head spun, but I could find no angle to refute what she’d said. It made a lot of sense.
“If the Jamison House was only part brothel, what was the rest?”
“I thought that would be obvious. It was a rum distillery.”
A giddy tingle danced through me with the thought that Jack might have run off with a bad luck charm when he stole my archives, but only for a moment. The professor may have been wrong about me. I wasn’t naïve, but I wasn’t necessarily honorable.
“Tell me, Nanny, do you know where the treasure is?”
“Don’t jump ahead, Buck, it’s not that simple.”
We held a long stare. I raised an eyebrow but she didn’t flinch. Hard one to read, this Nanny Adou.
“So what do we do from here?” I said.
“I take you to Moore Town, and depending on how that goes, we’ll see what the next steps will be.”
She suggested we go in my vehicle so I’d have a way back later.
“Would it be possible to get another permit to dive on Port Royal?” I asked as we walked to the open-topped Jeep.
She gave a short laugh. “Why?”
“An associate of mine wants to perform an underwater, high-quality photographic archaeological survey of the western section of the sunken city.”
Her eyes narrowed. I held my silence.
“I think that could be done quite easily.” She mentioned the name of an associate at the Jamaican National Historical Trust and said I could use her name.
I gave her my best smile.
“Thanks, I will.”
The road to Moore Town was due south of Port Antonio. Good thing Nanny was with me, since the roads through the hilly interior were poorly marked, if at all. I tried to memorize landmarks for the return drive, but my mind kept wandering to what I might learn from Colonel Stanley Grandy.
With the top down on the Jeep, Nanny sat back and enjoyed the wind blowing through her hair. The light brown of her complexion, along with what I guessed were subtle European features, made it clear that the past few hundred years had included family departures from her Maroon origins—no surprise given the brutal battles in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. I guessed her age to be close to my own, mid-thirties. Clearly she was perceptive, intellectual, strong, a community leader, and highly attractive in a nondeliberate way. What did she know about me beyond what had been included in Last Resort’s application for the Port Royal project? Did she know e-Antiquity’s history?
I swallowed. She was a professor of archaeology at one of the top schools in the Caribbean. Albeit far in the past, my failures were nearly as well documented as my successes. She had to know.
Her cell phone rang. She began a lengthy discussion with the person on the other end, speaking in local patois—Ashanti, I guessed, one of the African dialects still in use amongst the Maroons. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying, so while she talked I steered the Jeep with my right hand, took my own cell phone out of my shirt pocket, and hit the speed dial.
“Mr. Buck, how did your talk go with that fine-looking professor?” Johnny’s voice had a giggle to its cadence.
“Good, we’re headed now to meet the Maroon elder who wanted to see me.”
“Moore Town?”
“Right.”
“You know a
bout that place? The history of the Windward Maroons? They was some badass warriors, mon—”
“Listen, I have something I want you to do.” I could hear Nanny still chattering away on her phone. “We need to file for another dive permit with JNHT—”
“What’s that you say?”
“Not for salvage. To photograph the underwater Port Royal ruins—a few hundred yards to the west of SCG’s westward boundary.”
A long silence followed. “Photograph?”
“Right. Use Professor Adou’s name as our sponsor. File that, then follow up with the people we were going to rent boats from. We only need a few, but I’m not sure for how long. Get a monthlong contract with a termination clause.”
“I’m confused, mon. What kind of boats we need for photography? How many people? And how we make any money doing that?”
I explained we needed dive boats and not to share with anyone not on the application that we’d be doing a photographic survey.
Since Johnny still sounded confused and doubtful, I said, “If all goes well, it could lead to another salvage opportunity.” That cheered him right up.
“You got me plenty curious now, Mr. Buck, but I like the sound of it.”
“I’d like the boats ready ASAP. Nanny—um, Professor Adou—thought we could get a permit pretty fast.” I gave him the name she’d mentioned.
“Nanny, huh? You work quick, mon.” The giggle was back, then it vanished and I got Johnny’s business voice. “I’ll have the paperwork filed today and the deal cut on the boats by this time tomorrow. Guess this means I’m back on the payroll, too?”
“With a 1 percent finders’ fee on anything we’re allowed to keep if this turns into a salvage operation.”
We hung up. Nanny, no longer on her phone, was staring at me.
“You work quickly, Buck.” It was the second time I’d heard that in less than three minutes. “And confidently, too.”
The balance of the drive was filled with switchbacks as we climbed through mountainous terrain above the Wild Cane River toward Moore Town. The view below was of green rolling hills that led to more mountainous terrain, steeped in mist and low clouds with the silver reflection of the river curving through it. The Maroon’s successes against the far greater numbers of heavily armed Spanish and British pursuers in the late 1600s and early 1700s had been thanks to their better understanding of the landscape, superior vantage points, ahead-of-their time camouflage, fearless courage, and an unquenchable desire to maintain their freedom. As we drove through the same hills now, I imagined the guerilla warfare that rained down upon the Europeans until finally the land that now comprises Moore Town was ceded to the Maroons. The person who signed that land grant was none other than the general who led the campaign against their oppressors—Nanny, Mother of us all.
“Almost there,” Nanny Adou said.
If she was an actual descendent of the original Nanny, then she was clearly more than just an academic. I sensed a predator’s glint in her eyes, and while I didn’t think it was geared toward me—I had nothing of value for her or the Maroons—the anticipation was as palpable as the humidity in the open vehicle.
The roads were little better than dirt tracks at this point—breathtaking views, but steep and without guardrails to prevent a hapless vehicle from driving off the sharp-edged cliff into the river valley below. While the vegetation was scrubby and thick on the uphill side of the road, the occasional breaks in the trees revealed picturesque overlooks.
A fit of anxiety produced a sweat bloom in my armpits. I was driving blindly into a village with a history of barbaric assaults on opposition. If somebody decided I was the enemy, I was well and truly screwed. On the other hand, if they wanted to work with me, it would significantly enhance my position and prospects in Jamaica.
We drove slowly up the dirt road past a group of men I guessed to be in their twenties. When they spotted me their expressions turned hard. One noticed Nanny. His eyes opened wide and he elbowed his friend as we drove past.
“Anything I should know about Colonel Grandy or the people of Moore Town before we get there?” I said.
Nanny gave me a long glance before offering a small smile.
“They don’t trust strangers here. And the colonel is old, prefers to speak in Ashanti. He’ll speak English for you and will seem charming, but he’ll be judging your every word and movement.”
I swallowed. “He asked to see me—”
“But he knows you’re a treasure hunter, so he’ll expect the worst.” She looked away as she said that last part. I suddenly felt as if the dirt kicked up by our tires had coated my skin.
Or maybe I just felt dirty from the inside out.
We rounded the corner and the small village came into view. Houses were spread around the hills in a haphazard fashion. I spotted a flagpole surrounded by a fence, then a small blue building with an image of a woman’s face painted on one side, the same face from the $500 bill. A landscape of the valley was painted on the other side. I glanced from the painted face to Nanny and back. She smiled. I saw no resemblance other than the notable glint in her eyes.
“The house in the middle there, with the red roof, is where we’re going. Park down in the square.”
Now came the familiar adrenaline rush, that buzz I always got when closing in on a lead.
I turned the Jeep off and Nanny looked hard into my eyes.
“Don’t screw this up, Buck Reilly.”
Inside the house it was dark and smelled of smoke and boiling vegetables. The living room was neat, with sturdy, well-used furniture. There were paintings and photos on the walls, images from the countryside and what I presumed to be family.
Nanny called out in a dialect I couldn’t follow—whether it was an announcement or a familiar greeting, I wasn’t sure.
“Back here,” a male voice said in English.
We turned a corner into a kitchen, void of contemporary conveniences but suited to the needs of the local lifestyle and cuisine. The colonel’s eyes lit when he saw Nanny only to narrow at the sight of me behind her. He brushed his palms down his blue denim shirt and stepped forward.
“Colonel Grandy, meet Buck Reilly from e-Antiquity.”
I extended my hand. “Actually, my company is now called Last Resort Charter and Salvage.”
He shrugged. “Sounds desperate.”
The colonel didn’t fit what I’d expected. Short hair, lighter skinned, wearing a brown baseball hat and a scruffy week’s worth of stubble. I wasn’t sure of his age, given his slight frame, but he could be anywhere from his late fifties to early seventies. He was tall, too. I’d made a fortune reading people back in the heyday of e-Antiquity, and I didn’t need Nanny’s description to peg the colonel as distrustful and wary.
I reminded myself that he’d contacted me, not the other way around.
“You offered 75 percent of anything you recovered at Port Royal to the museum,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Your offer to dig up Port Royal. It included 75 percent of anything of value you found for the museum. You forget already?”
“That was a sealed bid.”
“Ha! You funny, Buck Reilly. This is Jamaica, not Washington, D.C. We know things here. And your bid wasn’t enough.”
I bit my lip, unsure how to respond.
“And what did SCG International offer?”
He laughed and I saw he was missing a few of his molars.
“They offer 50 percent to the government—”
“What!”
He smiled and glanced at Nanny. There was no trace of humor on her face.
“But they offer up-front cash of $200,000 U.S. dollars. Since the government think it unlikely that anyone find anything out there—plus the winner had to restore some old sunken building—they take the cash.”
The sight of me with my mouth hanging open was enough for Nanny to crack a smile, albeit briefly. I wasn’t sure how to proceed, so I pressed my lips together, shrugged m
y shoulders, and waited. The colonel nodded and said something to Nanny, who nodded back.
“Come, let’s sit,” he said. “My feet hurt.”
Next to the kitchen was a small square folding table with some mismatched wood chairs. They looked old, as old as Moore Town itself for all I knew. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered me one, which I declined. He lit one with a blue plastic lighter.
“That treasure is ours, not the government’s. And anyway, 75 percent still not enough.” His eyes narrowed as smoke wafted up from his nostrils.
His statement intimated that there was a treasure. I sat forward.
“Why’s that?”
He blew smoke out hard. “Many of Henry Morgan’s men were freed slaves, Maroons. They could fight like hell, and Morgan had been a reasonable man, lieutenant governor of Jamaica in the end, and treated men like men, not property.” He took a long drag on the cigarette. “Some of those Maroons helped Morgan hide what he took from Panama.”
I saw certainty in his eyes, and a hot flash danced on my nerve endings.
“Morgan trusted us, our ancestors, and we want our share. You didn’t bribe nobody, and I don’t think it’s because you’re a fool. I think you might be one-a them rare, recovering greed addicts who’d rather lose than get dirty again.”
I glanced at Nanny—her face was impassive. She’d be a hell of a poker player. I sat back in the wood chair, which creaked loudly.
“And given that Jack Dodson was once my partner and is now my sworn enemy, I’d do anything to prevent them from finding something of value.”
The vision of Heather on Jack’s boat had me wince.
“So you think about it, Buck Reilly. You tell Nanny what you willing to give up to get the Morgan treasure, then we talk again.” He stubbed out his cigarette in a clean ashtray and sat back in his chair.
“You know where it is?” I said. “The Morgan treasure?”
“Ha! We know that, why’n the hell I’d be talking to you?” He shook his head and shot Nanny a look. “No, we have a lot of old papers from back then, from the men who helped Morgan, they mention details we want you to help us figure out if we can agree on terms. That’s what we need you for.”
Maroon Rising Page 4