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Authors: John H. Cunningham
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plastic case. Without a word she nodded for me to follow and led me to a quiet picnic table on the edge of the water sports area.
“Sleep well?” she said.
“My mind was playing tricks on me at first, but I slept fine,” I said. “How was the night flight?”
She shook her head. “I stayed here last night.”
“Then why meet at this grotto instead of one of our rooms?”
Her eyes narrowed. “It seemed prudent.”
She didn’t want anybody to see me visiting her? Again I took in her supple body. She didn’t trust us alone together?
I glanced at the plastic case. It was waterproof and looked heavy. She must have seen the crease in my brow.
“Michael brought it with him last night.” She grabbed the two clasps that held the case shut, then looked up at me. “I take it you’re still committed to what we discussed at dinner?”
“More than ever. What have you got?”
Inside the case were several archival sleeves filled with various notes, drawings, even a small leather-bound diary. A tingle ran down my arms and into my fingertips. She laid everything out on the table: I counted seven documents, including the diary. I put my finger gently on top of that one.
“Henry Morgan’s last diary,” she said. “Only a few pages filled, but there are some important passages that mention the name Njoni, one of his most trusted privateer associates. A Maroon—”
“Whoa,” I said. “Back up.”
“What is it?”
“Njoni was the author of the letter that led to the Port Royal salvage effort. He said the treasure had been buried under the Jamison House—”
“Right, but this evidence leads us to conclude that was a ruse planned by Morgan to protect the treasure.”
My heart was racing. Pieces connected and hung in the air. What was true, what was a lie? Were we just seeing what we wanted to see? Always a concern in the hunt for antiquities, often a fatal mistake.
“And the rest?” I bent down to look at the sketches on bark or preserved parchment. My gaze stopped at a crude drawing on yellowed paper. It was too faded to determine the subject—all that remained visible were some curved lines. Which could be anything.
“Back in the day, I’d have these documents appraised for period and authenticity,” I said.
“They’re authentic, don’t worry.”
I stood up and looked into her eyes. She didn’t flinch.
“You’re a professor of archaeology,” I said. “Why do you need me? I don’t even understand the language on some of these—Ashanti, I presume?”
“That, and Akan. Just because we can read the language doesn’t mean we know how to tie this material together and figure out what it refers to.”
She took a deep breath. The sun through the trees caught her light brown eyes as she looked into mine.
She picked up the diary and removed it from the sleeve. As it opened, the pages moved around—they weren’t bound or fastened, just loose. She scanned through a few and pulled a couple out. One page was stained with what looked like old wine, the next was clean. She held the stained one up for me.
“The ink is seriously faded.” I leaned closer. The name Panama jumped off the page. I wished I at least had a magnifying glass.
I pointed to the page, a word that looked like “Njoni.”
Nanny nodded.
I scanned down further and while the language was virtually impossible to read given the faded ink, old English, and what almost seemed like code, a number jumped off the page: 100,000 pesos.
My finger stopped there.
“Exactly,” Nanny said.
“100,000 pesos in the late 1600s would be worth …” I tried to calculate. “Tens of millions today.”
“Ten percent of that’s not bad, Buck.”
Her words stung. People always assumed I’d only been after money, but I liked to think it was more the hunt, the historic value of the antiquities, and most of all the thrill of finding what no other man had been able to unearth for centuries that really drove me.
Nanny must have read my
“Sleep well?” she said.
“My mind was playing tricks on me at first, but I slept fine,” I said. “How was the night flight?”
She shook her head. “I stayed here last night.”
“Then why meet at this grotto instead of one of our rooms?”
Her eyes narrowed. “It seemed prudent.”
She didn’t want anybody to see me visiting her? Again I took in her supple body. She didn’t trust us alone together?
I glanced at the plastic case. It was waterproof and looked heavy. She must have seen the crease in my brow.
“Michael brought it with him last night.” She grabbed the two clasps that held the case shut, then looked up at me. “I take it you’re still committed to what we discussed at dinner?”
“More than ever. What have you got?”
Inside the case were several archival sleeves filled with various notes, drawings, even a small leather-bound diary. A tingle ran down my arms and into my fingertips. She laid everything out on the table: I counted seven documents, including the diary. I put my finger gently on top of that one.
“Henry Morgan’s last diary,” she said. “Only a few pages filled, but there are some important passages that mention the name Njoni, one of his most trusted privateer associates. A Maroon—”
“Whoa,” I said. “Back up.”
“What is it?”
“Njoni was the author of the letter that led to the Port Royal salvage effort. He said the treasure had been buried under the Jamison House—”
“Right, but this evidence leads us to conclude that was a ruse planned by Morgan to protect the treasure.”
My heart was racing. Pieces connected and hung in the air. What was true, what was a lie? Were we just seeing what we wanted to see? Always a concern in the hunt for antiquities, often a fatal mistake.
“And the rest?” I bent down to look at the sketches on bark or preserved parchment. My gaze stopped at a crude drawing on yellowed paper. It was too faded to determine the subject—all that remained visible were some curved lines. Which could be anything.
“Back in the day, I’d have these documents appraised for period and authenticity,” I said.
“They’re authentic, don’t worry.”
I stood up and looked into her eyes. She didn’t flinch.
“You’re a professor of archaeology,” I said. “Why do you need me? I don’t even understand the language on some of these—Ashanti, I presume?”
“That, and Akan. Just because we can read the language doesn’t mean we know how to tie this material together and figure out what it refers to.”
She took a deep breath. The sun through the trees caught her light brown eyes as she looked into mine.
She picked up the diary and removed it from the sleeve. As it opened, the pages moved around—they weren’t bound or fastened, just loose. She scanned through a few and pulled a couple out. One page was stained with what looked like old wine, the next was clean. She held the stained one up for me.
“The ink is seriously faded.” I leaned closer. The name Panama jumped off the page. I wished I at least had a magnifying glass.
I pointed to the page, a word that looked like “Njoni.”
Nanny nodded.
I scanned down further and while the language was virtually impossible to read given the faded ink, old English, and what almost seemed like code, a number jumped off the page: 100,000 pesos.
My finger stopped there.
“Exactly,” Nanny said.
“100,000 pesos in the late 1600s would be worth …” I tried to calculate. “Tens of millions today.”
“Ten percent of that’s not bad, Buck.”
Her words stung. People always assumed I’d only been after money, but I liked to think it was more the hunt, the historic value of the antiquities, and most of all the thrill of finding what no other man had been able to unearth for centuries that really drove me.
Nanny must have read my
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