Page 57 of Camino Ghosts

“I’ll be there. What time?”

“Ten. And if you bring some of those coconut cookies, that’d be nice.”

“Will do.”

The porch was so narrow their toes almost touched. They sipped coffee and nibbled on cookies and talked about the weather until Lovely said, “If I go, things will be okay.”

Diane waited for more, and when nothing came she said, “You want to go to the island?”

“That’s right. If I go I can release the curse. And they can’t find the cemetery without me.”

“So, let me get this straight. It’s okay for the team to go onto the island, all of them, including us white people? But only if you go too?”

“Yes. I must go.”

“And I can go too?”

“I want you to go. The spirits are with me and they know that good people are trying to help.”

“Okay. How soon can we go?”

“Wednesday of next week is a full moon. We go at midnight.”

“Midnight?”

“Yes.”

7.

The large pontoon boat was used for sunset excursions, booze cruises, private parties, and sightseeing around Camino Island. Steven wrangled a one-week lease from its owner for $2,500, supposedly at a discount. The team arrived at the island’s main harbor late in the afternoon of April 22 and began loading gear and supplies onto the boat.

The team consisted of two men and a woman affiliated with the African Burial Project. All three were black, thanks to Marlo Wagner’s charm and salesmanship, and they were led by Dr. Sargent, chair of the Department of Anthropology at Howard University in Washington. The truth was that once word of the expedition spread through the network, Marlo was flooded with requests from volunteers. With good nature and a dose of humor, she explained that black gravediggers were preferred for reasons to be discussed later. The dig might be too dangerous for white folks. Most of the archaeologists, black and white, knew each other and many had worked together.

The white team was led by Dr. Gilfoy, who years earlier had studied with Dr. Sargent at Cornell. All six had doctoral degrees and worked in both the classroom and the field. Dr. Sargent had published two books on lost African burial grounds and was considered the leading expert.

After dark, Bruce Cable arrived with Claude the Cajun Caterer and a case of wine. Dinner was served under the pontoon’s canopy and the team dined on gumbo, jambalaya, and crawfish étouffée. The wine and beer flowed along with the stories. There were plenty of them, told by seasoned raconteurs who’d had amazing experiences digging in jungles, mountains, and deserts the world over. As the evening wore on, it slowly became apparent that Dr. Sargent had the best stories and the most experience with African burial sites, and, without seeming pushy or ambitious, he gradually took charge. There were plenty of egos around the table, but they were accustomed to teamwork in difficult places.

At 10:00 p.m., on schedule, Diane and Mercer arrived with Lovely Jackson, who had ditched the colorful robes and turbans and wore instead old jeans, boots, and a khaki shirt that was three sizes too big. The party belonged to her and she took her time meeting the team, all of whom were delighted to meet her.

Mercer had taken a one-week leave of absence from the classroom, something her dean wasn’t exactly thrilled about but he really had no choice. She had a big book contract, something the other professors could only dream of.

They gathered around a table and looked at large maps and aerials of Dark Isle, both before and after Hurricane Leo. Lovely had never seen the island from the air and it took her a while to get oriented. She pointed to a small cove where the boats were kept at a dock. It was on the eastern edge of the island, facing Santa Rosa, and had been obliterated by Leo. It was a short walk from the dock to the village. The cemetery was on the western edge of the island, on a ridge that was the highest point.

The archaeologists had platted every square foot of the island, or as much as could be seen from the air. The density of the forests and the damage from Leo made it impossible to see any remains from the settlement. They pointed here and there on various maps, quizzed Lovely, scratched their heads, and slowly put together a plan.

At eleven o’clock, Ronnie, the boat captain, started the engines. Bruce and Steven helped shove the pontoon away from the pier, then said their goodbyes. Bruce called out, “If we don’t see you again we will not attempt a rescue.” Everyone laughed.

Inching across the still water under a full moon, the mood quieted as Santa Rosa faded behind them and Dark Isle loomed ahead. Twenty minutes after leaving the harbor, Ronnie throttled down, then killed the engines. “We’re in five feet of water here. This is okay?”

“Okay,” replied Diane.

A small dinghy was starboard and Ronnie unhooked it from the pontoon. Diane stepped into it first and found her balance. Mercer went second. “Watch your step,” she said to Lovely as Ronnie held her arm and guided her down. The dinghy rocked and Lovely tilted before Diane caught her and eased her onto the bench. Ronnie handed Diane three large canvas bags and said, “The surf will take you in but there is a paddle if you need it.”

The dinghy drifted away from the pontoon. Diane clicked on a flashlight and scanned the beach, which was thirty yards away. The shoreline and the entire island were pitch-black. She turned around and swept the light behind her to see the pontoon, as if making sure it and the team were still there. They were all leaning on the railing, watching, mesmerized. The moon came from behind a cloud and lit up the shore. Mercer took the paddle, a tool with which she had zero experience, and managed to splash some water. It wasn’t clear if her efforts were productive, but the dinghy seemed to be inching closer to land.

Lovely sat in the front, staring ahead, silent, unflinching as the boat rocked gently forward. As a child she had played in the water but never spent time on boats. That was work for the men: fishing, shrimping, trading with the merchants in The Docks and around the canneries. She had learned to swim and wasn’t afraid of the water, but that was so long ago. She thought of Nalla and her violent, horrifying arrival on this beach. Shipwrecked, naked, hungry, traumatized by the passage and then the storm. Nalla was never far from her thoughts.

Diane’s stomach was flipping, and she could not remember being so frightened, but at the same time the adrenaline was pumping. She was exactly where she wanted to be and she trusted Lovely to protect her. Mercer put the paddle away and tried to enjoy the moment.

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