The Discovery

28 August 1665

The cruel crack of Captain James Blade’s whip was familiar now. The percussive snap of oiled leather slicing into lacerated skin, the agonized howls of the unfortunate seaman, the evil green flash of the huge emerald embedded in the handle of the captain’s favorite implement of torture.

Today’s victim was Clark, the bosun’s mate. But in the man’s piteous complaint, young Samuel Higgins could hear the cries of Evans the sail maker, the only person on this earth who had ever befriended an orphaned cabin boy. Old Evans, now long dead, like so many others on this terrible crossing.

The captain was rearing back for another brutal lash when the shout was heard from the rigging.

“Land, ho!”

And, mercifully, the flogging was over. The celebration was unlike anything Samuel had ever seen — a mad scramble for the gunwales, all eyes straining to drink in the narrow green-brown ribbon barely visible on the horizon. After four long months at sea, suffering harsh treatment and privations, watching more than half of their numbers succumb to malnutrition, fever, and scurvy, the weary crew of the Griffin had reached the New World. On a boat with a stench fouler than the filthiest sewer in Liverpool, the tattered seamen danced and cheered like children on May Day.

The captain peered through his long spyglass and emitted a bellow of triumph. “Portobelo, by God! Just a few miles down the coast!” There was a roar of approval from the assembled throng.

York reached out a dirty hand and ruffled Samuel’s unruly hair. “To traverse the great sea and strike land a cannon shot from your destination! Aye, boy, that’s like firing a musket ball half a league straight through a keyhole! You’re a lucky one, Samuel Higgins. Well named, you are.”

Praise from the ghoulish barber always made Samuel’s skin crawl. But the feeling quickly dissipated, swept up in the joy of their arrival. Land! The endless voyage was finally over.

He ran his fingers through the few copper coins in his breeches — meager wages for these long months at sea, yet still more money than he had ever held in his thirteen years. “Clean water,” he said aloud. “That’s what I’ll ask for first. And bread — fresh baked, with no maggots in it.”

“Are you feebleminded, boy?” York cried in disbelief. “That little town there is the western terminus of the Spanish treasure fleet, the richest place in all Creation. We’re not here to visit, Lucky. We’re here to plunder their treasure and burn their city to the ground!”