The Lost City

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With the blazing tropical sun moving rapidly toward the west, Capitan José Fernández de Santillán of the Spanish galleon San José raised a telescope to his eye and watched the horizon with a growing sense of dread. He knew the British were in the area off the coast of Cartagena, sailing in a squadron under the command of the daring Englishman Charles Wager, but where exactly was still a mystery.

But what they wanted was no mystery.

The gold.

But the British had no right to the gold because the Spanish had found it first. They had fought the Incans for it, and won. The hoard he was transporting across the oceans back to Spain was not intended for British coffers. King Philip V had been very clear in his proclamation. Santillán had heard rumors about the depressed king, and his penchant for being sung to sleep every night by the Italian castrato Farinelli, but while that was hearsay confined to the royal court, the orders about the treasure couldn’t be any clearer. He was to return to Spain with the Lost Treasure of the Incas in his hold as fast as the prevailing westerlies could carry the San José, and no mistake.

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