Ilha de Gorée, located just south of the Cape Verde Peninsula—the westernmost point of Africa—was one of the earliest Portuguese colonial outposts on the continent.
Formed from a massive basaltic uplift in the ocean, the island looked from afar like a ferocious beast, baring its jagged fangs at the fertile African mainland.
Now, over a hundred Portuguese settlers lived on the island, primarily engaged in trade and ship repair.
Beyond this point, the known world ended. The remaining maps were blank slates shrouded in mystery.
To the east of Gorée lay Senegal, straddling the edge of the Sahara Desert and the West African savanna. South of the Senegal River, the desert gradually gave way to grasslands, where the locals grew unknown grains, legumes, and root crops as staples.
Even further south stretched the Gulf of Guinea, where the climate grew more humid—and more treacherous. The region was ravaged by malaria, making it nearly impossible to venture inland.
East of there lay the land of gold: the Mali Empire.
After a few days of rest, Isaac sought out Captain Fernando.
Upon meeting, Fernando apologized:
"I'm sorry, my dear prince. I was too impatient—we should have waited until the storm season had passed before setting sail."
Isaac shook his head.
"It's all right. Captain, what are your plans now?"
"Prince Henry tasked us with exploring the areas around Gorée, capturing slaves, and trading gold with local chieftains. The goal is to restore the confidence of merchants back home. We don't plan to sail further south. What about you?"
"We'll continue southward—seeking the land of gold and spreading the gospel of the Lord."
"You truly are a devout believer, prince from afar."
They shook hands. Isaac replenished freshwater and provisions, repaired the broken mast, and set sail again.
In truth, once past the strong headwinds of the northwest African coast, the voyage was smooth—favorable winds and currents carried them forward.
After leaving Gorée, the skies cleared and the breeze was gentle.
As the Grand Duke of Morea continued south along the West African coast, the landscape gradually transformed—from desert to savanna, and then to dense tropical forests.
More and more coastal tropical tribes appeared. Isaac often spotted blacks living along river estuaries, fleeing in panic as they caught sight of the ships. Sailors laughed and pointed excitedly.
A shipboard priest raised his cross, mumbling prayers.
Sometimes, Isaac would stop to trade with larger tribes.
The tribal chieftains, unfamiliar with firearms and steel, were fascinated by Isaac and the white men.
Isaac offered trinkets from the ship and traded them for the golden chains adorning the chieftains' ankles.
The locals were especially fond of glass beads, treasures beyond compare to them.
Isaac mimed his way through the trades until the chieftain finally understood.
The chief casually tore off his chain and tossed it to Isaac, who repaid him with three glass beads.
Thus, through these stop-and-go trades, Isaac filled a large basket with gold ornaments.
He knew there were likely open-pit gold mines deep in the jungle, and some sailors wanted to venture inland.
But Isaac strictly forbade it.
Malaria was no joke.
Before quinine's discovery, Europeans rarely ventured inland, limiting their colonial presence to coastal areas for this very reason.
The coast was safer.
One morning, Isaac woke and checked the carved marks on his desk.
It was October 10, 1445.
Opening the door, he heard the calls of seabirds and the usual sailor curses.
On deck, idle sailors were gambling, and Isaac, in an effort to keep morale high, had tolerated the practice. He even distributed a year's wages in advance and occasionally joined in.
He also started a literacy campaign aboard the ship, enlisting shipboard priests to teach Greek.
Many of the sailors—Bulgarians, Romanians, Albanians—were from cultures influenced by Greek. Though many could speak Greek, few could read or write.
Isaac offered generous rewards for those who enrolled.
Over the past few months, 23 had learned the basics, including one of the Genoese crossbowmen.
He ordered Fidel to remember their names—they would form the next generation of officers as the fleet grew.
Soft power matters.
He also instructed the navigators to draw detailed maps—and keep them secret.
"Land ahead—appears to be a large island group!"
A lookout called down from the mast.
Isaac's eyes lit up.
"Captain, let's take a look."
They had already passed many small islands and reefs, most of them barren and worthless. Every sighting raised hope—then dashed it.
But this time, the island group was large, dotted with native villages.
The Grand Duke of Morea anchored in a calm bay. Isaac led a landing party of sailors and mercenaries to the largest island by longboat.
The island was lush and moist, with abundant palm trees.
As the party approached, a Genoese crossbowman shot a fleeing native who collapsed to his knees, repeatedly shouting, "Bijagó!"
Isaac smiled.
This was the Bijagós Archipelago, off the coast of Guinea-Bissau.
It was likely named by Portuguese explorers after the local chief they first encountered—Bijagó.
Isaac sent the longboat back for more men and ordered camp set up.
Sure enough, before they could finish their meal, Chief Bijagó himself arrived, carried on a four-man litter, flanked by hundreds of warriors brandishing stones.
He had no intention of talking—just pointed and attacked.
The black warriors charged from the forest into the open beach—and were promptly cut down by Genoese crossbows.
The battle was no contest.
Soon, the once-proud Chief Bijagó was on his knees, sobbing and kissing Isaac's boots.
A group of natives brought out baskets of offerings—few gold items, mostly tribal crafts and trinkets.
Disappointed, Isaac gave Bijagó a kick.
Then, he took all the gold, dumped the rest at the feet of a thin, trembling native.
The man glanced nervously at Chief Bijagó, unsure what to do.
Bijagó glared at him—but Isaac made a signal.
Maruna grinned and beheaded the chief with one stroke.
He handed the leaf crown to Isaac, who ceremonially placed it on his head—and then on the thin native's.
"What's your name?"
The man pointed to himself.
"Danjiro. Danjiro!"
"Well then, Danjiro, you're the new chief now."
Isaac patted his head.
Danjiro bowed frantically, kissing Isaac's boots.
He ran off, roaring with joy, showing off his crown to the others—and cursing the chief's corpse.
The next day, Danjiro delivered fresh water and food.
Isaac explored other islands in the archipelago, repeating the same playbook—removing hostile chiefs and installing loyal ones.
He named the three largest islands after their respective chiefs.
Danjiro Island – the biggest
Baltan Island – to the east
Namba Island – to the north
The archipelago retained the name Bijagós.
Isaac planned to turn it into a hub for slave and gold trade.
It was close to the mainland, had calm waters, quality timber for building boats, and abundant fish and game.
He summoned Maruna, Fidel, and the other officers.
"In the name of God, I claim this archipelago for myself, Isaac of House Palaiologos."
"I plan to make this our forward base in Africa. I'll be moving more settlers here. Who wants to stay?"
Silence.
Everyone looked away in perfect coordination.
"This will become a governor's district. The first to stay will become its governor."
Now, murmurs.
"You may not be noblemen yet, but I believe the future governor should at least be a count."
"I'll stay!"
Isaac turned—it was the rigging chief who had once made a mistake.
"Very good. Gossia, you are now Governor of the Bijagós Archipelago. Baltan Island is your fief. You'll provide me with taxes and troops—and join my campaigns."
"It is my honor, my lord!"
Isaac had him kneel and knighted him with his sword.
"Protect this land in my name."
"So I swear!"
"Rule it justly in my name."
"So I swear!"
"Wage war on dissent in my name."
"So I swear!"
He handed Gossia a governor's scepter and a count's patent—all prepared in advance for moments like this.
Everyone was stunned.
You're really giving him the title?!
Though it was largely symbolic—a governor without a government and a count without subjects—the honors were real. And it was clear that the archipelago would grow in importance.
The other officers groaned in regret.
Isaac smirked as he watched them buzz around the stunned new governor.
A calculated show. A golden bone to get the dogs fighting next time.
Recruitment for the garrison went much better.
Now that the man who was playing cards yesterday was suddenly a count, everyone wanted in.
The 20 spots filled quickly.
Isaac gave them weapons and supplies, ordering them to use native labor, build shelters, and start farming.
He bid farewell to Governor Gossia, then resumed trading with coastal tribes, acquiring more gold, charting maps and sea routes.
The return trip was smooth—thanks to the detailed records they'd made.
On November 2, 1445, Isaac returned to Portuguese Gorée, greeted by a grinning Captain Fernando—clearly pleased with his own gains.
After a short rest, the fleet prepared to sail home.
They were fewer in number.
The St. Nicholas was still missing. Fernando had lost two supply ships and a caravel.
On November 10, they reached the Canary Islands.
The French refugees had settled in. Lothair had purchased 200 Orthodox Slavic slaves. The first shelters were built, and the settlers were trying to plant a crop of rye in the volcanic soil.
A small Orthodox chapel now stood on the island.
For just a few months' work, it was impressive.
Isaac praised Lothair and made him Governor of La Palma, bestowing the title of Baron.
Without delay, Isaac departed again.
Before leaving, he met with Governor Lothair to lay out future plans:
Build a full port system—the reason they bought La Palma.
Recruit refugees and buy slaves—only Orthodox slaves, with the promise of manumission; French refugees willing to convert could join too.
Form a militia and build a fortress—for defense.
"Work hard. In time, all the population, gold, and goods of West Africa will pass through here. You'll never be poor.
Isaac patted Lothair's shoulder.
On November 12, Isaac set sail again. Conti and his French knights accompanied him back.
In a few weeks, they would finally return to the European mainland, after half a year abroad.
…
"This is the 63rd day stranded on this island. Since the great storm, the St. Nicholas and her crew have lost contact with the civilized world…"
"During the storm, we lost our rigging and drifted aimlessly until we reached this archipelago…"
"I sent First Mate Owen to scout the islands—eight major ones, several smaller. Strangely, the northern islands have northeast winds, the southern ones southwest winds—the currents converge here. No wonder we were swept in…"
"There's little tall vegetation, but plenty of rodents, shellfish, and crabs along the shore. With our remaining supplies, we've managed to survive…"
"The St. Nicholas is badly damaged. We've tried everything, but the hull breach is beyond repair—for now…"
"I love the evening breeze here. It reminds me of Crete—but not its abundance…"
The middle-aged man closed his logbook.
Sailors in the distance were fishing—Catholic and Orthodox alike, now close friends.
If Captain Fidel were here, he would have recognized the man at once—his fellow Cretan, Henry, who had succeeded him as captain of the St. Nicholas.
Nearby, the ship lay beached, surrounded by sailors hammering at its hull.
"Captain! Captain!"
Henry looked up. It was Owen, returning from another expedition.
"Owen! Any good news?"
"Captain, we found a small valley on the westernmost island—with plenty of tall trees!"
"We can finally repair the hull!"