The Danger

08 September 1665

Samuel came awake to the strong taste of rum being forced down his throat. He gagged.

“Drink it, Samuel,” ordered York. “It’ll clear your head.” Once again the burning liquid was forced past his lips.

Choking and spitting, he sat up and leaned back against the bulwark. He would have vomited, too, had there been anything in his belly. For three days, the crew of the Griffin had battled the storm. There had been no time for eating or sleeping with the destruction of the ship so close at hand.

The storm. That was what was different now. The tempest had passed, praise heaven. The rain had ceased, the wind was down, and the sea was calm. But the Griffin — the barque looked like the aftermath of a battle. Ropes and debris littered the deck. The mizzenmast had been snapped in half, and a loose starboard cannon had smashed through planking and partially collapsed a companionway.

The cabin boy’s eyes turned to York. The barber’s white smock was spattered with blood. Amputations of broken or crushed limbs, thought Samuel. The pungent smell of burned flesh filled the air. Stumps sealed, wounds cauterized, all to prevent an infection that would very likely come anyway.

The feeling of hopelessness that washed over Samuel was becoming more and more familiar. His had not been a happy life — he had been kidnapped from his family at the age of six, and had worked as a chimney sweep before running away to sea. Yet the despair that visited him now was sharper than what he remembered from his deprived childhood. Fear of dying was not nearly as unpleasant as fear of living. The captain and crew of the Griffin were privateers — licensed pirates. Murderers, torturers, thieves. The world would have been a finer place had the ship and all hands gone down in the gale.

“Any idea where we are, sir?” Samuel asked listlessly.

“None at all, sad to say,” the barber told him. “Separated from the fleet and leagues off course. ’Twill be a miracle if any of us see home again. Now shake a leg. The captain’s cabin needs tidying after the storm.”

James Blade’s quarters were in a frightful state. He was not a neat man to begin with, hurling objects in his terrible temper, and letting dropped items lie where they fell. The storm had added to this disarray. Possessions and bedclothes were strewn about the deck space, and a crystal decanter of brandy had shattered. Books had toppled from the shelving and lay open, the paper soaking up the brown liquid.

Samuel rescued the books first, out of a feeling that they were more precious than anything else in the room. Although he could not understand the strange symbols on their pages, he suspected that the volumes revealed a world less harsh than this one. A world where life held more than suffering, violence, and greed.

Lying in the twisted bed linens was the captain’s snake whip, its baleful emerald eye glowing from its setting in the carved whalebone handle. Samuel drew back. This was the object he hated more than any other — almost as much as he hated Captain Blade himself. The image of Evans the sail maker, Samuel’s only friend, brought tears to the cabin boy’s eyes. The poor old man had tasted this whip many times. Those floggings had brought on the terrible circumstances in which Blade had pushed Evans to his death.

He was about to make up the captain’s berth when the cry came:

“Sail ho!”

A ship! The fleet!

By the time Samuel reached the companionway, seamen were flocking to the port gunwale, and an excited babble rose from the deck. Samuel joined the rush, careful to avoid stepping on the rats that any shipboard stampede was sure to stir up.

Captain Blade strode to the rail. “Well, come on, man! Is she one of ours?”

“She’s square-rigged, sir! I’m looking for a marking.”

With a practiced flick of the wrist, Blade snapped open his brass spyglass and put it to his eye.

“A galleon, by God! She’s a Spaniard!”

York pushed his way forward. “One of the treasure fleet?”

“Aye!” roared the captain. “Storm-damaged and helpless. Take up your swords, lads! This night we’ll be counting our plunder!”