The Deep

30 August 1665

The settlement of Portobelo was ablaze. The bodies of its soldiers and citizens lay strewn about its ruined streets.

Samuel wandered through the bloody chaos, the blade of his sword striking sparks as he dragged it across the cobblestones. He did not have the strength to heft it, and certainly not the will. Samuel Higgins had been kidnapped from his family at the age of six, and had lived a life of privation and torment. Yet this was the lowest he had ever sunk in misery. He had not known the true mission of the Griffin when he had signed on. Even upon learning the truth, he could never have imagined this frenzied rampage of torture and murder.

Sick at heart, he walked away from the mayhem and started back to the beach. He had no definite plan. Perhaps he would sit on the sand and wait for this nightmare to be over. But he had not ruled out walking straight into the sea until the blue water swallowed him forever.

And then his back exploded with pain, and he fell to the street, waiting for death. Surely, this was a musket ball that had struck him down. He turned, expecting to see a Spanish soldier reloading his weapon. Instead, it was the tall figure of Captain James Blade, furling the leather of his whip. Set in the handle, an emerald the size of a robin’s egg gleamed cruelly in the sun.

“Going somewhere, boy?”

The true extent of his predicament brought Samuel out of his daze. Walking away in the middle of a battle was desertion — a hanging offense.

“Captain,” he said beseechingly, “what use have you for me in this fight — a boy who cannot even lift his sword?”

“I’ll kill you myself if you turn your back on your duty again!” Blade threatened. He reached down, grabbed a handful of Samuel’s unruly brown hair, and drew the boy to his feet. “These foul maggots call you Lucky. Be they right or be they wrong, they take heart when they see you. And you will be seen!”

So Samuel dragged himself and his sword back to the battle.

Musket fire was heard in the alleyway behind the merchants’ houses. A lead ball ripped into the stone wall of the church, missing Samuel by inches. Terrified, he ran around the corner of the building and stopped short. There in front of him stood a captain of the Spanish garrison.

The officer reared back a double-edged broad-sword, preparing to deliver a blow that would slice the cabin boy in half. Samuel raised his own sword in a feeble attempt to ward off the attack. He closed his eyes, waiting for it all to end.

Suddenly, distant drums resounded through the burning town, beating out the cease-fire. It was the garrison at Santiago, signaling the Spanish surrender.

Portobelo was won.

And young Samuel Higgins was still lucky.