The Deep

30 August 1665

If Samuel had thought the surrender meant the end of the bloodshed, he was sorely mistaken. Now in firm control of the settlement, the privateers went completely berserk. For nearly four months they had been trapped aboard ship — mistreated, malnourished, and, on top of their discomfort, bored to the brink of insanity. Now this sealed cauldron of frustrated energy boiled over onto the hapless citizens of Portobelo.

The cruelty was beyond imagination. As the towering sails of the privateer fleet moved into the captured harbor, screams rang out from every house in the shattered town. Even the church was no sanctuary. Torture and murder became an entertainment. Looting followed naturally, as the dead had no use for possessions. Every ring, every bracelet, every cross, even of base metal, found its way into an English pocket.

Samuel was assigned to York to help with the wounded privateers. The barber was in his customary condition — blood-soaked. The saw he used for his terrible amputations looked like a utensil from a slaughterhouse.

Samuel hated any time he was forced to spend with York. But today it was a mercy, because it kept him away from the plunder and carnage all around him.

Right now York was attending to Patchett. The chief gunner had sustained a sword slash to the shoulder. It was almost a stroke of good luck. A few inches lower, and the man would certainly have lost his arm to York’s saw. But a shoulder could not be amputated. It had to be treated, and the treatment was this:

The barber brought out a small tin from the pocket of his greasy vest and handed it to Samuel. As Patchett howled in agony, York reached filthy fingers into the wound and separated the torn flesh. It was Samuel’s job to pour the contents of the tin into the long cut.

Samuel lifted the tin and recoiled in revulsion. Instead of healing powder, the container was crawling with maggots.

“Sir!” he cried. “The worms have eaten the medicine!”

York roared with laughter. “The worms are the medicine, Lucky! They’ll eat the bad flesh and leave the good intact. Now pluck out four lively ones and drop them inside.”

Samuel did as he was told, then ran behind the back of the Casa Real and vomited until there was nothing left to come up.

Then the shouting began, Captain Blade’s voice louder than any other. Samuel followed the sound, fully aware that he should probably be running in the opposite direction. The throng of privateers was assembled in front of the large storehouses at the waterfront. The wealth of the New World was collected in these buildings — precious metals from the mines of the natives to the south, and unimaginable riches from the Orient. The treasure was carried overland by mule train from Panama on the Pacific side of the isthmus to this very spot. Here it waited for the great galleons to convey it to the Spanish king.

Samuel had heard the sailors of the Griffin speak of this place on their journey. It was, quite simply, the richest acre on the face of the earth.

The huge doors had been thrown open, revealing the contents of the legendary storehouses. Even from a distance, Samuel could see that they were all empty.

He had witnessed many displays of ill temper and homicidal rage during his time as James Blade’s cabin boy. But never had he seen his captain in such a state. The mayor of Portobelo cowered on the ground before him, offering information in exchange for his life.

“The galleons, they leave — four days since! Take all treasure! We hide nothing! I swear!”

Captain Blade drew out his lash, and the mayor shrank away in terror. The whip cracked — not at the pitiful Spaniard, but over the heads of the privateer crew. It was a call to attention.

“Back to the ships, you scurvy rats! Those galleons are wallowing low with our treasure! Keep your swords handy, lads! The killing’s not over yet!”