The Deep

29 August 1665

The sword was the smallest that could be found aboard the Griffin, yet thirteen-year-old Samuel Higgins could barely lift it with both hands.

“But what am I to do with this, sir?” the cabin boy asked in alarm.

York, the ship’s barber and surgeon, regarded him sternly. “We’re going into battle, Lucky. You won’t be picking your teeth with it.”

Samuel was aghast. “Me? I’m to join the fight?”

The word had spread like wildfire through the English privateer fleet that the invasion of Portobelo was at hand. This was what they had crossed the perilous Atlantic for, losing fully a third of their number to scurvy, fever, and the malevolent sea. At the end of this day lay riches beyond their wildest dreams.

In a secluded inlet, forty miles north of the treasure city, the nine remaining privateer ships lay at anchor. Each vessel was manned by a skeleton crew. The majority of the English seamen were loaded onto a flotilla of twenty-four canoes. These had been carried all the way from Liverpool for exactly this purpose — a sneak attack on Portobelo.

Hugging the coast, the canoes were paddled south, rushed along by the fast-moving current. Each narrow craft was about forty feet long and equipped with a small sail. The assault force totaled about five hundred in number. They were led by the captain of the Griffin, the dreaded corsair James Blade.

“Row, you scurvy scum!” the captain roared. “We reach Portobelo before dawn, or your bodies will lie at the bottom of the bay!”

Struggling with a heavy oar, Samuel knew this was not an empty threat. Over the course of their terrible journey, he had seen Blade strike, flog, and even hang his crew. And the cruel captain had murdered Evans, the sail maker, Samuel’s only friend aboard the barque. The memory of that good man’s terrible end still caused the boy to well up with suppressed anger.

By the time they had covered the forty-mile distance, Samuel’s hands were raw and bleeding. He wasn’t sure he would be able to clutch his sword, much less defend himself with it.

Blade indicated a pattern of flickering lights in the moonless blackness ahead. “The torches of Santiago Castle! Muffle the oars! We’ll take those fancy dons by surprise!”

No sooner had the words passed his lips than giant signal fires flared, illuminating the stone fortress before them. There was a flash, followed by a huge explosion. A split second later, a cannonball sizzled over their heads, close enough for Samuel to feel its hot wind. It struck the water behind them, sending up a steaming geyser.

“To the beach!” howled Blade, standing in the bow, a cutlass in one hand and his bone-handled snake whip in the other. “If you want to line your pockets with Spanish gold, first stain your swords with Spanish blood!”

The battle had begun.