Finally, Sammy, Cody, and Pafi arrived at the town, which was in a state of total panic. People were running amid screams and cries, while the cannon blasts from the Spanish squadron thundered through the air. Facades were being struck by projectiles, and several buildings were ablaze.
When they reached Connie's house, they found her crouched in a corner of the kitchen, a musket in one hand and the journal in the other. When the door opened, she nearly fired, but recognized her nephew just in time.
"What's going on?" she asked, getting up to hug him. "I was about to throw the journal into the fire when suddenly… boom! The first cannon shot rang out."
Sammy looked at the journal, grabbed it, and flipped through it. The pages were yellowed, some torn, filled with symbols and drawings.
"What is that book?" Cody asked.
"Apparently, my grandpa based his last novel on this journal," said Sammy.
They all gathered around to look over her shoulder. There were sketches of maps, islands, schematics of strange mechanisms, and drawings of skeletons. On one page, a skull-shaped rock was shown, with water flowing from its mouth.
"Is it black magic?" Connie asked nervously.
Sammy examined the pages, many of them covered in strange symbols.
"All I know is that the fat guy says it's the key to... understanding some of Hawk's documents," Sammy said.
"The ones in the tube?" asked Cody, as he opened it and pulled out the papers. They were navigation charts.
"Yes. He said he needed the journal to decipher them," Sammy confirmed.
"Could this be the cause of all this tragedy?" Connie murmured, frightened.
Everyone fell silent. At that moment, a whistle was heard, and the house shook from a nearby blast, followed by two more cannon shots. Sammy shut the journal tightly and clutched it to her chest.
"We have to get out of here," said Pafi, alarmed.
"Who's bombing us?" Connie asked.
"It's the Spanish. We have to go," Sammy replied urgently, grabbing a leather satchel and stuffing the journal inside.
"Heavens, for all the saints… Maybe they're after this. If the Holy Inquisition catches us, we might end up like the ones on Saint Maureé Island… where they executed everyone who didn't convert to Catholicism," said Connie, making the sign of the cross.
"I don't want to be burned alive," Cody said, pale.
Connie hurried to grab her savings, a Bible, and some provisions. Once ready, they set out for the docks. On the way, Sammy stopped, her eyes filled with determination.
"I have to find my grandfather. Maybe he returned home."
"I told you he's not there anymore!" Cody insisted, pulling her by the arm. Sammy struggled.
At that moment, several cannon shots landed nearby, shaking the ground. Connie urged them to move. Pafi ran off to catch up with his family, who were fleeing into the hills with other refugees. Sammy, Cody, and Aunt Connie descended toward the port, dodging debris, fires, and chaos. They passed wounded neighbors, mothers carrying children, and men trying to extinguish the flames.
When they reached the dock, El Cisne was hurriedly boarding refugees. Connie clutched her satchel to her chest and, upon seeing the pirate ship, stopped in her tracks.
"I am not getting on a pirate ship," she said indignantly.
"It's that or stay and be judged by the Holy Inquisition," Cody retorted.
Connie huffed but finally boarded with the others. Sammy also climbed aboard but, in a sudden impulse, jumped overboard and ran along the dock, pushing her way through the crowd.
"Sammy!" Cody shouted, running toward Sally. "Wait, please!"
"I can't wait for her," Sally replied coldly, and gave the order to set sail just as another volley of cannon fire rained down on the city.
******
From one of the warships bombarding the city—the Santa Carmen—Admiral Don Gonzalo de Vera y Montenegro observed the silhouette of the port through his spyglass, while the mist began to lift under the flickering light of the fires consuming the dockside warehouses. From the deck of the galleon—a seventy-four-gun colossus—his gaze swept over the improvised defenses of that British stronghold.
He was a tall Spaniard, broad-shouldered and built like a gladiator hardened by a thousand battles. His mere presence was enough to silence the deck. Beneath his powdered wig, two thick black sideburns spilled out with untamed arrogance, as if defying protocol itself. His bearing was that of a fighting bull dressed in uniform, with a steady gaze and a thunderous voice, used to issuing orders that allowed no contradiction.
"Luis Carlos, I require the report now," he commanded.
A young officer, just steps away from the admiral, promptly stepped forward—Luis Carlos de Ayala y Guzmán, a man who stood in stark contrast to the admiral. He was tall and pale, with a refined demeanor, more suited to pruning roses and chasing butterflies in the gardens of La Granja or Versailles than serving aboard a warship.
A minute later, several other officers arrived: the ship's captain, the chief gunner, and the boarding lieutenant among them.
"What is the status of the operation?" the admiral asked.
"Resistance continues in the city," one of them murmured hoarsely, just as a volley of cannon fire whistled nearby.
"What seems to be the problem?" the admiral asked the captain.
"They have coastal artillery... and a couple of brigs."
"We already sank one, sir," the chief gunner hastened to say. "The San Hermenegildo has the second pinned down—giving it no rest. We expect to neutralize it within the next few hours."
"What news from the fort?"
"It has fallen, according to the signals sent by the Carioca's men."
"And the Hawk?"
"We assume he's already in custody."
The admiral snapped his spyglass shut, turned around, and climbed the steps leading to the quarterdeck. From there, he watched as the frigates San Pedro and Santa Catalina positioned themselves windward, ready to flank the port.
"Have the Catalina open fire on the coastal batteries. If they take out that position, we'll be able to approach safely," he ordered.
The wind carried the scent of smoke, salt, and gunpowder. The admiral didn't need to look to know the city was already devastated.
"Wipe out all resistance. I want to disembark by dawn," he declared.
He turned to the main deck, where the gunners waited tensely at their stations.
"Full battery fire! Aim for the warehouses! Let the heretics and smugglers feel the weight of the King's hand!"
The signalman waved the red flag. A moment later, the broadside thundered like Judgment Day. The ship shook from keel to mast, the sails groaned, and the night lit up with flashes that etched fiery specters over the sea. In the distance, the warehouses and houses were struck with brutal precision. Stone and timber flew in every direction.
"I'll be in my cabin… At first light, those cannon mouths are to be silenced," the admiral added.
"What about the ships fleeing the port?" asked the lieutenant.
"Are they capable of combat?"
"Mostly merchantmen and fishing boats loaded with refugees..." the captain replied.
The admiral paused, turning his gaze back to the burning port.
"Let them go... Let them go and tell the tale of Spain's might, Luis Carlos," he said, turning to his aide. "Keep me informed of any complications."
With that, he slowly descended the stairs, just as another broadside erupted from the flaming mouths of his cannons.
******
Meanwhile, Sammy reached her house just as the bombardment intensified. Inside, she found signs of a struggle and, on the floor, a crude drawing: a cross marked in charcoal. She took it as a clue from her grandfather. Her heart pounded. She realized the city was lost and that she had to escape.
She ran back toward the harbor, but El Cisne was already sailing away into the open sea.
"Wait! Help me!" she shouted desperately.
Cody tried to jump into the water, but his aunt held him back. Seeing she wouldn't catch up, Sammy ran between gunfire and columns of smoke rising from the burning warehouses. The port of Tiburón Bay was ablaze. The Spanish cannons thundered with violence.
Amid overturned boats and charred nets, she spotted a fishing skiff half-hidden beneath a soaked tarp. The mast barely peeked out, and the sail was still rolled up. She yanked the tarp away. Inside, she found nets, hooks, two oars, a rusty anchor, and an unlit lamp.
She jumped in and untied the rope that secured it to a post. The boat rocked sharply. She had no experience, but she had watched the fishermen a thousand times. She knelt down, grabbed the oars, and began to move away from the coast, hiding among the smoke and floating debris.
Once she was far enough out, she clumsily raised the sail. The wind whipped it like a badly hung rag, but she managed to tighten it.
At last, she cleared the bay, leaving Tiburón Bay behind. When the city was just a burning dot on the horizon, Sammy collapsed onto the bottom of the boat, exhausted, as the sea breeze pushed her out to sea. She closed her eyes, wishing it were all just a nightmare.