The tiny, cramped bay of San Juan de Ulúa erupted into chaos as the sun approach its zenith overhead. The air, moments ago filled with the gentle lapping of waves in between closely moored ships, now crackled with cannon and musket fire and the clash of steel. Francis Drake, barely twenty-eight, burst from his cabin aboard the Judith, sword in hand. This was his first command as a captain. His eyes widened at the sight of Spanish Marines swarming over the rails, their faces twisted with rage. “Heretics!” they cried, their blades flashing. As Drake parried a vicious thrust, his mind raced. How had it come to this? The truce, the promises of safe harbor – all shattered in an instant. San Pedro’s cannon roared. In that moment, as the smell of gunpowder and blood filled his nostrils, Francis Drake knew that his life would never be the same.