As March 1663 dawned, the Spanish hammer finally fell. Don Juan José de Austria, with his formidable army of 12,500 infantry and 6,000 cavalry, launched the long-anticipated invasion of Portugal. It was the moment of truth for the newly arrived English auxiliaries, for General Schomberg's strategic genius, and for the entire Portuguese kingdom fighting for its very existence.
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The Siege of New Amsterdam, New Netherland (Early March 1663)
The early spring air in North America still carried winter's chill, but a new, more insidious tension than the frost had settled over the southern tip of Manhattan. Rumors of increasing English aggression in the surrounding colonies had materialized with the insolent presence of warships in the bay.
Hostilities began not with a formal, official declaration of war, but with a series of calculated provocations. From the first weeks of March 1663, Royal Navy patrols, officially on "anti-piracy" or "reconnaissance" missions along the American coast, began harassing Dutch merchant ships, inspecting vessels entering and leaving New Amsterdam, and pointedly ignoring warnings from the New Netherland authorities.
Governor-General Peter Stuyvesant, an iron-willed man and staunch defender of Dutch interests, felt the tide turning. The colony, though prosperous, was militarily vulnerable. Fort Amsterdam, a modest bastion, and a few palisades formed the bulk of its defenses. The militias were eclectic, and gunpowder supplies were limited.
Then, a more substantial English fleet appeared on the horizon. It was commanded by Commodore Richard Nicolls, a man of King Charles II, chosen for his loyalty and naval experience, but also for his ability to combine firmness with a certain form of "diplomacy"—or rather, an ultimatum. Nicolls was pragmatic, aware that the capture had to be swift and without excessive destruction for the colony to retain its value. His ships, including the flagship, the HMS Guinea, anchored in the bay, their cannons pointed towards the small town.
Commodore Nicolls sent a letter to Stuyvesant, demanding the immediate surrender of New Amsterdam. He offered generous terms to the Dutch colonists: retention of their properties, religious freedoms, and commercial privileges, provided they swore allegiance to the English Crown. The ultimatum was clear: peaceful acceptance or destruction by force.
Inside Fort Amsterdam, debates were stormy. Stuyvesant, furious, wanted to resist to the last man. He saw this attack as a blatant violation of peace. But the population and a part of his own council were tired of conflicts and saw no point in sacrificing themselves for a lost cause. The merchants, in particular, exerted all their weight to avoid the destruction of their goods and the ruin of their trade.
Commodore Nicolls, thanks to his network of spies and English sympathizers in neighboring colonies, was well aware of Stuyvesant's weaknesses and the division among the Dutch. He maintained the pressure, conducting shows of force with his cannons and landing scouts, without, however, launching the final assault.
The "siege" was therefore less a bloody assault than a stifling naval blockade and a psychological war of attrition, a technique that João (de Carrasca) would not have disliked.
On April 3, 1663, the gates of Fort Amsterdam opened. Peter Stuyvesant, limping on his wooden leg, handed the keys of the city to Commodore Richard Nicolls. New Amsterdam was renamed New York in honor of the Duke of York, Charles II's brother.
Paris, Louvre Palace, March 1663
News of the Dutch debacle in Ceylon and the Anglo-Portuguese involvement shook the European courts, and Louis XIV's was no exception. The young king, just emerged from Mazarin's regency and determined to assert his personal power, held council with his closest collaborators. The atmosphere was tense, yet filled with palpable excitement at distant opportunities.
Louis XIV, his gaze resolute, turned to Jean-Baptiste Colbert, his Superintendent of Buildings, Arts, and Manufactures, but already the strongman of finance and future Secretary of State for the Navy. By their sides were Hugues de Lionne, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and Michel Le Tellier, Secretary of State for War, both prestigious figures of the court.
"Gentlemen," the King began, his grave voice filling the room, "the echoes from Ceylon reach us. The Dutch East India Company, that arrogant commercial power, has been humbled. The Portuguese, with the help of the Kandy islanders, have broken their monopoly. And the English, our ancient rivals, seem intent on getting their slice of the pie by allying with these same Portuguese."
Colbert, always pragmatic and visionary, spoke, his hands sketching precise gestures. "Sire, this situation is a godsend. As England and the United Provinces inevitably head towards a naval confrontation, France must act. We can no longer merely watch the riches of the Orient slip through our fingers, monopolized by our neighbors."
He unrolled a summary map of India and Ceylon. "Our project for a French East India Company, which Your Majesty has graciously supported, must be accelerated. We must strike quickly, while our rivals are busy weakening each other. I propose allocating substantial funds this very month to arm a first squadron and prepare the Company's ships."
Le Tellier, a man of war, frowned. "Arming ships for the Orient, Sire? Our shipyards are already mobilized for the Royal Navy. Is this a priority given our land borders and the Habsburg threat?"
Colbert retorted immediately: "Monseigneur, war is also won by trade and the wealth it generates. The spices of Ceylon, the silk of China, the cottons of the Indies… These are the sinews of tomorrow's war! If we let the English and Dutch share this world, we will forever be their economic vassals. The weakening of the VOC creates a vacuum that France must fill."
Colbert leaned over the map, his finger pointing to the Coromandel coast. "Our first mission would be to establish a strategic trading post on the Indian coast, for example at Pondicherry. This site offers an excellent anchorage, ease of supply, and above all, its proximity to Ceylon is a major asset. From there, we can establish a lasting presence and support our ambitions."
Lionne, the experienced diplomat, intervened: "The diplomatic aspect will be delicate. The Portuguese have the wind in their sails in Kandy, and the EIC has interfered. Positioning ourselves as a simple conqueror would be a mistake, an unnecessary provocation."
"Exactly," Colbert agreed. "Our approach will be different. We will send a high-ranking emissary. Our goal will be to negotiate shares in Ceylon's trade, via the Portuguese. These nobles, who orchestrated the victory and have their own commercial interests towards Macao, will seek to maintain a balance. They won't want an omnipotent EIC. They might consider France a useful counterweight, a guarantee against a new monopoly on the island. We will offer equitable terms, emphasizing His Majesty's desire for fair and open trade with King Rajasinghe II of Kandy."
Louis XIV rose, his imposing silhouette casting a long shadow over the map. He had listened attentively, weighing each argument. Prestige, wealth, the vision of a dominant France on all seas… this resonated with his ambitions for grandeur.
"Colbert," the King declared in a firm voice, "your project has my full approval. Prepare the Company with the utmost haste. Provide the necessary means. I want our ships ready to sail before the end of the year. Let our emissaries be charged with the highest diplomacy. Let them make it clear to the King of Kandy that France respects his sovereignty, and to the Portuguese, that we are a reliable partner for the balance of power in Asia. While the English and Dutch exhaust themselves in what promises to be a long war, France will build its commercial empire."
The decision was made. The shadow of the future Sun King now stretched to the distant Indies, promising a new era of fierce competition for the riches of the Orient.
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Lisbon, Late February 1663
The Tagus, usually bustling with merchant ships, breathed a palpable anxiety. A dark rumor, soon confirmed by breathless dispatches from the borders, swept through the capital: Spanish armies, led by the formidable Don Juan José de Austria, were massing at the frontiers. The threat of a march on Lisbon loomed heavily over the nation. Far from any triumphant confidence, the Portuguese Crown, despite the initial benefits of new wealth, was fighting for its survival, draining its resources into a War for Independence that seemed endless. The entire nation lived under the banner of resistance, its very existence at stake.
It was precisely in this climate of extreme urgency and uncertainty that a convoy of even stronger symbolism took shape. Not a classic state expedition, given the already strained royal coffers, but an audacious commercial adventure spearheaded by the consortium "Horizontes do Brasil". This private entity, associating with numerous Portuguese merchants and companies willing to take the risk of trade in the Indies, was already profiting from the first diamonds of the Chapada Diamantina. Discovered and exploited since 1658, these deposits were beginning to fill private purses, even if their full production was still constrained by a lack of manpower. This influx of private wealth gave Portugal an unexpected opportunity for investment, despite the Crown's difficulties.
This convoy had been prepared for months, aiming to capitalize on the end of the Dutch cinnamon monopoly that "Horizontes do Brasil" had cleverly orchestrated, to gain easier access to Macao, freed from Dutch aggressions, and finally reach the Cathay market with its "heaven and earth treasure"—as most Cathay call rubber.
The mission was double and crucial. Firstly, it aimed to relieve the ten warships left in Ceylon. These vessels and their crews were the guarantors of the "Kandy Treaty." A hard-won bridgehead vital for future trade. Secondly, and this is where the private initiative fully manifested, this naval force escorted a large convoy of multi-company merchant ships. More numerous and varied than a strictly royal classic convoy, these vessels were loaded with European goods destined for Eastern trading posts. These exchanges, vital for maintaining a revitalized but still precarious national economy, had to continue at all costs, even with the specter of invasion hanging over the homeland.
As the ships, their sails swollen by a fragile hope, moved away from the mouth of the Tagus, every Portuguese remaining on the quay knew their departure was an act of faith. The distant and secondary rumors of the Anglo-Dutch War, overshadowed by the Spanish threat that grew clearer by the day, had not yet fully erupted. But in the air, one could smell the gunpowder and uncertainty. The promise of Brazil's riches was the only luxury Portugal could still afford to hope for, a means to project itself into an uncertain future.
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The English East India Company (EIC), although not directly involved in the siege of New Amsterdam, which fell under the purview of the Royal Navy and the King's direct interest in the North American colonies, actively supported Charles II's aggressive policies against the Dutch.
The EIC funded aspects of the English navy, and its own operations in West Africa and Asia contributed to the overall strategy of weakening the VOC.
The capture of New Amsterdam and the continuous harassment of Dutch ships by the EIC in West Africa and Asia were the triggers.
The official declaration of war between England and the United Provinces (the Second Anglo-Dutch War) would only occur a few months later, in August 1663, giving time for news of these "maneuvers" to reach London and The Hague, and for diplomatic efforts to prevent the conflict to fail.
The capture of New York was then presented as a major casus belli by the Dutch, and as a just recovery by the English.
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The March (1663) To Jail
The crisp air of March 1663 carried the rumble of war across the Alentejo. From the great fortress of Badajoz, the mighty Spanish army, led by the ambitious Don Juan José de Austria, poured into Portuguese territory. Their objective was Lisbon, their method overwhelming force, their belief in ultimate victory absolute.
The Spanish advance was methodical. In the initial weeks, they quickly seized several smaller, yet strategically important, Portuguese strongholds and fortified garrisons along their path. Places like Évora Monte and Borba fell, providing Don Juan José with forward bases and clearing his route deeper into the Alentejo. Each conquest seemed to confirm the inevitability of his triumph.
But with every mile gained, the Spanish supply lines stretched thinner, longer, and more vulnerable. It was then that the 2,000 Portuguese saboteurs, a force honed for a single, deadly purpose, sprang into action. Their mission was brutally precise: they were to target gunpowder convoys – the very lifeblood of the Spanish army. While Spanish foraging parties might gather food from the local countryside, a common and resented practice, the saboteurs largely left those alone. Their focus was surgical: to prevent the flow of explosive powder from Badajoz to the front lines. Bridges would collapse, vital pathways would become impassable quagmires, and, most critically, wagons laden with precious powder would explode in fiery plumes, their contents turning to smoke and ash. Don Juan's artillery, his heavy musketeers, soon faced the gnawing anxiety of dwindling, irreplaceable supplies.
The Spanish push, though hampered, continued. Don Juan José, eager for a grand prize, turned his formidable army towards Évora. The city, well-fortified and populous, should have resisted for months. Yet, a strategic order, born of the shrewd minds of Count of Vila Flor and General Schomberg, was whispered to the garrison. After a show of valiant but contained resistance, Évora's gates opened in a voluntary "surrender." The Spanish marched in triumphant, celebrating their easy conquest. Don Juan José, basking in the glory, believed Portugal was cracking, growing overconfident in his perceived invincibility and the speed of his advance.
But as the Spanish celebrated within Évora's walls, the Portuguese main army was executing a masterclass in maneuver. Vila Flor and Schomberg, commanding a significantly augmented force of approximately 20,000 men – including their core of battle-hardened Portuguese regulars and an unprecedented 5,000 English mercenaries – skillfully guided their troops across the Alentejo. Their objective was not to relieve Évora, but to lure the Spanish prince into a decisive, open-field engagement on ground of their choosing.
Their chosen ground was the undulating plains near Estremoz, at Ameixial. Here, the terrain suited their combined arms: open enough for the devastating charges of Portuguese cavalry, but with sufficient undulations and natural cover for the disciplined deployment of their infantry.
On June 8, 1663, the armies clashed. The Spanish, confident from Évora's easy fall, advanced aggressively. But they met a Portuguese line that seemed to stretch further, held with an unwavering resolve. The English mercenaries, forming the unyielding core of the Portuguese center, stood like an iron wall. Their volleys of musketry were precise, their pikes a forest of death. General Schomberg directed them with calm authority, their discipline holding fast even under intense Spanish pressure.
As the battle raged, the Spanish lines, already frayed by attrition from the saboteurs' work and struggling with powder shortages, began to waver. Then came the decisive moment. A powerful Portuguese counter-attack, spearheaded by a furious charge of cavalry, shattered a weakened Spanish flank. Amidst the chaos, as the Spanish lines buckled and began to break, a unit of the English mercenaries, their red coats a blur in the dust and smoke, pushed forward with relentless determination.
Their eyes, honed by years of European warfare, spotted a cluster of richly adorned Spanish officers attempting to rally their fleeing troops. Among them, unmistakable in his fine armor and regal bearing, was Don Juan José de Austria himself. Leading the charge, Captain Edward Sterling, a veteran of Marston Moor now serving the Portuguese crown, barked orders. With a furious surge, the English cut through the last of Don Juan's guard. The fighting was brutal, swift. There was no time for parley, only the grim determination to capture the high-value target. A musket butt here, a grappling hook there, and amidst the desperate scramble, the English mercenaries overwhelmed the prince and his immediate retinue. Don Juan José, stunned and humiliated, found himself disarmed and surrounded, a prisoner of war.
The news ripped through the battlefield like wildfire. "The Prince is taken!" The Spanish rout became a full-blown panic. Their grand invasion, their royal commander, all captured. The debacle was total (equivalent to the historical Battle of the Lines of Elvas) for the Spanish army.
That very June 8, 1663, under heavy Portuguese guard, the "march to jail" began. Don Juan José de Austria, the arrogant bastard prince who had intended to crush Portugal, was led eastward, not in triumph, but as a humiliated captive. His destination: a secure, unyielding Portuguese "prison"—quite luxurious—in Lisbon. His capture would send shockwaves across Europe, utterly demoralizing Spain and providing Portugal with the ultimate bargaining chip for its swift, and now undeniable, independence. The war would not drag on for years more; it would end on Portugal's terms.
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Royal Council, Madrid – July 1663
The council chamber, usually so majestic, was oppressive. The air was heavy with the infamous news. King Philip IV, aging and afflicted, sat at the head of the table, his face ashen. Around him, the grandees of the kingdom and the most influential councillors were gathered, their faces marked by stupor and contained fury. The Duke of Medinaceli, President of the Council of Castile, broke the silence.
Duke of Medinaceli: "The news is confirmed. The Prince, our Don Juan, His Majesty's son, is in the hands of those rebels in Lisbon. Captured. At Ameixial. It is an indelible stain on the Crown's honor, an unprecedented humiliation since... for centuries! What is His Majesty's will? What is our path?"
Don Luis de Haro y Guzmán, Marquis del Carpio (Grandee of Spain, influential statesman): His voice was steady, but his dark gaze betrayed the gravity of the situation. "Sire, Gentlemen, fury grips us all. But we must face reality. Our army of Extremadura is in tatters. The Prince is our most valuable asset. A 'total war,' as some demand, would mean a colossal mobilization. Our treasuries are already empty from the war in Flanders, France looms, and England... England, our theoretical ally, has entered a brewing war with the United Provinces. Do you sincerely believe she will dispatch armadas to help us recover our Prince if we persist in an endless war?" Murmurs rippled through the assembly.
Don Íñigo Melchor de Velasco, Constable of Castile (an old general, proud and impetuous): "Shame! We speak of the pride of Spain! Leaving a Habsburg Prince imprisoned would send a signal of weakness that our enemies would not fail to exploit! We must raise a new, larger army, crush Lisbon, and bring the Prince back by fire and sword! Any negotiation is an act of cowardice!"
Duke of Medinaceli: "Constable, your courage is admirable, but our army has no more powder! Our convoys are systematically annihilated by invisible forces, saboteurs striking our ammunition at the very heart of our advance. Our men are starving, and disease ravages the ranks. And who will pay for this new army? Our bankers turn their backs on us. Castilian blood has already flowed in torrents."
Don Ramiro Núñez de Guzmán, Duke of Medina de las Torres (Governor of the Council of the Indies, financial realist): "The truth is harsh. Our coffers are empty. Revenues from the Indies are absorbed by our debts and by the war in Flanders. A new massive effort would lead us to absolute bankruptcy. We already have rebellions within Portugal itself, and now our prestige is so low that even the smallest states would look upon us with disdain. Time is against us, not just militarily, but economically. The war with France is but a fragile truce, and His Majesty Louis XIV watches for the slightest sign of weakness."
Marquis del Carpio: "Exactly. We have an opportunity, bitter as it may be, to cut our losses. Portugal holds our Prince. It is an invaluable bargaining chip. To continue the war is to risk not only never recovering him, but losing even more territory, wealth, and lives. We must negotiate. Save the Prince, save what can be saved of our honor, and focus on our other challenges in Europe and the New World."
Silence fell. King Philip IV slowly raised his hand.
Philip IV: His voice was a hoarse whisper, tinged with immense pain. "My son... My son is in their hands. May God forgive us this humiliation. But reason... reason must prevail over rage. Contact Lisbon. Prepare the negotiation table. We must retrieve the Prince."
A decision was made, fraught with consequences. Spain would negotiate.