My feet are firmly rooted to the deck until Graves leaves my side. Similarly, it seems the Admiral also needs a few moments to recover from what just happened. By the time he turns his attention back to his own ship, the three men from the Phoenix Rising are in their rowboat on the way back to theirs.

Running to the railings, I watch them slowly weave the small craft between the surrounding vessels until they're completely obscured from view. None of them glance up, but I don't mind. Having to say good-bye once was hard enough.

I touch my lips with my fingertips where Cade's taste lingers and sigh. No, we don't need to extend the painful process.

I dally topside for a few more minutes, attempting to clear my mind of needless worry. I've come to enjoy the sea with its mesmerizing glimmer and salty breeze, but this day isn't like any other. The sight of all the men in uniform and ships preparing for battle unnerves me instead of appeases, so I ask for permission to retire to my cabin.

A young mate escorts me below. The first level we reach contains rows of heavy, black cannons pointed outward with a large, open area in the middle. It seems like an inefficient use of space until I see some of the crew eating further toward the bow and realize this is probably where most of the hundreds of men usually rest and sleep.

The air is getting increasingly stale as we descend one more set of steps and head toward the stern. On the other ships I've been on, large officers' cabins were always located here. Even though the Bedford dwarfs those vessels both in the number of men, as well as artillery it carries, space here comes at a premium.

This is confirmed when the young man opens a door into a room barely large enough to hold a cot. "Here we are, Miss. This would be our chaplain's quarters, but he's currently on the Intrepid. You can stay here until we dock in Yorktown. Now, if there's nothing else-"

"You're confident then we can break de Grasse's line?" I turn, stopping him from leaving.

He wrinkles his brows at my skepticism. "Of course. There's no one better than Rear Admiral Graves to lead us to victory."

Although I was hoping for something more convincing, I feel foolish in pressing him further. "Thank you for escorting me here. I can manage on my own now."

Rolling his eyes as he tips his hat, the young man leaves the way we came without another word.

Entering the small cabin, I shut the door behind me. Immediately feeling the tight confines, I squeeze my skirt between the cot and the wall to get to the lone window. No matter how hard I crank the handle, however, the pane only budges enough to leave a small gap. Luckily, even this limited amount of fresh air allows me to feel less like I'm imprisoned.

I close my eyes and just breathe.

Dear Lord, how do I keep ending up like this? I'm reminded of the previous times I've found myself a captive on a strange vessel, but then shake my head. No, don't think like that, Ana. You're here for my own safety and not as a prisoner. You can't forget that. You should be thankful, not peevish.

Covering my face with my hands, I sit on the firm mattress. As I try to recline, however, something pokes me in the back.

I've been so preoccupied with everything else I didn't even notice my traveling bag Henry delivered for me. Reaching over to toss it on the floor, I'm surprised by its unexpected heaviness.

Twisting at the waist, I un-do the latch and peek at the bag's contents. On top is my sword, which I remove at once. Underneath are layers of familiar fabrics: the white of my nightclothes and the blues of my second favorite dress. Pushing these aside, I'm met with an unexpected sight.

Gold.

Rows and rows of small, golden bars stacked on top of each other lie hidden amongst my belongings. I stare wide-eyed at the treasure while my brain races over its meaning. My heartbeat echoes in my ears and my breathing becomes shallow as the loot's purpose becomes clear.

I had assumed Cade was being overly cautious for sending me off his ship. Apparently, I was wrong.

Stowing away a large part of his wealth as far away from the Phoenix Rising as currently possible means he really is expecting the worst.

Clearing my throat, I find myself on the verge of tears again. To keep my mind off the inevitable clash that's now just a few hours away, I move the bag off the cot and attempt to sleep. The last thing I hear before losing consciousness is an order to hoist the colors coming through the open window.

My slumber is deep, but I wake when my body forcefully hits something hard. Opening my eyes, I see the cabin listing heavily to the side, which has caused me to roll against the wall.

Line ahead! The command drifts through the breeze as it's repeated numerous times by the officers on deck.

Pushing myself up, I struggle to get to my feet on the uneven floor. As I carefully shuffle out of the room, the ship begins righting itself. By the time I reach the ladder leading topside, my footing is steady again.

Hurrying up one level and then two, I pause just long enough to observe the sailors now manning the cannons. Unlike earlier, the portholes are fully open and the guns are ready to be fired at a moment's notice.

Close action! A new instruction passes between the soldiers above us.

I reach topside, and although we're on the brink of battle, there's an eerie silence in the air. The crewmembers change their stations swiftly when ordered - follow them, full speed ahead - otherwise, they patiently wait.

The wind whips my hair across my face and in the not too distant horizon, I catch sight of several large ships sailing parallel to us. From the position of the sun, it looks as though we're all heading eastward.

"Miss Ana, come join me," Rear Admiral Graves calls down from the topmost deck in the bow. "You'll have a much better view of the action from this vantage." He continues as I make my way further up.

Stopping at his side, I have clear sight of the water in front of us, and it makes me gasp.

The vessel I'm standing on - the HMS Bedford - is in the middle of the fleet in the line. Half of the other eighteen sail ahead of us in perfect formation unlike any I've ever witnessed. The remaining nine are following in a similarly orderly manner.

The two ships I saw from the quarterdeck are flying the French flag, meaning they support the enemy. Their own fleet, containing ships that clearly outnumbers ours - perhaps by as much as two to one - surrounds them.

The opposing forces are moving in a V-like formation with the vessels at the head closest to each other. As my palms begin to sweat and a lump forms in my throat, Graves gives another order.

"Fire in the vans!" he yells, making me jump.

A duo of sailors waiting at the base of the main mast pull - with coordinated movements - a rope holding two flags. The first is triangular and white with a horizontal, red line across it. The second is square with quarters in those same, alternating colors.

Graves raises a spyglass to his eye and looks toward the ship directly in front of us. "Good, good," he mutters, pleased with what he sees.

My guess is the message has travelled up the line of ships, taking the critical command to its intended destination. When the bang of a cannon rings out in the distance, I know the relay was successful.

Similar shots follow, and a chill runs through my body. From this distance, though, there isn't much we can do.

The battle has begun, yet most of the ships in both fleets are still just bystanders. I wish this was true for the Phoenix Rising, but from the little I understood from this morning's talk of strategy, I know that Cade's vessel is up front, right in the middle of the action.

The bitter taste of bile creeps up my throat as I imagine what all can go wrong. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to physically suppress these horrid thoughts, but the increasingly rapid cannon fire is too unnerving to ignore.

When I look up, there's a thick, grey smoke coming from the head of the line. It's impossible to tell which ship may be burning, and my legs start to shake. Graves, however, is unmoved as he issues another order. "Center and rear engage," he yells to his second-in-command.

The Lieutenant who's been standing nearby repeats the words as he runs toward the stern. Another set of flags goes up the mast, while a crew of mates begins to adjust the sails. As the heavy canvas unfurls to its full size, however, the ship noticeably slows down.

"The wind is shifting, Admiral," the helmsman yells up to us.

"Alter your course," Graves responds with the first hint of unease in his voice.

The man puts his weight into turning the massive, wooden wheel. "Yes, sir."

I bite my lip, unsure of whether to ask what's on my mind. Taking a deep breath, I risk the query. "What's happening, Admiral?"

He looks at me and frowns. "It seems Mother Nature has turned against us." No doubt seeing my puzzled expression, he continues. "The wind is coming from the wrong direction, and we're blocked from advancing. There's very little we can do right now to engage the enemy."

"So they're on their own up there?" I gesture toward the ships ahead of us exchanging cannon fire.

Graves nods and begins pacing. He doesn't stop until there's a massive explosion in the distance.

The burst of light comes just a fraction of a second before its sound reaches our ears. Feeling light-headed, I grasp the railing as the young Lieutenant returns and haphazardly salutes. "We've lost the Intrepid, sir."

The commander looks through his spyglass to survey the damage. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he says in a tone devoid of any emotion.

I want to scream at him to do something - anything - instead of idly drifting behind the carnage. My mouth, however, won't form the words. Every time I try to speak, the agony of knowing that men are dying in front of us chokes me.

The Lieutenant stays with us and continues to interpret the visual messages coming from the other ships. "The Marseillais has fallen out of line," he observes with no more empathy than if he were telling us what was on the dinner menu.

As a soldier, it's easier for him to stay detached I suppose. In our current position, we're out of immediate danger. Although we're catching up with the fighting, the gap between the Bedford and French vessel running parallel isn't getting smaller, making engagement with that ship impossible.

The shots of the cannons do become louder with each passing minute, and eventually we can also hear them connect, as well. Whether it's the splash of water from a missed target or the crunching of wood from a direct hit, the sounds make the battle more real.

"Drake's Princessa has taken out the Reflechi . . . the Diademe has retreated . . . the Terrible's foremast has fallen." The Lieutenant continues to narrate the action from afar, and I'm secretly glad that the name of Cade's ship hasn't come up. In this instance, no news is good news, and I prefer it to stay that way.

At times, the Admiral seems encouraged by the fleet's progress and orders it to move further ahead. When this doesn't allow for the other ships to join the fight as hoped, he turns sullen once again.

Several hours pass, the intervals between shots get greater, and the sun starts its descent toward the horizon behind us. Still struggling against the wind, we're now sailing through the debris of the battlefield. At first, it's just pieces of rigging or broken planks. Then, whole masts with their tattered sails float by.

"De Grasse appears to be pulling the fleet away, sir." The Lieutenant sounds pleased as he returns to the Admiral's side.

Graves checks the situation for himself. "It appears they're retreating." He lowers his spyglass and grins.

"Aye, sir." The young officer concurs. "Your orders, sir?"

The Admiral nods. "Cease fire and withdraw windward, Lieutenant. We're done for today."

I breathe a sigh of relief and allow myself to smile for the first time. The battle is temporarily over, and Cade's safe. There's no further reason to worry.

My neck muscles hurt from watching all the different flags being hoisted up today, so I ignore observing the final commands and turn toward the water.

I would have done better to keep my eyes on the flags.

Drifting on the current past the Bedford is a dead sailor. The unfortunate man is floating face down, and the unexpected sight makes me gasp. I cover my mouth with my hand, drawing Graves' attention.

"I'm sorry you had to see that." He touches my arm before motioning toward a nearby mate. "Escort this young lady back to her cabin."

"Aye, si-" Cannon fire cuts short his response.

The Admiral runs back to the rails and looks through his spyglass. "What's the meaning of this?" He points the instrument up the line where even with my bare eyes I can see newly formed smoke.

No one answers, and the shots continue. The crewmembers of the Bedford are all frozen in their places, waiting for an order that doesn't come. Instead, Graves continues to watch the action in the distance.

"Leave them be, you fool," he mutters under his breath. "Just follow my goddamned orders."

Whomever he's quietly scolding doesn't share his thoughts. The cannons keep firing, and the raucous gets louder as we advance on the remaining members of the stalled fleet. Just as the sun takes its final bow under the still waters of the horizon, a fiery blast colors the sky a bright orange one more time.

I instinctively cringe. The smell of soot fills my nostrils, and I think I even feel the air get warmer from the flames. The explosion is massive, but it's far enough away to keep the millions of flying shrapnel from reaching us. There's no way anyone could have survived this explosion. I pray it wasn't an English ship, but even the French don't deserve such losses.

"Do you see what I see, Lieutenant?" Graves whispers to the man standing beside him.

"Aye, sir." The young man puts down his spyglass, looks first at the Admiral and then straight at me. "We've just lost the Phoenix Rising."