"No, no, no, no, no." I repeat the lone word, hoping it will negate what the Lieutenant just said. His previously stoic visage, however, now reflects genuine sympathy, forcing me to face the truth.

Cade's ship just exploded right in front of us.

Not wanting to think of the consequences, I take a deep breath and focus on being pragmatic, instead. "We have to search for survivors." I turn toward Graves.

"By the time we reach them, and in the approaching darkness . . .." He avoids my eyes. "I assure you, the four English ships that are closer will collect-"

"Admiral, sir," the Lieutenant interrupts. "The Saint Esprit is hanging back."

Graves appears relieved to have an excuse to turn away from me. "What's that?" He grabs the spyglass out of the officer's hand. Silently observing the distant silhouettes lit by the flaming wreckage, he eventually concurs. "That is odd, indeed."

"What's happening, sir?" My voice is filled with a hint of optimism as I step to his side.

He clears his throat and puts down the shiny instrument. "The vessel that took out the Phoenix seems to have stopped at the debris field." He furrows his brows.

"Why would it do that?" I widen my eyes. "Why isn't it following the rest of the French fleet?"

Graves scratches his chin. "I'm not sure. Unless it's looking for something-"

"Or there are survivors!" I exclaim.

"No, that's impossible. With an explosion like that-"

I step to the Admiral and grab both of his hands. "Please, sir. That was my only family on board that ship. I have no one left in this world, but the crew of the Phoenix Rising. I beg of you, please don't take this glimmer of hope away from me."

He purses his lips. "Quite." Turning to his second-in-command, he continues. "Take us closer, Lieutenant. Let's see for ourselves."

The next span of time feels like the longest in my life. Unsurprisingly, the Saint Esprit is long gone - along with its companions - by the time we reach our destination. Graves has ordered the rest of his ships to follow the enemy, leaving us temporarily bringing up the rear.

I haven't yet allowed myself to cry, but when I see how very little is left of the Phoenix Rising, I lose control of my emotions. My body shakes, and I struggle for breath as I look across the water covered with broken bits and pieces of wood, canvas, and rope.

The currents are quickly dispersing the debris, but some of the remaining, larger pieces of the wreckage are still burning. In spite of the late hour, the flames illuminate the morbid, final search effort.

"As expected, there's nothing of value left here." Graves straightens up after leaning over the railing for a better look. "The captain of the Saint Esprit was most likely taunting us-"

"But if they did pick up anyone who managed to leave the Phoenix before she blew, where would they take them?" I press on, not letting him dash my hopes just yet.

He sighs, the wrinkles on his weary face appearing even deeper than earlier today. "Yorktown, I suppose. Although don't think we're done with this battle, Miss. Tomorrow's a new day, and we will confront de Grasse again."

I nod. Right now, that answer is good enough for me. Good enough to finally return to my bed and try to rest. I don't want to invite dreams of those who I may never see again or nightmares of their suffering, but I'm so tired, I can almost hear my cat's faint, familiar meow.

Turning my head, the sound inexplicably gets louder.

"Do you hear that?" I begin walking toward the source.

"Hear what?" Graves yells after me, but I put up my hand to silence him.

"Sshh." I shush one of the highest-ranking naval officers on this side of the Atlantic. "Can someone bring a light?"

The young Lieutenant who's followed me orders a sailor to fetch a lantern. Holding it over the side, we scan the water below.

"What did you hear, Miss-" he begins, before another small, animalistic cry interrupts.

"Over there!" I point toward an approaching piece of debris. When the flickering light hits it, my heart nearly stops. On the broken mast - amid the jumble of twine and fabric - two small eyes stare back at us.

"It's just a cat." The Lieutenant shrugs, but I'm far more excited by the revelation.

"It's not just a cat. That's my cat!" I exclaim at seeing the wet, orange ball of fur. "That's my Ginger. You have to retrieve her."

I hear him scoff at the directive, but thankfully he doesn't voice further objections. Perhaps he agrees that a feline survivor is better than no survivors, at all.

No, that's not true. There are others. I have to remind myself. They've just all been taken by other ships. The alternative is - right now - unthinkable.

"Sir?" He looks at Graves, who gives an approving nod.

Rolling up his sleeves, the Lieutenant instructs the helmsman to hold our position. He then leads the mates in using a long hook to pull the cat's makeshift raft closer. Finally, one man uses a rope to climb overboard and grab Ginger.

The poor thing is so exhausted she doesn't even put up a fight.

I smile. I don't have to be alone tonight. At least I'll have one friend with me.

My knees are about to give out and I shiver from the cold, but I continue to watch as the sailor makes his way back up with my cat. Briefly glancing at the debris still bobbing nearby, something catches my eye.

At first, I can't make out the shape, but it immediately looks out of place. The texture is too smooth and the lines too curved to be part of the wreckage. Tilting my head, I squint.

"A hand?" I whisper as my heartbeat quickens. Rubbing my tired eyes, I blink a few times to make sure I'm not imagining things. The pale, large appendage is still there, draped on a plank sticking out from under the charred sail's remnants. Mesmerized by the unexpected find, I jump when the fingers begin to move.

"Admiral Graves!" I shout with a renewed sense of vigor. "There's a man alive under there, covered by the canvas."

An excited murmur runs through the crowd gathered around, and the sailors look to where I'm pointing. Just then, the man bringing Ginger reaches the top and hands me the animal before the Lieutenant sends him back down again.

Not knowing what to expect, I wait nervously, hugging the cat tight and stroking her between her ears to keep myself occupied. She - in turn - rubs her face against my chin amidst loud, content purrs.

We all seem to collectively hold our breaths when the sailor reaches the broken mast. Grabbing a corner of the soot-covered material and pulling it back, he reveals a blonde-haired man in an English uniform clinging to the floating wood.

Dear Lord, could it really be him? I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

"Get that man up here, now!" Graves orders. "And someone fetch the surgeon." He continues as two others push me out of the way and descend to help.

I stay back, both to give them room, but also out of fear from what they'll find. Although I thought not knowing my beloved's fate was the least desirable outcome, I now realize seeing him hurt could be even worse.

Various instructions - like "grab 'im over there" or "careful ya' 'ear" - break the silence as the sailors work. When the ones on deck reach over and help pull the barely-conscious man onto the ship, I use my elbows to get closer again.

Soaked from head to toe, he lies on his back taking shallow, infrequent breaths. His straggly hair covers most of his face, but I recognize him at once. Although until now I've tried my best not to cry, my tears begin to flow uncontrollably.

"Charlie!" I rush over and crouch by his torso. Brushing his wet locks to the side, I continue to stroke his hair as reassurance. "You're on the Bedford. You'll be all right now."

In spite of my sobbing, I smile as he opens his eyes.

"Miss Ana?" His voice is barely audible.

"Yes, it's me, Mister Roberts," I say between sniffles, nodding with renewed confidence.

"Let me through." An older man in a brown suit instead of a military uniform interrupts our moment. Kneeling on Charlie's other side across from me, he begins inspecting the patient.

"Are ya' hurt, man?" The surgeon looks Charlie up and down, gently patting his body.

"I . . . I don't know." He shivers and turns to me for guidance.

His eyes reflect fear, and I must help with whatever I can. "Someone get a blanket and a drink," I shout to the men still anxiously crowded around us.

"Oh, my." The surgeon's somber tone makes my heart sink even before I see what he's found. The full meaning of those two, usually insignificant words becomes clear when I turn my gaze downwards.

Charlie's dark, blue jacket has been concealing his injury. When the surgeon pushes aside the flaps, he reveals a swiftly growing red stain on the torn, white waistcoat.

Scrambling to work together to unbutton this piece of clothing, we reach the shirt below, and it's similarly covered with blood. Underneath, a large hole in Charlie's abdomen - almost the size of my palm - oozes the thick, crimson substance with increased speed.

I look at the surgeon with raised brows, silently asking if there is any hope.

He sighs and without blinking, shakes his head.

"What . . . what is it?" Charlie tries to sit, but I gently ease him back down.

"It's nothing. Doctor- " I look at the man whose face has now gone white for his name.

"Ford. Doctor Ford," he replies as if woken from a trance.

"Yes. Doctor Ford here will have you good as new in no time." My voice cracks, and I force another smile.

Charlie takes a deep breath and uses it to address me. "Then why are you cryin'?"

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. "Because I'm so happy you're alive."

I lie, knowing he won't survive this gruesome injury. It's quite a miracle he's lasted this long. The wound must have been pressed against the driftwood, which stalled the bleeding. However, that just gave him a few extra hours.

He continues to struggle for each breath. When the blanket arrives, I cover the increasingly pale Charlie up to his chin, gently pressing down the coarse material over the bleeding wound with one hand. Supporting his head with the other, I gather my thoughts as Doctor Ford pours a mouthful of rum between his patient's lips.

I'm desperate to ask about the fate of the others on the Phoenix, especially whether anyone else made it into the water alive. With the limited time left for Charlie now, however, I can't be that selfish.

We can only try to make him comfortable, which includes taking his mind off the hopeless situation. "Tell me more about Molly," I whisper, and he finally smiles.

"Love of my life, she is." His voice is raspy, and he coughs. Foamy blood trickles out of the side of his mouth and down his chin.

I wipe it with the blanket's corner, but don't mention it. "I don't think you've said, but what color are her eyes?"

He coughs again. "Brown. Like the richest cocoa bean. And round, too. Looks like a doll, she does."

"I bet she's beautiful." I use my bare hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. His skin is cold and clammy.

"Aye." He blinks several times, but his gaze can't focus on me. "There's no one prettier."

I sigh. "I'd like to meet her one day." I find myself genuinely meaning this wish.

Meeting my eyes with his, Charlie raises one arm and begins blindly searching for something around his neck. "This." He pulls a thin cord out from under his shirt. "You have to get this back to her."

A tarnished, silver band hangs on the cheap necklace. It must be his wedding ring.

"No, you must keep it-" I try to push away his hand holding the precious item, but he's somehow found a reserve of strength.

With his free hand, he grabs my fingers and forces them around the ring. "Soon enough, I won't have a need for this, but it'll remind her of me. Promise you'll find my Molly and return this to her. Please."

I swallow the lump quickly forming in my throat before I can answer. "I promise, don't you worry."

Charlie closes his eyes. I can feel his body - previously tense and rigid - now relax. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but these come more hesitantly each time. When he begins coughing again, I put his head in my lap so he doesn't choke on the increasing amount of blood bubbling out from his lungs.

I know I should continue speaking to him; my voice will probably be the last one he hears. But I don't know what to say. Instead, I sing.

A hymn seems the most appropriate right now, and I pick one that has often given me comfort in tough times. We used to hear Gloria in excelsis Deo every week at Mass, and the words come to me easily.

"Glória in excélsis Deo et in terra pax homínibus bonae voluntátis." My voice

rings out on the otherwise silent ship before I take another deep breath to continue. "Laudámus te, benedícimus te, adorámus te, glorificámus te, grátias ágimus tibi propter magnam glóriam tuam, Dómine Deus, Rex cæléstis, Deus Pater omnípotens."

"O Lord, the only-begotten Son, Jesu Christ," a man's voice from nearby sings over mine in English. Looking up, I see it's Graves' second-in-command, the young Lieutenant. As he continues to sing, the other men surrounding us join in. "O Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us."

As we praise the Lord, their tenors and deep baritones mix with my soprano, and a chill runs through me from the beauty of this moment. Finishing the last verses, I glance down at Charlie. His eyes are still closed, but he's no longer grimacing from pain, but rather in a peaceful state.

About a minute later, he dies in my arms.