The following days passed with a deceptive calm. The sea was generous, offering smooth waves and steady winds. Everyone settled into routine—Francisco busied himself caring for Catalina, who still suffered from seasickness, while Elizabeth spent her hours assisting the captain, keeping his books in order, or translating letters when needed.
The air smelled of brine and tar. At dawn, mist drifted over the deck like a ghostly curtain. The creak of ropes and the soft flap of sails became the heartbeat of the voyage. For a time, it almost seemed peaceful.
Then, one morning, as the sun was rising over the eastern horizon, a sharp voice split the air.
"Sail ho!"
Every man on deck froze. The lookout pointed to the distance where a small, dark speck broke the horizon line. The ocean reflected gold beneath it, calm yet threatening.
The captain raised his spyglass, eyes narrowing. "British flag," the lookout confirmed.
The captain paled slightly. He remembered Elizabeth's warning and barked, "Lower the veils and wait for them to approach! No sudden moves."
Men scrambled across the deck. The canvas groaned as the sails came down. Francisco hurried up the stairs, eyes scanning the horizon. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword—not out of defiance, but instinct.
The hours that followed dragged heavily. The approaching ship grew larger until its masts cut through the haze like dark spears. It was a British frigate—sleek, disciplined, and deadly. The kind of vessel built not merely for war but for control.
"They're coming straight for us," one sailor muttered.
Francisco's jaw tightened. The frigate slowed its advance, circling like a predator testing its prey, until a voice thundered across the sea in English: "Who goes there?"
Francisco and Captain Ramiro exchanged helpless looks. Neither spoke the language. Ramiro had spent his life dealing with Spaniards, Germans, and the French, but the British had always been an unfriendly market. Both men turned to Elizabeth—still in her men's attire, coat buttoned up to her chin.
Elizabeth blinked, momentarily forgetting her advantage. She had grown so used to speaking Spanish that English had slipped from her thoughts. She slapped her forehead, then cupped her hands and shouted, "I need to speak with your captain! I carry orders from the Crown!"
The officer on the frigate frowned. "Wait there," he called back. "I'll report to the captain."
He disappeared, leaving a few red-coated soldiers behind, muskets aimed at the merchant deck. The glint of polished barrels caught the sunlight, making every man on board uneasy.
Ramiro leaned toward Elizabeth, voice shaking. "What did he say? Are they going to fire?"
Francisco rolled his eyes. "For a captain, you're awfully nervous. Didn't you once lose a ship and end up stranded on an island?"
Ramiro's expression darkened. "Your father told you that, didn't he?"
Francisco chuckled. "He did—and laughed all the way through the story."
Ramiro sighed. "Then perhaps I'll have to tell his son a few stories of my own, for balance."
Laughter rippled through the crew, fragile but real. The tension eased, if only for a heartbeat. Elizabeth exhaled quietly, her shoulders relaxing. "Thank you," she said to Francisco in a low voice. "My biggest fear was that panic would break out before the British even fired."
Francisco watched the distant ship. "I'm frightened too," he admitted. "But panic would doom us faster than any cannon."
Minutes stretched into an hour. The frigate drifted closer, until its cannons were clearly visible. Then the sentry returned and shouted, "The person with the papers may come aboard. The rest must remain where they are."
Elizabeth nodded. "Understood. I'll wait for your launch."
As the British prepared their small boat, Francisco's gaze turned grim. "I don't like this," he muttered. "They're sending soldiers to fetch you. Before they come aboard, we should arm ourselves—just in case."
Elizabeth hesitated. "If we make them nervous, they might sink us on the spot."
"That's exactly why," Francisco replied coldly. "You're the only one they truly care about. If they mean to take you and erase the rest of us, I'd rather die fighting than waiting."
She swallowed hard. "You think too much like a soldier."
"Maybe," he said quietly, "but I know what happens to people who put blind faith in empires."
When the British launch reached them, the soldiers climbed aboard—boots thudding on wet planks. The smell of salt and gunpowder filled the air. Elizabeth quickly told the British officer that the crew would arm themselves only for self-defense, and that no one wanted bloodshed. The man nodded stiffly. Both sides, equally tense, pretended calm.
Once aboard the frigate, Elizabeth followed her escort across the deck. The British vessel was immaculate—ropes coiled neatly, every man standing in precise formation. The air reeked of tar, sweat, and pipe smoke. Above, gulls circled and cried.
The officer led her below deck, down narrow stairs where lanterns flickered against polished brass. He knocked once on a heavy door before opening it.
Inside, the captain sat at his desk surrounded by maps and letters sealed with red wax. He lifted his gaze and studied her carefully. His eyes narrowed. "You're a woman, aren't you?"
Elizabeth froze. She had worn the disguise for days, and yet the truth had been seen in an instant. There was no point denying it. She straightened her posture and replied, "Yes, Captain. I am an agent of the British Crown, returning from a mission in Spain. My orders were to deliver intelligence regarding New Granada. Circumstances forced me to take passage on a Spanish merchant vessel."
The captain stood, assessing her calmly. "Show me your papers."
She handed them over, her fingers trembling slightly. He inspected each seal and signature with a frown, then finally nodded. "Your credentials appear genuine. We can take you to Britain far faster than that merchantman. There's no need for you to remain with them."
Elizabeth's heart beat faster. Accepting his offer would guarantee her safety—but likely doom Francisco and his crew. A single word could condemn them. Her training whispered, Take the chance. Secure the mission. But memory—of laughter, of Catalina's gentle smile, of Francisco's steady eyes—anchored her heart.
"With respect, sir," she said, forcing calm, "the French are also in these waters. If I board a British frigate openly, it will draw their attention. They'll be watching for envoys from New Granada. It's safer if I continue under the Spanish flag for now."
The captain frowned. "Are you underestimating the Royal Navy, agent? We are not to be feared by any nation."
Elizabeth met his gaze evenly. "I know the strength of our navy, Captain. But this frigate isn't the fleet—it's one patrol ship. The French won't fear it. Unless you can promise an escort from the main fleet, I'd rather keep a low profile."
Silence filled the room. The ship creaked beneath them. The captain finally nodded. "Very well. We'll escort your merchant vessel to Jamaica. You'll report to the governor there."
Elizabeth bowed slightly. "Thank you, Captain. I'll ensure the governor receives my report."
He dismissed her with a gesture. Within the hour, she was back aboard the merchant ship, the frigate shadowing them at a safe distance.
As night fell, the wind turned cool and the stars glimmered over the Caribbean like silver dust. The sea seemed calm again—but everyone knew calm seas could hide storms, both natural and human.