The sea-fog hung over the lower delta in greasy sheets, muffling the slap of salty water against the dredge hull until the black bowsprit of The King’s Plover hung twenty paces above the burning wreckage of Gault’s skiff.
She was a thirty-gun naval cutter of the first country rate, her oak stem sheathed in copper plates that hissed through the brown river mud like a blade through salt pork. Twelve heavy ash sweeps rose and dipped all at once from each bank of oarlocks, feathering the surface without a splash. On her raised forecastle, two heavy bronze swivel guns swung on greased brass trunnions. Their crews stood motionless with smoldering match-cords held ready.
Captain Wren Jalen stood by the starboard shrouds. His naval hanger remained seated in its blackened leather sword sheath, his blue cloak thrown back over his left shoulder to reveal the silver gorget of the King’s Water Court trial.
“Vessel ahoy, The Iron Cormorant!” Wren’s voice boomed through an iron speaking trumpet. “Hold your deck! Ground all pikes in the King’s name!”
“The deck is lawful and secure, Captain Wren!” Tomas Reed shouted back from the forward bulwark of the dredge. “Six prisoners disarmed on the coal flats. The mercenary boarding party has broken!”
