The fourth dawn of the general strike brought neither sun nor wind, only a harbor fog so dense that the mainmasts of the naval cutters vanished fifty feet above the water.
On the granite terrace of the High Wharf outside Slipway One, two hundred armed men stood in ranks of four, their scarlet wool coats soaked almost black by the sea mist.
Admiralty Provost Marshal Corrick stood at the center of the terrace. He was surrounded by six naval lieutenants with drawn steel blades. Behind him, two companies of foot guards had drawn the cords of their heavy steel crossbows to the iron retaining notches, resting the steel butt-plates against their thighs with square quarreled bolts seated in the grooves. On the timber staging overlooking the dry dock, naval carpenters pressed from the guard post stood with sledgehammers, ready to knock away the tripping blocks of the Sea-Gull.
Opposing them, blocking the entrance to the boat ramp apron, stood the strike.
Seven hundred shipwrights, caulkers, sawyers, and harbor dredgers formed a wall of living labor six ranks deep across the salt-crusted cobbles. They held no crossbows, but in their hands were the heavy tools of their crafts. Four-foot ash parbuckle-bars, iron caulking mallets, timber sledges, and forged dredging pikes. At their front stood Master Rigger Eamon Dunley. His wooden ruler was tucked firmly in his vest. Jarek Thorne, his broad chest wrapped in tarred hemp rope.
