Brendan whistled as he trudged through Newburyport’s cold and snowy streets, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his tricorne pulled low, his chin tucked into his stock, and his coattails dragging in the drifts behind him. Anticipation sang in his blood, for in one of those pockets was a dinner invitation from Ephraim. Whether that invitation reflected genuine hospitality on the old sea captain’s part, or an interest in hearing about the eight prizes Kestrel had dragged in from the sea and whose British crews were even now being marched to the Newburyport jail, Brendan didn’t know. Those prizes certainly had something to do with the wild reception he’d received several hours earlier, when Kestrel had brought them all into the river and lined them up, one by one, alongside Ephraim’s wharf! He grinned wryly to himself, remembering that particular horror . . . the parade of nearly a hundred boats, full of wildly cheering Newburyporters, that had met Kestrel at the river’s mouth to escort her into harbor; the adoring young lassies swooning at his feet once he’d arrived there; the seamen of every age and description pleading, nay, begging to sign aboard the lucky Kestrel.
