Kitty nudged her, and she subsided.
After the phaeton came two British officers, splendid in white and scarlet, and riding sleek horses; then another officer in a chaise; then a handful of officers on foot. They were escorted by a blue-uniformed guard that Timothy said looked to him like Connecticut men. By now the drummer had turned into Ferry Street, heading for the wharves at the waterside. Here and there stood a little cluster of men, here and there a woman’s head appeared at a gable window, but the spectators were few. At the very end of the procession a farm cart rattled along, drawn by two plow horses. A group of men sprawled on the floor of it, men in tattered British uniforms, pale and unshaven, unable to walk, apparently, because of wounds or illness. They looked so forlorn and miserable that Kitty felt tears start to her eyes.
“Oh,” she whispered to Sally Rose, “I’m sorry for the poor lads. I don’t care if they are British.”
“If they hadn’t come out shooting at us, they wouldn’t be in this pickle now,” growled Timothy. “Wonder where is our boys we’re supposed to get back in the exchange.”
“Mr. Bassett says they’re aboard the Lively,” said Sally Rose. “Oh—oh—Kitty—” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
For a moment Kitty did not see anything to exclaim about. The cart full of prisoners trundled slowly by. Close beside it walked a young man in a rough woolen shirt and homespun breeches. He carried a knapsack, and a large wooden bottle was slung from his shoulder by a leather strap. Just then the procession halted a moment. Up ahead, the drummer turned down Ferry Street on his way to the docks to meet the boats from the Lively. The phaeton bent its wheels sharply to round the corner. In the pause the young man unstoppered the wooden bottle and held it over the side of the cart so one of the prisoners could drink. The rear guard, another group of blue-coated Connecticut men, halted too. They were apparently the last of the procession.
Kitty glanced again at her cousin. Sally Rose stood up proud and smiling. The long lashes about her hazel eyes flickered provocatively. Sally Rose was watching the young man with the bottle. For that reason, and that reason alone, Kitty looked closer at him herself.
He turned just then and smiled at them. He had dark hair, she saw, and deep-set blue eyes. My, he was certainly handsome! Living all her life in Newburyport, she hadn’t realized how many handsome men there were in the world—drifting down the Merrimack on a log raft, walking the road that ran past Bunker Hill. They were everywhere, now that she had suddenly grown up enough to look at them. Sally Rose had always known. Sally Rose was born grown up.
She cast a sudden look at Dick, and knew instinctively that she would never kiss him good night again, or if she did, it would be with a difference. Their kissing days were over. Dick was an old friend now, and only that. Never again would he stir in her that strange tremulous feeling that went with a new moon and apple blossoms and the first warm nights of spring. She knew, but she did not know how it was that she knew.
The young man in the leather breeches was still smiling. He lifted his hand, oh so slightly, and motioned toward the docks. Then the cart wheels began to turn again, and the procession plodded on. The little group around the door of the Bay and Beagle watched until the last straggler was out of sight.