No sooner had they passed the majestic Britannic Sun Building then they did pass to the south of the great Crown Hill, mounted with a real flapping flag, the largest in America. For, it was at the east end of this promontory, at Crown Fort, that during the Insurrection that followed the squashed revolt of 1775-6, was contained within the magazine of that fort. At that time Crown Fort, then named after some Gaelic so-and-such, and the conspirators were blown to bits before completing their dastard design. Ever since that storied time, Crown Hill, Crown Fort, Hanover Fort, and Ostend Gatehouse, guarding the bridges across the river to Brooklyn and over the railway to Pig Town, had assumed the moral heart of loyalist Baltimore. For much of Baltimore was yet a den of crime, conspiracy, nascent plots and nigh, even dreamed of revolt in the minds of the restive brute classes.
The gentry and the middling loyalists had done their best to offset this revolt-leaning mob mentality by importing as many submissive Hindoos, dependent Africans, compliant American Plantation Negroes, hard-working Chinese, and recently even mestizo laborers of an Aztec caste, all in a bid to render the indecent classes of whites pale in their own economy, unable to rise the social ladder in threat as once, twice, and even thrice, occurred since that first traitor year of 1775.
Queen Street was here, barred by no closed gate, against underclass access, but by an open gate, barred by pure loyalty by the Gentleman of the Crown Watch, on his great white mare, and his footmen, two grenadiers with halbreds, doing their duty in olden fashion. A Dutch gentleman would have the Ostend Street Bridge to the west, a German Gentleman—fugitive from his slain nation—did always guard the Hanover Street Bridge, making of this Peninsula an island of sorts. The geo-military weak point was the Charles Street corridor, where the shopkeepers kept their own militia and life was free of gangsterism and crime.
‘Why, the only crooked sorts of Gaelic and low Nativist type hereabout are riding athwart my very running boards!’
The three men in question kept their yaps shut as Blackie Plimpton damped the boiler and ceased his shoveling, no such conveyance permitted in this rarefied quarter.
The simmering of the engine, the racking of the gears and securing of the iron brake, was met with the clang of steel as the two halberds of the grenadiers barred their way and Color Sergeant Major, stepped smartly from the carriage, his long leg easily touching while seated within, stood to at attention, a salute held against is pith helmet over his missing right eye, and declared, “Captain Sir Richard Barrett, on The Queen’s business.”
Richard dismounted, his ankles holding steady in their braces under boot, turned and saluted the resident Captain, who he noted from cards a few years ago, “Captain, Winston… I am at your service.”
Winston saluted sharply and nodded with a horseman’s distaste for machinery, tinged by some wonder at the Car, and then shrugged towards a shed next to the fire station to the south, “The mechanic and the Firemen of the Watch are versed in such contraptions, and will take this over until your departure—will service it as well.”
“Thank you,” Richard answered as he reached within his vest pocket, “My orders—”
The tall, lean, Winston, a man of some sixty years, a veteran who had been known to Old Blake Barrett, cut him off, “Are none of my affair. The Bayonet of Mogadishu, would feign no low ruse. As well, your complete inability to maintain a poker face follows you like Candide’s cursed mask.”
Richard smiled and approached, extending his right hand up to the saddle bound officer, still a captain after all these years for lack of wars to win on horseback, what with the Indian tribes subdued a hundred and more years ago. His hand taken, he grinned, “It is an honor, Captain Winston. I am, Sir, in the theographical way.”
Winston whispered, “Then lower that tone, My Man, and march your men four blocks on, and one west to the Raven Pub at Fort and Charles, under the eves next door to the Baltimore Daily Raven, Chester B. Pullman be your man. You will hear the clack and stamp of those presses a block ahead of your arrival, soothes this mare’s soul on our return to stable.”
The Color Sergeant Major was commanding in low tones, “You men, the dollies: O’Neal, the instruments, Pope chests and casks, LaFono the expeditionary effects [1], Plimpton, the luggage—now at it, in order.”
Under the great mustached gaze of the Sergeant the four men produced 2 sliding tube dollies of hollow brass and one of iron pipe for the expeditionary effects, racked behind the cabin and began unloading the chests, packs, casks and crates from the top of the car. The sergeant did not reach within for his or Richard’s pack, as these would be placed upon their backs by O’Neal as part of his ever jealous duty.
Within minutes, under the watchful gaze of the three gentlemen, as fireman and mechanics crossed the cobblestones from the fire station and garage, the four men stood—Pope obviously having done some stevedore work, packing as good as the veterans—at various attitudes of attention, from LaFon’s slouch to Plimpton’s severe affectation of his betters, the fellow proudly handling his shovel—under the Color Sergeant Major’s scrutiny. This man looked down at his watch, witch he stopped, and declared, “Two-minutes, forty-seven seconds. Sound, if unremarkable.”
He then looked to Blackie as a coal-smeared fireman, a big hulking midland brute, approached from around the coal cab, in obvious need of the shovel, the engine simmering slightly and threatening to go cold. The Sergeant narrated, “There you go, Blackie, the fireman will take good care of ye shovel.”
Even so Blackie held firm to the shovel at first and blurted a bit, “Chalk on the handle, if you please.”
The big sooty white man grinned at the little brown fellow, near to black, “A collier after me own black ‘eart, a chalked sh‘ill be, polished of blade as well.”
“Now that’s a good fellow,” intoned the Sergeant as the firemen and mechanics gasped and chattered and muttered in wonder at the custom-built Barrett Car, and, among the prideful feelings Richard recalled the flag, sewn by Mum’s own hand, draped mist-sodden and coal-stained above.
“Sergeant,” he said saluting the flag.
The Color Sergeant Major cleared his strident throat, saluted the Union Jack and commanded, “O’Neal, she be your steed. Draw down the colors and entrust them to Plimpton.”
O’Neal, despite his size and age, was climbing above as the firemen complimented him on his maintenance and the Sergeant conducted this symphony of staff, “Blackie, furl, cover and pack the colors. You will bear the colors. Mind the lance tip, she is sharp, stave joint at the heart, [1] stake by the right knee, lance tip above the left brow.”
“Yes, Color Sergeant Major,” proudly boomed Blackie the only voice near to a challenge in volume to their NCO.
It was not a minute more that Richard, his kit on his back, sword at his side, marched through the Crown Street Gate, followed by Plimpton, a hundred pounds of luggage strapped to his back, and bearing the standard with both sooty hands, then by O’Neal, Pope and LaFono with their dollies loaded for adventure, the tail of this short column taken up by the most solid sergeant to serve Queen Gloria in her thus far brief reign of seven years.
‘Ah, to meet that beautiful queen! To bend the knee, proudly, the key to the Last Bastion of Zed in my hand… to kiss that great ring upon that dainty hand…’ dreamed Richard, so lost in wonder that he could have been trampled had not Plimpton hissed, “Sir!” and the carriage bearing a wise-looking man, whose face shown knowingly under the gaslight lamp at Crown [2] and Ostend as it clattered past into the misty murk of a still fresh night.
…
Notes
-0. Fort McHenry
-1. The brass joint that joined the two sections of the hollow steel flag staff.
-2. Light Street in the fictive Baltimore where the author was raised.
