WELCOME TO ANNAPOLIS MISTER BRANDT
QUIET POWER IS POWER MULTIPLIED
WELCOME TO ANNAPOLIS MISTER BRANDT
A well-built black man carried two massive armloads of newspapers with ease through the thick oaken door and into the rumble and hum of the busy tavern. He paused as the counter-weighted heavy door closed behind him with a soft clunk, insulating customers and staff from the cacophony of the Annapolis streets.
“BOY!”
The black man stopped in stride, turned, and faced the voice. Arms laden with newspapers, face free of expression, he quietly regarded the well-dressed man sitting with others at the financiers’ table.
“Don’t just stand there!” The man, in cream pants, white shirt, gray vest, and a knotted white neckerchief, leaned back against his chair, his left hand holding a steaming mug of coffee and the fingers of his right hand drumming the tabletop. “Bring me one of those papers! BOY!”
The growing hum of other conversations and the clank, rattle, and clink of a busy morning filling the entire tavern immediately ceased. August’s fingers pressed hard against the papers. His eyes blinked, but his face remained blank, his mouth stayed shut, and a corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Are you deaf or dumb?” The man’s angry brown eyes locked on August. “Damn it! N . . .”
The scrape of a chair caught the man’s attention, and he found himself staring into the cold, angry eyes of a well-dressed older gentleman of regal countenance standing behind a table on the other side of the room.
Every pair of eyes fell upon the financier, as did the clear, calm voice. “Apologize to my servant or you will never do business in Maryland again.”
Frozen bodily in place, the man’s forehead crinkled even as he stared into the face of focused fury, ready to challenge it. But the ferocity of the old man’s stare eviscerated his nerve. The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed a bead of perspiration from the bottom edge of a thin sideburn, and ran his other hand through thinning brown hair, “I apologize.”
The old man’s voice cut like a scalpel. “To August.”
Only his eyes moved. “August. You have my sincerest apologies.”
August’s lips spread wide across his face. “Accepted.” With a nod, he strode away and deposited the stacks of newspapers on the bar.
“Thank you.” The old man’s voice and eyes remained sharp. “Your name and business, sir?”
“Archibald Brandt. Agent for Mister John Jacob Astor. And, you are, sir?”
“Charles Carroll.”
Brandt’s jaw dropped nearly as quickly as his butt into his seat. The other financiers at the table grinned and shook their heads slowly. A younger, more fashionably dressed man next to him said, “Welcome to Annapolis.”
Across the way, the old patriot sat back down and the rumble and hum of the tavern ramped back up. Trolleys rolled from the kitchen, heavy with aromatic platters of ham, biscuits, tomato gravy, and other Maryland breakfast foods.