Someone tapped Lafayette Baker’s shoulder, causing him to look to left. There stood slender young dandy, dressed in a tailored suit, adorned with a silk cravat stuck with a diamond pin. He posed elegantly, leaning a pearl-handled cane. “It isn’t fair, isn’t it, Mr. Baker? There you risked your life in the service of your country, and soft clotheshorses like me discount your stories as nothing more than sweet apples hawked at a street market. I say we round them all up and kick them in the ass.”
Baker detected a Boston accent. He tried scrutinizing the man’s face but the flickering light of the tavern made that difficult. Most of the time Baker did not waste his time on dandies, but this one appealed to his ego, which was bruised to the extreme at this moment. Eventually he chuckled.
“Let me buy you a drink, friend.”
“No, it will be my honor to buy you all the drinks you wish, but not the swill in this establishment.” The young man pulled coins from the breast pocket of his brocaded waistcoat and tossed them on the bar. He put a gloved hand on Baker’s shoulder to guide him from his stool to the door and on the street. “You look like a sportsman, sir. Our first stop should be Dick Perriston’s on Chestnut just south of Fifth Street. Dick is known for his fine old English ale.”
Baker found himself being whisked along Ridge Avenue to a better neighborhood of saloons. The young man used his pearl-handled cane deftly to push aside those who did not move fast enough.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You seem to know everything about me, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Roman Bruton,” the young man said with a laugh. “Isn’t it a perfectly horrendous name? My parents honeymooned in Italy many years ago and became fascinated by everything about Rome, hence my rather pompous given name.” He nudged Baker. “My middle name is even worse. Cassius, if you can believe it. You should see the family home in Boston. My parents fashioned the parlor after an atrium. Both Papa and Mama came from wealthy shipping families so they are shamefully ostentatious in their consumption of the finer things in life. I enjoy my comforts but there are limits, don’t you think?” Before Baker could answer, Bruton lifted his cane to tap the swinging sign over the saloon door. “Here we are, Dickie Perriston’s.” He laughed loudly. “He hates it when I call him Dickie.”
Inside Bruton forced their way to an empty table in a corner and pulled a chair out for Baker. “I much prefer sitting at a table than at the bar, don’t you?” Again he continued, not waiting for a reply. “I’ll be back with a couple of ales.” Immediately he disappeared in the crowd.
Baker was at a loss to explain how he lost control of the evening. He would have been perfectly content to drink the evening away in the seamier district, but this dandy took over with such positive energy, Baker did not mind. He even felt flattered, an emotion he rarely experienced. Bruton bustled back and plopped two mugs of the famous ale on the table, pushing one over to the older man.
“So, tell me, Mr. Baker, what is your sport of choice?” Bruton asked as he lifted his mug and imbibed.
“I enjoy hunting. In fact, my brother-in-law had invited me for a short hunting trip into the woods just beyond the city west side. I frankly wasn’t up to it.”
“I am not surprised.” He leaned in, revealing a glimpse of his chin in the lamp light. “Here you are, an American hero, protecting the men who made the decisions that won the war, and no one appreciates you. I read your book. Fascinating.”
Baker found Bruton rather long-winded, but he decided the young man’s flamboyance gave him time to appreciate his ale. The palate was a bit disconcerting, but he had never indulged in an English ale before and perhaps it was an acquired taste.
“I look forward to your new account in the British magazine.” He paused to wipe the foam away from his moustache. “What was the name of it again?”
“Colson’s United Service Magazine. It has a limited circulation. I doubt if you will find a copy.” Baker finished his mug and pushed it away.
“Then you must tell me what’s in it. But first let me refresh your drink.” Again, Bruton popped away to the bar.
Putting both hands to his forehead, Baker checked himself for perspiration. Summer in Philadelphia could be muggy, but he swore he felt more like a fever was creeping across his brow. It was a sensation he had never undergone on any of his rampages through saloon row anywhere in the country. Interrupting Baker’s self-diagnosis, Bruton appeared and placed a fresh mug in front of him.
“Now, tell me, what nuggets of government scandal do you have to share?”
Baker sipped the ale and decided the undertones were not growing on him. “For one thing, John Wilkes Booth did not act alone; that is, there was more to the conspiracy than his small band of henchmen.”
“You don’t say.”
“If I can find the courage to return to Congress with a request for a new hearing, all of America will know the breadth of the evil that manipulated the fate of the war.”
“I figured as much myself.”
He frowned and pushed away the mug. “I’m sorry. I can seem to get accustomed to this ale. I know it is impolite to decline a gentleman’s generosity but—“
“No need to say more,” Bruton interrupted with a smile. “If you take but one more sip, I will take you to a much finer establishment than this. It’s known for its wide selection of incomparable whiskies.”
After a brief deliberation, Baker shrugged, upended the mug and drained it. After all, he did not want to seem unappreciative of Bruton’s hospitality. With a heavy haze settling on his brain, Baker yielded completely as his young companion led him down another street.