[inspired by this fucked-up historical flag i saw on amazon]
autumn 1779. a scottish naval officer for the newly-christened united states sails a british ship into a colonial dutch port. having narrowly escaped his own sinking vessel, he now faces a wave of slander: “pirate!” “privateer!” “outlaw on the seas!”
of course, they had a point. he was piloting a captured warship, after all, and the mast that once proudly flew the white ensign was now bare; he was all but indistinguishable from a low pillager. but a pirate he is not. he is an American, a real red-blooded patriot—and an ensign of his very own would show it. so to holland he heads.
[continued after the break]
“...what is the american ensign?” asks the port’s bookkeeper.
“the american flag!” the officer proclaims. “the star-spangled banner! the glorious red, white, and blue!” the bookkeeper’s eyes loll upward, settling on the banner of the dutch republic hung over the door. but the officer pleads. “you must have one somewhere—how could you not?”
the bookkeeper is quiet for a while. he idly stares ahead, his hands beginning to rifle through a stack of neatly-creased letters. they seem to move on their own, navigating by texture, shuffling and sorting and suddenly stopping on one sandy-brown sheet— “i thought i remembered something. that doesn’t often happen at my age.” he pulls the page close to his face.
“a missive from american ambassador to france benjamin franklin.” he squints, mumbling to himself. “‘It is with pleasure that... flag of the United States of America consists of thirteen stripes, alternately red, white, and blue... a small square in the upper angle, next the flagstaff, is a blue field, with thirteen white stars...’“ the officer nods along excitedly; the bookkeeper sighs. “i can handle that.”
from a desk drawer, he draws a thick journal and a stubby pencil. he sketches out a rectangle, and another in its top corner; cuts a handful of strips across its length, scatters some stars into the smaller box; holds up the book to the officer with a soft smirk. “tell the seamstress you lost it in a bad storm. she won’t know any better.”
the officer’s brow furrows. “that’s...” his mind’s eye fades back to the flag that once hung over his own ship. “...it’s not quite...”
the bookkeeper drops the journal back onto the desk and lowers his voice. “it’s this or you try your luck with the royal navy again.” and at once the officer remembers the fate of that flag, hears again the sputtering shouts of his crewmen gone overboard and the deafening report of enemy guns battering his pinned-down vessel.
“...thank you, sir. good day.”