QUEEN VICTORIA’S KEYS.
The time-honoured ceremony that is still observed when the gates of Her Majesty’s Tower of London are ‘locked-up’ is probably not unfamiliar to the public. What actually occurs, however, can be witnessed by a very limited number of persons who are not resident within the Tower; for a night’s immurement in that celebrated feudal ‘strength’ is essential in order that the proceedings of the ‘escort for the Keys’ may be satisfactorily seen and heard, the verbal portion of the formalities being by no means the least important. But the present writer having frequently been called upon to accompany the Queen’s Keys in their nightly perambulations, has enjoyed opportunities, not open to all, for viewing the curious ceremony of ‘locking-up’ from the best possible vantage-ground. A brief sketch of the somewhat unique details connected with it may perhaps prove interesting to the uninitiated reader.
When not engaged in making their midnight or early-morning progresses, the Queen’s Keys are deposited in the residence of the Deputy Constable of the fortress. Not very remarkable from an architectural point of view, this house stands almost in the shadow of the weather-beaten walls of the White Tower—the famous Norman ‘keep’ that can boast of eight centuries’ authentic history, and around which as a nucleus the various other buildings now collectively known as the ‘Tower’ have from time to time been erected. And the dwelling-place of the Keys overlooks the spot—now inclosed by a railing—where so many political offences, real or imputed, have been expiated on the block. The Keys, when brought forth, are invariably carried by a warder, who is a member of the corps of Yeomen of the Guard, or Beefeaters as they are familiarly called. It may quite fairly be said that the antiquated, but picturesque, costume of these men constitutes one of the ‘sights’ of the Tower; though in recent times the garments have been to a considerable extent shorn of their medieval characteristics. Besides the onerous duty of carrying the Queen’s Keys, the Beefeaters are in other ways employed within the precincts of the Tower; among other things, they exercise—or at least they used to exercise—a sort of supervision over the visitors who flock into it on ‘open’ days. Beyond its gates they take part in certain state ceremonials; and, as is well known, assist in the periodical searching of the vaults underneath the Houses of Parliament, thus materially helping to keep alive the remembrance of Guy Fawkes and the celebrated ‘treason and plot’ in which he was so deeply implicated. That neither the supervision nor the search is wholly unnecessary, has been sufficiently well demonstrated by events of recent occurrence.
By the Main Guard, which occupies a guardhouse distant about a stone’s throw from the Constable’s quarters, the Keys are provided with an armed escort on the occasions on which they venture into the open air. This guard is ‘mounted’ daily by some thirty soldiers; they are furnished by a regiment stationed in the adjacent barracks, which were constructed to replace other buildings totally destroyed by the great fire that made such havoc in the Tower nearly half a century ago. Over and above attending to the royal Keys, the members of the guard have other and perhaps equally responsible duties to perform, being in a general way answerable for the security of the fortress and its contents during the twenty-four hours they continue ‘on guard.’ One very important item in their tour of duty may here be mentioned—this is the protection of the Jewel House, within which are kept articles of almost fabulous value, including the regalia and the remarkable Kohinoor diamond. So low in the ceiling is the entrance to this Eldorado, that soldiers of short stature are selected to stand as sentries therein; for a tall man bearing arms would, under the circumstances, be apt to excite the ridicule rather than the awe of the visitors who are conducted into the place by the Beefeaters. The Main Guard, as its title implies, is the principal one; but two other distinct guards are maintained in the Tower; and it is necessary, in order to understand what follows, to rapidly glance at these. One of them mounts at the drawbridge—a structure that no longer exists, and of which, indeed, the guard itself seems to be the sole memento. The party is what is termed a ‘corporal’s’ guard. The other, known as the Spur Guard, occupies a group of buildings which probably represent the ancient barbican of the stronghold. It is a ‘sergeant’s’ guard, and is intrusted with the keeping of the two outer gates, to which we shall have to refer later on.
When the Main Guard enters upon its duties in the forenoon, certain men are detailed to act when required as an escort for the Keys. Their services in this respect are not, however, called upon till the near approach of midnight. But when the clock on the White Tower begins to chime a quarter to twelve, the word ‘Keys!’ uttered in a stentorian tone by a sergeant rouses the soldiers, who are usually slumbering with much apparent comfort on the wooden guard-bed. In a few moments they are transferred to the exterior of the building, fully accoutred, and accompanied by a youthful drummer, who bears a rather dusty lantern which he has hastily lit. Perhaps the lantern may be regarded mainly as a sort of relic of the times when it may be supposed to have afforded the only available light on the route traversed by the Keys. But the way is now amply illuminated by gas lamps of the ordinary pattern; and the not very brilliant lantern might, without very serious disadvantage, be dispensed with. Having drawn up his somewhat drowsy men, the sergeant has now to wait for the officer, if that individual in authority has not already appeared. The interval, if any, is employed by the soldiers in yawning, or in bestowing a finishing touch upon the adjustment of their accoutrements, which have no doubt become slightly displaced during their owner’s late ‘changes of front’ on the guard-bed. When present, the captain of the guard—having ascertained that the escort is likewise ‘present,’ or complete in number—marches off the little party towards the Constable’s house. There the soldiers are met by the warder, suspended from whose hand, as he descends the steps, the Queen’s Keys jingle merrily.
At this juncture, the sergeant commands his subordinates, whom he has halted for a moment, to ‘present arms;’ and the Beefeater takes post a little in advance of his protectors, who forthwith set off in the direction of the gates. The first sentry to be passed stands expectant under the veranda at the entrance to the guardroom, where is also the whole guard not elsewhere engaged: it has been ‘turned out’ to do honour to the Keys. When the sentry sees the escort, headed by the lantern, coming very near to his post, he calls out: ‘Halt! who comes there?’ not, ‘Who goes there?’ the popular acceptation of a military challenge, perhaps derived from the words used in like contingencies by sentinels of certain continental armies. The advancing party is brought to a stand-still by this summons; and the warder, who, as a rule, is enveloped in the folds of an antiquated-looking cloak, replies, in a kind of sepulchral tone of voice: ‘Keys.’—‘Whose keys?’ inquires the soldier, who is meanwhile standing with his piece at the ‘port’—an attitude preparatory to assuming that of the ‘charge.’ The warder answers: ‘Queen Victoria’s Keys.’ But even now the escort is not permitted to proceed on its journey; for the obdurate sentry, coming down to the charge, makes the demand: ‘Stand, Queen Victoria’s Keys. Advance one and give the countersign.’ The password, being well known to the warder, is of course given, and the sentry cries: ‘Pass, Queen Victoria’s Keys. All’s well.’ After the above dialogue has come to a termination, the Keys are conveyed past the guardhouse, being in their transit saluted by the assembled guard, which is then ‘turned in.’
Before the Beefeater and the escort have marched twenty yards, further obstructions delay their progress. These fresh obstacles appear in the forms of the vigilant sentinels at the Jewel House and at the Traitors’ Gate; which latter was once used for the admission of ‘traitors’ brought down the river from Westminster. In succession, each of the soldiers challenges in the same way as his comrade at the Main Guard. And when the Beefeater has satisfactorily answered both men, the party moves onward for some little distance, and is a fourth time brought to a halt by a sentry at the Byward Gate. This gate is on the inner margin of the now dry ditch that encircles the Tower. It stands under an arch, which is surmounted and flanked by turrets or fortifications of a long obsolete design. Besides the soldier alluded to, a Yeoman is at all hours on duty at this point. He is always to be found in an apartment, with a quaint vaulted roof, close by the gate: the place has obviously once been the quarter of a regular military guard. The sentry here having been satisfied as to the character of the escort, it passes on, traverses a causeway leading across the moat, and reaches the Spur Guard. There, of course, it is stopped by a sentry belonging to that body; and the Keys are eventually saluted by this soldier, as well as by the guard of which he forms a unit. And now, after all those impediments have been overcome, the Barrier Gate is at length approached, its custodian having been appeased in the stereotyped manner. The Barrier Gate is the outermost gate of the Tower, and it is necessarily the first to be locked.
As already noticed, the warder marches a little in front of the escort. When he is within some fifteen or twenty paces’ distance from the gate, he halts. Then the men composing the escort advance, and under the superintendence of the sergeant, line the sides of the road, facing inwards towards its middle. The Beefeater, with considerable solemnity of demeanour, now walks up between the ranks, selects the appropriate key, and locks the gate, which in the meantime has been closed by a corporal. This operation accomplished, and having given the gate a shake, to assure himself of its being properly fastened, the Beefeater resumes his position a few yards away, passing as before between the lines of soldiers. Arms are presented to the Keys, both when they are proceeding to the gate and when they are retiring from it, by word of command from the sergeant; for the officer remains behind with the Main Guard.
The party is now rearranged in the order of march, and at once retraces its steps to the next gate to be secured—the one at the Barbican or Spur Guard. On the outer side of the ditch, this portal is exactly opposite the Byward Gate, which we have seen to be situated on its inner bank. Having passed through the as yet open gate, the soldiers are again drawn up in lines, and it is closed and locked; and as the key is withdrawn from the lock, all present say, or are understood to say: ‘God save Queen Victoria.’ The Spur Guard is turned out to salute; and the Keys and their escort retreat across the moat to the Byward Gate, where precisely the same ceremony takes place. This completed, the three chief gates of the Tower have been made fast for the night.
But there exists a fourth gate, which may be accurately described as a ‘back’ entrance to the fortress; it stands in the vicinity of the ancient drawbridge, in the eastern portion of the outer wall of the Tower. The gate in this somewhat remote region is locked in a slightly less formal style than the other or ‘front’ gates; and the men of the escort soon step out smartly on their return journey to the Main Guard. There they are hailed by the sentry as at the outset, and to the echo of his final ‘All’s well,’ the Queen’s Keys are carried into their quarters.
No one, however high in rank or authority, can enter, or leave, the Tower after midnight. But the sergeant in command of the Spur Guard is authorised to admit residents as far as his guardhouse, where there is a waiting-room for the accommodation of such belated persons. For this purpose he is provided with keys—quite distinct from those of the escort—wherewith to open, not the gates, but wickets alongside them. And thus the people admitted do not enter the Tower proper; for it will be remembered that the ditch intervenes between the Barbican and the Byward Gate, where there is no wicket. The architects, ancient or modern, who designed the waiting-room took pains that it should not be a very attractive abode; and though it may compare favourably with another apartment said to exist in the Tower, and called ‘Little Ease,’ there is yet but small encouragement held forth to the inhabitants of the fortress to remain abroad subsequent to the hour appointed for ‘locking-up.’
At five o’clock in the morning, the sergeant again summons his men; on this occasion, to open the gates of the Tower. The ceremony, though essentially similar to the midnight one, is perhaps a little more hurriedly performed in the unlocking than it is in the locking of the gates; and the officer on guard does not appear in the morning, though we may safely assume that he had to ‘turn out’ when the opening of the Tower was a more significant matter than it happily now is. But besides being present with his guard at midnight, he has other duties to carry out: by day, he marches off the ‘relief’ at intervals of two hours; and in the afternoon goes round the sentries, hearing them repeat their orders—an almost obsolete custom, but still kept up in the Tower. Previous to the hour appointed for this ordeal, the men may be seen studiously reading their instructions, or committing them to memory as they pace up and down. By night, the officer goes his ‘rounds’ accompanied by a small escort, including the drummer-boy and his rather opaque lantern. In the course of this tour, every sentinel connected with the garrison is visited; and by the time the rounds return to the Main Guard, the members of that important body have usually been called into activity by the loud cry of ‘Keys!’