“Some worse-than-vile incendiary,” Jack whispers, and he begins to write.
GILBERT
Word spreads quickly down LocustAlley that all businesses are to close for the next two days.
“By order of the Common Council,” says the man who stops by the smithy to tell Kemp the news. And then, because he must not think Kemp is the type to understand the symbolism of closing up shop, he adds, “Out of respect for the dead.”
Kemp doesn’t like it, and says as much to his visitor as he steers him out of the smithy. “What I want to know is how they think me giving up two days of income is going to change what happened in that theater?”
When the man is gone, Kemp locks the door and tells everyone to keep working, same as before. “We won’t take any new orders, but there’s no reason for us to get behind on the jobs we’ve already got.”
None of the men are happy with this arrangement, and it is as if they collectively decide, without saying a word, that they will work at half speed to compensate. Gilbert makes three skillets in the time it usually takes him to make six, Marcus sweeps the same pile of metal filings halfway across the shop and back again, and even Ned, who is nothing if not conscientious, spends an inordinate amount of time polishing a pair of fish servers.
Kemp is useless on a good day, but today, it’s like he’s trying to win a prize for his own fecklessness. He restacks a shipment of pig iron that Ibrahim did a perfectly fine job laying up when he hauled it in off the cart the day before; he spends a half hour perusing the account book without making a single mark in it; and at one point, he wanders over to Gilbert’s forge and tells him that if he didn’t allow his pan handles to cup so much on the edges, he’d get a better curve on them. Gilbert wants to remind him that the cupping is what makes his handles comfortable to grip, but instead he just says, “That’s good advice, sir.”
When they hear a loud banging at the smithy door, everyone jumps.They’re all worried that maybe there’s a penalty for working after the Common Council tells you to stop.
“Stop hammering there for a second,” Kemp warns Gilbert as he unlocks the door to reveal two gentlemen without hats or coats.
“We’re looking for a Mr. Cameron Kemp,” says a big man with bushy eyebrows. He’s accompanied by a handsome man of average build, with a thick head of hair.
“I’m him,” Kemp says.
“Splendid,” says the man. “I understand you’re in charge of the slave patrol.”
Kemp pats his own chest. “Captain of the first class of patrol.”
“Good, good. I’m Billy Twaits, and this is Charles Young. We’re with Placide and Green.”
Kemp isn’t much for the arts, so when he gives them a blank stare, Twaits has to elaborate. “The theatrical company.”
Twaits waits for the words to register—eventually, they do—then he steps forward to shake Kemp’s hand. “Please pardon our appearance. The fire claimed our coats.”
Kemp nods slowly, like he doesn’t quite know what to make of these two. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re rather hoping there’s something we can do for you.”
“Not sure I follow.”
“We have reason to suspect that the theater fire was started as part of a slave rebellion.”
Gilbert sucks in his breath, and the room goes so quiet he can hear the lick of the flames in his forge.
“What proof do you have?” asks Kemp, which is a good question, but Gilbert knows that Kemp has never let proof—or the lack of it—get in his way before.
The men describe a band of a dozen or so Negro incendiaries, whom they saw near the stage door during the performance, and Kemp is so giddy he’s practically hopping up and down. “This is big.”
“That’s what we’re saying,” Twaits says, and there is something about the way he eggs Kemp on that makes Gilbert immediately suspicious of both him and his friend.
The iron rod Gilbert was hammering on has gone cold and gray, so he returns to the forge and sinks it into the hot coals.
“We think it’s extremely likely that many of these men are still at large,” says Twaits with some urgency in his voice, and Gilbert steals a glance at Marcus. They’ve both got to be thinking the same thing, which is that there was no band of Negroes running around Shockoe Hill last night. Gilbert walked right past the theater on his way to Sara’s, and the neighborhood was quiet as a crypt. And if Marcus was at a cockfight, he surely would have heard rumblings of a revolt.
“I’ll alert the patrol,” says Kemp. “And we’ll ride out at once.”
“We haven’t horses,” says Twaits. “Will you need us?”
“Only once we start making arrests. Did you get a good look at them?”
