Sally gestures at the list. “So, what are we doing with this?”
“John Gamble stopped by while you were out. He’s been asked to head up the burial committee and is trying to get a firm count on who’s going in the ground.”
“What a horrible job.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” she says. “But will you deliver this to him? At the capitol?”
“Aren’t I more useful here?”
Mrs. Cowley gives her a pitying look, and Sally recalls the fit she just threw downstairs. “I thought it might be good for you to get out.”
JACK
The Enquirer’s offices are housedin a clapboard building that sits close to the street. On one side of the building there is a small bookshop, where Jack used to buy his schoolbooks when his father was alive, and on the other side is the print shop, where Ritchie and his staff produce theEnquirer, along with a reliable farmer’s almanac and half the books and pamphlets that circulate the city.
Anderson lets out a low whistle as they enter the print shop. “Quite the operation,” he says.
In the middle of the shop sit two printing presses—an old wooden number that looks like it was built before the Revolution, and a newer one on an iron frame. Two men—one white and one Black—work in tandem at the new machine; the white man beats the plate with a pair of ink balls and the Black man positions the paper and pulls the lever. They work in perfect rhythm, and every few seconds, the Black man removes a finished sheet from the press and hangs it on a large drying rack, which runs the length of the back wall. Near the window there is a cabinet stacked with type cases, and in the far corner of the room sits a giant pile of rags, waiting—Jack can only assume—to be sent to the paper mill and turned into slurry.
“Sorry to bother you,” Anderson says. “But is Mr. Ritchie here?”
The white man looks annoyed to have been interrupted, but he nods in the direction of a small door at the back of the shop.
Anderson is at the door of the office in several long strides, and Jack follows close behind him. A quick rap, and Mr. Ritchie says, “Come in.”
The newspaper editor is a thin man, older than Anderson, but not nearly so old as Placide. He has a square jaw, thin lips, and a hawkish nose, and he sits at a small desk positioned directly in front of a wood-burning fireplace that doesn’t look like it’s been swept once all winter. The desk is piled high with papers, and a settee is pushed against one wall. When Anderson addresses him, the editor doesn’t look up, just holds out a hand andcontinues to scratch his pen across the page, until he comes to a full stop. “This is a very bad time.”
“Yes, I know,” says Anderson. “We’re with Placide and Green. Alexander Placide asked us to deliver a letter to you.”
Ritchie deposits his pen in an inkhorn and gives Anderson his full attention. “Oh?”
Anderson pulls the letter from his waistband. “I believe he hopes you’ll publish it.”
“Do I get the privilege of reading it first? Or am I to publish it sight unseen?” says Ritchie, and Anderson steps forward to give it to him.
Jack holds his breath as he watches Ritchie’s eyes move across the page. At one point, they grow wide, and Jack can only assume he’s gotten to the part about the vile incendiaries.
“You both work for Placide and Green?” Ritchie asks, and Anderson answers affirmatively, but Ritchie is looking directly at Jack.
“I’m a stagehand.”
“From Charleston?”
Jack shakes his head no. “Richmond.”
Ritchie gives him a questioning stare. “What’s your name?”
“Jack Gibson.”
“Are you Zeke Gibson’s son?”
Hearing his father’s name spoken aloud always turns Jack’s insides to mush, but there’s something particularly painful about hearing his name invoked now, when he would so heartily disapprove of what Jack’s doing. Jack gives Ritchie a strangled “Yes, sir.”
Ritchie says only “Hmmm.” Then he waves the letter at both of them. “Have you read this?”
Jack knows not to admit to writing it, but he can’t see the harm in claiming to have read it. He nods.
“I’ve been at the site since midnight, and I’ve interviewed at least two dozen people,” says Ritchie, tapping a small notebook that lays open on the desk, on top of some papers. “And in all of those interviews, not a single person has referenced—what does he call them?”
