“I heard there were at least a dozen of them. Maybe more.” Anderson looks around, like he’s trying to ascertain whether he is in danger of beingoverheard, but it’s so obvious—to Jack, at least—that being overheard is exactly what he’s after. “They’re saying it looks like a coordinated effort.”
“Who’s they?” asks a fourth man with a big beard, but Anderson is saved by Mayor Tate, who calls the meeting to order.
A hush falls over the room, and the mayor begins by trying to offer words of comfort. “We have been visited by a calamity the most distressing of which society can be afflicted. It has deprived us of so many of our most valuable citizens, pervaded every family, and rendered our whole town one deep and gloomy scene of woe.”
Woehardly seems the word for it. When Jack looks around this room, at the families of the dead, what he sees is utter devastation.
Jack is surprised the mayor doesn’t invoke the name of the theater company in his remarks. He doesn’t even say the wordtheater. It is as if the fire is no different from an earthquake or a lightning strike—something delivered by God. Placide would be much relieved.
There is the requisite beating of chests, on the part of members of the Common Council, who feel duty bound to say something profound to their constituents, each in their own turn. Then the bereaved are invited to speak, although most of them cannot, in fact, put words to their grief. One man approaches the dais and falls to his knees, another just stands there and weeps. A woman is so distraught, she has to be carried from the room.
Jack can hardly watch the whole scene unfold, and he glances at Anderson to see if he’s holding up any better. Anderson has one of those faces that doesn’t give much away, but Jack finds it hard to believe anyone could listen to this and not be tempted to admit the company’s role in the disaster.
Eventually, the chamber comes to the business at hand and resolves that there should be three people in each ward appointed to collect information about the deceased, and that the twenty-eighth of December—tomorrow—should be reserved for a funeral at Henrico Parish Church.
In front of Jack, a man whispers to his wife, “How are we to have her remains by then?”
Jack closes his eyes and tries to convince himself that the girl whose remains they are discussing is not their daughter. But then he has to ask himself, is it better if she is their niece? Their governess? What about their slave?
Jack tries to follow the remarks as closely as he can, but he’s distracted. Hekeeps waiting for someone to turn around and point at him, to call him out in front of all these people.This is the boy who forgot to put out the chandelier’s candles at the appointed time. This is the boy who did not hold his ground when Green insisted he raise the lamp into the flyspace. This is the boy who was not quick enough to cut down the backdrop when he realized it had been set alight.But no one says anything. The question of what—or who—caused the fire is barely mentioned. People are much more concerned with the details of the burial. They want to know what time it will take place, who will lead the service, and how—again—are all of the bereaved to fit inside Henrico Parish Church?
There are no good answers, but people take heart when Mayor Tate begins to announce committees. In addition to the burial committee, which the Common Council has already established, the mayor declares that he will appoint people to two other committees: a monument committee, led by Chief Justice John Marshall, and an inquest committee, headed up by—of all people—Thomas Ritchie.
Anderson rubs the bridge of his nose.
“You’re not pleased?” Jack whispers.
“Wirt would have been better, as far as the company’s concerned.”
Jack looks for Wirt’s mop of blond hair in the crowd and finds him sitting near the front of the hall, chin in hand, observing the proceedings dejectedly.
“Say what you will about that damned play of his,” says Anderson. “He’s still a man who favors art above all else.”
Ritchie sits just a few feet away from Wirt. Some of the men in the editor’s circle clap him on the back—an indication that they believe Tate has chosen wisely—but it’s hard for Jack to judge. On one hand, Ritchie has indicated he will give the troupe’s story, as absurd as it may be, his full consideration. On the other, he is a newspaper man, trained at separating fact from fiction.
When Tate names John Marshall’s brother, William, to the inquest committee, Anderson nudges Jack in the ribs. “He’s a member of the theater’s board of investors. That’s good news for us.”
Tate gives his closing remarks, and it’s clear the meeting is about to adjourn, when the man with the yellow scarf puts his fingers to his lips and lets fly a loud whistle. Tate and Ritchie and Wirt and all of the other men at the front of the room turn toward the source of the sound.
“Over here!” says the man, trying to get their attention. “What’s this we’re hearing about the fire being intentionally set by a bunch of slaves?”
It’s like all the air has gone out of the room. There are several long seconds of silence, then a few people begin to murmur to one another, and soon the room is in an uproar. “Is that true?” more than one person shouts in the direction of the dais.
“Order! Order!” says Mayor Tate as he struggles to get the room under control.
“And what should we do? Just wait to be killed in our beds?” screams a woman near Jack who seems to be teetering on the edge of delirium.
Jack wants to know what Anderson was thinking, lighting a fuse like this. But when he turns around to ask him, his friend is gone.
It takes Jack several seconds to locate Anderson, more than a dozen feet away, near the exit. “Wait!” he calls after him, but Anderson doesn’t stop. He just motions his head in the direction of the door, which Jack interprets to mean they should meet outside, in the rotunda.
“Excuse me,” says Jack to the men beside him as he attempts to slide past them, but they do not so much as shift their weight.
“Do we know whose slaves are responsible?” one man shouts at Tate.
“Tom Rutherford’s Negroes are never where they belong,” another offers.
Soon, everyone is hurling names and accusations at the dais. Tate keeps promising that the inquest committee will do a thorough investigation, but that in the meantime no one is to take the law into their own hands. “You must trust that justice will prevail,” he pleads.
