The House Is on Fire

by Rachel Beanland

“It’s not lying, Jack,” says Anderson, his voice as smooth as churned butter. “He’s perfectly right,” Placide says. “In our business, we call it acting.”

Virtue means doing the right thing, in relation to the right person, at the right time, to the right extent, in the right manner, and for the right purpose.

“I’d start by trying to locate Mr. Campbell.” “Why?” “Well, he is her husband,” says Dr. Foushee. “And, assuming he is alive, it is up to him—and not you—to decide if she keeps the leg.”

Kemp is one of about seventy men who ride with the night watch, also known as the slave patrol. It’s an all-volunteer force that’s supposed to police gambling, prostitution, and the like, but all any of them ever do is harass Richmond’s Negro population.

“This new United States would like to pretend it bears no relation to Mother England,” Anderson says, “but test the winds and you’ll find a country growing more puritanical with every passing day.”

Gilbert always tries to do the right thing, by himself and the people around him, but he doesn’t know if he’s ever been recognized for it, and this recognition—now, in front of so many people—leaves him feeling overwhelmed. Everybody in this city has lost somebody in that fire, and if these men can stand before him on this sad day and demonstrate their gratitude, like he is an honest-to-God citizen of this city and not just somebody’s property, then maybe there is hope for him after all.

Ritchie describes fathers shrieking for their children, husbands for their wives, and brothers for their sisters, but it was the other way around. It’s the women who were shrieking, while the men pushed past them—and in some cases, climbed over them—to get to the door.

Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.