He was of the militia, and had a musket hanging upon his shoulder. Back to the street, he yanked a handsome clothes press out a door and conducted it, thumping, down the building’s brick steps. He looked about him, saw no friend — saw he was abandoned — saw only the muskets of direst enemy — smiled, and offered to sell us the clothes press for a guinea.

Corporal Craigie demanded he lay down his arms.

The rebel said, “You ain’t going to find excellenter workmanship, boys, for that sum, a guinea. Look’ee, pray, see the dovetailing of the joinery. Give it your eye.”

We bid him submit to his King.

“Boys, that ain’t here nor there. I’ll take an even pound sterling, in the light of circumstance. Look’ee, sirs, fine as Hepplewhite and Hay.”

We presented our bayonets.

The rebel nodded sadly; then gestured back at the house from which he had just issued forth. “There’s a fire-screen painted with wigwams I ain’t stole yet that I’d be willing to part with for a skip and song. A master’s brush.”

Bono stepped forward to bind the man’s arms.

“But mayhaps,” said the man, “you ain’t fanciers of true quality.”

We tied his wrists together.

Corporal Craigie posed interrogation: “Who set the fires?”

“You did, as I reckon.”

“Who set the fires?”

“You did, my Scottish love.”

“On thir street, man. Who set the fires?”

“Look at your own hands.”

At a nod from Corporal Craigie, Charles held his bayonet to the man’s neck.

The Corporal asked again, “Who set the fires?”

The rebel answered, “When a man sits starving and he watch the citizens of a town lick His Lordship’s black arsehole like a cur with hopes for stroking, a man starts to resent their flattery and groveling, and maybe if a man sees His Lordship’s going to light a little fire, a man reckons, Maybe as I should light a little fire myself.”

“Vauntie birke, ye are,” said Corporal Craigie.

“A man reckons, Here’s a little payment for all the time we spent waiting around our fire-pits Christmas Day. A man reckons, Here’s showing Norfolk our high opinion of people who don’t love their countrymen as much as they love despotism. A man reckons, I’m drunk and I don’t care a fig. A man reckons, We do this, and we ain’t going to get the blame anyways. Because Lord Dunmore, Governor of the Negroes, started the burning. So when they say, ‘Who burned Norfolk?’ ain’t nobody going to answer nothing but, ‘Lord Dunmore and his Ethiopian Regiment.’ Welcome, boys, to the annals of tyranny.”

The Corporal ordered we should gag him; and gladly we did, to stop up such filth.

Corporal Craigie ordered we should return to the square where we had left Jocko dying, and the others of our detachment.

We turned about, two guarding the prisoner. He stepped along, jovial of eye. The flames were reflected on the quick of it.

Thus arrayed, we returned to our fallen companion.