Let it be known that I, Callum Murrow, resident and citizen of the City of Richmond, do hereby manumit, emancipate, and forever set free from slavery the Negro man named Samuel, to be free and at his full and perfect liberty from and after the day of the date hereof. I remove my rights of property, possession, utility, and dominion, which I have possessed over this slave. Witness my hand and seal, this tenth day of April in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three.
Gilbert studies the document. Mr. Murrow’s affidavit is certified by a justice of the peace, and beneath the certification is another attestation, this time by the magistrate, in the Court of Hustings, who recorded the deed.
“You think you can get the signatures to look that good?” Samuel asks.
Gilbert thinks of Louisa and how she had him sign his name over and over again in her copybook. “I know I can,” he whispers.
“There’s ink and paper over there,” says Samuel, nodding his head inthe direction of a small writing desk. “But you might want to bring it over to the workbench so you got the lamp.”
For the next several hours, the three of them work in companionable silence. Samuel applies one last coat of lacquer to the coupe, Cecily hems the curtains that will hang inside it, and Gilbert writes and rewrites the manumission papers until they are perfect.
Cecily’s papers look good—every bit as good as Samuel’s, but there’s something about seeing the two documents side by side that leaves Gilbert feeling hollowed out. For so long, all he’s wanted—for himself and for Sara—is a set of free papers just like Samuel’s. The real thing, bought and paid for with his own hard work. But now he realizes that all any of these documents are is words, and not even very mysterious words. Words likefreeandrightsandliberty. How can it be that so few words, scratched on a piece of letter paper, are what’s separating Sara and him from a life of freedom?
“Are you all right?” Cecily asks as she puts down her needle and thread and makes her way over to him.
She rests a hand on his shoulder, and he reaches up to pat it.
Maybe, if Mrs. Johnston comes through with Sara’s papers, Gilbert will take a risk and write a set for himself. Take Sara somewhere far away from here—Pennsylvania or Ohio—and start over. If he sets up shop as a blacksmith, he might be too easy to find, but he is not too old to learn new tricks.
The last thing Gilbert does, before he says goodbye to Cecily, is read her free papers aloud to her, pausing so she can memorize all the pertinent facts.
“You must like that name, Ruth, if you’re letting me keep it,” she says.
He assumed she knew why he’d given it to her, but now he explains, “It was your grandmother’s name.”
She seems surprised. “Mama never said.”
Gilbert nods.
“She used to go by Ruthie.”
“Well, then,” says Cecily as she wraps her arms around him, “I will do the same.”
SUNDAYDECEMBER 29, 1811
GILBERT
It’s a little after midnightwhen Gilbert makes his way down Locust Alley.
The smithy should be shut up tight this time of night, so as soon as he sees warm lamp light pouring out of the window and onto the street, he knows something’s wrong.
He slows, tiptoes to the window, peeks inside. There’s no sign of Kemp, but Marcus is sitting alone at the table by the fireplace, and his face is banged up pretty good.
Gilbert lets himself in. “What happened to you?” he says when Marcus glances up at him. His right eye is swelling fast.
“I’ll give you one guess.”
“Kemp?”
He nods.
“Lord help us.”
“He and Elliott Price and a few others came by here, looking for you.”
Gilbert’s stomach drops. “Why?”
Marcus gives him a look, like,You really got to ask?
