“I believe I’ve seed ’er once or twice,” Gill told him. “A fine-lookin’ wench—about the color of a sorghum ginger-cake. Is she the one you mean?”
The big man nodded. “Me ’n her was gwine ter git married, but Marse Whit’ hatter go ’n trade ’er off ter Marse Stafford, en Marse Stafford is done give ’er ’er freedom yistiddy.”
“Ah, he set ’er free, did he?” Gill stared, and by habit awkwardly stroked that part of his face where a beard used to grow.
“Yes, suh; Marse Gill, he done set ’er free, en now a free nigger is flyin’ roun’ her. She won’t marry no slave now, suh!”
Gill drew a full breath and stood up. “Then it wasn’t becase you thought yorese’f so much better ’n me ’n my wife that you wanted to dump yorese’f into eternity?”
“No, suh; dat wasn’t in my min’, suh.”
“Well, I’m powerful glad o’ that, Joe,” responded Gill, “becase neither me nor my wife ever harmed a kink in yore head. Now, the gospel truth is, I was drawed into this whole business ag’in’ my wishes, an’ me an’ Lucretia would give a lots to be well out of it. Now, I don’t want to be the cause o’ that free nigger walkin’ off with yore intrusts, so heer’s what I ‘ll do. Ef you ’ll ride in town with me in the mornin’ I ’ll git a lawyer to draw up as clean a set o’ freedom papers as you ever laid your peepers on. What do you say?”
Big Joe’s eyes expanded until they seemed all white, with dark holes in the center. For a minute he sat like a statue, as silent as the wall behind him; then he said, with a deep breath: “Marse Gill, is you in earnest—my Gawd! is you?”
“As the Almighty is my judge, in whose presence I set at this minute.”
The negro covered his face with a pair of big, quivering hands.