The Last Testament of Montgomery Blair

Inspired by true events.

St. Louis, 1883

The old man sat by the fire, its glow a flickering reminder of the life slowly burning out inside him. His breath came in ragged pulls, a rhythm of inevitability. The room smelled of ash and old paper, the air heavy with the weight of things unsaid. His grandson sat cross-legged at his feet, the boy’s silhouette sharp against the firelight.

“Grandpa, who was Dred Scott?” the boy asked, his voice small in the cavernous quiet.

Montgomery Blair’s lips curved into a ghost of a smile. “A man worth knowing. A story worth telling.” His fingers, twisted by age and arthritis, rested on a leather-bound portfolio. Its worn edges whispered of years gone by, of a truth too easily forgotten. “But it’s not a bedtime story, son. It’s the kind that keeps you awake.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and Blair began.