Roots (81 page)

“Knows what you means, honey, I sho’ does,” he said easily. “Out dere travelin’ wid massa, or sometime me and Uncle Mingo up all night wid some dem sick chickens, I be’s jes’ thinkin’ ’bout you an’ de young’un.”

Matilda bit her tongue, choosing not to voice her doubts, even her suspicions about some of the things he said. Instead she asked, “You figger it’s ever gwine git any better, George?”

“Ever git massa rich enough! So he be willin’ to stay home hisself. But look, it ain’t hurtin’ us none, baby! Look how we’s savin’ if I can keep bringin’ in winnin’s like I is.”

“Money ain’t you!” said Matilda flatly, and then she made her tone softer. “An’ we’d save a lot mo’ if you jes’ ease up buyin’ presents for ever’body! We all ’preciates ’em, you knows dat! But George, where I ever gwine wear sich as dat fine silk dress I specks better’n any missy got!”

“Baby you can jes’ put dat dress on right in here, den pull it off fo’ me!”

“You’s terrible!”

He was the most exciting man—beyond anyone she had even dreamed of knowing, at least in that way. And he certainly was a fine provider. But she didn’t really trust him, and she couldn’t help wondering whether he loved her and their baby as much as he did traveling with the massa. Was there anything in the Scriptures about chickens? Vaguely she recalled something—in Matthew, if she wasn’t mistaken—about “a hen gathereth her chickens beneath her wings ...” I must look that up, she told herself.

When she did have a husband at home, though, Matilda submerged her doubts and disappointments and tried to be the best wife she knew how. If she knew he was coming, a big meal was waiting; if he came unexpectedly, she prepared one right away, day or night. After a while she quit trying to get him to bless a meal, simply saying a short grace herself, then delighting in watching him eat while he held the gurgling Virgil in his lap. Then afterward, with the boy put to bed, examining George’s face, she pinched out blackheads; or heating water to half fill the tin tub, she would wash his hair and his back; and if he arrived complaining
of aching feet, she would rub them with a warm paste of roasted onions and homemade soap. Finally, whenever the candles were blown out and they were again between her fresh sheets, Chicken George would make up for his absences to the utmost. About the time Virgil began to walk, Matilda was great with child again; she was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.

With another child on the way, Gran’mammy Kizzy decided the time had come to take her son aside and tell him a thing or two that had been on her mind for a long time. He arrived home from a trip one Sunday morning to find her minding Virgil while Matilda was up in the big house helping Miss Malizy prepare dinner for guests who were soon to arrive.

“You set down right dere!” she said, wasting no time. He did, eyebrows risen. “I don’t care if you’s grown now, I still brought you in dis worl’, an’ you gwine listen! God done give you a real good woman you ain’t noways treatin’ right! I ain’t foolin’ wid you now! You hear me? I still take a stick to your behin’ in a minute! You got to spen’ mo’ time wid yo’ wife an’ young’un, an’ her awready big wid yo’ nex’ one, too!”

“Mammy, what you ’speck?” he said as irritably as he dared. “When massa say, ‘Go,’ tell him I ain’t?”

Kizzy’s eyes were blazing. “Ain’t talkin’ ’bout dat an’ you know it! Tellin’ dat po’ gal you settin’ up nights tendin’ sick chickens an’ sich as dat! Where you
git
all dis lyin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ gamblin’ an’ runnin’ roun’ ? You
knows
I ain’t raised you like dat! An’ don’t think dis jes’ me talkin’! ’Tilda ain’t no fool, she jes’ ain’t let you know she seein’ right through you, too!” Without another word, Gran’mammy Kizzy stalked angrily from the cabin.

With Massa Lea being among the entrants for the great 1830 cockfighting tournament in Charleston, no one could criticize Chicken George for being away when the baby was born. He returned as ecstatic to learn about his second son—whom Matilda
had already named Ashford, after her brother—as he was aglow with his good luck. “Massa winned over a thousan’ dollars, an’ I winned fifty in de hackfights! Y’all ought to hear how white folks an’ niggers both has started to hollerin’, ‘I’m bettin’ on dat Chicken George’!” He told her how in Charleston, Massa Lea had learned that President Andrew Jackson was a man after their own style. “Ain’t nobody love cockfightin’ mo’n he do! He call in dem big congressmens an’ senators an’ he show ’em a
time
fightin’ dem Tennessee birds o’ his’n right dere in dat White House! Massa say dat Jackson gamble an’ drink wid any man. Dey say when dem matchin’ chestnut hosses pullin’ ’im in dat fine Pres’dent’s coach, he be settin’ up dere wid his velvet-lined suitcase o’ liquor right beside ’im! Massa say far as southern white men’s concerned, he can stay Pres’dent till he git tired!” Matilda was unimpressed.

But Chicken George had seen something in Charleston that shook her—and the others on slave row—as deeply as it had him. “I bet you I seen a mile long o’ niggers bein’ driv along in chains!”

“
Lawdy!
Niggers from where?” asked Miss Malizy.

“Some sol’ out’n Nawth an’ South Ca’liny, but mainly out’n Virginia was what I heared!” he said. “Different Charleston niggers tol’ me it’s thousan’s o’ niggers a month gittin’ took to great big cotton plantations steady bein’ cleared out’n de woods in Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, an’Texas. Dey say de ol’style nigger traders on a hoss is gone, done become big companies wid offices in big hotels! Dey say it’s even big paddle-wheel ships carryin’ nothin’ but chained-up Virginia niggers down to New Orleans! An’ dey says—”

“Jes’
heish!”
Kizzy sprang upright. “HEISH!” She went bolting toward her cabin in tears.

“What come
over
her?” George asked Matilda after the others had left in embarrassment.

“Ain’t you know?” she snapped. “Her mammy an’ pappy in Virginia las’ she know, an’ you scare her half to death!”

Chicken George looked sick. His face told her he hadn’t realized, but Matilda refused to let him off that easily. She had become convinced that for all of his worldliness, he was sorely lacking in sensitivity about too many things. “You knows well as I does Mammy Kizzy been sol’ herself! Jes’ like I was!” she told him. “Anybody ever sol’ ain’t gwine never forgit it! An’ won’t never be de same no mo’!” She looked at him significantly. “You ain’t never been. Dat’s how come you don’t understan’ no massa cain’t never be trusted—includin’ your’n!”

“What you rilin’ at
me
fo’?” he demanded testily.

“You ax me what upset Mammy Kizzy an’ I tol’ you. Ain’t got no mo’ to say ’bout it!” Matilda caught herself. She didn’t want harshness between her and her husband. After a moment’s silence, she managed a small smile. “George, I knows what make Mammy Kizzy feel better! Go make ’er come on over here to hear you tell dis baby ’bout his African gran’pappy like you tol’ Virgil.” And that’s just what he did.

I
t was near dawn, and Chicken George was standing in the doorway swaying slightly and grinning at Matilda, who was sitting up waiting for him. His black derby was askew. “Fox got’mongst de chickens,” he slurred. “Me an’ Uncle Mingo been all night catchin’ ’em—”

Matilda’s upraised hand silenced him, and her tone was cold. “Reckon de fox give you liquor an’ sprinkled you wid dat rosewater I smells—” Chicken George’s mouth opened. “Naw, George, you
listen!
Look here, long as I’se yo’ wife, an’ mammy to our chilluns, I be here when you leaves an’ I be here when you ’gits back, ’cause ain’t us much as yo’self you’s doin’ wrong. It right in de Bible: ‘You sows what you reaps’—sow single, you reaps double! An’ Matthew sebenth chapter say, ‘Wid whatsoever measure you metes out to others, dat shall be measured out to you again!’”

He tried to pretend that he was too outraged to speak, but he just couldn’t think of anything to say. Turning, he reeled back out the door and staggered down the road to sleep with the chickens.

But he was back the next day, derby hat in hand, and dutifully spent all but a few nights with his family through the rest of that fall and winter, and those few only when he and the massa were away briefly on some trip. And when Matilda’s next labor pains quickened early one morning in January of 1831, although it was
the height of gamecocking season, he persuaded the massa to let him stay home—and to take the ailing Uncle Mingo along with him to that day’s fights.

Anxiously, he paced outside the cabin door, wincing and frowning as he listened to Matilda’s anguished moans and cries. Then, hearing other voices, he tiptoed gingerly close and heard his Mammy Kizzy urging, “Keep pullin’ ’gainst my hand—
hard,
honey! ... Another breath ... deep! ... dat’s right! ...
Hold!
... Hold!” Then Sister Sarah commanded, “Bear
down,
you hear mel ... Now PUSH! ... PUSH!”

Then, soon: “Here it come ... Yes, Lawd—”

When he heard sharp slaps, then an infant’s shrill cries, Chicken George backed away several steps, dazed by what he had just heard. It wasn’t long before Gran’mammy Kizzy emerged, her face creasing into a grin. “Well, look like all y’all got in you is boys!”

He began leaping and springing about, whooping so boisterously that Miss Malizy came bolting out the back door of the big house. He ran to meet her, scooped her up off her feet, whirled her around and around, and shouted, “Dis one be name after me!”

The next evening, for the third time, he gathered everyone around to listen as he told his family’s newest member about the African great-gran’daddy who called himself Kunta Kinte.

At the end of a routine Caswell County landholders’ meeting late that August, the county courthouse was resounding with the parting calls of the local planters as they began to disperse and head homeward. Massa Lea was driving his wagon—Chicken George squatting in the back with his pocket clasp knife, gutting and scaling the string of hand-sized perch that the massa had just bought from a vendor—when the wagon stopped abruptly. George’s eyes widened as he sat up in time to see Massa Lea already on the ground hurrying along with many other massas toward a white man who had just
dismounted from a heaving, lathered horse. He was shouting wildly to his swiftly enlarging crowd. Snatches of his words reached Chicken George and the other blacks, who listened gaping: “Don’t know how many whole families dead” ... “women, babies” ... “sleepin’ in their beds when the murderin’ niggers broke in” ... “axes, swords, clubs” ... “nigger preacher named Nat Turner... ”

The faces of the other blacks mirrored his own dread foreboding as the white men cursed and gestured with flushed, furious faces. His mind flashed back to those terror-filled months after that revolt in Charleston had been foiled with no one hurt. What on earth would happen now? Slit-eyed, the massa returned to the wagon, his face frozen with rage. Never looking back, he drove homeward at a mad gallop with Chicken George hanging on in the wagonbed with both hands.

Reaching the big house, Massa Lea sprang from the wagon, leaving George staring at the cleaned fish. Moments later, Miss Malizy ran out the kitchen door and rushed across the backyard toward slave row, flailing her hands over her bandannaed head. Then the massa reappeared carrying his shotgun, his voice rasping at George, “Get to your cabin!”

Ordering everyone on slave row out of their quarters, Massa Lea told them icily what Chicken George had already heard. Knowing that he alone might possibly temper the massa’s wrath, George found his voice. “
Please,
Massa—” he said, quavering. The shotgun jerked directly toward him.

“
Git!
Everything out of your cabins!
All
you niggers, GIT!” For the next hour, carrying, dragging, heaping their meager belongings outside, under the massa’s searching eyes and abusive threats of what he would do to whomever he found concealing any weapons or suspicious objects, they shook out every cloth, opened every container, cut and tore apart every cornshuck mattress—and still his fury seemed beyond any bounds.

With his boot he shattered Sister Sarah’s box of nature remedies, sending her dried roots and herbs flying while he yelled at her, “Get rid of that damn voodoo!” Before other cabins he flung away treasured possessions and smashed others with his fists or his feet. The four women were weeping, old Uncle Pompey seemed paralyzed, the frightened children clutched tearfully about Matilda’s skirts. Chicken George’s own fury boiled as Matilda cried out, almost in pain, when the shotgun’s butt smashed the front paneling of her precious grandfather clock. “Let me find a sharpened nail in there, some nigger’ll die!”

Leaving slave row in a shambles, the massa rode in the wagonbed holding his shotgun as George drove them down to the gamefowl training area.

Faced with the gun and the barked command for all of their belongings to be emptied out, the terrified old Uncle Mingo began blurting, “Ain’t done nothin’, Massa—”

“Trustin’ niggers got whole families dead now!” yelled Massa Lea. Confiscating the ax, the hatchet, the thin wedge, a metal frame, and both of their pocket knives, the massa loaded them all into the wagon as Chicken George and Uncle Mingo stood watching. “In case you niggers try to break in, I’m sleepin’ with this shotgun!” he shouted at them, lashing the horse into a gallop and disappearing up the road in a cloud of dust.

“H
ear you’ve got four boysin a rownow!”The massa was getting off his horse in the gamefowl training area. It had taken a full year for the white South’s mingled fear and fury—including Massa Lea’s—to fully subside. Though he had resumed taking Chicken George with him to cockfights a month or two after the revolt, the massa’s obvious coldness had taken the rest of a year to thaw. But for reasons unknown to either man, their relationship had seemed to grow closer than ever before ever since then. Neither one ever mentioned it, but they both hoped fervently that there would be no more black uprisings.