Roots (79 page)

Chicken George was incredulous. “Massa, I sho’ ’preciate dat!
Sho’
do, Massa!”

Expansively, Massa Lea waved away the thanks. “All right now, you see I’m not half bad as you niggers make out. You can tell ’em I know how to treat a nigger good if I want to.”

The leering grin returned, “Okay, what about them hot black wenches, boy? How many can you mount in a night?”

Chicken George was squirming in his seat. “Suh, like I said, ain’t know many—”

But his words seemed unheard as Massa Lea went on. “I hear tell whole lots of white men go and find nigger women for their pleasure. You know that happens, don’t you, boy?”

“I’se heared of it, Massa,” he said, trying not to think about the fact that he was talking to his own father. But apart from what went on in plantation cabins, George knew that in Burlington, Greensboro, and Durham there were “special houses,” spoken of only in hushed tones, usually run by some free black woman, where he had heard that white men paid from fifty cents to a dollar to couple with women in their choice of colors from sooty black to high yaller.

“Hell,” the massa persisted, “I’m just talkin’ to you sittin’ up here by ourselves in this wagon. From what I hear tell, they’re nigger women, all right, but by God they’re women! Especially if it’s one of the kind that lets a man know she wants it as much as he does. I hear tell they can be as hot as firecrackers, not always claimin’ they’re sick and whinin’ about everythin’ under the sun.” The massa looked inquisitively at Chicken George. “Fellow I know told me you nigger boys can’t never get enough of that hot black tail, that your experience?”

“Massa, nawsuh—leas’ways, I means jes’ now sho’ ain’t—”

“There you go talkin’ round the maypole again!”

“Don’t mean roun’ no pole, Massa.” Chicken George was trying his best to project his seriousness. “I’se tryin’ to say sump’n to you
I ain’t never tol’ nobody, Massa! You know dat Massa MacGregor wid dem spangle yellow birds in de cockfights?”

“Of course. He and I talk a lot. What’s he got to do with it?”

“Well, you done give yo’ word you gon’ give me a pass, so ain’t no need me lyin’. Well, yassuh, lately I been slippin’ out jes’ like you say, visitin’ dis here gal over at Massa MacGregor’s—” His face was a study in earnestness.

“Dis here’s sump’n I really been needin’ to talk wid somebody I really can talk to, Massa. Jes’ cain’t figger ’er out! She name Matilda, she work in dey fiel’, an’ fill in if dey needs ’er in dey big house. Massa, she de firs’ gal don’t care what I’se said or tried, won’t let herself be touched,
nawsuh!
Bes’ I can git, she say she like me all right, ’cept she cain’t stan’ my ways—an’ I tol’ ’er I sho’ ain’t got no use for her’n neither. I tol’ her I can git all de womens I wants, she jes’ say go git ’em den, leave her alone.”

Massa Lea was listening to Chicken George as incredulously as he had to the massa.

“An’ ’nother thing,” he went on. “Every time I goes back she keep quotin’ de Bible on me! How come she read de Bible, a preacher massa raised ’er till his ’ligion made ’im sell his niggers. Fact, I tell you how ’ligious
she
is! She heared ’bout bunch o’ free niggers givin’ a big night frolic wid eatin’ an’ liquor an’ dancin’ somewheres in de woods roun’ over dere. Well, dis gal, ain’t but seb’nteen, slip ’way from Massa MacGregor’s an’ bust in on dat frolic while it gwine on hot an’ heavy! Dey says she commence sich a carryin’ on, shoutin’ for de Lawd to come save dem sinners ’fo’ de devil git dere an’ burn ’em up, dat every one dem free niggers near ’bout run over one ’nother leavin’ dere, dey fiddler hard behin’ ’em!”

Massa Lea laughed uproariously. “Sounds like a hell of a gal! I’ll say that!”

“Massa—” Chicken George hesitated “’Fo’ I met her, I is been catchin’ jes’ much tail as you says—but
dog
if she ain’t got me to
feelin’ mo’ to it dan jes’ tail. Man git to thinkin’ ’bout jumpin’ de broom wid a good woman—”

Chicken George was astounded at himself. “Dat is, if she have me,” he said in a weak voice. Then even more weakly, “An’ if ’n you wouldn’t make no objections—”

They rode on quite a way amid the wagon’s squeakings and the gamecocks’ cluckings before Massa Lea spoke again. “Does Mr. MacGregor know you’ve been courtin’ this gal of his?”

“Well, she bein’ a field han’, don’t ’magine she never say nothin’ to him directly, nawsuh. But de big-house niggers knows, I speck some dem done tol’ it.”

After another lull, Massa Lea asked, “How many niggers has Mr. MacGregor got?”

“He got pretty big place, Massa. Seem like from de size his slave row, I’d reckon twenty or mo’ niggers, Massa.” George was confused by the questions.

“Been thinking,” said the massa after another silence. “Since you were born, you never give me any real trouble—in fact, you’ve helped me around the place a lot, and I’m goin’ to do somethin’ for you. You just heard me sayin’ a while back I need some younger field-hand niggers. Well, if that gal’s big enough fool to jump the broom with somebody loves runnin’ tail as much as I expect you won’t never quit doin’, then I’ll ride over and talk with Mr. MacGregor. If he’s got as many niggers as you say, he ought not to miss one field gal all that much—if we can come to a decent price. Then you could move that gal—what’s her name?”

“’Tilda—Matilda, Massa,” breathed Chicken George, unsure if he was hearing right.

“Then you could move her over to my place, build y’all a cabin—”

George’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Finally he blurted, “Nothin’ but
high
-class massa do dat!”

Massa Lea grunted. He gestured. “Long as you understand your first place remains down with Mingo!”

“’
Cose,
suh!”

Mustering a scowl, Massa Lea directed a stabbing forefinger at his driver. “After you get hitched, I’m takin’ back that travelin’ pass! Help that what’s her name, Matilda, keep your black ass home where it belongs!”

Chicken George was beyond words.

W
hen the sun rose on the morning of Chicken George’s wedding in August of 1827, the groom was frantically fastening iron hinges onto the cured-oak doorjamb of his still uncompleted two-room cabin. Loping to the barn when that was done, he hurried back carrying over his head the new door that Uncle Pompey had carved and stained with the juice of crushed black walnut hulls, and mounted it in place. Then, casting a worried glance at the rising sun, he stopped long enough to wolf down the sausage and biscuit sandwich that had been practically thrown at him by his mammy late the previous evening in her fury at his long succession of put-offs, excuses, interruptions, and excursions. He had waited so long, and worked so slowly, that she had finally commanded everyone else not only to stop helping him anymore, but also even to stop offering him any encouragement.

Chicken George next quickly filled a large keg with slaked lime and water, stirred it vigorously, and—as fast as he could—dipped his large brush into the mess and began slathering whitewash over the outside of the rough-sawn planking. It was about ten o’clock when he finally backed away, almost as whitened as the cabin, to survey the completed job. There was plenty of time to spare, he told himself. All he had to do was bathe and dress, then take the
two-hour wagon ride to the MacGregor plantation, where the wedding was due to start at one.

Bounding between the cabin and the well, he dashed three bucketfuls of water into the new galvanized tub in the cabin’s front room. Humming loudly as he scrubbed himself, he dried himself off briskly and then wrapped himself in the bleached-sacking towel to run into the bedroom. After climbing into his cotton long drawers, he slipped on his blue stiff-front shirt, red socks, yellow pants, and yellow belt-backed suitcoat, and finally his brand-new bright-orange shoes, all of which he had bought with hackfighting winnings, an item at a time, over the past few months while he and Massa Lea were traveling to various North Carolina cities. Squeaking in his stiff shoes over to the bedroom table and sitting down on Uncle Mingo’s wedding present, a carved stool with a seat of woven hickory strips, Chicken George smiled widely at himself in the long-handled mirror that was going to be one of his surprise presents for Matilda. With the mirror’s help, he carefully arranged around his neck the green woolen scarf Matilda had knitted for him. Lookin’ good, he had to admit. There remained only the crowning touch. Pulling a round cardboard box out from under the bed, he removed the top and with almost reverent gentleness lifted out the black derby hat that was his wedding present from Massa Lea. Turning it slowly around and around on stiff forefingers, he savored its stylish shape almost sensuously before returning to the mirror and positioning the derby at just the right rakish tilt over one eye.

“Git out’n dere! We been settin’ a hour in dis wagon!” His mammy Kizzy’s shout from just outside the window left no doubt that her rage was undiminished.

“Comin’, Mammy!” he hollered back. After one last appreciation of his ensemble in the mirror, he slipped a flat, small bottle of white lightning into his inside coat pocket and emerged from the
new cabin as if expecting applause. He was going to flash his biggest smile and tip his hat until he got a look at the baleful glares of his mammy, Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompey, all sitting frozenly in their Sunday best in the wagon. Averting his glance, and whistling as breezily as he could manage, he climbed up onto the driver’s seat—careful not to disturb a crease—slapped the reins against the backs of the two mules, and they were under way—only an hour late.

Along the road, Chicken George sneaked several fortifying nips from his bottle, and the wagon arrived at the MacGregor place shortly after two. Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Miss Malizy descended amid profuse apologies to the visibly worried and upset Matilda in her white gown. Uncle Pompey unloaded the food baskets they had brought, and after pecking at Matilda’s cheek, Chicken George went swaggering about slapping backs and breathing liquor in the faces of the guests as he introduced himself. Apart from those he already knew who lived in Matilda’s slave row, they were mostly prayer-meeting folk she had recruited from among the slaves of two nearby plantations and whom she had gotten permission to invite. She wanted them to meet her intended, and so did they. Though most of them had heard a lot about him from sources other than herself, their first actual sight of Chicken George evoked reactions ranging from muttering to open-mouthed astonishment. As he cut his swath through the wedding party, he gave a wide berth to Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Miss Malizy, whose dagger stares were being sharpened by every remark each was overhearing about the dubiousness of Matilda’s “catch.” Uncle Pompey had chosen simply to merge with the other guests as if he were unaware of who the bridegroom was.

Finally, the hired white preacher came out of the big house, followed by the massas and Missis MacGregor and Lea. They stopped in the backyard, the preacher clutching his Bible like a
shield, and the suddenly quiet crowd of black people grouped stiffly a respectful distance away. As Matilda’s missis had planned it, the wedding would combine some of the white Christian wedding service with jumping the broom afterward. Guiding her rapidly sobering groom by one yellow sleeve, Matilda positioned them before the preacher, who cleared his throat and proceeded to read a few solemn passages from his Bible. Then he asked, “Matilda and George, do you solemnly swear to take each other, for better or worse, the rest of your lives?”

“I does,” said Matilda softly.

“Yassuh!” said Chicken George, much too loudly.

Flinching, the preacher paused and then said, “I pronounce you man and wife!”

Among the black guests, someone sobbed.

“Now you may kiss the bride!”

Seizing Matilda, Chicken George crushed her in his arms and gave her a resounding smack. Amid the ensuing gasps and tongue-clucking, it occurred to him that he might not be making the best impression, and while they locked arms and jumped the broom, he racked his brains for something to say that would lend some dignity to the occasion, something that would placate his slave-row family and win over the rest of those Bible toters. He had it!

“De Lawd is my shepherd!” he proclaimed. “He done give me what I wants!”

When he saw the stares and glares that greeted this announcement, he decided to give up on them, and the first chance he got, he slipped the bottle from his pocket and drained it dry. The rest of the festivities—a wedding feast and reception—passed in a blur, and it was Uncle Pompey who drove the Lea plantation’s wagon homeward through the sunset. Grim and mortified, Mammy Kizzy, Miss Malizy, and Sister Sarah cast malevolent glances at the spectacle behind them: the bridegroom snoring soundly with
his head in the lap of his tearful bride, his green scarf askew and most of his face concealed under his black derby.

Chicken George snorted awake when the wagon jerked to a stop alongside their new cabin. Sensing groggily that he should beg everyone’s forgiveness, he began to try, but the doors of three cabins slammed like gunshots. But he wouldn’t be denied a last courtly gesture. Picking up his bride, he pushed open the door with one foot and somehow maneuvered both of them inside without injury—only to stumble with her over the tub of bathwater that still stood in the middle of the room. It was the final humiliation—but all was forgotten and forgiven when Matilda, with a shriek of joy, caught sight of her special wedding present: the highly lacquered, eight-day-winding grandfather clock, as tall as herself, that Chicken George had purchased with the last of his hackfight savings and hauled in the back of the wagon all the way from Greensboro.

As he sat bleary-eyed on the floor where he’d fallen, bathwater soaking his brand-new orange shoes, Matilda went over to him and reached out her hand to help him up.

“You come wid me now, George. I’m gwine put you to bed.”