Roots: The Saga of an American Family

by Alex Haley

  Matilda burst into nearly shrieking laughter. “Lawd, man, you is jes’ crazy!” When she stopped laughing, she felt more love for him than she’d ever felt before. “I reckon de Lawd is done give me what I needs dis night.” Eyes welling, she put her hand on his. “You really think we can do it, George?”

  “What you think I’se been settin’ up here talkin’ ’bout, woman?”

  “You ’member de night we ’greed to marry, what I tol’ you?” His face said that he didn’t. “I tol’ you sump’n out’n de first chapter o’ Ruth. Tol’ you, ‘Whither thou goes’, I will go, an’ where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people—’ You don’t’member me sayin’ dat?”

  “Yeah, I reckon.”

  “Well, I ain’t never felt dat way more’n I does right now.”

  CHAPTER 101

  Removing his derby with one hand, with the other Chicken George held out to Massa Lea a small water pitcher that looked as if it were woven tightly of thick strands of wire. “My boy, Tom, de one we done name for you, Massa, he done made dis for his gran’mammy, but I jes’ want you to see it.”

  Looking dubious, Massa Lea took the pitcher by its carved cowhorn handle and gave it a cursory inspection. “Uh-huh,” he grunted noncommittally.

  George realized that he’d have to try harder. “Yassuh, made dat out’n jes’ ol’ rusty scrap barb wire, Massa. Built ’im a real hot charcoal fire an’ kept bendin’ an’ meltin’ one wire ’gainst ’nother ’til he got de shape, den give it a kin’ o’ brazin’ all over. Dat Tom always been real handy, Massa—”

  He halted again, wanting some response, but none came.

  Seeing that he’d have to reveal his real intent without gaining the tactical advantage of some advance positive reaction to Tom’s craftsmanship, George took the plunge. “Yassuh, dis boy been so proud o’ carryin’ yo’ name all his life, Massa, us all really b’lieves he jes’ git de chance, he make you a good blacksmith—”

  An instantly disapproving expression came upon Massa Lea’s face, as if by reflex, and it fueled George’s determination not to fail Matilda and Kizzy in his promise to help Tom. He saw that he’d have to make what he knew would be the strongest appeal to Massa Lea—picturing the financial advantages.

  “Massa, every year money you’s spendin’ on blacksmithin’ you could be savin’! Ain’t none us never tol’ you how Tom awready been savin’ you some, sharpenin’ hoe blades an’ sickles an’ different other tools—well as fixin’ lot o’ things gits broken roun’ here. Reason I brings it up, when you sent me over for dat Isaiah nigger blacksmith to put de new wheel rims on de wagon, he was tellin’ me Massa Askew been years promisin’ him a helper dat he need real bad, much work as he doin’ to make money fo’ his massa. He tol’ me he sho’ be glad to make a blacksmith out’n any good boy he could git holt of, so I thought right ’way ’bout Tom. If he was to learn, Massa, ain’t jes’ he could do ever’ thing we needs roun’ here, but he could be takin’ in work to make you plenty money jes’ like dat Isaiah nigger doin’ for Massa Askew.”

  George felt sure he’d struck a nerve, but he couldn’t be sure, for the massa carefully showed no sign. “Looks to me this boy of yours is spending more time making this kind of stuff instead of working,” said Massa Lea, thrusting the metal pitcher back into George’s hands.

  “Tom ain’t missed a day since he started workin’ in yo’ fiel’s, Massa! He do sich as dis jes’ on Sundays when he off! Ever since he been any size, seem like he got fixin’ an’ makin’ things in ’is blood! Every Sunday he out in dat l’il ol’ lean-to shed he done fixed hisself behin’ de barn, a-burnin’ an’ bangin’ on sump’n’nother. Fact, we’s been scairt he ’sturb you an’ de missis.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it,” Massa Lea said, turning abruptly and walking away, leaving Chicken George standing there confused and frustrated—purposely, he felt sure—holding the metal pitcher.

  Miss Malizy was seated in the kitchen peeling turnips when the massa walked in. She half turned around, no longer springing to her feet as she would have done in years past, but she didn’t think he’d mind, since she had reached that point in age and service where some small infractions could be permitted.

  Massa Lea went straight to the point. “What about this boy named Tom?”

  “Tom? You means ’Tilda’s Tom, Massa?”

  “Well, how many Toms’ out there? You know the one I mean, what about him?”

  Miss Malizy knew exactly why he was asking. Just a few minutes before, Gran’mammy Kizzy had told her of Chicken George’s uncertainty about how Massa Lea had reacted to his proposal. Well, now she knew. But her opinion of young Tom was so high—and not just because he’d made her new S-curved pothooks—that she decided to hesitate a few seconds before answering, in order to sound impartial.

  “Well,” she said finally, “a body wouldn’t pick ’im out of a crowd to talk to, Massa, ’cause de boy ain’t never been much wid words. But I sho’ can tell you fo’ fac’ he de smartes’ young’un out dere, an’ de goodest o’ dem big boys, to boot!” Miss Malizy paused meaningfully. “An’ I speck he gwine grow up to be mo’ man in whole lot o’ ways dan his pappy is.”

  “What are you talking about? What kind of ways?”

  “Jes’ man ways, Massa. Mo’ solid, an’ ’pendable, an’ not fo’ no foolishness no kin’ o’ way, an’ like dat. He gwine be de kin’ o’ man make some woman a mighty good husban’.”

  “Well, I hope he hasn’t got matin’ on his mind,” said Massa Lea, probing, “’cause I just permitted it with that oldest one—what’s his name?”

  “Virgil, Massa.”

  “Right. And every weekend he’s runnin’ off to bed down with her over at the Curry plantation when he ought to be here workin’!”

  “Nawsuh, not Tom. He too young for sich as dat on his min’, an’ I ’speck he won’t be too quick ’bout it even when he git grown, leas’ not ’til he fin’ jes’ de right gal he want.”

  “You’re too old to know about young bucks nowadays,” said Massa Lea. “Wouldn’t surprise me if one left my plow and mule in the field to go chasin’ some gal.”

  “’Gree wid you if you talkin’ ’bout dat Ashford, Massa, ’cause he took to woman chasin’ jes’ like his pappy. But Tom jes’ ain’t dat kin’, dat’s all.”

  “Well, all right. If I go on what you say, the boy sounds like he might be fit for something.”

  “Go on what any us say ’bout him, Massa.” Miss Malizy concealed her jubilation. “Don’ know what you axin’ ’bout Tom fo’, but he sho’ de pick o’ dem big boys.”

  Massa Lea broke the news to Chicken George five days later.

  “I’ve worked out an arrangement to board your Tom over at the Askew plantation,” he announced solemnly, “for a three-year apprenticeship with that nigger blacksmith Isaiah.”

  George was so elated that it was all he could do to keep from picking up the massa and spinning him around. Instead, he just grinned from ear to ear and began to sputter his appreciation.

  “You’d better be right about that boy, George. On the strength of your assurances, I recommended him very highly to Massa Askew. If he isn’t as good as you say, I’ll have him back here so fast it’ll make your head spin, and if he gets out of line, if he betrays my trust in any way, I’ll take it out of your hide as his. Do you understand?”

  “He won’t let you down, Massa. You got my promise on dat. Dat boy a chip off de ol’ block.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Have him packed and ready to leave in the mornin’.”

  “Yassuh. An’ thank you, suh. You won’t never regret it.”

  Racing up to slave row as soon as the massa was gone, Chicken George was so near to bursting with pride in his achievement when he told them the great news that he didn’t see the wry smiles exchanged by Matilda and Kizzy, who had been the ones responsible for urging him to approach the massa in the first place. Soon he stood in the doorway hollering, “Tom! Tom! You T
om!”

  “Yaaay, Pappy!” His reply came from behind the barn.

  “Boy, c’mere!”

  A moment later Tom’s mouth was open as wide as his eyes. The incredible news had come as a total surprise—for they hadn’t wanted him to be disappointed if the effort hadn’t worked. But as overjoyed as he was, their heaped congratulations so embarrassed him that Tom got back outside as quickly as he could—partly to give himself the chance to realize that his dream had actually come true. He hadn’t noticed while he was in the cabin that his little sisters, Kizzy and Mary, had scampered outside and breathlessly spread the news among their brothers.

  The lanky Virgil was just trotting up from his chores in the barn before leaving for the plantation of his recent bride; he merely grunted something noncommittal under his breath and hurried on past Tom, who smiled, since Virgil had been in a daze ever since he had jumped the broom.

  But Tom tensed when he saw stocky, powerful eighteen-year-old Ashford approaching, trailed by their younger brothers James and Lewis. After nearly a lifetime of unaccountable hostility between him and Ashford, Tom wasn’t surprised at his snarling bitterness.

  “You always been dey pet! Butterin’ up eve’ybody so you gits de favors! Now you gwine off laughin’ at us still in de fiel’!” He made a swift feint as if to strike Tom, drawing gasps from James and Lewis. “I’m gon’ git you yet, jes’ watch!” And Ashford stalked off, Tom staring levelly after him, certain that someday he and Ashford were going to have a showdown.

  What Tom heard from “L’il George” was another kind of bitterness. “Sho’ wish I was you gittin’ way from here, fo’ pappy work me to death down dere! Jes’ cause I got his name, he figger I’se s’posed to be crazy as he is ’bout chickens. I hates dem stinkin’ things!”

  As for the ten-year-old Kizzy and eight-year-old Mary, having spread the news, they now trailed Tom around the rest of the afternoon, their shy looks making it clear that he was their adored and favorite big brother.

  The next morning, after seeing Tom off in the mule cart with Virgil, Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Matilda had just begun the day’s chopping in the field when Gran’mammy Kizzy observed, “Anybody seen us all up dere snifflin’ an’ cryin’ an’ gwine on would o’ thought we weren’t gwine never see dat chile ag’in.”

  “Hmph! No mo’ chile, honey!” exclaimed Sister Sarah. “Dat Tom de nex’ man roun’ dis place!”

  CHAPTER 102

  With a special traveling pass supplied by Massa Lea, Virgil had hung a lantern on the mulecart and driven it through the night before Thanksgiving in order to get Tom home from the Askew plantation in time for the big dinner, after an absence of nine months. As the cart rolled back into the Lea driveway in the chilly November afternoon and Virgil quickened the mule to a brisk trot, Tom had to press back tears as the familiar slave row came into view and he saw all of those whom he had missed so much standing there waiting for him. Then they began waving and shouting, and moments later, grasping his bag of the gifts that he had made with his own hands for each of them, he jumped to the ground amid the huggings and kissings of the womenfolk.

  “Bless ’is heart!” ... “He look so good!” ... “Don’t he now! See how dem shoulders an’ arms done filled out!” ... “Gran’mammy, leave me kiss Tom!” ... “Don’t squeeze ’im all day, lem’me git holt of ’im too, chile!”

  Over their shoulders, Tom caught a glimpse of his two younger brothers, James and Lewis, wearing awed expressions; he knew that L’il George was down among the gamecocks with his father, and Virgil had told him that Ashford had gotten the massa’s permission to visit a girl on another plantation.

  Then he saw the usually bedridden Uncle Pompey sitting outside his cabin in an old cane chair, bundled in a heavy quilt. As soon as he could maneuver clear, Tom hurried over to shake the old man’s puffy, trembling hand, bending closer to hear the cracked and almost whispery voice.

  “Jes’ wants to make sho’ you’s really back to see us, boy—”

  “Yassuh, Uncle Pompey, mighty glad to git back!”

  “Awright, see you later on,” the old man quavered.

  Tom was having trouble with his emotions. In his now sixteen years, not only had he never been treated so much like a man, but also he had never before felt such an outpouring of his slave-row family’s love and respect.

  His two little sisters were still pulling and clamoring over him when they heard a familiar voice trumpeting in the distance.

  “Lawd, here come Mr. Rooster!” exclaimed Matilda, and the women went scurrying to set the Thanksgiving meal on the table.

  When Chicken George came striding into the slave-row area, seeing Tom, he beamed. “Well, look what done got loose an’ come home!” He clapped Tom heavily across the shoulders with his hand. “Is you makin’ any money yet?”

  “Nawsuh, not yet, Pappy.”

  “What kin’ of blacksmith you is ain’t makin’ no money?” demanded George in mock astonishment.

  Tom remembered that he had always felt caught in a windstorm whenever closely exposed to his father’s bombastic way of expressing himself. “Long ways yet from bein’ no blacksmith, Pappy, jes’ tryin’ to learn,” he said.

  “Well, you tell dat Isaiah nigger I say hurry up an’ learn you sump’n!”

  “Yassuh,” said Tom mechanically, his mind flashing that he could probably never master even so much as half of what Mr. Isaiah was patiently making every effort to help him learn. He asked, “Ain’t L’il George comin’ up here fo’ dinner?”

  “He might git here in time, an’ he might not,” said Chicken George. “He too lazy to finish what I give ’im to do firs’ thing dis mornin’, an’ I tol’ ’im I don’t want to see his face up here ’til he git it done!” Chicken George was moving over to Uncle Pompey. “Sho’ glad to see you out’n yo’ cabin, Uncle Pompey. How’s you doin’?”

  “Po’ly, son, mighty po’ly. Ol’ man jes’ ain’t no mo’ good, dat’s all.”

  “Don’t give me dat stuff, nary bit!” boomed Chicken George, and laughing, he turned to Tom, “Yo’ ol’ Uncle Pompey one dem ol’ lizard kin’ o’ niggers gwine live to be a hunnud! Done got real low sick reckon two, three times since you been gone, but every time de wimminfolks all snifflin’ ready to bury ’im, he git right back up ag’in!”

  The three of them were laughing when the voice of Gran’mammy Kizzy shrilled at them, “Y’all bring Pompey on over here to de table now!” Though the day was crisp, the women had set up a long table under the chinquapin tree so that everybody could enjoy their Thanksgiving dinner together.

  James and Lewis seized Uncle Pompey’s chair, with Sister Sarah running up solicitously behind them.

  “Don’ drop ’im, now, he still ain’t too ol’ to fan y’all’s britches!” called Chicken George.

  When they were all seated, though Chicken George was at the head of the table, it was pointedly to Tom that Matilda said, “Son, grace de table.” The startled Tom wished he had anticipated this, to have given advance thought to some prayer that would express the emotions he was feeling about the warmth and strength of a family. But with everyone’s head already bowed, all he could think of now was, “O Lawd, bless dis food we’s ’bout to eat, we ax in de name de Father, de Son, an’ de Holy Ghos’. Amen.”

  “Amen! ... Amen!” others echoed up and down the table. Then Matilda, Gran’mammy Kizzy, and Sister Sarah began shuttling back and forth, setting heaped and steaming bowls and platters at intervals along the table, and urging all to help themselves, before they also finally sat back down. For several minutes not a word was spoken as everyone ate as if they were starving, with appreciative grunts and smacking noises. Then, after a while, with either Matilda or Kizzy refilling his glass with fresh buttermilk or putting more hot meat, vegetables, and cornbread on his plate, they began plying Tom with questions.

  “Po’ thing, is dey feedin’ you any good over yonder? Who cook fo’ you anyhow?” asked Matilda.

  Tom chewed his mout
hful enough to reply, “Mr. Isaiah’s wife, Miss Emma.”

  “What color she is, what she look like?” asked Kizzy.

  “She black, sorta fat.”

  “Dat ain’t got nothin’ to do wid ’er cookin’!” guffawed Chicken George. “She cook any good, boy?”

  “Pretty fair, Pappy, yassuh,” Tom nodded affirmatively.

  “Well, ain’t like yo’ own mammy’s nohow!” snapped Sister Sarah. Tom murmured agreeably, “No’m,” thinking how indignant Miss Emma would have been to hear them, and how indignant they’d be to know that she was a better cook.

  “Her an’ dat blacksmith man, is dey good Christian folks?”

  “Yes’m, dey is,” he said. “’specially Miss Emma, she read de Bible a whole lots.”

  Tom was just finishing his third plateful when his mammy and gran’mammy descended on him with still more, despite his vigorous headshaking. He managed a muffled protest: “Save sump’n for L’il George when he come!”

  “Plenty lef for ’im an’ you knows it!” said Matilda. “Have’nother piece dis fried rabbit ... l’il mo’ dese collard greens ... an’ dis stewed winter squash. An’ Malizy done sent down a great big sweet ’tater custard from de dinner she servin’ in de big house. Y’all knows how good dat is—”

  Tom had started forking into the custard when Uncle Pompey cleared his throat to speak, and everyone hushed up to hear him. “Boy, is you shoein’ mules an’ hosses yet?”

  “Dey lets me pull off de ol’ shoes, but I ain’t put none on yet,” said Tom, thinking how only the previous day it had been necessary to hobble a vicious mule before it could be shod. Loudly Chicken George hooted, “’speck he ain’t got ’nough good hard mule kicks yet to be broke in good! Mighty easy to mess up hosses’ foots less’n somebody know what he doin’! Heared ’bout one blacksmith nigger put de shoes on backwards, an’ dat hoss wouldn’t do nothin’ but back up!” When he quit laughing at his own joke, Chicken George asked, “How much y’all git for shoein’ hosses an’ mules?”