Alex Haley - Roots - The Saga of an American Family

Massa Lea’s head lolled, he jerked it back upward, his eyes trying to focus on Chicken George. Where would he keep his strongbox? Chicken George thought how the rest of his life’s condition would hang upon his obtaining the vividly remembered square sheet of paper containing maybe three times more writing than a traveling pass, over the signature.

“Massa, could I have l’il mo’ yo’ liquor?”

“You know better’n ask, boy... all you wan’—”

“I tol’ amany dem English folks bes’ massa in de worl’s what I got... ain’t nobody never hear me talkin’ ’bout stayin’ over dere ... hey, yo’ glass gittin’ low, Massa—”

“... Jes’ l’il be ’nough.... naw, you ain’t that kin’, boy... never give no real trouble...”

“Nawsuh... well, drinkin’ to you ’gin, suh—” They did, some of the massa’s liquor wetting his chin. Chicken George, feeling more of the whiskey’s effect, suddenly sat up straighter, seeing the massa’s head lowering toward the tabletop... “Y’always good to y’other niggers, too, Massa... ”

The head wavered, stayed down. “Tried to, boy... tried to—” It was muffled.

B’leeve he good’n drunk now. “Yessuh, you’n missis bofe—”

“Good woman... lotta ways—”

The massa’s chest now also met the table. Lifting his chair with minimal sound, Chicken George waited a suspenseful moment. Moving to the entrance, he halted, then not overloudly, “Massa!... Massa!”

Suddenly turning, catlike, within seconds he was searching every drawer within any front-room furniture. Halting, hearing only his breathing, he hastened up the steps, cursing their creaking.

The impact of entering a white man’s bedroom hit him. He stopped... involuntarily stepping backward, he glimpsed the conglomerate mess. Sobering rapidly, he went back inside, assaulted by the mingled strong odors of stale whiskey, urine, sweat, and unwashed clothes among the emptied bottles. Then as if possessed, he was pulling open, flinging aside things, searching futilely. Maybe under the bed. Frantically dropping onto his knees, peering, he saw the strongbox.

Seizing it, in a trice he was back downstairs, tripping in the hallway. Seeing the massa still slumped over on the table, turning, he hastened through the front door. Around at the side of the house, with his hands he wrested to open the locked, metal box. Git on de hoss an go—bus’ it open later. But he had to be sure he had the freedom paper.

The backyard woodchopping block caught his eyes, with the old ax near it on the ground. Nearly leaping there, jerking up the ax, setting the box lockside up, with one smashing blow it burst open. Bills, coins, folded papers spilled out, and snatching open papers he instantly recognized it.

“What’cha doin’, boy?”

He nearly jumped from his skin. But it was Miss Malizy sitting on her log, unperturbed, quietly staring.

“What massa say?” she asked vacantly.

“I got to go, Miss Malizy!”

“Well, reckon you better go ’head, den—”

“Gwine tell ’Tilda an’ de chilluns you wishes ’em well—”

“That be nice, boy... y’all take care—”

“Yes’m—” swiftly moving, he embraced her tightly. Oughta run see de graves. Then thinking it better to remember his mammy Kizzy and Sister Sarah as he remembered them living, Chicken George swept a last look over the crumbling place where he was born and raised; unexpectedly blubbering, clutching the freedom paper, he went running, and vaulting onto his horse ahead of the two double saddle rolls containing his belongings, he went galloping back up through the high weeds of the lane, not looking back.

Near the fencerow that flanked the main road, Irene was busily picking leaves to press into dry perfumes when she looked up, hearing the sound of a galloping horse’s hoofs. She gasped, seeing the horseman wearing a flowing green scarf and a black derby with a curving rooster tail feather jutting up from the hatband.

Waving her arms wildly, she raced toward the road, crying out at the top of her lungs, “ Chicken George! Chicken George! ” The rider reined up just beyond the fence, his lathered horse heaving with relief.

“Do I know you, gal?” he called, returning her smile.

“Nawsuh! We ain’t never seen one ’nother, but Tom, Mammy,’Tilda, an’ de fam’ly talk ’bout you so much I knows what you look like.”

He stared at her. “ My Tom and ’Tilda?”

“Yassuh! Yo’ wife an’ my husban’—my baby’s daddy!”

It took him a few seconds to register it. “You an’ Tom got a chile?” She nodded, beaming and patting her protruding stomach. “It due ’nother month!” He shook his head. “Lawd God! Lawd God Armghty! What’s yo’ name?”

“Irene, suh!”

Telling him to ride on, she hurried clumsily as fast as she dared until she reached within vocal range of where Virgil, Ashford, L’il George, James, Lewis, L’il Kizzy, and Lilly Sue were planting in another section of the plantation. Her loud hallooing quickly brought a worried L’il Kizzy, who raced back to relay the incredible news. They all breathlessly reached the slave row, shouting and surging about their father, mother, and Tom, and all trying at once to embrace him, until a pummeled and disarrayed Chicken George was entirely overwhelmed with his reception.

“Guess bes’ y’all hears de bad news firs’,” he told them, and then of the deaths of Gran’mammy Kizzy and Sister Sarah. “Ol’ Missis Lea, she gone, too—”

When their griefs at their losses had abated somewhat, he described Miss Malizy’s condition, and then his experience with Massa Lea, finally resulting in the freedom paper that he triumphantly displayed. Supper was eaten and the night fell upon the family grouped raptly about him as he entered the topic of his nearly five years in England.

“Gwine tell y’all de truth, reckon I’d need ’nother year tryin’ tell all I’se seed an’ done over ’way crost all dat water! My Lawd!” But he gave them now at least a few highlights of Sir C. Eric Russell’s great wealth and social prestige; of his long purebred lineage and consistently winning gameflock, and how as an expert black trainer from America he had proved fascinating to lovers of game-cocking in England, where fine ladies would go strolling leading their small African boys dressed in silks and velvet by golden chains about their necks.

“Ain’t gwine lie, I’se glad I had all de ’speriences I is. But Lawd knows I’se missed y’all sump’n terrible!”

“Sho’ don’ look it to me—stretchin’ two years out to mo’n fo’!” Matilda snapped.

“Ol’ biddy ain’t changed a bit, is she?” observed Chicken George to his amused children.

“ Hmph! Who so ol’?” Matilda shot back. “Yo’ head done got to showin’ mo’ gray dan mine is!”

He laughingly patted Matilda’s shoulder as she feigned great indignance. “T’wan’t me ain’t wanted to git back! I commence’mindin’ Lawd Russell soon’s dem two years done. But one day after a while he come an’ say I’se trainin’ his chickens so good, well as de young white feller was my helper dat he done ’cided sen’ nudder sum o’ money to Massa Lea, tellin’ ’im he need me one mo’ year—an’ I nearly had a fit! But what I’m gwine do? Done de bes’ I could—I got in ’is letter fo’ Massa Lea be sho’ an”splain to y’all what happen—”

“He ain’t tol’ us nary word!’ exclaimed Matilda, and Tom spoke.

“You know why? He’d done sol’ us off by dat time.”

“Sho’ right! It’s why us ain’t heared!”