Alex Haley - Roots - The Saga of an American Family

Critically he studied Uriah, thinking that there must be something appropriate to say to him. And finally, “Yo’ mammy or anybody tol’ you where you comes from?”

“Suh? Comes from where?” He had not been told, Chicken George saw, or if he had, not in a way that he remembered.

“C’mon ’long wid me here, boy.”

Also, it was something for him to do. Followed by Uriah, Chicken George led the way over to the cabin that he was sharing with Matilda. “Now set yo’self down in dat chair an’ don’t be axin’ no whole lotta questions. Jes’ set an’ lissen to what I tells you.”

“Yassuh.”

“Yo’ pappy born of me an’ yo’ Gran’mammy ’Tilda.” He eyed the boy. “You unnerstans dat?”

“My pappy y’all young’un.”

“Dat’s right. You ain’t dum’ as you looks. Den my mammy name Kizzy. So she yo’ great-gran’mammy. Gran’mammy Kizzy. Say dat.”

“Yassuh. Gran’mammy Kizzy.”

“Yeah. Den her mammy name Bell.”

He looked at the boy.

“Name Bell.”

Chicken George grunted. “Awright. An’ Kizzy’s pappy name Kunta Kinte—”

“Kunta Kinte.”

“Dat’s right. Well, him an’ Bell yo’ great-great-gran’folks—”

Nearly an hour later, when Matilda came hurrying nervously into the cabin, wondering what on earth had happed to Uriah, she found him dutifully repeating such sounds as “Kunta Kinte” and “ ko ” and “Kamby Bolongo.” And Matilda decided that she had the time to sit down, and beaming with satisfaction, she listened as Chicken George told their rapt grandson the story of how his African great-great-gran’daddy had said he was not far from his village, chopping some wood to make a drum, when he had been surprised, overwhelmed, and stolen into slavery by four men, “—den a ship brung’im crost de big water to a place call ’Naplis, an’ he was bought dere by a Massa John Waller what took ’im to his plantation dat was in Spotsylvania County, Virginia . . . ”

The following Monday, Chicken George rode with Tom in the mulecart to buy supplies in the county-seat town of Graham. Little was said between them, each seeming mostly immersed in his own thoughts. As they went from one to another store, Chicken George keenly relished the quiet dignity with which his twenty-seven-year-old son dealt with the various white merchants. Then they went into a feed store that Tom said had recently been bought by a former county sheriff named J. D. Cates.

The heavy-set Cates was seeming to ignore them as he moved about serving his few white customers. Some sense of warning rose within Tom; glancing, he saw Cates looking covertly at the green-scarfed, black-derbied Chicken George, who was stepping about in a cocky manner visually inspecting items of merchandise. Intuitively Tom was heading toward his father to accomplish a quick exit when Cates’ voice cut through the store: “Hey, boy, fetch me a dipper of water from that bucket over there!”

Cates was gazing directly at Tom, the eyes taunting, menacing. Tom’s insides congealed as, under the threat of a white man’s direct order, he walked stony-faced to the bucket and returned with a dipper of water. Cates drank it at a gulp, his small eyes over the dipper’s rim now on Chicken George, who stood with his head slowly shaking. Cates thrust the dipper toward him. “I’m still thirsty!”

Avoiding any quick moves, Chicken George drew from his pocket his carefully folded freedom paper and handed it to Cates. Cates unfolded it and read. “What’re you doin’ in our county?” he asked coldly.

“He my pappy,” Tom put in quickly. Above all, he did not want his father attempting any defiant talk. “He jes’ been give his freedom.”

“Livin’ with y’all now over at Mr. Murray’s place?”

“Yassuh.”

Glancing about at his white customers, Cates exclaimed, “Mr. Murray ought to know the laws of this state better’n that!”

Uncertain what he meant, neither Tom nor George said anything.

Suddenly Cates’ manner was almost affable. “Well, when y’all boys get home, be shore to tell Mr. Murray I’ll be out to talk with him ’fore long.” With the sound of white men’s laughter behind them, Tom and Chicken George quickly left the store.

It was the next afternoon when Cates galloped down the driveway of the Murray big house. A few minutes later, Tom glanced up from his forge and saw Irene running toward the shop. Hurrying past his few waiting customers, he went to meet her.

“Mammy ’Tilda say let you know massa an’ dat white man on de porch steady talkin’. Leas’ de man keep talkin’ an’ massa jes’ noddin’ an’ noddin’.”

“Awright, honey,” said Tom. “Don’ be scairt. You git on back now.” Irene fled.

Then, after about another half hour, she brought word that Cates had left, “an’ now massa an’ missis got dey heads togedder.”

But nothing happened until Matilda was serving supper to Massa and Missis Murray, whom she saw were eating in a strained silence. Finally, when she brought their dessert and coffee, Massa Murray said, in a tight voice, “Matilda, tell your husband I want to see him out on the porch right away.”

“Yassuh, Massa.”

She found Chicken George with Tom down at the blacksmith shop. Chicken George forced a laugh when he got the message. “Reckon he might want to see if I git ’im some fightin’ roosters!”

Adjusting his scarf and tilting his derby to a jauntier angle, he walked briskly toward the big house. Massa Murray was waiting there, seated in a rocker on the porch. Chicken George stopped in the yard at the foot of the stairs.

“’Tilda say you wants to see me, suh.”

“Yes, I do, George. I’ll come right to the point. Your family has brought Missis Murray and me much happiness here—”

“Yassuh,” George put in, “an’ dey sho’ speaks de highes’ of y’all, too, Massa!”

The massa firmed his voice. “But I’m afraid we’re going to have to solve a problem—concerning you.” He paused. “I understand that in Burlington yesterday you met Mr. J. D. Cates, our former county sheriff—”

“Yassa, reckon could say I met ’im, yassa.”

“Well, you probably know Mr. Cates has visited me today. He brought to my attention a North Carolina law that forbids any freed black from staying within the state for more than sixty days, or he must be re-enslaved.”

It took a moment to sink in. Chicken George stared disbelievingly at Massa Murray. He couldn’t speak.

“I’m really sorry, boy. I know it don’t seem fair to you.”

“Do it seem fair to you, Massa Murray?”

The massa hesitated. “No, to tell you the truth. But the law is the law.” He paused. “But if you would want to choose to stay here, I’ll guarantee you’ll be treated well. You have my word on that.”

“Yo’ word, Massa Murray?” George’s eyes were impassive.

That night George and Matilda lay under their quilt, hands touching, both staring up at the ceiling. “ ’Tilda,” he said after a long while, “guess ain’t nothin’ to do but stay. Seem like runnin’s all I ever done.”

“Naw, George.” She shook her head slowly back and forth. “’Cause you de firs’ one us ever free. You got to stay free, so us have somebody free in dis family. You jes’ can’t go back to bein’ a slave!”

Chicken George began to cry. And Matilda was weeping with him. Two evenings later, she was not feeling well enough to join him in having supper with Tom and Irene in their small cabin. The conversation turned to their child, which was due within two weeks, and Chicken George grew solemn.

“Be sho’ y’all tells dat chile ’bout our fam’ly, y’all hear me?”