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Kunta let out a shout, jumping down from his seat, and within seconds he and the fiddler were hugging and whirling each other around, laughing.

“You de spittin’ image of a African I knows,” exclaimed the fiddler, “but couldn’t be him—he wouldn’t never let nobody know he glad to see ’em.”

“Don’ know why I is,” said Kunta, embarrassed at himself.

“Fine welcome fo’ a friend what crawled on his han’s an’ knees all de way back from Richmon’ jes’ to see yo’ ugly face again.”

Kunta’s seriousness conveyed the degree of his concern. “Was it bad, Fiddler?”

“Bad ain’t even close to it. Thought sho’ I’d be playin’ a duet wid angels fo’ I got out’n dere!” As Kunta took the muddy fiddle case and they both clambered into the wagon, the fiddler continued talking, nonstop. “Richmon’ white folks jes’ ’bout crazy scared. Militiamens ever’where stoppin’ niggers, an’ dem widout a travel pass next stop in jail wid a headache. An’ dem de lucky ones. Packs o’ po’ crackers roamin’ de streets like wil’ dogs, jumpin’ on niggers, beatin’ some so bad can’t hardly tell who dey was.

“De ball I’se playin’ at break up halfway through when dey gits firs’ word ’bout de uprisin’, missies screamin’ an’ runnin’ roun’ in circles, massas pullid’ guns on us niggers up on de bad’stan’. ’Midst all de ruckus, I slips into de kitchen an’ hid in a garbage can till eve’ybody gone. Den I climbs out a window and took to de back streets, stayin’ way from lights. I’d got to de edge o’ town when all of a sudden I hears dis shoutin’ behin’ me, den a whole lotta feets runnin’ same way I is. Sump’n tell me dey ain’t black, but I ain’t waitin’ to fin’ out. I cuts ’roun’ de nex’ corner flyin’ low, but I hears’em gainin’ on me, an’ I’se ’bout to say my prayers when I sees a real low porch dat I rolls right under.

“It’s real tight under dere, an’ I’se inchin’ further back jes’ when dem crackers goes runnin’ by wid torches shoutin’ ‘Git dat nigger!’ I bumps ’gainst sump’n big an’ sof’, an’ a hand clap over my mouf, an’ a nigger voice say, ‘Nex’ time, knock!’ Turns out it’s a warehouse nightwatchman seen a mob tear a frien’ o’ his apart, an’ he ain’t got no ’tention o’ comin’ out from under dat porch ’til nex’ spring, if’n it take dat long to blow over.

“Well, after a while I wishes ’im luck, an’ heads out again an’ makes it to de woods. Dat was five days ago. Would a made it here in fo’, but so many paterollers on de roads, I had to keep to de woods, eatin’ berries, sleepin’ in de thickets wid de rabbits. Did all right ’til yestiddy a few miles east o’ here, bunch o’ real mean crackers cotched me in de open.

“Day’s jes’ spoilin’ to whup deyselves a nigger, maybe even string’im up—dey had a rope right dere wid ’em! Dey’s shovin’ me back an’ fo’th, axin’ whose nigger I is an’ where I think I’se goin’, but not payin’ no ’tention to what I tells ’em—’til I says I’se a fiddler. Dey hol’ on, dey thinks I’se lym’, an’ hollers, ‘Well, le’s hear you play, den!’

“African, le’me tell you sump’n. I open up dat fiddle case an’ you ain’t never heard no concert like I give right out dere in de middle o’ de road. Played ‘Turkey in de Straw’—you know po’ crackers loves dat—an’ fo’ I’m warmed up good, I had dem all a-hootin’ an’ clappin’ an’ tappin’ dey feets, an’ I ain’t quit ’til dey’s had dey fill an’ tell me to go ’head an’ don’t dillydally gittin’ my tail home. An’ I ain’t neither! Done hit de ditch whenever I seen a hoss or buggy, or wagon comin’, until dis one was you! An’ here I is!”

As they rolled into the narrow road leading to the big house, soon they heard shouting and then saw the people of slave row running to meet the wagon.

“Might think a body was missed ’round here”—although the fiddler was grinning, Kunta could sense how moved the man was, as grinning himself, he said, “Look like you gon’ have to tell de whole story all over again.”

“You ever knowed dat to stop me?” asked the fiddler. “Leas’ways I’se here to tell it!”

CHAPTER 78

In the months that followed, with the capture, trial, and execution