Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [224]
When the laughter lessened, Aunt Sukey asked, “What y’all think ’bout what white folks always says dat dem mulattoes an’ high yallers do so good cause de whole lot o’ white blood dey got in ’em make ’em smarter’n we is?”
“Well, white mens sho’ mixes roun’ ’nough dey blood!” Bell said noncommittally.
“Watch yo’ talk bout my mammy’s oberseer!” the fiddler exclaimed, trying to look insulted. Cato almost fell off his chair laughing till Beulah gave his head a whack with the back of her hand.
“Git serious here!” the fiddler went on. “Aunt Sukey ax a question I ’tends to answer! If you jedgin’ by sich as me, den you know light-skinned niggers got to be smart! Or take dat brown-skin Benjamin Banneker what white folks calls a genius wid figgers, even studyin’ de stars an’ moon—but whole heap o’ smart niggers black like y’all, too!”
Bell said, “I done heared massa talk ’bout a James Derham nigger doctor in New Orleans. White doctor what teached ’im claim he know more’n he do, an’ he black as dey gits, too.”
“Tell you anudder one,” said the fiddler. “Dat Prince Hall what started dat nigger Masonic Order! I seen pictures some dem big preachers what started dem nigger churches, most of’em so black you couldn’t hardly see ’em less’n dey eyes was open. An’ what bout dat Phyllis Wheatley what writes dem pomes white folks say so fine, an dat Gustavus Vassa what writes books?” The fiddler glanced in Kunta’s direction. “Dey’s both straight-from-Africa niggers, not nary drop o’ white folks’ blood, an’ dey sho’ don’t soun’ all dat dumb to me!” Then laughing, the fiddler said, “’Cose, dey’s always dumb black niggers—take Cato here ...” He sprang up and ran with Cato two steps behind. “Cotch you, I’ll dumb you upside de head!” Cato shouted.
When the others stopped guffawing, Kunta spoke. “Laugh all y’all want. All niggers de same to white folks. One drop o’ nigger blood means nigger if you’s even whiter’n dem—an I’se seed plenty dat is.”
It was about a month later when the fiddler returned from one of his trips bearing news that he had seen elating whites everywhere he’d been—and that plunged slave row into gloom: The French leader named Napoleon had sent across the big water a huge army which, after much fighting and bloodshed, had taken Haiti back from the blacks and their liberator, General Toussaint. Invited to dinner by the victorious French army’s general, Toussaint had made the mistake of accepting; during the meal, the waiters seized and trussed him, and rushed him onto a ship bound for France, where he had been taken in chains before Napoleon, who had plotted the entire treachery.
Being the black General Toussaint’s greatest admirer on the plantation, Kunta took the news harder than anyone else. He was still sitting dejectedly in the fiddler’s cabin when the last of the others trudged silently out.
“I knows how you felt ’bout dat Toussaint,” said the fiddler, “an’ I don’ want you to think I takes it light, but I got a piece o’ news I jes’ cain’t hol’ in another minute!”
Kunta glanced grimly at the fiddler, further offended that he looked ready to pop open with happiness. What news could be so good as to affect anyone’s proper respect for the humiliation of the greatest black leader of all time?
“I done it!” The fiddler was a study of excitement. “I didn’t say nothin’ jes’ a month back when Cato axed how much I had saved up, but den I was jes’ a few dollars short—an now I jes’ done made it wid dis trip! Took me playin’ over nine hunnud times fo’ white folks to dance, an I sho’ di’n’t know if I’d ever make it, so I di’n’t talk ’bout it wid nobody—not even you—’til I done it! African, I got dat seven hunnud dollars what massa long time ago tol’ me I’d have to earn to buy myself free!”
Kunta was too thunderstruck to speak.
“Looka here!” said