Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [234]
Then Cato said what was uppermost in all of their minds. “Gwine have to tell massa, Lawd have mercy!” After a hurried consultation, Bell recommmended that Massa Waller not be told until after he had eaten his breakfast, “’case de boy done jes’ eased off somewhere an’ got scairt to slip back fo’ it’s dark again, less’n dem road paterollers cotches ’im.”
Bell served the massa his favorite breakfast—canned peaches in heavy cream, hickory-smoked fried ham, scrambled eggs, grits, heated apple butter, and buttermilk biscuits—and waited for him to ask for his second cup of coffee before speaking.
“Massa—” she swallowed, “—Massa, Cato ax me to tell you look like dat boy Noah ain’t here dis mawnin’!”
The massa set down his cup, frowning. “Where is he, then? Are you trying to tell me he’s off drunk or tomcatting somewhere, and you think he’ll slip back today, or are you saying you think he’s trying to run?”
“All us sayin’, Massa,” Bell quavered, “is seem like he ain’t here, an’ us done searched eve’ywheres.”
Massa Waller studied his coffee cup. “I’ll give him until tonight—no, tomorrow morning—before I take action.”
“Massa, he a good boy, born and bred right here on yo’ place, an’ work good all his life, ain’t never give you, or nobody a minute’s trouble—”
He looked levelly at Bell. “If he’s trying to run, he’ll be sorry.”
“Yassuh, Massa.” Bell fled to the yard, where she told the others what the massa had said. But no sooner had Cato and the fiddler hurried off toward the fields than Massa Waller called Bell back and ordered the buggy.
All day long, as he drove him from one patient to the next, Kunta soared from exhilaration—as he thought of Noah running—to anguish as he thought of the thorns and the briars and the dogs. And he felt what hope and suffering Kizzy must be enduring.
At that night’s huddled gathering, everyone spoke barely above whispers.
“Dat boy done lef’ here. Fo’ now, I done seed it in his eyes,” Aunt Sukey said.
“Well, I knows he ain’t no young’un to jes’ steal off gittin’ drunk, no suh!” said Sister Mandy.
Noah’s mother Ada was hoarse from a day of weeping. “My baby sho’ ain’t never talked to me nothin’ ’bout no runnin’! Lawd, y’all reckon massa gwine sell ’im?” No one chose to reply.
When they returned to their cabin, Kizzy burst into tears the moment she got inside; Kunta felt helpless and tongue-tied. But without a word, Bell went over to the table, put her arms around her sobbing daughter, and pulled her head against her stomach.
Tuesday morning came, still with no sign of Noah, and Massa Waller ordered Kunta to drive him to the county seat, where he went directly to the Spotsylvania jailhouse. After about half an hour, he came out with the sheriff, ordering Kunta brusquely to tie the sheriff’s horse behind the buggy and then to drive them home. “We’ll be dropping the sheriff off at the Creek Road,” said the massa.
“So many niggers runnin’ these days, can’t hardly keep track they’d ruther take their chances in the woods than get sold down South—” The sheriff was talking from when the buggy started rolling.
“Since I’ve had a plantation,” said Massa Waller, “I’ve never sold one of mine unless my rules were broken, and they know that well.”
“But it’s mighty rare niggers appreciate good masters, Doctor, you know that,” said the sheriff. “You say this boy around eighteen? Well, I’d guess if he’s like most field hands his age, there’s fair odds he’s tryin’ to make it North.” Kunta stiffened. “If he was a house nigger, they’re generally slicker, faster talkers, they like to try passin’ themselves off as free niggers or tell the road patrollers they’re on their master’s errands and lost their traveling passes, tryin’ to make it to Richmond or some other big city where they can easier hide among so many niggers and maybe find jobs.” The sheriff paused. “Besides his mammy on your place, this boy of yours got any other kin livin’ anywheres he might be tryin’ to get to?”
“None that I know of.”
“Well, would you happen to know if he’s