Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [235]
“Not to my knowledge,” said the massa. “But there’s a gal on my place, my cook’s young’un, she’s still fairly young, fifteen or sixteen, if I guess correctly. I don’t know if they’ve been haystacking or not.”
Kunta nearly quit breathing.
“I’ve known ’em to have pickaninnies at the age of twelve!” the sheriff chortled. “Plenty of these young nigger wenches even draw white men, and nigger boys’ll do anything!”
Through churning outrage, Kunta heard Massa Waller’s abrupt chilliness. “I have the least possible personal contact with my slaves, and neither know nor concern myself regarding their personal affairs!”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said the sheriff quickly.
But then the massa’s tone eased. “Along your line of thinking, though, this boy could have slipped off to see some other plantation gal. I don’t know, and of course the others wouldn’t say if they did. In fact, anything might have happened—some fight, perhaps; he could be half dead somewhere. It’s even possible that some of these slave-stealing poor whites could have grabbed him. That’s been going on around here, as you know; even some of the more unscrupulous traders engage in it. Again, I don’t know. But I’m told this is the boy’s first time being unaccounted for.”
His general manner now more careful, the sheriff said, “You told me he was born on your place and never traveled much?”
“I’d guess he wouldn’t have any idea how to get even to Richmond, let alone North,” said the massa.
“Niggers exchange a lot of information, though,” the sheriff said. “We’ve picked up some and beat it out of them that they practically had maps in their heads of where they’d been told to run and where to hide. A lot of this can be traced to nigger-loving white people like the Quakers and Methodists. But since he ain’t never been nowhere, ain’t never tried runnin’ before, and ain’t never give you no other trouble to now, sounds like to me a good bet a couple more nights in the woods might bring him back, scared to death and half starved. A nigger’s powerfully moved by a hungry belly. And that’ll save you spending to advertise in the Gazette or hiring some of these nigger catchers with their dogs to track him. He just don’t sound to my experience like one of them hard, outlaw niggers that’s slipping around in and out of the swamps and woods right now, killing people’s cattle and hogs like they would rabbits.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Massa Waller, “but whatever the case, he’s broken my rules by leaving without permission to begin with, so I’ll be selling him South immediately.” Kunta’s fists squeezed the reins so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. “Then that’s a good twelve to fifteen hundred dollars you’ve got runnin’ around loose somewhere,” said the sheriff. “You’ve written me his description, I’ll sure get it to the county road patrollers, and if we pick ’im up—or we hear anything—I’ll let you know right away.”
Saturday morning after breakfast, Kunta was currycombing a horse outside the barn when he thought he heard Cato’s whip-poor-will whistle. Cocking his head, he heard it again. He tied the horse quickly to a nearby post and cripped rapidly up the path to the cabin. From its front window he could see almost from where the main road intersected with the big-house driveway. Inside the big house, he knew that Cato’s call had also alerted Bell and Kizzy.
Then he saw the wagon rolling down the driveway—and with surging alarm recognized the sheriff at the reins. Merciful Allah, had Noah been caught? As he watched the sheriff dismount, Kunta’s long-trained instincts tugged at him to hasten out and provide the visitor’s winded horse with water and a rubdown, but it was as if he were paralyzed where he stood, staring, from the cabin window, as the sheriff hurried up the big-house front steps two at a time.
Only a few minutes passed before Kunta saw Bell almost stumbling out the back door. She started running—and Kunta was seized with a horrible premonition