Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [253]
One Sunday in 1818, George reported “sump’n dem guests was callin’ de ’Merican Colonize Society’ tryin’ to send shiploads o’ free niggers off to a ‘Liberia’ somewheres in dat Africa. De white folks was a-laughin’ ’bout de free niggers bein’ tol’ dat Liberia got bacon trees, wid de slices hangin’ down like leaves, an’ ’lasses trees you jes’ cuts to drain out all you can drink!” George said, “Massa swear far’s he concerned, dey can’t put dem free niggers on ships fas’ enough!”
“Hmph!” snorted Sister Sarah. “I sho’ wouldn’t go to no Africa wid all dem niggers up in trees wid monkeys—”
“Where you git dat at?” demanded Kizzy sharply. “My pappy come from Africa, an’ he sho’ ain’t never been in no trees!”
Indignantly, Sister Sarah spluttered, taken aback, “Well, ever’body grow up hearin’ dat!”
“Don’t make it right,” said Uncle Pompey, casting her a sidewise glance. “Ain’t no ship take you nohow, you ain’t no free nigger.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go if I was!” snapped Sister Sarah, flouncing her head and squirting an amber stream of snuff into the dust, annoyed now at both Uncle Pompey and Kizzy, whom she made a point of not bidding goodnight when the little gathering retired to their cabins. Kizzy, in turn, was no less seething at Sister Sarah’s demeaning implication about her wise, stiffly dignified father and his beloved African homeland.
She was surprised and pleased to discover that even George was irritated at what he felt was ridicule of his African gran’pappy. Though he seemed reluctant to say anything, he couldn’t help himself. But when he finally did, she saw his concern about seeming disrespectful. “Mammy, jes’ seem like Sister Sarah maybe talk what ain’t so, don’t she?”
“Dat de truth!” Kizzy emphatically agreed.
George sat quietly for a while before he spoke again. “Mammy,” he said hesitantly, “is it maybe any l’il mo’ you could tell me ’bout’im?”
Kizzy felt a flooding of remorse that during the previous winter she had gotten so exasperated with George’s unending questions one night that she had forbidden him to question her any further about his grandfather. She said softly now, “Whole lot o’ times I done tried to scrape in my min’ if it’s sump’n ’bout yo’ gran’pappy I ain’t tol’ you, an’ seem like jes’ ain’t no mo’—” She paused. “I knows you don’t forgit nothin’—but I tell you again any part of it if you says so.”
George was again quiet for a moment. “Mammy,” he said, “one time you tol’ me gran’pappy give you de feelin’ dat de main thing he kep’ on his mind was tellin’ you dem Africa things—”
“Yeah, it sho’ seem like dat, plenty time,” Kizzy said reflectively.
After another silence, George said, “Mammy, I been thinkin’. Same as you done fo’ me, I gwine tell my chilluns ’bout gran’pappy.” Kizzy smiled, it being so typical of her singular son to be discussing at twelve his children of the future.
As George’s favor continued to rise with the massa and the missis, he was permitted increasing liberties without their ever really having to grant them. Now and then, especially during Sunday afternoons when they look buggy rides, he would go wandering off somewhere on his own, sometimes for hours, leaving the slave-row adults talking among themselves, as he curiously explored every corner of the Lea plantation. One such Sunday it was nearly dusk when he returned and told Kizzy that he had spent the afternoon visiting with the old man who took care of the massa’s fighting chickens.
“I he’ped him catch a big ol’ rooster dat got loose, an’ after dat me an’ de ol’ man got to talkin’. He don’t seem all dat ’culiar to me, like y’all says, Mammy. An’ I ain’t never seen sich chickens! It’s roosters he said ain’t even grown yet jes’ a-crowin’ an’ jumpin’ in dey pens, tryin’ to git at one ’nother to fight! Ol’ man let me pick some grass an’ feed ’em, an’ I did. He tol’ me he take mo’ pains raisin’ dem chickens