Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [269]
One morning about a week later, Massa Lea arrived—in high spirits—to check on the recovery of the half dozen of his prime birds that had been injured seriously during the season.
“Don’t b’lieve dis’n gwine pull through, Massa,” said Uncle Mingo, indicating one so drooping and battered that Massa Lea’s head quickly shook in agreement. “But I speck dese in dese next two cages gwine heal up so good you be fightin’ ’em again next season.” Mingo gestured next at the last three convalescing birds. “Dese here ain’t gwine never be perfect enough fo’ de big main fights no mo’, but we can use ’em as catchcocks if you wants to, Massa, or dey be good cull birds anyhow.” Massa Lea expressed his satisfaction with the prognosis and had started toward his horse when, turning, he spoke casually to George. “These nights you slip out of here tomcattin’, you’d better be mighty careful about that bad nigger that’s sweet on the same gal—”
George was so dumfounded it took a full second before anger flared within him at Uncle Mingo’s obvious treachery. But then he saw that Uncle Mingo’s face was no less astounded, as the massa continued. “Missis Teague told my wife at their quilting club meeting she couldn’t figure out what had come over her yaller house-maid until lately some of the other niggers told her the gal’s wore out from two-timing you and some bad buck older nigger—” Massa Lea chuckled. “Reckon the two of y’all sure must be tearin’ up that gal!”
Charity! Two-timing! As George recalled furiously with what insistence she had blocked him from her cabin that night, he forced himself to smile and laugh nervously; Uncle Mingo joined in just as hollowly. George felt stricken. Now that the massa had discovered that he had been slipping off nights, what was he going to do to him?
Having paused to let George expect his anger, Massa Lea said instead—in an incredible, almost man-to-man way—“Hell, long as you do your work, go on and chase you some tail. Just don’t let some buck slice you to pieces—and don’t get caught out on that road where the patrol is shootin’ people’s niggers.”
“Nawsuh! Sho’ ain’t—” George was so confused he didn’t know what to say. “Sho’ ’preciates, Massa—”
Massa Lea climbed on his horse, a discernible shaking of his shoulders suggesting to his gamecock trainers that he was laughing to himself as he cantered on up the road.
Finally alone in his shack that night, after enduring Uncle Mingo’s frostiness through the rest of the day, free at last to vent his outrage at Charity, George cursed her—and vowed that he would turn his attentions, which she obviously didn’t deserve, to the surely more faithful, if less hotly passionate, Beulah. He also remembered that tall, cinnamon-colored girl who had given him the eye at a secret frolic he had stumbled on in the woods while hurrying homeward one night. The only reason he hadn’t tried her then and there was he got so drunk on the white lightning she offered him that he was barely able to stagger home by dawn. But he remembered she said her name was Ophelia and that she belonged to the very rich Massa Jewett, who owned over a thousand gamefowl, or so it was said, and whose family had huge plantations in Georgia and South Carolina as well as the one there in Caswell County. It was a long way to walk, but first chance he got, George decided he was going to get better acquainted with that tasty-looking field girl Massa Jewett probably didn’t even know he owned.
CHAPTER 92
One Sunday morning George had left for his weekly visit on slave row by the time Massa Lea showed up for daily inspection of the flock. It was the perfect moment. After walking about and talking of gamecocking for a while, Uncle Mingo said, as if it had just occurred to him, “Massa, you knows how every season we culls out dese fifteen or twenty good birds dat’s better’n a whole lots o’ folks fights wid. I b’lieves you can make good side money if’n you lets dat boy