Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [280]
Massa Lea was listening to Chicken George as incredulously as he had to the massa.
“An’ ’nother thing,” he went on. “Every time I goes back she keep quotin’ de Bible on me! How come she read de Bible, a preacher massa raised ’er till his ’ligion made ’im sell his niggers. Fact, I tell you how ’ligious she is! She heared ’bout bunch o’ free niggers givin’ a big night frolic wid eatin’ an’ liquor an’ dancin’ somewheres in de woods roun’ over dere. Well, dis gal, ain’t but seb’nteen, slip ’way from Massa MacGregor’s an’ bust in on dat frolic while it gwine on hot an’ heavy! Dey says she commence sich a carryin’ on, shoutin’ for de Lawd to come save dem sinners ’fo’ de devil git dere an’ burn ’em up, dat every one dem free niggers near ’bout run over one ’nother leavin’ dere, dey fiddler hard behin’ ’em!”
Massa Lea laughed uproariously. “Sounds like a hell of a gal! I’ll say that!”
“Massa—” Chicken George hesitated “’Fo’ I met her, I is been catchin’ jes’ much tail as you says—but dog if she ain’t got me to feelin’ mo’ to it dan jes’ tail. Man git to thinkin’ ’bout jumpin’ de broom wid a good woman—”
Chicken George was astounded at himself. “Dat is, if she have me,” he said in a weak voice. Then even more weakly, “An’ if ’n you wouldn’t make no objections—”
They rode on quite a way amid the wagon’s squeakings and the gamecocks’ cluckings before Massa Lea spoke again. “Does Mr. MacGregor know you’ve been courtin’ this gal of his?”
“Well, she bein’ a field han’, don’t ’magine she never say nothin’ to him directly, nawsuh. But de big-house niggers knows, I speck some dem done tol’ it.”
After another lull, Massa Lea asked, “How many niggers has Mr. MacGregor got?”
“He got pretty big place, Massa. Seem like from de size his slave row, I’d reckon twenty or mo’ niggers, Massa.” George was confused by the questions.
“Been thinking,” said the massa after another silence. “Since you were born, you never give me any real trouble—in fact, you’ve helped me around the place a lot, and I’m goin’ to do somethin’ for you. You just heard me sayin’ a while back I need some younger field-hand niggers. Well, if that gal’s big enough fool to jump the broom with somebody loves runnin’ tail as much as I expect you won’t never quit doin’, then I’ll ride over and talk with Mr. MacGregor. If he’s got as many niggers as you say, he ought not to miss one field gal all that much—if we can come to a decent price. Then you could move that gal—what’s her name?”
“’Tilda—Matilda, Massa,” breathed Chicken George, unsure if he was hearing right.
“Then you could move her over to my place, build y’all a cabin—”
George’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Finally he blurted, “Nothin’ but high-class massa do dat!”
Massa Lea grunted. He gestured. “Long as you understand your first place remains down with Mingo!”
“’Cose, suh!”
Mustering a scowl, Massa Lea directed a stabbing forefinger at his driver. “After you get hitched, I’m takin’ back that travelin’ pass! Help that what’s her name, Matilda, keep your black ass home where it belongs!”
Chicken George was beyond words.
CHAPTER 94
When the sun rose on the morning of Chicken George’s wedding in August of 1827, the groom was frantically fastening iron hinges onto the cured-oak doorjamb of his still uncompleted two-room cabin. Loping to the barn when that was done, he hurried back carrying over his head the new door that Uncle Pompey had carved and stained with the juice of crushed black walnut hulls, and mounted it in place. Then, casting a worried glance at the rising sun, he stopped long enough to wolf down the sausage and biscuit sandwich that had been practically thrown at him by his mammy late the previous evening in her fury at his long succession of put-offs, excuses, interruptions, and excursions. He had waited so long, and worked so slowly, that she had finally commanded everyone else not only to stop helping him anymore, but also even to stop offering him any encouragement.
Chicken