Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [293]
After a while something must have worked out inside, for the altercation seemed to end, and soon Massa Lea and the wagonmaker came out, still red-faced but acting and talking now in a friendly way. The tradesman shouted toward the area behind his shop, and a few more minutes later, four blacks hove into view, bent nearly double pulling the heavy new custom-built wagon behind them. George’s eyes went wide at its sheer craftsmanship and beauty. He could feel the strength in its oaken frame and body. The center section of the luxuriously long bed showed the tops of the twelve removable cock coops. The iron axles and the hubs were obviously superbly balanced and greased, for despite the vehicle’s imposing weight, he could hear no creaking or even rubbing sounds at all. Nor had he ever seen Massa Lea’s face split into such a grin.
“She’s one of the best we’ve ever turned out!” exclaimed the wagonmaster. “Nearly too pretty to drive!” Expansively, Massa Lea said, “Well, she’s about to roll a long way!” The wagonmaker’s head wagged. “New Orleans! That’s a six-week trip. Who all’s goin’ with you?”
Massa Lea turned, gesturing at Chicken George on the old wagon driver’s seat. “My nigger there and twelve chickens!”
Anticipating the massa’s command, Chicken George jumped down and went back to untie the pair of rented mules they’d brought along and led them over to the new wagon. One of the four blacks helped him hitch them up, then went back to join the others, who were paying Chicken George no more attention than he was to them; after all, they were free blacks, whom Massa Lea often said he couldn’t stand the sight of. After walking around the wagon a few times with his eyes shining and a big smile on his face, the massa shook hands with the wagonmaker, thanked him, and climbed proudly up onto the seat of the new wagon. Wishing him good luck, the wagonmaker stood there shaking his head in admiration for his own work as Massa Lea led the way out of the lot with Chicken George following in the old wagon.
On the long drive home—his new derby on the seat beside him, along with a pair of elegant gray felt spats that had set him back a dollar—George finished his mental checklist of chores that he had to take care of before they left for New Orleans, and started thinking about what had to be done to make sure things would keep running smoothly while they were gone. As difficult as he knew it would be to get along without him at home, he was confident that Matilda and Kizzy would be equal to the task; and though Uncle Mingo didn’t get around quite as spryly anymore, and he was becoming increasingly forgetful with each passing year, George was sure the old man would be able to mind the chickens adequately until his return. But sooner or later, he knew he was going to need more help than Mingo would be able to offer anymore.
Somehow he must find a way around his wife’s and his mammy’s blindness to the rare opportunity he felt he could open for young Virgil, especially since at nearly six years of age the boy would soon have to start working in the fields. During his absence, it had occurred to him that Virgil could be assigned to help Uncle Mingo with the gamecocks—and then simply kept on in the job after they returned—but he had hardly brought up the idea before Matilda had flared, “Let massa buy somebody to help ’im, den!” and Kizzy had put in hotly, “Dem chickens done stole ’nough from dis family!” Wanting no new fights with them, he hadn’t tried to force the matter, but certainly didn’t intend to see the massa possibly buy some total stranger to intrude in his and Uncle Mingo’s private province.
Even if the massa knew better than to bring in an outsider, though, George couldn’t be sure if Virgil’s help would be accepted by Uncle Mingo, who seemed to be rankling more and more ever