Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [296]
Chicken George paced: Dear God, where was the beloved old shambling companion with whom he had so many times trod every inch of this familiar place?
He stayed there alone through the next day and night. It was Saturday morning before Massa Lea showed up. His face bleak and somber, he went directly to the point. “I’ve been thinking through this whole thing. To start with, just burn Mingo’s cabin, now. That’s the best way to get rid of it.”
A few minutes later they stood and watched as the flames consumed the small cabin that for over forty years had been home to Uncle Mingo. Chicken George sensed that the massa had something else on his mind; he was unprepared for it when it came.
“I’ve been thinking about New Orleans,” said the massa. “There’s too much at stake unless everything’s right—” He spoke slowly, almost as if he were talking to himself. “Can’t leave without somebody here to mind these chickens. Take too much time to find somebody, maybe have to teach them to boot. No point in me goin’ by myself, that much driving and twelve birds to look after. No point goin’ to a chicken fight unless you aim to win. Just foolish to make the trip now—”
Chicken George swallowed. All those months of planning ... all the massa’s spending ... all of the massa’s hopes to join the South’s most elite gamecocking circles ... those birds so magnificently trained to beat anything with wings. Swallowing a second time, he said, “Yassuh.”
CHAPTER 99
Working by himself down there with the gamefowl was so strange and lonely that Chicken George wondered how in the world Uncle Mingo had managed to do it for over twenty-five years before he came to join him. “When massa bought me,” the old man had told him, “an’ de flock got to growin’, he kept sayin’ he gwine buy me some he’p, but he never did, an’ I reckon I jes’ fin’ out chickens maybe better company dan peoples is.” Though George felt that he, too, loved the birds about as much as any man could, with him they could never take the place of people. But he needed someone to help him, he told himself, not to keep him company.
As far as he was concerned, Virgil still seemed the most sensible choice. It would keep things all in the family, and he could train the boy just as Uncle Mingo had trained him. But since he wasn’t anxious to deal with Matilda and Kizzy in order to get him, George tried to think of some gamefowl trainer acquaintance whom he might be able to persuade the massa to buy away from his present owner. But he knew that any real gamecocker massa would have to be in some truly desperate fix for money to even think about selling his trainer, especially to such a competitor as Massa Lea. So he began considering black hackfighters, but a good half of them were trainers like himself fighting their massa’s cull birds, and most of the others, like their birds, were third-raters or shady characters who fought very good birds that had been suspiciously acquired. There were a number of free black hackfighters he had seen who were really good, and were available for hire by the day, the week, the month, or even the year, but he knew there was no way Massa Lea would ever permit even the best free-black trainer in North Carolina on his place. So George had no choice. And finally one evening he mustered his nerve to bring it up at home.
“Fo’ you tells me ag’in why you won’t stan’ fo’ it, woman, you listen to me. Nex’ time massa want me to travel wid ’im somewhere, dat’s when he sho’ gwine say, ‘Go git dat oldes’ young’un of your’n down here!’ An’ once dat happen, Virgil be wid chickens to stay, less’n massa say different, which might be never, an’ you or me neither can’t say a mumblin’ word—” He gestured to stop Matilda from interrupting. “Wait! Ain’t wantin’ no back talk! I’se tryin’ to git you to see de boy need to come on down dere now. If ’n I bring’im,