Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [308]
Tom told them of another famous escaped slavewoman. “She named Harriet Tubman. Ain’t no tellin’ how many times she come back South an’ led out different whole bunches o’ folks like us to freedom up Nawth on sump’n deys callin’ de ‘Unnergroun’ Railroad.’ Fac’, she done it so much dey claims by now white folks got out forty thousand dollars’ worth o’ rewards fo’ her, alive or dead.”
“Lawd have mercy, wouldn’t o’ thought white folks pay dat much to catch no nigger in de worl’!” said Sister Sarah.
He told them that in a far-distant state called California, two white men were said to have been building a sawmill when they discovered an unbelievable wealth of gold in the ground, and thousands of people were said to be rushing in wagons, on mules, even afoot to reach the place where it was claimed that gold could be dug up by the shovelful.
He said finally that in the North great debates on the subject of slavery were being held between two white men named Stephen Douglas and Abraham Lincoln.
“Which one ’em for de niggers?” asked Gran’mammy Kizzy.
“Well, soun’ like de Massa Lincoln, leas’ways de bes’ I can tell,” said Tom.
“Well, praise de Lawd an’ give ’im stren’th!” said Kizzy.
Sucking his teeth, Chicken George got up patting his ample belly and turned to Tom. “Looka here, boy, why’n’t you’n me stretch our legs, walk off some dat meal?”
“Yassuh, Pappy,” Tom almost stammered, scarcely able to conceal his amazement and trying to act casual.
The women, who were no less startled, exchanged quizzical, significant glances when Chicken George and Tom set off together down the road. Sister Sarah exclaimed softly, “Lawd, y’all realize dat boy done growed nigh big as his daddy!” James and Lewis stared after their father and older brother nearly sick with envy, but they knew better than to invite themselves along. But the two younger girls, L’il Kizzy and Mary, couldn’t resist leaping up and happily starting to hop-skip along eight or ten steps behind them.
Without even looking back at them, Chicken George ordered, “Git on back yonder an’ he’p y’all’s mammy wid dem dishes!”
“Aw, Pappy!” they whined in unison.
“Git, done tol’ you!”
Half turning around with his eyes loving his little sisters, Tom chided them gently, “Ain’t y’all hear Pappy? We see you later on.”
With the girls’ complaining sounds behind them, they walked on in silence for a little way and Chicken George spoke almost gruffly, “Looka here, reckon you know I ain’t meant no harm jes’ teasin’ you a l’il at dinner.”
“Aw, nawsuh,” Tom said, privately astounded at what amounted to an apology from his father. “I knowed you was jes’ teasin’.”
Grunting, Chicken George said, “What say we head on down an’ look in on dem chickens? See what keepin’ dat no-count L’il George down dere so long. All I knows, he mighta cooked an’ et up some dem chickens fo’ his Thanksgivin’ by now.”
Tom laughed. “L’il George mean well, Pappy. He jes’ a l’il slow. He done tol’ me he jes’ don’ love dem birds like you does.” Tom paused, then decided to venture his accompanying thought. “I’speck nobody in de worl’ loves dem birds like you does.”
But Chicken George agreed readily enough. “Nobody in dis family, anyways. I done tried ’em all—’ceptin’ you. Seem like all de res’ my boys willin’ to spend dey lives draggin’ from one end of a fiel’ to de other, lookin’ up a mule’s butt!” He considered for a moment. “Yo’ blacksmithin’, wouldn’t ’zackly call dat no high livin’ neither—nothin’ like gamecockin’—but leas’ways it’s a man’s work.”
Tom wondered if his father ever seriously respected anything excepting fighting chickens. He felt deeply grateful that somehow he had escaped into the solid, stable trade of blacksmithing. But he expressed his thoughts in an oblique way. “Don’t see nothin’ wrong wid farmin’, Pappy. If some folks wasn’t farmin’, ’speck nobody wouldn’ be eatin’. I jes’ took to blacksmithin’ same as you wid gamecockin’, ’cause I loves it, an’ de Lawd gimme a knack fo’ it. Jes’ ever’body don’ love de same things.”
“Well leas’ you an’ me got