Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [313]
So across the interim weeks, Chicken George, pent up with his secret, had submerged himself body and soul into honing into absolute perfection the final eight gamecocks that now were riding quietly in their coops behind him and Massa Lea in the big custom-built wagon rolling along the lonely road through the dark. At intervals Chicken George wondered what the uncommonly silent Massa Lea was thinking.
It was in the early daylight when they caught sight of the vast and motley throng that even this early had not only overrun the cockfighting area but had also spilled into an adjoining pasture that was quickly filling with other wagons, carriages, buggies, carts, and snorting mules and horses.
“Tawm Lea!” A group of poor crackers cried out upon seeing the massa climb down from his huge wagon. “Go git ’em, Tawm!” As he adjusted his black derby, Chicken George saw the massa nodding at them in a friendly manner, but he kept on walking. He knew that the massa wavered between pride and embarrassment at his notoriety among the crackers. After half a century as a gamecocker in fact, Massa Lea was a legend wherever chickens were fought locally, since even at his age of seventy-eight, his ability to handle birds in a cockpit seemed undiminished.
Chicken George had never heard such a din of crowing gamecocks as he began unpacking things for action. A passing slave trainer stopped and told him that among the crowd were many who had traveled for days from other states, even as distant as Florida. Glancing about as they talked, Chicken George saw that the usual spectator area was more than doubled, but already was crawling with men guaranteeing themselves a seat. Among those moving steadily past the wagon, he saw as many strange faces both white and black as he did familiar ones, and he felt pride when numerous among both races obviously recognized him, usually nudging their companions and whispering.
The sprawling crowd’s buzzing excitement rose to a yet higher pitch when three judges came to the cockpit and began measuring and marking the starting lines. Another buzz arose when someone’s gamecock fluttered loose and went furiously attacking men in its path, even sending a dog yelping, until the bird was cornered and caught. And the crowd’s noises swelled with each arrival and identification of any of the area’s well-known gamecockers—especially the rest of the eight who would be competing against the sponsoring Massas Jewett and Russell.
“I ain’t never seed no Englishman, is you?” Chicken George overheard one poor white man ask another, who said he hadn’t either. He also heard talk about the titled Englishman’s wealth, that he had not only a huge English estate, but also rich holdings in places called Scotland, Ireland, and Jamaica. And he heard that Massa Jewett had proudly boasted among friends of how his guest was known for fighting his birds anytime, anywhere, against any competition, for any amount.
Chicken George was chopping a few apples into small bits to feed the birds when suddenly the crowd noise rose to a roar—and standing up quickly in the wagon he recognized the approaching canopied surrey driven by Massa Jewett’s always poker-faced black coachman. In the back were the two rich massas, smiling and waving down at the crowd, surging so thickly around them that the carriage’s finely matched horses had a hard time progressing. And not far behind came six wagons, each filled with tall cock coops, the lead