Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [317]
A cry rose! The English bird had drawn blood. A spreading darkening area showed on the breast of the massa’s bird. But he violently buffeted his enemy with wing blows until it stumbled and he sprang above it for a kill. But again the English bird brilliantly crouched, dodged, escaped. Chicken George had never witnessed such incredibly swift reflexes. But the massa’s bird now whirled forcefully enough to knock the English bird onto its back. He hit it twice in the chest, drawing blood, but the English bird managed to flap into the air, and came down, striking the massa’s bird in the neck.
Chicken George had quit breathing as the bleeding birds sparred, circling, heads low, each seeking an opening. In a sudden blinding flurry, the English bird was overpowering the massa’s bird, battering with its wings, its striking spurs drawing more blood, then incredibly the massa’s bird burst into the air and as it came down sinking a spur into the English bird’s heart; it collapsed in a feathery heap, its beak gushing blood.
It came so swiftly that a second or so seemed to pass before the huge din rose. Screaming, red-faced men were springing up and down, “Tawm! Tawm! He done it!” Chicken George, beyond happiness, saw them mobbing the massa, pounding his back, pumping his hand. “Tawm Lea! Tawm Lea! Tom LEA!”
We’s gwine be free, Chicken George kept thinking. The actuality of soon telling his family seemed unbelievable, inconceivable. He glimpsed the Englishman with his jaw set in a way that made one think of a bulldog.
“Mr. LEA!” Probably nothing else could have so quickly quieted the crowd.
The Englishman was walking, he stopped about three yards distant from the massa. He said, “Your bird fought brilliantly. Either one could have won it. They were the most perfectly matched pair I’ve ever seen. I’m told you’re a kind of sportsman who might care to let your winnings ride on another contest between birds of ours.”
Massa Lea stood there, his face blanched.
For seconds cooped gamecocks’ cluckings and crowings were the only sounds heard as thronged men tried to comprehend the potential of two gamecocks battling with eighty thousand dollars at stake, winner take all....
Heads had swiveled toward Massa Lea. He seemed bewildered, uncertain. For one split second his glance brushed Chicken George, working feverishly on the injured bird. Chicken George was as startled as others to hear his own voice, “Yo’ birds whup anything wid feathers, Massa!” The sea of white faces swiveled toward him.
“I’ve heard that your faithful darky is among the best trainers, but I wouldn’t rely too much on his advice. I also have other very good birds.”
The words had come as if the rich Englishman regarded his previous loss about as he might have a game of marbles, as if he were taunting Massa Lea.
Then Massa Lea sounded elaborately formal: “Yes, sir. As you propose, I’ll take pleasure in letting the sum ride on another fight.”
The next several minutes of preparatory activities passed almost as a blur for Chicken George. Not a sound came from the surrounding crowd. There had never been anything like this. All of Chicken George’s instincts approved when Massa Lea indicated with a forefinger the coop containing the bird that Chicken George had previously given a nickname. “De Hawk, yassuh,” he breathed, knowing precisely that bird’s tendency for seizing and holding an enemy with its beak while slashing with its spurs. It would be the countermeasure for birds trained to feint expertly, as the previous contest had suggested was characteristic within the Englishman’s flock.
Cradling “De Hawk” in his arm, Massa Lea went out to where the Englishman held a solid dark gray bird. The birds weighed in at six pounds even.
When “Pit!” came, bringing the anticipated rushing