Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [334]
That evening before dinner, a shaken Massa and Missis Holt agreed that it was clearly in the best interests of the immediate family circle to be sold to Massa Murray and quickly.
Still, because Missis and Massa Holt genuinely liked Irene, and highly approved of her choice of Tom for a mate, they insisted that Massa and Missis Murray let them host the wedding and reception dinner. All members of both the white and black Holt and Murray families would attend in the Holt big-house front yard, with their minister performing the ceremony and Massa Holt himself giving away the bride.
But amid the lovely, moving occasion, the outstanding sensation was the delicately hand-wrought perfect long-stemmed rose of iron that the groom Tom withdrew from inside his coat pocket and tenderly presented to his radiant bride. Amid the “oohs” and “ahhs” of the rest of the wedding assembly, Irene embraced it with her eyes, then pressing it to her breast she breathed, “Tom, it’s jes’ too beautiful! Ain’t gwine never be far from dis rose—or you neither!”
During the lavish reception dinner there in the yard after the beaming white families had retired to their meal served within the big house, after Matilda’s third glass of the fine wine, she burbled to Irene, “You’s mo’n jes’ a pretty daughter! You’s done saved me from worryin’ if Tom too shy ever to ax a gal to git married—” Irene loudly and promptly responded, “He didn’t!” And the guests within earshot joined them in uproarious laughter.
After the first week back at the Murray place, Tom’s family soon joked among themselves that ever since the wedding, his hammer had seemed to start singing against his anvil. Certainly no one had ever seen him talk so much, or smile at so many people as often, or work as hard as he had since Irene came. Her treasured rose of iron graced the mantelpiece in their new cabin, which he left at dawn and went out to kindle his forge, whereafter the sounds of his tools shaping metals seldom went interrupted until that dusk’s final red-hot object was plunged into the stale water of his slake tub to hiss and bubble as it cooled. Customers who came for some minor repair or merely to get a tool sharpened, he would usually ask if they could wait. Some slaves liked to sit on foot-high sections of logs off to one side, though most preferred shifting about in a loose group exchanging talk of common interest. On the opposite side, the waiting white customers generally sat on the split-log benches that Tom had set up for them, positioned carefully just within his earshot, though far enough away that the whites didn’t suspect that as Tom worked, he was monitoring their conversations. Smoking and whittling and now or then taking nips from their pocket flasks as they talked, they had come to regard Tom’s shop as a locally popular meeting place, supplying him now with a daily flow of small talk and sometimes with fresh, important news that he told to his Irene, his mother Matilda, and the rest of his slave-row family after their suppertimes.
Tom told his family what deep bitterness the white men expressed about northern Abolitionists’ mounting campaign against slavery. “Dey’s sayin’ dat Pres’dent Buchanan better keep ’way from dat no-good bunch o’ nigger lovers if he ’speck any backin’ here in de South.” But his white customers vented their worst hatred, he said, “’gainst Massa Abraham Lincoln what been talkin’ ’bout freein’ us slaves—”
“Sho’ is de truth,” said Irene. “Reckon leas’ a year I been hearin’ how if he don’ shut up, gwine git de Nawth an’ de South in a war!”
“Y’all ought to of heared my ol’ massa, rantin’ an’ cussin’!” exclaimed Lilly Sue. “He say dis Massa Lincoln got sich gangly legs an’ arms an’ a long, ugly, hairy face can’t nobody hardly tell if he look de mos’ like a ape or gorilla! Say he borned an’ growed up dirt po’ in some log cabin, an’ cotched bears an’ polecats to git anythin’ to eat, twixt splittin’ logs into fencerails like a nigger.”
“Tom, ain’t you tol’ us Massa Lincoln a lawyer nowdays?” asked L’il Kizzy,