Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [345]
“Suh? Comes from where?” He had not been told, Chicken George saw, or if he had, not in a way that he remembered.
“C’mon ’long wid me here, boy.”
Also, it was something for him to do. Followed by Uriah, Chicken George led the way over to the cabin that he was sharing with Matilda. “Now set yo’self down in dat chair an’ don’t be axin’ no whole lotta questions. Jes’ set an’ lissen to what I tells you.”
“Yassuh.”
“Yo’ pappy born of me an’ yo’ Gran’mammy ’Tilda.” He eyed the boy. “You unnerstans dat?”
“My pappy y’all young’un.”
“Dat’s right. You ain’t dum’ as you looks. Den my mammy name Kizzy. So she yo’ great-gran’mammy. Gran’mammy Kizzy. Say dat.”
“Yassuh. Gran’mammy Kizzy.”
“Yeah. Den her mammy name Bell.”
He looked at the boy.
“Name Bell.”
Chicken George grunted. “Awright. An’ Kizzy’s pappy name Kunta Kinte—”
“Kunta Kinte.”
“Dat’s right. Well, him an’ Bell yo’ great-great-gran’folks—”
Nearly an hour later, when Matilda came hurrying nervously into the cabin, wondering what on earth had happed to Uriah, she found him dutifully repeating such sounds as “Kunta Kinte” and “ko” and “Kamby Bolongo.” And Matilda decided that she had the time to sit down, and beaming with satisfaction, she listened as Chicken George told their rapt grandson the story of how his African great-great-gran’daddy had said he was not far from his village, chopping some wood to make a drum, when he had been surprised, overwhelmed, and stolen into slavery by four men, “—den a ship brung’im crost de big water to a place call ’Naplis, an’ he was bought dere by a Massa John Waller what took ’im to his plantation dat was in Spotsylvania County, Virginia . . . ”
The following Monday, Chicken George rode with Tom in the mulecart to buy supplies in the county-seat town of Graham. Little was said between them, each seeming mostly immersed in his own thoughts. As they went from one to another store, Chicken George keenly relished the quiet dignity with which his twenty-seven-year-old son dealt with the various white merchants. Then they went into a feed store that Tom said had recently been bought by a former county sheriff named J. D. Cates.
The heavy-set Cates was seeming to ignore them as he moved about serving his few white customers. Some sense of warning rose within Tom; glancing, he saw Cates looking covertly at the green-scarfed, black-derbied Chicken George, who was stepping about in a cocky manner visually inspecting items of merchandise. Intuitively Tom was heading toward his father to accomplish a quick exit when Cates’ voice cut through the store: “Hey, boy, fetch me a dipper of water from that bucket over there!”
Cates was gazing directly at Tom, the eyes taunting, menacing. Tom’s insides congealed as, under the threat of a white man’s direct order, he walked stony-faced to the bucket and returned with a dipper of water. Cates drank it at a gulp, his small eyes over the dipper’s rim now on Chicken George, who stood with his head slowly shaking. Cates thrust the dipper toward him. “I’m still thirsty!”
Avoiding any quick moves, Chicken George drew from his pocket his carefully folded freedom paper and handed it to Cates. Cates unfolded it and read. “What’re you doin’ in our county?” he asked coldly.
“He my pappy,” Tom put in quickly. Above all, he did not want his father attempting any defiant talk. “He jes’ been give his freedom.”
“Livin’ with y’all now over at Mr. Murray’s place?”
“Yassuh.”
Glancing about at his white customers, Cates exclaimed, “Mr. Murray ought to know the laws of this state better’n that!”
Uncertain what he meant, neither Tom nor George said anything.
Suddenly Cates’ manner was almost affable. “Well, when y’all boys get home, be shore to tell Mr. Murray I’ll be out to talk with him ’fore long.” With the sound of white men’s laughter behind them, Tom and Chicken George quickly left the store.
It was the next afternoon when Cates galloped down the driveway