Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [352]
“You the blacksmith nigger?”
“Yassuh.”
The guard pointed toward a small cluster of tents. “You’ll stay and work down by those garbage tents. Soon as you get set up, we’ll be sending horses.”
The horses in dire need of new metal shoes came in an unending procession across Tom’s first week of serving the Confederate cavalry, and from first dawn until darkness fell, he shod them until the underside of hooves seemed to become a blur in his mind. Everything he overheard the young cavalrymen say made it sound even more certain that the Yankees were being routed in every battle, and it was a weary, disconsolate Tom who returned home to spend a week serving the regular customers for Massa Murray.
He found the women of slave row in a great state of upset. Through the previous full night and morning, Lilly Sue’s sickly son Uriah had been thought lost. Only shortly before Tom’s return Matilda, while sweeping the front porch, had heard strange noises, and investigating she had found the tearful, hungry boy hiding under the big house. “I was jes’ tryin’ to hear what massa an’ missy was sayin’ ’bout freein’ us niggers, but under dere I couldn’t hear nothin’ atall,” Uriah had said, and now both Matilda and Irene were busily trying to comfort the embarrassed and distraught Lilly Sue, whose always strange child had caused such a commotion. Tom helped to calm her, then described to the family his own week’s experience. “Ain’t hardly nothin’ I seed or heared make it look no better,” he concluded. Irene tried a futile effort to make them all feel at least a little better. “Ain’t never been free, so ain’t gwine miss it nohow,” she said. But Matilda said, “Tell y’all de truth, I’se jes’ plain scairt somehow us gwine wind up worse off ’n we was befo’.”
The same sense of foreboding pervaded Tom as he began his second week of horseshoeing for the Confederate cavalry. During the third night, as he lay awake, thinking, he heard a noise that seemed to be coming from one of the adjoining garbage tents. Nervously Tom groped, and his fingers grasped his blacksmithing hammer. He tipped out into the faint moonlight to investigate. He was about to conclude that he had heard some foraging small animal when he glimpsed the shadowy human figure backing from the garbage tent starting to eat something in his hands. Tipping closer, Tom completely surprised a thin, sallow-faced white youth. In the moonlight for a second, they stared at each other, before the white youth went bolting away. But not ten yards distant, the fleeing figure stumbled over something that made a great clatter as he recovered himself and disappeared into the night. Then armed guards who came rushing with muskets and lanterns saw Tom standing there holding his hammer.
“What you stealin’, nigger?
Tom sensed instantly the trouble he was in. To directly deny the accusation would call a white man a liar—even more dangerous than stealing. Tom all but babbled in his urgency of knowing that he had to make them believe him. “Heared sump’n an’ come lookin’ an’ seed a white man in de garbage, Massa, an’ he broke an’ run.”
Exchanging incredulous expressions, the two guards broke into scornful laughter. “ We look that dumb to you, nigger?” demanded one. “Major Cates said keep special eye on you! You’re going to meet him soon’s he wakes up in the morning, boy!” Keeping their gazes fixed on Tom, the guards held a whispered consultation.
The second guard said, “Boy, drop that hammer!” Tom’s fist instinctively clenched the hammer’s handle. Advancing a step, the guard leveled his musket at Tom’s belly. “Drop it!”
Tom’s fingers loosed and he heard the hammer thud against the ground. The guards motioned him to march ahead of them for quite a distance before commanding him to stop in a small clearing before a large tent where another armed guard stood. “We’re on patrol an’ caught this nigger stealin’,” said one of the first two and nodded toward the large