Roots (86 page)

“What are you talking about? What kind of ways?”

“Jes’
man
ways, Massa. Mo’ solid, an’ ’pendable, an’ not fo’ no foolishness no kin’ o’ way, an’ like dat. He gwine be de kin’ o’ man make some woman a mighty good husban’.”

“Well, I hope he hasn’t got matin’ on his mind,” said Massa Lea, probing, “’cause I just permitted it with that oldest one—what’s his name?”

“Virgil, Massa.”

“Right. And every weekend he’s runnin’ off to bed down with her over at the Curry plantation when he ought to be here workin’!”

“Nawsuh, not Tom. He too young for sich as dat on his min’, an’ I ’speck he won’t be too quick ’bout it even when he git grown, leas’ not ’til he fin’ jes’ de right gal he want.”

“You’re too old to know about young bucks nowadays,” said Massa Lea. “Wouldn’t surprise me if one left my plow and mule in the field to go chasin’ some gal.”

“’Gree wid you if you talkin’ ’bout dat Ashford, Massa, ’cause he took to woman chasin’ jes’ like his pappy. But Tom jes’ ain’t dat kin’, dat’s all.”

“Well, all right. If I go on what you say, the boy sounds like he might be fit for something.”

“Go on what any us say ’bout him, Massa.” Miss Malizy concealed her jubilation. “Don’ know what you axin’ ’bout Tom fo’, but he sho’ de pick o’ dem big boys.”

Massa Lea broke the news to Chicken George five days later.

“I’ve worked out an arrangement to board your Tom over at the Askew plantation,” he announced solemnly, “for a three-year apprenticeship with that nigger blacksmith Isaiah.”

George was so elated that it was all he could do to keep from picking up the massa and spinning him around. Instead, he just grinned from ear to ear and began to sputter his appreciation.

“You’d better be right about that boy, George. On the strength of your assurances, I recommended him very highly to Massa Askew. If he isn’t as good as you say, I’ll have him back here so fast it’ll make your head spin, and if he gets out of line, if he betrays my trust in any way, I’ll take it out of your hide as his. Do you understand?”

“He won’t let you down, Massa. You got my promise on dat. Dat boy a chip off de ol’ block.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Have him packed and ready to leave in the mornin’.”

“Yassuh. An’ thank you, suh. You won’t never regret it.”

Racing up to slave row as soon as the massa was gone, Chicken George was so near to bursting with pride in his achievement when he told them the great news that he didn’t see the wry smiles
exchanged by Matilda and Kizzy, who had been the ones responsible for urging him to approach the massa in the first place. Soon he stood in the doorway hollering, “Tom! Tom!
You
Tom!”

“Yaaay, Pappy!” His reply came from behind the barn.

“Boy,
c’mere!”

A moment later Tom’s mouth was open as wide as his eyes. The incredible news had come as a total surprise—for they hadn’t wanted him to be disappointed if the effort hadn’t worked. But as overjoyed as he was, their heaped congratulations so embarrassed him that Tom got back outside as quickly as he could—partly to give himself the chance to realize that his dream had actually come true. He hadn’t noticed while he was in the cabin that his little sisters, Kizzy and Mary, had scampered outside and breathlessly spread the news among their brothers.

The lanky Virgil was just trotting up from his chores in the barn before leaving for the plantation of his recent bride; he merely grunted something noncommittal under his breath and hurried on past Tom, who smiled, since Virgil had been in a daze ever since he had jumped the broom.

But Tom tensed when he saw stocky, powerful eighteen-year-old Ashford approaching, trailed by their younger brothers James and Lewis. After nearly a lifetime of unaccountable hostility between him and Ashford, Tom wasn’t surprised at his snarling bitterness.

“You always been dey pet! Butterin’ up eve’ybody so you gits de favors! Now you gwine off laughin’ at us still in de fiel’!” He made a swift feint as if to strike Tom, drawing gasps from James and Lewis. “I’m gon’ git you yet, jes’ watch!” And Ashford stalked off, Tom staring levelly after him, certain that someday he and Ashford were going to have a showdown.

What Tom heard from “L’il George” was another kind of bitterness. “Sho’ wish I was you gittin’ way from here, fo’ pappy work
me to death down dere! Jes’ cause I got his name, he figger I’se s’posed to be crazy as he is ’bout chickens. I
hates
dem stinkin’ things!”

As for the ten-year-old Kizzy and eight-year-old Mary, having spread the news, they now trailed Tom around the rest of the afternoon, their shy looks making it clear that he was their adored and favorite big brother.

The next morning, after seeing Tom off in the mule cart with Virgil, Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Matilda had just begun the day’s chopping in the field when Gran’mammy Kizzy observed, “Anybody seen us all up dere snifflin’ an’ cryin’ an’ gwine on would o’ thought we weren’t gwine never see dat chile ag’in.”

“Hmph! No mo’
chile,
honey!” exclaimed Sister Sarah. “Dat Tom de nex’
man
roun’ dis place!”

W
ith a special traveling pass supplied by Massa Lea, Virgil had hung a lantern on the mulecart and driven it through the night before Thanksgiving in order to get Tom home from the Askew plantation in time for the big dinner, after an absence of nine months. As the cart rolled back into the Lea driveway in the chilly November afternoon and Virgil quickened the mule to a brisk trot, Tom had to press back tears as the familiar slave row came into view and he saw all of those whom he had missed so much standing there waiting for him. Then they began waving and shouting, and moments later, grasping his bag of the gifts that he had made with his own hands for each of them, he jumped to the ground amid the huggings and kissings of the womenfolk.

“Bless ’is heart!” ... “He look so good!” ... “Don’t he now! See how dem shoulders an’ arms done filled out!” ... “Gran’mammy, leave me kiss Tom!” ... “Don’t squeeze ’im all day, lem’me git holt of ’im too, chile!”

Over their shoulders, Tom caught a glimpse of his two younger brothers, James and Lewis, wearing awed expressions; he knew that L’il George was down among the gamecocks with his father, and Virgil had told him that Ashford had gotten the massa’s permission to visit a girl on another plantation.

Then he saw the usually bedridden Uncle Pompey sitting outside his cabin in an old cane chair, bundled in a heavy quilt. As soon as he could maneuver clear, Tom hurried over to shake the old man’s puffy, trembling hand, bending closer to hear the cracked and almost whispery voice.

“Jes’ wants to make sho’ you’s really back to see us, boy—”

“Yassuh, Uncle Pompey, mighty glad to git back!”

“Awright, see you later on,” the old man quavered.

Tom was having trouble with his emotions. In his now sixteen years, not only had he never been treated so much like a man, but also he had never before felt such an outpouring of his slave-row family’s love and respect.

His two little sisters were still pulling and clamoring over him when they heard a familiar voice trumpeting in the distance.

“Lawd, here come Mr. Rooster!” exclaimed Matilda, and the women went scurrying to set the Thanksgiving meal on the table.

When Chicken George came striding into the slave-row area, seeing Tom, he beamed. “Well, look what done got loose an’ come home!” He clapped Tom heavily across the shoulders with his hand. “Is you makin’ any money yet?”

“Nawsuh, not yet, Pappy.”

“What kin’ of blacksmith you is ain’t makin’ no money?” demanded George in mock astonishment.

Tom remembered that he had always felt caught in a windstorm whenever closely exposed to his father’s bombastic way of expressing himself. “Long ways yet from bein’ no blacksmith, Pappy, jes’ tryin’ to learn,” he said.

“Well, you tell dat Isaiah nigger I say hurry up an’ learn you sump’n!”

“Yassuh,” said Tom mechanically, his mind flashing that he could probably never master even so much as half of what Mr. Isaiah
was patiently making every effort to help him learn. He asked, “Ain’t L’il George comin’ up here fo’ dinner?”

“He might git here in time, an’ he might not,” said Chicken George. “He too lazy to finish what I give ’im to do firs’ thing dis mornin’, an’ I tol’ ’im I don’t want to see his face up here ’til he git it done!” Chicken George was moving over to Uncle Pompey. “Sho’ glad to see you out’n yo’ cabin, Uncle Pompey. How’s you doin’?”

“Po’ly, son, mighty po’ly. Ol’ man jes’ ain’t no mo’ good, dat’s all.”

“Don’t give me dat stuff, nary bit!” boomed Chicken George, and laughing, he turned to Tom, “Yo’ ol’ Uncle Pompey one dem ol’ lizard kin’ o’ niggers gwine live to be a hunnud! Done got real low sick reckon two, three times since you been gone, but every time de wimminfolks all snifflin’ ready to bury ’im, he git right back up ag’in!”

The three of them were laughing when the voice of Gran’mammy Kizzy shrilled at them, “Y’all bring Pompey on over here to de table now!” Though the day was crisp, the women had set up a long table under the chinquapin tree so that everybody could enjoy their Thanksgiving dinner together.

James and Lewis seized Uncle Pompey’s chair, with Sister Sarah running up solicitously behind them.

“Don’ drop ’im, now, he still ain’t too ol’ to fan y’all’s britches!” called Chicken George.

When they were all seated, though Chicken George was at the head of the table, it was pointedly to Tom that Matilda said, “Son, grace de table.” The startled Tom wished he had anticipated this, to have given advance thought to some prayer that would express the emotions he was feeling about the warmth and strength of a family. But with everyone’s head already bowed, all he could think of now was, “O Lawd, bless dis food we’s ’bout to eat, we ax in de name de Father, de Son, an’ de Holy Ghos’. Amen.”

“Amen! ... Amen!” others echoed up and down the table. Then Matilda, Gran’mammy Kizzy, and Sister Sarah began shuttling back and forth, setting heaped and steaming bowls and platters at intervals along the table, and urging all to help themselves, before they also finally sat back down. For several minutes not a word was spoken as everyone ate as if they were starving, with appreciative grunts and smacking noises. Then, after a while, with either Matilda or Kizzy refilling his glass with fresh buttermilk or putting more hot meat, vegetables, and cornbread on his plate, they began plying Tom with questions.

“Po’ thing, is dey feedin’ you any good over yonder? Who cook fo’ you anyhow?” asked Matilda.

Tom chewed his mouthful enough to reply, “Mr. Isaiah’s wife, Miss Emma.”

“What color she is, what she look like?” asked Kizzy.

“She black, sorta fat.”

“Dat ain’t got nothin’ to do wid ’er cookin’!” guffawed Chicken George. “She cook any good, boy?”

“Pretty fair, Pappy, yassuh,” Tom nodded affirmatively.

“Well, ain’t like yo’ own mammy’s nohow!” snapped Sister Sarah. Tom murmured agreeably, “No’m,” thinking how indignant Miss Emma would have been to hear them, and how indignant they’d be to know that she was a better cook.

“Her an’ dat blacksmith man, is dey good Christian folks?”

“Yes’m, dey is,” he said. “’specially Miss Emma, she read de Bible a whole lots.”

Tom was just finishing his third plateful when his mammy and gran’mammy descended on him with still more, despite his vigorous headshaking. He managed a muffled protest: “Save sump’n for L’il George when he come!”

“Plenty lef for ’im an’ you knows it!” said Matilda. “Have’nother piece dis fried rabbit ... l’il mo’ dese collard greens ... an’
dis stewed winter squash. An’ Malizy done sent down a great big sweet ’tater custard from de dinner she servin’ in de big house. Y’all knows how good dat is—”

Tom had started forking into the custard when Uncle Pompey cleared his throat to speak, and everyone hushed up to hear him. “Boy, is you shoein’ mules an’ hosses yet?”

“Dey lets me pull off de ol’ shoes, but I ain’t put none on yet,” said Tom, thinking how only the previous day it had been necessary to hobble a vicious mule before it could be shod. Loudly Chicken George hooted, “’speck he ain’t got ’nough good hard mule kicks yet to be broke in good! Mighty easy to mess up hosses’ foots less’n somebody know what he doin’! Heared ’bout one blacksmith nigger put de shoes on backwards, an’ dat hoss wouldn’t do nothin’ but back up!” When he quit laughing at his own joke, Chicken George asked, “How much y’all git for shoein’ hosses an’ mules?”

“B’lieves de mens pays Massa Askew fo’teen cents a shoe,” said Tom.

“Sho’ ain’t no money in it like fightin’ chickens!” Chicken George exclaimed.

“Well, it’s sho’ plenty mo’ use o’ blacksmithin’ dan it is dem chickens!” snapped Gran’mammy Kizzy, her tone so cutting that Tom wanted to jump up and hug her. Then she went on, her voice suddenly tender, “Son, what de man have you doin’ in learnin’ you how to blacksmith?”

Tom was glad she asked, for he wanted to share with his family some idea of what he was doing. “Well, Gran’mammy, early every mornin’ I has de forge fire goin’ good by time Mr. Isaiah gits dere. Den I lays out de tools I knows he gwine need for de jobs he gwine be doin’. ’Cause when you shapin’ red-hot iron, can’t let it be coolin’ down while you hunts for de right hammers to hit it wid—”

“Lawd, de chile blacksmithin’ already!” exclaimed Sister Sarah.

“No’m,” said Tom. “I be’s what dey calls a ‘striker.’ If Mr. Isaiah makin’ sump’n heavy, like wagon axles or plowshares, den I hits wid de sledge wherever he tap his hammer. An’ sometime l’il simple jobs he’ll let me finish while he start sump’n else.”

“When he gwine let you start shoein’ de hosses?” asked Chicken George, still pushing, seeming almost as if he wanted to embarrass his blacksmithing son, but Tom grinned. “Dunno, Pappy, but I reckon soon’s he feel like I kin do it widout ’is he’p. Jes’ like you said, I sho’ has got kicked aplenty times. Fact, some dem bad ones git to rarin’ up, dey won’t only kick, dey’ll bite a plug out’n you if you ain’t careful.”