Roots (89 page)

But the oddly dressed, short, stockily built, and ruddy-complexioned English nobleman himself was the milling crowd’s major focus of attention as he rode alongside Massa Jewett in the surrey, both of them looking every inch the important, even lordly men they were, the Englishman seeming to display just an extra touch of disdain and hauteur toward the jostling throng on the ground.

Chicken George had attended so many cockfights that he turned to his work of massaging the legs and wings of his birds, knowing out of experience that different sounds of the crowd would tell him whatever was going on, without his even looking. Soon a referee shouted for a quieting of the hoots, catcalls, and rebel yells that said that many in the crowd had already been hard at their bottles.

Then he heard the first announcement: “Mr. Fred Rudolph of Williamstown is pitting his red bird against Sir C. Eric Russell of England with his speckled gray.”

Then: “Bill your cocks!”

And then: “
Pit!
” And the crowd’s shouting, followed by a sudden awed hush, told him as clearly as if he had been watching that the fight had quickly been won by the Englishman’s bird.

As each of the eight challengers in turn fought their string of five birds alternately against one belonging either to Massa Jewett or the Englishman, Chicken George had never heard such a roar of side
betting in his life, and the battles within the pit were often matched by the verbal contests between the crowd and the referees shouting for quiet. Now and then the crowd noises would tell the busy Chicken George that both birds had been hurt badly enough for the referees to stop the fight to let the owners doctor them up before the fight continued. George could tell from a special roaring of the crowd each time one of the wealthy men’s birds was beaten, which wasn’t often, and he wondered nervously how soon Massa Lea’s turn was going to come. George guessed that the judges must be picking the order of challengers by plucking their names on slips from a hat.

He would have loved to see at least some of the actual fighting, but
so
much was at stake: He was not going to interrupt his massaging, not even for one moment. He thought fleetingly about what a fortune of money, some of it his own years of savings, the massa was only waiting to bet on the very birds whose muscles he was gently kneading under his fingers. Although only some chosen five among them would fight, there was no way to guess which five, so every one of the eight had to be in the very ultimate of physical readiness and condition. Chicken George had not often prayed in his life, but now he did so. He tried to picture what Matilda’s face was going to look like, first when he returned and dropped into her apron their money at least doubled, and next when he would ask her to assemble the whole family, when he would announce they were FREE.

Then he heard the shout of the referee: “The next five challenging birds are owned and will be handled by Mr. Tom Lea of Caswell County!”

George’s heart leaped up into his throat! Clapping his derby tighter on his head, he sprang down from the wagon, knowing the massa would be coming now to select his first bird.

“
Taaaaawm Lea!
” Above the crowd noise he heard the name being squalled out by the poor crackers. Then came advancing
raucous rebel yells as a group of men surged out of the crowd, surrounding the massa. Reaching the wagon amid them, he cupped his hand over his mouth and over the din shouted in George’s ear, “These fellas will help us take ’em all over by the cockpit.”

“Yassuh, Massa.”

George went leaping back onto the wagon, handing down the eight cock coops to the massa’s poor-white companions, his thoughts flashing that in his thirty-seven years of gamecocking he never had ceased to marvel at Massa Lea’s appearance of a totally detached calm in such tense times as now. Then they were all trooping back toward the cockpit through the crowd, Massa Lea carrying the splendid dark buff bird he had chosen to fight first, and Chicken George bringing up the rear carrying his woven basket of emergency injury medications, rabbit underbelly fur, some leaves of fresh ivy, glycerin, a ball of spider’s web, and turpentine. It was a worsening push-and-shove progress the closer they got toward the cockpit, with the alcoholic cries of “Tawm Lea!” ringing in their ears, as well as sometimes “That’s his Chicken George nigger!” and George could feel the eyes on him as if they were fingers, and it felt good, but kept both moving and looking straight ahead, trying to appear as cool as the massa.

And then Chicken George saw the short, squat, titled Englishman standing casually near the cockpit, holding a magnificent bird within the crook of his left arm, as his eyes watchfully appraised the little procession of them arriving with the challenger birds. After exchanging curt nods with Massa Lea, Russell set his bird on the scales and the referee sang out, “Five pounds and fifteen ounces!” The beautiful bird’s silvery blue plumage reflected brilliantly in the sunlight.

Then the massa stepped up with his dark buff bird, which was one of Chicken George’s particular favorites. It was powerful, savage, its neck jerking about like a rattlesnake, murder in its eyes,
and it was seething to be released. When the referee shouted “Six pounds even!” the hard-drinking poor-white fans started yelling as if the extra ounce meant the fight was won already. “
Taaaaawm Lea!
Go git that Britisher, Tawm! Act like he mighty stuck up! Take ’im down a peg!”

It was plain that Massa Lea’s special fans were really well liquored, and Chicken George saw the darkening flush of embarrassment on both the massa’s and the Englishman’s faces as, pretending not to hear, they kneeled to tie on their birds’ steel gaffs. But the cries grew more loud and rude: “Them chickens or ducks he fightin?” ... “Naw, it’s swimmin’ chickens!” ... “Yeah! He feed ’em fishes!” The Englishman’s face was angry. The referee had begun dashing back and forth, furiously waving his arms, shouting, “Gentlemen! Please!” But the derisive laughter only spread and the wisecracks became more cutting: “Where’s his red coat at?” ... “Do he fight foxes, too?” ... “Naw, too slow, waddle like a possum!” ... “More like a bullfrog!” ... “He look to me like a bloodhound!”

Massa Jewett strode out, angrily confronting the referee, his hands hacking the air, but with his words drowned out by the chanting chorus, “
Tawmmm Lea!
” ... “
Tawmmmmm LEA!
” Now even the judges joined the referee, dashing this way and that, flailing their arms, brandishing their fists and barking repeatedly, “The cockfight will stop unless there’s quiet!” ... “Y’all want that, keep it up!” Slowly, the drunken cries and laughter began subsiding. Chicken George saw Massa Lea’s face sick with his embarrassment, and that both the Englishman and Massa Jewett were absolutely livid.

“
Mr. Lea!
” When the Englishman loudly and abruptly snapped out the words, almost instantly the crowd fell silent.

“Mr. Lea, we both have such superb birds here, I wonder if you’d care to join me in a special personal side bet?”

Chicken George knew that every man among the hundreds present sensed just as he did the Englishman’s tone of vengeful-ness and condescension behind his manner of civility. The back of the massa’s neck, he saw, had suddenly become flushed with his anger.

A few seconds brought Massa Lea’s stiff reply: “That will suit me, sir. What is your proposition?”

The Englishman paused. He appeared to be pondering the matter before he spoke. “Would ten thousand dollars be sufficient?”

He let the wave of gasps sweep the crowd, and then, “That is, unless you haven’t that much faith in your bird’s chances, Mr. Lea.” He stood looking at the massa, his thin smile clearly contemptuous.

The crowd’s brief exclamatory rumbling quickly faded into a deathly stillness; those who had been seated were standing up now. Chicken George’s heart seemed to have stopped beating. Like a distant echo he heard Miss Malizy’s report of Missis Lea’s fury that the five thousand dollars the massa had withdrawn from the bank was “near ’bout half dey life savin’s.” So Chicken George knew Massa Lea couldn’t dare to call that bet. But what possible response could he make not to be utterly humiliated before this throng including practically everyone he knew? Sharing his massa’s agony, Chicken George couldn’t even bring himself to look at him. An eternity seemed to pass, then George doubted his ears.

Massa Lea’s voice was strained. “Sir, would you care to double that?
Twenty
thousand!”

The whole crowd vented exclamations of incredulity amid rustling agitated movements. In sheer horror Chicken George realized that sum represented Massa Lea’s total assets in the world, his home, his land, his slaves, plus Chicken George’s savings. He saw the Englishman’s expression of utter astonishment, before
quickly he collected himself, his face now set and grim. “A true sportsman!” he exclaimed, extending his hand to Massa Lea. “A bet, sir! Let us heel up our birds!”

Suddenly then Chicken George understood: Massa Lea
knew
that his magnificent dark buff bird would win. Not only would the massa become instantly rich, but this one crucial victory would make him forever a heroic legend for all poor crackers, a symbol that even the snobbish, rich blueblood massas could be challenged and beaten! None of them could ever again look down their noses at Tom Lea!

Massa Lea and the Englishman now bent down on their opposite sides of the cockpit, and in that instant it seemed to Chicken George that the entire life of the massa’s bird flashed through his mind. Even as a cockerel, its unbelievably quick reflexes at first had caught his attention; then as a stag its amazing viciousness saw it constantly trying to attack others through the cracks in their fence-row pen; and when recently retrieved from the rangewalk, within seconds it had nearly killed the old catchcock before it could be stopped. The massa had picked that bird knowing how smart, aggressive, and deep game it was. For just a split second Chicken George seemed again to hear an outraged Matilda, “You’s crazier even dan massa! Wors’ can happen to ’im is endin’ up jes’ a po’ cracker again, but you’s gamblin’ yo’ whole fam’ly’s freedom on some chicken!”

Then the three judges stepped out, positioning themselves evenly around the cockpit. The referee poised as if he stood on eggs. An atmosphere seemed to be hovering that everyone there knew they were about to witness something to talk about for the rest of their days. Chicken George saw his massa and the Englishman holding down their straining birds, both of their faces raised to watch the referee’s lips.

“
Pit!
”

The silvery blue and dark buff birds blurred toward each other, crashing violently and bouncing backward. Landing on their feet, both were instantly again in the air, tearing to reach each other’s vitals. Beaks snapping, spurs flashing were moving at a blinding speed, attacking with ferocity that Chicken George had seldom seen equaled by any two birds in a cockpit. Suddenly the Englishman’s silvery blue was hit, the massa’s bird had sunk a spur deeply into one of its wing bones; they fell off balance, both struggling to loosen the stuck spur while pecking viciously at each other’s heads.

“Handle! Thirty seconds!” The referee’s shout was barely uttered before both the Englishman and Massa Lea sprang in; the spur freed, both men licked their birds’ disarrayed head feathers to smoothness again, then set them back down on their starting lines, this time holding them by the tails. “Get ready....
Pit!”

Again the cocks met evenly high in midair, both sets of spurs seeking a lethal strike, but failing to do so before they dropped back to the ground. The massa’s bird dashed trying to knock its enemy off balance, but the English bird feinted brilliantly sidewise, drawing the crowd’s gasps as the massa’s bird lunged harmlessly past at full force. Before he whirled about, the English bird was upon him; they rolled furiously on the ground, then regained their feet, battling furiously beak to beak, parting, beating at each other with powerful wing blows above a flurry of slashing legs. Again they took to the air, dropping back again, ground-fighting with new fury.

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.”