Roots: The Saga of an American Family

by Alex Haley

  “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.”

  “Do white folks come roun’ dat blacksmith shop, son?” asked Sister Sarah.

  “Yes, ma’am, whole lots of ’em. Ain’t hardly no day don’t see leas’ a dozen or mo’ standin’ roun’ talkin’ while dey’s waiting for Mr. Isaiah to finish whatever work dey done brung.”

  “Well, den what kind o’ news is you done heared ’em talkin’’bout dat maybe we ain’t, bein’ stuck off like we is here?”

  Tom thought a moment, trying to remember what had Mr. Isaiah and Miss Emma felt were the most important things they’d recently heard white people talking about. “Well, one thing was sump’n dey calls ‘telegraph.’ It was some Massa Morse in Washington, D.C., dat talked to somebody clear in Baltimore. Dey say he say, ‘What have God wrought?’ But I ain’t never got de straight of what it s’posed to mean.”

  Every head around the dinner table turned toward Matilda as their Bible expert, but she seemed perplexed. “I—well, I can’t be sho’,” she said uncertainly, “but b’lieve I ain’t never read nothin’’bout dat in de Bible.”

  “Somehow or ’nother, Mammy,” said Tom, “seem like it weren’t to do wid de Bible. Was jes’ sump’n talked a long ways through de air.”

  He asked then if any of them were aware that a few months before, President Polk had died of diarrhea in Nashville, Tennessee, and had been succeeded by President Zachary Taylor.

  “Everybody know dat!” exclaimed Chicken George.

  “Well, you know so much, you ain’t never told it in my hearin’,” said Sister Sarah sharply.

  Tom said, “White folks, ’specially dey young’uns, is been comin’ roun’ singing songs s’posed to soun’ like us, but dey was writ by a Massa Stephen Foster.” Tom sang the little that he could remember of “Ol’ Black Joe,” “My Ol’ Kentucky Home,” and “Massa’s in de Col’, Col’ Ground.”

  “Sho’ do soun’ sump’n like niggers!” Gran’mammy Kizzy exclaimed.

  “Mr. Isaiah say dat Massa Foster growed up spendin’ a lotta time lissenin’ to nigger singin’ in churches an’ roun’ de steamboats an’ wharves,” said Tom.

  “Dat ’splain it!” said Matilda. “But ain’t you heared of no doin’s by none o’ us?”

  “Well, yas’m,” said Tom, and he said that free blacks who brought work to Mr. Isaiah had been talking a lot about famous northern blacks who were fighting against slavery, traveling around, lecturing large mixed audiences to tears and cheers by telling their life stories as slaves before they had escaped to freedom. “Like it’s one name Frederick Douglass,” Tom said. “Dey says he was raised a slave boy in Maryland, an’ he teached hisself to read an’ write an’ finally worked an’ saved up enough to buy hisself free from his massa.” Matilda cast a meaningful glance at Chicken George as Tom went on. “Dey says people gathers by de hunnuds anywhere he speak, an’ he done writ a book an’ even started up a newspaper.

  “It’s famous womens, too, Mammy.” Tom looked at Matilda, Gran’mammy Kizzy, and Sister Sarah, and he told them of a former slave named Sojourner Truth, said to be over six feet tall, who also lectured before huge crowds of white and black people, though she could neither read nor write.

  Springing up from her seat, Gran’mammy Kizzy began wildly gesturing. “Sees right now I needs to git up Nawth an’ do me some talking’.” She mimicked as if she were facing a big audience, “Y’all white folks listen here to Kizzy! Ain’t gwine have dis mess no mo’! Us niggers sick an’ tired o’slavin’!”

  “Mammy, de boy say dat woman six feet! You ain’t tall enough!” Chicken George said, roaring with laughter, as the others around the table glared at him in mock indignation. Chagrined, Gran’mammy Kizzy sat back down.

  Tom told them of another famous escaped slavewoman. “She named Harriet Tubman. Ain’t no tellin’ how many times she come back South an’ led out different whole bunches o’ folks like us to freedom up Nawth on sump’n deys callin’ de ‘Unnergroun’ Railroad.’ Fac’, she done it so much dey claims by now white folks got out forty thousand dollars’ worth o’ rewards fo’ her, alive or dead.”

  “Lawd have mercy, wouldn’t o’ thought white folks pay dat much to catch no nigger in de worl’!” said Sister Sarah.

  He told them that in a far-distant state called California, two white men were said to have been building a sawmill when they discovered an unbelievable wealth of gold in the ground, and thousands of people were said to be rushing in wagons, on mules, even afoot to reach the place where it was claimed that gold could be dug up by the shovelful.

  He said finally that in the North great debates on the subject of slavery were being held between two white men named Stephen Douglas and Abraham Lincoln.

  “Which one ’em for de niggers?” asked Gran’mammy Kizzy.

  “Well, soun’ like de Massa Lincoln, leas’ways de bes’ I can tell,” said Tom.

  “Well, praise de Lawd an’ give ’im stren’th!” said Kizzy.

  Sucking his teeth, Chicken George got up patting his ample belly and turned to Tom. “Looka here, boy, why’n’t you’n me stretch our legs, walk off some dat meal?”

  “Yassuh, Pappy,” Tom almost stammered, scarcely able to conceal his amazement and trying to act casual.

  The women, who were no less startled, exchanged quizzical, significant glances when Chicken George and Tom set off together down the road. Sister Sarah exclaimed softly, “Lawd, y’all realize dat boy done growed nigh big as his daddy!” James and Lewis stared after their father and older brother nearly sick with envy, but they knew better than to invite themselves along. But the two younger girls, L’il Kizzy and Mary, couldn’t resist leaping up and happily starting to hop-skip along eight or ten steps behind them.

  Without even looking back at them, Chicken George ordered, “Git on back yonder an’ he’p y’all’s mammy wid dem dishes!”

  “Aw, Pappy!” they whined in unison.

  “Git, done tol’ you!”

  Half turning around with his eyes loving his little sisters, Tom chided them gently, “Ain’t y’all hear Pappy? We see you later on.”

  With the girls’ complaining sounds behind them, they walked on in silence for a little way and Chicken George spoke almost gruffly, “Looka here, reckon you know I ain’t meant no harm jes’ teasin’ you a l’il at dinner.”

  “Aw, nawsuh,” Tom said, privately astounded at what amounted to an apology from his father. “I k
nowed you was jes’ teasin’.”

  Grunting, Chicken George said, “What say we head on down an’ look in on dem chickens? See what keepin’ dat no-count L’il George down dere so long. All I knows, he mighta cooked an’ et up some dem chickens fo’ his Thanksgivin’ by now.”

  Tom laughed. “L’il George mean well, Pappy. He jes’ a l’il slow. He done tol’ me he jes’ don’ love dem birds like you does.” Tom paused, then decided to venture his accompanying thought. “I’speck nobody in de worl’ loves dem birds like you does.”

  But Chicken George agreed readily enough. “Nobody in dis family, anyways. I done tried ’em all—’ceptin’ you. Seem like all de res’ my boys willin’ to spend dey lives draggin’ from one end of a fiel’ to de other, lookin’ up a mule’s butt!” He considered for a moment. “Yo’ blacksmithin’, wouldn’t ’zackly call dat no high livin’ neither—nothin’ like gamecockin’—but leas’ways it’s a man’s work.”

  Tom wondered if his father ever seriously respected anything excepting fighting chickens. He felt deeply grateful that somehow he had escaped into the solid, stable trade of blacksmithing. But he expressed his thoughts in an oblique way. “Don’t see nothin’ wrong wid farmin’, Pappy. If some folks wasn’t farmin’, ’speck nobody wouldn’ be eatin’. I jes’ took to blacksmithin’ same as you wid gamecockin’, ’cause I loves it, an’ de Lawd gimme a knack fo’ it. Jes’ ever’body don’ love de same things.”

  “Well leas’ you an’ me got sense to make money doin’ what we likes,” said Chicken George.

  Tom replied, “You does, anyway. I won’t make no money fo’ couple mo’ years, ’til I’se finished ’prenticin’ an’ goes to work for massa—dat is, if he gimme some de money, like he do o’ what you wins hackfightin’!”

  “Sho’ he will!” said Chicken George. “Massa ain’t bad as yo’ mammy an’ gran’mammy an’ dem likes to claim. He got ’is ornery ways, sho’ is! You jes’ have to learn how to git to massa’s good side, like I does—keep ’im b’leevin’ you considers ’im one dem high-class massas what do good by dey niggers.” Chicken George paused. “Dat Massa Askew whose place you over dere workin’ on—you got any idea what ’mount o’ money he give dat Isaiah nigger fo’ his blacksmithin’?”

  “I b’leeves dollar a week,” said Tom. “I’se heared Mr. Isaiah’s wife say dat’s what he give her every week to save, an’ she do, every penny.”

  “Less’n a minute win mo’n dat fightin’ chickens!” Chicken George exclaimed, and then contained himself.

  “Well, anyhow, you jes’ leave de money part to me when you comes back here to blacksmith fo’ massa. I talk to ’im good ’bout how cheap dat Massa Askew is wid ’is nigger.”

  “Yassuh.”

  Chicken George was experiencing a peculiar feeling that he really wished to insure having the alliance, even the approval of this particular one among his six sons—not that anything was wrong with the other five, and despite the fact that this one was by far the least likely ever to sport anything like a green scarf and black derby with a long feather in it; it was just that very clearly this Tom possessed qualities of responsibleness not encountered every day, as well as an unusual individual durability and strength.

  They had walked on in silence for a while when Chicken George said abruptly, “You ever think ’bout blacksmithin’ fo’ yo’self, boy?”

  “What you mean? How in de worl’ I gwine do dat, Pappy?”

  “You ever think ’bout savin’ de money you gwine be makin’ an’ buyin’ yo’self free?”

  Seeing Tom too thunderstruck to reply, Chicken George kept talking.

  “Few years back, roun’ when L’il Kizzy born, one night me an’ yo’ mammy set down an figgered ’bout how much it cost to buy us whole family free, ’cordin’ to prices fo’ niggers dem days. Come to roun’ sixty-eight hunnud dollars—”

  “Whew!” Tom was shaking his head.

  “Hear me out!” George said. “Sho’ it’s a lot! But ever since den, I been hackfightin’ my butt off, wid yo’ mammy savin’ my share o’ de winnins. Ain’t winned as much as I’d figured when I started out, but all de same don’ nobody know but yo’ mammy an’ me—an’ now you—she got mo’n a thousan’ dollars buried in jars roun’ de backyard!” Chicken George looked at Tom. “Boy, I’se jes’ thinkin’ ... ”

  “Me, too, Pappy!” A gleam was in Tom’s eyes.

  “Lissen here, boy!” The urgency increased in Chicken George’s tone. “If ’n I keeps winnin’ ’bout de same as in de past few seasons, I oughta have three, fo’ hunnud mo’ stashed away time you starts blacksmithin’ fo’ massa.”

  Tom was eagerly nodding his head. “An’, Pappy, wid bofe us makin’ money, mammy could bury maybe five, six hunnud a year!” he said excitedly.

  “Yeah!” Chicken George exclaimed. “An’ dat rate, less’n nigger prices is riz a lot higher, we ought to have ’nough to buy us whole fam’ly free inside o’—lemme see now ... ”

  They both figured, using their fingers. After a while, Tom exclaimed, “’Bout fifteen years!”

  “Where you learn to count so fas’? What you think ’bout my idea, boy?”

  “Pappy, gwine blacksmith my head off! I jes’ wish you’d o’ said somethin’ fo’ now.”

  “Wid two us, I knows we can do it!” said George, beaming. “Make dis family ’mount to sump’n! Us all git up Nawth, raisin’ chilluns an’ gran’chilluns free, like folks was meant to! What you say, boy?”

  Both deeply moved, Tom and Chicken George had impulsively grasped each other about the shoulders when just then they turned to see the stout, pudgy figure of L’il George approaching at a lumbering trot, shouting “Tom! Tom!” and wearing a grin seeming almost as wide as himself. Reaching them breathless, his chest heaving, he grabbed and pumped Tom’s hands, clapped him on the back, and stood there alternately wheezing and grinning, with sweat making his plump cheeks shine. “Glad ... to ... see ... you ... Tom!” he gasped finally.

  “Take it easy dere, boy!” said Chicken George. “You won’t have strength to git to yo’ dinner.”

  “Never ... too ... tired ... fo’ ... dat ... Pappy!”

  “Whyn’t you git on up dere an’ eat, den,” said Tom, “an’ we jine you by and by. Pappy and me got things to talk ’bout.”

  “Awright ... I ... see ... y’all ... later,” said L’il George, needing no further encouragement as he turned to head for slave row.

  “Better hurry!” Chicken George shouted after him. “Don’ know how long yo’ mammy can hol’ off yo’ brothers from eatin’ up what’s lef’!”

  Watching L’il George break into a waddling run, Tom and his father stood holding their sides from laughter until he disappeared around the bend, still gaining momentum.

  “We better figger sixteen years fo’ we gits free,” Chicken George gasped.

  “How come?” asked Tom, quickly concerned.

  “Way dat boy eat, gwine cost a year’s pay jes’ keepin’ ’im fed’til den!”

  CHAPTER 103

  In the memory of Chicken George, nothing had ever generated such excitement among North Carolina gamecockers as the news that spread swiftly during late November of 1855 that the wealthy Massa Jewett was entertaining as his house guest a titled, equally rich gamecocker from England who had brought with him across the ocean thirty of his purebred “Old English Game” birds, said to be the finest breed of fighting cocks in existence. According to the news, the Englishman, Sir C. Eric Russell, had accepted Massa Jewett’s written invitation to pit his birds against some of the best in the United States. Since as longtime friends, they preferred not to fight their gamecocks against one another, each of them would supply twenty birds to fight any forty challenger birds whose collective owners would be expected to ante up their half of a $30,000 main pot, and $250 side bets would be the minimum permitted on each cockfight. Another wealthy local gamecocker volunteered to organize the forty competitors—accepting only five birds apiece from seven other owners besi
des himself.

  It had not been really necessary for Massa Lea to tell his veteran trainer that he was going after a share of such a huge pot.

  “Well,” he said upon return to the plantation after posting his $1,875 bond, “we’ve got six weeks to train five birds.” “Yassuh, ought to be able to do dat, I reckon,” Chicken George replied, trying as hard—and as unsuccessfully—not to seem excited. Apart from his own deep thrill just to think of such a contest, Chicken George exulted to the assembled slave-row family that it seemed to him that sheer excitement had rolled twenty-five years off Massa Lea. “Dey’s sho’ pricin’ out any hackfighters!” he exclaimed. “Massa say it’s sho’ de bigges’ money fight he ever got anywheres near to—fac’, de secon’ bigges’ he ever even heared of!”

  “Phew! What bigger fight was dat?” exclaimed Uncle Pompey.

  Chicken George said, “Reckon maybe twenty years back dis double-rich Massa Nicholas Arrington what live near Nashville, Tennessee, took ’leben covered wagons, twenty-two mens, and three hunnud birds clear crost no tellin’ how many states, through bandits an’ Indians an’ everythin’, ’til dey got to Mexico. Dey fought ’gainst ’nother three hunnud birds belongin’ to de Pres’dent o’ Mexico, a Gen’l Santa Ana, what had so much money he couldn’ even count it, an’ swo’ he raised de world’s greatest gamecocks. Well, Massa say de fightin’ jes’ dem two men’s birds went on a solid week! De stake was so big dey main purse was a chest apiece full o’ money! Massa say even dey side bets could o’ broke mos’ rich mens. In de end, dis Tennessee Massa Arrington won roun’ half a million dollars! His birds he called ‘Cripple Tonys’ after his crippled nigger trainer named Tony. An’ dat Mexican Gen’l Santa Ana wanted one dem ‘Cripple Tonys’ so bad fo’ a breedin’ cock he paid its weight in gol’!”

  “I see right now I better git in de chicken business,” said Uncle Pompey.