by Alex Haley
“De drummers, Amos!” cried L’il Kizzy, with everyone smiling at her pride.
“Yeah,” said Amos. “Dey’s de ones Miss Nancy purely love to have put up in de hotel! Sometime two, three ’em git off’n de same train, an’ me an’ ’nother nigger hurries up carryin’ ’head o’ ’em to de hotel dey suit bag an’ big heavy black web-strap cases what we knows is full o’ samples whatever dat ’ticular drummer’s sellin’. Miss Nancy says dey’s real gen’lmens, keeps deyselves clean as pins, an’ really ’preciates bein’ took good care of, an’ I likes ’em, too. Some jes’ quick to give you a dime as a nickel fo’ carryin’ dey bags, shinin’ dey shoes, or doin’ nigh ’bout anythin’! Gin’ly dey washes up an’ walks roun’ town talkin’ wid folks. After eatin’ dinner, dey’ll set on de porch, smokin’ or chawin’ ’baccy an’ jes’ lookin’, or talkin’ til dey goes on upstairs to bed. Den nex mornin’ after breakfas’, dey calls one us niggers to tote dey samples cases over crost to dat blacksmith’s what fo’ a dollar a day rents ’em a hoss an’ buggy, an’ off dey drives to sell stuff at I reckon ’bout all de stores ’long de roads in dis county—”
In a spontaneity of sheer admiration that Amos worked amid such wonders, the chubby L’il George exclaimed, “Amos, boy, I ain’t realized you is leadin’ some life!”
“Miss Nancy say de railroad bigges’ thing since de hoss,” Amos modestly observed. “She say soon’s some mo’ railroads gits dey tracks jines togedder, things ain’t gwine never be de same no mo’.”
CHAPTER 108
Chicken George slowed his galloping, lathered horse barely enough for its sharp turning off the main road into the lane, then abruptly his hands jerked the reins taut. It was the right place, but since he had seen it last: unbelievable! Beyond the weeds’ choked lane ahead, the once buff-colored Lea home looked a mottled gray of peeling old paint, rags were stuffed where some window panes had been; one side of the now heavily patched roof seemed almost sagging. Even the adjacent fields were barren, containing nothing but old dried weathered stalks within the collapsing split-log fences.
Shocked, bewildered, he relaxed the reins to continue with the horse now picking its way through the weeds. Yet closer, he saw the big-house porch aslant, the broken-down front steps; and the slave-row cabins’ roofs were all caving in. Not a cat, dog, or chicken was to be seen as he slid off the horse, leading it now by its bridle alongside the house to the backyard.
He was no more prepared for the sight of the heavy old woman sitting bent over on a piece of log, picking poke salad greens, dropping the stems about her feet and the leaves into a cracked, rusting washbasin. He recognized that she had to be Miss Malizy, but so incredibly different it seemed impossible. His unnecessary loud “Whoa!” caught her attention.
Miss Malizy quit picking the greens. Raising her head, looking about, then she saw him, but he could tell she didn’t yet realize who he was.
“Miss Malizy!” He ran over closer, halting uncertainly as he saw her face still querying. Her eyes squinting, she got him into better focus... suddenly pushing one hand heavily down against the log, she helped herself upward. “George... ain’t’cha dat boy George?”
“Yes’m, Miss Malizyl” He rushed to her now, grasping and embracing her large flabbiness within his arms, close to crying. “Lawd, boy, where you been at? Used to be you was roun’ here all de time!”
Her tone and words held some vacantness, as if she were unaware of nearly five years’ time lapse. “Been crost de water in dat Englan’, Miss Malizy. Been fightin’ chickens over dere—Miss Malizy, where my wife an’ mammy an’ chilluns at?”
So was her face blankness, as if beyond any more emotion no matter whatever else might happen. “Ain’t nobody hardly here no mo’, boy!” She sounded surprised that he didn’t know it. “Dey’s all gone. Jes’ me an’ massa’s lef ’—”
“Gone where, Miss Malizy?” He knew now that her mind had weakened.
With a puffy hand she gestured toward the small willow grove still below the slave row. “Yo’ mammy... Kizzy her name... layin’ down yonder—”
A whooping sob rose and burst from Chicken George’s throat. His hand flew up to muffle it.
“Sarah, too, she down dere... an’ ol’ missy... in de front yard—ain’t you seed ’er when you rid by?”
“Miss Malizy, where ’Tilda an’ my chilluns?”
He didn’t want to rattle her. She had to think a moment.
“’Tilda? Yeh. ’Tilda good gal, sho’ was. Whole lotta chilluns, too. Yeh. Boy, you oughta knowed massa sol’ off all ’em long time ago—”
“Where, Miss Malizy, where to?” Rage flooded him. “Where massa, Miss Malizy?”
Her head turned toward the house. “Up in dere still ’sleep, I reckons. Git so drunk don’ git up ’til late, hollerin’ he want to eat ... ain’t no vittles, hardly... boy, you bring anything to cook?”
His “No’m” floating back to the confused old lady, Chicken George burst through the shambles of the kitchen and down the peeling hallway into the smelly, messy living room to stop at the foot of the short staircase, bellowing angrily “Massa Lea!”
He waited briefly.
“MASSA LEA!”
About to go stomping up the stairs, he heard activity sounds. After a moment, from the right doorway the disheveled figure emerged, peering downward.
Chicken George through his anger stood shocked to muteness at the shell of his remembered massa, gaunt, unshaven, unkempt; obviously he had slept in those clothes. “Massa Lea?”
“George!” The old man’s body physically jerked. “George!” He came stumbling down the creaking staircase, stopping at its foot; they stood staring at each other. In Massa Lea’s hollowed face, his eyes were rheumy, then with high, cackling laughter he rushed with widening arms to hug Chicken George, who sidestepped. Catching Massa Lea’s bony hands, he shook them vigorously.
“George, so glad you’re back! Where all you been? You due back here long time ago!”
“Yassuh, yassuh. Lawd Russell jes’ lemme loose. An’ I been eight days gittin’ here from de ship in Richmon’.”
“Boy, come on in here in the kitchen!” Massa Lea was tugging Chicken George’s wrists. And when they reached there, he scraped back the broken table’s two chairs. “Set, boy! ’LIZY! Where my jug? ’LIZY!”
“Comin’, Massa—” the old woman’s voice came from outside. “She’s done got addled since you left, don’t know yesterday from tomorrow,” said Massa Lea.
“Massa, where my fam’ly?”
“Boy, less us have a drink fore we talk! Long as we been together, we ain’t never had a drink together! So glad you back here, finally sombody to talk to!”
“Ain’t fo’ talkin’, Massa! Where my fam’ly—”
“’LIZY!”
“Yassuh—” Her bulk moved through the door frame and she found and put a jug and glasses on the table and then went back outside as if unaware of Chicken George and Massa Lea there talking.
“Yeah, boy, I sure am sorry ’bout your mammy. She just got too old, didn’t suffer much, and she went quick. Put ’er in a good grave—” Massa Lea was pouring them drinks.
On purpose ain’t mentionin’ ’Tilda an’ de chilluns, it flashed through Chicken George’s mind. Ain’t changed none... still tricky an’ dangerous as a snake... got to keep from gittin’ ’im real mad...
“‘Member de las’ things you said to me, Massa? Said you be settin’ me free jes’ soon’s I git back. Well, here I is!”
But Massa Lea gave no sign he’d even heard as he shoved a glass three-quarters filled across the table. Then, lifting his own, “Here y’are, boy. Le’s drink to you bein’ back—”
I needs dis... quaffing of the liquor, Chicken George felt it searing down and warming within him.
He tried again, obliquely. “Sho’ sorry to hear from Miss Malizy you los’ missis, Massa.”
Finishing his liquor, grunting, Massa Lea said, “She just didn’t wake up one mornin’. H
ated to see her go. She never give me any peace since that cockfight. But I hated to see her go. Hate to see anybody go.” He belched. “We all got to go—”
He ain’t bad off as Miss Malizy, but he ’long de way. He went now directly to the point.
“My ’Tilda an’ young’uns, Massa, Miss Malizy say you sol’ ’em—”
Massa Lea glanced at him. “Yeah, had to, boy. Had to! Bad luck got me down so bad. Had to sell off near ’bout the last of my land, everything, hell, even the chickens!”
About to flare, Chicken George got cut off.
“Boy, I’m so po’ now, me an’ Malizy’s eatin’ ’bout what we can pick an’ catch!” Suddenly he cackled. “Hell, sure ain’t nothin’ new! I was borned po’!” He got serious again. “But now you’re back, you and me can get this place agoin’ again, you hear me? I know we can do ’er, boy!”
All that repressed Chicken George from lunging up at Massa Lea was his lifelong conditioning knowledge of what would automatically follow physically attacking any white man. But his rasping anger contained his closeness to it. “Massa, you sent me ’way from here wid yo’ word to free me! But I git back, you done even sol’ my fam’ly. I wants my papers an’ know where my wife and chilluns is, Massa!”
“Thought I tol’ you that! They over in Alamance County, tobacco planter name Murray, live not far from the railroad shops—” Massa Lea’s eyes were narrowed. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, boy!”
Alamance . . . Murray... railroad shops. Inking into memory those key words, Chicken George now managed a seeming con-triteness, “I’se sorry, jes’ got excited, sho’ ain’t meant to, Massa—”
The massa’s expression wavered, then forgave. I got to ease out’n ’im dat piece o’ paper he writ dat free me. “I been down, boy!” Hunching forward across the table, the massa squinted fiercely, “You hear me? Nobody never know how down I been! Ain’t jes’ meanin’ money—” He gestured at his chest, “Down in here!” He seemed wanting a response—
“Yassuh.”
“Seen hard days, boy! Them sonsabitches used to holler my name crossin’ the street when I’m comin’. Heared ’em laughin’ ’hin’ my back. Sonsabitches!” A bony fist banged the tabletop. “Swore in my heart Tom Lea show ’em! Now you back. Git ’nother set of chickens! Don’t care I’m eighty-three... we can do ’er, boy!”
“Massa—”
Massa Lea squinted closely, “Forgot how old you now, boy?”
“Fifty-fo’ now, Massa.”
“You ain’t!”
“Is, too, Massa. Fo’ long, be fifty-five—”
“Hell, I seen you the same mornin’ you birthed! L’il ol’ wrinkled-up straw-colored nigger—” Massa Lea cackled. “Hell, I give you your name!”
Pouring himself another smaller drink after Chicken George had waved his hand negatively, quickly Massa Lea peered around as if to insure that only they were there. “Reckon ain’t no sense keepin’ you’mongst all them I got fooled! They think I ain’t got nothin’ no more—” He gave Chicken George a conspiratorial look. “I got money! Ain’t much... I got it hid! Don’t nobody but me know where!” He looked longer at Chicken George. “Boy, when I go, you know who git what I got? Still ownin’ ten acres, too! Lan’ like money at the bank! Whatever I got go to you! You the closest I got now, boy.”
He seemed to be wrestling with something. Furtively he leaned yet closer. “Hell, ain’t no need not to face the fact. It’s blood ’tween us’, boy!”
He done hit bottom fo’ sho’, sayin’ dot. His insides contracting, Chicken George sat mutely.
“Jes’ stay on even if a l’il while, George—” The whiskied face petitioned. “I know you ain’t the kin’ go turnin’ your back ’gainst them what helped you in this worl’—”
Jes fo’I lef ’ he showed me my freedom paper he’d writ an’ signed an said he gwine keep in ’is strongbox. Chicken George realized that he was going to have to get Massa Lea yet drunker. He studied the face across the table, thinking bein’ white de only thing he got lef’...
“Massa, never will fo’git how you bring me up—mighty few white men’s good as dat—”
The watery eyes lighted. “You was jes’ l’il shirttail nigger. I shore remember—”
“Yassuh, you an’ Uncle Mingo—”
“Ol’ Mingo! Damn his time! Bes’ nigger trainer it was—” The wavering eyes found a focus on Chicken George “... ’til you learnt good’... started takin’ you to fights an’ leavin’ Mingo—”
... hope you an’ massa trus’ me to feed de chickens—” The memory of old Uncle Mingo’s bitterness hurt even yet.
“’Member, Massa, we was gwine to a big fight in New Orleans?”
“Shore was! An’ never did make it—” His brow wrinkled.
“Uncle Mingo died jes’ befo’ was how come.”
“Yeah! Ol’ Mingo over under them willow trees now.” Along with my mammy and Sister Sarah, and Miss Malizy whenever she go, ’pending which one y’all goes first. He wondered what either would do without the other.
“Boy, you ’member me givin’ you the travelin’ pass to go catch all the tail you wanted?”
Making himself simulate guffawing laughter, Chicken George pounded the tabletop himself, the massa continuing, “Damn right I did, ’cause you was horny buck if I ever seen one. An’ we both catched aplenty tail them trips we made, boy! I knowed you was an’ you knowed I was—”
“Yassuh! Sho’ did, Massa!”
“An’ you commence hackfightin’ an’ I give you money to bet, an’ you win your ass off!”
“Sho’ did, suh, de truth! De truth!”
“Boy, we was a team, we was!”
Chicken George caught himself almost starting to share a thrilling in the reminiscings; he also felt a little giddy from the whiskey. He reminded himself of his objective. Reaching across the table, taking up the liquor jug, he poured into his glass about an inch, closing a fist quickly around the glass to mask the small amount as extending the bottle across the table, he poured for Massa Lea about three quarters of a glassful. Raising his glass within his fist, appearing to lurch, his voice sounded slurring, “Drink to gooda massa as is anywhere! Like dem Englishmans says, ’Down de hawtch!’”
Sipping of his, he watched Massa Lea quaff, “Boy, it do me good you feel thataway—”
“’Nother toas’!” The two glasses elevated. “Fines’ nigger I ever had!” They drained their glasses.
Wiping his mouth with the back of a veiny hand, coughing from the whiskey’s impact, Massa Lea also slurred, “You ain’t tol’ me nothin’ ’bout that Englishman, boy—what’s his name?”
“Lawd Russell, Massa. He got mo’ money’n he can count. Got mo’n fo’ hunnud bloodline roosters to pick from to fight wid—” Then after a purposeful pause, “But ain’t nowhere de gamecocker you is, Massa.”
“You mean that, boy?”
“Ain’t as smart, one thing. An’ ain’t de man you is! He jes’ rich an’ lucky. Ain’t yo’ quality o’ white folks, Massa!” Chicken George thought of having overheard Sir C. Eric Russell say to friends, “George’s mawster’s a glorified hackfighter.”
Massa Lea’s head lolled, he jerked it back upward, his eyes trying to focus on Chicken George. Where would he keep his strongbox? Chicken George thought how the rest of his life’s condition would hang upon his obtaining the vividly remembered square sheet of paper containing maybe three times more writing than a traveling pass, over the signature.
“Massa, could I have l’il mo’ yo’ liquor?”
“You know better’n ask, boy... all you wan’—”
“I tol’ amany dem English folks bes’ massa in de worl’s what I got... ain’t nobody never hear me talkin’ ’bout stayin’ over dere ... hey, yo’ glass gittin’ low, Massa—”
“... Jes’ l’il be ’nough.... naw, you ain’t that kin’, boy... never give no real trouble...”
“Nawsuh... well, drinkin’ to you ’gin, suh—” They did, some o
f the massa’s liquor wetting his chin. Chicken George, feeling more of the whiskey’s effect, suddenly sat up straighter, seeing the massa’s head lowering toward the tabletop... “Y’always good to y’other niggers, too, Massa... ”
The head wavered, stayed down. “Tried to, boy... tried to—” It was muffled.
B’leeve he good’n drunk now. “Yessuh, you’n missis bofe—”
“Good woman... lotta ways—”
The massa’s chest now also met the table. Lifting his chair with minimal sound, Chicken George waited a suspenseful moment. Moving to the entrance, he halted, then not overloudly, “Massa!... Massa!”
Suddenly turning, catlike, within seconds he was searching every drawer within any front-room furniture. Halting, hearing only his breathing, he hastened up the steps, cursing their creaking.
The impact of entering a white man’s bedroom hit him. He stopped... involuntarily stepping backward, he glimpsed the conglomerate mess. Sobering rapidly, he went back inside, assaulted by the mingled strong odors of stale whiskey, urine, sweat, and unwashed clothes among the emptied bottles. Then as if possessed, he was pulling open, flinging aside things, searching futilely. Maybe under the bed. Frantically dropping onto his knees, peering, he saw the strongbox.
Seizing it, in a trice he was back downstairs, tripping in the hallway. Seeing the massa still slumped over on the table, turning, he hastened through the front door. Around at the side of the house, with his hands he wrested to open the locked, metal box. Git on de hoss an go—bus’ it open later. But he had to be sure he had the freedom paper.
The backyard woodchopping block caught his eyes, with the old ax near it on the ground. Nearly leaping there, jerking up the ax, setting the box lockside up, with one smashing blow it burst open. Bills, coins, folded papers spilled out, and snatching open papers he instantly recognized it.
“What’cha doin’, boy?”