A grimace twisted George’s small face. “How come dey done dat, Mammy?”
“He near ’bout kilt some nigger catchers.”
“Catchin’ niggers fo’ what?”
“Well, niggers dat had runned ’way.”
“What dey was runnin’ from?”
“From dey white massas.”
“What de white massas done to ’em?”
In frustration, she shrilled, “Heish yo’ mouf! Git on ’way from me, worryin’ me to death!”
But George never was silenced for long, any more than his appetite to know more of his African gran’pappy ever was fully satisfied. “Where ’bouts is dat Africa, Mammy?” ... “Any l’il boys in dat Africa?”... “What my gran’pappy’s name was again?”
Even beyond what she had hoped, George seemed to be building up his own image of his gran’pappy, and—to the limits of her endurance—Kizzy tried to help it along with tales from her own rich store of memories. “Boy, I wish you could o’ heared ’im singin’ some o’ dem African songs to me when we be ridin’ in de massa’s buggy, an’ I was a l’il gal, right roun’ de age you is now.” Kizzy would find herself smiling as she remembered with what delight she used to sit on the high, narrow buggy seat alongside her pappy as they went rolling along the hot, dusty Spotsylvania County roads; how at other times she and Kunta would walk hand-in-hand along the fencerow that led to the stream where later she would walk hand-in-hand with Noah. She said to George, “Yo’ gran’pappy like to tell me things in de African tongue. Like he call a fiddle a ko, or he call a river Kamby Bolongo, whole lotsa different, funny-soundin’ words like dat.” She thought how much it would please her pappy, wherever he was, for his grandson also to know the African words.
“Ko!” she said sharply. “Can you say dat?”
“Ko,” said George.
“All right, you so smart: ‘Kamby Bolongo’!” George repeated it perfectly the first time. Sensing that she didn’t intend to continue, he demanded, “Say me some mo’, Mammy!” Overwhelmed with love for him, Kizzy promised him more—later on—and then she put him, protesting, to bed.
CHAPTER 88
When George’s sixth year came—meaning that he must start working in the fields—Miss Malizy was heartsick to lose his company in the kitchen, but Kizzy and Sister Sarah rejoiced to be getting him back at last. From George’s first day of fieldwork, he seemed to relish it as a new realm of adventure, and their loving eyes followed him as he ran around picking up rocks that might break the point of Uncle Pompey’s oncoming plow. He scurried about bringing to each of them a bucket of cool drinking water that he had trudged to get from the spring at the other end of the field. He even “helped” them with the corn and cotton planting, dropping at least some of the seeds more or less where they should have gone along the mounded rows. When the three grown-ups laughed at his clumsy but determined efforts to wield a hoe whose handle was longer than he was, George’s own broad smile displayed his characteristic good spirits. They had a further laugh when George insisted to Uncle Pompey that he could plow, and then discovered that he wasn’t tall enough to hold the plowhandles; but he promptly wrapped his arms around the sides and hollered to the mule, “Git up!”
When they finally got back into their cabin in the late evenings, Kizzy immediately began the next chore of cooking them a meal, as hungry as she knew George must be. But one night he proposed that the routine be changed. “Mammy, you done worked hard all day. How come you don’t lay down an’ res’ some fo’ you cooks?” He would even try to order her around if she felt like letting him get away with it. At times it seemed to Kizzy as if her son was trying to fill in for a man whom she felt he sensed was missing in both of their lives. George was so independent and self-sufficient for a small boy that now or then when he got a cold or some small injury, Sister Sarah would insist upon all but smothering him with her herb cures, and Kizzy would finish the job with a plentiful salving of her love. Sometimes, as they both lay before sleeping, he would set Kizzy smiling to herself with the fantasies he’d share with her there in the darkness. “I’se gwine down dis big road,” he whispered one night, “an’ I looks up, an’ I sees dis great big ol’ bear a-runnin’ ... seem like he taller’n a hoss ... an’ I hollers, ‘Mr. Bear! Hey, Mr. Bear! You jes’ well’s to git ready for me to turn you inside out, ’cause you sho’ ain’t gwine hurt my mammy!’” Or sometimes he would urge and urge and finally persuade his tired mammy to join him in singing some of the songs that he had heard Miss Malizy sing when he had spent his days with her in the big-house kitchen. And the little cabin would resound softly with their duets: “Oh, Mary, don’t ’cha weep, don’t ’cha moan! Oh, Mary, don’t ’cha weep, don’t ’cha moan! ’Cause ol’ Pharaoh’s army done got drown-ded! Oh, Mary, don’t ’cha weep!”
Sometimes when nothing else attracted George within the cabin, the restless six-year-old would stretch out before the fireplace. Whittling a finger-sized stick to a point at one end, which he then charred in the flames to make a sort of pencil, he would then draw on a piece of white pine board the simple outline figures of people or animals. Every time he did it, Kizzy all but held her breath, fearing that George would next want to learn to write or read. But apparently the idea never occurred to him, and Kizzy took great care never to mention writing or reading, which she felt had forever scarred her life. In fact, during all of Kizzy’s years on the Lea plantation, she had not once held a pen or pencil, a book or newspaper, nor had she mentioned to anyone that she once read and wrote. When she thought about it, she would wonder if she still could, should she ever want to, for any reason. Then she would spell out in her head some words she felt she still remembered correctly, and with intense concentration she would mentally picture what those words would look like written—not that she was sure what her handwriting would look like anymore. Sometimes she’d be tempted—but still she kept her sworn pact with herself never to write again.
Far more than she missed writing or reading, Kizzy felt the absence of news about what was happening in the world beyond the plantation. She remembered how her pappy would tell what he had heard and seen when he returned from his trips with Massa Waller. But any outside news was almost a rarity here on this modest and isolated plantation, where the massa rode his own horse and drove his own buggy. This slave row found out what was going on outside only when Massa and Missis Lea had guests for dinner—sometimes months apart. During one such dinner on a Sunday afternoon in 1812, Miss Malizy ran down from the house to them, “Dey’s eatin’ now an’ I got to hurry right back, but dey’s talkin’ in dere ’bout some new war done started up wid dat England! Seem like de England is sendin’ whole shiploads of dey so’jers over here at us!”
“Ain’t sendin’ ’em over here at me!” said Sister Sarah. “Dem’s white folks fightin’!”
“Where dey fightin’ dis war at?” asked Uncle Pompey, and Miss Malizy said she hadn’t heard. “Well,” he replied, “long as it’s somewheres up Nawth an’ not nowhere roun’ here, don’t make me no difference.”
That night in the cabin, sharp-eared little George asked Kizzy, “What a war is, Mammy?”
She thought a moment before answering. “Well, I reckon it’s whole lots of mens fightin’ ’gainst one ’nother.”
“Fightin’ ’bout what?”
“Fightin’ ’bout anything dey feels like.”
“Well, what de white folks an’ dat England feelin’ ’gainst one’nother ’bout?”
“Boy, jes’ ain’t never no end to ’splainin’ you nothin’.”
A half hour later, Kizzy had to start smiling to herself in the darkness when George began singing one of Miss Malizy’s songs, barely audibly, as if just for himself, “Gon’ put on my long white robe! Down by de ribberside! Down by de ribberside! Ain’t gon’ stu-dy de war no mo’!”
After a very long time without further news, during another big-house dinner, Miss Malizy reported, “Dey sayin’ dem Englands done took some city up Nawth dey calls
’Detroit.’” Then again, months later, she said the massa, missis, and guests were jubilantly discussing, “some great big Newnited States ship dey’s callin’ ‘Ol’ Ironsides.’ Dey’s sayin’ it done sunk plenty dem England ships wid its fo’ty-fo’ guns!”
“Whoowee!” exclaimed Uncle Pompey. “Dat’s ’nough to sink de ark!”
Then one Sunday in 1814, Miss Malizy had George “helping” her in the kitchen when he came flying down to slave row, breathless with a message: “Miss Malizy say tell y’all dat England’s army done whupped five thousan’ Newnited States so’jers, an’ done burnt up both dat Capitol an’ de White House.”
“Lawd, where dat at?” said Kizzy.
“In dat Washington Deecee,” said Uncle Pompey. “Dat’s a fur piece from here.”
“Jes’ long as dey keeps killin’ an’ burnin’ one ’nother ’stead of us!” exclaimed Sister Sarah.
Then during a dinner later that year, Miss Malizy came hurrying to tell them, “Be dog if dey ain’t all in dere a singin’ sump’n’bout dem England’s ships shootin’ at some big fort near roun’ Baltimore.” And Miss Malizy half talked and half sang what she had heard. Later that afternoon, there was an odd noise outside, and the grown-ups hurried to open their cabin doors and stood astonished: George had stuck a long turkey feather through his hair and was high-stepping along, banging a stick against a dried gourd and singing loudly his own version of what he had overheard from Miss Malizy: “Oh, hey, can you see by dat dawn early light ... an’ dem rockets’ red glare ... oh, dat star-spangle banner wavin’ ... oh, de lan’ o’ de free, an’ de home o’ de brave—”
Within another year the boy’s gift for mimicry had become slave row’s favorite entertainment, and one of George’s most popular requests was for his impression of Massa Lea. First making sure that the massa was nowhere near, then slitting his eyes and grimacing, George drawled angrily, “Less’n you niggers pick dis fiel’ o’ cotton clean fo’ dat sun set, y’all ain’t gon’ git no mo’ rations to eat!” Shaking with laughter, the adults exclaimed among themselves, “Is you ever seed anything like dat young’un?” ... “I sho’ ain’t!” ... “He jes’ a caution!” George needed but a brief observation of anyone to mock them in a highly comical way—including one big-house dinner guest, a white preacher, whom the massa had taken afterward to preach briefly to the slaves down by the chinquapin tree. And when George caught his first good glimpse of the mysterious old Mingo who trained the massa’s fighting gamefowl, George was soon aping perfectly the old man’s peculiar hitching gait. Catching two squawking barnyard chickens and holding them tightly by their legs, he thrust them rapidly back and forth as if they were menacing each other while he supplied their dialogue: “Big ol’ ugly buzzard-lookin’ rascal, I’m gon’ scratch yo’ eyes out!” to which the second chicken replied scornfully, “You ain’t nothin’ but half a mouthful o’ feathers!”
The following Saturday morning, as Massa Lea routinely distributed the slave row’s weekly rations, Kizzy, Sister Sarah, Miss Malizy, and Uncle Pompey were standing dutifully before their cabin doors to receive their share when George came tearing around a corner chasing a rat, then screeched to a stop, having only narowly missed colliding with the massa. Massa Lea, half amused, affected a gruff tone: “What do you do to earn your rations around here, boy?” The four grown-ups all but collapsed as nine-year-old George, squaring his shoulders confidently and looking the massa straight in the eye, declared, “I works in yo’ fields an’ I preaches, Massa!” Astounded, Massa Lea said, “Well, let’s hear you preach, then!” With five pairs of eyes upon him, George took a step backward and announced, “Dis dat white preacher you brung down here, Massa—” and suddenly he was flailing his arms and ranting, “If you specks Uncle Pompey done took massa’s hog, tell massa! If you sees Miss Malizy takin’ missis’ flour, tell missis! ’Cause if y’all’s dat kin’ o’ good niggers, an’ doin’ well by yo’ good massa an’ missis, den when y’all die, y’all might git into de kitchen of heab’n!”
Massa Lea was doubled over with laughter even before George finished—whereupon, flashing his strong white teeth, the boy launched into one of Miss Malizy’s favorite songs, “It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, O Lawd, a-standin’ in de need o’ prayer! Not my mammy, not my pappy, but it’s me, O Lawd, a-standin’ in de need o’ prayer! Not de preacher, not de deacon, but me, O Lawd, a-standin’ in de need o’ prayer!”
None of the adults had ever seen Massa Lea laugh so hard. Obviously captivated, he clapped George across the shoulders, “Boy, you preach around here anytime you want to!” Leaving the basket of rations for them to divide among themselves, the massa went off back toward the big house with his shoulders shaking, glancing back over his shoulder at George, who stood there happily grinning.
Within weeks that summer, Massa Lea returned from a trip bringing two long peacock plumes. Sending Miss Malizy out to the fields to get George, he carefully instructed the boy how he wanted the plumes waved gently back and forth behind the guests he was inviting for dinner on the following Sunday afternoon.
“Jes’ puttin’ on airs, tryin’ to act like dey’s rich white folks!” scoffed Miss Malizy, after she had given Kizzy Missis Lea’s instructions that the boy must come to the big house scrubbed thoroughly and with his clothes freshly washed, starched, and ironed. George was so excited about his new role, and about all the attention that was being paid to him—even by the massa and missis—that he could scarcely contain himself.
The guests were still in the big house when Miss Malizy slipped from the kitchen and ran to slave row, no longer able to keep from reporting to her anxiously awaiting audience. “Lemme tell y’all, dat young’un too much!” Then she described George waving the peacock plumes, “a-twistin’ his wrists an’ bendin’ hisself back an’ forth, puttin’ on mo’ airs dan massa an’ missis! An’ after dessert, massa was pourin’ de wine, when seem like de idea jes’ hit ’im, an’ he say, ‘Hey, boy, let’s hear some preachin’!’ An’ I declares I b’lieves dat young’un been practicin’! ’Cause quick as dat he ax massa for some book to be his Bible, an’ massa got ’im one. Lawd! Dat young’un jumped on missis’ prettiest ’broidered footstool! Chile, he lit up dat dinin’ room preachin’! Den ain’t nobody ax ’im, he commence to singin’ his head off. Dat was when I jes’ run out!” She fled back to the big house, leaving Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompey wagging their heads and grinning in incredulous pride.
George had been such a success that Missis Lea began returning from her and the massa’s Sunday afternoon buggy rides telling Miss Malizy that previous dinner guests whom they had met always asked about George. After a while the usually withdrawn Missis Lea even began to express her own fondness for him, “an’ Lawd knows, she ain’t never liked no nigger!” exclaimed Miss Malizy. Gradually Missis Lea began finding chores for George to do in or around the big house, until by his eleventh year it seemed to Kizzy that he spent hardly half of his time out with them in the fields anymore.
And because waving his plumes at every dinner kept George in the dining room hearing the white people’s conversation, he began picking up more news than Miss Malizy had ever been able to with her having to keep running back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen. Soon after the dinner guests left, George would proudly tell all he had heard to the waiting ears in slave row. They were astonished to hear how one guest had said that “roun’ ’bout three thousan’ free niggers from lots o’ different places held a big meetin’ in dat Philadelphia. Dis white man say dem niggers sent some res’lution to dat Pres’dent Madison dat both slave an’ free niggers done helped build dis country, well as to help fight all its wars, an’ de Newnited States ain’t what it claim to be less’n niggers shares in all its blessin’s.” And George added, “Massa say any fool can see free niggers ought to be run out’n de country!”
George reported that during a later dinner “dem white folks was so mad dey turned red” in discussing recent news of huge slave revolts in
the West Indies. “Lawd, y’all ought to o’ heared ’em gwine on in dere ’bout ship sailors tellin’ dat Wes’ Indian slave niggers is burnin’ crops an’ buildin’s, even beatin’ an’ choppin’ up an’ hangin’ white folks dat was dey massas!” After subsequent dinners, George reported that a new ten-mile-an-hour speed record had been achieved by a six-horse “Concord Coach” between Boston and New York City, including rest stops; that “a Massa Robert Fulton’s new paddle-wheel steamboat done crost some ’Lantic Ocean inside o’ twelve days!” Later, a dinner guest had described a show-boat sensation. “Bes’ I could git it, dey calls it ‘de minstrels’—soun’ like to me he say white mens blackin’ dey faces wid burnt corks an’ singin’ an’ dancin’ like niggers.” Another Sunday dinner’s conversation concerned Indians, George said. “One dem mens said de Cherokees is takin’ up sump’n like eighty million acres de white mens needs. He say de gubmint would o’ took care dem Injuns long fo’ now if wasn’t for some interferin’ big white mans, ’specially two name of Massa Davy Crockett an’ Massa Daniel Webster.”
One Sunday in 1818, George reported “sump’n dem guests was callin’ de ’Merican Colonize Society’ tryin’ to send shiploads o’ free niggers off to a ‘Liberia’ somewheres in dat Africa. De white folks was a-laughin’ ’bout de free niggers bein’ tol’ dat Liberia got bacon trees, wid de slices hangin’ down like leaves, an’ ’lasses trees you jes’ cuts to drain out all you can drink!” George said, “Massa swear far’s he concerned, dey can’t put dem free niggers on ships fas’ enough!”
“Hmph!” snorted Sister Sarah. “I sho’ wouldn’t go to no Africa wid all dem niggers up in trees wid monkeys—”
“Where you git dat at?” demanded Kizzy sharply. “My pappy come from Africa, an’ he sho’ ain’t never been in no trees!”
Indignantly, Sister Sarah spluttered, taken aback, “Well, ever’body grow up hearin’ dat!”