Roots: The Saga of an American Family

  Limply, Tom heard himself saying, “Well, whyn’t you git sol’ den—”

  She seemed hesitant. He nearly panicked.

  She said, “Awright. You got any special time?”

  “Reckon dat up to you, too—”

  His mind was racing. What earthly sum would her massa demand for such a prize as she was... if this was not all some wild dream in the first place?

  “You got to ax yo’ massa if he buy me.”

  “He buy you,” he said with more certainty than he felt. He felt like a fool then, asking, “How much you reckon you be costin’? Reckon he need to have a idea o’ dat.”

  “’Speck dey’ll take whatever he offer, reasonable.”

  Tom just stared at her, and Irene at him.

  “Tom Murray, you’s in some ways de ’zasperatines’ man I’se ever seed! I could o’ tol’ you dat since de day we firs’ met! Long as I been waitin’ fo’ you to say sump’n! You jes’ wait ’til I gits hol’ o’ you, gwine knock out some dat stubbornness!” He scarcely felt her small fists pummeling his head, his shoulders, as he took his first woman into his arms, the mule walking without guidance.

  That night, lying abed, Tom began to see in his mind’s eye how he was going to make for her a rose of iron. In a trip to the county seat he must buy only a small bar of the finest newly wrought iron. He must closely study a rose, how its stem and base were joined, how the petals spread, each curving outward in its own way... how to heat the iron bar to just the orange redness for its quickest hammering to the wafer thinness from which he would trim the rose petals’ patterns that once reheated and tenderly, lovingly shaped, would be dipped into brine mixed with oil, insuring her rose petals’ delicate temper...

  CHAPTER 107

  First hearing the sound, then rapidly advancing upon the totally startling sight of her treasured housemaid Irene huddled down and heavily sobbing behind where the lower staircase curved into an are, Missis Emily Holt instantly reacted in alarm. “What is it, Irene?” Missis Emily bent, grasping and shaking the heaving shoulders. “Get yourself up from there this minute and tell me! What is it?”

  Irene managed to stumble upright while gasping to her missis of her love for Tom, whom she said she wished to marry, rather than continuing her struggle to resist her regular pursuit by certain young massas. Pressed by a suddenly agitated Missis Holt to reveal their identities, Irene through her tears blurted out two names.

  That evening before dinner, a shaken Massa and Missis Holt agreed that it was clearly in the best interests of the immediate family circle to be sold to Massa Murray and quickly.

  Still, because Missis and Massa Holt genuinely liked Irene, and highly approved of her choice of Tom for a mate, they insisted that Massa and Missis Murray let them host the wedding and reception dinner. All members of both the white and black Holt and Murray families would attend in the Holt big-house front yard, with their minister performing the ceremony and Massa Holt himself giving away the bride.

  But amid the lovely, moving occasion, the outstanding sensation was the delicately hand-wrought perfect long-stemmed rose of iron that the groom Tom withdrew from inside his coat pocket and tenderly presented to his radiant bride. Amid the “oohs” and “ahhs” of the rest of the wedding assembly, Irene embraced it with her eyes, then pressing it to her breast she breathed, “Tom, it’s jes’ too beautiful! Ain’t gwine never be far from dis rose—or you neither!”

  During the lavish reception dinner there in the yard after the beaming white families had retired to their meal served within the big house, after Matilda’s third glass of the fine wine, she burbled to Irene, “You’s mo’n jes’ a pretty daughter! You’s done saved me from worryin’ if Tom too shy ever to ax a gal to git married—” Irene loudly and promptly responded, “He didn’t!” And the guests within earshot joined them in uproarious laughter.

  After the first week back at the Murray place, Tom’s family soon joked among themselves that ever since the wedding, his hammer had seemed to start singing against his anvil. Certainly no one had ever seen him talk so much, or smile at so many people as often, or work as hard as he had since Irene came. Her treasured rose of iron graced the mantelpiece in their new cabin, which he left at dawn and went out to kindle his forge, whereafter the sounds of his tools shaping metals seldom went interrupted until that dusk’s final red-hot object was plunged into the stale water of his slake tub to hiss and bubble as it cooled. Customers who came for some minor repair or merely to get a tool sharpened, he would usually ask if they could wait. Some slaves liked to sit on foot-high sections of logs off to one side, though most preferred shifting about in a loose group exchanging talk of common interest. On the opposite side, the waiting white customers generally sat on the split-log benches that Tom had set up for them, positioned carefully just within his earshot, though far enough away that the whites didn’t suspect that as Tom worked, he was monitoring their conversations. Smoking and whittling and now or then taking nips from their pocket flasks as they talked, they had come to regard Tom’s shop as a locally popular meeting place, supplying him now with a daily flow of small talk and sometimes with fresh, important news that he told to his Irene, his mother Matilda, and the rest of his slave-row family after their suppertimes.

  Tom told his family what deep bitterness the white men expressed about northern Abolitionists’ mounting campaign against slavery. “Dey’s sayin’ dat Pres’dent Buchanan better keep ’way from dat no-good bunch o’ nigger lovers if he ’speck any backin’ here in de South.” But his white customers vented their worst hatred, he said, “’gainst Massa Abraham Lincoln what been talkin’ ’bout freein’ us slaves—”

  “Sho’ is de truth,” said Irene. “Reckon leas’ a year I been hearin’ how if he don’ shut up, gwine git de Nawth an’ de South in a war!”

  “Y’all ought to of heared my ol’ massa, rantin’ an’ cussin’!” exclaimed Lilly Sue. “He say dis Massa Lincoln got sich gangly legs an’ arms an’ a long, ugly, hairy face can’t nobody hardly tell if he look de mos’ like a ape or gorilla! Say he borned an’ growed up dirt po’ in some log cabin, an’ cotched bears an’ polecats to git anythin’ to eat, twixt splittin’ logs into fencerails like a nigger.”

  “Tom, ain’t you tol’ us Massa Lincoln a lawyer nowdays?” asked L’il Kizzy, and Tom affirmatively grunted and nodded.

  “Well, I don’ care what dese white folks says!” declared Matilda. “Massa Lincoln doin’ good fo’ us if he git dem so upset. Fact, mo’ I hear ’bout ’im, soun’ to me he like Moses tryin’ to free us chilluns o’ Israel!”

  “Well, he sho’ can’t do it too fas’ to suit me,” said Irene.

  Both she and Lilly Sue had been bought by Massa Murray to increase his field workers, as she dutifully did in the beginning. But not many months had passed when Irene asked her doting husband if he would build her a handloom—and she had one in the shortest time that his skilled hands could make it. Then the steady frump frump of her loom could be heard from three cabins away as she worked into the nights until well beyond the rest of the slave-row family’s bedtime. Before very long the visibly proud Tom was somewhat self-consciously wearing a shirt that Irene had cut and sewn from the cloth that she had made herself. “I jes’ loves doin’ what my mammy teached me,” she modestly responded to congratulations. She next carded, spun, wove, and sewed matching ruffled dresses for an ecstatic Lilly Sue and L’il Kizzy—who now approaching the age of twenty was demonstrating absolutely no interest in settling down, seeming to prefer only successive flirtatious courtships, her newest swain, Amos, being a general worker at the North Carolina Railroad Company’s newly completed hotel, ten miles distant at Company Shops.

  Irene then made shirts for each of her brothers-in-law—which genuinely moved them, even Ashford—and finally matching aprons, smocks, and bonnets for Matilda and herself. Nor were Missis and next Massa Murray any less openly delighted with the amazingly finely stitched dress and shirt she made for them, from cotton grown
right on their own plantation.

  “Why, it’s just beautiful!” Missis Murray exclaimed, turning around displaying her dress to a beaming Matilda. “I’ll never figure out why the Holts sold her to us at all, and even at a reasonable price!” Glibly avoiding the truth that Irene had confided, Matilda said, “Bes’ I can reckon, Missis, is dey liked Tom so much.”

  Having a great love of colors, Irene avidly collected plants and leaves that she needed for cloth dyeing, and the weekends of 1859’s early autumn saw cloth swatches in red, green, purple, blue, brown, and her favorite yellow hanging out to dry on the rattan clotheslines. Without anyone’s formally deciding or even seeming to much notice it, Irene gradually withdrew from doing further field work. From the massa and missis on down to Virgil’s and Lilly Sue’s peculiar-acting four-year-old Uriah, everyone was far more aware of the increasing ways in which Irene was contributing a new brightness to all of their lives.

  “Reckon good part of what made me want Tom so much was’cause I seed we both jes’ loves makin’ things fo’ folks,” she told Matilda, who was rocking comfortably in her chair before her dully glowing fireplace one chilly late October evening. After a pause, Irene looked at her mother-in-law in a sly, under-eyed manner. “Knowin’ Tom,” she said, “ain’t no need me axin’ if he done tol’ you we’s makin’ sump’n else—”

  It took a second to register. Shrieking happily, springing up and tightly embracing Irene, Matilda was beside herself with joy. “Make a l’il gal firs’, honey, so I can hug an’ rock ’er jes’ like a doll!”

  Irene did an incredible range of things across the winter months as her pregnancy advanced. Her hands seemed all but able to wreak a magic that soon was being enjoyed within the big house as well as in every slave-row cabin. She plaited rugs of cloth scraps; she made both tinted and scented Christmas-New Year holiday season candles; she carved dried cow’s horns into pretty combs, and gourds into water dippers and birds’ nests in fancy designs. She insisted until Matilda let her take over the weekly chore of boiling, washing, and ironing everyone’s clothes. She put some of her fragrant dried-rose leaves or sweet basil between the folded garments, making the black and white Murrays alike smell about as fine as they felt.

  That February Irene got urged into a three-way conspiracy by Matilda, who had already enlisted an amused Ashford’s assistance. After explaining her plan, Matilda fiercely cautioned, “Don’t’cha breathe nary word to Tom, you know how stiff an’ proper he is!” Privately seeing no harm in carrying out her instructions, Irene used her first chance to draw aside her openly adoring sister-in-law L’il Kizzy, and speak solemnly: “I’se done heared sump’n I kinda ’speck you’d want to. Dat Ashford whispin’ it roun’ dat look like some real pretty gal beatin’ yo’ time wid dat railroad hotel man Amos—” Irene hesitated just enough to confirm L’il Kizzy’s jealously narrowing eyes, then continued, “Ashford say de gal right on de same plantation wid one o’ his’n. He claim Amos go see her some weeknights, twixt seein’ you Sundays. De gal say fo’ long she gwine have Amos jumpin’ de broom fo’ sho’—”

  L’il Kizzy gulped the bait like a hungry blue catfish, a report that was immensely gratifying to Matilda, who had concluded that after her covert observations of her fickle daughter’s previous swains, Amos seemed the most solid, sincere prospect for L’il Kizzy to quit flirting and settle down with.

  Irene saw even her stoic Tom raise his brows during the following Sunday afternoon after Amos arrived on his borrowed mule for his usual faithful visit. None of the family ever had seen L’il Kizzy in such a display of effervescing gaiety, wit, and discreetly suggestive wiles as she practically showered on the practically tongue-tied Amos, with whom she had previously acted more or less bored. After a few more of such Sundays, L’il Kizzy confessed to her heroine Irene that she finally had fallen in love, which Irene promptly told the deeply pleased Matilda.

  But then when more Sundays had passed without any mention of jumping the broom, Matilda confided to Irene, “I’se worried. Knows ain’t gwine be long fo’ dey does sump’n. You sees how ever’ time he come here, dey goes walkin’, right ’way from all us, an’ dey heads close togedder—” Matilda paused, “Irene, I’se worried ’bout two things. Firs’ thing, dey fool roun’ an’ git too close, de gal liable to win’ up in a fam’ly way. Other thing, dat boy so used to railroads an’ folks travelin’, I wonders is dey maybe figgerin’ to run off to up Nawth? ’Cause L’il Kizzy jes’ wil’ ’nough to try anythin’, an’ you know it!”

  Upon Amos’ arrival the next Sunday, Matilda promptly appeared bearing a frosted layer cake and a large jug of lemonade. In loud, pointed invitation, she exclaimed to Amos that if she couldn’t cook as well as L’il Kizzy, perhaps Amos would be willing to suffer through a bit of the cake and conversation. “Fac’, us don’t never hardly even git to see you no mo’, seem like!”

  An audible groan from L’il Kizzy instantly squelched with her catching a hard glance from Tom, as Amos, without much acceptable alternative, took an offered seat. Then as the family small talk accompanied the refreshments, Amos contributed a few strained, self-conscious syllables. After a while, apparently L’il Kizzy decided that her man was much more interesting than her family was being enabled to appreciate.

  “Amos, how come you don’ tell ’em ’bout dem tall poles an’ wires dem railroad white folks ain’t long put up?” Her tone was less a request than a demand.

  Fidgeting some, then Amos said, “Well, ain’t rightly know if’n I can ’zackly ’scribe whatever it is. But jes’ las’ month dey got through wid stringin’ wires crost de tops o’ real tall poles stretchin’ fur as you can see—”

  “Well, what de poles an’ wires fo’?” Matilda demanded.

  “He gittin’ to dat, Mammy!”

  Amos looked embarrassed. “Telegraph. B’leeve dat’s what dey calls it, ma’am. I been an’ looked at how de wires leads down inside de railroad station where de station agent got on his desk dis contraption wid a funny kin’ o’ sideways handle. Sometime he makin’ it click wid his finger. But mo’ times de contraption git to clickin’ by itself. It mighty ’citin’ to de white folks. Now every mornin’ a good-size bunch ’em comes an’ ties up dey hosses to jes’ be roun’ waitin’ fo’ dat thing to git to clickin’. Dey says it’s news from different places comin’ over dem wires ’way up on dem poles.”

  “Amos, wait a minute, now—” Tom spoke slowly. “You’s sayin’ it bringin’ news but ain’t no talkin’, jes’ de clickin’?”

  “Yassuh, Mr. Tom, like a great big cricket. Seem like to me somehow or ’nother de station agent be’s gittin’ words out’n dat,’til it stop. Den pretty soon he step outside an’ tell dem odder mens what-all was said.”

  “Ain’t dese white folks sump’n?” exclaimed Matilda. “De Lawd do tell!” She beamed upon Amos almost as broadly as L’il Kizzy was.

  Amos, obviously feeling much more at ease than before, elected now without any promoting to tell them of another wonder. “Mr. Tom, is you ever been in any dem railroad repair shops?”

  Tom was privately deciding that he liked this young man who appeared to be, at last, his sister’s choice to jump the broom with; he had manners. He seemed sincere, solid.

  “Naw, son, I ain’t,” Tom said. “Me an’ my wife used to drive by de Company Shops village, but I ain’t never been inside none de buildin’s.”

  “Well suh, I’se took plenty meals on trays from de hotel to de mens in all twelve dem different shops, an’ I reckon de busies’ one de blacksmith shop. Dey be’s doin’ sich in dere as straightenin’ dem great big train axles what’s got bent, fixin’ all manners o’ other train troubles, an’ makin’ all kinds o’ parts dat keeps de trains runnin’. It’s cranes in dere big as logs, bolted to de ceilin’, an’ de reckon twelve, fifteen blacksmith’s each got a nigger helper swingin’ mauls an’ sledges bigger’n I ever seen. Dey got forges big enough to roas’ two, three whole cows in, an’ one dem nigger helpers tol’ me dey anvils weig
hs much as eight hundred pounds!”

  “Whew!” whistled Tom, obviously much impressed.

  “How much yo’ anvil weigh, Tom?” Irene asked.

  “Right roun’ two hundred pounds, an’ ain’t ever’body could lif’ it.”

  “Amos—” L’il Kizzy exclaimed, “you ain’t tol’ ’em nothin’ ’bout yo’ new hotel where you works!”

  “Hol’ on, none o’ my hotel!” Amos widely grinned. “Sho’ whist it was! Dey takes in money han’ over fis’! Lawd! Well, ’magines y’all knows de hotel ain’t long built. Folks says some mens pretty hot under de collar ’cause de railroad president talked wid dem, but den picked Miss Nancy Hillard to manage it. She de one hired me, memberin’ me workin’ hard fo’ her fam’ly, growin’ up. Anyhow, de hotel got thirty rooms, wid six toilets out in de backyard. Folks pays a dollar a day fo’ room an’ washbowl an’ towel, long wid breakfas’, dinner, supper, an’ a settin’ chair on de front porch. Sometime I hears Miss Nancy jes’ acarryin’ on ’bout how mos’ de railroad workmens leaves her nice clean white sheets all grease an’ soot-streaked, but den she say well leas’ dey spends ever’thin’ dey makes, so deys he’pin’ de Company Shops village git better off!”

  Again L’il Kizzy cued her Amos: “How ’bout y’all feedin’ dem trainloads o’ folks?”

  Amos smiled. “Well, den’s ’bout busy as us ever gits! See, every day it be’s de two passenger trains, one runnin’ eas’, de odder wes’. Gittin’ to McLeansville or Hillsboro, ’pendin’ which way it gwine, de train’s conductor he telegraphs ’head to de hotel how many passengers an’ crew he got. An’ by time dat train git to our station, lemme tell y’all, Miss Nancy’s got all de stuff out on dem long tables hot an’ steamin’, an’ all us helpers jes’ rarin’ to go to feed dem folks! I means it be’s quail an’ hams, chickens, guineas, rabbit, beef; it’s all kinds o’ salads, an’ ’bout any vegetable you can name,’long wid a whole table nothin’ but desserts! De peoples piles off dat big ol’ train dat sets dere waitin’ twenty minutes to give ’em time to eat fo’ dey gits back on boa’d an’ it commence achuffin’ out an’ gone again!”