“But what have they done with our black ones?”
“Oh, they have gone.”
“Gone where?”
“They are on the road towards Mobile before this time.”
“Well, I’ll bet you they don’t keep them there long,” said Dawson, angrily. “They will have to watch them all the time or they’ll get away. Mother went out this way, father.”
“You see, it wouldn’t do for them to leave the darkies with us,” said Mr. Dawson, pausing for a few moments to allow the boys time to mount their animals, “because we are traitors to the South. They calculate to whip us, and when the war is ended we’ll have to get out.”
“But they ain’t a-going to whip us,” said Dawson.
The fugitives followed along the road—it had been cut in better times, to enable the planter to haul out the logs—for a mile or more, and then they came up with the wagon, which had halted for them to come up. They had been within sight of the burning house all the while, and the mother, although she had all she could do to choke back her tears, was endeavoring to explain the matter to her children, who could not see into it at all. When young Robert appeared in sight, they forthwith assailed him with questions.
“Say, Bobo, what’s the matter?” said the elder.
“Oh, some men wanted to burn our house, and so we had to get out and let them do it,” returned Dawson.