“Who you watching for, Emmy?”
She managed a light laugh. “Anybody! I hope if more are coming tonight they’ll get here before dark. We’d better light the candles. It’s going to be a gloomy night.”
“George is getting his fire going,” Andy looked from the window. “I suppose I’ll have to go out and help Papa dole out the Christmas Eve gifts all around. Looky yonder, the people are coming out with their cups and mugs and sacks already! You’ll have to light the candles, Emily. I’ve got to go out and be Young Marse Jackson.”
“It’s an honor, Andy. There are a lot of Donelson boys. You were the one chosen.”
“I know. It’s hard to live up to sometimes, ’specially when Jack’s around. I know he’s smarter than I am and Jack’s a fool for work and duty as I get reminded all the time.”
“You mustn’t be jealous. After all, they did pick you to be their son and heir. You’ll have everything, being Andrew Jackson’s son.”
“You have to admit, though, that Papa’s a hard man to follow. Came up from the direst kind of poverty, made it all for himself. I hear that too. And how he got thrown into that prison where his brother died, because he wouldn’t black some British officer’s boots.”
“He was no older than you are now, then, Andy. He’s just trying to inspire you. You’d better hurry. I hear the cellar door slamming. That means uncle Jackson and Joey are fetching out the jugs. Oh, Heaven, there’s aunt Rachel out there without her cloak! I’ll get it before she takes a chill. Run, Andy!”
Under the big trees all the Negroes on the place were gathering. George had persuaded the big bonfire to burn in spite of the thin, misting rain. Children, black and white, crowded close to it, their voices shrill with excitement. Little Negro boys poked sticks into the blazing fire, waved them smoking in air, dancing about till Betty laid about her with a switch, ordering the brands extinguished.
“You set the young Misses’ dresses afire,” she screamed at them.