But Mrs. Gaston refused to go to bed. She went to the window, and away down the river she could see the red light of the torches projected against the fog. It seemed as if it were standing still, and the mother’s heart sank within her at the thought. Perhaps they had found the boat—empty! This and a thousand other cruel suggestions racked her brain.
But the boats were not standing still; they were moving down the river as rapidly as four of the stoutest arms to be found in the county could drive them. The pine torches lit up both banks perfectly. The negroes rowed in silence a mile or more, when Big Sam said:
“Marster, kin we sing some?”
“Does it seem to be much of a singing matter, Sam?” Dr. Gaston asked, grimly.
“No, suh, it don’t; but singin’ he’ps ’long might’ly w’en you workin’, mo’ speshually ef you er doin’ de kind er work whar you kin sorter hit a lick wid the chune—kinder keepin’ time, like.”
Dr. Gaston said nothing, and Big Sam went on:
“’Sides dat, Marster, we-all useter sing ter dem chillun, an’ dey knows our holler so well dat I boun’ you ef dey wuz ter year us singin’ an’ gwine on, dey’d holler back.”
“Well,” said Dr. Gaston, struck by the suggestion, “sing.”
“Bill,” said Big Sam to the negro in the other boat, “watch out for me; I’m gwine away.”
“You’ll year fum me w’en you git whar you gwine,” Sandy Bill replied.