With steady, even stroke the boatman pulled for the shore as unconcerned as if he were listening to the rattle of firecrackers on the fourth of July.
To her surprise it proved to be a negro. He tied his boat and deliberately unloaded his supply of vegetables. His stolid, sphinx-like face showed neither fear nor interest.
"Weren't you afraid of Anderson's cannon, uncle?" Jennie asked.
"Nobum—nobum—"
"You might have been blown to pieces—"
"Nobum—Marse Anderson daresn't hit me!"
"Why not?"
"He knows my marster don't 'low nuttin like dat—I'se too val'eble er nigger. Nobum, dey ain't none ob 'em gwine ter pester me, an' I ain't gwine ter meddle wid dem—dey kin des fight hit out twixt 'em—"
Through the long night the steady boom of cannon, and the scream of shells from the shore.