“Strike up a song, boys, and run; don’t walk!”
These were only a few of the remarks that could be heard along the levee that night. The rain drizzled down at intervals, as the colored men, in long lines, with wheelbarrows, brought up earth and stones, to strengthen the banks against which the muddy Mississippi beat and surged. The levee was like a dam along the course of the stream, and back of this dam lay the town. If the levee gave way the town might be wiped out.
Now and then a group of the negro laborers would break out into what was probably some old plantation song, and to the rude but not unmusical melody their feet moved in quicker time, as they brought up the earth and stones for filling.
“Put more of it in bags,” directed Colonel Whitmore, who, as the boys learned, was the man to whom they had first spoken. “It will hold better in bags, boys. Lively now!”
And while squads of men, up the hill where the dirt was being dug, shoveled the earth into bags, others wheeled them down and dumped, or placed, them where directed by the white men.
Blake, Joe, Mr. Ringold and C. C. Piper helped in this work, and though they were only requested to oversee the negroes, they did not hesitate to use their own muscles when they were needed.
In fact, Colonel Whitmore himself, and his friends, worked harder than did any of the black men, who were naturally slow.
“If she goes, boys, it’s all up with us, and we’ll have to leave everything, and take to the hills,” the colonel said. “So be lively, boys!”
“Come on now, everybody sing!” cried one big negro, and he fairly ran with his heavy load, his example being followed by others.
“Oh, if we could only get some pictures of this!” exclaimed Blake, during a lull in the levee operations.