There would be some kind of furious explosion of displeasure from uncle Jackson, she knew. He would be wrathy at being disobeyed, but her experience with the tempestuous old warrior led Emily to hope faintly that eventually he would give in. Especially if aunt Rachel should shed a few tears. That was his history, storming, shouting orders and blasting somebody with angry words, then softening instantly if he saw a look of hurt in Rachel Jackson’s eyes. Breakfast, when the General was away, was usually a quiet meal at the Hermitage. Rachel never slept very well and rose, still and determined, setting about the multitude of tasks before her, level-eyed and grave. But when Andrew Jackson was at home there was hubbub. He was always noisy and impatient in the mornings, eating rapidly, summoning one servant after another to give orders about the cattle, the horses, the winter plowing. Negroes hurried in, stood hat in hand listening obediently. There was bedlam in the dining room when Emily went down on this morning of Christmas Eve. “Mix some bran with the oats for those nursing mares,” uncle Jackson was barking at Philip. “Yes, sah, Mista Jackson. That Truxton filly, she got sore foots. You want me to put tar and grease on her foots, sah?” “Don’t get it too hot. You blistered all the hair off last time. Here!” Jackson slapped a piece of ham between the halves of a huge biscuit and handed it to the slave. “Eat that and get moving.” “Yes, sah. Thank you, sah.” “I need somebody around this place to take some of these chores off me,” grumbled the General. “You, boy!” He glared at Andrew, Junior, who was wolfing down a plateful of egg. “You go see to that filly’s feet. Got to learn. Got to learn some time.” Young Andrew’s sensitive mouth jerked and his great eyes looked uneasy. “It’s raining, Papa,” he protested. “It may turn to snow. It felt very raw to me when I went out to the dairy this morning,” Rachel put in gently. “It rained on me at Fort Mimms and Chalmette,” snapped Andrew Jackson. “You have ridden miles in the rain, my love—so has this fellow! What are you, son, a lump of salt that a little rain can dissolve you? Or are you a paper man cut out to dance on a string while somebody picks a banjo?” “No, Papa, I’ll go.” The boy hastily wiped his lips. “But Philip won’t pay any attention to me. He’ll just tell me to keep out of the way of that mare’s heels.” “Make him obey you! How are you going to be master of this place when I’m gone if you can’t win the respect of the people? I may not be here much longer. I never thought to live long enough to sleep under this roof. Put that stuff on your wrist and be sure it’s not too hot.” “You’ve been going to die before spring ever since I can remember, uncle Jackson,” teased Emily, when the boy had gone out. “It’s that cold he gets in his chest every time he gets wet,” Rachel said. “And you get it too and so does Andy.”