“He’s coming in,” she whispered. “I must get his bed warm so he won’t cough all night. You’ll have to sleep with Andy tonight. We’ve got a houseful already and more coming. And Ralph, don’t you let the General get notions about rushing off to be somebody important. It’s time he took care of himself.” “I’ll tell him, aunt Rachel. But you know Andrew Jackson. If any call came from the people to serve anywhere, no one could hold him.” “No,” she said sadly. “Not even I!” 5 Bugles and drums before dawn had trained Andrew Jackson to waken early. He tiptoed about in the dark, cracking a toe and muttering in irritation, fumbled into his clothes by the lingering glow of a dying fire, not wanting to light a candle and wake Rachel. Then he discovered that she was already gone from the bed, her full ruffled night rail was spread out neatly to air, her cap perched on the post of the bed. Instantly his voice rose in the familiar falsetto shout. “You, George! Get in here and mend this fire!” The alacrity with which the man appeared, loaded to the chin with lightwood, betrayed that he had been waiting near for a summons. “Yes, sah, Gin’ral Jackson! Christmas gif’, sah!” “Christmas gift! I’ll gift you with my boot if you don’t stir yourself.” “Yes, sah!” George burst into delighted chuckles. He knew his master well. “Mist’iss say, don’t disturb Marse Jackson, she say, let Marse Jackson git he rest. I git a fine fire here toreckly.” The embers stirred, the lightwood crackled and flamed. Andrew Jackson liked fire to roar as he liked horses to gallop and men to spring into action when he shouted an order. George swept the hearth and set the fire tools in order. “Christmas gif’, Gin’ral,” he repeated meekly. “Here!” Jackson tossed a two-shilling piece. George caught it in midair, grinned and bowed elaborately. “Thankee, sah! Thankee! Does you go to town I git you to buy me some store galluses, please, sah? I like some red galluses, wid big brass buckles.” “Keep your money. Buy candy with it. I’ll get you some red galluses. How you hitch your britches up now?” “Dis yere piece of rope. But it mighty near wore out and Mister Field say he goin’ beat the next nigger cut off any his rope. Thankee, sah.” “Now I reckon every hand on the place will have to have red galluses with brass buckles,” snorted the General. “You’re getting measured for shoes tomorrow, George. You wash your feet.” “Yes, sah, sho will!”