Song of Slaves in the Desert by Alan Cheuse Page B

emerged from out of the canopy of trees, and came upon a line of black men in rough tattered clothes walking toward us, their voices raised in song.
    Don’t mind working from sun to sun,
    [they sang]
    If’n you give me dinner—
    When the dinner time comes!
    He slowed the carriage almost to a halt and nodded as the men stepped to the side of the road to let us pass, doffing their caps in the old English peasant way. I could not help but smile at the simple music of their melodious outcry.
    Don’t mind working from sun to sun,
    [they sang again, voices languid in the heat]
    If’n you give me dinner—
    When the dinner time comes!
    “Evening,” my cousin said to the crowd.
    “Evening,” came the response from the men.
    “Even.”
    “Eben.”
    “Ben.”
    Don’t mind working from sun to sun,
    If’n you give me dinner—
    Their low voices faded away into the mix of sunlight and shade. In their wake rose up a wave of body stink from hard day’s work, and creek mud (though I hadn’t yet seen the creek), mixing with the general putrefaction of things in nature, riled up by men tramping through it and across.
    “A bit less rhythm and they could sound like us singing at synagogue,” I said.
    “You think you’re making a joke,” Rebecca said.
    “What is she saying?” I asked of my cousin.
    Jonathan allowed the reins to go slack and the horse slowed and thus the carriage, and we emerged out of the trees at the small wooden bridge over what he told me was Goose Creek, a broad and swiftly flowing stream of water that seemed as much like a small river to me as it did a creek.
    “Here I used to come all the time when I was boy, to sit by the creek-side and drop in my line. Do you have places from your boyhood that you recall?”
    “Of course,” I said, and was about to begin describing a boyhood place, when he tied the reins, jumped down from the seat, fetched a water bag from the rear of the carriage and filled it at the creek-side.
    Rebecca and I sat quietly together while he watered the horse. Every now and then she would glance down at her full belly, as if to convince herself it was still there.
    A few birds called from the woods behind us. The light was slipping away and now and then a fish splashed in the broad creek. In the distance the slaves kept up their chants, a sound wavering on the darkening air.
    “It must be…” Rebecca spoke almost in a whisper.
    “What is that?” I said.
    “It must be…different from here up north in New York.”
    “Quite different,” I said.
    “Are the Jews different?”
    “You see me,” I said. “Do I seem different?”
    “No,” she said.
    “Most Jews I know are like me. Except that most of them are more diligent in the practice of our religion.”
    “You are not a diligent Jew?”
    “No, diligence it seems is not my way.”
    “We are Reformers, ourselves,” she said. “We ride on the Sabbath and the High Holy Days, for how else would we reach the synagogue? It is much too far to town to walk, as you must have noticed.”
    “Yes,” I said. “Perhaps Jews are better in the city then. For we can walk to the synagogue because it is only a short distance.”
    “We try our best,” Rebecca said. “And God must know that. Because He knows everything. Our congregation is in turmoil. We are hoping that God will help us settle a number of our disputes.”
    “Amen,” said my cousin as he climbed back up onto the bench. “Are you having a fine old theological discussion?”
    “In part, yes,” I said, allowing myself a smile.
    “Father’s always good for that around the dinner table,” he said. “A place I expect where you hope soon to sit.”
    And with that he gave the whip a twist and we began moving again, taking the narrow road along the river for a short while and turning onto a path that took us back into the trees.
    It was dark when we reached the house, though because of the wonderful array of lamps that illuminated it from within it seemed like