Free Song of Slaves in the Desert by Alan Cheuse Page A

overall, his visage was not unappealing.
    “But you are supposed to keep watch outside of town, not here,” Jonathan said.
    “We are just leaving, sir,” the man said.
    “Good, then good, just do your job.”
    With that, my cousin gave a snap of his buggy-whip and we moved along, putting those others behind us.
    “Who are they?” I said.
    “Patrollers. Poor nasty wretches,” my cousin said. “They make a living out of the misery of others.”
    “That’s how many of us up north think of you plantation owners,” I said. I no sooner spoke when I felt the heat of deep embarrassment spreading up my chest, neck, and face. “I am sorry.”
    “No need to apologize,” Rebecca said. “No need. We’re just going to have to show you a new side of things then,” Rebecca said. “Some of us are working to improve the African souls. Jonathan?”
    “Yes, although we have a lot of obstacles to overcome,” my cousin said, the look he gave me scarcely matching the restrained tone of his voice. Clearly the brandy had soothed whatever troubled him, but not enough. “Now here is our place.”
    We slowed up and took in the trim stone building on our left, the synagogue called Beth Elohim on Coming Street.
    “Where we have recently had quite a revolution,” my cousin said. “For there were those who objected to the use of an organ in the service, and they seceded and met just across the way.”
    “I’m sorry I missed the war,” I said.
    “Oh, there will be more of it, I am sure,” said Rebecca, with a laugh. “A hundred Jews, and each has his own opinion about God.”
    “Our family remained with the majority,” my cousin said. “Rebecca’s family left with the secessionists.”
    “I hope that has not made trouble for you,” I said.
    “Oh, yes,” my cousin said, “but pleasant trouble. Rebecca, would you say it has spiced things up a bit between us?”
    “Yes, it is very romantic,” she said, “to meet across the line of dispute. Like Juliet and Romeo.” She looked at me in a way both shy and inquisitive. “Do you have a Juliet at home?”
    “I have a Miriam,” I said, and the words struck me like pellets from a gun. Yes, I did, did I not? My Juliet? I had never thought of her that way before.
    “That is sweet,” Rebecca said. “Do you miss her?”
    “I have not been away that long,” I said. “But I am sure I will.”
    By this time in our journey my coat was soaked through, as was the handkerchief I used to dab the rivulets of sweat from my face.
    “The weather here,” I remarked, happy to change the subject, “it takes some getting used to.”
    My cousin laughed deep in his throat, but, I was noticing, however deep his merriment seemed somehow forced.
    “We are born into it here,” he said. “The amusing part is that the Africans themselves have some trouble with the heat.”
    Rebecca leaned across my cousin’s chest and touched me on the arm.
    “The worst is not the heat but the sickness. The fevers and agues that abound in this part of the country, they sometimes grow ferocious. With the swamps to the north and west and south and the ocean to our east, it is as though we live on an island, and now and then we find we have an unwanted visitation in the fever. A torrent of it swept through the county last year and took half a dozen of our people. The Africans, in fact, call it ‘The Visitor.’”
    “So,” I said, taking a deep breath and hoping to lift us out of the momentary slough we’d fallen into, “you are comparing me to a disease? I am, after all, just a visitor.”
    The two of them laughed.
    “And quite welcome,” my cousin said. “That is true, is it not, Rebecca?”
    She reached across my cousin and touched me again, giving me cause to think how fortunate any child of hers would be, to know a mother’s touch so gentle.
    “Yes, yes, absolutely. Why, we have had no guests in a long while and we’re all looking forward to getting to know you.”
    “Yes, yes,” my