Free Across a War-Tossed Sea by L.M. Elliott

scratchy Crrrrrrrr-crrrrrrr- crrrr of a record player starting up
    A low, mournful voice began to sing: “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.” Rising and falling, the voice repeated the lament and then was joined by other deep, sad voices singing, “ A long ways from home …”
    Wesley stopped mid-step. The song tore at his heart. He’d never heard music like it before. Sudden hot tears stung his face as Wesley backed away from the sound of someone putting words to his sorrow.
    In the gloom, he stumbled and fell back onto the sharp, hard edges of the walkway rocks. “Oooooowwww!” he cried, rolling and clutching his butt, his hip, his elbow, his shoulder. “Oooooowwww!”
    In mid roll, Wesley heard another sound—the harsh cliiiiiick as the hammer of a gun was cocked and readied.
    He sat up.
    There on the porch was a boy, holding a shotgun aimed straight at Wesley.

Chapter Eight
    â€œD on’t shoot!” Wesley threw up his hands. “Please don’t shoot.”
    The gun didn’t lower.
    â€œI—I,” he stammered. “I’m terribly sorry if I disturbed you.”
    Still the boy didn’t respond.
    â€œMy name is Wesley Bishop.” His words rushed out, panicked. “I am staying with the Ratcliffs. Miss Alma knows me. Her biscuits are brilliant!”
    At that, the boy peeked out from behind the gun. “You talk funny,” he said as he lowered the shotgun, resting its butt against the porch floor.
    The two stared at each other. Because the boy was backlit by the lamp, Wesley couldn’t see his expression.
    Finally, the boy with the gun asked, “So? What do you want?”
    Wesley’s heartbeat began to slow down enough that he could talk some sense. “Mr. Ratcliff would like to know if Ed’s sons might be able to come up from Newport News and help him this weekend. Is he home?”
    â€œDoes it look like he’s home?” the boy countered. “He’s at a church meeting.”
    â€œWhen will he be back?”
    â€œSoon enough.” The boy didn’t stir.
    This was not getting him anywhere. Cautiously, Wesley stood and brushed himself off. His elbow was throbbing and bleeding where a stone had gouged it. He hated to make more work for Mrs. Ratcliff with bloodstains on his clothes. “Might I trouble you for a bandage and some Mercurochrome?” he asked.
    â€œâ€˜Might I trouble you?’” The boy snorted. “Where you from?”
    â€œGreat Britain.”
    â€œYou came here from England?”
    â€œYes, that’s right,” Wesley answered hopefully.
    â€œWell, there’s a fool born a minute,” the boy muttered, taking a step back. “All right, then. Come on in.” He dragged the gun behind him and opened the screened door. Wesley followed.
    â€œDon’t have Mercurochrome. But you can wash up there.” The boy pointed toward the kitchen, where there was a long wooden table with a pitcher and water basin.
    Now Wesley could see the boy. He was slight and wiry and wore round horn-rimmed glasses that made his brown eyes seem enormous. Probably just a year or so older, Wesley judged. The boy watched as Wesley rinsed his arm. Then he wandered into the next room to an old wind-up Victrola—the kind of record player with a big trumpet bell coming up from the turntable box.
    So that’s what Wesley had heard. “What were you listening to?” he asked. “I’ve never heard music like that before.”
    â€œIt’s a spiritual.”
    â€œWhat’s a spiritual?”
    â€œWhy, a spiritual is gospel music. A song Negroes sung when we worked fields in our days of bondage. Music helped us get by. This one is ‘Motherless Child.’ That was the Golden Gate Quartet singing it. They’re the famous jubilee group from Norfolk, you know.”
    Wesley admitted he didn’t.
    â€œWhat? The Golden Gate sang at the last