One Must Tell the Bees by J. Lawrence Matthews

Author:J. Lawrence Matthews [Matthews, J. Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Not Making This Up LLC
Published: 2021-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

“There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole, there is a balm in Gilead, to heal my sin-sick soul…”

It was, I realized with a start, the tune Abraham had been fond of whistling. Suddenly another voice joined in. It was Abraham’s. He had stopped playing with the dog.

“Sometimes I feel discouraged, and think my work’s in vain, but then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.”

When they had finished, Freeman gave Abraham a great, enveloping hug. Then he looked out at the river, studying the water with the intensity of one reading an especially difficult book.

I asked what Booth and Herold would do next.

“Wait again. Wait for the right time. They in no rush. Plenty of secesh in these parts to help ‘em.”

I asked where they would go if they made it across the Potomac.

He smiled. “You like to ask questions. Get some rest. Grapevine telegraph tell us when they move. Right now the current’s running. I got to set my nets.”

Freeman stripped off his shirt and walked into the river. The sunlight shone upon his back, and the shocking sight of livid purple welts crisscrossing his spine bespoke a life far more arduous than his own modest self-history had admitted. The welts disappeared with each step as the water rose slowly up his back, until it had reached his neck.

We were watching him work when the dog suddenly jumped up from the sand and dashed to the cabin. The giant door now opened, and a very tiny woman emerged carrying a basket in the crook of her arm.

Sarah Sheels possessed gray hair and carried her small frame in a stooped manner I had never before witnessed. Evidently she had been much abused by the same overseer at Mount Vernon that had left the scars across Freeman’s back, for she proceeded to walk in a limping, swaying fashion among the vegetables in the garden set alongside the creek, collecting potatoes and onions such as we had eaten with our fish, all the while stealing glances at Abraham with a kind, motherly face.

She was not able to meet my eyes, however—for reasons I could only imagine.

THE RICHMOND STAGE ROAD

Freeman was working his nets and his wife was gathering her harvest, dog at her heel. Abraham had fallen asleep on the sand. I studied the river, which was alive with all manner of craft. The current was powerful indeed, judging by the slow movement of a large passenger steamboat headed upriver against the tide, but the waters did not slow Freeman.

He moved easily and gracefully, even with the water at his neck. When he had finished with his work, he made his way to shore in a manner that gradually revealed his massive scarred body until he emerged towering and wet, his great domed head reflecting the sun. He sat on a log to dry himself and studied Abraham.

“So, this is the boy looking for his father.” He picked up a sweet potato roasted black in the fire and began munching.

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