Brave Enemies by Robert Morgan Page B

square. Others with hammers and chisels were cutting holes in the timbers already hewed.
    â€œThe timber frames will be mortised and tenoned together,” Satterfield said. “When a side is ready it will be raised into place.”
    The wood they hewed was pine and poplar. The fresh pine smelled sweet as incense and the poplar smelled faintly bitter.
    â€œHey, parson, give us a hand here,” Brother Gibson from Zion Hill called to me. I knew I was going to be teased that day, and I was determined to take it in good humor. Gibson asked me to help lift a heavy timber to join it to a crossbeam. The protruding tenon on the beam had to be mated to the mortise on the heavy timber.
    We all lifted on the count of three and there were grunts and groans as the pieces joined. But I held on to the timber too long, for as the other men let go my fingers were mashed as the heavy piece sank to the ground. I must have cried out and then stood up wringing my hand.
    â€œIt’s awfully sorry I am,” Brother Gibson said.
    There was a little blood where my fingernails were bruised. Satterfield looked at my hand and said I should go to the house and Mrs. Redmon would bind it up.
    â€œIt’s nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.” All eyes were on me, and I knew whatever I said and did would be reported around the countryside. I took up the ax and began to hew a timber.
    By midmorning my hands were blistered and numb. My fingers would not let go of the ax handle when I tried to lay it down. But I was determined to persist and share in their labor, however much they teased me, however tired I got.
    At dinner time I was happy to take a break and say grace before we ate. We sang a hymn, and then the women uncovered the feast they had assembled that morning. Young girls gave me things they had prepared themselves, pieces of pie and cake, puddings and jellies. Platters of chicken and ham loaded the table in the yard, along with bowls of boiled eggs and new potatoes. The men passed a jug around among themselves and I took a sip of the powerful corn spirits.
    â€œI’ve never seen a warmer sense of community,” I said as I looked at the crowd eating together.
    â€œIt’s the August heat,” Satterfield said, and the men laughed.
    My fingers were sore and my back was sore, but it thrilled me to see such fellowship among my flock.
    â€œHow do you like real work, parson?” Mr. Redmon said. There was laughter all around, and I was going to say something about the pleasure of working together, but suddenly all grew quiet and turned toward the woods beyond the clearing. I leaned to see what they were looking at.
    A column of royal soldiers on horseback had emerged from the trees and was riding directly toward us. When the officer in front stopped his horse beside the well he called out, “You know perfectly well such meetings are forbidden. Gatherings of more than eight persons are not permitted, except for holy services.”
    â€œThis ain’t a meeting, sir,” Curtis Satterfield said. “We are just raising a barn.”
    â€œWhat better ruse to conceal a meeting,” the officer said. “You will disband at once.”
    Sighs and groans swept through the crowd.
    â€œI am the pastor here,” I said, and stepped closer to the horseman. “We are raising a barn for Brother Redmon.”
    â€œAre you defying me?” the lieutenant said.
    â€œWe are just carpenters and farmers,” Brother Satterfield said.
    The officer pulled out his sword and pointed it at the gathering. “You will disperse,” he said.
    â€œI am Rev. John Trethman,” I said. “I have worked with these people today and sang and prayed, and I give you my word they are only here to raise a barn for Brother Redmon.”
    I had taken off my collar and my coat that morning because I was sweating. The officer stared at me as though I was a tramp. “You will disband,” he