"Yes?" The captain turned in his swivel chair and looked over his shoulder. "What is it?"
"Captain, my people would like to sing. Would it--"
The captain looked up at him blankly.
"Psalms," Johannes told him. "We would like to sing the psalms."
"Psalms!" the man repeated, puzzled. He unbuttoned the top buttons of his coat. Johannes waited. "The psalms, you'd like to sing?" He wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "But today is the Fourth of July. No one I know sings Psalms today--in church, yes. Maybe Christmas, you know, or Easter--but on the Fourth? You don't know other songs?" He leaned back, smiling as if the thought was absurdity.
Johannes shrugged. "We would like to sing the psalms."
The captain pushed aside his plate as if he was finished eating. "All of them?" he asked.
"Surely not. Just maybe some?" It felt to him like a good idea, like something they should do. "We would be happy like the rest. When we sing the Psalms, we can be happy. We can celebrate too."
The captain raised his fist to his lips and burped, not loud, then stood and put his hands in his pockets. He walked to the doorway, past Johannes, and surveyed his deck. Most of the crew and many of the emigrants, the passengers, were still eating. He stood a head taller than Johannes, his thick black hair falling nearly to his collar. "That would be good maybe--I don't know," he said, as if addressing them all. "If it would make you happy--all the Hollanders--then go ahead and sing the Psalms." The captain turned to look at him. "Some of them, eh?" And giggled. "Not all."
"It would make us happy," Johannes told him.
"Then go ahead and do it." He smiled as if the whole idea was an odd joke the two of them had shared. "It's not what Americans do, you know," he said. "This psalm-singing on the Fourth of July, but you say it will make you happy? Then it's a good thing--a good, good thing."
The shooting continued later until the ammunition was spent, but the emigrants, adding their own bit of celebration and their own vision of independence, raised their voices in Psalm 68, one of their favorites, Johannes as voorzanger.
Let God be praised with reverence deep;
He daily comes our lives to steep
In bounties freely given.
The captain strolled over, shaking his head, his hands clasped behind his back. The crew, nearly exhausted from all the celebration, listened and laughed, then smiled. Some Germans joined in, their own language harmonizing with the Dutch.
God cares for us, our God is He:
Who would not fear His majesty
In earth as well as heaven?
Our God upholds us in the strife;
to us He grants eternal life,
And saves from desolation.
They never felt exactly like they did--the psalms they sang, the notes moving along faster than normal. He had only to determine pitch, for his people moved independently at a pace too strong and joyous to be tempered by the voorzanger. The captain was right, of course. It's not what the Americans did, but until his people did it--sang the psalms on the deck of a ship going across the ocean--they hadn't either.
He heard the needy when they cry,
He saves their souls when death draws night,
This God is our salvation.
Beneath them, the ship moved almost silently beneath them through calmed seas once again, pressing ever closer to the Newfoundland banks.
"Psalms!" the man repeated, puzzled. He unbuttoned the top buttons of his coat. Johannes waited. "The psalms, you'd like to sing?" He wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "But today is the Fourth of July. No one I know sings Psalms today--in church, yes. Maybe Christmas, you know, or Easter--but on the Fourth? You don't know other songs?" He leaned back, smiling as if the thought was absurdity.
Johannes shrugged. "We would like to sing the psalms."
The captain pushed aside his plate as if he was finished eating. "All of them?" he asked.
"Surely not. Just maybe some?" It felt to him like a good idea, like something they should do. "We would be happy like the rest. When we sing the Psalms, we can be happy. We can celebrate too."
The captain raised his fist to his lips and burped, not loud, then stood and put his hands in his pockets. He walked to the doorway, past Johannes, and surveyed his deck. Most of the crew and many of the emigrants, the passengers, were still eating. He stood a head taller than Johannes, his thick black hair falling nearly to his collar. "That would be good maybe--I don't know," he said, as if addressing them all. "If it would make you happy--all the Hollanders--then go ahead and sing the Psalms." The captain turned to look at him. "Some of them, eh?" And giggled. "Not all."
"It would make us happy," Johannes told him.
"Then go ahead and do it." He smiled as if the whole idea was an odd joke the two of them had shared. "It's not what Americans do, you know," he said. "This psalm-singing on the Fourth of July, but you say it will make you happy? Then it's a good thing--a good, good thing."
The shooting continued later until the ammunition was spent, but the emigrants, adding their own bit of celebration and their own vision of independence, raised their voices in Psalm 68, one of their favorites, Johannes as voorzanger.
Let God be praised with reverence deep;
He daily comes our lives to steep
In bounties freely given.
The captain strolled over, shaking his head, his hands clasped behind his back. The crew, nearly exhausted from all the celebration, listened and laughed, then smiled. Some Germans joined in, their own language harmonizing with the Dutch.
God cares for us, our God is He:
Who would not fear His majesty
In earth as well as heaven?
Our God upholds us in the strife;
to us He grants eternal life,
And saves from desolation.
They never felt exactly like they did--the psalms they sang, the notes moving along faster than normal. He had only to determine pitch, for his people moved independently at a pace too strong and joyous to be tempered by the voorzanger. The captain was right, of course. It's not what the Americans did, but until his people did it--sang the psalms on the deck of a ship going across the ocean--they hadn't either.
He heard the needy when they cry,
He saves their souls when death draws night,
This God is our salvation.
Beneath them, the ship moved almost silently beneath them through calmed seas once again, pressing ever closer to the Newfoundland banks.
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