Chapter 5

‘Wants us to be contented with our slavery, does he?’ called Alphaeus from The Sara.

‘No—it isn’t that he approves of our slavery,’ John went on, unruffled by the interruption. ‘He said that all men everywhere are governed by conditions that curb their freedom, and—’

‘Doesn’t believe in government, eh?’ commented Andrew dryly. ‘The Tetrarch will soon cure him of that.’

‘What does he know about all men everywhere—this Carpenter from Nazareth?’ scoffed Simon.

‘He didn’t say that he was against the government,’ answered John, weary but patient. ‘He said that every man could find freedom for himself, regardless of the laws. Freedom for his spirit. The richest gifts, he said, are beyond the control of any oppressor; property which nobody can carry away or withhold from us—’

‘Such as what?’ sniffed Simon, in a tone of raillery that made the sailors laugh.

‘Dawn,’ said John diffidently, knowing they would laugh again. ‘Dawn—and the sunset—the mountains—the songs of birds—and’—his voice fell to an almost inaudible murmur as he queried their grinning faces—’and the warm rain—and morning dew on the grass—and wild poppies growing on the hill-slopes—’

‘Wild poppies!’ broke in Thaddeus from across the old net. ‘Wild poppies! Songs of birds! Dew on the grass! Why didn’t someone ask him how to make these things up into a porridge to feed the family?’

This was so good, and they all enjoyed it so much that Thad, embarrassed by his own wit, yawned widely to show that his sally didn’t really amount to anything and he could be funnier than that if the occasion arose. It pleased him particularly to hear the Big Fisherman’s roaring laugh. John accepted the general merriment with no sign of irritation. It was what he had expected.

‘The Carpenter talked about that, Thad,’ he said quietly, when the hilarity had subsided. ‘He thinks that most people spend too much time making things up into porridge, fretting about porridge, thinking that nothing is any good unless it can be made up into porridge; spending their lives worrying for fear they might be short of food next winter—and in their old age. Worrying—until they have no happiness at all…He said the birds did not worry—and yet they were fed.’

‘Yaa!’ yelled Zebedee—’but they’ve got to scratch for it!’

There was a gale of laughter. Old Zebedee was a pest, but this joke was excellent. The applause delighted him, and he repeated his witticism again and again for his nearest neighbours. ‘Yes—they’ve got to scratch for it!…He! Ha!…Scratch for it!’

‘That about the birds,’ said Simon, ‘sounds just like my old father. He never worried about where the next meal was coming from.’