The Confessions of Nat Turner (58 page)

I lurched away from her through the field, calling out to myself like one bereft of mind. Yet hardly had I taken a dozen steps when I heard her voice, weak, frail, almost without breath, not so much voice as memory—faint as if from some distant and half-forgotten lawn of childhood: Oh Nat I hurt so. Please kill me Nat I hurt so.

I stopped and looked back. “
Die
, God damn your white soul,” I wept. “Die!”

Oh Nat please kill me I hurt so.

“Die! Die! Die! Die!”

The sword fell from my hand. I returned to her side and looked down. Her head was cradled against the inside of her arm, as if she had composed herself for sleep, and all the chestnut streaming luxuriance of her hair had fallen in a tangle amid the hayfield’s parched and fading green. Grasshoppers stitched and stirred in restless fidget among the weeds, darting about her face.

“I hurt so,” I heard her whisper.

“Shut your eyes,” I said. I reached down to search with my fingers for a firm length of fence rail and I could sense once more her close girl-smell and the fragrance of lavender, bitter in my nostrils, and sweet. “Shut your eyes,” I told her quickly. Then when I raised the rail above her head she gazed at me,as if past the imponderable vista of her anguish, with a grave and drowsy tenderness such as I had never known, spoke some words too soft to hear and, saying no more, closed her eyes upon all madness, illusion, error, dream, and strife. So I brought the timber down and she was swiftly gone, and I hurled the hateful, shattered club far up into the weeds.

For how long I aimlessly circled her body—prowled around the corners of the field in haphazard quest for nothing, like some roaming dog—how long this went on I do not recollect. The sun rose higher, boiling; my own flesh was incandescent, and when at the farm I heard the men call for me their voices were untold distances away. By the edge of the woods I found myself seated The Confessions of Nat Turner

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on a log, head in my hands, unaccountably thinking of ancient moments of childhood—warm rain, leaves, a whippoorwill, rushing mill wheels, jew’sharp strumming—centuries before.

Then I arose again and resumed my meaningless and ordained circuit of her body, not near it yet ever within sight as if that crumpled blue were the center of an orbit around whose path I must make a ceaseless pilgrimage. And once in my strange journey I thought I heard again her whispery voice, thought I saw her rise from the blazing field with arms outstretched as if to a legion of invisible onlookers, her brown hair and innocent school gown teased by the wind as she cried: “Oh, I would fain swoon into an eternity of love!” But then she vanished before my eyes—melted instantly like an image carved of air and light—and I turned away at last and went back to join my men.

All day after that we swept north through the countryside.

Despite certain unforeseen halts and delays, our advance was everywhere successful. The Porter place, Nathaniel Francis’s, Barrow’s, Edwards’s, Harris’s, Doyle’s—each was overrun, and each was the scene of ruthless extermination.We missed laying hold of Nathaniel Francis himself (much later I learned from Hark that he had been away at the time in Sussex County), and so it was one of the lesser ironies of our mission—and a source of bitter disappointment to both Sam and Will—that almost the only white man in the county who owned a truly illustrious reputation for cruelty to Negroes escaped the blade of our retribution. His ending would have had a quality all its own. Such are the fortunes of war. By early afternoon I had regained my stability and composure; my strength came back, I felt immeasurably better and took heart and vigor from our rapid gains. Under the influence of Nelson—but also because of my actions at the Whitehead place—Will had become somewhat more subdued, and I felt that finally he was under a semblance of control. By late afternoon there was no one who was white left alive along the twenty miles we had traveled.

Even so, our work of death was not absolutely exhaustive, not complete, and I am far from sure that this was not the ruination of my mission, since it took but a single soul to raise the alarm.

And I must admit to a failing on my own part which may have caused more than anything else the fact of the resistance we began to encounter the following day and which slowed us to a fatal pace. For as I told Gray, late that afternoon just before twilight at the Harris farm we had seen a young white girl of fourteen or so flee to the woods, screaming her terror as she The Confessions of Nat Turner

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rushed into the haven of a grove of juniper trees. And Gray himself had established that it was this girl who had managed to reach the Williams place near dark, allowing that fortunate man to hide his family and his slaves and to ride off north, spreading the alarm. In turn it had been that alarm which may or may not (I cannot be certain) have given the enemy their ultimate advantage and tipped the balance against us. What I failed to confide to Gray is that it had not been “us” who had seen her but I alone, rocking weary in the saddle as dusk descended and my men killed and ransacked and looted the Harris house. I heard her faint frantic cry, saw a flicker of color as she vanished into the darkening thicket of trees.

I might have reached her in a twinkling—the work of half a minute—but I suddenly felt dispirited and overcome by fatigue, and was pursued by an obscure, unshakable grief. I shivered in the knowledge of the futility of all ambition. My mouth was sour with the yellow recollection of death and blood-smeared fields and walls. I watched the girl slip away, vanish without a hand laid upon her. Who knows but whether we were not doomed to lose. I know nothing any longer. Nothing. Did I really wish to vouchsafe a life for the one that I had taken?

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Part IV

“It Is Done ...”

Surely I Come Quickly
. . .

Cloudless sunlight suggesting neither hour nor season glows down upon me, wraps me with a cradle’s warmth as I drift toward the river’s estuary; the little boat rocks gently in our benign descent together toward the sea. On the unpeopled banks the woods are silent, silent as snowfall. No birds call; in windless attitudes of meditation the crowd of green trees along the river shore stands drooping and still. This low country seems untouched by humanity, by past or future time. Beneath me where I recline I feel the boat’s sluggish windward drift, glimpse rushing past eddies of foam, branches, leaves, clumps of grass all borne on the serene unhurried flood to the place where the river meets the sea. Faintly now I hear the oceanic roar, mark the sweep of sunlit water far-near, glinting with whitecaps, the ragged shoulder of a beach where sea and river join in a tumultuous embrace of swirling waters. But nothing disturbs me, I drowse in the arms of a steadfast and illimitable peace. Salt stings my nostrils. The breakers roll to shore, the lordly tide swells back beneath a cobalt sky arching eastward toward Africa. An unhurried booming fills me not with fear but only with repose and slumbrous anticipation—serenity as ageless as those rocks, in garlands of weeping seaweed, thrown up by the groaning waves.

Now as I approach the edge of land I look up for one last time to study the white building standing on its promontory high above the shore. Again I cannot tell what it is or what it means. Stark white, glittering, pure as alabaster, it rests on the precipice unravaged by weather or wind, neither temple nor monument nor sarcophagus but relic of the ages—of all past and all futurity—white inscrutable paradigm of a mystery beyond The Confessions of Nat Turner

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utterance or even wonder. The sun bathes its tranquil marble sides, its doorless façade, the arches that sweep around it, revealing no entry anywhere, no window; inside, it would be as dark as the darkest tomb. Yet I cannot dwell on that place too long, for again as always I know that to try to explore the mystery would be only to throw open portals on even deeper mysteries, on and on everlastingly, into the remotest corridors of thought and time. So I turn away. I cast my eyes toward the ocean once more, watch the blue waves and glitter of spume-borne light approaching, listen to the breaking surf move near as I pass, slowly, in contemplation of a great mystery, out toward the sea . .

.

I come awake with a start, feeling the cedar plank cold beneath my back, the leg irons colder still—like encircling bands of ice. It is full dark, I can see nothing. I rise up on my elbows, letting the dream dwindle away from my mind, fade out—this one last time, and forever—from recollection. The chains at my feet chink in the morning’s black silence. It is bitterly cold but the wind has died and I no longer shiver so; I draw the remnant of my ragged shirt close around my chest. Then I tap with my knuckles against the wall separating me from Hark. He sleeps deeply, his breath a jagged sigh as it rattles through his wound. Tap-tap. Silence.

Tap-tap again, louder. Hark awakes. “Dat you, Nat?”

“It’s me,” I reply, “we go soon.”

He is quiet for a moment. Then he says, yawning: “I knows it.

Lawd, I wish dey would git on wid it. What time it is you reckon, Nat?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “they must be a couple hours more.”

I hear the heavy thump of his feet and the sound of his chain-links clinking together, then the noise of a bucket scraping across the floor. Hark chuckles faintly. “Lawd me, Nat,” he says.

“Wisht I could move about. Hit hard enough to pee lyin’ down in de daytime, at night I cain’t hit dat bucket in no way.” I hear a noisy spatter and splash and Hark’s laughter again, low in his throat, rich, amused at himself. “Ain’t nothin’ mo’ useless dan a twofifty-pound nigger dat cain’t hardly move. Did you know, Nat, dey gwine hang me all roped up in a chair? Leastwise, dat’s what dat man Gray done said. Dat sho’ is some way to go.”

I make no reply, the sound of flowing water ceases, and Hark’s voice too falls still. Somewhere far off in the town a dog howls on The Confessions of Nat Turner

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and on without lull or respite, a continuous harsh lonely cry from the bowels of the dark morning, touching me with dread. Lord, I whisper to myself in anguish, Lord? And I clench my eyelids together in a sudden spasm, hoping to find some vision, some word or sign in the profounder darkness of my own mind, but there is still no answer. I will go without Him, I think, I will go without Him because He has abandoned me without any last sign at all. Was what I done wrong in His sight? And if what I done was wrong is there no redemption?

“Dat God durned dog,” I hear Hark say. “Lissen at him, Nat. Dat sho de sign of somepn, awright. Lawd, dat dog done barked right on th’ough my dreams jes’ now. Dreamed I was back home at Barnett’s long long time ago when I was jes’ a little ole thing

‘bout knee-high to a duck. An’ me an’ my sister Jamie was gwine fishin’ together down in de swamp. And we was walkin’ along underneath dem wild cherry trees, jes’ as happy as we could be, talkin’ about all dem fish we was gwine catch. On’y dey dis yere dog a-barkin’ at us an followin’ us th’ough the woods. An’ Jamie she done kep’ sayin’, ‘Hark, how come dat dog make all dat holler?’ An’ I say back to Jamie, ’Don’ bothah ’bout no dog, don’

pay dat ole dog no nem’mine.’ Den you done knock on de wall, Nat, and now here dat same dog a-barkin’ way off in de road, and here I is, an’ dis mornin’ dey gwine hang me.”

Then behold I come quickly . . .

I drowse off dreamless for a time, then I wake abruptly to see that morning approaches with the faintest tinge of pale frosty light, stealing through the barred window and touching the cedar walls with a glow barely visible, like ashes strewn upon a dying fire. Way off in the lowlands across the river, somewhere among the fields and frosty meadows, I hear the sad old blast of a horn as it rouses up the Negroes for work. Nearer there is a tinkle and a rustle, barely heard; the town stirs. A single horse passes cloppetyclop over the wooden bridge, and far away in the distance a cock crows, then another, and they cease suddenly; for a moment all is still and sleeping. Hark again slumbers, the air whistles from his wounded chest. I rise and make my way to the end of the chain, shuffling in a sideways motion toward the window. Then I lean forward against the freezing sill, and stand motionless in the still-encompassing dark. Against the rim of the heavens, high above the river and the towering wall of cypress and pine, dawn begins to rise in light of the softest blue. I raise my eyes upward. There alone amidst the blue, steadfast, The Confessions of Nat Turner

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unmoving, fiery marvel of brightness, shines the morning star.

Never has that star seemed so radiant, and I stand gazing at it and do not move though the chill of the damp floor imprisons my feet in piercing icebound pain.

Surely I come quickly . . .

I wait for minutes at the window, looking out at the new day which is still dark. Behind me I hear a noise in the tiny corridor, hear Kitchen’s keys jangling, and see against the walls a lantern’s ruddy orange glow. Footsteps scrape on the floor with a gritty sound. I turn about slowly and find that it is Gray. But this time he does not enter the cell, merely stands outside the door as he peers in, then beckons me with his finger. With clumsy trouble I move across the floor, chain dragging between my feet.