The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial (28 page)

When they were sobered, Nat Turner lifted them again. “Lift your heads, men, mighty men of God! Rise to defend our families! Rise to defend our humanity! Rise to defend our dreams!

“We rise to fulfill God's judgment! We rise in service to the King of kings! We are the great and powerful army of the Lord!”

There would be no Ethiopia for him. This was his final homeland now. “Rise as men of spirit! This is our native soil. We have paid the price for it! This is the land where we have toiled. This is the land where we have spilled our blood. We will have what has been promised us. Arise, men, to arms!”

Cross Keys

Predawn, August 22, 1831

T
he captive warriors had farm instruments—swords made from scythes, like Nat Turner's, and axes—clubs made from fence posts, hammers, and tree limbs. They met at Cabin Pond to baptize one another and pray—victory prayers and prayers of absolution—except for Will, who stood apart from the rest of them.

When the night was black, ten days after the day of the indigo sun, beneath the sickle moon they made their way to the Travis farm. Nat Turner touched the passes he had written for any who might escape after the revolt, so they could travel—no black man could be on the road without a white man's written permission. He had wrapped the passes in a rag and tied them tightly around his waist.

Nat Turner stood outside of Sallie Francis Moore Travis's house with Will and the others. This was the beginning of the revolt, of the resurrection of his people; he would cast the first blow. The dogs were silent, as though the animals conspired with them.

Nat Turner secured the ladder against the side of the house so that he could enter the second-floor window and then open the front door to the others. He began to climb. He could not think about Sallie or her family; they had not cared about the suffering of others. There was no doubt: God had given two signs—the eclipse and the blue sun. The witnesses sang to Nat Turner as he climbed.
“Lift up your heads… and the King of glory shall come in.”

“Who is this King of glory?”
The moon was barely a sliver against
the black sky. Silently, Nat Turner stepped through the lace curtains, through the window.
“The Lord strong and mighty, the L
ORD
mighty in battle.
” He was no longer a man; he was an instrument in His Father's hands. Nat Turner stole down the steps and opened the front door. He was a servant bound to do his Master's will.

Will and the others, silent as coming winter, crept in and went to their work. Nat Turner reclimbed the stairs with Will. They made their way down the dark hallway to the bedroom.
“Who is this King of glory? The L
ORD
of hosts, he is the King of glory.”

Nat Turner and Will stood on either side of the bed over Sallie and Joseph Travis. Nat Turner had known her all his life. He put thoughts of her as a child out of his mind. Instead he saw her at the church house with the whip in her hands. He saw her teaching her son to be an oppressor.

She did not own him. She had held him and his people captive long enough. He was no man's property. He was a warrior priest sent to ransom his people. He belonged to God.

No turning back; it was kill or be killed. Nat Turner raised his sword, his scythe, to do the will of the Sovereign Lord, to strike the first blow for freedom. “You have given no mercy and so you shall have none: This is the Lord's judgment.” Sallie opened her eyes. She recognized him. Then Will. Her husband awakened. Nat Turner raised his sword higher. “‘He that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death.' This is the judgment of the Sovereign Lord!”

His sword cut through the soft flesh of her neck and severed her head from her body. The warm blood sprayed and covered his hands. Will lowered his axe and made short work of Travis. A grim smile on his face, Will raised and lowered his axe over and over again, as though he was no longer thinking—like a wheel turning on a mill, a grim smile on his face. Will stepped in close so he was baptized in the blood.

On the floors beneath them, the others took care of Sallie's son, Putnam Francis Moore, and her nephew, Joel Westbrook. Nat
Turner was no longer a man; he was an instrument in the hands of God. He was a patriot, a warrior now, a comrade to his brothers. He closed himself to what he had seen and done and kept his mind on moving forward.

They left the Travis farm. Nat Turner could not think. If he did, he would go mad. He was not a farmer or a preacher now; he was a soldier. They were Knights Templar executing a plan of battle.

Nat and the other captives made their way in the dark on foot, over the paths and traces they knew. They waded through the cornfields and skirted among the trees.

They smelled the blood, all of them. They saw the death, all of them. They felt the power of men with blood and life and death on their hands. They were at once exhilarated and exhausted. But they must stay true to the work ahead of them; they could not let down the others.

They passed the Widow Harris's place and Will, raising his axe, turned to go in. Nat Turner touched Will's arm and shook his head, no. “We are God's army,” he whispered. “We must stick with God's plan. Only His judgment. The Lord's will be done.” They made their way to the home of Salathiel Francis.

T
hey listened for every sound, every snap. Any creak in the darkness might be a group of captors who had discovered them. Every rustle in the brush might mean they had been betrayed. “Be with us, Lord,” Nat Turner whispered. Maybe he had told too many people. Maybe there was a spy among them. An owl screeched. Wings flapped. Nat Turner stopped. Was it really a creature, or a man with a gun?

They ran again, straining to hear; their nerves on edge. Nat Turner glanced up at the stars. He might never see them again. A cloud passed over the sliver of moon, and then they were in perfect blackness.

When they reached Salathiel Francis's, as they'd planned, one man pounded on the door. The others waited among the corn that grew from the fields up to Salathiel's small ramshackle cabin, covering the window, the walls of the shack, everything except the front door. Red Nelson answered.

When the matter was put to him, he joined them. He awakened Salathiel. The man was a giant. When he stumbled outside, half-asleep, it took several men to hold him.

Nat Turner raised his sword. “‘He that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death.' This is the judgment of the Sovereign Lord!” They dispatched Salathiel Francis quickly.

They divided then—the leaders left to join their squads and render judgment on the others, as they had agreed. Nat Turner had Will now, and he needed to keep the man with him. Yellow Nelson needed someone strong, and they had decided Hark would be the one.

The two of them, Nat Turner and Hark, embraced as brothers. Nat touched his hand to his waistband. “I could give you a pass now,” he whispered to Hark. “You could get away. Head for the Dismal Swamp, get on a boat. Women from all over the world.” Nat Turner hoped his friend would take the pass. He hoped one of them would get away. “You could be gone before anyone discovers us.”

Hark shook his head. “I understand now. You came back for me, brother. Why would I leave you now?” They shook hands.

Hark looked over his shoulder. “Don't look after me sad-eyed.” Hark smiled. “You will see me again.”

“We will meet at the great oak.”

“Or at the first resurrection.” Hark nodded, still smiling, though his eyes were sorrowful. “If I don't see you again, know this—women are my delight, but you are my brother—you made me a better man.”

Words never failed Nat Turner, but he was bereft. “Keep your eyes open,” he whispered. “And your head down.”

Hark was still smiling when he turned, calling over his shoulder. “Why be careful now? You've been trying to get me hanged since the day we met.”

Nat turned with his team and began to make their way to his sister-in-law's, Elizabeth Turner's farm.

Boston

1856

H
arriet jumped to her feet, pressing her napkin to her mouth. This was the portion she did not want to hear. She did not want to hear about blood and deaths. She looked at William; he rose to his feet.

There was no anger on his face; instead he seemed troubled by her alarm. “Would you like to stop now? We don't have to go on.”

Harriet could not speak. Her chest heaving, she worked to hold back the tears. She did not like to think of bloodshed or war, not even for a worthy cause.

She looked at William. She did not like to think of the man that she was conversing with as a murderer. She did not want to think of him covered in blood.

Harriet turned and walked toward the window. So many had already lost their lives—she did not want to believe that the only path to liberty was a crimson-stained one.

England had managed to abolish slavery without bloodshed. Something must be done here. Someone, someone must be found who might turn the country from the bloody path down which it seemed headed.

Behind her, distress in his voice, William spoke. “I mean you no harm. We can stop now.” His concern sounded sincere.

Harriet Tubman, Henry Bibb, Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, and so many nameless, faceless others—they had all faced
so much more and there was no turning away for them. She didn't have to live it; she had only to hear the story.

Harriet dabbed her face and then, taking a deep breath, she turned and began walking back to the small table. “Courage today or carnage tomorrow,” she said.

Cross Keys

1831

I
n his ears, Nat Turner's own breathing was too loud. His footsteps were too heavy. His heart pounded, his nerves jumped. Every shadow was a trap, a hand reaching out to catch him and the others.

It was late—the sun would rise in only a few hours—but still hot. His ragged, burlap shirt was plastered to him and drenched with sweat. Black dark. They felt their way through familiar places, moving through air like blackstrap molasses. His feet knew the grass, the moss, the furrowed ground. His soles felt the gnarled bumps of the roots of ancient trees. His hands touched the bark, the damp moss, and waxy leaves that he had known all his life. Still, in the familiarity there was danger. Every limb heavy with leaves held a waiting net. Every vine was a rope waiting to trip him and hang him and the others. Nat Turner steeled himself.

He was not like Will. He did not have anger to fuel him or a desire for revenge—he could not afford those emotions; they would have driven him off course. He was not like Hark—it was not brotherhood or loyalty that led him. For loyalty's sake he might have continued to pursue a different way.

It was justice that sent him through the night. It was obedience to God's service. An obedient son. Nat Turner repeated the phrase to himself as he ran. An obedient soldier.

He could not stop. There was a family debt he owed.

Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy
wings, from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about. They are inclosed in their own fat: with their mouth they speak proudly.

They passed by the home of Nathaniel Francis. They would confront him at Waller's still.

There was no choice now. There was no turning back. It was war. Kill or be killed. He would not turn back. There was a family debt he owed.

E
lizabeth Turner stared at him with red-rimmed, wild eyes. They dragged her and her visiting neighbor, the widow Newsom, and her overseer, Hartwell Peebles, from their beds. It was Nat Turner's older brother's house. There were traces of Samuel, ghosts of him—an old pipe, an old coat, and a picture of him hanging on the wall.

“Where is the deed? Where is the deed to Turner's Meeting Place?” Nat Turner yelled and the other captive men watched as he searched the drawers and cabinets. “You know I am not a slave! Where is the deed?”

Elizabeth Turner hissed at him, “There are no papers for you. You will never find them! I'm Samuel's heir. You are a nigger slave and you will die a slave!”

He stepped closer to the sofa so he could see them. There was only one candle lighting their faces in the pitch-black room. “You know I am not a slave. You had no right to sell me, to sell my family!” He wanted to choke the life from the old hag.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked around at Nat Turner and the others. “I will see all you niggers hanged!” Elizabeth spat at Nat Turner. The widow Newsom cowered, clinging to her. Elizabeth looked around again. “I've got all your names. I know you! Don't try to hide there in the dark. I see you! They will skin you, gut each one of you, and feed you to the dogs.” Elizabeth cackled. “And I'll be there to watch!” The widow Newsom sat white-faced, mumbling to herself. The overseer sat with them on the sofa. The burly man's face looked confused, as though he thought he might be dreaming.

Nat Turner turned from them and went to search another drawer. “Where are the papers, Elizabeth? You have stolen property. You have stolen lives!”

“Elizabeth? You dare call me Elizabeth?” An icy snicker accompanied her words. “My, you are a prince with your band of thieves. But not for long! I'm not your weak, sniveling father! You will hang! You'll be skinned alive!” Elizabeth snarled. “There is no such thing as a nigger with property. I would rather die than see you with an inch of this land—even a church!” She scowled at Nat Turner, a cruel, defiant upturn to her lips. “No such thing as a nigger trustee. The only good nigger is a slave, and the best nigger is a hanged one!”