The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial (31 page)

“Go and find the One True God who sent His son, the Christ, the Light of Ethiopia, the Light of Africa, the Light of the World, to die for all of us.

“There is peace, my brother. Go and find your name. You will find life again—you will find it somewhere chiseled in a stone, carved in a tree, or flowing through some stream. Go and find yourself again, find your family, and then be a witness—tell the whole world our story. Find a new life; find a new heart; find a new name.”

“How will I find them, my family? I have been a man without words.”

“Now you have a reason to speak. Now you have questions. Open your mouth now, my brother. When you are armed with words, aim to do good.”

“I have blood on my hands.”

Nat Turner sighed in the darkness. “In one way or another, we all have blood on our hands.”

“But I am a dead man.” There was silence, then he spoke again. “I am a bloody man. Why would He want me?”

“There is power to resurrect you, and it is available to you, to each one of us—no matter how wretched, no matter how heartbroken.

“There is only one thing that can wash the stain away. Make your way to the place of refuge, to Hebron, to the Great Dismal Swamp.”

Nat Turner told Will the way to go and all that he remembered. “You will be tempted to do what you know, to use your axe to be a shingle-getter and to chop down trees. But seek to be a deliveryman, drive the flatboats down the waterway.

“Bide your time there in the swamp. When things are quiet—when the captors are no longer searching—make your way to Norfolk. Let your ears guide you. Souls in the swamp will help you make your way.”

After Nat Turner had given Will a pass and pointed out the direction, he reminded Will to keep to the woods and travel by day. He must try not to be seen—but once he was outside Southampton County, he was less likely to be suspected of being a runaway traveling in daylight. At night, the patrollers would assume he was trying to escape. “Remember me, brother. There is hope. There is comfort in the swamp, there is healing in the darkness,” Nat Turner told him.

Nat raised his head above the opening and watched Will walk away. The revolt was over for him. “Go to the place of refuge, be healed, find your voice, and then go tell our story.”

W
ithout Will the days were silent. Autumn was coming—Nat Turner saw it in the moon and felt it in the air. Fall was coming in the way she came to Virginia, walking slowly to let everyone know she was in no hurry. The days were still warm, but the nights were cooler. The evenings came sooner and a few leaves had fallen. Autumn was adorning herself in bright colors—crimson, ginger, and gold—though most of the leaves were still green. Nat Turner smelled her perfume—smoke from hearth fires and the heady sweetness of fermented valley apples.

He wanted to make a fire—there were rabbits and squirrels to catch—but he knew he would be discovered. Instead, when he was out, he gathered more leaves and branches to warm himself.

Night had become his daytime. In the darkness, he gleaned in the abandoned fields. He found corn gone to seed, rotting potatoes, shriveled apples, whatever was left behind. He got bolder over time, creeping nearer the farmhouses so he was able to snatch a few eggs.

In the daylight he sheltered and waited in the darkness of the cave. From where he sat, he sometimes saw deer moving gracefully across the forest grounds or rabbits hopping by.

Nat Turner passed most of his daylight hours sleeping. In the beginning he had been afraid to sleep. He thought his dreams would be tormented by Sallie, by the Wallers, and the others. But God was merciful. Mostly he dreamed of Cherry and the last time he had seen her dancing near the oak in the moonlight in the early summer.

In his dreams he smelled her flowers. He heard her laugh. He
smelled her hair. In his dreams he heard rhythms of a place he knew but had never been. He felt the cool tickle of the highland breezes on his neck.

Soon it would be winter, the days would be cold, the leaves would all fall, and his hiding place would be exposed. But for now, he was safe.

Two days had come and gone since Will left. The armed patrollers still guarded the roads at night on horseback, carrying torches. But one night, not long ago, he had risked letting Cherry know that he was alive and still near to her, and that he had kept his promise: He would never leave her again.

He had crept as close as he dared to Giles Reese's farmhouse. Remaining in the woods, but close enough that he could see the candlelight in the windows, he had used the bird call and hoped she would recognize him.

The next night when he had awakened he had found a piece of corn bread and two pieces of fried salt pork wrapped in an old cloth near the tree. Cherry did not dare come to him herself; the captors were watching her. But she sent others she trusted to the tree.

It was dangerous to come, so it was not unusual for weeks to pass before anyone came by. They threw him leftover bread, sometimes a tiny precious morsel of meat, and they dropped him tidbits of news. They never entered the cave and he never came out. His visitors risked speaking only a few whispered words. “Hearings have started. Old John Clarke Turner fingered you.” He heard in the messenger's voice that even he felt the sting of a brother's betrayal.

More days and weeks would pass before anyone came again—days of wind, rain, more leaves falling, less food to be scrounged from the land. Then there was news of men being hamstrung—their tendons severed—and women being raped. There was word of men hanging from trees, their heads atop poles. Then weeks later, “All's quiet now.”

To pass the time Nat Turner would try to imagine his visitors,
to recognize the voices. Was it one of the freemen? One of the trusted captives who had recently visited Giles Reese's place?

“A reward out for you,” he was told during his next visit. “Over one thousand dollars!” Almost seven times what a farmer could expect to earn in a year in Southampton County.

More weeks passed, weeks of prayer, prayers for the living and the dead, for captives and captors. Hark was gone. Sam was gone. Yellow Nelson and Dred gone….
Holy Maryam, the God-bearer, pray that your beloved son, Jesus Christ, may forgive us.
His life was never going to be what he had hoped. He would never see Ethiopia. There was never going to be a family of brothers who welcomed him, who loved him. Like Canaan, it was his own family who condemned him to slavery. Like Joseph, it was his own brothers who beat him, though it was a brother's wife who sold him into slavery. It was his brother John Clarke who betrayed him.

Nat Turner prayed for the witnesses to come, to comfort him, to reassure him. But he was alone. Only the words he had memorized comforted him.
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Then one day the news came he had dreaded. “More hangings.” Nat Turner mourned them.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
Another visitor passed. “More hangings.” There were names among the deceased who were not part of the army.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God
.

But it did not end there. There was more suffering. “Nathan, Curtis, and Stephen.” It was torment to hear the roll call of the dead. There were faithful soldiers among them. But the captors were also killing innocent men, women, and children—exchanging captive lives for money.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
“Joe and Lucy gone to the gallows. Little Moses sold, sent Deep South. Beat him. Poor little fella lied to save
himself, just like Hubbard and Venus.” Lucy? A girl? And little Moses? Nat Turner wept over the names and the lives. He wept over the deaths of the innocents.

Nat Turner wrestled with himself. Perhaps, if he surrendered, the captors would free the others. But he knew, even as he prayed, that his death would bring peace to no one. It would cause heartbreak for his family, for his mother, and for Cherry. His surrendering now would do no good. He could not force his time to come. His hour and time were in the hands of God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
“Jim and Isaac hanged.” All the innocents sent to slaughter.
Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.

There were more leaves now, and green had given way to orange and scarlet. There were still patrollers with torches on the roads, but not as frequent, and there were fewer gunshots. The sun was shorter and the moon longer. Weeks passed and then Nat Turner got the word he dreaded most, “They beat your Cherry! Beat her awful!”

N
at Turner roared from his hiding place, tearing through the boughs and brush that hid him so that he frightened Berry Newsom and knocked him down. “They wanted Cherry to tell them where you were, Prophet Nat. Wanted all your papers. They got your papers and your Bible. But no matter how they beat her, she wouldn't tell!”

He grabbed hold of Berry. “Who was there?”

“Congressman Trezvant, Levi Waller, John Clarke, and the others. Even Thomas Gray.” Nat Turner let go of Berry's collar.
Even Thomas Gray?

“Nathaniel Francis led them. Cut out a plug of her hair before Giles Reese stopped them,” Berry said.

Not his Cherry, not her beautiful black hair! Nat Turner moaned, pressing his hands to his head.

“Giles Reese finally pulled a pistol on them, but he was afraid, too!”

Nat Turner pushed past Berry, past the trees that hid him, making his way toward the road. He would kill them all!

He heard Berry panting to keep up with him. “The others were out of control, Nat! What could Giles do?”

Nat Turner knew the paths, the traces through the woods, but he was blinded. He tripped over jutting tree roots, stumbled over withering blackberry bushes; he charged through the woods. Berry Newsom chased behind him and tackled Nat Turner when he finally overtook him.

“Use your head, Nat! They want to roust you out of hiding! You'll get Cherry, me, and all the others killed!”

Covered in leaves, the two of them sat on the forest floor, panting. Berry was quiet for a moment. “You'll get us all killed,” he repeated. “Not that my time is far off. They're sending me with the freemen to be prosecuted. They're getting rid of all the freemen, getting us out of the way—to shut us up and steal the land.”

Nat Turner buried his head in his arms. He knew that Berry was right. But the thought of Cherry being beaten and savaged was more than he could bear. Berry seemed to read his mind.

“You'll only make it worse. She's all right, Nat.” Berry picked up his hat and knocked the dried leaves off his clothes. “Who are you going to go after, anyway? Cherry might be stronger than all of us.”

Berry was right. It was almost over. There was just one more thing that Nat Turner was required to do.

I
n the black of night, Nat Turner crept closer and closer to the farmhouse. At the edge of the woods, he saw the dwelling across the clearing. He had been close many nights before, had taken food from the garden and eggs from the henhouse. A candle was always burning in the window. Nathaniel Francis sat in a chair, awake, facing the door. Young Nathaniel Francis never slept and there was always a rifle on his lap.
You must kill the root.

Quietly, slowly, Nat Turner inched along, crawling on his belly. The clearing between the forest and the house was the most dangerous place; if he was discovered there was no place to hide. Nat Turner edged nearer, his eyes riveted on Nathaniel.

He had only this last chance. Winter was coming soon. He had seen the ducks flying overhead; he had heard the geese honking as they flew farther south. The great oak was shedding its leaves. Nat Turner's time was drawing near.

He crouched in the winter garden, closer now to the house. Nathaniel Francis had a glass of corn whiskey in his hand. The young man had still not looked up to see him.

Nat Turner crept across the yard, avoiding the light that came from the window. At the house, he pressed his back flat against the wall. An inch at a time, he eased closer to the shaft of light that marked the window.
You must destroy the root.

Nat Turner gripped the worn wooden handle of his sword, once his scythe, in his hand. This was his last opportunity to do what must be done. He pressed his back closer against the wall. He tried to slow his heartbeat and quiet his breathing. This was his last chance.

N
at Turner risked everything. Kill or be killed. Outside in the dark, he looked in through the window at Nathaniel Francis.

If there was such a thing, Nathaniel was the worst, the vilest. Not much more than a boy, he treated the people around him like cornshuck dolls, like disposable toys. He had made the lives of so many miserable, had destroyed lives—Mother Easter, Will, Sam, Charlotte, Davy. And when he was tired of them, he sold them to a hangman's noose for money to buy more things. How had Nathaniel grown from a boy to become this monster?

The younger man, a rifle across his lap, jumped at every sound or movement—a log shifting in the fire or the candle's flickering flame. Across the room, on the floor, Nat Turner saw poor Mother Easter. Without cover, without even leaves, she was curled into a ball lying on the cold, hard floor.

He stared inside, knowing that with the flame inside and the window's reflection Nathaniel Francis could not see him. Nat Turner gripped the scythe tighter in his hand, felt every notch and nick.