The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial

by Sharon Ewell Foster

  “‘Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.’”

  Cherry wrapped her arms around him.

  “‘Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.’”

  She touched his face with her hand.

  He breathed her in. “Marry me,” he said.

  Cherry stayed.

  Chapter 12

  In Ethiopia weddings lasted seven days. There were feasts and prayers, and priests playing timbrels, dancing, and beating on drums. Nat Turner imagined that he and Cherry were marrying in his mother’s way. In Ethiopia, he would not have been able to marry her if she was his cousin within seven relations. He would not have been able to marry her if he could not pay the bride-price. How would he have ever hoped to pay for and marry such a woman?

  Her eyes were hope’s promise, and when she smiled and said his name, he knew that God loved him. Nathan Turner knew, when he breathed in Cherry, that God knew his name. When she, his wife, snuggled onto his lap, he knew that everything his mother had told him about Ethiopia was true.

  The skin on her legs was hairless, smooth, and cool, but the tips of his fingers felt fire. She wrapped around him like brown ribbon. Her kinky hair was his pillow. She made him more of who he was than when he was alone.

  At night she entwined one leg with his and slid her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. In the dark, he saw fireflies. When they were alone, Cherry sang him made-up songs. “My love is prince of Ethiopia,” and Nat Turner, Negasi, forgot where he was.

  When he was with her, they were clouded in silks and there was gold on their fingers. There were roses and orchids, spices and sunsets. In the distance he watched elephants and giraffes promenade, and zebras, leopards, and antelope lope by. When he was with Cherry, he left Virginia far behind.

  Ethiopia was a paradise, and her colors kissed the sky. Her mountains bore the sweetest fruit, and all her valleys were myrrh. Stars crowned her head, and flowers kissed her feet; she lived in the midst of a rainbow. Solomon bowed at her beauty, and the Nile was the cradle and the birthplace of all life. Cherry was a garden, and Africa lived in her hair.

  WHEN TEN FULL moons passed, Cherry bore their first son, Riddick.

  In the woods, far away from the barn and underneath the moonlight and the boughs of trees loaded with spring blossoms, Cherry moaned as Riddick fought his way into the world.

  Not far away, but as though she were in Ethiopia, his mother prayed ancient prayers in Amharic and sang songs her mother had taught her. She lifted prayers to protect and comfort Cherry, to welcome the baby into the world.

  Nat Turner held his baby in his arms, his son, his tiny son. Tiny perfect fingers curled around one of his own. Brown eyes full of wonder looked into his—eyes that believed him, that trusted him, that thought he was a king.

  He kissed his son’s forehead and kissed his hand. “Things will be different for you,” he whispered to Riddick. He kissed his precious son and then slowly lifted Riddick to present him to the village, to his ancestors far away, and to God.

  Beside Nat Turner, his mother spoke words and sang songs to honor her grandson, Amharic words forbidden in America. Born today is the son of nine generations of warriors! Born today is the son of eleven generations of prophets! Born today is the son of eight generations of wise women! The son of ancient fathers who walked with Abba Selama! Behold their aspects bloom in him!

  Nat Turner lowered his son to his shoulder. “I promise. Things will be different for you.” He enfolded Riddick in his arms. “On my own life, I promise you a better one. On my own life, I promise you a better way.”

  Cherry was a quiet wife, and he hoped no one would notice her with the scarf around her head and her rags on. He did not talk about her to others because he wanted to keep her for his own. Riddick was a quiet baby, and Nat Turner kept him close. He was quiet with his family; he did not want others to notice them.

  But he knew. They had already taught him. A slave could not have anything.

  NAT TURNER LOOKED across the room at Cherry and, though it was winter, he smelled apple blossoms. She bent over the stove in the kitchen, helping with Christmas dinner. Watching her, her brown hands and sweet brown face, still did the same things to him. When she combed her hair, when she smiled, when she touched his hand, she still took his breath away. As he was to his mother, she was his shame and his glory.

  He came back to do the will of God. But in truth, he also came back for Cherry. He came back to never leave her, to be a man who would never abandon her, no matter the cost.

  His presence was his sonnet to her. She read it; he could see it in her eyes. He came back for her and for his son.

  Harriet

  Chapter 13

  Plymouth Church, Brooklyn Heights

  1856

  The service over and all the visitors and congregants greeted, Harriet retired to the pastor’s study with Henry and Frederick Douglass. Henry, still full of life, bounded through the door and onto his favorite sitting place, the sofa, in his favorite position—on his knees, curled almost into position like a Cheshire cat. “Hattie, do take off that atrocious bonnet, you look like a country schoolmarm.”

  She glanced at Mr. Douglass to see how he was receiving her brother’s foolishness. “Henry, please!”

  “Oh, Hattie, settle your feathers. You are both at home here and we are all family.” Smiling, he reached for a nearby plate. It appeared to have once been full of cookies, but now there were only two left. “Here, a peace offering.”

  “No thank you, brother. We have business to attend to.”

  Henry half pouted, half smiled. “Don’t be cross with me.” He turned to Frederick Douglass. “You see, a prophet is without honor in his own family.” He turned in the seat like a five-year-old, not like a world-famous pastor. “Please have one. They are delicious ginger cookies. See the crumbs? But I saved these last just for the two of you. I knew you would be famished. Take one, and then pour tea so that you will be refreshed.” He beamed at the two of them, his blue-gray eyes sparkling. “I thought of everything.” He pouted again. “Please, Hattie.”

  When they each had tea, Harriet and Frederick accepted the last two cookies. Frederick nodded at Harriet. “Please, ladies first.”

  Harriet sipped her tea and then bit into the cookie.

  Henry leaned forward, one eyebrow raised. “Delicious?”

  Harriet frowned and then, without thinking, she spit crumbs onto the floor.

  Henry clapped his hands, lifting partway from his seat. “Perfect!”

  She gulped tea to wash the taste from her mouth. “Henry, the cookies are horrible!”

  “I know.” He giggled. “One of the good church ladies baked them for me.” He looked back and forth between Harriet and Frederick. “The sweet woman’s eyesight is not what it once was. I believe she reached for the salt when she thought she had the sugar.” He laughed out loud. “I threw most of them away, but I wanted to share my good fortune with friends.”

  Frederick Douglass attempted to cover his laugh with his napkin.

  Her younger brother had always been a prankster, and age had not cured him. “I should have known better.” She looked at Frederick. “Did you know about this, Mr. Douglass?”

  Frederick shrugged, trying not to smile. “This is a family matter. I never step between brother and sister.”

  “You are both children. I am here on a serious matter, and you both waste time with silly games.”

  The two men laughed aloud. Henry bounced on the sofa like a child, sputtering, “‘A m-m-merry heart doeth good like a m-m-medicine.’”

  Frederick wiped tears from his eyes as he
chuckled. “‘The joy of the LORD is our strength.’”

  “How can the two of you laugh when there are such heavy matters before us?”

  Henry and Frederick began to outdo each other, quoting Bible passages.

  “‘They that sow in tears shall reap in joy!’”

  “‘Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all the earth: make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise.’”

  They paid no attention to her. “Henry, behave!” With each round of quotes, the two got louder and louder. “Hush, you two, anyone about will think you have gone mad.” They ignored her and continued.

  “‘But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice: let them ever shout for joy!’”

  “‘Be glad in the LORD, and rejoice, ye righteous: and shout for joy!’”

  It was unseemly. The two of them were shouting now. “What kind of example are you two gentlemen—if I may call you that—setting?” Her protests were futile. “You are infants! I have come all this way to discuss the letter I have with me, and the two of you are playing whirligig and rolling the hoop.”

  Frederick Douglass stood and bowed. “‘Rejoice in the LORD, O ye righteous: for praise is comely!’”

  “Henry, you have had a terrible influence on Mr. Douglass. You have turned a perfectly intelligent gentleman into a jokester, like yourself.”

  Not to be outdone, Henry stood this time and sang his quote in a booming baritone. “‘Hitherto have ye asked nothing in my name: ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.’”

  “What would Father say, Henry?”

  Mr. Douglass joined Henry in song. The two linked arms, raising one toward the ceiling. “‘Rejoice in the LORD always: and again I say, Rejoice!’”

  Harriet tried to hold back the smile creeping onto her face. “A couple of blasphemers is what you two are. If only the newspapers could get wind of this.” A giggle leaked out. “I think I shall tell them myself.” She let go and laughed.

  No matter the circumstances, Henry had always been the child in the family to brighten events by making everyone laugh. She had been so worried, had cried so many tears. Laughter was medicine. Harriet pressed her napkin to her face and allowed herself to laugh and weep.

  Chapter 14

  The three of them divided the pages of the letter containing excerpts from Governor Floyd’s diary. Each one shook his head as they read—Henry perched on his sofa, Frederick Douglass behind Henry’s desk, and Harriet in the great chair—pausing at times to read out loud. Next to Frederick’s pages was a copy of The Confessions of Nat Turner.

  She had read the entire letter over and over again; it still made her flinch. Deep in thought, Frederick rubbed his fingers over his beard, sometimes pulling at it. He looked up and spoke. “Twenty-five years have passed since Nat Turner’s hanging, but these excerpts make it all seem contemporary.” He tapped the pages in his hand. “Even at that time, during the confusion surrounding them, the governor had doubts about the trials.”

  He began to read excerpts from the governor’s diary. “‘This day the record of the trial of Mischek, a negro in Greensville for conspiracy was brought. The evidence was too feeble and therefore I have reprieved him for sale and transportation.’”

  Frederick Douglass shifted forward in his chair. “We hardly hear about the others who were hanged, or slated to be hanged, and this poor fellow was not even from Southampton County.”

  Henry nodded. “I imagine that in addition to rampant fear, lucre tempted them. The average family in the area might expect to make little more than one hundred fifty dollars in a year’s time. My wife, Eunice, and I sometimes reminisce about when I was hired to pastor, making twice that amount and still we would have starved had it not been for donations of food and such.

  “With such easy convictions and Virginia paying for each convicted slave, the temptation to sacrifice slave lives for money must have been overwhelming. Their consciences were already dulled.” The smile was gone from Henry’s face, his cheeks reddened, and Harriet thought she saw tears in his eyes. He was a prankster, and a man’s man, but her brother was so compassionate that he was easily brought to tears.

  Henry read the entry for October 30, 1831. “‘Received news that the dead body of the negro which was supposed to be Nat had been taken up and examined by General Smith of Kanawha.’” He paused, looking over the top of his pages. “Kanawha? The county is more than three hundred miles away from Jerusalem, in western Virginia. It makes me wonder how many other slaves died at the hands of men seeking the bounty on Nat Turner’s head. And the poor fellow who lost his life means nothing to them.”

  Harriet began reading. “‘Twenty-seventh day, September, 1831—I have received record of the trial of three slaves, for treason in Southampton. Am recommended to mercy, in this case I cannot do so, because there is not one member of the Council of State in Richmond.’” She lifted her eyes to look at the others, swallowed, and then continued. “‘Wherefore the poor wretch must lose his life.’” She coughed nervously and then pressed on. “‘I have received this day another number of the “Liberator,” a newspaper printed in Boston, with the express intention of inciting the slaves and free negroes in this and the other states to rebellion and to murder the men, women, and children of those states. Yet we are gravely told there is no law to punish such an offence. The amount of it then is this, a man in our States may plot treason in one state against another without fear of punishment, whilst the suffering state has no right to resist—’” Harriet choked in indignation and stopped reading.

  “Treason? Treason?” She realized she was yelling and lowered her voice, though she felt her heart thumping and blood rushing in her ears. “Inciting slaves and free negroes to rebellion and murder! Because we oppose slavery, because we insist that this country must live up to its promise of liberty for all, then we are described as disloyal. And it is ridiculous to accuse Garrison of inciting slaves and free Negroes to murder—he is a devout pacifist, for goodness’ sakes.” She fanned herself with the pages. “Plotting treason… and rebellion? Slaves have every right; in fact it’s their duty, to stand up against the tyranny imposed upon them. But Governor Floyd describes us as the villains.”

  “Garrison speaks the truth.” Harriet was surprised to hear Frederick Douglass speak in support of the man who had openly criticized him. “He shines light into the gray, swirling storm of slavery. Why, even Governor Floyd is double-minded. He argues against abolitionists, seeking to have them prosecuted. He lays the blame for the rebellion not on man’s desire to be free, but on Negro preachers, saying, ‘The whole of that massacre in Southampton is the work of these preachers as daily intelligence informs me.’” Douglass thumped the pages. “The governor does not once consider that the intelligence might be false. Or, at least, not before it is too late.

  “Yet, in the next breath, he seeks to save the slaves from the noose and declares, ‘Before I leave this government, I will have contrived to have a law passed gradually abolishing slavery in this state.’

  “Governor Floyd did not seem to recognize that his thoughts, if not brothers to Garrison’s, were at least cousins.”

  “Gradual emancipation? He is indeed double-minded. He speaks of emancipation but thunders against efforts by Garrison and the others, efforts to ensure liberty and peace.” She continued, “Floyd says, ‘If this is not checked it must lead to a separation of these states.’”

  Frederick lowered the pages he held. “Garrison’s Liberator and the words of abolitionists are thorns in the sides of Floyd and his compatriots. They cannot deny the truth of what Garrison says, but they don’t want to hear it, so they accuse him of plotting murder and rebellion.”

  Harriet pressed on, reading from Floyd’s diary. “‘If the forms of law will not punish, the law of nature will not permit men to have their families butchered before their eyes by their slaves and not seek by force.’”

  She looked up from her reading. “It is senseless to me. One man insists he
has a right to defend his family while he insists that another, who seeks to do the same, is a criminal. There is such venom in Floyd’s words when he writes of Negro preachers and abolitionists.

  “If we do not conform to his way—if we do not conform to the ways of slavery men—then we are the worst kind of villains and traitors, not worthy of citizenship. What is it that we say that is wrong? It is the teaching and the prayer of Christ that we all be one.”

  Henry nodded. Her thoughts were mirrored in the sadness she saw in his eyes. He began to speak softly. “‘Blessed are ye, when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of man’s sake. Rejoice ye in that day, and leap for joy: for, behold, your reward is great in heaven: for in the like manner did their fathers unto the prophets.’”

  Harriet sighed, looking at the two men who shared the study with her. She turned back to her pages. “Here Governor Floyd continues, ‘An anonymous writer from Philadelphia gives me to understand that the Northern fanatics are in that city plotting treason and insurrection in this State and planning the massacre of the white people of the Southern States by the blacks.’”

  Harriet paused. “I do believe he is referring to the Philadelphia Convention.” She blushed. “You see? The governor refers to people we know, describing these lovely patriots as though they are the worst sort. Listen. ‘Allen, a negro of Philadelphia and two white men of Boston, and some of New York’—most likely the Tappans—‘besides a numerous band of white men and negroes in their train.’

  “To think of him describing Bishop Allen in this manner, Garrison, the Tappans—these are some of America’s great patriots and God’s great servants.” It was disconcerting to hear them described as though they were criminals to be hunted. It was strange to hear them described as though they meant harm when their intent was to deliver others from harm. “I read it and I am ashamed, infuriated, and confused all at once. It is all very odd to me. He does not speak of strangers, but people we know. He speaks of us.”