The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial

by Sharon Ewell Foster

  Loose the bands of wickedness, undo the heavy burdens, let the oppressed go free, and break every yoke…

  They would strike down the pastor, Richard Whitehead, the trustees, and their heirs. The members of Turner’s Meeting Place who professed God but whose hearts were full of cruelty and wickedness, who gave no mercy, would see this world no more.

  He and the other warriors, God’s soldiers, would do their business in secret, by the light of the sickle moon. There would be others, those who didn’t have the courage to fight, who would bury the dead. When the survivors awakened it would be a great mystery to them, like Jamestown.

  Nat Turner’s tongue was loosened then and he began to share the revelation of the Dismal Swamp and of the Lord’s coming judgment. “Beat your plowshares into swords…”

  They had no voices. Their actions would speak for them. So they would steal no money, damage no property, and rape no women. They would not dishonor God. They would plan carefully, every detail. It was not murder; it was a war for freedom. It was the only language left to them.

  Nat Turner saw the visions again. He saw the battle—white men fighting their brothers, then black men fighting white men in heaven. He saw the blood on the corn and knew the time would be in summer. He shared God’s message with a few trusted men—Nelson, right then. Yellow Nelson said the Lord had already confirmed the plan with him.

  Later he shared with Hark, Dred, Sam, Tom, and a few trusted others. Hark said he was ready. They planned their strike for Independence Day, July 4th, 1831.

  When they were alone, Nat Turner spoke to his friend, his brother Hark. “Are you certain? You are not compelled to come.”

  Hark laughed at first. “You have been trying to get me killed for years.” Then his face sobered. “How can I not come? I see, I feel. Even women have not been able to blind me.” It was the most serious Nat Turner had seen his friend. “I believe God and I have never known you to lie—even when it would have been best for you. You are God’s prophet.

  “If you are caught they will say I was with you anyway.” Hark laid a heavy hand on Nat Turner’s shoulder. “You are my brother. How could I not go with you?” Hark stared at him quietly for a while and then laughed again. He plucked Nat Turner’s right biceps. “Scrawny. You need me. God would never let me rest in peace if I didn’t go with you!”

  War was the price of hope. It was the price of the coming generations’ freedom. It was the price for his wife, for all the innocent brides who were defiled. July 4th. “Strengthen our arms, Lord.”

  God had given His sign.

  Chapter 38

  Spring had come again. It had been a dreadful winter, but a flower here, a robin there, were the harbingers of renewal. The sky had darkened in February, but now it was spring and they planted the season’s corn and planned the July 4th harvest. The visions from the Great Dismal Swamp—blood on the corn—were always before Nat Turner.

  He walked through the woods on the emerald carpet to the hidden place where he would meet Thomas Gray. They had been friends since boyhood. But since they had come of age—long past the time when boys played with sticks that magically turned to swords—it could be dangerous for the two of them to be seen together. It was illegal. Nat Turner shifted the package he carried to his other hand. He kept them covered so that if someone came across him, they would not see that he carried books.

  Nat Turner passed the twin oaks and paused. They were wrapped with wisteria vines that climbed five times a man’s height. The lightweight clumps of purple flowers that hung heavy from the vines like bunches of sweet grapes were heartbreakingly beautiful. He had torn some vines away from apple trees earlier that morning.

  It was a shame to have to choose—the beautiful purple flowers or the apple blossoms. Nat Turner was tempted when he saw the vines scaling the trees to let them grow. He would prefer to allow both to live—the apples were sweet, fragrant, and might fill his stomach; the wisteria’s flowers were beautiful to behold.

  But the wisteria vines with their lovely flowers were deceptively strong. Veiled by the flowers, the vines would grow lush, full, and unyielding with no respect for the value and beauty of the host tree it squeezed. If he left them, without destroying the root of the wisteria, the vines would grow to the circumference of a man’s arms and choke the apple tree—eventually, despite the vine’s beauty, there would be no apple trees or apples left.

  The wisteria grew unyielding, uncaring, unaware, as though it were the only plant worthy of life. It would kill a sapling before it grew to maturity and squeeze the life out of an elder tree. Nat Turner looked at the hanging lavender-colored flowers and breathed in the sweet smell. Eventually the vines would overpower even the ancient twin oaks.

  He continued on his way to their meeting spot, past trees thick with leaves. Birds flitted from limb to limb. He pushed the branches out of his way. He and Thomas always met in the same small clearing—a place with a boulder in the center, a good place to sit and rest. The two of them would be cloaked by nature so that no one would see them.

  Everyone knew that Nat Turner could read and write, but it was still forbidden by law. Thomas Gray had made it a habit to lend him books to read, sometimes newspapers. Thomas had even once shown him the Declaration of Independence reprinted in a Fourth of July newspaper. Then the two of them would meet to discuss, every two months or when the weather would allow it, what Thomas had shared. Nat Turner would return the loaned items and usually Thomas Gray would have something new for him.

  Sometimes Nat Turner shared his experiments—like trying to make wallpaper or trying to make gunpowder and small fireworks. He told no one else about them; it was dangerous for a slave to dream beyond what others planned for him. He showed Thomas Gray plants he had discovered and rocks that he had collected.

  They discussed history and war heroes, like Nathan Hale and Crispus Attucks. Thomas Gray fancied himself a literary critic and thought he could, if he wanted, be a great writer. So, often, they debated novels. In past times there had been tales like The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes. This time there had been two plays: one written by Shakespeare, a story of family jealousy and betrayal; and the other a translation of a play authored by a French playwright, Alexandre Dumas.

  There was no doubt that Thomas would find something wrong with Hamlet and the new play Charles VII at the Homes of His Great Vassals. He was critical of every story—every story except Voltaire’s Candide.

  Though he was grateful when his friend brought him books, Nat Turner often felt that the cost was Thomas Gray’s lording it over him. Gray always had to assert himself as better; he always had to know more, to be more. But Thomas Gray was still Nat Turner’s friend. Gray was jealous of those he loved. Gray was not perfect, but now that there was so little time left, Nat Turner valued what he had.

  Since the sun had darkened, he had traveled throughout the area preaching to the captives—preaching against the lies about God and Africa. When they would listen, he even preached to the captors, warning them and hoping they would turn.

  He could no longer count the number of people he had preached to throughout the coasts of Virginia and North Carolina. He never held back; he didn’t mince words. He told them what God told him to tell them. He had seen the sign in the heavens and he knew the end was near. It was worth their tears or offense if he could help protect their immortal souls.

  But it was much easier preaching to strangers. It was hard to speak the truth to friends and loved ones, especially a friend whom he could see dying before him.

  Nat Turner knew his friend Thomas Gray did not believe that God would ever punish him. Wrong and sin had been assigned to others, to scapegoats, and bypassed him. Thomas Gray was absolved, and so he didn’t worry about God or what God wanted. He considered hell, and all he considered superstitious, fit only for poor folk and slaves.

  The two of them had remained friends since childhood, though now they kept their discussions to books a
nd weather; at least Nat Turner did. Thomas Gray could discuss anything; he was a free white man. But Nat Turner didn’t know if their friendship could survive what he might say if his tongue were freed.

  Thomas Gray wasted too much time with people who despised him. He drank too much. He was throwing away his life. Nat Turner wondered if he would have told his friend the truth if they were just friends and not a slave speaking to a master, not a captive speaking to a captor.

  But he knew in God’s eyes they were brothers, not slave and master. He would not be forgiven because he bowed down and did not speak the truth as a slave; he would be held accountable for failing to act out of brotherly love.

  In truth, he and Thomas were friends closer than his own brothers. The two of them shared thoughts and feelings that Nat Turner never would have been free to share with Samuel—and especially not with John Clarke, whose heart was too full of envy to have room for friendship or love.

  Nat Turner swept past the trees and through the brush lush with leaves. He looked up at the sky. He reminded himself to remember this day and not to waste any opportunity. Brotherly love. He had so much to tell his friend. There was so much to say, so much he did not want to say.

  You are wasting the gifts God has given you because you are afraid to even try. You are afraid of life. God will hold you accountable for keeping men and women in chains. There was so much to say, but Nat Turner did not want to say it. Hypocrite. Sot. Wastrel. Adulterer. Manstealer. They were all names he could use, but he did not want to hurt his friend, his brother. It was easy to be a prophet among strangers but more difficult among those who were your own.

  Better to risk their friendship in this world than to doom their brotherhood eternally. Nat Turner did not want to lose his friend even though it was, he admitted to himself, a shallow friendship. They stayed in shallow relationship because it was safer and there was less likelihood of drowning.

  Nat Turner looked forward to their talks about the books. For a few moments, when they met secretly, they could exist in a world without skin color, without class, without rules, and without slavery. Both of them could drop their struggles with who they were and with whom they wanted to be. But there was so little time—the sky had darkened and the corn would soon be bearing, and there was so much left to say.

  When Nat Turner saw Thomas Gray, he extended his hand. There had been many years since their imaginary sword fights. Their lives were different in ways Nat Turner had not wanted to imagine then. They both were married—though his own marriage was considered counterfeit—and they both had children. Thomas Gray had a daughter whom he adored.

  But Thomas had become a practicing lawyer, though a discontented one, while Nat Turner had become a slave. July 4th was fast approaching. This might be his last opportunity to see his friend, to warn him. “Thank you for sharing these with me.” Nat Turner handed the books to Thomas Gray.

  “So, how did you enjoy Mr. Shakespeare, Nat?” In the forest alone there were no titles; they were Thomas and Nat. They were friends… almost.

  “Very much so. He might have been writing about Cross Keys as well as Denmark.”

  “I thought his writing might agree with you, but then you find something good in most writers.” Nat Turner’s friend shook his head. “If I wrote, I would never write like that. It’s all too much drivel and just a waste of time. Tell me the story, don’t preach to me.” Thomas Gray tied his horse to a nearby tree. “For my money, I prefer the swashbuckler. There is too much romance in Shakespeare, but I did enjoy Romeo’s swordplay.”

  Nat Turner rested on the boulder.

  “So much fighting, you would have thought they could get along.” Thomas Gray smiled and gave him a baiting look. “It rather reminds me of the fighting among your people in Africa.”

  Nat Turner did not want to argue. He wanted his last memory of his friend to be a pleasant one.

  “Why do you people always fight one another?”

  Nat Turner laughed to hold back the bile. “Why do you people always fight one another?”

  “You mock me.”

  “No, I answer you.”

  “We do not fight. White men live in peace with each other as civilized men. We have laws and courts to decide our disputes.”

  “In Ethiopia, we have elders, wise men, who settle our disputes.”

  “But you are still always fighting. Black men are always fighting one another.”

  Nat Turner laughed again. “You are always fighting one another. White men, the British, came here in 1812 to fight you, other white men. And you are still afraid; you worry at night thinking they will invade again.”

  “But they are British. We are Americans.”

  “Like you, we are Montagues and Capulets. We are Ethiopians and they are Sudanese or Moroccans.”

  “But you are all black—fighting each other.”

  “You are all white. The kings and queens of Europe who fight each other, they are all white and all related, aren’t they? They play and fight with each other on soil that does not belong to them and play with other people like rag dolls. They put meal sacks and white gloves on farmers so they can play their make-believe games.”

  Thomas’s face reddened. “It is not the same. You people brutalize each other, beating one another with clubs and stabbing one another with spears.”

  “A spear, a club, a cannon—it is exactly the same. Is it more civilized, more humane, for one man to kill another eye to eye or for one man to stand at a distance and kill hundreds or thousands who never see his face? Anger, greed, power lust have no color. Everyone who looks like you does not mean the best for you.” Hutu and Tutsi. Poles and Russians. Serbs and Croatians.

  Nat Turner looked at the rifle in Thomas Gray’s saddlebag and the whip next to it. “Tell me who wants to kill others.” He looked back at his friend Thomas. “Why create weapons if you do not dream of violence? The evidence is against you.”

  Thomas Gray did what he always did when the water got deep: He paddled for the shore. “I think Hamlet feels sorry for himself. If he doesn’t like what his mother and uncle are doing, he should leave Denmark and move on.”

  His friend could be casual about family relations because his family had never been threatened. He could be casual about leaving because he had never been stolen away; he was free to go where he pleased. There was no pass required for him to leave; Thomas Gray had to find only the courage. “I find Mr. Shakespeare’s writing too laborious, moralistic, and romantic. Too melodramatic for my taste.”

  Thomas Gray could criticize Shakespeare because he avoided criticism by never writing a word. “Why don’t you try your hand at writing, Thomas?”

  “Someday. Perhaps, when I’m less busy.”

  Thomas noticed a scar on Nat Turner’s temple. “A recent gift from our young friend Nathaniel Francis? Why do you taunt them, Nat? Why do you make your own life hard?”

  “I didn’t make my life hard. I didn’t make myself a slave.”

  Thomas sighed, shook his hands with exasperation. “Why do you fight against it, Nat? We have the lives that are given to us. Did you ever consider that this might be the best life for you and the others? Maybe you are happier this way as slaves. Sometimes I think I would be happier being a slave—no responsibility, no expectations.”

  “No one wants to be a slave, Thomas.”

  “All right then, a simple farmer with a pretty wife on a small farm tucked away in a place no one could find us—that might be a better life for me. My wife and I, we would have six children, fat babies with no shoes, and I would be a writer. It’s true; I might be happier with that life. But that is not the life that has been given to me. I must make the best of the life I have.”

  “But the life you have doesn’t make you a beast to be beaten, to be lashed, to be raped or stolen. The life you have does not manacle your children. The life you have doesn’t force you to work a lifetime with nothing to show for it.”

  Thomas shrugged. “It might have.”
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  “But it doesn’t. Is slavery the life you would choose for your daughter? Would you make your sister a slave? Would you stand by and say ‘be patient’ if it were your daughter being raped? We have hearts and blood like you. We have feelings like you. We are all Abraham’s children.”

  Thomas Gray looked away. “But why do you taunt them, those like Nathaniel Francis? Why can’t you be more like Red Nelson?”

  Nat Turner knew Gray’s thinking. Like the other captors, thoughts that he knew better and was better were unconscious. Like a man living on a dung heap, he had lost the ability to smell his own arrogance.

  The thinking had gone on so long no one remembered when it started. No one even noticed it; it—thinking he knew better and was better—seemed the right and natural thing. Only standing against the thinking caused a sensation. Feeling superior must be seductive as well as insidious. Nat Turner knew his friend would not want to give up what he had inherited.

  “How can you tell me who I should be like, Thomas? Perhaps I think you should be like Ethelred Brantley or Benjamin Phipps.”

  Thomas Gray did not answer; instead, he began a new conversation. He rose to stick the packet of books in his saddlebag. On the way he paused and shook the books. “I could do better than this. At least I could do no worse. Maybe I should have gone into writing after all. Who knows? I might write a great work of fiction.”

  “Why did you choose the law?”

  “The law chose me. Really, my family chose it for me.”

  “Your family?”

  “All of us are lawyers. It was a family expectation. It’s what my father wanted me to be. It’s what my family counted on.”

  “As a free man, you couldn’t say no?”

  Thomas Gray bristled, turning to face him. “I could have said no.”

  “You couldn’t leave this place? Do you think slave catchers would come after you?” There was more cynicism in Nat’s voice than he intended.