Chapter 65
They sat together in silence.
Both of them could not die. Someone had to get away, to tell the story. Nat Turner could not leave: It was his fate. But Will could get away. Nat Turner stared in the other man’s direction. “Did the blood take the pain away?”
For a while, Will did not respond. Then he said, “I am not afraid to die.” Will’s voice was full of venom. “I won’t be finished until I see them all dead.”
“Has it made you better?”
“You question me? You started this whole thing, Prophet. We are both here together in the same hole. Are you better?”
“You are here because you wanted revenge. I am here because I want to see men live.”
Will’s arm pounded against the earthen walls of the cave. “What difference does it make?”
“You could live.”
“Live? I am a dead man. I been dead a long time. How can I live when I have lost everyone I love?” Then, as though a scab had been torn away, Will told Nat Turner the story of his family, the land they lost, and how they came to be slaves. He told him of the loss of his father, his mother, his sister, his wife, and his little girl. “They killed me when they took my wife and child.” Nat Turner thought he heard him sob.
Will told Nat Turner about the things Nathaniel Francis and his friends had done. “I been watching, biding my time.” He told Nat Turner of the things he had seen done to Charlotte, and about Two Feet, Easter, and the others. “I will not be satisfied until I see all of them—all white people—dead. I waited for years for this day to come, for my revenge. When I die, I’ll take as many of them as I can with me. I will bathe in their blood.”
“You don’t have to die, Will. You get away. This death is not for you.”
“I am as willing to die as anyone.”
“This death is not yours. Someone must live to tell the story. This death is mine. I will stay here, here with my family. You go. Go and find yours.”
“Find them how? Like a needle in a haystack. I will never see them in this life again.”
“You will find them.”
“How? The patrollers will catch me on the road. Even if I slip past them, where would I begin to find my family?”
“None of us is here by happenstance. Let Providence guide you.”
“Providence?” Will’s laugh was bitter. “God abandoned me long ago.”
Nat Turner felt the rag still at his waist, the rag that held the passes. “You will travel by night. I will tell you the way to go and give you a pass.”
“They will catch me. They will kill me.”
“What is the difference if you are already a dead man?”
Will was silent.
“While others have died, you still live, Will. It is for a reason.”
“You still live, Nat Turner. Why don’t you go instead?”
“My place is here, near my family. My place is here: It is God’s will. When my time comes, they will deliver me up. My brothers will deliver me to death, but not before the truth is known. I bear the yoke of Christ, but it is not for you.” Nat Turner swallowed. “There is a family debt I owe.” He coughed to clear away the stone in his throat. “You can live again. Let yourself hope again. Go and find your family.
“The road will be long, but you will find your way. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. I’m willing to die!”
“Dying is easy, Will. You have been bathed in their blood. Has it taken the ache away? Are you satisfied? Is your heart full? Is your loneliness gone? Has any of it brought back your daughter?” The questions hung in the darkness. “Has their blood brought you new life?”
“How can you question me, Nat Turner? You are the one who began this battle. You started this.”
“You have done your part. Those who have been captured will die. I will die. But you will live. You think your life is over, but there is new life for you in Christ.”
“Christ? Where was He when I needed Him, when I begged Him not to let them take my family? What does the white god care about black men’s burdens?”
“You need to be alone with Him. If you ask Him He will give you the answers—if you really want them.”
“Why should I live? You are the preacher. You have a family. I am a slave with no family. I am no one.”
“If you don’t live, there will be no witness. Our voices will die. They will bring false witnesses against me. But you will live and carry the truth with you of what was done to God’s people and what happened here. The day will come when you will be called to be a witness. But first you must find life again. You must find love again. You must go and find your name.”
“But why me?”
Nat Turner sighed in the darkness. “I would like long life. But that is not God’s plan for me. I am His servant. I will do His will. Our people will get to the Promised Land—I have my part to play in it and you have yours. I have been the hand of God’s judgment. Now you must be His witness.
“Though I have had loss and suffering in this life, the Lord has given me some small joy. It was at my time of greatest suffering, buried in it, that I discovered my true joy.” He thought of his time in the Great Dismal Swamp. Nat Turner thought of his mother, his wife, and his family. He thought of his friendships with Hark and Thomas Gray. He thought of his experiments, the books he’d read, and preaching as a circuit rider. “That time is over now. This grief and sorrow is for me to bear until the end.
“For the Lord’s sake, and for the sake of His people, I have put on righteousness as a breastplate and salvation as a helmet. I put on vengeance for clothing and zeal as a cloak. I have meted out the Lord’s judgment. According to their deeds, accordingly they have been repaid. I have carried out judgment and I will receive my reward.” Nat Turner thought of all the times he had seen Will at church. Always alone. He had never seen Will smile. “I have loved, I have lived, and I will live again.
“But you are a lonely man—no family, no friends, no wife, no daughter.”
There was silence again, only the wind rustling the leaves of the tree above their cave. “The Lord has looked past your anger. He sees it is just a mask you wear.” In the silence, in the dark, Nat Turner saw and heard Will’s broken heart. “He has seen that you have lost your way. He has seen your broken heart. He is a God of mercy. Make your way to the place of refuge. Make your way to Hebron; you will find healing there. Freedom. He will give you new life. He will lead you home.”
“I have seen enough of the white man’s freedom.” Will told Nat Turner the story of his father-in-law’s death, of finding his moldering, unburied body. “What has God to do with me? He killed me long ago when He took my wife and my daughter. I am a dead man,” Will repeated. “I have had enough of the white man’s god.”
“Not the white man’s freedom. Not the white man’s god. I speak of the One True God, who is God of all men, God of all nations, God of heaven and earth.”
“If God loves black men, how can He forgive white men?”
“Because He is Father to all; He is Father to those who offend and to those who have been offended. He is the Father and we are all brothers. God takes no pleasure in the death of His children, not even wicked ones.
“I have lost my family, too. But we must not confuse God with the power that pretends to be Him. He is love. He is the God of our forefathers.”
Nat Turner told Will the history that his mother had told him—of Sheba and Solomon. He told him of the great stone churches of Lalibela, and the Nile. “Lift up your head.
“God chose us to be here in Southampton, to be His mighty army. He could have chosen other men, greater men, but He chose us. We are His chosen—the foolish things, the weak things, the despised—sent to confound those who think they are favored above all others.
“He came to restore the lost and mend the brokenhearted. Why not us? Why not you? He is the God of judgment and also the God of love. Let Him bind your broken heart. Let Him free you.
“The blood of a thousand men could not make up for what has been done to you. Go find the One who can give you peace. Find the One True God, the God who smiles on Africa. Let Him be your Father, your friend. Find hope.”
In the darkness, Nat Turner told Will of King Xerxes’ wicked reign and his repentance before God. He told him about Apollos the African from Alexandria, the great first-century orator and teacher who converted many to Christianity. He told him about St. Moses of Ethiopia, the warrior priest.
“He is Lord of all.” Nat Turner told Will that the first pictures painted of Christ and His mother were in Ethiopia, pictures from the fourth century that showed them with African skin and features. He told Will of the great cities of Aksum and Gondar and of the African saints. “The Lord thought the people of Africa so precious that He gave us to His mother as a special gift to care for and intercede for—she is our Mother of Mercy.
“He loves you. You are His son.
“He came to restore the lost, heal the sick, raise the dead, and mend the brokenhearted. I believe He wants to restore your life. God is a God of judgment and righteousness, but He is first the God of love, of comfort, and restoration. In the midst of this warfare, I believe He seeks you.
“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.”
Chapter 66
Without 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.
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!”
Chapter 67
The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial Page 23