The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial

by Sharon Ewell Foster

  He saw a glow in the distance and walked toward it. A green field stretched before him. The sky was rose, gold, violet, turquoise—a rainbow. He heard a voice speaking, “‘I will divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto death: and he was numbered with the transgressors; and he bare the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.’”

  Waist-high green grass dotted with wildflowers covered the hills. Leopards and elephants sauntered past, and overhead ruby- and emerald-colored birds of paradise spread their wings in flight. The drums were closer now, the rhythms of a place he knew but had never been.

  Each step he took released the flowers’ sweetness. Breezes blew the tall grass so that it swayed, beckoning him.

  Beyond the field was a golden throne. A tawny lion, flicking its tail, lay down in front of the throne; seated above him on the throne was a speckled lamb.

  There was a great tree near them. Its branches, heavy with leaves, reached high into the sky and spread wide enough to give them shade. Beside the throne, kneeling down, was a brown-skinned woman. She waved to welcome him. He thought he heard his name. Negasi!

  Though he was still far away and he could not be certain, he thought she mouthed a word. Welcome! The sweet scent of the moonflowers burst beneath his feet and drifted up filling his lungs. His mother had told him about the tall grass, but he had not expected the wildflowers.

  Even from the distance, he thought he recognized her. She smiled at him across the field of wildflowers, beckoning to him. Come! He breathed in the clean air, familiar air, and in the distance he heard a roaring, like a great falls.

  He was Nat, Nathan Turner, Negasi, and at last he was home.

  Alive.

  Chapter 93

  All right now, Jack Snappy. Down with you now. I have work to do.” Harriet Beecher Stowe pushed the large cat from her lap. Both of them had dozed off together.

  She had dreamed the dream before, the dream of heaven, Nat Turner, and the throne. In fact, all the dreams swirled around her, the resurrection dreams, indigo sun dreams, the Nat Turner dreams.

  It was hard to piece together exactly who had told her what, but she had begun writing about Nat Turner. She was writing twenty pages a day. But tonight, before she returned to her writing, she must finish the letter. It was overdue. Harriet tucked her hair into her nightcap and sat down at her desk with quill pen, ink, and paper.

  July 17, 1856

  Dear Duchess of Argyll—

  It has long been my intention to write you with respect to some of the persons whom I have been instrumental in assisting with the money kindly left in my hands by His Grace. For some time after the receipt of that money, no opportunity of redeeming any enslaved family seemed to present itself. My feelings have become deeply interested in a slave man—a refugee in Boston named William, who receiving his liberty by the grace of God and his own ingenuity, declined my offer to ransom him… together with an only sister and her child—they are persons of such gentleness of temper and refinement of manners—with considerable natural polish…

  Some of the money in my hands I lent to assist William and this woman to furnish a lodging house and business which they are successfully carrying on in Boston. I offered to send and pay for their redemption to the nominal owner but they declined—with some natural indignation and said they had rather the money were expended in this cause in some other way…

  Inspired by William, and the life of the rebel Nat Turner, I have decided to title my book Dred: A Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp.

  Nancie/Nikahywot

  Fellow-Countrymen:

  At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

  On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, urgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.

  One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. “Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh.” If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said “the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.”

  With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

  —President Abraham Lincoln, Second Inaugural Address,

  March 4, 1865

  Epilogue

  June 19, 1865

  Nancie walked the road that led to the Nathaniel Francis farm. She adjusted the bundle thrown over her shoulder, then felt in her pocket for the tatter. She reached deeper into her pocket for the folded letters. She could not read them, but the children had read them to her so many times. They were not the children that her son, her Nathan, had taught to read. The children of those children now read to her.

  There were letters that mentioned places she had never heard of—like Antietam and Gettysburg. Others mentioned places more familiar, like Richmond and Petersburg. The letters spoke of people she had never met, like Abraham Lincoln, Henry Ward Beecher, Harriet Beec
her Stowe. “President Lincoln said we could not have been victorious without the help of the Beechers,” one letter said.

  Most of the letters mentioned Frederick Douglass, how he fought for the Colored Troops, and how he labored with President Lincoln to help him understand the Colored man’s plight. Frederick Douglass’s own sons had fought at a place called Sumter with a unit called the 54th Colored Troops from Massachusetts. Nancie tried to imagine the places—Sumter, Gettysburg—but each time, she imagined her beloved Ethiopia.

  One of the letters told her about the Emancipation Proclamation that freed slaves in Southern states that had seceded from the Union. Following the proclamation, many of the boys and men she knew had left to join the war.

  Nancie still carried the tatter. She felt it in her pocket with the letters. She removed the one that had been read to her most. She had memorized it. They were no longer children, but adults her son had once taught to read. The letter was from one of them, a young man who’d run away to serve with the 116th Colored Troops at Petersburg.

  It is just as Prophet Nat warned us, blood among the corn, brother against brother. It was a hard battle, but we routed the rebs.

  She looked down the road toward the farm. The division of the nation had split Jerusalem in two. Major General William Mahone, whose father ran Mahone’s tavern, had served the Confederacy; while General George Thomas, the “Rock of Chickamauga” and nephew of Clerk of the Court James Rochelle, distinguished himself with the Union Army. Brother against brother.

  Nancie looked back at the letter.

  Colonel Woodward, who is himself a fine colored gentleman, says we owe much thanks to Mr. Frederick Douglass for convincing President Lincoln to allow us to join the battle. The colonel often quotes him, “Once let the black man get upon his person the brass letter, U.S., let him get an eagle on his button, and a musket on his shoulder and bullets in his pocket, there is no power on earth that can deny that he has earned the right to citizenship.” We have done him proud here at Petersburg. I am assured that the war will soon be over and you will be free.

  Nancie replaced the letter, knocking on Nathaniel Francis’s front door. She smiled when Easter answered. There were not many old ones left. There were not many who remembered. “Make my way to Norfolk. Come.” The American words were still bitter to her; they swelled her tongue, but she had learned to use them.

  Easter looked over her shoulder. “Norfolk?”

  “Nobody to stop us now.”

  Easter pulled at her shirtsleeve, then scratched at her arm, still looking back over her shoulder. She scratched her head. “I don’t think I can.”

  Nathaniel Francis appeared at the door, now a stooped, gray-haired, toothless man. He was a bitter old man who had lost two sons in the war. “Norfolk? You two old mothers? Why, you’d die before you got there.” He snickered and rubbed his hand over his worn leather belt.

  She fought to keep tears from filling her eyes. She fought not to snatch it from his waist, knowing that such a move would land her in the white man’s jail. The belt was all that was left of her son—it was a sign of what had once been, like the tatter she kept with her—and the cruel man kept it about his waist. No, Nathaniel Francis was not a man. He had lost all traces of manhood long ago.

  Nancie stared at him, a look that would wither a fig tree, then back at Easter. “Coming?” Nancie was determined. She would make the journey alone if she had to. She would not let Nathaniel Francis’s wickedness keep her bound to him. “Nobody owns us. Captivity turned. Free now. Old man owns no one!”

  Nancie spit at Nathaniel Francis’s feet. She was old, but there was enough spirit and strength still in her; she would pounce on him like a lioness.

  “Oh, go on if you want to! Who needs you? I am wasting food feeding you.”

  Easter clamped her hands to her mouth. Giggling, she ran inside, like a schoolgirl, to get her few things.

  Nancie heard Lavinia complaining inside. “You cannot let her go. My daddy will be furious!”

  “Oh, good riddance,” Nancie heard Nathaniel Francis say.

  THE TWO OLD women traveled for many days. They followed the road to Portsmouth. It was foreign to Nancie, just as the road had been, long ago, when she had followed the Ethiopian road to Gondar. The roads were rocky and dry. There were places along the way where the ground seemed to be an open wound—places where green grass was torn away and red clay was fringed with a scab of brown grass. Signs of war.

  It had all happened as Nathan had said. There was war—blood spattered on the corn—brother against brother. And in the end, black men had taken up arms, black men fighting against white men.

  Occasionally, at a distance, the two women passed a wounded veteran or a family of refugees crowded with their goods into a ramshackle wagon that looked as though, at any second, it might fall apart.

  Most of the way, Nancie and Easter walked in silence. Two old women now, their feet ached and their backs begged them to sit down. At night they stopped to stare at the stars. Easter had thought to bring a flint, so they made a fire and ate small portions, old women’s portions, of the food they carried with them.

  They traveled by sunlight, trying to stay beneath the shade of the trees. The heat tried to convince them to rest, but the two traveled on. Birds flew overhead and led them toward water, finally leading them to the edge of what must have been the Great Dismal Swamp.

  She fought back tears. There was nothing left for her. His enemies, like Nathaniel Francis, had all that was left of her Negasi. She had lost him and she had lost her home. This place was not Ethiopia; it was not paradise, ghe net. But the greenery was lush. It called to her, but Nancie reminded herself that, though they were tempted, they could not remain. It offered refuge, but they must make their way to the water.

  As she and Easter walked along the edge of the swamp, stopping sometimes to eat and sleep, Nancie tried to imagine her Nathan there walking in the woods, sleeping on the forest floor, and sailing on the waterways. She caught glimpses of flowers that reminded her of home.

  Nancie and Easter walked along the forest edge, making their way toward Norfolk. But they were brittle now and each step made itself known in their hips, and feet, and knees. There was not much left for them. Not even Cherry and Riddick were with them. For years, to stay alive, the two had hidden themselves among the Cheroenhaka Nottoway Indians.

  Easter pulled an old rag from her pocket and wiped her forehead. “You think we will ever get there, Nancie?”

  Nancie nodded to her old friend. “Soon.”

  Easter stopped. Nancie watched as Easter looked at her feet and then at her gnarled hands. She dusted them against her old frayed skirt and gently touched her knees through the fabric. “Who will want us? Not much left of us now.”

  Nancie lifted her head and squared her shoulders. Her feet and knees were sore, but she would not surrender. “Plenty left. We will make way.” She touched her gray hair. “Wise now.” She touched her heart. “God here.” Then her head. “Here.” She nodded. “Egzi’ abher Ab still with us.”

  Limping sometimes, the pair made their way farther along the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp, a place where they fed on fish they caught and drank brown, healing water. They rested there beneath the trees, while their feet cooled in the water and minnows flitted around their toes.

  Nancie saw her reflection there. The years and the loss rested deep in her eyes. In the water, she saw her mother’s face, and her daughter’s. She thought she heard her husband, Josef’s, voice calling to her from the stream. Nancie thought she saw her cousin Misha drift by cradling her baby in her arms.

  Nancie sighed then and realized that she was crying. She turned to see Easter with her skirt hem pressed to her face. Nancie put her arm around her old friend’s shoulders and sang to Easter the song that her daughter, Ribka, sang to her in Ethiopia.

  I am black but comely,

  O ye daughters of Jerusalem….

  THE NEXT MORNING they rose and began the fi
nal leg of their journey. The day stretched out before them. The longer they walked, the farther it seemed they had to go.

  Finally, Nancie walked over the gray, gravelly sand and stepped into the cold waters of the Chesapeake Bay. Ships waited at the wharf, their sails billowing in the sun. Overhead, birds flew almost high enough, it seemed, to touch the clouds.

  Nancie caught her breath. It was as Nathan, her Negasi, promised. Chilled. She touched her hand to the tatter in her pocket.

  She was wrong. The tatter was not all she had. Her son was not with her, but she had her memories. And he had not died in vain.

  Born beneath the blood moon, he had been the first to fight, but not in vain. Her Nathan—a man of two continents—had borne the family debt. He sounded the warning; he foretold the war and struck the first blow. But as he had promised, others had followed him into the battle, and they had marched and fought until all were free. She had more than the tatter; Nathan had left her a gift.

  Negasi! Leaping like a child, she screamed his name into the wind. She turned and held out her hand for Easter.

  She introduced herself to her old friend. “I am Nikahywot,” she said. She giggled and then wiggled as though she were still a young girl with a king’s pillow behind her.

  She looked east, toward the falls, toward the highlands. The breezes kissed her hair and ruffled her skirt. Still holding Easter’s hand, she lifted hers and spoke to those far away.

  “Free!” Nikahywot said.

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to so many, like Karen Ball, Virelle Kidder, Deni Williamson, Sara Fortenberry, and Don Jacobson, who helped open the doors of publishing to me. Thanks to writer friends like Neta and Dave Jackson, Marilynn Griffith, Claudia Mair Burney, Stanice Anderson, Victoria Christopher Murray, Dr. Gail Hayes, and Karen Kingsbury, who have been sources of inspiration and wise counsel.