The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial (27 page)

Would any of the captives have the courage to meet him at the pond? Would they recognize the sign?

But there was no doubting the sign. The indigo sun was the sign of God's judgment. God had made His choice and the time of mercy had ended.

The captives had talked—they were ready to be God's army, they were ready to die for freedom. But they had had lifetimes of being afraid, of obeying tyranny just for survival. Now that it was time, would they have the courage to join him? They were farmers, not warriors—the descendants of generations of farmers stolen from Africa. They were peaceful people who wanted only to grow things from the soil. Who could expect them to do battle?

Nat Turner ran on, stopping at moments to use the scythe to hack his way through the brush. It would be a miracle if any of them came. His people had been frightened and tortured for so many years; it would be a miracle if someone had not already betrayed him. After waiting so long, there might be a hangman's party waiting for him rather than an army.

The harvest had come. People would be killed—the roots of Turner's Meeting Place—the pastor, the trustees, and their heirs. He had known the names all his life—the Whiteheads, the Francises, the Turners, the Newsoms. They would be the first among the deaths of the church's members—all those who used God's name in vain, pretending to be holy and pretending to love.

But it was not only family names; the names also belonged to faces. Like Sallie. Nat had known her since they were children. Nathaniel and Salathiel. Richard Whitehead. Nat Turner thought of all the faces. All of them were captors, but they were also his childhood friends and brothers. Brother to both captors and captives, he should not have to choose.

His own brothers would have no part in it—Samuel was already dead and John Clarke had no place in the Turner's Meeting Place deed.

The blue sun was hot on his neck and shoulders. It changed the color of everything around him. The grass beneath his feet was dark gray, no longer green. The wind that blew about him lifted the leaves and the branches. Each step brought him closer to the end.

H
e thought of the people who would be lost, the ones who cried, “Lord! Lord!” Pretending to be holy, pretending to love God, but breaking God's greatest commandments.

Nat Turner forced his feet to keep moving. This would be his last harvest. No turning back. He was the instrument of God's judgment. It was not his will—he was no more than an axe in the hands of God. He had surrendered his choice.
“And that servant, which knew his lord's will, and prepared not himself, neither did according to His will, shall be beaten with many stripes.”
The yoke of Jesus was upon him. He had surrendered ten years ago.

No turning back. It was the sure and righteous judgment of the Lord. He moved faster now. No birds, no dogs barking, only the steady sound of Nat Turner's breathing and of his feet pounding the earth. Conviction grew with each step.

The witnesses, dressed in white, came to him then as he ran. They sang to him, swirling around him. “Remember Mother Easter.” He saw her gray hair and her eyes reddened with tears. So many tears. So many broken hearts. The witnesses sang laments about Cherry, about Charlotte, and about his mother. They reminded him of the children who had been violated and stolen. The murdered ones. They showed him the bleeding, cracked young feet and the calloused, tormented hands and feet of the elders—hands that had scrubbed and plowed too much, feet that had seen too many fields. So many tears. So many broken hearts. They sang him requiems of those who had been betrayed, like him, their hopes slaughtered.

“What is the price of a man's dignity?” they sang, whispering in
his ears. “What is the cost to generations that follow?” They showed him black people—ivory, pecan, ebony—weeping and praying. Most he did not know. Then they showed him Mother Easter again, this time asleep on the floor. He felt her bones aching and heard her heart weeping. He could hear her murmuring prayers as she slept, begging for rescue. Other voices were added to hers, so many he could not decipher the words, but he understood their meaning.

They reminded Nat Turner that he was God's son chosen to do this special work. They reminded him of the reward promised him.
Blessed and holy is he that hath part in the first resurrection: on such the second death hath no power, but they shall be priests of God and of Christ, and shall reign with Him a thousand years.

Thrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap; for the harvest of the earth is ripe.
The witnesses sang a sad hymn of summer harvest.

For afore the harvest, when the bud is perfect,
and the sour grape is ripening in the flower,
he shall both cut off the sprigs with pruning hooks,
and take away and cut down the branches.
They shall be left together unto the fowls of the mountains,
and to the beasts of the earth: and the fowls shall summer upon them,
and all the beasts of the earth shall winter upon them.

He was breathless now and looked up at the unmoving indigo sun. Then Nat Turner clawed through the bushes in front of him and stepped out onto the edge of the waters of Cabin Pond.

The sad-eyed girl, Charlotte, was waiting there for him.

S
ad-eyed Charlotte—she was tiny, not much more than a girl. “I know where they meet. I know where they go—Nathaniel Francis and his friends. You can find them at the still on Sunday nights, drinking at Waller's.” She pleaded with him. “Let me help. Let me go with you.” She had overheard Sam and Dred speak of the revolt; she always kept her ears open. She knew the meeting place. “I've been waiting for the sign.”

“This is no battle for women. We will all most likely die.”

“I am already dead, Prophet Nat. Don't women want to be free? Don't women suffer enough to fight?” Charlotte cried as she confessed to him the things that had been done to her.

“We will come back to the Francis place for the rest of his heirs. It is the judgment of the Lord; no heirs are to be left alive.”

“I can help you,” she told him. “I can make your way clear. And Mother Easter and I can make provision for you.”

He patted her head. She bore too much burden for such a small girl. But her eyes said she had already seen too much, been hurt too much. Her dress poked out in front of her. Charlotte lifted her head in defiance. “No child of mine will die a slave. Please. Let me help.”

He walked with her to the clearing where others were waiting. So many betrayals. So much heartbreak. “Judgment will begin with the house of the Lord,” he told them. “No heirs can be left alive. We must destroy the root.” Nat Turner knew the faces and he knew their stories—their suffering was his—they were one. Too many beatings and too many brinings. He looked at sad-eyed Charlotte. Too many rapes and violations. He looked around
at all the men. Too much cruelty—whippings, amputations for missing quotas—and too many deaths.

“We are not murderers! We are innocent men! We are men of peace forced to take up arms against our brothers to save our lives. They have forced our hands.”

A man in rags, his head bowed, spoke up. “Is there no other way?”

For years Nat Turner had pleaded the same thing himself. He looked at the speaker and then at the other men. “What haven't we tried? Haven't we prayed? Haven't we begged? How many times have we asked them, begged them to turn? What else could we do to reconcile?

“How many times have we prayed for a deliverer? God has heard our prayers. Look at the sign.” He pointed at the indigo sun. “We are to be our own deliverers! We are God's hands here on earth.” Nat Turner looked back at the man. “We cannot turn back now. No matter what happens, we are victors.

“God has decreed that the time for mercy is over. If we do nothing, they will continue to kill us. They kill us daily, wrapping themselves around us like vines—choking our wives, our sons, and our daughters, our dreams, our faith, and our land.

“Like them, we are all children of God. They are our brothers, but they have asked our Father to deny us. They show us no respect. They say we are mindless, heartless.” Nat Turner looked at Hark and Yellow Nelson, the preacher. “They say we are animals who deserve nothing. Animals.” He looked at Will, Sam, and Dred. “But God is our Father and we are His sons. We are men of honor, and where He leads we will follow—even if He leads us to death. It is a reasonable sacrifice for our freedom, for our children, for our seed who will follow.”

Then Will stepped into the clearing. Nat Turner looked at Sam and Dred, also captives of Nathaniel Francis. They shook their heads; neither of them had told Will.

Nat Turner had seen Will when he preached on Sundays. He was a silent, solitary man, but Nat Turner had heard his story—the
loss of his family, of his wife and little daughter. He had seen the war on Will's face—the war between anger and hurt. He knew that Will, like many others, was looking for a way out, for deliverance, a way to make the pain go away—even death—his own death or the death of others. “Why are you here?”

“I am as willing to die,” Will said, “as anyone.” Nat Turner looked into the eyes of the Death Angel. It was settled then. Will's presence was the last sure sign of the judgment of the Lord.

Nat Turner looked into the other men's faces. “God has remembered the covenant He made with our forefathers—with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. His spirit is among us to rescue us from our enemies.” When Nat Turner looked away from Will, Charlotte was gone. “We are the army of the Lord, come to ransom His people.

“We are his obedient servants—judgment will begin at the house of God.” They worked through the details. They would do their work at night. When the morning came, what happened would be a mystery to the captors who survived. “We will not kill those who have no part in this battle unless we have no choice. If we are discovered, it is kill or be killed—we have no way to hold prisoners.”

He planted his feet. “We will rape no women. We will destroy and steal no property. We will not return the evil done to us. We will behave with honor; we are soldiers of the Lord.

“But to our enemies, we will give no mercy; they have shown none. The Lord has said to kill all those whose feet walk upon the ground, those who say they are His children but mock the truth and love of God.”

The men were quiet, their eyes focused. “The darkness will cover us. We will not falter. Even the night will be light around us.” Most of them would die—captives and freemen. The Artis brothers, both Cheroenhaka Nottoway, Hathcock, and even white Berry Newsom had come to join them. “We must be in our places. We must hold our tongues. We must follow the plan; each man's life—your
brother's life—depends on it. We are comrades. We are patriot brothers and servants of the Most High God.” They would divide into squads. Each would have its responsibilities.

His scythe in his hand, Nat Turner swept his arm in front of them. “In ten days, the night of the sickle moon, when it gives its least light, we will begin.” During the ten days' time, they would make preparations. “May God bless the solemn work of our hands, and may He have mercy on each one of our souls.”

They made plans. There were too many places and too much distance; they could not all go together. The leaders would meet at the first location to commence together. They agreed on the farms they would target. They made plans for the captors they would take at Waller's still.

As he looked at the men around him, Nat Turner saw some men weeping. On their faces he saw joy and sorrow, fear and courage. Other men's faces were set like stone. This was the beginning, the end. “No turning back!” Nat Turner told them. “We have the sign. The time for mercy is over. Take axe to the root!

“Wake up, men! Awake from the living death. Come forth from the tombs where you have been buried. Feel the muscle and sinew come alive on the bones. Feel your hearts beginning to beat again.” He lifted his arms in the air. “Your strength is come, the blood begins to flow. Your minds awaken. ‘Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in.'” The men in front of him began to stir. “Your hearts are pounding now! Feel the hope, feel your heads begin to rise!

“You are men now, lively men—mighty men, mighty warriors of the Most High God! Feel the strength in your legs—your ankles, your knees, your loins! Come forth! Come out of your tombs! Come out of your prisons! Shake off the grave clothes! Feel the power in your arms! Feel the courage, the power, the Spirit of God surging through you! ‘Who is this King of glory? The L
ORD
strong and mighty, the L
ORD
mighty in battle.' Lift up your heads!”

Nat Turner saw the men before him gaining strength, gaining courage. “In their lifetimes our white brothers received good things while we received trouble, but now God says it is our turn and we will have our promised portion. They have made pledges of freedom for all men to God; they must keep their vows!” Some of the men were cheering. Some of them were shaking their fists.

Nat Turner quieted them. “Be sure of what you are doing. It is dangerous business. We are forced to take arms against our brothers. They are well armed; we will suffer. It is a hard thing, but most of us will bleed. Most of us will die.

“Some others will have the courage to join us along the way—warn them. More will stay behind to clean up and minister to the dead. But don't doubt: Most of us will die, and if we survive the revolt, we will most likely hang.” The men were quiet now, some of them shifting foot to foot. “It is a hard thing to hear, but what choice do we have? What do we have to lose? I can promise you no reward here, but for your service to the Lord, I promise you that you will join me in the first resurrection.”