The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial (40 page)

For his surrender, for his service, he was promised an eternal reward. The first resurrection. What of Thomas? Nothing now, nothing hereafter. “Repent while there is still time. Ask God to forgive you and walk away from this thing, Thomas. Repent.

“They will do it, no doubt, but you don't have to be involved. Don't surrender your soul for this—for nothing.” He looked at Thomas Gray, pleaded with him. “You are my friend.”

“You don't understand. My life would be worth nothing.”

There was no point. It was finished. It was over. “Go, my friend.”

“I have no choice. If I did, I—they are forcing me.”

“What you do, do quickly!” When his friend left, Nat Turner prayed to God to cauterize the spot where his heart bled.

N
at Turner prayed for a quick death; that his neck would break and there would be little pain.

Friday, November 11, 1831, the guards marched him to the hanging tree as the crowd cheered. Children hung from nearby trees, laughing, sucking on sweets. Their parents pelted him with stones. Others threw apples, overripe tomatoes, and rotten eggs.

There were no black faces. Nat Turner did not expect to see any. The crowd would have turned on them, too.

Chains jangled around his ankles. It had been six years since his time in the Great Dismal Swamp, but today he remembered the earthy smell, the marshy ground that sprang back against his feet when he walked. He remembered the little stream near where he slept. He could have stayed there. Hebron. He could have sailed away.

Obey me and then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the L
ORD
shall be thy reward. Then shalt thou call, and the L
ORD
shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am. If thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the putting forth of the finger, and speaking vanity; And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day.

Sheriff Butts put the noose around Nat Turner's neck—rough, thick rope that scratched him—and told him to step up on the chair, the stool they used for hanging.

Hebron. He had called the place Hebron. He could have lived a quiet life in Hebron. Then Nat Turner saw before his eyes and heard in his ears the screams of the pregnant captive woman being beaten on Hebron's shore.

There was no quiet place for him. There was no place to be but here.

Let it be over soon, Lord.
He had prayed that the witnesses would come to him, that they would be with him and console him, sing to him.

But he was alone. Would he be forgotten like the first snowfall, the first flower?
Let it all be for something, Lord. My wife.
Who would care for her?
My son.
Who would help him become a man?
My mother.
Who would she have now? She would be all alone.
Take care of them. Promise me you will take care of them.

“Does the prisoner have any last words?”

The chair rocked beneath Nat Turner's feet. The rope scratched his neck. Nat Turner saw his brother John Clarke jeering at him, shaking his fist. His brother would never love him.

He spoke to the crowd. “The man you are set to hang is our brother whom you love. That girl you sell as a concubine is your beloved little sister. You put Father's beloved sons in chains. I am your brother, and I warn you.” Nathaniel Francis, clad in a new expensive coat, smirked at him. “Judgment rests on you, on Southampton, on Virginia, and on this nation. I am only one of the first; others will come. The Lord will raise up an army. War will come and you will fight against yourselves, brother against brother. There will be blood on the corn.

“‘Woe to her that is filthy and polluted, to the oppressing city! She obeyed not the voice; she received not correction; she trusted not in the L
ORD
; she drew not near to her God.'” He was the hope of his people, sent to deliver this message.

“‘Her princes within her are roaring lions; her judges are evening wolves; they gnaw not the bones till the morrow. Her prophets are light and treacherous persons: her priests have polluted
the sanctuary, they have done violence to the law.'” He was sent to warn the captors.

“Shut up, you black coon!”

All the eyes were against him. “‘Thou art the land that is not cleansed, nor rained upon in the day of indignation.

“‘There is a conspiracy of her prophets in the midst thereof, like a roaring lion ravening the prey; they have devoured souls; they have taken the treasure and precious things; they have made her many widows in the midst thereof.

“‘Her priests have violated my law, and have profaned mine holy things: they have put no difference between the holy and profane, neither have they shewed difference between the unclean and the clean, and have hid their eyes from my sabbaths, and I am profaned among them.'” Nat Turner looked at the faces jeering and scowling. He must deliver the message. Perhaps one heart would turn. He looked at the children laughing, swinging from the trees. Perhaps one child would turn.

“‘Her princes in the midst thereof are like wolves ravening the prey, to shed blood, and to destroy souls, to get dishonest gain. And her prophets have daubed them with untempered mortar, seeing vanity, and divining lies unto them, saying, Thus saith the L
ORD
G
OD
, when the L
ORD
hath not spoken.

“‘The people of the land have used oppression, and exercised robbery, and have vexed the poor and needy: yea, they have oppressed the stranger wrongfully.

“‘And I sought for a man among them, that should make up the hedge, and stand in the gap before me for the land, that I should not destroy it: but I found none.

“‘Therefore have I poured out mine indignation upon them; I have consumed them with the fire of my wrath: their own way have I recompensed upon their heads, saith the L
ORD
G
OD
.'”

Nat Turner looked for a friendly face but could not find one. “You can be forgiven. There is still time. God takes no pleasure in vengeance. Open your hearts, my brothers and sisters, and turn.”
The Spirit controlled his mouth then and Nat Turner looked at their faces. Gaping, twisted mouths and excited, angry eyes. Eyes filled with hate.

What about sweet Cherry? What about his little son?

Sheriff Butts kicked the chair. Nat Turner dangled, the rope tightened.

There was so much pain. He had prayed that there would be no pain.
So much pain, Father.
He choked, but there was no sound.

So much pain, Father. Let it be over.

He heard cheering, and then he thought he felt someone cut him. But he could not be sure because he could not look down. And there was pain everywhere.

There was only gray sky, bare branches, and the angry, laughing, hard faces of the children. Eyes full of rage and death.

So much pain, Father. Make it go away.
The waves shifted, and he choked as the water threw him up and down. The water was filled with gray faces, faces full of teeth to devour him. All their eyes were against him. He wanted to be brave.
Forgive me, Father
.

The pain was lessening. It would be over soon. He wanted to sing now, to the eyes, to comfort them. It would be over soon. Nat Turner drifted on the waves. But no sound would come from his mouth. He would be brave for his people—all of them. He was a man of two continents, a warrior priest, and there was a family debt he owed.

He wanted to tell them they were forgiven, but he could not speak. He was choking. He saw past the anger, saw the fear, saw the wounded hearts.
So many wounded, broken hearts. Forgive them.

The witnesses joined him then. They sang to him. Their hands touched his face.

Forgive me.

He struggled against it. He fought for light.

“Surrender,” the witnesses whispered to him.

Everything dimmed.

Then blackness.

Boston

1856

I
t was such a heavy burden and it was hard not to feel hopeless. The others joined her then. They called for the carriage and when they were seated, Harriet spoke to William again. “Will you, will your people be able to forget?”

William nodded. “When a woman is raped I have heard it said that she may forgive but the memory lasts her lifetime. When a nation is raped, when a people are raped, I think it is the same.”

It was dark now. Not even the gaslights or the stars, not even the moon could stop its coming. Harriet looked across the carriage at Frederick Douglass and at her brother Henry. They would return to Brooklyn soon, and then she would depart for Andover. She needed her husband now. She needed the comfort of Calvin's arms.

William Love's hand rested on the window opening.

“I am not sure what I will write,” Harriet said to him.

“A tree is judged by its fruit,” he replied. “Don't judge him by what others have said—many of them were liars. Instead, use your heart. You have a good one. Judge the man by his fruit.” There was a sudden twinkle in William's eye. “That is how I have judged you.”

Harriet smiled. She looked across the coach at her brother and then back at William. “There were so many deaths and weapons.”

“That is war. We celebrate our warriors and paint pictures of them with weapons in their hands. Can a Negro not be a hero, even a tragic one, because he bears a weapon?”

“We must away now,” Henry said to her.

She looked at William. “Do you think there is hope? Are we doomed?”

“So much harm has been done,” William said. “But I have faith that we can be healed, though we may always walk with a limp. And if we die,” he added, “there is always resurrection.”

F
irst there was blackness.

Then he heard voices, the witnesses. “‘Alleluia: for the L
ORD
G
OD
omnipotent reigneth. Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honour to him: for the marriage of the Lamb is come, and his wife hath made herself ready.

“‘And to her was granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen, clean and white: for the fine linen is the righteousness of saints…. Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb.'”

He heard them but he could not see them. In the distance he heard drums, then singing, “‘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 G
OD
and of Christ, and shall reign with him a thousand years.'”

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.

A
ll 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…