The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial (29 page)

Nat Turner stopped searching then. His hands balled into fists. He had never hit a woman. But she was not a woman. She was a thing, filled with the spirit that kept slavery alive. He blew out the candle and by moonlight he saw a wisp of smoke curl in the air.

He would never find the papers. It wouldn't matter; no court would listen to him. It wouldn't matter; he bore the yoke of Christ, and they would kill him in the end.

There was just enough moonlight now to see the shapes of the people sitting on the sofa. The widow Newsom began to scream.

He had a job to do. He could not be distracted from his task—not by anger or vengeance, or even mercy. He could not fail the others who were doing their work in Cross Keys this night. It was kill or be killed.

Nat Turner looked at the men who had come with him. He was there to serve the Lord's judgment. He was an obedient soldier, an obedient son. He could not fail his Father.

He pronounced judgment on the offending heirs of the Newsom and Turner families—those who belonged to Turner's Meeting Place. When the three were dead, Nat Turner and his men moved on—it was war. Kill or be killed.

F
or the lives of my wife and child!” Nat Turner imagined that on the other farms the warriors were uttering similar cries. Time was running out. It would be daylight soon. The darkness that held them, that protected them, would be gone. In what was left of the night his group made their way to the Whiteheads' farm.

They could not sing to encourage themselves. They could beat no drums. There was no fife, no fireworks, no standard-bearer, and no flag. Each man spoke to God for himself. Each man had to be convinced and strengthened within himself.
Arise, O L
ORD
, in thine anger, lift up thyself because of the rage of mine enemies: and awake for me to the judgment that thou has commanded.

It was grim business. They were doing what had to be done—poor men, farmers, captives transformed into the army of the Lord.
It is God that girdeth me with strength, and maketh my way perfect. He maketh my feet like hinds' feet, and setteth me upon my high places. He teacheth my hands to war, so that a bow of steel is broken by mine arms. Thou hast also given me the shield of thy salvation: and thy right hand hath holden me up, and thy gentleness hath made me great.

He, Hark, Dred, Sam, Will, and the others were God's soldiers. Nat Turner forced himself to breathe slowly. Soon it would be over.
I have pursued mine enemies, and overtaken them: neither did I turn again till they were consumed. I have wounded them that they were not able to rise: they are fallen under my feet. For thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle: thou hast subdued under me those that rose up against me.

He thought of his mother and Mother Easter. He would never see them again. He could see the eyes of sad-eyed Charlotte, and Nat Turner felt Cherry's hand in his hair.

Thou hast also given me the necks of mine enemies; that I might destroy them that hate me. They cried, but there was none to save them: even unto the L
ORD
, but he answered them not.

They had no voices. There were no epic poems to celebrate their battle. Nat Turner wondered if people would remember them, if they would write songs for those who died in battle. He wondered if they would be remembered, if their names would be recalled as revolutionaries. Would later generations remember the story of what happened in Cross Keys, in Southampton County?

They were only the beginning. They fought so that their people, their children, a remnant, could survive. They sacrificed themselves for those who came after. They raised their hands to do God's judgment—taking axe to the root. The song from the Great Dismal played in his head.

Equip me for the war,

And teach my hands to fight,

Let all be wrought in love.

He remembered the witnesses. He thought of all the people he had preached to, all the brokenhearted and betrayed. He thought of his family—his mother, his wife, and his son. He could not turn back; he had promised God.

He and the others tramped solemnly over the traces for miles, avoiding the roads so they would not be detected on their way to the Whiteheads'.

O
utside the gate of the Whiteheads' farm, the captive warriors called in to Reverend Richard Whitehead, pastor of Turner's Meeting Place. “Come out, Dick!” they mocked him. They knew who he was. They all knew what he had done and that he had hidden it behind his collar, behind his mother's skirts.

Nat Turner sent men in to get the preacher and the Whitehead women. They brought Richard Whitehead out first. Still in his nightshirt, he jerked and flopped in the darkness like a handkerchief pulled by a string. Will and the others held him, forced him to his knees, and Nat Turner stood over him. “‘Woe be unto the pastors that destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture! saith the L
ORD
.'”

Richard was haughty at first. “You black heathen! Don't you shout scriptures at me! I will see you hanged, you black devil!” He looked at his faithful servant Hubbard. “Get them off of me, Hubbard! Run, Hubbard, get the boys from their houses! We will roust these niggers!”

Nat Turner looked at the Whitehead captives who were gathering, carrying torches. Not one of the captives—Hubbard, Venus, or the others—lifted a hand to help the preacher. Not one took off running to alert authorities, to rescue the family.

Nat Turner looked at the faces, lit by the fire, and spoke to them. “‘My people hath been lost sheep: their shepherds have caused them to go astray, they have turned them away on the mountains: they have gone from mountain to hill, they have forgotten their resting place.'” Men, women, and children gathered;
some Nat Turner had seen only from a distance in the fields. So many broken hearts. There were tears shining in the darkness. One small girl ran forward and spit on Richard Whitehead. So many people covered in shame. “‘All that found them have devoured them: and their adversaries said, We offend not, because they have sinned against the L
ORD
, the habitation of justice, even the L
ORD
, the hope of their fathers.'”

Richard Whitehead looked at the captives surrounding him. Some of them had begun to yell, cursing him. He looked at Nat Turner and the captive warriors with him with scythes, posts, hammers, and axes in their hands. He sobbed for mercy. Nat Turner thought of Ethelred Brantley, of the captives in the fields, of so many broken hearts. “You have given no mercy and it is the judgment of the Lord that you will receive none.”

Richard Whitehead was wailing now. “Hubbard! Hubbard, help me! You've known me since I was a boy!” He called for his mother.

“‘And he that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death.' This is the judgment of the Lord!” Will stepped in close, the grim smile still on his face, and swung his axe. Will's shirt was blood-soaked, his face a bloody mask.

When Richard Whitehead was dead, the men brought out the other heirs of the Whitehead family. One of the girls escaped. Hubbard promised to find her before morning.

Nat Turner wanted to look away. He did not want to spill blood, but he was a soldier. He was the leader. He steadied himself. Kill or be killed. Destroy the root or die. He smelled the blood. He saw the death. Will swung his axe.

Nat Turner felt himself floating above it all. He saw the captors' bodies on the ground. He saw the captives gathered around, watching, holding torches. He saw himself wield his sword and then a wooden post.

He drifted on the healing brown waters of the Dismal
Swamp. “No more slave songs. No more bowing,” he heard Hubbard say below him.

When his band departed, some of the captives from the Whitehead farm joined Nat Turner. Hubbard stayed behind to lead those who would minister to the dead.

Still drifting above them, Nat Turner watched as he and the others made their way to Waller's still.

N
athaniel Francis would be at Waller's still. Sad-eyed Charlotte had told Nat Turner that he would be there with Jacob Williams, Thomas Gray, and John Clarke Turner. They would be gathered there with others in the hours before dawn, drinking corn liquor—made from corn stolen from starving people's mouths—at Waller's still.

He prayed that his friend Thomas Gray would not be there. Thomas was not a member of Turner's Meeting Place, but if he was present, there would be no choice. Kill or be killed.

Nat Turner prayed that his brother John Clarke would not be at Waller's still. He imagined the face of his brother and wanted to spare him. But he was called to do no less than the others. God's judgment required the lives of cousins, sisters, and fathers as well as brothers.

He knew the captors, even under threat of death, would deny their relationships. The captors felt no brotherhood; they sold their relations, beat them, sold them for prostitutes in New Orleans, and even hanged them. He must deny friends and relatives just as he and the others had been denied. It was a battle for freedom. It was God's justice. Kill or be killed.

Nat Turner signaled the men to take care as they approached the still. Lamps were burning inside the building but there was no sound. It might be a trap.

Nat Turner hunkered in the grass. His muscles screamed. His head throbbed. Overhead and in the woods, owls called warnings from the trees. Waller, Gray, Francis, and the other captors might be waiting, guns sited on the captives.

If the captives were discovered, the captors would shoot at them from a distance; they would not fight them hand to hand. The captives' axes and clubs would be nothing against shotguns, rifles, and handguns loaded with lead.

Nat Turner and the others crawled on the ground toward the still, listening for sounds, cautious of the slightest movement from within. But there were no shadows or noises. They inched toward the cabin.

D
eserted. Only flickering lamplight inhabited Waller's still.

When they reached the small cabin, it was deserted. Nat Turner was certain now—Nathaniel Francis, Levi Waller, and the others had been alerted. He felt a sinking feeling. Nat Turner and the other captives whispered urgently among themselves. They were betrayed.

The root must be destroyed.
He had wasted precious time searching for the deeds and papers at Elizabeth Turner's, time that might cost others their lives. The militia might be gathering, might already be searching for them. But there was no turning back now. Kill or be killed. They had to finish what they had begun. Dawn was almost upon them.

All the men agreed that before they left the Waller farm, they would have to search his house. Levi Waller, Nathaniel Francis, and the others might have gathered there, thinking to arm themselves, thinking to defend Levi's family. There were horses tethered at Waller's still, but Levi or one of the others might have gone on foot to alert the militia. There was no choice—kill or be killed.

Nat Turner and the other captives made their way to Waller's home, their eyes scrutinizing every branch, every leaf that moved. They approached the house expecting to be fired upon. It would be their last stand.

But there was no gunfire. As the first light of dawn appeared, Nat Turner entered the house with no resistance. Neither Nathaniel Francis nor Levi Waller was there, only Levi Waller's family and the schoolteacher.

All inside were asleep. Nat Turner and the others had crept inside the large, one-room shack quietly; they could leave the family undisturbed with none the wiser. He signaled the men. They would back out the door—it was Nathaniel Francis they were after.

But Will froze in place. He shook his head.

The others backed out the door. Nat Turner motioned to Will again, but still he would not move. He stood as though he were frozen.

Then, as pale light came through the window, there was a shriek.

T
hey had agreed that if they were discovered, they could leave no witnesses alive—no witnesses to alert the militia.

Nat Turner looked at the screaming family. Seconds seemed like years.

He and the others would simply leave the family alive—their conspiracy had already been uncovered. The militia was probably already searching for them.

He did not want to kill them. Waller's family had not been part of the plan.

Nat Turner looked at his men. There was sorrow on their faces. But Will was still frozen in place, his axe ready.

Nat Turner looked at the panicking woman and her children. How could he choose one life over another? How could he choose to end their lives to save his wife and son?

But there was no choice.
You must destroy the root.
The time for mercy was over. He was a soldier. He had to obey. Nat Turner raised his sword.

Eyes wide open, tears burned his face. But then he saw and heard the witnesses, the martyrs. Nat Turner saw the pregnant slave woman on the shores of the Great Dismal Canal.
You must destroy the root.
He saw Misha, with her baby still tied to her, floating in the water. He heard the screams of the women and children on board the slave ships. Millions.

Kill or be killed. It was war. Uproot the vine to save the tender saplings.

Will raised his axe. Nat Turner raised his sword. They made short work of it. Kill or be killed. Daylight was upon them now and, as they had planned, the men dispersed.

The early morning sun chased Nat Turner to his hiding place. Some would return to their captors' farms. Others would hide away in the woods. When night returned they would assemble again at the great oak. But, no matter what, he would have to go back for Nathaniel Francis.
The root must be destroyed.