THEY WERE ALL HEROES …
Sparked by an indigo sun, Nat Turner stormed into history with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. Thirty years before the advent of the Civil War—in the predawn hours of August 22, 1831, commanding a small army of slaves, Nat Turner led a bloody fight for freedom that shined a national spotlight on slavery and left more than fifty whites dead.
In The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimony, as Harriet Beecher Stowe seeks to learn the truth of the man his people called Prophet, Nat Turner shares the faith, triumph, tragedy, and hope of his fight for liberty, brotherhood, and self-determination.
For 180 years, the truth of Nat’s story has been tainted. Award-winning author Sharon Ewell Foster reinterprets history to offer a new American story of one man’s struggle for freedom and the redemption of his people. Based on actual trial records, interviews with descendants, official documents, and five years of research, The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimony is a story of the quest for truth and the true meaning of liberty.
SHARON EWELL FOSTER’s first historical novel, Passing by Samaria, was the NAACP Book of the Year in 2000 and a Christy Award winner. She is the winner of the Romantic Times’ Reviewers’ Choice Award and the Historical Novel Review’s Editors’ Choice selection, and has earned a place on the Essence bestseller list. The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2, is her tenth novel.
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The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimony
“Sharon Ewell Foster has … unearthed the truth about Nat Turner, rather than rehash and revisit the lies and distortions surrounding one of the most important people in American history. This is a liberating book, both psychologically and historically. Read it, read again, and then pass it on to someone who thinks they know who the real Nat Turner is.”
—Raymond A. Winbush, author of Belinda’s Petition
The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 1: The Witnesses
“Fast-paced … riveting and expertly told.”
—Publishers Weekly
Abraham’s Well
“Innovative and intriguing…. This is the rare historical novel that both entertains and educates.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This is simply told and moving, Foster’s best work since her groundbreaking first novel, Passing by Samaria (2000).”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Abraham’s Well … [an] impressive, impeccably researched novel that deserves to be widely read; highly recommended.”
—Historical Novels Review
“Sharon Ewell Foster merges little-known history with fiction to pen another amazing novel with Abraham’s Well. … [It] is hard to put down. Definitely, one of the best reads of the year!”
—Victoria Christopher Murray, author of Temptation and Truth Be Told
Passing by Samaria
“A sensitive, thoughtful look at a revolutionary time in American history. Foster’s characters are unforgettable; full of life and unhesitatingly charming, they drive this powerful book.”
—Kweisi Mfume, former NAACP president and CEO
“A rhapsody in prose. For a religious novel to simmer in the African American religious tradition, yet carry a universal message is a rarity. Readers will be thankful for this rare and splendid work.”
—Dr. Barbara Reynolds, Reynolds News Service
“In this first novel, Foster’s poetic telling is soft enough to capture and sharp enough to cut as she evokes the strength of faith needed to survive when all seems lost. This unique addition to the Christian fiction genre is highly recommended for all collections.”
—Library Journal
“Passing by Samaria is a rarity in Christian fiction: it features an African American heroine in a kind of female Black Boy…. This is a fine first novel and most welcome.”
—Booklist (starred review)
Ain’t No River
“Foster’s ears and pen are tuned to the rhythm and pace of small-town African American life, from the barbershop to the beauty parlor, from the church to the basketball court, and her dialogue sparkles with a memorable concreteness.”
—Andy Crouch, Christianity Today
“This book is one more piece of evidence that Christian publishers are getting serious about producing literary fiction. Foster’s prose is often evocative and eloquent … a rewarding read from an author to watch.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Foster, one of the brightest lights of evangelical fiction, turns in a nuanced, often amusing tale.”
—John Mort, starred review from American Library Association
Ain’t No Mountain
“There’s a reason the Christian publishing industry sat up and took notice when Sharon Ewell Foster’s first book was released several years ago: She’s good, very good, and with Ain’t No Mountain she proves that she has staying power.”
—Faithfulreader.com
“Foster wants her fiction to entertain and uplift. She achieves both goals with this sassy, funny, heartfelt tale of women looking for love and themselves in contemporary Baltimore.”
—Borders’ Best of 2004/Religion & Spirituality
Passing into Light
“To me, she is one of America’s best-kept secrets—but not for long! Sharon writes for those of us who want more than just words on a page, but pictures painted on the canvases of our minds. She has proven to be ‘the Picasso of the pen!’”
—Bishop T. D. Jakes
“The name Sharon Ewell Foster is fast becoming synonymous with quality African American inspirational fiction.”
—Pam Perry, Ministry Marketing Solutions
Ain’t No Valley
“Foster makes ordinary lives seem exceptional through lively, lovable characters. She whisks us into drama and beautiful settings, using the Bible stories of Ruth and the prodigal son to frame the work and take readers to a deeper level of truth.”
—Ebony
“Sharon Ewell Foster is a beautiful fresh voice in today’s world of fiction. Her compelling stories draw us to a place where we somehow feel we belong, a place we want to visit again and again.”
—Karen Kingsbury, author of One Tuesday Morning
Previous Works of Fiction by Sharon Ewell Foster
Passing by Samaria
Ain’t No River
Riding Through Shadows
Passing into Light
Ain’t No Mountain
Ain’t No Valley
Abraham’s Well
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Sharon Ewell Foster
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Howard Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Howard Books trade paperback edition February 2012
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Foster, Sharon Ewell.
The resurrection of Nat Turner, part 2 : the testimony / Sharon Ewell Foster.—1st Howard Books trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3556.O7724R474 2012
813′.54—dc23 2011029148
ISBN 978-1-4165-7812-3 (print)
ISBN 978-1-4516-5692-3 (eBook)
Scripture quotations taken from the King James Version of the Bible. Public domain.
For Darlene, Mary, Harriet, Easter, Nancie, and all the mothers who have lost their sons. For all the sons who have lost their way. You are welcome. Come home.
There is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops.
—Luke 12:2–3
For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.
—Ecclesiastes 12:14
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Contents
Prologue
Afework
Nathaniel Francis
William Parker, Esquire
Nat Turner/Negasi
Harriet
Nat Turner
Harriet
Nat Turner
Harriet
Nat Turner
Harriet
Nathan “Nat” Turner/Negasi
Harriet
Nat Turner
Harriet
Nat Turner
Harriet
Nat Turner
Harriet
Nancie/Nikahywot
Prologue
Aksum, Ethiopia
1849 Years of Grace, Ethiopian Calendar (A.D. 1856)
Minutes stretched into hours, hours into days, years into decades—time seemed bitter, thick, and useless like overboiled stew cooked to scorching. Afework counted the leaves, the pages, in her book of remembrance. There were thirty-two of them, one for each year since the theft of her child, her daughter, Nikahywot.
A month after the night of the theft, a night that sent the women fleeing into the darkness, her husband, Kelile, had found her in the Christian section hidden among the tens of thousands in the great city of Gondar. A family there had taken Afework and her granddaughter, Ribka, in. While there, the women had told her stories of other children—sons and daughters, brothers and sisters—stolen away.
The Arabian Peninsula was less than a mile across the Red Sea from Ethiopia. Ottomans, she had heard the women whisper, Arabs, Berbers, Turks, corsairs, Barbary pirates. The women spoke of Yemen, Hijaz, Cairo, Tripoli, and Tunisia. The thieves stole Christians to ransom and sell, the women whispered to her. They stole Christians from Ethiopia, from Sudan, and from as far away as Italy, Spain, Bosnia, and even beyond, where all the people were of white skin. They transported them to slave markets, even as far away as Morocco across the great Sahara. They sold them as slaves, carrying them back across the Red Sea, up the Mediterranean Sea.
Stolen boys might be turned to eunuchs, the women wept for their stolen sons—there would be no generations to follow. But the young men might become guards, soldiers, or even well-paid officials. Their daughters, however, would most likely become concubines or even part of a harem. Some of the mothers dissolved into hysterical tears at the thought, but as they cried they overlooked the tears of the weeping servants who walked among them. But Afework could not shake the feeling that the slavery that had gripped Nikahywot and Misha was but an echo of that practiced in her own land.
Even in her own family, it was slavery that insisted that some family members were favored while others were born to serve. Some were blessed to be masters, chewa, while others were cursed to be slaves, barya. It was ancient slavery and deeply rooted. Afework worried that the slavery within her family displeased Egzi’ abher Ab, God, the Father of all. They had failed to free Misha and her family, and now there was a family debt they owed. Now Nikahywot had been stolen and bound in slavery, or worse.
“Forgive us, Egzi’ abher Ab,” Afework whispered.
In the time it took him to find her, Kelile’s hair turned gray. He took Afework and Ribka back home to the family farm. They would wait there for Nikahywot and her cousin Misha to return. But years passed and there was no word of their beautiful daughters.
Over time, Kelile lost all taste for farming and raising livestock. There was no one to help him—Josef, Nikahywot’s husband, and Misha’s husband had perished the night of the raid, the night before Misha and Nikahywot were stolen.
The land was raped of the young—the childbearers, those who carried truth and hope forward—and it suffered. The sky was brokenhearted and ran out of tears to cry so that each year the land grew more parched and cracked.
Before Afework’s eyes Kelile seemed to shrivel like a gourd abandoned to the sun, drying up like the land that grieved for the stolen lives. Ribka cried every night.
They sold the farm and all their possessions and used the money to travel to slave markets they learned of, like Zanzibar. They hoped to find Nikahywot and Misha, to ransom them, to purchase them back. But the two were nowhere to be found.
With the little they had left, what was left of the family had moved to Aksum. There were many mothers and fathers there also weeping for stolen children.
Now Ribka had become one of the shrouded women, living in a cave, swallowed in the ashen cowl of her grief. Each day she walked to stand outside the cathedral. She sang sorrowful psalms and offered prayers. Kelile found work sweeping the cathedral steps and doing other odd jobs. Afework spent her days in prayer and song, rehearsing the holy stories she had learned from her mother, reciting them aloud as though, far away, she hoped that Nikahywot would hear and remember.
Afework prayed day and night. The sun still shone in the sky over the highlands of Ethiopia like a gold coin against a curtain of blue silk with yellow and red ribbons. Birds like jewels still flew overhead. The water still roared off the edge of the Tis Isat Falls, but all that Afework could see was scorched brown grass. On her knees, her head bowed, she prayed that Egzi’ abher would help her eyes and ears to remember that she was still in ghe net, paradise. She prayed to Iyyesus Krestos to help her to love and not hate—to remember that even those who stole and ruined so many lives were still Abraham’s children, and that it was only the greedy ones who used the name of Mohammed to cloak their theft.
Afework turned on her knees to face the Cathedral of Maryam of Zion. Beneath the sun, and at night the moon and stars, she prayed that God would stir a strong wind that would blow her child back home. “Blow Nikahywot and Misha home.” She prayed that the strong wind would destroy the chains and set all the captives free. She prayed that it would blow the dust of ignorance from the eyes of the captors. She prayed each day, but only soft winds and gentle storms arose.
Cross Keys Area, Southampton County, Virginia
1856
NATHANIEL FRANCIS USED the money he was paid to start over. Taking advice he got from slave traders, he now shackled the boys and men in the barn at night. There was no need to chain the women and girls; they would never leave the men, never leave their families. He was finally able to sleep comfortably at night.
Twenty-five years ago he had lost his brother, Salathiel, and his sister, Sallie, to the brutal insurrectionists. A quarter cent
ury past, as a young man of twenty-four, Nathaniel Francis had gotten his revenge. He looked back at his home—it had grown at least three sizes. With more money, money from the slave trials—Sam, Hark, Dred, Tom, Davy, Moses, Nat Turner—he was now a respected man, one of the elders of Southampton.
His wife, sweet Lavinia, had returned from her father’s home in Northampton County in North Carolina and bore him many children.
In 1838 Nathaniel Francis became senior trustee at Turner’s Meeting Place. He had the deed reviewed and the property surveyed: He believed in doing things in decency and in order. No nigger would ever be trustee.
Nathaniel rubbed his hand over the leather belt he still wore. Some had made wallets from Turner’s hide. He had even heard of a lamp shade, but Nathaniel’s trophy was a belt. It was a fine belt, a fine, fine belt.
He rarely saw his friend Levi Waller now, only occasionally, staggering drunk down the road. Thomas Gray had drunk away the money he earned from sales of The Confessions. He had lost his wife and, because of his inability to provide for her, his daughter was taken away. Gray no longer practiced law. Nathaniel Francis had seen him last crying and wallowing in the mud, begging for alms. Gray needed to pick his friends better. It was his just reward.
Trezvant no longer held public office. But Nathaniel Francis had done right well.
In all, Nathaniel Francis earned almost three thousand dollars for the lives of eight slaves, more than any other slave owner. He was not paid for Wicked Charlotte because he shot her. Nor was he paid for Will; the boy’s body was never recovered.
Nathaniel Francis compulsively fingered his leather belt. Long ago, in 1831, he had dyed it dark brown. A fine belt indeed. He took it off only at night or to show his grandchildren when he told them the story of Nat Turner.
Nathaniel Francis wasn’t afraid anymore. He had enough money that the lights in his home were always on.
Jerusalem, Southampton County, Virginia
The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial Page 1
