The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial

by Sharon Ewell Foster

  “It was a war for freedom. Nat Turner, the others, and I were sent to do battle with the giant, to warn him that he would fall. They gave no mercy, so received none.”

  “What about the baby?”

  William looked confused, as though he did not know how to respond.

  “The baby. The one you went back and killed. Are you saying God directed you to kill the baby?”

  William lifted his shoulders and shook his head as though he didn’t understand. Then his eyes widened and sarcasm crept into his voice. “Some folly from The Confessions?”

  Harriet pressed him. “Did you find satisfaction in… in war… in killing all those people?”

  William was matter-of-fact. He did not turn away. “At first. For a moment I was ecstatic—but the pleasure of lust is temporary satisfaction. When I was empty, bloodlust was the only thing that seemed to fill me. But not for long. In time, I repented, as any soldier repents; but I did what had to be done. It only satisfied me when I was not filled with love.”

  Harriet looked for signs of insanity, some sign that William would lunge at her. “Love? But you still speak harsh things.”

  He leaned back from the table. “The truth is a great weapon. You know that. You are a wordsmith. Words of truth are a double-edged sword. It cuts, but I always speak out of hope and out of love. I didn’t speak at all before.”

  His eyes fixed on hers. “I fight with words now. I am still ready to die for what I believe.” He paused as though he wanted the truth of his words to sink in. Harriet felt chilled but fought to keep her composure, hoping William would not see.

  He seemed to calm and, though he still held her gaze, he spoke more softly. “But I hope for life. Before, I was quiet but there was murder in my heart. Now I speak words like swords, but in my heart there is love. In my heart is the prayer that someone will hear me and turn.” He nodded at Harriet. “Love does not always appear as we think.

  “I found my sister, I found forgiveness, I found the God of my fathers who was lost to me. Nat Turner led me there. Then I found my name—Love.”

  “You speak so much about love. Other men think it is a weakness.”

  He smiled and then shook his head. “Nat Turner told me it is not the weak but only the courageous who love. The ones who cannot love are the cowards. Only courageous men love. Only the bravest men, ferocious men, love their enemies.” He spoke loving words, but between the sentences his countenance was sometimes painted with anger.

  A murdering slave who changed his name to Love? His visage was gray clouds and sunshine, and Harriet wasn’t certain what she believed. William was not the man she’d thought he would be. “When all this is over, will you be able to let it go, to move on with your life and forget it all?”

  She was surprised by the sudden look of sympathy in his eyes. “Have you and I been able to forget the loss of our children?”

  She had not been able to pray away, to think away, or even to write away the death of her infant son. She still had a full life, and love, and joy. But she could not forget him. Harriet stared at William—she would not, or could not, answer.

  She did not want to think about baby Samuel. “You said you hated him… Nat Turner.”

  “At first. But I learned. He shared his life with me. You might say that in the end, he was my confessor and I his.”

  “Then, please, tell me what you know.” Harriet settled in to listen to his story.

  Nathan “Nat” Turner/Negasi

  “Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.”

  —Thomas Jefferson

  Chapter 17

  Cross Keys, Virginia

  February 1831

  Christmas was past, and left behind a hard, cold winter that looked as though it would never end. But rather than despise it, Nat Turner reminded himself to cherish the wonder of each day. He made himself feel it and marveled at the snow.

  It was a wonder how the weather changed each day. He took note that sometimes the clouds shifted in layers, and he took inspiration that the sun had courage to do battle with the night in order to rise each day.

  He would never see another February.

  In the barn, Nat Turner looked out at the barren trees. Hark stood beside him helping ready the wagon. Their lives might have been different.

  There had been a time when Nat Turner hoped for more, when he hoped to be a boy like other boys—a time when he, Hark, and even Thomas Gray, though they were from isolated farms, joined together to play childhood games.

  THE AFTERNOON SUMMER sun made their shadows long on the ground. The boys tromped through the woods on the way to the clearing where they would do battle.

  The sun filtered through the boughs on the trees that towered over them, but the leaves worked together to keep them cool.

  A little girl with chocolate skin, large round eyes, and lips like berries trailed behind them. Barefoot, in nothing but a tattered shirt, she kept her eyes on Nat. “Get away, Cherry.” The little girl had been following him about since she first learned to walk, and he supposed he had not discouraged her affection, often pinching her cheek and lifting her in the air. But at times like this, her devotion was embarrassing. This was no time or place for girls.

  She stopped, but when he turned back toward the other boys, she inched along behind them. Nat turned around to scold her. “I told you go back, Cherry. This is no place for you. There’s nothing but boys here.”

  Cherry didn’t say a word, just stared up into his eyes.

  “Go on now, girl!” Nat raised a hand as though he was going to swat her. “You get away from here.” He tromped on behind the other boys and looked back to see her standing where he had left her, the hem of her shirt bunched in her hands, staring at him and biting her bottom lip.

  Salathiel Francis led the trek. He carried his baby brother, Nathaniel, on his shoulders. John Clarke Turner and Richard Whitehead marched behind Salathiel. Behind them walked the smaller-framed Thomas Gray. Nat Turner and Hark, walking side by side, followed Thomas, while Benjamin Phipps, wiping from his nose the evidence of his perpetual cold, made up the rear.

  When they came to the clearing, each of the boys scrambled to find the perfect weapon, the stick that would magically transform into a sword. After each one had selected his saber, Salathiel announced the battle. “We will fight a sea battle.” He pointed at Thomas Gray. “You lead the other side.” For his own army, Salathiel chose his younger brother, Nathaniel, John Clarke Turner, and Richard Whitehead. “We will be the Virginians. You will be the British.”

  Thomas Gray objected. “Why must I be British?”

  “Look at you. Look at your family. Aristocrats is what you are. Wealthy just like the Crown.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  Salathiel used his superior size—he was a head taller than the other boys—to make his point. He stepped close enough that his chin almost pressed the top of Gray’s head. “You are the British,” he insisted. “You can be the colonel,” he conceded.

  Nat and Hark had played the game long enough that they both already knew that they had no say so in the matter. They would be what they were told to be.

  Benjamin Phipps, using his torn shirtsleeve to wipe his nose, only succeeded in spreading the sage-colored mucus farther across his face. “I want to be an American. I want to be a Virginian.”

  Little Richard Whitehead laughed. “We don’t want you on our side, you weakling.” He waved his sword. “Don’t get too close. You’ll give us consumption!”

  Not much bigger than Whitehead, Nat Turner stepped in front of Phipps. He lifted his sword. “Don’t worry, boys! Let’s give them hell!” He leapt upon a log, an imaginary gangplank. The clearing was transformed to a great British warship; the Virginians were privateers seeking to steal the Crown’s wealth. Nat’s clothes transformed from tatters to a turban and robes. He was an Ethiopian prince, African royalty engaged to assist his friend the British sea captain Gray. He raised his sword to do battle with Richard Whitehea
d. Their swords clacked together and they inched back and forth, balancing with arms in the air so they would not plunge to their deaths from the shifting plank to the depths of the briny sea beneath them.

  Hark, even at ten, was like a black Adonis, some great black warrior. Sometimes Nat Turner imagined Hark and himself as brother leopards—Hark the black panther and he the spotted leopard—climbing the mountains of Ethiopia. Wearing a turban and jeweled belt, Hark jabbed with his sword at John Clarke Turner and soon had outmaneuvered the other boy. Hark knocked the sword from his opponent’s hand and then tripped him to the floor of the ship. “Surrender!” he yelled. “Or be run through!”

  Nat jumped from the gangplank and ran to begin climbing the highest mast, the white sails billowing around him. Whitehead followed and balanced; there they clashed, fighting for life and for honor.

  Neither Benjamin Phipps nor Thomas Gray was any match for the much stronger Salathiel. Though he was not graceful, being hampered by an eye patch and peg leg, Salathiel jerked Benjamin’s sword from his hand, pushed him to the deck, and then turned to do battle with Colonel Gray while Benjamin crawled behind a leafy bulwark.

  Nat Turner was still at battle with Richard Whitehead. The small boy, his cowlick atop his head like a feather, was proving a worthy opponent. He was not quick, but he was tenacious. Whitehead slipped, almost plummeting to his death, but flailed with his arm to recover his balance. Nat Turner advanced, hoping to force Richard off the mast and into the sea. He called to his friend Hark. “Help him! Help Colonel Gray!”

  Salathiel was getting the better of the smaller boy. He attempted to jerk Gray’s sword from his hand, but the British sea captain would not surrender. Instead, he held his weapon fast, a hand gripping either end. But the wily Salathiel was determined. He grabbed Gray’s weapon in the center and used it to toss the smaller boy about while his younger brother, Nathaniel, really too young to play, waved his small blade in the air and chased behind his brother.

  It was glorious! Nat Turner looked up at the sun and breathed in the salty sea air. Swelling white clouds drifted overhead while seagulls circled in the air. The sails billowed about them. The men yelled and cursed, as men do in battle. Nat Turner jabbed at Whitehead with his sword.

  Hark rushed to Gray’s aid, stabbing Salathiel in the side with his saber. Salathiel, stomping about on his peg leg, laughed. “I will take the two of you at one time!” Holding fast to Gray’s sword, he used it to swing Gray about, using the small boy to batter Hark, knocking the Ethiopian swashbuckler off balance and onto the ground. Salathiel raised his sword and then quickly plunged it into the two fallen men.

  Nat looked at his fallen comrades and quickly whacked Whitehead on the leg, causing him to flounder and sending his arms flailing. The Ethiopian prince made short work of the privateer, and then jumped from the high mast to the deck to face Salathiel.

  Salathiel grinned, baring all his teeth and glaring with his one good eye. “Prepare to die!”

  He towered over Nat. He was stronger, but wit was on the Ethiopian prince’s side. “You will not prevail today, sir,” he said while brandishing his weapon.

  “You talk too much!” the pirate captain bellowed.

  “And you think too little!” Nat Turner threw his sword in the air and as Salathiel, surprised, stopped to gape as it turned end over end and glinted like gold, Turner tackled him to the ground. He sat atop the bigger boy. “You have been vanquished, sir! The British, with the help of the brave Ethiopians, have prevailed!”

  February 1831

  NAT TURNER LED the horse from the barn, tying the red mare to a post. He rubbed her muzzle to reassure her and then returned to the barn for the tack. With the harness and rigging in hand, he stroked her head and mane and then started the work of harnessing her.

  “Quiet, girl.” He took the collar in his hands. He wasn’t sure it would see another season; it had been repaired so many times. Nat Turner slid the collar over her ears and into place against her breast. “Steady, now.”

  It had been more than twenty years since they had played the swashbuckling games as boys. But he could still smell the grass, mixed with wild onions, and feel the warmth of the sun on his face.

  “GET OFF MY brother!” Little Nathaniel Francis swiped at Nat Turner with his tiny sword. “Get off my brother!”

  Nat Turner laughed. “Surrender, you Virginians! You are defeated!”

  “Get off my brother!”

  “The British have won!”

  Salathiel pushed him off, and Nat Turner fell to the deck, laughing. “The British have won!”

  Salathiel was no longer smiling. “The British can’t win.” He stood to his feet—one good foot and a peg leg.

  “We already won!” Nat danced about, waving his sword in the air. He reached for Gray’s hand and Hark’s hand and pulled them to their feet.

  “I said,” Salathiel said pointedly, “the British cannot win.”

  Nat Turner held on to the game, held on to the ship, the sea, and the blue sky. He was not going to see this game end like all the other games. The British had won, and he would not give up the victory. Nat Turner stepped forward so he was only inches away from Salathiel’s chest.

  Off to the side, Richard Whitehead began to whoop, waving his sword in the air. “We won! We have to win. It is history!”

  John Clarke Turner waved his sword. “You were defeated before we started.” The mast crumpled and the sail disappeared. The deck vaporized under their feet.

  “But we won!” Nat Turner would not back down. He looked to the sky for the seagulls. He breathed, hoping for more free salt air.

  This was the point he always hated in the games, the point to which things always came—the point where the rules changed so that he could not win. “We won,” Nat insisted. “We bested you, and fair is fair.”

  “You cannot win. We always win.”

  They were in the clearing again. Virginia had returned and, again, they were in Southampton. Nat drew back his fist.

  Thomas Gray caught it. “You win,” he said to Salathiel, then he looked at Nat to remind him. “It was a good battle. Good sport. What difference does it make? It’s just a game.”

  Nat Turner looked at Gray’s hand on his arm and then at both his friends. He and Hark were shoeless, dressed in rags again. Their sticks were lying on the ground. He was tired of backing down, tired of playing games whose end he could see from the beginning.

  “It was an excellent battle,” Gray said to placate the other boys. He stuck out his hand to Salathiel.

  The taller boy stared between Gray’s hand and Nat Turner. The patch was gone from his eye. He frowned at Nat and then, reluctantly, shook Gray’s hand. A smile crept across his face, the same smile as before. His game continued. He looked at his younger brother. “Corporal, arrest the prisoners.”

  “The battle is over.” Gray nodded. “Let’s head back.”

  “The battle is not over yet; there are always the spoils.” Salathiel pointed at Gray and Phipps, who had finally come from behind his tree. “You two can go free, but these two,” he pointed at Nat and Hark, “will be slaves.”

  Nat Turner clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth. He lunged at Salathiel, but Hark and Gray held his arms. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair not to even let him make believe.

  Salathiel taunted him. “Let him go. Let him try it. I’ll break every bone in his body. Then we will strip the skin right off of what’s left.”

  Nat struggled against his friends. He was willing to lose to Salathiel in a fair fight; it would be worth it. But just once he needed the game to conclude without them twisting the end.

  “It’s not worth it, Nat,” Hark whispered in his ear. “Let it go.”

  Salathiel looked at Gray and Phipps. “You two may join us.” He stepped around Nat Turner and raised his sword. He tapped his blade on Phipps’s and Gray’s shoulders. “You, sirs, are now Virginians.” He nodded at his little brother and then at Gray and Phipps. “Help the c
orporal take the prisoners.” He turned from them and slapped Nat.

  The slap stung his face and brought water to his eyes, but he would not cry. Salathiel slapped him again. Blood trickled from Nat’s nose. He knew what Salathiel was saying. He was reminding him who he was, that he was a slave and not a boy. Salathiel was reminding him that even in play, he was a slave. He was reminding him that the rules to the game had been written before both of them were born, and that even at play, he was superior. Only Salathiel could call the end and the finish to the game.

  Games were never games; they were always teaching lessons. Watch what you say, watch what you do, and don’t try to win—because you could be beaten, taken away to some torture, some cruelty you could not imagine. Winning, they were teaching him, would bring him only trouble; when he was about to win, they wanted him to be afraid and surrender the victory.

  They were teaching him. He had learned that white was a frightening color. In the middle of the night, some large, rough white hand might cover his mouth and drag him from his mother. He could imagine the hand that would take him and the sadness in her eyes. She had lost her country, her culture, her esteem among them, had lost her family, and a daughter she could not bear to mention. It would kill her if she lost him. One wrong word to their whiteness—not their boyishness, but their whiteness—and he might cause his mother to die.

  One wrong word, one wrong move, and his mother—the one who held him, who kissed him, who told him stories—might be dragged away screaming, bound in chains. They were teaching him to live each day worrying that his only family might be spirited away. Then he would be like the others with ghost eyes saying he had seen her no more in this lifetime—their only hope of reunion would be resurrection after death.

  They were teaching him to never think or speak or act without thinking two, three, four times. They were teaching him when he saw whiteness to censor and measure every word. They were teaching him that no game was a game; his life always hung in the balance, and they could take away everything based on one movement or word.