There was a gray-haired man among them who kept his face hidden. The man seldom spoke, only nodded or pointed. He directed Nat Turner to places along the stream where fish waited, ready to be taken. He showed him places to catch small animals for his supper.

The gray-haired man led him through the swamp and showed him the slaves who worked there, chained so they would not escape. There were slaves working even at the edge of the Dismal Swamp and some slavers who made their places there. The man showed him that others, the refugees, the escapees, worked and earned money, no questions asked.

He could use his axe to cut and collect shingles and sell them for a price. The money Nat Turner earned would be his own to use as he pleased.

Soon Nat Turner learned of flatboats that traveled the shallow ca.n.a.l waters carrying goods up and down the Chesapeake. In a short time he talked a boat owner into hiring him. The owner didn't care and didn't want to know whether Nat Turner was a runaway slave. The owner did not even want to know his name.

There was joy for him on the water that splashed his face and wet his feet. He learned quickly, and other boatmen taught him that the Chesapeake Bay flowed into the Atlantic Ocean. Freedom called to him from the water.

The ca.n.a.l water was brown, darker brown than the water that flowed at the stream near where he slept. As he moved along he saw fish leaping from the water, sometimes felt something in the water nudge his boat. Overhead the trees-reaching high into the sky-arched from each sh.o.r.e, joining hands to make a green lace canopy above him.

The flatboat, rising and falling, felt like a living thing beneath his feet. Each journey he took by flatboat, carrying supplies to different places along the Dismal Swamp Ca.n.a.l, Nat Turner poled his way a little farther, a little closer to the bay. Making deliveries along the ca.n.a.l, along the way that led to the bay, he met men who told him how he could go about being hired onto a ship at the bay or in Norfolk. It seemed that the great ships, like the ones he'd dreamed of as a boy, were always looking for hands.

Each day Nat Turner rode the ca.n.a.l was revelation. Each night he fell asleep quickly and refused to listen or pray to G.o.d.

IN JUST SHY of a month's time came the opportunity he hoped for, a load that was to be ferried all the way to the bay. Nat Turner forced himself to be calm, so that anyone standing on the sh.o.r.e wouldn't know-wouldn't know that each time he plunged the pole into the water, each time the tip of the pole touched down, each time he pushed against pressure points underneath the currents, he was moving forward and away. He didn't want any casual observers-slavers, slaves, or Maroons-to know that he was inching closer to his dream, to freedom, to Ethiopia.

He wanted observers to look at him and believe it was just another run. It was not an escape, only a delivery. It was a dream he did not want stolen away.

He trembled at his first sight of the Chesapeake Bay. The great expanse opened before him, inviting him to sail away. The water stretched out before him-water that could not be held in place by two sh.o.r.es. The sky arched above him, stretching until it met the water at a distant horizon. He saw them, the great ships, first appearing as dots. Nat Turner had trouble distinguishing them from the land or the water. But as he drew closer, he recognized them.

Chapter 30.

The vessels were just as people along the ca.n.a.l had told him. The wharf was crowded with great ships-greater than the ones he had imagined as a boy-with enormous masts like great trees that reached up toward the sky. As large as the ships were, they bobbed in the endless water like leaves on a pond. Sailing to and fro were ships bigger than any house he had ever seen, bigger than five houses. Ships big enough to sail to Philadelphia. Big enough to sail around the world.

Ships big enough to carry him home.

There were ropes and riggings he had not imagined. There were sails that caught the sunlight. Like Southampton breezes fluttering wildflowers, great invisible bay winds effortlessly rippled the immense stretches of canvas. There was a snapping sound like fresh, wet linens hung out to dry, wet sheets snapping in the wind.

Birds cried overhead. He saw black men among white men, brown men, and yellow men, clambering on the ships. He would blend in; others would take no special notice of him.

He paused to listen to the sailors singing.

O Shenandoah! I hear you calling!

Away, you rolling river!

Yes, far away I hear you calling, Ha, ha! I'm bound away, across the wide Missouri.

My girl, she's gone far from the river, Away, you rolling river!

An' I ain't goin' to see her never.

Ha, ha! I'm bound away, across the wide Missouri.

Nat Turner breathed in the song. It was a song of freedom. He was bound away.

O Shenandoah! I hear you calling!

Away, you rolling river!

Yes, far away I hear you calling, Ha, ha! I'm bound away, across the wide Missouri.

He inhaled the air. Sea air. Free air. Nat Turner filled his lungs again and then laughed out loud. Dreaming. His heart pounded. He steadied himself so that in his excitement he would not lose his pole, or his cargo, or his head.

He drew nearer. The men boarding the boats carried few belongings-unenc.u.mbered by what had or had not been. Nat Turner promised himself he would join them.

He pulled his flatboat, still loaded with supplies, aground. The Chesapeake waters foamed like gray chargers racing into the sh.o.r.e. Clam and crab sh.e.l.ls mixed with rocky gray sand. He pulled off his shoes so that his feet touched the water-ebbing and retreating, baptizing his feet. He inhaled, smelling distant sh.o.r.es. He would sail away to those distant places and forget everything that was behind.

He saw terrapins swimming near the sh.o.r.e. He would sail away. He would not look back.

He inhaled the smell of crab-filled waters and then remembered a promise he had made as a boy to his mother. "When you make it to great waters, you must speak to your grandmother across the sea in Ethiopia. She was a doting mother and I know she still waits for me. I know she is still by Tis Isat Falls searching for me."

The waters called to him, the ancestors' call, and though he had promised that he would not, Nat Turner raised his arms to pray the ancient prayers his mother had taught him-the prayers that his people had prayed for more than a thousand years. "Our Father in heaven, Your name is Holy and Righteous. You are the Living G.o.d, Father of us all."

Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, and lead us lest we wander into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one, for Thine is the kingdom and the power and glory unto ages of ages. Amen.

He prayed the prayer to honor Maryam, the Kidane Mehret, "the Covenant of G.o.d's Mercy" with Africa, as his mother had taught him.

As Gabriel greeted you, Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you though virgin in conscience as well as body. Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb. Holy Mary, the G.o.d-bearer, pray that your beloved son, Jesus Christ, may forgive us our sin. Amen.

Nat Turner spoke across the water to the grandmother and grandfather he had never known. He introduced himself to them. He used his Ethiopian name. "I am Negasi." He knew that his grandmother was a worrier, and he knew that he must not upset her. He could not add to his grandmother's burden, to her broken heart, so he told his grandmother that her daughter, his mother, was fine. "I will board a ship and I will come to Ethiopia, and one day she will also return."

The sky overhead was blue and rose, the sun golden. He spoke to his sister. It was the first time he had spoken her name. "I greet you, my sister, Ribka."

And then he spoke across the water to all those like him and like his mother, children of the captivity, and he prayed for them. "Awaken!" He prayed that they would raise their heads, stretch out their arms, and make their way to freedom. He prayed that they would find great ships to carry them home.

Fell's Point, Baltimore, Maryland FREDERICK BAILEY, A boy of less than ten, stood on the opposite sh.o.r.e of the Chesapeake. He lived in Baltimore as a slave on loan to the Auld family. It was his duty to care for the family's young son, Tommy.

Whenever he could, Frederick looked out at the waters that lapped at the sh.o.r.es of Fell's Point. He was hypnotized by the bobbing rhythm of the water. Before him were ships whose sails caught the sunlight and birds that flew overhead to wherever they pleased.

When he looked out over the water, he spoke to the ships, "You are loosed from your moorings, and free. I am fast in my chains, and am a slave! You move merrily before the gentle gale, and I sadly before the b.l.o.o.d.y whip."

Each time he looked out over the water, he spoke to the birds, "You are freedom's swift-winged angels, that fly around the world; I am confined in bonds of iron. O, that I were free! O, that I were on one of your gallant decks, and under your protecting wing! Alas! Could I but swim! If I could fly! O, why was I born a man, of whom to make a brute! The glad ship is gone: She hides in the dim distance. I am left in the h.e.l.l of unending slavery. O G.o.d, save me! G.o.d, deliver me! Let me be free!-Is there any G.o.d? Why am I a slave?" Each time he spoke, there was no answer.

On the banks of the Chesapeake, young Frederick stopped this time, as though a voice called to him. He turned from the poor white boys he paid wages of bread to teach him to read. He stared out over the water. He had gazed out at the water many times before. He had prayed the same prayers many times before. But this day something seemed different. Escape was no more probable or possible than it had been the day before, but this day he felt a quickening. It was as though he heard a voice across the water calling to him.

He watched the ships cut through the water, saw the wind catch their sails, and heard the birds cry above. Frederick pledged to himself and to G.o.d that day that he would be free. "I will run away. I will not stand it. Get caught or get clear, I'll try it. I had as well die with ague as with fever. I have only one life to lose. I had as well be killed running as die standing. Only think of it: one hundred miles north, and I am free! Try it? Yes! G.o.d helping me, I will. It cannot be that I shall live and die a slave. I will take to the water. This very bay shall yet bear me into freedom."

It was as though the hand of G.o.d touched Frederick and he knew-if he had to fight, or starve, or risk his life, he would be free. "Let but the first opportunity offer, and come what will, I am off. I am but a boy yet, and all boys are bound out to someone. It may be that my misery in slavery will only increase my happiness when I get free. There is a better day coming."

Chesapeake 1821.

NAT TURNER STOOD on the sh.o.r.es of the Chesapeake staring at the ships. Men of all hues boarded, none of them in chains. They were all men sailing into their futures. He would be one of them.

He walked the wharf marveling at the most insignificant things-wooden planks under his feet, seagulls in flight. He stopped a sailor and asked him how a man might go about finding a job. The man pointed at a line of men and told Nat Turner the ship was still hiring.

He stood in line watching the birds fly overhead. He breathed deeply, intoxicated by free air.

When he reached the hiring man, Nat Turner told the man he would do anything. He was handy and smart, and he was willing to learn. He knew farming and hard work. He had worked as a millwright.

The man did not ask for his pa.s.s. He did not ask where Nat Turner had come from. Nat Turner was hired aboard the ship. They would set sail in three days.

AFTER HIS DELIVERY was made, Nat Turner steered the flatboat back down the Dismal Swamp Ca.n.a.l. It would be his last time. He would sail away on the boat harbored now on the Chesapeake and never see Southampton again.

Chapter 31.

February 1831 Outside the Whiteheads' farmhouse, Nat Turner and the other men stomped from foot to foot, moving in an attempt to stay warm. As they pa.s.sed, they greeted one another, occasionally gathering in brief cl.u.s.ters.

"Brother Nelson." Dred nodded to the other man.

"Good day to you, brother," Yellow Nelson, the preacher, responded.

"A cold day," Sam answered.

Preacher Nelson rubbed his hands over his arms, sometimes clapping hands, to stay warm. "Yes, but we're still alive. One more day in our right minds."

Nat joined them. "Another chance." He nodded to Nelson. "Is there a word today, preacher?"

Yellow Nelson laughed softly. "Oh, there's always a word from the Lord, Prophet Nat!"

Smiling, Dred shook his head. "Don't get him started, Prophet Nat. You know how you preachers are. We'll be out here in this cold until Kingdom Come. And it's too cold to be out here."

"That's the truth," Sam added.

"Too cold," Nelson echoed.

"Too cold," Dred repeated, the tone of the conversation changing rapidly. He nodded toward the slaves working in the Whiteheads' fields. "No kind of way to treat people, out in this cold." He nodded toward the house. "Just so they can be inside at a tea party." He nodded, like the others, so that the whites wouldn't notice them pointing.

Nelson nodded. "d.i.c.kie has them out there in the fields keeping them busy. He should be out there bending his back."

Sam stomped his feet. "He's the one who needs to be kept busy. He's a trifling little preacher."

Nat Turner and Yellow Nelson answered at once. "He's no preacher."

"A t.i.tle and a collar don't make you holy," Nat Turner added. "A tree is known by its fruit."

"Out here freezing. But they don't care," Dred insisted.

Nelson shook his head. "They don't see... unless there are too many of us gathered together at one time."

Without a signal, the captive men began to separate. Slaves were invisible and unimportant unless they moved too suddenly or too quickly-a running slave was sure to gain the captors' attention, attention that might cost the slave his life. They had learned not to laugh or speak too loudly, not to frown, point, or shout. White men might gather, shout, laugh, or yell. But the captives had learned that such behavior was risky. So the captives dispersed quietly, no sudden movements.

Nat Turner moved away. He rubbed his hands together to keep them warm.

The captors said they believed the captives were content in servitude. But they knew better. Their whips, their dogs, their overseers, the guns on their hips said they knew better. Their fear of three or more black men gathered together said they knew better.

Nat Turner felt the captive men's anger and their humiliation that they were treated as accessories and not as humans. Their anger and humiliation were his own. They burned in his belly.

The men moved about separately, and then when each felt it was safe, they moved slowly back together.

Yellow Nelson nodded toward the Whiteheads' carriage. "Look at that foolishness." The men looked at the top-heavy box perched on large, spindly-spoked wheels. He chuckled, but not too loudly. "What good is that thing in the country? Always stuck in a rut, Caty Whitehead flapping around like a hen. The Whiteheads have to keep boys with them all the time to lift or pull that thing out of the mud."

Sam nodded toward Mary Barrow's coach. "That one is even crazier." His shoulders shook, but his laugh was almost silent. "Did you see the cape she had on, all those feathers? I'm expecting an angry bird to swoop down here any minute, come to get his feathers back."

Nat Turner smiled. They joshed to release the steam pent up inside them.

Yellow Nelson grinned, his back to the house. "Did you see old Hubbard when he greeted her at the door?" He widened his eyes, mimicking the Whiteheads' elderly Negro doorman. "I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head."

Nat Turner chuckled, imagining Hubbard.

Nelson went on with his story. "Hubbard says, 'Mistress Barrow, that is a coat you got on there, if I do have to say so myself!' Oh, she lit up like the Fourth of July, the vain thing."

The men chuckled, but not loudly enough to attract attention. Owners of nothing, they had become masters of words. Mary Barrow didn't recognize the subtle insult hidden in Hubbard's words, words that said the coat was not a beautiful one but one that woefully defied description.

The temporary ease provided by the laughter didn't last long and they fell into silence.

"Too cold to be out here." Dred looked toward the Whiteheads' fields again. "No way to treat people. No way to treat a man." A grumbling sound echoed from his throat. "As if we don't have any other dream but to wait on them."

His back toward the house, Yellow Nelson was free to frown. "A day is going to come."

They all understood. They agonized over those in the fields, over their wives and children, over their mothers and fathers, and over themselves. Their hope and sanity rested on their faith that one day things would change.

"A day is going to come," Sam repeated.

"Someday," Nat Turner added. "Judgment comes and that right soon."

Each man lost in his thoughts, they separated again. Nat Turner looked up at the sky, blue and cloudless. A day was going to come. G.o.d had told him so in the Great Dismal Swamp.