Harriet Tubman, Henry Bibb, Frederick Dougla.s.s, Sojourner Truth, and so many nameless, faceless others-they had all faced so much more and there was no turning away for them. She didn't have to live it; she had only to hear the story.

Harriet dabbed her face and then, taking a deep breath, she turned and began walking back to the small table. "Courage today or carnage tomorrow," she said.

Nat Turner

Chapter 56.

Cross Keys 1831.

In his ears, Nat Turner's own breathing was too loud. His footsteps were too heavy. His heart pounded, his nerves jumped. Every shadow was a trap, a hand reaching out to catch him and the others.

It was late-the sun would rise in only a few hours-but still hot. His ragged, burlap shirt was plastered to him and drenched with sweat. Black dark. They felt their way through familiar places, moving through air like blackstrap mola.s.ses. His feet knew the gra.s.s, the moss, the furrowed ground. His soles felt the gnarled b.u.mps of the roots of ancient trees. His hands touched the bark, the damp moss, and waxy leaves that he had known all his life. Still, in the familiarity there was danger. Every limb heavy with leaves held a waiting net. Every vine was a rope waiting to trip him and hang him and the others. Nat Turner steeled himself.

He was not like Will. He did not have anger to fuel him or a desire for revenge-he could not afford those emotions; they would have driven him off course. He was not like Hark-it was not brotherhood or loyalty that led him. For loyalty's sake he might have continued to pursue a different way.

It was justice that sent him through the night. It was obedience to G.o.d's service. An obedient son. Nat Turner repeated the phrase to himself as he ran. An obedient soldier.

He could not stop. There was a family debt he owed.

Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings, from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compa.s.s me about. They are inclosed in their own fat: with their mouth they speak proudly.

They pa.s.sed by the home of Nathaniel Francis. They would confront him at Waller's still.

There was no choice now. There was no turning back. It was war. Kill or be killed. He would not turn back. There was a family debt he owed.

Chapter 57.

Elizabeth Turner stared at him with red-rimmed, wild eyes. They dragged her and her visiting neighbor, the widow Newsom, and her overseer, Hartwell Peebles, from their beds. It was Nat Turner's older brother's house. There were traces of Samuel, ghosts of him-an old pipe, an old coat, and a picture of him hanging on the wall.

"Where is the deed? Where is the deed to Turner's Meeting Place?" Nat Turner yelled and the other captive men watched as he searched the drawers and cabinets. "You know I am not a slave! Where is the deed?"

Elizabeth Turner hissed at him, "There are no papers for you. You will never find them! I'm Samuel's heir. You are a n.i.g.g.e.r slave and you will die a slave!"

He stepped closer to the sofa so he could see them. There was only one candle lighting their faces in the pitch-black room. "You know I am not a slave. You had no right to sell me, to sell my family!" He wanted to choke the life from the old hag.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked around at Nat Turner and the others. "I will see all you n.i.g.g.e.rs hanged!" Elizabeth spat at Nat Turner. The widow Newsom cowered, clinging to her. Elizabeth looked around again. "I've got all your names. I know you! Don't try to hide there in the dark. I see you! They will skin you, gut each one of you, and feed you to the dogs." Elizabeth cackled. "And I'll be there to watch!" The widow Newsom sat white-faced, mumbling to herself. The overseer sat with them on the sofa. The burly man's face looked confused, as though he thought he might be dreaming.

Nat Turner turned from them and went to search another drawer. "Where are the papers, Elizabeth? You have stolen property. You have stolen lives!"

"Elizabeth? You dare call me Elizabeth?" An icy snicker accompanied her words. "My, you are a prince with your band of thieves. But not for long! I'm not your weak, sniveling father! You will hang! You'll be skinned alive!" Elizabeth snarled. "There is no such thing as a n.i.g.g.e.r with property. I would rather die than see you with an inch of this land-even a church!" She scowled at Nat Turner, a cruel, defiant upturn to her lips. "No such thing as a n.i.g.g.e.r trustee. The only good n.i.g.g.e.r is a slave, and the best n.i.g.g.e.r is a hanged one!"

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 p.r.o.nounced 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.

Chapter 58.

For 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 G.o.d for himself. Each man had to be convinced and strengthened within himself. Arise, O LORD, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 LORD, 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d.

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'.

Chapter 59.

Outside the gate of the Whiteheads' farm, the captive warriors called in to Reverend Richard Whitehead, pastor of Turner's Meeting Place. "Come out, d.i.c.k!" 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 LORD.'"

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 n.i.g.g.e.rs!"

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 LORD, the habitation of justice, even the LORD, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

Chapter 60.

Nathaniel 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. G.o.d'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 prost.i.tutes 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 G.o.d'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 gra.s.s. 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.

Chapter 61.

Deserted. 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.