Nat Turner looked down at his feet instead of at the man standing in front of him. He knew Nathaniel Francis had seen him and that he and the other captors would not rest until Nat Turner was in chains. They would beat, lynch, and burn others until they had him swinging from a tree.

Nathaniel Francis was still alive. The captors had not turned. The war had just begun-he and the others were only the first ones. He would not see the end.

The trees were almost bare and he would not be able to hide. It was colder now and winter would come again soon. With winter would come snowfall and freezes. Outside in the cold with no fire, he would not survive. Even in the cave, unable to move about, he would soon freeze to death.

It was the end of October. His thirty-first birthday had pa.s.sed. Nat Turner could no longer bear the solitude. Though he prayed for them to come, to speak to him and comfort him, not even the witnesses visited him. It was time.

Nat Turner knew his fate. They would drag him to Jerusalem on All Saints Day. But he would remember St. Moses of Ethiopia and St. Masqal-Kebra. He would think of his mother and of the Mother of Mercy; they would help him be strong.

He looked at the man standing before him, a man in clothes as ragged as his own. Benjamin Phipps was a poor man, a good man, and the reward would be a help to him and his family. The reward was being offered for Nat Turner's capture, dead or alive. And of the white men Nat Turner knew, Benjamin Phipps was most likely to get him to a place of safety alive.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Nat?" Nat Turner saw tears welling in Benjamin Phipps's eyes. "They've got dogs and hunters looking for you, but you've always been smart. You could still get away."

Benjamin Phipps and his family barely sc.r.a.ped by, but honor was priceless, and he had grown into a peaceful man willing to stand his ground. Nat Turner shook his head. "It's time."

"You know what it means?"

Nat Turner nodded his head.

The two of them agreed that they would make their way to Peter Edwards's home. "You tell them you found me here. You were out hunting, you held your rifle on me, and I did not resist. Be sure to keep the rifle trained on me when we reach Peter Edwards's farm."

"No one's going to believe that. No one's going to believe I turned you in; they know I'm not a slavery man. And Peter Edwards? They will question why I took you there."

"His farm is nearby." Nat Turner laid a hand on his childhood friend's shoulder. "They dislike you, but they hate me. They want me. They'll believe you, and Peter Edwards will help us convince them."

"There have been all kinds of rumors about what happened. First, there were reports that it was runaways from the Dismal Swamp. Then John Clarke Turner pointed the finger at you. What really happened, Nat?" Benjamin Phipps hung his head. "I hate to be the one. I remember when you defended me that day... that day in town when Nathaniel Francis shoved me."

"You would have done the same for me."

"I would like to think so." Benjamin looked away. "But I hate to be the one."

"Think of the reward. You are a poor man, like me. It will help your family."

"Blood money."

"No, not blood money; it is payment for helping me." He saw anguish on Benjamin's reddened face. "Who else can I ask? There is no one I trust more."

Phipps's face was gray and his eyes teary. "I can't go with you all the way to Jerusalem. I can't bear to see it."

Nat Turner laid his hand on Benjamin Phipps's shoulder. "It is a good thing you do, my friend. I go to G.o.d now."

Chapter 71.

They started out at sunrise. When they reached the Edwards place, Peter Edwards's eyes widened and his face blanched. Benjamin Phipps looked at his feet, mumbling the tale of how Nat was captured. Nat Turner nodded at Peter Edwards to confirm Benjamin Phipps's story.

Inside, there was a fire roaring in the fireplace. It had been months since he'd been inside, even in a barn, and as he warmed, Nat Turner realized that he had been shivering. There was a mural, probably of the English countryside, painted on one wall, and a chandelier hung overhead.

Peter Edwards led them to the living room, where wood burned in another ornate fireplace. The polished hardwood floors felt smooth, but still warm, under Nat Turner's bare feet. There were rugs here and there that felt like patches of soft spring gra.s.s. Sunlight poured through the windows bordered by heavy blue drapes.

At the center of the room was a large table surrounded by padded chairs. Peter Edwards motioned to him to sit down. Nat Turner, hesitating, shook his head. He was covered with mud and there had been no place for him to bathe.

Peter Edwards waved his hand. "Sit down. It's only a chair. New ones are easily purchased." Nat Turner sat on the wooden chair, the bottom padded and covered with tapestry. He slid his hands over the smooth fabric.

There was a wine decanter on a silver tray and a bowl of fruit in the center of the table atop a large lace doily. So this was comfort. Was it worth all the lives required to secure it?

Peter Edwards frowned. "You know they'll tear you apart when they get their hands on you. I won't be able to help you. Trezvant and Nathaniel Francis continue to make trouble. None of this would have happened if not for Nathaniel Francis.... Now he dupes Levi Waller into lying for him while Nathaniel grows rich sending poor wretches to the gallows. All the while James Trezvant is in cahoots with Francis. Our good congressman sends stories to the newspaper and he has taken control of the court, intimidating the rightful judges. He runs back and forth to Richmond, using this tragedy to build himself a national reputation, with sights set on the Senate or governorship. When things begin to settle, the two of them stir things up again."

He paced back and forth. Peter Edwards continued to frown. "We had heard rumblings that some slaves were dissatisfied. But Nathaniel and his ilk are men with property rights. How could we interfere?" Peter Edwards resumed pacing, then stopped. "Enough have already been killed. I could put you in a wagon and get you away from here."

"I will not leave my wife and son."

"For goodness' sakes, man! We have all been through enough. Let it die down; let this whole rotten affair end. Get away! Your family can follow!"

He could sail to New Orleans and pretend to be Creole. He could sail to India or Armenia and hide among them. He could return to Ethiopia. Would his people recognize him as one of their own?

Nat Turner shook his head. He could not leave his wife; he had promised. He had promised his mother. "There is a family debt I owe." He could not leave, he could not turn back; there was a family debt he owed. The only acceptable payment was to set the captives free.

PETER EDWARDS WRUNG his hands. He opened his mouth as though about to argue and then sighed. "It won't be safe to take you into town alone, Nat, with just the two of us. We'll have to send for an armed guard." Peter Edwards raked his hands through his hair. "Why didn't you come to me before? It could have been taken care of peacefully. All of this could have been avoided."

"What could you have done?"

"We all knew the Cross Keys bunch were troublemakers, poor white trash! It was better when white men like them were still slaves!"

Edwards's face reddened when he looked at Phipps, remembering that he was present. "I didn't mean you, Mr. Phipps, I meant ..."

Edwards turned to a well-dressed servant waiting nearby. "Get these men some food." Then Peter Edwards shoved his hands into his pockets. "A hundred Negroes, maybe more, have been killed right here in Southampton County-more around the state. Good people killed because of the color of their skin ... and money."

His eyes filled with tears. "My Sam... his mother is beside herself with grief ... a month after the whole business was over.... John Clarke and some other ne'er-do-wells dragged poor Sam from her house ... beat ... hanged him ... liars!" Edwards pounded the table. He flopped into a nearby chair and buried his face in his hands. Edwards looked up. "You could have come to me, Nat!"

Nat Turner stared and then Edwards turned away. "You knew but you did nothing. What choice did we have but war?"

"War?" Edwards looked back at Nat Turner, startled, then perplexed. He rose from the table and hollered toward the kitchen. "Hurry with the food!"

A servant entered the room carrying food and drink for Nat Turner and Benjamin Phipps. There was roasted chicken; the skin was crisp and still warm from the oven, served on a white ceramic plate with blue trim along with a hunk of bread made from white flour, spread with warm b.u.t.ter.

Nat Turner lifted the blue earthenware cup set before him. In it was hot tea sweetened with sugar. He tried not to stuff the food in his mouth, but he had been hungry too long. His hands and mouth took control. Across from him at the table, Benjamin Phipps was having no more luck being civil than he-the salty grease from the chicken smeared his face and dirty hands.

Peter Edwards sighed looking at Nat Turner. "This is probably the last decent meal you will eat."

He allowed them to finish the meal, and then Peter Edwards sent a rider for the sheriff. "Stop for no one else," he told the captive he sent. "Only speak to the sheriff. Tell no one else what was said or done here. Tell no one else that Nat Turner is here!"

The captive's eyes met Nat Turner's briefly and then looked away. The captive would remember. He would have a story to tell.

It was late morning, but the hutch and table shadowed the room. Nat Turner looked around at the heavy, dark, highly polished furniture that filled the room like great animals watching them.

Edwards's farm lay at the edge of Cross Keys and there was often discussion among the white captors about whether his farm was actually in Cross Keys or at the edge of Jerusalem-both groups wanted to claim the plantation was in their jurisdiction. When other farmers talked of how large they wanted their farms to be, how large they wanted their homes to be, how many windows, how big the front porch, how many slaves-Peter Edwards's place was always the standard. His home was the fantasy.

The portraits on the walls, the tiled floors, the crystal chandeliers, the stuffed velvet settees-how many captive people had died, how many lives had been stolen and ruined as others dreamed of having what Peter Edwards had?

Most likely, the elder Francises and the Whiteheads, and other Cross Keys families were once indentured to the Edwardses, the Parkers, and other wealthy landowners. But those memories were gone. White slaves had become captors, murdering and stealing to wipe the memory away.

There was a knock at the door. Congressman Trezvant, acting as senior judge, and acting judge James Parker had heard the news from the sheriff. They were first to arrive.

Chapter 72.

The early afternoon sun framed their figures in the doorway. Trezvant looked down at Benjamin Phipps, gingerly tapping him on the shoulder as though he did not want something to crawl off Phipps onto him. "You have done a great thing for Cross Keys, for Jerusalem-why, for all of Southampton County-bringing this scoundrel to justice!"

Young James Parker shook Benjamin Phipps's hand, but Phipps kept his gaze on the floor.

Trezvant continued speaking. "I had my doubts about you, Mr. Phipps. You are not a slavery man and you did not ride with us to help us roust the blackguard. Who would have thought you'd be the one to turn him in? But we white men must stick together at times like this." Grinning, he clapped Phipps's back harder. Then, dramatically, his face sobered. "The fiend wanted to kill all the good white people of Southampton County. Why, I believe the little preacher thought he could march to Richmond and take over the state. But we showed him." He looked down his nose at Phipps. "Of course, there is the matter of the reward. Over a thousand dollars." He leaned to whisper to Benjamin Phipps. "If you need my a.s.sistance, my office is open to you."

The senior judge quickly dismissed Phipps and turned to Peter Edwards. "Where is the villain? Do you have him secured?"

"He has made no struggle or attempt to run."

"Lead me to him." Trezvant cleared his throat and then, as an afterthought, he acknowledged Parker. "Lead us to the bandit." As Trezvant followed behind Peter Edwards-from the foyer, down the hall to the living room-from where he sat, Nat Turner watched the congressman's face. Trezvant seemed to be taking inventory, making a list of things he needed to acquire to be in fashion. He seemed to be tallying desks, chairs, portraits, light fixtures. How many captives would have to be bred and sold or hanged, how many acres of corn would he have to beat out of the captives to attain what was required of a proper gentleman?

As they walked, Peter Edwards turned to speak to Trezvant and Parker. "Has he been a.s.signed a lawyer? I'm not sure it's proper for you, as judges, to speak with Nat Turner before the hearing. Shouldn't the sheriff take him into custody and question him first?"

Trezvant was in control. "The sheriff is coming soon. He's gathering guards. But as officers of the court, I have decided that the two of us must interrogate the black rascal first."

Keen-eyed, Trezvant swept into the house, and Peter Edwards's living room became Trezvant's stage, Edwards's table his judicial bench. Tall and thin with spa.r.s.e gray curls plastered about the sides of his head, age had not been his ally. He continued inventorying Peter Edwards's living room where they sat, as though he were looking to be sure there was nothing there that he didn't already have-still tallying crystal, frosted gla.s.s, a chandelier.

Nat Turner had seen the man and his brother, the general store owner and postmaster, before on occasions when he went to town. The congressman, lawyer, militia colonel, was now chief justice of the court called to oversee the rebellion trials-if they could be called trials. Whether he officially had the authority was no matter; the congressman had wrested control.

From his pocket, Trezvant withdrew gla.s.ses that he perched on the tip of his nose. He did not look through them but over them, like props, as though the gla.s.ses themselves made him a judge. Despite his thinness, all of who Trezvant was strained at the seams of his clothes, pushed at his b.u.t.tons, puffed his face, and pooched his stomach. It reminded Nat Turner of something his mother had told him about Americans cinching themselves in clothes rather than wearing robes, as though they were afraid bits of themselves, or the best parts of them, might fly away.

At Trezvant's side was the much younger, and adequately insecure, James Parker. Nat Turner had heard that the thirty-year-old farmer and slave owner was the youngest judge sitting for the slave trials. Parker fidgeted, his eyes darting from place to place.

It was easy to figure why Trezvant and the others had chosen the young man to sit as judge. Parker was suitable because he did all the right things and bore the right name. He was the soft-spoken son of the outspoken Parker family, a family known for having the courage not to beat their slaves, a family that had the courage to feed their captives adequately, despite criticism that they were too generous. The Parker name appeared to lend balance to the court: A Parker was watching so there would be no mistreatment of the slaves.

But looking at the younger man, Nat Turner knew that he had the name but not the family courage or self-a.s.surance. James Parker was ginger-haired, clean-shaven, and perpetually red-faced. He did not have the experience or the confidence to stand against the formidable will of Congressman Colonel Judge Trezvant.

Trezvant alone was Grand Inquisitor. He was Pontius Pilate, and it was clear, as he peered over his spectacles, from the lift of his brow and the wrinkling of his forehead, that he was certain Nat Turner was no match for him.

Trezvant looked around the room, settling his gaze on Peter Edwards's liquor cabinet. He stared at it until Edwards ordered that a gla.s.s of whiskey be brought to him. Then Trezvant began the questioning.

"You don't look like the big, black strapping sort of fellow who I would think the jigs would choose to lead their murdering, thieving enterprise. But then I understand you've been living in the woods, not far from here. Dining on wild nuts and berries? That might account for your thinness, though not your lack of height." Trezvant chortled and lifted one brow. "Thought you'd come in for a meal?"

His left hand moving like a snake's tongue, Trezvant slapped the servant who stood nearby and grabbed his arm, jerking him toward Nat Turner. "How dare you seat him on an upholstered chair. He stinks to high heaven! The chair will be ruined, you imbecile! Get him off the chair and fetch a wooden stool."

Peter Edwards looked away, dropped his head, faded into the curtains.

The stool the servant brought was rough and unpainted. Nat Turner sat on it, thanking the servant, who would not look at him. This captive, too, would be a witness: He would have a story to tell.

Trezvant stared over his gla.s.ses at Nat Turner and pursed his lips. "Comfortable?" The old man meant to rattle him. "So you're the general, the leader of a band of murderers! No tears? No remorse? You are a coldhearted fellow."

"I am guilty of nothing. I struck the first blow for freedom, but it was not murder. I am no guiltier than George Washington, Nathan Hale, or any other soldier. We were an army working together. Everything we did, we did in common. It is war, the Lord's judgment."

Trezvant shook his head and looked around the room at the other white men. "See how childish and simple the darkies are that they would allow themselves to be led by someone like this? They might have chosen someone to follow like Red Nelson. But they chose this... this thing." He gestured at Nat Turner. "Well, they all deserve what they got. They brought it on themselves. But, of course, we're the ones to suffer; look at all the lost property."

"Some slaves were loyal," Parker inserted.

"Indeed. But the filthy insurrectionists got just what they deserved. They are the cause of hundreds of their kind being killed all over the state-even in North Carolina." He pointed at Nat Turner. "Look at the culprit. His stench is unbearable."

All his life white people had been speaking of Nat Turner as though he wasn't there, as if they knew better than he what was best for his life.

Trezvant's expression and tone changed. He smiled at Nat Turner as though seconds ago he had not insulted him. "Your life held so much promise. Many white people were taken with you. You could have followed after someone like Red Nelson, someone more like you, and stayed in your place. Why did you choose to be with the others, to be with the darker... the common field hands?"

All his life, he had held his tongue; it was the only way to survive. Now G.o.d had removed the muzzle, and he would say whatever came to his mind and to his heart. "I didn't choose; you chose for me.

"But the truth is, if I have to choose between standing with captives or captors, I would always choose to stand with those in chains."

Trezvant looked over his gla.s.ses and smiled. This was a debate, a debate Trezvant was certain he would win: He was smarter; Nat Turner was inferior. Nat Turner would lose the contest and die.

Trezvant began to drill Nat Turner with questions. He took notes on sheets of paper spread in front of him. "I have heard that you are an intelligent creature, but your battle plan makes no sense. Did you think with no weapons, no training, and with your simple minds, that you'd be able to take over Jerusalem? Take over Virginia? This whole nation? Do you know how many white men there are? How many guns we have? Only a crazy person could think that unarmed and with so few men you could take over the county, let alone the state."

"Some trust in chariots, and some in horses, but we trust in our G.o.d.

"This was not a war against Jerusalem or Southampton County or Virginia or all white men. It was the righteous judgment of G.o.d; we beat our plowshares into swords, judgment began at the house of G.o.d."

"But you were not successful. Was it worth it? The odds were always against you. Do you regret what you did?"

"Does America regret its revolution? Some causes are worth fighting for, even if defeat seems sure." This was only the first battle. War would grip the nation. "History will judge if our small battle, our small beginning, helped win the war that is to come. This is only the start of G.o.d's harvest. I do His will."

"So now you are Moses or some other prophet." Trezvant stared at him as though he were insane. "So you killed Sallie and Joseph Travis?"

"I struck the first blow for freedom."