"Did you kill the Williamses?"

"We were an army moving as one."

Trezvant peered over his gla.s.ses and dipped his quill in the ink that Peter Edwards had provided him. "What about the Whiteheads? Were you there?"

"We were an army. We all worked in common."

Nat Turner thought then of Will. He would aid his escape. He would make it so they would hope to never find Will. They wouldn't want to speak of him. "But I will tell you that the fiercest warrior of us all was Will. He vowed to kill everything white that moved-man, woman, or child. He was executioner. Most of the kills were his. He was a fury, an angel of death wreaking vengeance."

Trezvant did not counter. Instead, he looked at his notes, returning to his questioning. "You killed more than fifty people-women and children among them-yet there are no tears, your head is not bowed." Trezvant narrowed his eyes. "What kind of creature are you?"

"You say I am a creature. If I am, why should I weep? Does the wolf weep after devouring its prey?"

Trezvant stopped scribbling and stared over his gla.s.ses at Nat Turner. "There is ice water in your veins, Preacher. It does not seem to faze you, all the blood and murdered bodies you've seen."

"As a slave, I have been well trained. I have seen a great deal of blood, many wounded and murdered bodies in my lifetime, and I have been taught that I should not react. The overseer says slave life is nothing-kick the body out of the way, then back to work. Peculiar that now someone seems to care."

Trezvant's face reddened with anger momentarily, then it was back to his interrogation. "Were you at the Whiteheads'? Were you at the Barrows'?"

"We were an army moving as one-you cannot separate me from my men; what one did we all did. Just as you are all guilty of hanging innocent men, even a woman. I hear that Virginia pays handsomely." Trezvant intended to win, but Nat Turner would exact a price. "There is innocent blood on your hands, and that blood will d.a.m.n you." Nat Turner turned and looked at young James Parker. "There is blood on both your hands."

Trezvant did not speak again until he had regained his composure. He looked at Parker. "This is what comes with allowing n.i.g.g.e.rs to read, treating them as equals, and allowing them to strut around and call themselves preachers." He muttered to himself. "n.i.g.g.e.r preachers."

He turned back to Nat Turner, paused, took a deep breath, and reapplied his sheepish smile. "Nat, you don't have to put on airs for me. Speak naturally. Feel free to speak your own language."

"My own language?"

"You know, the way you people speak."

"Do you believe that it is the way I speak that makes me a Negro?"

"I mean you should be more like the others. Less formal. You know, n.i.g.g.e.r talk, gibberish. Speak like your people. You would have gotten less agitated if you had not tried to be a white man, if you had acted like the others. You would have been happier if you acted like old Hubbard or Red Nelson."

"Who are you to choose how I speak or whose lead I follow? Or is it that you want me to play the Zip c.o.o.n for you, to dance and shuffle my feet like Red Nelson does to entertain you white men?"

They still did not see who he was. They did not treat him as who he was, but as they thought they saw. They treated him as the role they created for him. When he did not play his part, they were angry. They wanted him to be less and accept less. He was their brother, but they were only satisfied if he played the role of inferior and slave.

They deceived themselves: He spoke one way but they heard another.

They said he was ignorant, so he must be ignorant. They said he was a frightening savage, and in their minds it was so. "It is all a lie. You don't see the truth in front of your eyes. You don't see goodness or intelligence cloaked in black. You don't recognize evil if it has white skin.

"None of us has any value to you except as your property-property you are willing to destroy for money. We have no value in your eyes unless you say so."

Nat Turner had held his tongue for so long. The words rushed from him like an unpent dam. "Who are you to tell me how to speak? You want me to play a part for you that justifies your not treating me as a man. I won't do it!"

Trezvant glared; the veins bulged in his neck. He stopped and seemed to stuff his anger back into his suit. Then he sighed as though Nat Turner were a willful child, shuffled his papers, and then resumed his questioning. "How much money did your banditti steal? Was it worth the lives of so many people?"

"We didn't steal money or property."

Trezvant chuckled, looking at Parker, and then turned back to Nat Turner. "Do you mean to convince me that you did this all for some n.o.ble cause?" Trezvant smirked and leaned back in his chair. "I'm a military man, myself-a colonel in the militia. Do you know what that is, a colonel?"

Nat Turner was silent.

"Do you mean to tell me that as the leader, as the general, as it were, of this little ... band... this little group of n.i.g.g.e.rs, that you expected no spoils or money? Perhaps ten dollars a week for you and five dollars for your captains? Here and there s.n.a.t.c.hing a bank note or a gold coin as you romped through an old widow's home? No one would hold it against you for pocketing a few coins. Even white men are tempted."

"I have no interest in money. G.o.d provides-"

Trezvant interrupted, leaning forward again. "Then tell me why. Did you plan to rape the women, but they fought you off?"

"Why would I want to rape a woman? I married the woman I desired. And there has been enough rape among us, don't you think? My mother was raped.

"We are men of honor! We are G.o.dly men! We fight for freedom and for honor. We fight to do the Lord's will."

"G.o.dly men? You are murderers and n.i.g.g.e.r fools!" Trezvant's face remained emotionless, though he was one of the culprits who attacked Cherry.

Nat Turner could not help thinking of his wife. Cherry, sweet Cherry with exotic Africa in her hair. He would never see her again, never feel the softness of her skin or her arms wrapped around him. None of the captors was worthy of her. "It is my wife and other captive women who need protection from the likes of you."

Suddenly angry, Trezvant pounded the table. "Don't you get smart with me, black devil! I hold your life in my hands!"

"You hold no power over me. I have already seen the worst.

"All this is in my Father's hands, hands greater than either yours or mine. I am in the hands of the Awesome Defender of the motherless, the poor, and the alien. All this is His doing. Does it not strike you as odd that I-a simple man, a captive, a mere slave-sit before you great men? You should not even notice me. But it is the will of G.o.d that I am here. G.o.d's judgment is upon you.

"I have learned to fear Him which is able to destroy both body and soul. You cannot harm me."

"Just as I have heard, you are insane! Only a crazy man would speak as you do." Trezvant shook his head and rustled his papers as he turned in Parker's direction. "We are talking to a crazy man, a n.i.g.g.e.r zealot."

Trezvant pushed the papers from in front of him, laid down his pen, and spoke again to Nat Turner. "All right then, holy man, tell me why, in your twisted thinking, you shed so much innocent blood?

"Even as insane as you are, you must admit that Travis was a good master. Nathaniel Francis tells me that Travis and your mistress, Sallie, doted on you. You know it is true; all the men in Southampton are known to be good masters. Slavery here is probably of more benefit to the slave than it is to the master." Trezvant nodded his head, looking about at Parker and Peter Edwards. "We Virginians are known for being kind to our slaves, unlike our heavy-handed brothers in the Deep South," Trezvant said as though to comfort them. He turned back to Nat Turner. "Though slaves like you make me believe our more Southern brothers may be correct in their judgment of how to treat you darkies."

"So, you take pride that you are kinder masters: moderately cruel, but not exceedingly cruel? Where is the line?"

Trezvant's mouth puckered and his eyes narrowed to slits, as though he needed to see better, to rea.s.sess his prey. He paused, tapping the paper in front of him, and then asked, "If you had complaints, why did you not come to us? Look at all the blood that has been shed, your own people's blood. Your masters were kindly."

"A kindly master? The first word comforts you but the second word tells the tale. You have never worn chains or felt a whip. How can you be the judge of kindness?

"Good master? Good or bad, kind or evil, he keeps the captives from freedom."

"You are a cold-blooded fellow, sitting here calmly while white people have died! You sit here without crying, with your head held high; don't you know you're going to hang for what you've done?

"They were good white people, all of them. I knew them. Yours was a heartless crime."

A sardonic smile tugged at Nat Turner's lips. "Good to you. If I am guilty of crime, then all soldiers are guilty."

"What?"

"I said, the people you speak of were good to you. Their kindness to you has nothing to do with how they treated their captives. Kind or not, they were manstealers. You cannot judge from where you sit how they treated us when you yourselves are guilty of the same crimes."

"Crimes? We've done nothing against the law." Trezvant's tone was defensive.

"Then I say the law itself is criminal and has no authority over me." Whose laws did they uphold? The captors created laws that justified and benefited them. "'Every way of a man is right in his own eyes, but the LORD pondereth the hearts.'

"The law you created as men gives you what you want. But if you judge by the law of G.o.d, then you are guilty of the worst crimes. You are liars, thieves, and murderers. You are manstealers and G.o.d Almighty finds you guilty. His is the highest law on earth!"

Nat Turner looked around the room at the heavy draperies, the carpets on the floors, the polished silverware in the cupboards. He looked at the fine clothes the men wore and the shoes with buckles. They surrounded themselves with nice things and told themselves that their wealth was proof of their righteousness. "We came to you in the past, begging for help. Like Pharaoh, you were cruel to those who complained. You choked the life from us just as you have choked others who got in your way.

"There is no respite or refuge in the courts. There is no sheriff or army to take back what has been stolen from us. What did you expect us to do?"

"You and the other slaves had plenty to eat, warm clothes, and roofs over your heads. Why?"

"We starve. We freeze. We bleed. We die. And you do not know why? You truly do not know why? You have not heard your brothers' cries of despair or our blood crying from the ground? You have not heard our stolen wages howling in the land?" Nat Turner was not afraid. Death was already promised to him. "If you do not know what you have done to thousands, millions, if you cannot see our suffering, then G.o.d help you: You are reprobate!"

Chapter 73.

The midafternoon sun changed the shadows in the room. His mouth was dry. Trezvant had been questioning him for what felt like hours. But Peter Edwards could not offer him refreshments in front of Trezvant. Even the slightest courtesy would make Peter Edwards look like a sympathizer, a n.i.g.g.e.r-lover, and wealthy Edwards could not afford that.

Trezvant and Nat Turner seemed to be the only two people in the room. Parker and Peter Edwards had faded into the background. Even Benjamin Phipps seemed to have disappeared. But Nat Turner knew there were others watching. Normally stationed in the kitchen, at the front door as butler, or standing by as a boy to do the masters' bidding, the captives were watching and listening. They were silent and invisible, hoping not to be noticed, but listening to each word. He imagined, because he had felt the same himself, that they were uncertain how to feel.

Were they silently cheering for him and praying for him as their hero? Were they angry because the revolt had caused them more trouble? Were they afraid to hope for freedom? Were they afraid to hope?

They were captive witnesses and no matter how they felt about him now, they would remember. They were captives, and he must do all he could to defend and deliver them. There was a family debt he owed.

Nat Turner looked at Trezvant. This was the trial that mattered. The play to come in the Jerusalem courtroom would be of little importance. The verdict there was already certain: Nat Turner would hang. But the fate of the captors was still uncertain. Today, the captors faced judgment. Trezvant held the fate of the nation in his hands-mercy and peace, or judgment and war. Trezvant did not seem to understand, and his questioning always came back to the same thing.

The congressman shook his head. "You n.i.g.g.e.rs bite the hand that feeds you. We did you people a favor bringing you here from your dark continent to teach you about Jesus Christ."

"How can you teach what you do not know?

"You do not believe. You do not love. How can you teach Christ when you think you are G.o.ds?"

Like earthly kings, they expected those they forced into slavery to serve gladly. Like evil G.o.ds, they felt it was their right to sacrifice the lives and dreams of others simply for their own profit and pleasure. G.o.d Himself does not force any man to be His slave. He is the Creator, but He gives each of us free will to choose if we will serve Him-as His friends and children. Those who choose to serve, serve with joy. G.o.d proves His greatness by giving all mankind freedom.

"But you force others to follow you at gunpoint. Whips and dogs and armies enforce your rule.

"So which of us is heathen and which is Christian, sir? The one who keeps men in chains, or the one who is kept? It is hard to know until harvesttime. G.o.d has judged."

Trezvant's eyes narrowed to slits. "Don't press me, boy. You speak too boldly. I have been patient with you. Always a smart, crafty answer. No doubt that is why you wear that scar on your head."

Nat Turner touched the scar on his temple while Trezvant shuffled his papers.

"Why? You still have not explained, to my satisfaction, why, Nat."

"It will never be to your satisfaction; you do not want to understand. We are peaceful men forced to fight for our lives, our liberty, our birthright."

"Men?" Trezvant laughed.

Nat Turner thought of Will, Hark, Sam, Dred, and the others, even young Davy. They had fought knowing the odds were against them. They had defended their families armed with little more than courage. "Yes, men. It is our solemn duty to defend our families, our women, and to obey G.o.d-both when He tells us to bow down and when He tells us to rise up!

"We are men-G.o.d's men, G.o.d's warriors, G.o.d's sons!" This was the reason that he was here. He could not back down now; he had to speak the whole truth. It was no accident that they were in this place just beyond Bethlehem on the way that leads to Jerusalem.

G.o.d had spoken to Nat Turner in the Great Dismal Swamp. He did not want to return to Cross Keys. He did not want judgment to begin with the house of G.o.d, the house his father built, Turner's Meeting Place. If he could have chosen where to begin war, it would have been with Giles Reese, who stole his family away.

But it was G.o.d's command, G.o.d's judgment. Here they were, and Nat Turner had to be obedient; he had to speak the whole truth. "You brought us here. You pay for your education, for your homes, for your wealth, by stealing our lives. We cut your roads through forests; we erect your buildings; we tend your children. In return for what we do, you give nothing. In return for our work, you steal our memories, our families, and you shame us, you humiliate us. You doom us to lives where our only worth is breeding more children for you to destroy."

What would happen to the generations born of the people, G.o.d's children, used for breeding, the generations forbidden to marry? Who would heal them, who would make them whole?

Trezvant's face was flushed with fury. He put down his pen and crossed his arms. Parker looked troubled.

"When you are done with us-if we live to be old and you have no more use for us-then you abandon us and tell yourselves you owe nothing, it is over. You rea.s.sure yourselves that you are good men."

No good fruit could grow from the seeds the captors planted. What would chained and beaten men, men forbidden to love, teach their children and their children's children? How could sweet milk flow from women treated as animals?

The captors left behind a debt too great for their children to bear, an evil inheritance like the firstborn sons of Egypt. Cursing them, they left their children to defend their forefathers' wrongs. "You poison us, you poison your own children, you poison the land. You poison the nation. You are Old Testament men, men without grace. How will you pay the debt for the trespa.s.ses you commit against the children, against the generations yet unborn?"

Trezvant's mouth set in a line. "I don't care how crazy you are, don't think that I'm going to sit here and allow you to malign this great nation!" His face tightened. "We are the sons of liberty, and I will not tolerate your blasphemy."

"It is a great nation. But it is also our nation. We are also sons of this nation we built together." Every acre, every field, every sip of liquor was purchased with captive blood. "Ours is a great country-how much greater would it be if its bricks were not ground from broken hearts, if they were not patched with the mortar of broken dreams?

"You don't want to share what G.o.d has given to all with your brothers. How much greater would our country be if you did not ask our Father to deny us?"

Trezvant's fists, resting on the table, were taut, his knuckles white. "Don't you dare presume to preach to me. I'm not one of you n.i.g.g.e.r field hands. What I want to know from you is why you did it. Why did you murder all those good white people?"

"We did not make war against all white people. You are the proof: You two gentlemen are white and alive. We did not murder; we executed G.o.d's judgment."

Trezvant leaned against the table. "The judgment of G.o.d? Over fifty white people are dead!"

"Judgment begins at the house of the Lord, but many more will die. You have judged others, now judgment comes to you.

"Millions of African men, women, and children are dead. Who will answer for the lives taken? Who will answer for the generations stolen-fathers, mothers, teachers, sons, daughters, farmers?"

The captors stole and murdered millions but claimed innocence and righteousness.

There were families left without fathers. There were villages left with no young men to farm and no men to protect them. Teachers and mothers, babies were stolen, mothers left with empty arms.

"If you demand justice, first you must pay the debt you owe. Who will pay Africa for her children? If you do not pay, you leave the debt at your children's and your children's children's feet."

Panting and blotched with rage, though Parker tried to restrain him, Trezvant bl.u.s.tered. "Fiend! Liar!"

Nat Turner was bound to the truth. All that had happened-his mother's theft from Africa, Cherry's beating, Hark's death, even the death of his captor and friend Sallie-was for nothing if he did not speak the truth. "What happened the night of the sickle moon was not murder. It was revolt. First harvest. G.o.d's judgment. Not against all white men, but against those who lie and say they are G.o.d's people while rebelling against His will, against His love. They are evil, wolves in sheep's clothing.