The Confessions of Nat Turner (59 page)

BOOK: The Confessions of Nat Turner

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In the lantern light I see that he is clasping something in his hand; when I draw closer to the door I can tell that it is a Bible.

For once Gray seems quiet, subdued.

“I brung you what you asked for, Reverend,” he says in a soft voice. So composed does he seem, so tranquil, so gentle are his tones, that I almost take him for another man. “I done it against the will of the court. It’s my doing, my risk. But you’ve been pretty fair and square with me, all in all. You can have this solace if you want it.”

He hands the Bible to me through the bars of the door. For a long moment we gaze at each other in the flickering light and I have a strange sensation which passes almost as quickly as it comes, that never have I seen this man in my life. I say nothing to him in answer. At last he reaches through the bars and grasps my hand; as he does so I know by some strange and tentative feeling in his hasty grip that this is the first black hand he has ever shaken, no doubt the last.

“Good-bye, Reverend,” he says.

“Good-bye, Mr. Gray,” I reply.

Then he is gone, the lantern flame fades and dies out, and the cell again is filled with darkness. I turn and place the Bible down gently on the cedar plank. I know that I would not open it now even if I had the light to read it by. Yet its presence warms the cell and for the first time since I have been in jail, for the first time since I gazed into his irksome face, I feel a wrench of pity for Gray and for his mortal years to come. Again I move to the The Confessions of Nat Turner

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window, inhaling deeply the wintry morning air. It tastes of smoke, of burning apple wood, and I am flooded with swift shifting memories, too sweet to bear, of all distant childhood, of old time past. I lean against the sill of the window, and gaze up at the morning star. Surely I come quickly . . .

Then behold I come quickly . . .

And as I think of her, the desire swells within me and I am stirred by a longing so great that like those memories of time past and long-ago voices, flowing waters, rushing winds, it seems more than my heart can abide. Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and everyone that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. Her voice is close, familiar, real, and for an instant I mistake the wind against my ear, a gentle gust, for her breath, and I turn to seek her in the darkness. And now beyond my fear, beyond my dread and emptiness, I feel the warmth flow into my loins and my legs tingle with desire. I tremble and I search for her face in my mind, seek her young body, yearning for her suddenly with a rage that racks me with a craving beyond pain; with tender stroking motions I pour out my love within her; pulsing flood; she arches against me, cries out, and the twain—black and white—are one. I faint slowly. My head falls toward the window, my breath comes hard. I recall a meadow, June, the voice a whisper: Is it not true, Nat? Did He not say, I am the root and the offspring of David, and the bright and morning star?

Surely I come quickly . . .

Footsteps outside the door jar me from my reverie, I hear white men’s voices. Again a lantern casts a bloom of light through the cell, but the half-dozen men go past with thumping boots and stop at Hark’s door. I hear jingling keys and a bolt slides back with a thud. I turn and see the outline of two men pushing the chair past my door. Its legs bump and clatter on the plank floor, there is a heavy jolt as its arms strike against the doorjamb of Hark’s cell. “Raise up,” I hear one of the men say to Hark. “Raise yore ass up, we got to rope you in.” There is silence, then a creaking sound. I hear Hark begin to moan in pain. “Easy dar!”

he cries out, gasping. “Easy!”

“Move his legs,” I hear one of the white men order another.

“Grab him by the arms,” says someone else.

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Hark’s voice becomes a wail of hurt and wild distress. The sound of bumping and shoving fills the air.

“Easy!” Hark cries out, sobbing.

“Push him down!” says a voice.

I find myself hammering at the walls. “Don’t hurt him!” I rage.

“Don’t hurt him, you white sons of bitches! You’ve done hurt him enough! All his life! Now God damn you don’t hurt him no more!”

Silence descends as the men cease talking. In a long drawn-out breath Hark’s wail dies away. Now I hear a hurried sound of snapping ropes as they tie him into the chair. Then the white men whisper and grunt while they strain beneath the weight of their burden and lift Hark out into the hallway. Shadows leap up and quiver in the lantern’s brassy radiance. The white men shuffle in furious labor, gasping with the effort. Hark’s bound and seated shape, like the silhouette of some marvelous black potentate borne in stately procession toward his throne, passes slowly by my door. I reach out as if to touch him, feel nothing, clutch only a handful of air.

“Dis yere some way to go,” I hear Hark say. “Good-bye, ole Nat!”

he calls.

“Good-bye, Hark,” I whisper, “good-bye, good-bye.”

“Hit gwine be all right, Nat,” he cries out to me, the voice fading.

“Ev’ythin’ gwine be all right! Dis yere ain’t nothin’, Nat, nothin’

atall! Good-bye, ole Nat, good-bye!”

Good-bye, Hark, good-bye.

The edge of dawn pales, brightens; stars wink away like dying sparks as the night fades and dusty sunrise begins to streak the far sky. Yet steadfast the morning star rides in the heavens radiant and pure, set like crystal amid the still waters of eternity.

Morning blooms softly upon the rutted streets of Jerusalem; the howling dog and the crowing roosters at last are silent.

Somewhere behind me in the jail I hear a murmuration of voices; I sense a presence at my back, I feel the approach of gigantic, unrelenting footfalls. I turn and retrieve the Bible from the cedar plank and for one last time take my station by the window, breathing deeply in the apple-sweet air. My breath is smoke, I shudder in the cold newborn beauty of the world. The footsteps The Confessions of Nat Turner

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draw near, suddenly cease. There is a rattle of bolts and keys. A voice says: “Nat!” And when I do not answer, the same voice calls out: “Come!”

We’ll love one another, she seems to be entreating me, very close now, we’ll love one another by the light of heaven above. I feel the nearness of flowing waters, tumultuous waves, rushing winds. The voice calls again: “Come!”

Yes, I think just before I turn to greet him, I would have done it all again. I would have destroyed them all. Yet I would have spared one. I would have spared her that showed me Him whose presence I had not fathomed or maybe never even known. Great God, how early it is! Until now I had almost forgotten His name.

“Come!” the voice booms, but commanding me now: Come, My son! I turn in surrender.

Surely I come quickly. Amen.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

Oh how bright and fair the morning star . . .

The bodies of those executed, with one exception, were buried in a decent and becoming manner. That of Nat Turner was delivered to the doctors, who skinned it and made grease of the flesh. Mr. R. S. Barham’s father owned a money purse made of his hide. His skeleton was for many years in the possession of Dr. Massenberg, but has since been misplaced.

—Drewry,
The Southampton Insurrection
ª ª ª

And he said unto me, It is done.

I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give
unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water
of life freely. He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I
will be his God and he shall be my son.

The Confessions of Nat Turner

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