We heard the knock on the back door halfway through the repast that served as Sunday supper. The house, which was rambling and three story, with rooms that went off in directions that looked as if no architect ever drew up the plans, was large and comfortable. A newcomer could get lost in it. But it had that necessity every Southern mansion had—a center hall, which kept the air coming through on even the hottest of days.
At first, when I heard the knocking I thought, Oh good, Nat Turner knows enough to come to the back door. That will give him points with Richard. And then I thought, No, it’s Owen’s idea. He was in charge of answering the door and sending negroes to the back when he was here.
Violet came into the dining room, careful not to look at me. She’d been “doing the doors” since Owen ran away. “Master Richard, there’s someone to see y’all.”
“Who is it?” Richard growled. “You know I don’t like to interrupt my meals for guests.”
“It’s Nat Turner, suh. That negro preacher.”
“I’m not interested in talking with him. Can’t even control the onlookers at his baptism. Tell him to come another time. Offer him some iced tea and tell him to go.”
Before supper Richard had cross-examined Violet and me about the baptism and had been outright horrified at the behavior of those boys who had come to see it. “What kind of a minister is that?” he’d asked of no one in particular. But I couldn’t help feeling that he was glad to hear our report. And that he’d used me as a spy.
“But, suh,” Violet protested now, “he’s got Owen with him.”
“Who?”
“Owen, suh, who done run off. He’s got him.”
Mother’s knife and fork clattered onto her plate. She had missed Owen dearly. She started to get up. “Richard, if you don’t go, I will. It’s our Owen, for heaven’s sake.”
“I know,” he growled, and pushed back his chair. “Sit, Mother, I’ll handle it.”
But she insisted on getting up. I got to my feet and helped her.
Violet spoke again. “He says, suh, that he wants to see Miz Catharine. And Miz Harriet, as well as you.”
Richard tore the white dinner napkin from his shirtfront. “Oh, he does, does he? Does he know he isn’t quite running things around here?”
Violet simply curtsied and went out of the room to the glass-enclosed, plant-filled solarium in back of the house. Mother Whitehead and I followed.
They stood there like two lost travelers. Nat Turner had dressed in clean trousers and a patched but fresh shirt and weskit. His shoes were polished. Owen’s old clothes had been replenished. They turned as we came in. I thought I saw Owen cower a bit at the sight of my brother and make a move as if to get down on his knees, but Nat held him up firmly by the shoulders.
For a moment all was terrible silence. Then Mother Whitehead spoke and held out her arms in a welcoming embrace. “Owen, so you have come home to us. Welcome, child, I have missed you so!” That was her way. After all, she had trained him up since he was a knee baby.
He started toward her but did not get far. He had to get by Richard first, and Richard grabbed his arm in a fierce grip that bound him. “Home, are you?” he said in a voice of controlled anger.
“Yes, sir,” Owen said quietly.
“And so what did you find in the outside world? Did you like it?”
“No, sir.”
“How many meals of hominy and bacon did you have? How much pot likker? Did you sleep on a straw mattress or on the rough ground? Did you sleep at all? Answer me! No, don’t speak. I suppose you went about stealing things from good folks’ plantations. How many chickens did you steal? Well?” He gave Owen a little shake. “How many of our neighbors do I have to pay off for what you stole from them? You’ll tell me, you will. And for every ten dollars you’ll get ten stripes. You hear?”
Nat Turner spoke up then. “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Whitehead,” he said. “To tell you that he was with me the whole time. At my master’s. He was fed and he worked and he stole nothing. You don’t owe nobody anything. Mr. Travis owes you for the work he did. It was as if you hired him out.”
He reached inside his breeches pocket and drew out some silver coins and put them on a nearby glass-topped table. “That’s for his hire, sir. Mr. Travis wants you to have it.”
“Are you making a fool out of me?” Richard asked.
“No, sir,” Nat Turner said.
I could watch his face, hear the even tone in his voice, and tell how he despised Richard. “Mr. Travis’s only wish is that you don’t whip Owen for running off. He says if you don’t want him anymore, he’ll buy him from you. He does a full day’s work, he says.”
The wind went out of Richard’s sails. He released Owen. “What I do with my property is my business,” he said. “If I want to whip him, I’ll whip him. And it’s none of Travis’s business how I do with my negroes.”
“You know better, Richard,” Mother Whitehead said kindly. “Here in this county it is everybody’s business how everybody else treats their negroes.” And she stepped forward and put an arm around Owen’s shoulder and patted his head. “Violet, go and take Owen into the kitchen and give him some good vittles. No, Harriet, you stay here, this is family business. I only wish Margaret were here instead of gallivanting around all the time.”
And then to Nat Turner, “I am Mother Whitehead, Nat Turner. As you must have heard by now, I am near totally blind. But what the eyes can’t see, the heart can. Anyway, my son, Richard, runs things around here and is the one to be reckoned with. But on this one matter I shall overstep him. Because I’ve known Owen since he was born. I am most pleased to meet you. I am the one always writing to Mr. Travis and asking him to hire you out to me. I have already asked him to allow me to buy you. But he refuses. It says much about your character and your work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nat answered.
“Richard has his reputation to keep. Both as a property and slave owner in Southampton County and a leading Methodist minister.”
I heard Richard sigh heavily.
“I can tell you, Nat Turner, that it is not an easy path my son has taken. To head up a plantation with sixty slaves and be a minister who stands for forgiveness and love is a double duty most could not perform. I hope you will tell others how Richard manages it. Your young friend is safe and welcomed home. We thank you for what you have done for us. And I promise you that very soon you will be working, for hire, in this very house. May we offer you something cool to drink?”
Nat said no. He left then. Richard glared at Mother, who, thank heaven, could not see the look. But he could not go against her wishes. And he knew it.