I wasn’t used to running. I was accustomed to riding a horse or being taken somewhere in a carriage. I’d ridden many times on this path to the Jacobs place, to convey a message or invitation from Mother Whitehead. But today it was not an ordinary path, not an ordinary ride, not ordinary woods.
I knew that in this wilderness they called Jacobs’ Woods, outliers came to hide. Outliers were slaves who’d run off for a week or two to hide out from their masters or mistresses just to show them they objected to certain treatment. To live, they robbed nearby plantations of cattle, sheep, hogs, and tools. Some returned within weeks and proved their point. Others were at large for six months or so. And their owners just waited for them to return.
Owen had been on his way to being an outlier when Nat had caught up with him.
As I ran, stopping every once in a while to catch my breath, I could feel eyes upon me. The outliers were watching, I knew. But they would not concern themselves with me. Likely they already heard what had happened and were hiding now from Nat Turner as well as from their masters.
I fell once and hurt my knee. I tore my dress at the hem. Mother Whitehead would be unhappy, I decided, and I’d get scolded. Then, running, tears coming down my face, I decided that I would likely never see Mother Whitehead again!
Tree branches slapped across my face and I covered my eyes. How long had I been running? My heart was pounding. My head throbbed. There, there up ahead was the Jacobs place. I stopped, so out of breath I thought I would faint. I felt in my dress pocket. Where was the invitation to tea? Had I lost it? Where was my horse? Had he wandered away? Why was I here?
And then it came to me. Somebody had died back home, and I was to tell the Jacobses that if they didn’t burn their cotton fields they would die, too.
I stood looking at the back of the Jacobs plantation, at neat fences and cows grazing and horses meandering about. I saw the workers in the field just like at our place. There was an abundance of late summer flowers and there was a pond and there were crisp white curtains at the windows of the crisp white house and a wide veranda and dogs and cats lying about and for a minute I thought I was home.
For a minute I thought I could erase all that had happened this August morning and start over.
Oh, Lord, let me start over. I’ll do it right this time. I’ll be nicer to Richard. I’ll be sorry for my sins. I’ll loan Margaret my rose moiré dress that she wanted so. I’ll be more patient with Emilie. Lord, try me. Give me a chance.
I closed my eyes, praying. But all I heard was my ragged breath coming in spurts, the tortured beating of my own heart, the barking of the Jacobses’ dogs, who had already picked up the scent of me, and the pecking of wood from a nearby woodpecker on a tree.
What I saw behind my closed eyes, though, was different.
I saw five of Nat’s men and Nat creeping into the house so quietly that Pleasant, who was upstairs getting William ready for his morning walk, didn’t know they were anywhere on the place.
I saw them go onto the veranda in front, where Mother Whitehead had removed herself with Emilie. Violet was up in the attic with Owen, under the bed. Though Mother Whitehead could only see dim shapes and forms, she did see them when they stood in front of her.
“Yes?” she asked. “Who is it? What is it you want? Have you seen Harriet? I want to write some letters. Emilie, who are these people?”
But Emilie was dumbstruck. Her mouth was open but no sound came out. Not even when Hark grabbed her by her hair in back and slit her throat, expertly.
“What’s that you say, Emilie?”
Then Nat stepped forward and did his business with the broadax on Mother Whitehead. And, bleeding all over her blue silk morning sacque, Mother Whitehead slumped to the floor dead.
Then they moved out of the room, upstairs to where Pleasant and the baby were. But not before Nat Turner took out his key to the gun room and went to hand weapons to his men who didn’t have any guns.
Oh yes, one more thing. There were dead people in the kitchen. Connie for one. She had tried to scream when they forced their way in the door. And two other servants, who had tried to run out. It didn’t matter to Nat Turner whether those he killed were black or white, you see. If they sided with the white people, the black people were condemned, too. It was all the same to him. He had his message from God, and he knew what God had told him to do and he would abide by it and earn his way into heaven.
The scene in front of my closed eyes changed now. And I saw Pleasant upstairs in her and Richard’s room, leaning over the crib of baby William, cooing him to sleep. I saw Nat Turner and Hark appear in the doorway and take one look around the beautifully appointed blue and white room, with its bed hangings and curtains and dressing table, then, having seen all he wanted to see, Nat gave Hark a shove and Hark stepped across the floor toward Pleasant, who turned and jumped, seeing them. Seeing the broadax in Hark’s hands.
She raised her hands to ward them off, but in an instant Hark had swung the broadax and a second later the pristine blue and white of the room had another color added to it. Red. The red blood spilled all over the braided rugs on the floor, all down the crib quilt that Pleasant had made for the baby.
She slumped to the floor, near headless now, and baby William wailed out his anger.
Nat Turner told Hark, “Let’s go,” and Hark said, “What about the baby?” And Nat said, “Leave him be.” And they started to walk out and then Nat had a change of heart and stopped at the door. “No,” he said, “you’re right. Babies grow up to be men who take revenge. Kill him.”
And so Hark did. And then they left the room.
I saw all this behind my eyelids, like some madwoman, within a few seconds. And then I collapsed on the ground.