Cross Keys Area, outside Jerusalem, Virginia
Christmas 1830
Nat Turner bowed his head to pray with the others over their Christmas dinner—beans, corn bread, greens, and cabbage flavored with pigs’ feet and tails. He dipped his spoon into the food and tasted. He nodded his compliments to Mrs. Hathcock.
Some had criticized him years ago, after his return from the Great Dismal Swamp, telling him they would not return to slavery for anything or for anyone. He looked at the men, women, and children around him—at his wife and at his mother.
Some understood now why he had returned. Others might never understand. He had come back in obedience to God. He had come back for his people.
Nat Turner looked at Cherry, who sat beside him. No matter what, he would never leave her again.
She was Giles Reese’s captive now. When she bore children they belonged to Reese to do with as he pleased. Nat Turner turned his head away. He would not think of it. Still, when he was with her now, there was ache in his delight. There was a wound in his side, and life leaked from it.
But he loved her. Only death could force him to leave her. Even the humiliation could not drive him away, even if he could see her only now and then, he would not leave.
He looked around the room at all the people gathered in the small cabin for Christmas dinner. He would remember every face, every movement, every smile, and every tear.
He looked at the cracked feet and imagined the broken hearts he could not see. His son, Riddick, came to him then. Nat Turner wrapped an arm around the boy, rubbed a hand through his hair, and then they shared food from his plate. God had sent him back for his son.
Nat Turner tilted Riddick’s head back and kissed his forehead. He smiled at Cherry and then, together, he and his son ate the last of the cabbage on his tin plate. It would be his last Christmas.
When the early night of winter came and they were all full from the holiday dinner, or what passed for full, Nat Turner led the people out. He had been planning for months. Cherry walked beside him. He felt in his pocket for the gunpowder, then took Riddick’s hand. He held a piece of burning wood aloft as a torch to lead the way. The people followed behind him, silent with anticipation.
Light from the torch made a golden circular pool against the darkness that bobbled, sometimes lighting the trunks of the dark trees. His feet had thawed in the warm cabin, but they were rapidly numbing again. He looked back at the old people and children who followed, and nodded to encourage them. Nat Turner smiled at Cherry and squeezed Riddick’s hand.
Young and old, men and women, they followed Nat Turner along a hidden trail that led to a quiet clearing he knew of deep in the woods. He heard bare feet, hard frozen like clubs, crunching in the snow. Occasionally a child giggled, a woman laughed. He motioned for them to be quiet.
If they were lucky, there would be a patch free of snow beneath the tree branches that arched high above the clearing.
When they reached the spot, there was a bare place as he’d hoped. Nat Turner directed them to form a circle around him, older ones—to honor them—and little ones—so they could see—in the front. He didn’t have much of the powder, none to spare.
He dumped it out on the ground and formed it into a mound. He stood then and looked around at them. God had sent him back for them. “For God who loved us enough to send His son! For freedom!” He touched the torch to the powder and leapt back. There was an explosion and a white flash!
The people stood in awe, their mouths open, their eyes wide. Christmas. Their Fourth of July! One woman raised her hands. Then they shouted and stomped. The children jumped in the air. All the people clapped their hands.