Nat Turner pleaded with the people he knew. There was no other choice; there was no refuge in the courts for him—no court would hear a black man’s case against a white woman or man. No court would listen to his protests that he and his family were free people forced into slavery.
He would have been able to endure if Elizabeth Turner had only enslaved him, but she had also stolen Cherry. How could she sell free people, people she couldn’t even pretend to own? He pled his case to each of the Turner’s Meeting Place trustees individually—the Whiteheads, the Newsoms, the Francises.
He pleaded when he saw them on the roads. He walked to their farms. He called to them as they rushed into church. He was free, and they and their families all knew it. They knew his father’s plans. But they turned their heads the other way.
Losing his wife was the worst of it.
Nat Turner had hoped that no one would notice Cherry, would not notice their love and take her away.
But Elizabeth Turner had told Giles Reese about her. She had planted Cherry in his head. Giles Reese saw all he needed to see; he saw that Cherry could bear children and that Elizabeth Turner was almost giving her away.
When he came to fetch her and saw Nat Turner, Giles Reese saw more. He saw what only Nat Turner before then had seen. He saw that Cherry was a river; life was on her shores. He saw that Cherry was Nat Turner’s wings and spirit, and that by taking her, Reese and the others could break Nat’s heart and bring Nat Turner back to earth.
Giles Reese bought her—though he knew she was free and not for sale—and Nat Turner’s son was thrown into the bargain. Giles Reese didn’t need her. She was a nice-to-have. Then Giles Reese, when he was closer to her, recognized that she was beautiful and he wanted her. There was life in Cherry and Giles Reese wanted to live.
Nat Turner watched them being taken away. He had no gun. He had no law and no sheriff to call. There was no army. He balled his hands into fists. His nails lanced his palms, causing them to bleed.
He had promised his son things would be different. But he had lied. He was one man against an army, a government. How could he make things different?
Giles Reese loaded them on the wagon. There were tears in Cherry’s eyes. She looked away. Nat Turner’s son reached back for him. He struggled on his mother’s lap. Riddick kept reaching for him—small hands, pleading brown eyes.
“Daddy?” First a question. Then as they pulled farther down the road, the word became a shriek. “Daddy! Daddy!”
He had made Riddick a promise to protect him, to give him a better life. How could he hold his head up in front of his son? How could any captive man hold up his head?