February 1831
When they arrived at the Whitehead farm, Nat Turner looked out at the fields. It was cold, but the captives were still at work—Richard Whitehead’s make-work: moving stones and logs. They sang the mournful songs of suffering people, the praise of the brokenhearted.
Just as the sun fought to rise each day, Nat Turner saw the courage of those who worked in the fields. Each morning they rose to bend their backs at work. They prayed to endure and for their suffering to end. Each day they found the courage to find some reason to hope and endure in spite of their circumstances.
Nat Turner pulled the wagon into an open space beside a leafless tree, away from the fancy carriages. “Don’t you get into any trouble, now, Nat Turner. You hear me?” Sallie said it loudly to show off to the other white women, so that they could see she had a slave she controlled.
“Yes, ma’am.” He helped Sallie from the wagon and then spoke to some of the other captive men gathered at the Whitehead farm, men who had driven the wagons and carriages for their captors.
He saw Yellow Nelson, Hubbard, and Tom. The farms they worked on were far apart and weeks might pass, especially in the winter and during harvest, before they saw one another.
Nat Turner nodded at Mother Easter when he saw her arrive with Lavinia Francis. Another broken heart. He looked at her captor, Lavinia. Two.
But his gaze was drawn back to the fields. The captives sang, but beneath the words and the melody he heard sorrow—and an inexplicable enduring hope. No one sang the story of God’s love more than someone despised, grateful for the tiniest sign of God’s love. It seemed as though he had seen the same people in the Great Dismal Swamp.