July 17, 1831
It was Sunday, and Nat Turner, Hark, Mother Easter, and the others made their way to Turner’s Meeting Place.
Sallie had forbidden him, since late spring, to preach there. She had forbidden him to speak the name of the Lord anywhere. Her brother, the young bully Nathaniel Francis, had seen his last meeting with Thomas Gray and accused Nat Turner of stirring up trouble.
All the captives were warned against gathering at Turner’s Meeting Place, but still they walked the road with no name—even Davy, the boy Nathaniel Francis called Two Feet, walked with them, leaning on his stick.
Despite Sallie’s command, Nat Turner could not abandon his people. They could not be expected to show courage if their leader shrank from serving the Lord out of fear of man.
July 4th had come and gone. Instead of waging war, Nat Turner had spent the day writhing on the barn floor. Sickness and pain had gripped his stomach, and a headache blinded him. Hark spread the word to delay the battle.
When illness had overtaken him on Independence Day, Nat Turner thought it might be a sign from God. Maybe God had repented of His judgment against the captors. Maybe during the night, with Independence Day dawning, the white slave owners of Southampton had seen their hypocrisy and turned. Perhaps, instead of reveling, they had put on sackcloth and ashes on the Fourth of July. Perhaps instead of drinking and gorging, they had humbled themselves like Nineveh.
He had wanted to believe it, and all day as he groaned he had prayed. But when he recovered, Nat Turner found nothing had changed.
It was not over. So, after he recovered, Nat Turner found a place, a quiet sacred place in the woods, and visited it each day waiting to hear from God.
That is when they began to visit him. They came to him, at first one by one. They came, at first only by day, but then even in his dreams.
The martyrs came, the battered, the prophets, the captives. The old ones hobbled along. The women came—some moaning, some staggering, and some with babies crawling beside them. One of them, he was certain, was Misha—his mother’s cousin who died on the passage to America.
The martyred men came—some of them weeping, some bowed low, and some shaking their fists. Among them were the crucified, the beheaded, those who had died in passage, or refused the bonds of slavery. Among them were the rejected, the despised, the spotted, and the forgiven abominable.
They sang dirges to him. The martyrs told him of their suffering and they told him how they had tried to love and walk in peace. They came to him from all ages, from all nations; they spoke with different tongues. The martyrs were the witnesses and he heard their testimonies. Before him were all the souls who had walked God’s path only to be slaughtered.
He had no choice, they told him; he was born to avenge them. They demanded audience. The time for judgment had come. “Slavery is the wine that fills the cup of the whore of Babylon,” they told him.
“It is time for harvest; thrust in your sickle,” they said. They promised Nat Turner that, though he would die in service to God’s kingdom, he would be with them. “It is a hard thing,” they told him, “but you will be a part of the first resurrection.”
They encircled him in the holy place and whispered to him. “‘Blessed and holy is he that hath part in the first resurrection: on such the second death hath no power, but they shall be priests of God and of Christ, and shall reign with him a thousand years.’” Their voices were as many choruses, folding end over end. “‘Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth.’ Rest. Your works will follow you.”
They told him it was God’s nature to choose a man of peace to make war. “‘Thrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap; for the harvest of the earth is ripe.’”
The time was short—before summer’s end. He had no choice, they whispered. The time of mercy was over; the captors must die. “‘He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword. Here is the patience and the faith of the saints.’”
Nat Turner prayed. Make me ready, Lord! Give me the heart I need to do battle!
The witnesses spun in the air, just above the grass, whirlwinds at their feet. Now dressed in white, the witnesses whispered to him. “‘Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The LORD strong and mighty, the LORD mighty in battle.’”
Nat Turner felt himself getting stronger. “‘Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in.’”
The witnesses, the martyrs stopped the dirges and began singing songs of glory.
Him that overcometh will I make a pillar in the temple of my God,
and he shall go no more out: and I will write upon him the name of my God,
and the name of the city of my God, which is new Jerusalem,
which cometh down out of heaven from my God:
and I will write upon him my new name…
Some danced and played instruments like the saints in Ethiopia. The elders encircled him and laid their hands on him. “‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new…. He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.’”
Nat Turner had the promise of the first resurrection, the promise that he would be God’s son, a Father who would never forsake him or leave. He was promised everlasting love, a Father who would wipe away all his tears and heartbreak.
Nat Turner could not walk in fear now that he had received the words of the martyrs. Two weeks had passed since Independence Day, since the night of his sickness. But the words of the martyrs reminded him that his life was not his own. He must stand with his people. He must serve those who suffered now and the witnesses.
Despite Sallie’s command, he must first honor the Master’s word. Nat Turner could not deny the Father he had prayed to for so long. So, despite Sallie’s command, he made his way along with the others to his Father’s church. He would not walk in fear. He would lead his people with courage. They would walk as men made free by God.
He raised his voice to lead the captives, the living martyrs, in song. Nat Turner spoke the words clearly; the others sang, repeating his words.
Am I a soldier of the cross,
A follower of the Lamb,
And shall I fear to own his cause,
Or blush to speak his name?
They weren’t true, the stories people told about courage. Most of what passed as bravery was only brutality or craziness. He looked around at the captive people, the living witnesses, who traveled with him—his mother, Cherry, Hark, Nelson the preacher, Sam, and the others. They had no weapons and no army. Every stand they took, even a small one, risked their lives. But they persisted, risking their lives for what was right. They came despite their fear.
Nat Turner saw the church ahead of them. Cypress trees lined the road they walked. They could stop in a grove along the way. There was no need to face what they knew lay ahead. Nat Turner continued to lead the song and the others followed.
Must I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize,
And sailed through bloody seas?
Courage was what he saw on the people’s faces. Courage was standing to do what was needed, even afraid. Nat Turner’s Meeting Place was their church home, too. God was their Father, too. They wouldn’t deny Him, no matter the consequences.
Are there no foes for me to face?
Must I not stem the flood?
No matter how afraid his body was, he was warrior in his heart, and he knew his cause righteous. Nat Turner looked at the faces of the suffering around him. Indignation and courage swelled in him.
Captive hands had built this church. Driving teams of horses and mules, they cut the road. Beneath the hot sun they cleared the land. Their axes felled the trees. They cut the boards.
Nat Turner stepped to the building and rubbed his hand over three nails. Standing next to his father long ago, he had pounded them into place.
Captive sweat and blood stained the floor inside. Nat Turner stepped away from Turner’s Meeting Place and turned back toward the other captives.
Sure I must fight, if I would reign;
Increase my courage, Lord.
I’ll bear the toil, endure the pain.
They stepped onto the grass of the churchyard, walking toward the building. Nat Turner put one foot in front of the other.
Courage was summoning the strength to keep living. He looked at his mother’s face. He could only imagine the horrors she had already endured. Yet she still fought. Courage, despite the odds, to keep fighting. They knew what awaited them.
Thy saints in all this glorious war,
Shall conquer though they die.
They held hands, except for young Davy, Two Feet, who stood on the church steps, rejoicing, waving his stick in the air.
They view the triumph from afar,
And seize it with their eye.
Before Nat Turner and the others finished the song, Sallie Francis Moore Travis, Nathaniel Francis, Richard Whitehead, and the others charged from inside the church, out the doors, trampling Davy—who was invisible to them—on the steps.