Nathaniel Francis, Salathiel, and Richard Whitehead did not notice the boy Davy; their anger was focused on Nat Turner.
His memory was jumbled now, trying to recall it; they beat him so badly.
He remembered pleading with them for their own salvation. “The mercy you extend to others is the mercy you shall receive.” Nat Turner was not certain that they heard the words; they were garbled by the blows. They growled at him, their teeth like sabers. They would not listen.
The mob drew closer. Weapons and whips and threats. As he spoke, Nat Turner steeled himself for the first blow. “This is the word of God to you. ‘I will also gather all nations, and will bring them down into the valley of Jehoshaphat, and will plead with them there for my people… whom they have scattered among the nations, and parted my land. And they have cast lots for my people… a boy for an harlot… a girl for wine.’”
They were drawing closer and closer. He felt the heat from their bodies and their anger, the meanness from their spirits. “God has warned you. I warn you again. The Lord has commanded: Love your neighbor.” Nat Turner swept his arm toward the black people behind him. Couldn’t the others see that they were also children of God? Couldn’t they see how much God loved them? “Love your neighbor as yourself.” He pointed toward the sky. “God is watching; we know and He knows what you have done. You have stolen freedom, you have stolen property, and you have stolen and sold God’s people. You keep His people from the Lord’s salvation. You steal their dreams.
“‘And he that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death.’
“As Jonah pleaded with Nineveh, so I beg you: Turn!”
Nathaniel Francis shook his fist. “You are forbidden to be here! My sister gave you an order. Who are you, you crazy man, you nigger, to try to preach to us? You think you can speak to me this way? You think you talk this way to all of us? You forget that we are your masters.”
They transformed in front of him, no longer the people he knew. Instead he saw the twisted faces of the spirits inside them, the curses and demons that tormented them. Nat Turner knew that he was still speaking, but the words came from his belly and not his mind. The crowd was shouting around him and he could no longer hear. He fought to speak the truth to them before God’s judgment; he did not want blood on his hands. Nat Turner heard a final statement come from his mouth, “‘Prepare war, wake up the mighty men, let all the men of war draw near; let them come up: Beat your plowshares into swords and your pruninghooks into spears: Let the weak say, I am strong.’”
Then they fell on him—men, women, and children. Fists and threats. Being righteous did not lessen the pain; it was no physical protection; it did not stop his blood from flowing. With whips, they took turns beating him—even Sallie.