Cross Keys
Predawn, August 22, 1831
The captive warriors had farm instruments—swords made from scythes, like Nat Turner’s, and axes—clubs made from fence posts, hammers, and tree limbs. They met at Cabin Pond to baptize one another and pray—victory prayers and prayers of absolution—except for Will, who stood apart from the rest of them.
When the night was black, ten days after the day of the indigo sun, beneath the sickle moon they made their way to the Travis farm. Nat Turner touched the passes he had written for any who might escape after the revolt, so they could travel—no black man could be on the road without a white man’s written permission. He had wrapped the passes in a rag and tied them tightly around his waist.
Nat Turner stood outside of Sallie Francis Moore Travis’s house with Will and the others. This was the beginning of the revolt, of the resurrection of his people; he would cast the first blow. The dogs were silent, as though the animals conspired with them.
Nat Turner secured the ladder against the side of the house so that he could enter the second-floor window and then open the front door to the others. He began to climb. He could not think about Sallie or her family; they had not cared about the suffering of others. There was no doubt: God had given two signs—the eclipse and the blue sun. The witnesses sang to Nat Turner as he climbed. “Lift up your heads… and the King of glory shall come in.”
“Who is this King of glory?” The moon was barely a sliver against the black sky. Silently, Nat Turner stepped through the lace curtains, through the window. “The Lord strong and mighty, the LORD mighty in battle.” He was no longer a man; he was an instrument in His Father’s hands. Nat Turner stole down the steps and opened the front door. He was a servant bound to do his Master’s will.
Will and the others, silent as coming winter, crept in and went to their work. Nat Turner reclimbed the stairs with Will. They made their way down the dark hallway to the bedroom. “Who is this King of glory? The LORD of hosts, he is the King of glory.”
Nat Turner and Will stood on either side of the bed over Sallie and Joseph Travis. Nat Turner had known her all his life. He put thoughts of her as a child out of his mind. Instead he saw her at the church house with the whip in her hands. He saw her teaching her son to be an oppressor.
She did not own him. She had held him and his people captive long enough. He was no man’s property. He was a warrior priest sent to ransom his people. He belonged to God.
No turning back; it was kill or be killed. Nat Turner raised his sword, his scythe, to do the will of the Sovereign Lord, to strike the first blow for freedom. “You have given no mercy and so you shall have none: This is the Lord’s judgment.” Sallie opened her eyes. She recognized him. Then Will. Her husband awakened. Nat Turner raised his sword higher. “‘He that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death.’ This is the judgment of the Sovereign Lord!”
His sword cut through the soft flesh of her neck and severed her head from her body. The warm blood sprayed and covered his hands. Will lowered his axe and made short work of Travis. A grim smile on his face, Will raised and lowered his axe over and over again, as though he was no longer thinking—like a wheel turning on a mill, a grim smile on his face. Will stepped in close so he was baptized in the blood.
On the floors beneath them, the others took care of Sallie’s son, Putnam Francis Moore, and her nephew, Joel Westbrook. Nat Turner was no longer a man; he was an instrument in the hands of God. He was a patriot, a warrior now, a comrade to his brothers. He closed himself to what he had seen and done and kept his mind on moving forward.
They left the Travis farm. Nat Turner could not think. If he did, he would go mad. He was not a farmer or a preacher now; he was a soldier. They were Knights Templar executing a plan of battle.
Nat and the other captives made their way in the dark on foot, over the paths and traces they knew. They waded through the cornfields and skirted among the trees.
They smelled the blood, all of them. They saw the death, all of them. They felt the power of men with blood and life and death on their hands. They were at once exhilarated and exhausted. But they must stay true to the work ahead of them; they could not let down the others.
They passed the Widow Harris’s place and Will, raising his axe, turned to go in. Nat Turner touched Will’s arm and shook his head, no. “We are God’s army,” he whispered. “We must stick with God’s plan. Only His judgment. The Lord’s will be done.” They made their way to the home of Salathiel Francis.