Cross Keys
1831
In his ears, Nat Turner’s own breathing was too loud. His footsteps were too heavy. His heart pounded, his nerves jumped. Every shadow was a trap, a hand reaching out to catch him and the others.
It was late—the sun would rise in only a few hours—but still hot. His ragged, burlap shirt was plastered to him and drenched with sweat. Black dark. They felt their way through familiar places, moving through air like blackstrap molasses. His feet knew the grass, the moss, the furrowed ground. His soles felt the gnarled bumps of the roots of ancient trees. His hands touched the bark, the damp moss, and waxy leaves that he had known all his life. Still, in the familiarity there was danger. Every limb heavy with leaves held a waiting net. Every vine was a rope waiting to trip him and hang him and the others. Nat Turner steeled himself.
He was not like Will. He did not have anger to fuel him or a desire for revenge—he could not afford those emotions; they would have driven him off course. He was not like Hark—it was not brotherhood or loyalty that led him. For loyalty’s sake he might have continued to pursue a different way.
It was justice that sent him through the night. It was obedience to God’s service. An obedient son. Nat Turner repeated the phrase to himself as he ran. An obedient soldier.
He could not stop. There was a family debt he owed.
Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings, from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about. They are inclosed in their own fat: with their mouth they speak proudly.
They passed by the home of Nathaniel Francis. They would confront him at Waller’s still.
There was no choice now. There was no turning back. It was war. Kill or be killed. He would not turn back. There was a family debt he owed.