They had agreed that if they were discovered, they could leave no witnesses alive—no witnesses to alert the militia.
Nat Turner looked at the screaming family. Seconds seemed like years.
He and the others would simply leave the family alive—their conspiracy had already been uncovered. The militia was probably already searching for them.
He did not want to kill them. Waller’s family had not been part of the plan.
Nat Turner looked at his men. There was sorrow on their faces. But Will was still frozen in place, his axe ready.
Nat Turner looked at the panicking woman and her children. How could he choose one life over another? How could he choose to end their lives to save his wife and son?
But there was no choice. You must destroy the root. The time for mercy was over. He was a soldier. He had to obey. Nat Turner raised his sword.
Eyes wide open, tears burned his face. But then he saw and heard the witnesses, the martyrs. Nat Turner saw the pregnant slave woman on the shores of the Great Dismal Canal. You must destroy the root. He saw Misha, with her baby still tied to her, floating in the water. He heard the screams of the women and children on board the slave ships. Millions.
Kill or be killed. It was war. Uproot the vine to save the tender saplings.
Will raised his axe. Nat Turner raised his sword. They made short work of it. Kill or be killed. Daylight was upon them now and, as they had planned, the men dispersed.
The early morning sun chased Nat Turner to his hiding place. Some would return to their captors’ farms. Others would hide away in the woods. When night returned they would assemble again at the great oak. But, no matter what, he would have to go back for Nathaniel Francis. The root must be destroyed.
How could he sleep? He didn’t want to sleep; he didn’t want to dream. Not until he met with the men again that night. Each had his own hiding place, unknown to the others. It was safer that way. Only Hark and Will knew this place.
Nat Turner had dug himself a cave, a pit, at the base of the great oak tree. He pulled branches and fallen logs in behind him. From underneath, he covered the opening with the logs, branches, and leaves. It was light outside but dark in the cave.
Nat Turner smelled the rich, loamy smell of the earth. He sat propped against the damp, musky wall. He did not want to sleep. He did not want to dream. He was afraid to dream. He did not want to think; imagining the worst would do no good. They were all in God’s hands.
There was no food, though he was not sure that he could have eaten. Exhausted, Nat Turner leaned back against the wall and prayed for night to come. He prayed for his men. He prayed for news of their safety.
Against his will, the dark and mossy smell lulled him to sleep. Mercifully, he dreamed of Cherry. He dreamed of his mother. He dream of Ethiopia.
He startled awake. He was still exhausted, panting, though night had come again. Holding his breath, Nat Turner listened. There were three shrill calls, mockingbirds’ cries. It was the signal he and Hark had agreed on. It was his friend, his brother. Safe.
Nat Turner waited until he saw a shadow and heard footsteps above him. He reached his hand through the branches to make an opening. He made out the shape of one of his men.
It was not Hark. It was the death angel: It was Will.