Nat Turner looked down at his feet instead of at the man standing in front of him. He knew Nathaniel Francis had seen him and that he and the other captors would not rest until Nat Turner was in chains. They would beat, lynch, and burn others until they had him swinging from a tree.
Nathaniel Francis was still alive. The captors had not turned. The war had just begun—he and the others were only the first ones. He would not see the end.
The trees were almost bare and he would not be able to hide. It was colder now and winter would come again soon. With winter would come snowfall and freezes. Outside in the cold with no fire, he would not survive. Even in the cave, unable to move about, he would soon freeze to death.
It was the end of October. His thirty-first birthday had passed. Nat Turner could no longer bear the solitude. Though he prayed for them to come, to speak to him and comfort him, not even the witnesses visited him. It was time.
Nat Turner knew his fate. They would drag him to Jerusalem on All Saints Day. But he would remember St. Moses of Ethiopia and St. Masqal-Kebra. He would think of his mother and of the Mother of Mercy; they would help him be strong.
He looked at the man standing before him, a man in clothes as ragged as his own. Benjamin Phipps was a poor man, a good man, and the reward would be a help to him and his family. The reward was being offered for Nat Turner’s capture, dead or alive. And of the white men Nat Turner knew, Benjamin Phipps was most likely to get him to a place of safety alive.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Nat?” Nat Turner saw tears welling in Benjamin Phipps’s eyes. “They’ve got dogs and hunters looking for you, but you’ve always been smart. You could still get away.”
Benjamin Phipps and his family barely scraped by, but honor was priceless, and he had grown into a peaceful man willing to stand his ground. Nat Turner shook his head. “It’s time.”
“You know what it means?”
Nat Turner nodded his head.
The two of them agreed that they would make their way to Peter Edwards’s home. “You tell them you found me here. You were out hunting, you held your rifle on me, and I did not resist. Be sure to keep the rifle trained on me when we reach Peter Edwards’s farm.”
“No one’s going to believe that. No one’s going to believe I turned you in; they know I’m not a slavery man. And Peter Edwards? They will question why I took you there.”
“His farm is nearby.” Nat Turner laid a hand on his childhood friend’s shoulder. “They dislike you, but they hate me. They want me. They’ll believe you, and Peter Edwards will help us convince them.”
“There have been all kinds of rumors about what happened. First, there were reports that it was runaways from the Dismal Swamp. Then John Clarke Turner pointed the finger at you. What really happened, Nat?” Benjamin Phipps hung his head. “I hate to be the one. I remember when you defended me that day… that day in town when Nathaniel Francis shoved me.”
“You would have done the same for me.”
“I would like to think so.” Benjamin looked away. “But I hate to be the one.”
“Think of the reward. You are a poor man, like me. It will help your family.”
“Blood money.”
“No, not blood money; it is payment for helping me.” He saw anguish on Benjamin’s reddened face. “Who else can I ask? There is no one I trust more.”
Phipps’s face was gray and his eyes teary. “I can’t go with you all the way to Jerusalem. I can’t bear to see it.”
Nat Turner laid his hand on Benjamin Phipps’s shoulder. “It is a good thing you do, my friend. I go to God now.”