There was no woman more beautiful than Cherry, black against the midnight sky, sweet among the clover. How could he leave her? How could he say good-bye?
Nat Turner draped a garland of white honeysuckle he had braided around her waist. He was not a good singer, he never sang for others, but he hummed the tune he had heard drifting from the ships harbored in the Chesapeake. He whispered the words in her ear.
O Shenandoah,
I long to hear you,
Away you rolling river.
Cherry pulled him to her and wrapped her arms around his neck. If he never saw her again, they would still have this moment. Her lips on his face were soft and sweet, blackberries.
How could he not have known all along how much he loved her? Why had it taken Hark and springtime to show him? He plucked a honeysuckle blossom from her garland and squeezed the sweet nectar into her mouth.
O Shenandoah,
I love your daughter,
Away you rolling river.
How could he have left her those years ago? They swayed together with the great oak as their only witness. The moon and stars above them, the fireflies drifted around them, the moon garden glowed at their feet.
I’ll not deceive you.
Away, I’m bound away.
When he was finished, they lay down among the tall grass and flowers. Nothing but death would make him leave her.
NAT TURNER AWOKE, choking, again.
“Wake up, you scoundrel! I warned you your life is in my hands.”
The wooden floor beneath Nat Turner was soaked with water. Trezvant ordered a servant to drag him onto the stool again. Through his own swollen eyes, he looked at the servant’s downcast expression. He felt the servant’s arm about him, lifting him. He could not fail the captives. There was a family debt he owed.
He was not in the orchard with Cherry. There was no night, no fireflies. He would never see her again. This was the last good work he would do for her, for his son, for the other captives. The stool rocked beneath him, or maybe he was tottering himself.
Trezvant looked to Parker and Edwards. “This is a waste of time. He is a lying beast.”
He would not be still. What good was living without freedom, without respect? “Why do you take me to court if I am a beast? You will take me to court because it is the will of God Almighty!”
“As though He would talk to you, a nigger! I will have you skinned alive!” Trezvant’s eyes were feverish.
“God has made me free; it is you who hold me captive. God, who is love, loves us both. We are brothers, His children, and He does not want to choose one brother over another. But you give Him no choice.”
“Don’t you lie on God Almighty, Nat Turner—I am not your brother and He would never defend a monster like you!”
“You captors put lies in the mouth of God! You hold us against His will!”
Trezvant removed his hands from the papers and eased his left hand down to his side. From a scabbard, he removed a long-bladed knife. Casually, he wiped the blade on the tablecloth and then laid the knife on the table in front of him.
The movement was a threat, but Nat Turner could not stop. He could not live without freedom or respect. “You mistake God’s patience. You think His long-suffering means that what you do is right.
“But He heard our cries. Our Father loves us both, but you gave Him no choice. We love you, but you gave us no choice.
“I had no choice; I was defending my flock, as any shepherd or even any animal would.” He could not stop; there was a family debt he owed.
“You have raped our wives. You have starved our children; their feet bleed. What did you expect us to do? Did you expect us to dance? To sing for you?”
Trezvant leaned forward, his eyes flashing. He touched the knife handle. “Don’t go too far, boy.”