The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial (10 page)

“What would Father say, Henry?”

Mr. Douglass joined Henry in song. The two linked arms, raising one toward the ceiling.
“‘Rejoice in the L
ORD
always: and again I say, Rejoice!'”

Harriet tried to hold back the smile creeping onto her face. “A couple of blasphemers is what you two are. If only the newspapers could get wind of this.” A giggle leaked out. “I think I shall tell them myself.” She let go and laughed.

No matter the circumstances, Henry had always been the child in the family to brighten events by making everyone laugh. She had been so worried, had cried so many tears. Laughter was medicine. Harriet pressed her napkin to her face and allowed herself to laugh and weep.

T
he three of them divided the pages of the letter containing excerpts from Governor Floyd's diary. Each one shook his head as they read—Henry perched on his sofa, Frederick Douglass behind Henry's desk, and Harriet in the great chair—pausing at times to read out loud. Next to Frederick's pages was a copy of
The Confessions of Nat Turner
.

She had read the entire letter over and over again; it still made her flinch. Deep in thought, Frederick rubbed his fingers over his beard, sometimes pulling at it. He looked up and spoke. “Twenty-five years have passed since Nat Turner's hanging, but these excerpts make it all seem contemporary.” He tapped the pages in his hand. “Even at that time, during the confusion surrounding them, the governor had doubts about the trials.”

He began to read excerpts from the governor's diary. “‘This day the record of the trial of Mischek, a negro in Greensville for conspiracy was brought. The evidence was too feeble and therefore I have reprieved him for sale and transportation.'”

Frederick Douglass shifted forward in his chair. “We hardly hear about the others who were hanged, or slated to be hanged, and this poor fellow was not even from Southampton County.”

Henry nodded. “I imagine that in addition to rampant fear, lucre tempted them. The average family in the area might expect to make little more than one hundred fifty dollars in a year's time. My wife, Eunice, and I sometimes reminisce about when I was hired to pastor, making twice that amount and still we would have starved had it not been for donations of food and such.

“With such easy convictions and Virginia paying for each convicted
slave, the temptation to sacrifice slave lives for money must have been overwhelming. Their consciences were already dulled.” The smile was gone from Henry's face, his cheeks reddened, and Harriet thought she saw tears in his eyes. He was a prankster, and a man's man, but her brother was so compassionate that he was easily brought to tears.

Henry read the entry for October 30, 1831. “‘Received news that the dead body of the negro which was supposed to be Nat had been taken up and examined by General Smith of Kanawha.'” He paused, looking over the top of his pages. “Kanawha? The county is more than three hundred miles away from Jerusalem, in western Virginia. It makes me wonder how many other slaves died at the hands of men seeking the bounty on Nat Turner's head. And the poor fellow who lost his life means nothing to them.”

Harriet began reading. “‘Twenty-seventh day, September, 1831—I have received record of the trial of three slaves, for treason in Southampton. Am recommended to mercy, in this case I cannot do so, because there is not one member of the Council of State in Richmond.'” She lifted her eyes to look at the others, swallowed, and then continued. “‘Wherefore the poor wretch must lose his life.'” She coughed nervously and then pressed on. “‘I have received this day another number of the “Liberator,” a newspaper printed in Boston, with the express intention of inciting the slaves and free negroes in this and the other states to rebellion and to murder the men, women, and children of those states. Yet we are gravely told there is no law to punish such an offence. The amount of it then is this, a man in our States may plot treason in one state against another without fear of punishment, whilst the suffering state has no right to resist—'” Harriet choked in indignation and stopped reading.

“Treason? Treason?” She realized she was yelling and lowered her voice, though she felt her heart thumping and blood rushing in her ears. “Inciting slaves and free negroes to rebellion and murder! Because we oppose slavery, because we insist that this country must live up to its promise of liberty for all, then we are described
as disloyal. And it is ridiculous to accuse Garrison of inciting slaves and free Negroes to murder—he is a devout pacifist, for goodness' sakes.” She fanned herself with the pages. “Plotting treason… and rebellion? Slaves have every right; in fact it's their duty, to stand up against the tyranny imposed upon them. But Governor Floyd describes us as the villains.”

“Garrison speaks the truth.” Harriet was surprised to hear Frederick Douglass speak in support of the man who had openly criticized him. “He shines light into the gray, swirling storm of slavery. Why, even Governor Floyd is double-minded. He argues against abolitionists, seeking to have them prosecuted. He lays the blame for the rebellion not on man's desire to be free, but on Negro preachers, saying, ‘The whole of that massacre in Southampton is the work of these preachers as daily intelligence informs me.'” Douglass thumped the pages. “The governor does not once consider that the intelligence might be false. Or, at least, not before it is too late.

“Yet, in the next breath, he seeks to save the slaves from the noose and declares, ‘Before I leave this government, I will have contrived to have a law passed gradually abolishing slavery in this state.'

“Governor Floyd did not seem to recognize that his thoughts, if not brothers to Garrison's, were at least cousins.”

“Gradual emancipation? He is indeed double-minded. He speaks of emancipation but thunders against efforts by Garrison and the others, efforts to ensure liberty and peace.” She continued, “Floyd says, ‘If this is not checked it must lead to a separation of these states.'”

Frederick lowered the pages he held. “Garrison's
Liberator
and the words of abolitionists are thorns in the sides of Floyd and his compatriots. They cannot deny the truth of what Garrison says, but they don't want to hear it, so they accuse him of plotting murder and rebellion.”

Harriet pressed on, reading from Floyd's diary. “‘If the forms of law will not punish, the law of nature will not permit men to
have their families butchered before their eyes by their slaves and not seek by force.'”

She looked up from her reading. “It is senseless to me. One man insists he has a right to defend his family while he insists that another, who seeks to do the same, is a criminal. There is such venom in Floyd's words when he writes of Negro preachers and abolitionists.

“If we do not conform to his way—if we do not conform to the ways of slavery men—then we are the worst kind of villains and traitors, not worthy of citizenship. What is it that we say that is wrong? It is the teaching and the prayer of Christ that we all be one.”

Henry nodded. Her thoughts were mirrored in the sadness she saw in his eyes. He began to speak softly. “‘Blessed are ye, when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of man's sake. Rejoice ye in that day, and leap for joy: for, behold, your reward is great in heaven: for in the like manner did their fathers unto the prophets.'”

Harriet sighed, looking at the two men who shared the study with her. She turned back to her pages. “Here Governor Floyd continues, ‘An anonymous writer from Philadelphia gives me to understand that the Northern fanatics are in that city plotting treason and insurrection in this State and planning the massacre of the white people of the Southern States by the blacks.'”

Harriet paused. “I do believe he is referring to the Philadelphia Convention.” She blushed. “You see? The governor refers to people we know, describing these lovely patriots as though they are the worst sort. Listen. ‘Allen, a negro of Philadelphia and two white men of Boston, and some of New York'—most likely the Tappans—‘besides a numerous band of white men and negroes in their train.'

“To think of him describing Bishop Allen in this manner, Garrison, the Tappans—these are some of America's great patriots and God's great servants.” It was disconcerting to hear them described
as though they were criminals to be hunted. It was strange to hear them described as though they meant harm when their intent was to deliver others from harm. “I read it and I am ashamed, infuriated, and confused all at once. It is all very odd to me. He does not speak of strangers, but people we know. He speaks of us.”

Harriet touched her face. She was a preacher's daughter, the famous Puritan Lyman Beecher's daughter. She wrote Sunday school lessons and Bible tracts. She sewed flags and sang “Yankee Doodle” at Fourth of July outings. Her brother was a pastor who preached love, a husband and a father who would give all he had to help a soul in need. And Frederick Douglass was as charitable, as intelligent, and as deserving of freedom as Floyd or any other man. How did standing up for another's freedom make one a turncoat or a criminal?

Henry shrugged. “We call what they do sin and it offends them. We propose taking away their stolen treasure and they do not want to relinquish it.”

Harriet looked at her brother. “I read it over and over; I try to understand the logic of it, but to no avail.”

Henry laid his pages on the couch beside him. “The devil's work most often makes no sense. Still we are deluded and go gaily skipping behind him.”

Frederick Douglass went straight to the point. “Has this letter convinced you to retell the story of Nat Turner?”

She was prepared, even excited, to share the anonymous letter. But, foolishly, she had not prepared to answer the issue they had been pressing her about for months. “What is here, in these excerpts, does match the stories told me by Phipps and William.”

Henry nodded. “You must begin writing at once, then.”

Harriet reached out for the papers she had shared with her brother. She had made only trouble for herself by sharing them. “I think I need more.”

Henry's gaze was unrelenting. “More? Why?”

Because she wasn't sure. Because for so long, like everyone else,
she had thought of him as a baby-killer and a ruthless, indiscriminate murderer. Because… she was not comfortable. “I want to be certain.”

“What would make you more certain?”

She turned at the sound of Frederick's deep, authoritative voice. “Everything I thought I knew has turned out to be a hoax. I have no idea who Nat Turner was. What kind of slave, what kind of man must he have been to have these men, men who had all power in their hands, bother to concoct such an elaborate lie?”

Henry picked up his pages from the couch. “Governor Floyd says of President Andrew Jackson, ‘Jackson with all his unworthy officers, men not gentlemen, who lie, mutilate records, alter dates.' Maybe the men in Southampton were infected by the behaviors of the reigning administration.”

Truthfully, Harriet felt pressure from all sides now. At first, the pressure had come from without—from her brother and Frederick Douglass, who wanted her to write the story. Now she felt pressure from within—as though her heart was wrestling with her mind. “Perhaps if I could speak with someone who knew him I might be more reassured.”

Frederick Douglass's gaze was sympathetic. He seemed to understand her struggle, but still he pressed her—as though he were saying that what needed to be done was bigger than her insecurities. “You have spoken with Will. Would you speak with him again?”

“No!” The word popped from her mouth, too soon for her comfort. She breathed then went on speaking. “No. His anger, his passion distress me.”

Henry was her brother, and he was not so gentle with her. “Be reasonable, Hattie. How would you expect someone who has suffered as he has to behave?”

Harriet looked back at the pages she held, wanting to change the subject. She did not want to see William again. She did not want to speak with him. He frightened her. She worked to regain her composure and slow her breathing.

She began to read again, taking a lighter tone. “Governor Floyd calls us a ‘club of villains.' A club of villains ‘maturing plans of treason and rebellion and insurrection in Virginia and the Southern States.' He speaks of withdrawing from the Union.” She looked up from her reading. “South Carolina and the others have threatened secession each time something did not suit them. Do you believe the South really might secede?”

Henry nodded. “They might try.”

“And if they do?”

“Then there will be war.”

There had already been bloody skirmishes, like the gory massacre and firing of Lawrence, Kansas, by slavery men. And John Brown had used rifles, like Henry's Beecher's Bibles, against proslavery men. She did not want to think of the nation at war. Each of them had sons. She did not want to think of their sons marching off to war. “I do not want disunion. I do not want war.”

“Perhaps, if you will consent to write the story,” Henry said pointedly. “
Uncle Tom's Cabin
has already done so much good. If the nation knew the truth about Nat Turner, more might be persuaded to stand against slavery. It might die without bloodshed, like in England.”

Harriet tried to laugh away her anxiety and pressure about the Nat Turner story. What did it all have to do with her? “I'm a Yankee, you know. We're mind-your-own-business kind of people. I'm not sure this is my business.”

Henry would not let up. “You believed
Uncle Tom's Cabin
was your business. How is this different?”