The Confessions of Nat Turner Part 4

High over the flat land thunderheads loom, their undersides churning, promising a storm. I feel the sweat rolling down my back. After a bit I let my eyes close, and I smell the rich odor of horse droppings as I make a silent prayer: Forsake me not, O Forsake me not, O Lord: O my G.o.d, be not far from me. Make haste to help me, O Lord my salvation, for the hour of my battle comes near . . .

"Nat Turner! Stand up!"

I rose to my feet in the courtroom. It was hot and very still, and for a long time as I stood clumsily in my chains leaning against the table there was no interruption to the silence save for the panting and roaring of the stove. I turned to face Jeremiah Cobb.

As I did so, regarding him for the first time straight on, I saw that his face was as white as tallow; drawn and almost fleshless, it was the face of a cadaver, and it trembled and nodded as if with palsy. He looked down at me, the eyes sunk deep within their 87.sockets, so that the effect was that of a gaze from some immeasurable distance, profound as all eternity. Then all of a sudden I realized that he too was close to death, very close, almost as close as I myself, and I felt a curious pang of pity and regret.

Cobb spoke again. "Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be p.r.o.nounced against you?" His voice was tremulous, feeble, dead.

"I have not," I replied. "I have made a full confession to Mr. Gray and I have nothing more to say."

"Attend then to the sentence of the court. You have been arraigned and tried before this court and convicted of one of the highest crimes in our criminal code. You have been convicted of plotting in cold blood the indiscriminate destruction of men, of helpless women, and of infant children . . . The evidence before us leaves not a shadow of doubt but that your hands were imbrued in the blood of the innocent, and your own confession tells us that they were stained with the blood of a master-in your own language, too indulgent too indulgent.Could I stop here your crime would be sufficiently aggravated . . . But the original contriver of a plan, deep and deadly, one that never could be effected, you managed so far to put it into execution as to deprive us of many of our most valuable citizens, and this was done when they were asleep under circ.u.mstances shocking to humanity . . . And while upon this part of the subject, I cannot but call your attention to the poor misguided wretches who have gone before you." He paused for an instant, breathing heavily. "They are not few in number-they were your bosom a.s.sociates, and the blood of all cries aloud, and calls upon you as the author of their misfortune.

Yes. You forced them unprepared from time to eternity . . . Borne down by this load of guilt, your only justification is that you were led away by fanaticism."

He paused again, gazing at me from the awful and immeasurable distances where not alone his eyes but his dying flesh and spirit seemed to dwell, remote as the stars. "If this be true," he concluded slowly, "from my soul I pity you, and while you have my sympathies I am nevertheless called upon to pa.s.s sentence of the court . . . The time between this and your execution will necessarily be very short, and your only hope must be in another world. The judgment of the court is that you be taken hence to the jail from whence you came, thence to the 88.place of execution, and on Friday next, November eleventh, at sunrise, be hung by the neck until you are dead! dead! dead dead!- and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul."

We gazed at each other from vast distances, yet close, awesomely close, as if sharing for the briefest instant some rare secret-unknown to other men-of all time, all mortality and sin and grief. In the stillness the stove howled and raged like a tumultuous storm pitched in the firmament between h.e.l.l and heaven. A door flew open with a clatter. Then we ceased looking at each other, and outside a human roar went up like thunder.

That evening as Hark talked to me through the cracks of the jail wall, his voice came pained and laborious and with a sort of faint gurgle or croak, like a frog's. Only Hark could have lived so long.

He had been shot through the chest on that day in August when they broke us up. Time after time they had carried him to court on a litter and they were going to have to hang him roped to a chair. The two of us would be the last to go.

Dusk was coming on: as the cold day lengthened, light began to drain away from the cell as from a vessel, turning the corners dark, and the cedar plank I was lying on grew as chill as a slab of stone. A few leaves clung to the branches outside and through the gray twilight a cold wind whispered sharply, and often a leaf would flicker to earth or scuttle through the cell with a dry rattling sound. Every now and then I listened to Hark, but mainly I waited on Gray. After the trial he had said that he would come again this evening, and he promised to bring me a Bible. The idea of a Bible kept me in a greedy suspense, as if after a day's long thirst in some parched and burning field someone was about to fetch me br.i.m.m.i.n.g pails of cool clear water.

"Oh yes, Nat," I heard Hark say beyond the wall, "yes, dey was lots and lots of n.i.g.g.e.rs kilt afterwards, w'ile you was hid out. And warn't our n.i.g.g.e.rs neither. Dey tells me roun' about a hundred, maybe lots mo'. Yes, Nat, de white folks come down like a swarm of golly-wasps and plain long stomped de n.i.g.g.e.rs ev'ywheres. You didn' know about dat, Nat? Oh yes, dey was plain long stomped. stomped. White folks dey come fum all over ev'ywheres. Dey come a-gallopin' down from Suss.e.x an' Isle of Wight and all dem other counties an' run de n.i.g.g.e.rs clean into de groun'. Didn' make no nem'mine dat dey didn' fight fo' Nat Turner. If'n he had a black a.s.s, dey fill hit full of lead." Hark was silent for a while and I could hear his thick, tortured breathing. White folks dey come fum all over ev'ywheres. Dey come a-gallopin' down from Suss.e.x an' Isle of Wight and all dem other counties an' run de n.i.g.g.e.rs clean into de groun'. Didn' make no nem'mine dat dey didn' fight fo' Nat Turner. If'n he had a black a.s.s, dey fill hit full of lead." Hark was silent for a while and I could hear his thick, tortured breathing.

89."After you was hid out I heerd tell of some ole free n.i.g.g.e.r dat was standin' in a field up somewheres aroun' Drewrysville. Dese white folks rode up an' stop dere. 'Is dis yere Southampton?' dey holler. n.i.g.g.e.r he say, 'Ya.s.suh, boss, you done jes' pa.s.sed de county line over yondah.' 'Pon my soul, Nat, dem white folks shot him dead." Again he was silent, then he said: "I heerd tell of a n.i.g.g.e.r name of Statesman livin' down aroun' Smith's Mill what ain't even heerd of de ruction, bein' slow in de head, you know?

Anyways, his ma.s.sah he powerful powerful exercise' an' mad an' he take ole Statesman out an' tie him to a tree an' shoot him so full of holes you could see de sun s.h.i.+ne th'ough. Oh me, Nat. Some sad stories I done heerd all dese months in jail . . ." exercise' an' mad an' he take ole Statesman out an' tie him to a tree an' shoot him so full of holes you could see de sun s.h.i.+ne th'ough. Oh me, Nat. Some sad stories I done heerd all dese months in jail . . ."

I watched the wintry gray light stealing softly away from the cell, thinking: O Lord, hear; O Lord, forgive; O Lord, hearken and do; O Lord, hear; O Lord, forgive; O Lord, hearken and do; defer not, for thine own sake, O my G.o.d, forgive me the blood of defer not, for thine own sake, O my G.o.d, forgive me the blood of the innocent and slain the innocent and slain . . . But it was not a prayer at all, there was no echo, no understanding that it had reached G.o.d's almighty hearing, only the sense of its falling away futile on the air like a wisp of smoke. A shudder pa.s.sed through my bones and I clasped my arms around my legs, trying to still their shaking. Then as if to blot out this new knowledge, I broke in upon Hark, saying: "Tell me, Hark, tell me. Nelson. Tell me about Nelson. How did he die? Did he die brave?" . . . But it was not a prayer at all, there was no echo, no understanding that it had reached G.o.d's almighty hearing, only the sense of its falling away futile on the air like a wisp of smoke. A shudder pa.s.sed through my bones and I clasped my arms around my legs, trying to still their shaking. Then as if to blot out this new knowledge, I broke in upon Hark, saying: "Tell me, Hark, tell me. Nelson. Tell me about Nelson. How did he die? Did he die brave?"

"Why sho he die brave," Hark said. "Hung ole Nelson back in September. Him and Sam together, standin' up straight as you could pray for, both dem. Dey tells me ole Sam wouldn' die right off, flew off'n dat hangin' tree an' jes' jiggle dere like a turkey gobbler a-jumpin' and a-twitchin'." Feebly, softly, Hark began to laugh. "Reckon dat li'l ole yellow n.i.g.g.e.r was too light fo' de rope.

Dem white folks had to yank on old Sam's feet afore he'd give up de ghost. But he died brave, though, him an' Nelson. Didn' hear no mumblin' nor groanin' when dem two n.i.g.g.e.rs died." He paused and sighed, then said: "Onliest thing ole Sam was sad about was dat we didn' cotch dat mean sonab.i.t.c.h Nat Francis dat owned him. Cotched his overseer and two chillun but not Nat Francis. Dat's what give Sam a misery. I seed Nat Francis in de cou'troom de day dey tried ole Sam. Jesus jumpin' Judas! Talk 'bout a mad white man! Oo-ee, Nat, he let out a howl and jump straight over de railin' an' like to strangle dat Sam befo' dey could haul him off. I heerd tell Nat Francis like to went clean out'n his head after we finished de ruction. Got him a gang of folks an' rode from Cross Keys to Jerusalem, shootin' down ev'y n.i.g.g.e.r in sight. Dey was a free n.i.g.g.e.r woman name Laurie, wife 90.to old John Bright live up Cloud School way, you know? Well, dey took dat woman an' leant her up 'longside a fence and druv a three-foot spike right up her ole p.u.s.s.y like dey was layin' out a barbecue. Oh me, Nat, de tales I heerd tell dese months and days! Dey was two white mens I heerd about, come up from Carolina, has actual got dem a real bunch of black n.i.g.g.e.r heads all nailed to a pole and was out to git dem some mo' till de troops grabbed holt 'em an' run 'em back to Carolina-"

"Hush," I broke in. "Hush, Hark! That's enough. I can't bear no more of that. I can't bear such talk no more." I tried not to think, yet even as I tried could not help thinking, sc.r.a.ps of prayer afloat turbulent and spinning in my brain like twigs upon a flood: O O spare me, that I may recover strength. Before I go hence. And be no more no more.

I heard footsteps in the pa.s.sageway, and suddenly Gray appeared at the door with the boy Kitchen, who noisily threw open the latch. "I can't stay but a minute, Reverend," he said as he stepped into the cell and sat himself down across from me slowly, with a soft weary grunt. He looked exhausted and unstrung. I noticed that he was carrying nothing with him, and I felt my heart sink like a stone; even before I could start to protest, though, he had begun to speak: "I know, I know, that durn Bible! I know I promised to fetch you one-I'm a man of my word, Reverend-but I run into a patch of difficulty, all unforeseen. The vote was five to one agin it."

"What do you mean, Mr. Gray?" I exclaimed. "What vote? Mr.

Gray, I ain't asked for much-"

"I know, I know," he put in. "By all rights any man condemned to death should have the fullest spiritual comfort, be he black or white. And this afternoon when I pet.i.tioned the court for a Bible for your own personal use, I brought this fact out in the strongest terms. But like I say, Reverend, I run into a bit of difficulty. The majority of the Justices didn't cotton to this idea in any way,shape, nor form. In the first place, they felt very strongly about the moot point in in-and the general tenor of-the community feeling as it stands, namely, that no n.i.g.g.e.r is to be allowed to read or write anyhow. In the second place, and on account of this, since no n.i.g.g.e.r about to be hung in this county has ever been allowed to have a Bible, why then, they couldn't make an exception in your case. So they took a vote. Five to one against your havin' a Bible, with only the Chief Magistrate in 91.favor-Mr. Jeremiah Cobb, who's about to cash in hisself, so I guess he's got good reason to be soft on matters pertainin' to spiritual comfort."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry about that, Mr. Gray. It'll be right tough on me without a Bible."

Gray was silent for a while, a queer quizzical look on his face.

Then he said: "Tell me, Reverend, you ever heard tell of a galaxy?"

"A what?" I said. I was barely listening. I cannot describe my misery and desolation.

"A galaxy. G-a-l-a-x-y. Galaxy."

"Well, sir," I replied finally, "I may have heard that word used, but I can't rightly say I know what it exactly means."

"Well, you know what the sun is," he said. "The sun don't move around the earth, a great big ball up there. The sun is a star. You know about that, don't you?"

"Yes," I said, "it seems to me I did hear about that. There was a white man in Newsoms told some of the Negroes that, long time ago. He was one of those Quaker men."

"And you believe it?"

"I used to think it was right hard to believe," I said, "but I've come to believe it. By the Lord's grace all things can be believed."

"Well, you know the sun is a star, but you don't exactly know what a galaxy is. That right?"

"No, I don't know," I replied.

"Well now, in England there's a great astronomer name of Professor Herschel. Know what an astronomer is? Yes? Well, there was a big write-up on him not long ago in the Richmond newspaper. What Professor Herschel has found out is that this here star of our'n that we call the sun is but one of not thousands, not millions, but billions billions of stars all revolvin' around in a great big kind of cartwheel that he calls a galaxy. And this sun of our'n is just a piddlin' little third-rate star swimmin' around amongst millions of other stars on the edge of the galaxy. Fancy that, Reverend!" He leaned forward toward me, and I could smell the sudden apple-sweet perfume of his presence. "Fancy that! of stars all revolvin' around in a great big kind of cartwheel that he calls a galaxy. And this sun of our'n is just a piddlin' little third-rate star swimmin' around amongst millions of other stars on the edge of the galaxy. Fancy that, Reverend!" He leaned forward toward me, and I could smell the sudden apple-sweet perfume of his presence. "Fancy that!

92.Millions and even billions of stars all floatin' around in the vastness of s.p.a.ce, separated by distances the mind can't even conceive of. Why, Reverend, the light we see from some of these stars must of left there long before man hisself ever dwelt on earth! A million years before Jesus Christ! How do you square that with your Christianity? How do you square that with G.o.d?"

I pondered this for a moment, then I said: "As I told you, Mr.

Gray, by the Lord's grace all things can be believed. I accept the sun and the stars, and the galaxies too."

"Hogwas.h.!.+" he exclaimed. "Christianity is finished and done with.

Don't you know that, Reverend? And don't you realize further that it was the message contained in Holy Scripture that was the cause, the prime mover prime mover, of this entire miserable catastrophe?

Don't you see the plain ordinary evil evil of your dad-burned Bible?" of your dad-burned Bible?"

He fell silent, and I too said nothing. Though I was no longer either as hot or cold as I had been that morning- indeed, for the first time that day I felt a tolerable comfort- my throat had gotten dry and I found it difficult to swallow. I closed my eyes for a second, opened them again: in the cold, pale, diminis.h.i.+ng light Gray seemed to be smiling at me, though perhaps it was only the dimness of the twilight which blurred and made indistinct the configurations of his heavy round face. I felt that I had only faintly understood what Gray had said-grasped the barest beginnings of it; finally I replied in a dry voice, the frog still in my throat: "What do you mean, Mr. Gray? I fear I don't quite follow. Evil Evil?"

Gray leaned forward, slapping his knee. "Well, Jehoshaphat Jehoshaphat, Reverend, look at the record! Jes' look at it! Look at your own words! The words you rattled off to me for three days runnin'!

The divine spirit! Seek ye the kingdom of heaven! My wisdom came from G.o.d! came from G.o.d! All that hogwash, what I mean. And what's that line you told me the heavenly spirit said to you when you were about to embark on this b.l.o.o.d.y course of your'n? For he who knows-What?" All that hogwash, what I mean. And what's that line you told me the heavenly spirit said to you when you were about to embark on this b.l.o.o.d.y course of your'n? For he who knows-What?"

"For he who knoweth his Master's will," I said, "and doeth it not, shall be beaten with many stripes, and thus have I chastened shall be beaten with many stripes, and thus have I chastened you you."

"Yeah, hogwash like that, what I mean. Divine guidance. Holy will. Messages from up above. Durndest slop ever I heard of.

And what did it get you? What What, Reverend?"

93.I made no reply, even though now I had begun to understand what he was trying to say. I stopped looking at him and thrust my head into my hands, hoping that he would not find it necessary to go on.

"Here's what it got you, Reverend, if you'll pardon the crudity. It got you a p.i.s.sy-a.s.sed record of total futility, the likes of which are hard to equal. Threescore white people slain in random butchery, yet the white people still firmly holdin' the reins. Seventeen n.i.g.g.e.rs hung, including you and old Hark there, nevermore to see the light of day. A dozen or more other n.i.g.g.e.r boys s.h.i.+pped out of an amiable way of life to Alabama, where you can bet your bottom dollar that in five years the whole pack of 'em will be dead of work and fever. I've seen them cotton plantations. I've seen them rice layouts too, Reverend-n.i.g.g.e.rs up to their necks in s.h.i.+t from day clean to first dark, with a big black driver to whip 'em, and mosquitoes the size of buzzards. This is what you brung on them kids, Reverend, this is what Christianity brung on them boys. I reckon you didn't figure on that back then, did you?"

I was silent for a moment, considering his question, then I said: "No." For indeed, to be most truthful, I had not figured on it then.

"And what else did Christianity accomplish?" he said. "Here's what Christianity accomplished. Christianity accomplished the mob. The mob mob. It accomplished not only your senseless butchery, the extermination of all those involved in it, black and white, but the horror of lawless retaliation and reprisal-one hundred and thirty-one innocent n.i.g.g.e.rs both slave and free cut down by the mob that roamed Southampton for a solid week, searching vengeance. I reckon you didn't figure on that neither back then, did you, Reverend?"

"No," I said quietly, "no, I didn't."

"And furthermore, you can bet your sweet a.s.s that when the Legislature convenes in December they're goin' to pa.s.s laws that make the ones extant extant look like rules for a Sunday School picnic. look like rules for a Sunday School picnic.

They goin' to lock up the n.i.g.g.e.rs in a black cellar and throw away the key." He paused, and I could sense him leaning close to me. "Abolition," he said in a voice like a whisper. "Reverend, single-handed you done more with your Christianity to a.s.sure the defeat of abolition than all the meddlin' and pryin' Quakers that ever set foot in Virginia put together. I reckon you didn't figure on that either?"

"No," I said, looking into his eyes, "if that be true. No."

94.His voice had risen to a mocking, insistent monotone.

"Christianity! Rapine, plunder, butchery! Death and destruction! Rapine, plunder, butchery! Death and destruction!

And misery and suffering for untold generations. That was the accomplishment of your Christianity, Reverend. That was the fruits of your mission. And that was the joyous message of your faith. Nineteen hundred years of Christian teaching plus a black preacher is all it takes- Is all it takes to prove that G.o.d is a G.o.d durned lie!"

He rose to his feet, moving briskly now, his voice softer as he spoke, pulling on his dingy gloves. "Beg pardon, Reverend. I've got to go. No offense. All in all you've been pretty fair and square with me. In spite of what I said, I reckon a man has to act according to his own lights, even when he's the victim of a delusion. Good night, Reverend. I'll look back in on you."

When he had gone Kitchen brought me a pan of cold pork and hoe cake and a cupful of water, and I sat there in the chill dusk, eating, watching the light fall and fade away against the gray sky to the west. Presently I heard Hark on the other side of the wall, laughing softly. "Dat man sho give you down de country, Nat.

What dat man so sweat up about?"

But I didn't reply to Hark, rising instead and shuffling the length of the chain to the window.

Over Jerusalem hung a misty nightfall, over the brown and stagnant river and the woods beyond, where the water oak and cypress merged and faded one into the other, partaking like shadows of the somber wintry dusk. In the houses nearby, lamps and lanterns flickered on in yellow flame and far off there was a sound of clattering china and pots and pans and back doors slamming as people went about fixing supper. Way in the distance in some kitchen I could hear a Negro woman singing-a weary sound full of toil and drudgery yet the voice rich, strong, soaring: I knows moonrise, I knows star-rise, lay dis body down I knows moonrise, I knows star-rise, lay dis body down . .

. . Already the dusty fall of snow had disappeared; a rime of frost lay in its place, coating the earth with icy wet pinp.r.i.c.ks of dew, crisscrossed by the tracks ofsquirrels. In chilly promenade two guards with muskets paced round the jail in greatcoats, stamping their feet against the brittle ground. A gust of wind swept through the cell, whistling. I s.h.i.+vered in a spasm of cold and I closed my eyes, listening to the lament of the woman far off, leaning up against the window ledge, half dreaming in a half slumber of mad weariness and longing: As the heart panteth after the water As the heart panteth after the water The Confessions of Nat Turner 95.brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O G.o.d. My soul thirsteth for G.o.d, for the living G.o.d. Deep calleth unto deep at the noise for G.o.d, for the living G.o.d. Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me me . . . . . .

For what seemed a long time I stood leaning near the window, my eyes shut tight against the twilight. Maybe he is right, I thought, maybe all was for nothing, maybe worse than nothing, and all I've done was evil in the sight of G.o.d. Maybe he is right and G.o.d is dead and gone, which is why I can no longer reach him . . . I opened my eyes again, looking out into the gloaming light, above the woods where wild ducks skimmed southward against a sky as gray as smoke. Yes, I thought, maybe all this is true, otherwise why should G.o.d not heed me, why should he not answer? Still the woman's rich sweet voice soared through the gathering dusk: I walks in de moonlight, walks in de starlight; to I walks in de moonlight, walks in de starlight; to lay dis body down lay dis body down . . . Grieving, yet somehow unbending, steadfast, unafraid, the voice rose through the evening like memory, and a gust of wind blew up from the river, dimming the song, rustling the trees, then died and became still. . . . Grieving, yet somehow unbending, steadfast, unafraid, the voice rose through the evening like memory, and a gust of wind blew up from the river, dimming the song, rustling the trees, then died and became still. I'll lay in de I'll lay in de grave and stretch out my arms grave and stretch out my arms . . . Suddenly the voice ceased, and all was quiet. . . . Suddenly the voice ceased, and all was quiet.

Then what I done was wrong, Lord? I said. And if what I done was wrong, is there no redemption? was wrong, is there no redemption?

I raised my eyes upward but there was no answer, only the gray impermeable sky and night falling fast over Jerusalem.

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Part II

Old Times Past: Voices, Dreams, Recollections

Once when I was a boy of twelve or thereabouts, and living with my mother in the big house at Turner's Mill, I remember a fat white man who stopped one night and had supper with my owner of that time, Samuel Turner. This traveling man was a bluff, hearty soul with a round red face, cruelly pockmarked, and a booming laugh. A dealer in farm implements-ploughs and harrows, shares and cultivators and the like-he traveled up and down the country with several huge wagons and a team of dray horses and a couple of boys to help him, stopping for the night at this or that farm or plantation, wherever he happened to be peddling his wares. I no longer recall the man's name (if I ever knew it) but I do remember the season, which was the beginning of spring. Indeed, it was only what this man said about the weather and the season that caused me to remember him at all.

For that evening in April, I was serving at the supper table (I had just recently begun this ch.o.r.e; there were two older Negroes in attendance, but it was my apprentice duty alone to replenish the gla.s.ses with cider or b.u.t.termilk, to pick up whatever fell to the floor, and to shoo away the cat and the dogs) and I recollect his voice, very loud but genial, as he orated to Ma.r.s.e Samuel and the family in the alien accent of the North: "No, sir, Mr. Turner,"

he was saying, "they is no spring like it in this great land of ours.

They is nothing what approaches the full springtide when it hits Virginia. And, sir, they is good reason for this. I have traveled all up and down the seaboard, from the furtherest upper ranges of New England to the hottest part of Georgia, and I know whereof I speak. What makes the Virginia spring surpa.s.sing fine? Sir, it is simply this. It is simply that, whereas in more southern climes the temperature is always so humid that spring comes as no surprise, and whereas in more northerly climes the winter becomes so prolonged that they is no spring at all hardly, but runs smack into summer-why, in Virginia, sir, it is unique! It is 97.ideal! Nature has conspired so that spring comes in a sudden warm rus.h.!.+ Alone in the Virginia lat.i.tude, sir, is spring like the embrace of a mother's arms!"

I remember this moment with the clarity of a great event which has taken place only seconds ago-the breath of spring still in my nostrils, the dusty evening light still vivid and golden, the air filled with voices and the gentle clash of china and silverware. As the traveling man ceases speaking, the clock in the far hallway lets fall six thudding cast-iron notes, which I hear through the soft yet precisely enunciated cadences of Samuel Turner's own voice: "You are perhaps too complimentary, sir, for spring will soon also bring us a plague of bugs. But the sentiment is well taken, for indeed so far Nature has been kind to us this year.

Certainly, I have but rarely seen such ideal conditions for planting."

There is a pause as the sixth and final chime lingers for an instant with a somnolent hum, then dwindles away dully into infinity, while at this same instant I catch sight of myself in the ceiling-high mirror beyond the far sideboard: a skinny undersized pickaninny in a starched white jumper, the toes of one bare foot hooked behind the other leg as I stand wobbling and waiting, eyes rolling white with nervous vigilance. And my eyes return quickly to the table as my owner, for the traveling man's benefit, gestures with his fork in a fond, circular, s.p.a.cious motion at the family surrounding him: his wife and his widowed sister-in-law, his two young daughters around nineteen or twenty, and his two nephews-grown men of twenty-five or more with rectangular, jut-jawed faces and identical thick necks looming above me, their skin creased and reddened with sun and weather. Samuel Turner's gesture embraces them all; swallowing a bite, he clears his throat elaborately, then continues with warm humor: "Of course, sir, my family here can hardly be expected to welcome such an active time of the year, after a winter of luxurious idleness." There is a sound of laughter, and cries of "Oh, Papa!"

and I hear one of the young men call above the sudden clamor: "You slander your industrious nephews, Uncle Sam!" My eyes wander to the traveling man; his red, evilly cratered face is crinkled in jollity, and a trickle of gravy threads its way down the side of his chin. Miss Louisa, the elder of the daughters, smiles in a vague and pretty way, and blushes, and she lets drop her napkin, which I instantly scurry to retrieve, replacing it upon her lap.

98.Now in the twilight the merriment slowly subsides, and the conversation proceeds in easy ruminative rhythms, the women silent, the men alone chatting garrulous and fullmouthed as I circle the table with the china pitcher of foaming cider, then return to my station between the two thicknecked nephews, resume my one-legged heron's stance and slowly turn my gaze out into the evening. Beyond the veranda the pasture slopes away green and undulating toward the pinewoods. On the coa.r.s.e weedy gra.s.s a score of sheep munch placidly in the yellow light, trailed by a collie dog and a small, bowlegged Negro shepherdess. Past them, far down the slope where a log road separates the lawn and the looming forest, I can see an empty cart drawn by two flop-eared mules, making its last trip of the day from the storehouse to the mill. On the seat of the cart sits a Negro man, a yellow straw hat raked down upon his head. As I watch, I see that the man is trying to scratch his back, first his left arm snaking up from his waist, then his right arm arching down over his shoulder as the black fingers grope in vain for the source of some intolerable itch. Finally, as the mules plod steadily down the slope and the cart ponderously rocks and veers, the man stands up with a lurching motion and sc.r.a.pes his back cowlike up and down against the sidepost of the cart.

For some reason, I find this wonderfully amusing and I suddenly am aware that I am giggling to myself, though not so loudly that the white people may notice. Long moments pa.s.s as I watch the cart drift rocking across the margin of the woods, the man seated again as cart and mules pa.s.s with a distant drumming of hooves and creaking axles over the little bridge then around the murky lower rim of the millpond, where two white swans glide stately and soundless, finally vanis.h.i.+ng behind the forest-shadowed white shape of the sawmill with its dull and sluggish rasp of metal-tortured timber drifting up faintly through the dusk: hrrush, hrrush, hrrush hrrush. Closer now, the yap of the collie dog starts me out of my daydream, and I turn back to the table and the bright tinkling collision of china and silver, the traveling man's voice broadly ingratiating as he speaks to Ma.r.s.e Samuel: ". . . a new line of sundries this year. Now for instance, I have some pure sea salt from the Eastern Sh.o.r.e of Maryland, for preserving and table use only, sir . . . They is nothing better in the market . . . And so you say they is ten people here, including the overseer and his family? And sixty-eight grown Negroes? Presuming it goes mostly for salt pork then, sir, I should say five sacks will do you nicely, a splendid bargain at thirty-one dollars twenty-five cents .

99.Now again my mind begins to wander. My thoughts stray outdoors once more where the brilliant fuss of chattering birds intrudes in the fading day-blackbirds and robins, finches and squawking jays, and somewhere far off above the bottomlands the noise of some mean a.s.sembly of crows, their calls echoing venturesome and conniving and harsh. Again the scene outside captures my attention, so now slowly and with irresistible pleasure I turn to gaze at the coa.r.s.e green slope with its slant of golden light and its nimble bustle of many wings, the flower bed only feet away ferny and damp with the odor of new-turned earth. The little black bowlegged shepherdess has vanished from the pasture, sheep and collie too, leaving behind a haze of dust to tremble in the evening light. Rising on fat whirlpools of air, this haze fills the sky like the finest sawdust. In the distance the mill still rasps with a steady husking noise above the monotonous roar of water from the sluiceway. Two huge dragonflies dart across the evening, wild and iridescent, a swift flash of transparency. Springtime Springtime. Worried that my excitement will show, I feel my limbs stretch and quiver with a lazy thrill. A sense of something quickening, a voluptuous stirring courses gently through my flesh. I hear the blood pulsing within me like some imagined wash of warm oceanic tides. In my mind I echo the traveling man's words- Full springtide, spring, spring Full springtide, spring, spring, I find myself whispering to myself-and this awakening brings to my lips the shadow of a grin. I feel half stunned, my eyes roll like marbles. I am filled with inexplicable happiness and a sense of tantalizing promise.

As the traveling man's voice drifts back into hearing, I turn again and feel the gaze of my mistress, Miss Nell, upon me, and I look up then and see her mouth forming the whispered word "cider." I grasp the heavy pitcher with two hands and again make my circuit of the table, filling the gla.s.ses of the women first, taking pains that not a drop is spilled. My care is meticulous. I hold my breath until the edge of the table swims dizzily before my eyes.

Now finally I am at the elbow of the traveling man, who, as I serve him, ceases his talk of commerce long enough to look down at me and good-naturedly exclaim: "Well, I'll be durned if that crock ain't bigger than you are!" I am only half aware that he is addressing these words to me, and I am unconcerned as I pour the cider, replace the gla.s.s, and continue my tour around thetable. "Cute little nipper too," the traveling man adds in an offhand tone, but again I make no connection between myself and what is said until now, drawing near to Miss Nell, I hear her voice, gentle and indulgent as it descends from the rare white 100.prodigous atmosphere above me: "And smart, you wouldn't believe! Spell something, Nat." And then to the traveling man: "Ask him something to spell."

Suddenly I am fastened to my tracks and I feel my heart beat wildly as I realize that I am the focus of all eyes. The pitcher in my hands is as heavy as a boulder. He beams down at me; the radish-red broad cheeks are all benevolence as the man pauses, reflects, then says: "Can you spell 'lady'?" But abruptly, before I can reply, I hear Samuel Turner interrupt, amused: "Oh no no, something difficult!" And the traveling man scratches the side of his pitted face, still beaming: "Oh well," he says, "let's see, some kind of flower . . . 'Columbine.' Spell ' columbine columbine.'" And I spell it, without effort and instantly but in a pounding fury of embarra.s.sment, the pulse roaring in my ears as the letters tumble forth in a galloping rush: ". . . i-n-e, spells columbine! columbine! " "

And the laughter at the table that follows this, and a shrill echo from the walls, makes me realize in dismay that I am yelling at the top of my lungs.

"It is I am sure a kind of unorthodoxy, and considered thus by some," I hear my master say (I resume my station, still fl.u.s.tered and with a madly working heart), "but it is my conviction that the more religiously and intellectually enlightened a Negro is made, the better for himself, his master, and the commonweal. But one must begin at a tender age, and thus, sir, you see in Nat the promising beginnings of an experiment. Of course, it is late for this child, compared with white children, yet . . ." As I listen to him speak, not completely comprehending the words, my panic and embarra.s.sment (which had been made up in equal parts of childish selfconsciousness and terror at the thought that I might publicly fail) diminish, fade away, and in their place I feel stealing over me a serene flow of pride and accomplishment: after all, I may have been a loudmouth, but I did know the word, and I sensed in the sunny laughter a laurel, a tribute. All of a sudden the secret pleasure I take in my exploit is like a delectable itch within, and though my expression in the mirror is glum, abashed, and my pink lips are persimmon-sour, I can hear my insides stirring. I feel wildly alive. I s.h.i.+ver feverishly in the glory of self.

But I seem to be quickly forgotten, for now the traveling man is again talking of his wares: "It is the Carey plough, sir, of stout cast iron, and I calculate it will supplant all ploughs presently in the market. They has been a big demand for it in the Northern states . . ." Yet even as he talks and my thoughts wander astray again, the proud glow of achievement hangs on, and I am 101.

washed by a mood of contentment and snug belonging so precious that I could cry out for the joy of it. Nor does it go away.

It is a joy that remains even as the pinewoods begin to crowd ragged trembling shadows into the deserted pasture, and a horn blows far off, long and lonesome-sounding, summoning the Negroes from the mill and the distant fields. As abruptly as some interrupted human grumble, the sawmill ceases its harsh rasp and husk, and for a moment the silence is like a loud noise in my ears. Now twilight deepens over the meadow, where bats no bigger than sparrows are flickering and darting in the dusk, and I can see through the evening shadows in the distance a line of Negro men trooping up from the mill toward the cabins, their faces black and barely visible but their voices rising and falling, wearily playful with intermittent cries of laughter as they move homeward with the languid, shuffling, shoulder-bent gait of a long day's toil. s.n.a.t.c.hes of their talk rise up indistinctly across the field, sounds of gentle, tired skylarking in the twilight: "Hoo-dar, Simon! . . . Shee-it Shee-it, n.i.g.g.e.r! . . . Cotch you, fo' sho!"

Quickly I turn away (could there have been a whiff of something desperate and ugly in that long file of sweating, weary men which upsets my glowing childish housebound spirit, disturbs the beat.i.tude of that April dusk?) and circle the table with my pitcher one last time while the two other Negro house servants, Little Morning and Prissy, clear away the dishes and light thick candles on pewter candelabra that fill the darkening room with a pumpkin-hued glow.

My master is talking now, his chair pushed back, the thumbs of both hands hooked in the pockets of his vest. He is in his early forties (to be precise, he will be forty-three at five-thirty in the morning on the twelfth day of the coming June, according to one or another of the old house servants, who know more about the events in white people's lives than white people do themselves) but he looks older-perhaps only to me, however, since I hold him in such awe that I am forced to regard him, physically as well as spiritually, in terms of the same patriarchal and venerable grandeur that glows forth from those Bible pictures of Moses on the mount, or an ancient Elijah exploding in bearded triumph at the transfiguration of Christ. Even so, the wrinkles around his mouth are early; he has worked hard, and this accounts for those lines and for the cheek whiskers which end in small tufts whiter than a cottontail's b.u.t.t. "Ugly as a mushrat," my mother has said of him, and perhaps this is true: the angular face is too long and horselike, the nose too prominent and beaked, and, as my mother also has observed, "Lawd didn't leave Ma.r.s.e Sam a 102.

whole lot of jawbone." So much for my master's chin. But his eyes are kindly, shrewd, luminous; there is still strength in his face, tempered by a curious, abiding sweetness that causes him ever to seem on the verge of a rueful smile. At this time, my regard for him is very close to the feeling one should bear only toward the Divinity.

"Let us adjourn to the veranda," he says to the traveling man, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair. "We usually retire more or less promptly at eight, but tonight you and I will share a bottle of port while we make out a requisition for my needs." His hand falls lightly on the shoulder of the traveling man, who is rising now. "I hope you will forgive me if it sounds presumptuous," he continues, "and it is a most unusual thing for me to say, but for a peddler who has the difficulties of so much travel, you sell an extremely reliable line of wares. And this, sir, as you must be aware, is of the greatest importance in a region like ours, removed so far from the centers of commerce. Since last year I have taken the opportunity of commending you to my friends." The traveling man s.h.i.+nes with pleasure, wheezing a little as he bows to the women and the young men, then moves on toward the door. "Well, thank you, sir . . ." he begins, but my owner's voice interrupts, not rude, not even abrupt, but in continuation of his praise: "So that they shall be as satisfied as I have been in the past. And what did you say was your tomorrow's destination? Greensville County? Then you must stop by Robert Munson's place on the Meherrin River . . ."

The voices fade, and while I busy myself around the table, helping the old man Little Morning and the young woman Prissy clear the dishes, the rest of the family rises, slowly scattering in the last brief hours before bedtime: the two nephews to attend to a mare ready to foal, Miss Nell to take a poultice to a sick Negro child in the cabins, the three other women-all astir with gay antic.i.p.ation as they bustle toward the parlor-to read aloud from something they call Marmion Marmion. Then these voices too fade away, and I am back in the kitchen again amid the clumping of crudely shod Negro feet and the sharp stench of a ham hock steaming on the stove, back with my tall, beautiful mother banging and grumbling in a swirl of greasy smoke-" 'Thaniel, you better get dat b.u.t.ter down in de cellar lak I told you!" she calls to me-back in my black Negro world . . .