The Confessions of Nat Turner Part 6

Finally I stop in my tracks, staring at the forest rising up like an impenetrable green wall beyond the fields. There is no place to go.

For long moments I stand in the shade beneath the ailanthus trees, panting, waiting. It is hot and still. Far off, the mill rumbles in a dull undertone, so faint I can barely hear it. Insects stir and fidget among the weeds, their swift random industry like a constant st.i.tching noise amid the heat. I stand and wait for a long time, unable to go farther, unable to move. Then at last I turn and slowly retrace my steps up the lane and across the lawn in front of the house-taking care that Little Morning, pus.h.i.+ng a sluggish rag mop on the veranda, will not see me-and now cautiously I part the brittle sticks and branches of the parched hedge, slipping sideways through it, and then dawdle across the lot to the kitchen.

As I come back to my hiding place beneath the house, the door of the kitchen smacks open with a clatter and McBride appears on the rear stoop, blinking in the sunlight, running a hand through his black disheveled hair. He does not see me as I creep back under the house, watching. He blinks steadily, and with his other hand he adjusts one gallus on his shoulder, then runs his fingers over his mouth-a curious, tentative motion almost of discovery, as if touching his lips for the first time. Then a slow and lazy smile steals over his face and he lurches down the steps, missing the last one or not fully connecting with it, so that the heel of his boot makes a sudden popping noise against the timber while at the same instant he sprawls forward, regains his balance and stands erect, wobbling slightly, muttering "G.o.d blast! blast! " Yet he is still smiling, and now I can see that he has caught sight of Abraham, who just at this moment is rounding the corner of the stable. " Yet he is still smiling, and now I can see that he has caught sight of Abraham, who just at this moment is rounding the corner of the stable.

"Abe!" he shouts. "You, Abe!"

"Ya.s.suh!" I hear the voice call back.

"They's ten hands pickin' worms down in the bottom cornfield!"

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"Yas, Mistah Mac!"

"Well, you fetch they black a.s.ses out of there, hear me!"

"Yas, Mistah Mac! Ah do dat!"

"Hit's too hot even for n.i.g.g.e.rs!"

"Ya.s.suh!" Abraham turns and hustles down the slope, his green s.h.i.+rt plastered black with sweat against his shoulders. Then he is gone and it is McBride alone who seems to fill the entire s.p.a.ce within my sight, prodigious even as he stands weaving, grinning to himself in the blighted, sun-baked yard, prodigious and all-powerful, yet mysterious in his terrible authority, filling me with dread. The appearance of his round, heavy face, uplifted to the sun in dreamy pleasure, sickens me inside, and I feel a sense of my weakness, my smallness, my defenselessness, my n.i.g.g.e.rness n.i.g.g.e.rness invading me like a wind to the marrow of my bones. invading me like a wind to the marrow of my bones.

"G.o.d blast!" he says finally, with baffling glee, and lets out a soft happy cry, totters a bit, and fetches his booted foot up against the remains of a decayed bucket, which flies off in splinters across the yard. In dismay, a great old hen squawks, flees toward the shed, and a cloud of snuff-brown barnyard manure floats aloft like the finest powder, amid tiny pinfeathers bursting everywhere. "G.o.d blast!" McBride says again, in a kind of low shout, and he is off and away, limping, in the direction of his own house down the slope. G.o.d blast! G.o.d blast!

Like something shriveled, I draw up within myself underneath the kitchen, the book shut now as I clutch it to my chest. The smell of cooking greens is still warm and pungent on the air. Presently I hear my mother's feet on the floor above, the broom whisking against the boards, her voice again, gentle, lonesome, unperturbed and serene as before.

"For Jesus come and lock de do'

An' carry de keys away . . ."

On another morning later that same month, the rain comes down in great whistling cataracts, whipped into spray by a westerly wind and accompanied by cracklings of lightning and thunder.

Fearful for the book's safety, I rescue it from its precarious shelf beneath the house and steal up the kitchen steps, taking refuge in the pantry behind a barrel of cider. Outside the storm rages but there is enough light to see by, and I crouch in the 121.

apple-sweet damp with the book thrown open upon my knees.

The minutes pa.s.s, my legs grow numb beneath me. The book with its ant-swarm of words is like an enemy, malevolent, wearisome, incomprehensible. I draw taut, crucified on a rack of boredom, yet I know I am in the presence of a treasure; lacking the key to unlock it, I possess that treasure nonetheless, and so with grubby fingers and gritty eyes I persevere . . .

All at once, very close to me, there is a noise like a thunderclap and I give a jump, fearful that the house has been hit by lightning. But now as I look up I see that it is only the great cedar door to the pantry which has been thrown violently open, flooding the room with a yellowish chill light; at the entry stands the tall, stoop-shouldered, threatening shape of Little Morning, his bloodshot eyes in a leathery old mean wrinkled face gazing down at me with fierce indignation and rebuke. "Dar, boy!" he says in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "Dar! I done foun' you out at last! You You de one dat de one dat stole stole dat book, lak I figured all de time!" (How could I have known then what I realized much later: that with suspicion founded upon the simplest envy, he had been spying on me for days? That this creaking old man, simple-headed and unlettered and in the true state of n.i.g.g.e.r ignorance for a lifetime, had been sent into a fit of intolerable jealousy upon his realization that a ten-year-old black boy was going through the motions of learning to read. For that was the uncomplicated fact of the matter, doubtless dating from the time when, correcting him, watching him haul up from the cellar a keg of MOLa.s.sES instead of the keg of OIL he had been ordered to fetch, I had answered his haughty dat book, lak I figured all de time!" (How could I have known then what I realized much later: that with suspicion founded upon the simplest envy, he had been spying on me for days? That this creaking old man, simple-headed and unlettered and in the true state of n.i.g.g.e.r ignorance for a lifetime, had been sent into a fit of intolerable jealousy upon his realization that a ten-year-old black boy was going through the motions of learning to read. For that was the uncomplicated fact of the matter, doubtless dating from the time when, correcting him, watching him haul up from the cellar a keg of MOLa.s.sES instead of the keg of OIL he had been ordered to fetch, I had answered his haughty How you know How you know? with a superior Be-cause it say so Be-cause it say so, leaving him flabbergasted, spiteful, and hurt.) Before I can reply or even move, Little Morning has my ear pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and in this way hoists me to my feet, propelling me out of the pantry and into the kitchen, pulling me forward and with an insistent pinch and tug stretching the skin of my skull as he stalks down the hallway. In helpless tow, I flounder after him, the book clutched against my chest. The tail of Little Morning's frock coat flaps in my face: the old man utters hoa.r.s.e indignant breaths, huffanapuff huffanapuff, huffanapuff huffanapuff, mingled with threats chilling, dire: "Ma.r.s.e Samuel gwine fix mingled with threats chilling, dire: "Ma.r.s.e Samuel gwine fix you, you, boy! Ma.r.s.e Samuel gwine send yo' thievin' black soul to Georgia boy! Ma.r.s.e Samuel gwine send yo' thievin' black soul to Georgia !" Fiercely he yanks at my ear, but the pain seems nothing obliterated by terror so vast that the blood rushes down in red sheets before my eyes. I half swallow my tongue and I hear my voice, strangled, going aaaagh, aaaagh, aaaagh aaaagh, aaaagh, aaaagh. On we press 122.

down the dark hallway, past ceiling-high windows streaming with rain, lit by lightning flashes; I regard the heavens with twisted neck and eyes upside down. "I knowed knowed you was de rascally little debbil dat stole it !" Little Morning whispers. "I knowed it all de time!" you was de rascally little debbil dat stole it !" Little Morning whispers. "I knowed it all de time!"

We burst into the great hall of the house, a part of the mansion I have never seen before. I glimpse a chandelier blazing with candles, walls paneled in glossy pine, a stairway winding dizzily upward. Yet my impression of these things is brief, fleeting; filled with horror, I realize that the lofty room is crowded with white people, almost the entire family-Ma.r.s.e Samuel and Miss Nell and two daughters, Miss Elizabeth, one of Ma.r.s.e Benjamin's sons, and now Ma.r.s.e Benjamin himself, clad in a glistening wet rain cape as he plunges through the front door in a spray of water and a gust of cold wind. Lightning crackles outside and I hear his voice above the drumming of the rain. "Weather for the ducks!" he shouts. "But, Lord, it smells like money! The pond's spilling over!" There is a moment's silence and the door slams shut, then I hear another voice: "What have we got, Little Morning?" The old man lets go of my ear.

"Dat book," he says. "Dat book dat was stole! Dis yere de robbah dat done it!"

Nearly swooning with fright, I clutch the book to my chest, unable to control my voice and the sobs welling up aaaagh aaaagh aaaagh aaaagh from deep inside. I would weep, but my anguish is in a realm beyond tears. I yearn for the floor to open and swallow me. Never have I been this from deep inside. I would weep, but my anguish is in a realm beyond tears. I yearn for the floor to open and swallow me. Never have I been this close close to white people, and their nearness is so oppressive and fearful that I think I am going to vomit. to white people, and their nearness is so oppressive and fearful that I think I am going to vomit.

"Well, bless my boots," I hear a voice say.

"I just don't believe it," says another, a woman's.

"Whose little darky is that?" asks still another voice.

"Dis yere Nathaniel," says Little Morning. His tone is still heavy with anger and indignation. "He belong to Lou-Ann in de kitchen.

He de culp.r.i.c.k. He de one dat snitch de volume." He wrests the book from my grasp, regarding it with scholarly lifted eyebrows.

"Dis de volume dat was took. Hit says so right here. De Life and De Life and de Death of Mr. Badman de Death of Mr. Badman by John Bunyam. Hit de selfsame volume, Ma.r.s.e Sam, sho as my name's Little Mornin'." Even in the midst of my fright I am aware that Little Morning-the old The Confessions of Nat Turner by John Bunyam. Hit de selfsame volume, Ma.r.s.e Sam, sho as my name's Little Mornin'." Even in the midst of my fright I am aware that Little Morning-the old 123.

humbug-has memorized the t.i.tle by ear and is fooling no one with this display of literacy. "I knowed it war de same book when I cotched him readin' it in de pantry."

"Reading?" The voice is that of Ma.r.s.e Samuel, wondering, quite incredulous. I look up now, slowly. The white faces, viewed for the first time so closely-especially those of the females, only lightly touched by sun and weather-have the sheen and consistency of sour dough or the soft underbellies of mushrooms; their blue eyes glint boldly, startling as ice, and I regard each yawning pore, each freckle, with the awe of total discovery. "Reading?" Ma.r.s.e Samuel says now, with amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice. "Come now, Little Morning!" now, Little Morning!"

"Well, natchel he warn't exackly readin'," the old man adds contemptuously. "He jes' lookin' at de pitchers, dat's all. Hit was on account of de pitchers dat he took de book anyways-"

"But there are no pictures, are there, Nell? It was your volume, after all-"

Could it have been, as I sometimes thought years later, that at that moment I sensed a fatal juncture, realized with some child's wise instinct that unless instantly I a.s.serted my small n.i.g.g.e.r self I would be forever cast back into anonymity and oblivion? And so could it have been that right then-desperate, lying, risking all-I mastered my terror and suddenly turned on Little Morning, howling: "'Tain't so! 'Tain't so! I can so so read the book!"? read the book!"?

Whatever the case, I remember a voice, Samuel Turner's, his wonder and amazement fled, saying in sudden quiet, judicious, tolerant tones, silencing the family's laughter: "No, no, just wait, maybe he can can, let us see!" And as the storm grumbles far off to the east, diminis.h.i.+ng, the only sound now rain dripping from the eaves and a distant angry chattering of wet bluejays in the ailanthus trees, I find myself seated by the window. I have begun to cry, aware of white hovering faces like ghostly giant blobs above me, and whispering voices. I struggle briefly, pawing through the pages, but it is beyond all hope: I cannot manage a single word. I feel that I am going to suffocate on the sobs mounting upward in my chest. My distress is so great that Ma.r.s.e Samuel's words are miles beyond comprehension-a m.u.f.fled echo I can only dredge up from memory years later-when I hear him cry out: "You see, Ben, it is true, as I've told you! They will try! They will will try! And we shall teach him then! Hurrah!" try! And we shall teach him then! Hurrah!"

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The most futile thing a man can do is to ponder the alternatives, to stew and fret over the life that might have been lived if circ.u.mstances had not pointed his future in a certain direction.

Nonetheless, it is a failing which, when ill luck befalls us, most of us succ.u.mb to; and during the dark years of my twenties, after I had pa.s.sed out of Samuel Turner's life and he and I were shut of each other forever, I spent a great deal of idle and useless time wondering what may have befallen my lot had I not been so unfortunate as to have become the beneficiary (or perhaps the victim) of my owner's zeal to tamper with a n.i.g.g.e.r's destiny.

Suppose in the first place I had lived out my life at Turner's Mill.

Suppose then I had been considerably less avid in my thirst for knowledge, so that it would not have occurred to me to steal that book. Or suppose, even more simply, that Samuel Turner- however decent and just an owner he might have remained anyway-had been less affected with that feverish and idealistic conviction that slaves were capable of intellectual enlightenment and enrichment of the spirit and had not, in his pa.s.sion to prove this to himself and to all who would bear witness, fastened upon me me as an "experiment." (No, I understand that I am not being quite fair, for surely when I recollect the man with all the honesty I can muster I know that we were joined by strong ties of emotion; yet still the unhappy fact remains: despite warmth and friends.h.i.+p, despite a kind of as an "experiment." (No, I understand that I am not being quite fair, for surely when I recollect the man with all the honesty I can muster I know that we were joined by strong ties of emotion; yet still the unhappy fact remains: despite warmth and friends.h.i.+p, despite a kind of love love, I began as surely an experiment as a lesson in pig-breeding or the broadcasting of a new type of manure.) Well, under these circ.u.mstances I would doubtless have become an ordinary run-of-the-mill house n.i.g.g.e.r, mildly efficient at some stupid task like wringing chickens' necks or smoking hams or polis.h.i.+ng silver, a malingerer wherever possible yet withal too jealous of my security to risk real censure or trouble and thus cautious in my tiny thefts, circ.u.mspect in the secrecy of my afternoon naps, furtive in my anxious lecheries with the plump yellow-skinned cleaning maids upstairs in the dark attic, growing ever more servile and unctuous as I became older, always the crafty flatterer on the lookout for some bonus of flannel or stew beef or tobacco, yet behind my stately paunch and fancy bib and waistcoat developing, as I advanced into old age, a kind of purse-lipped dignity, known as Uncle Nat, well loved and adoring in return, a palsied stroker of the silken pates of little white grandchildren, rheumatic, illiterate, and filled with sleepiness, half yearning for that lonely death which at long last would lead me to rest in some tumbledown graveyard tangled with chokeberry and 125.

jimson weed. It would not have been, to be sure, much of an existence, but how can I honestly say that I might not have been happier?

For the Preacher was right: He that increaseth knowledge that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow increaseth sorrow. And Samuel Turner (whom I shall call Ma.r.s.e Samuel from now on, for that is how he was known to me) could not have realized, in his innocence and decency, in his awesome goodness and softness of heart, what sorrow he was guilty of creating by feeding me that half-loaf of learning: far more bearable no loaf at all.

Well, no matter now. Suffice it to say that I was taken into the family's bosom, so to speak, falling under the protective wing not only of Ma.r.s.e Samuel but of Miss Nell, who together with her older daughter Louisa had spent the quiet winter mornings of several years- "riding their hobby," I remember they called it- drilling me in the alphabet and teaching me to add and subtract and, not the least fascinating, exposing me to the serpentine mysteries of the Episcopal catechism. How they drilled me! How Miss Nell kept after me! I never forgot these glossy-haired seraphs with their soft tutorial murmurs, and do not blame me too much when I say-I shall try not to allude to it again-that there was at least one moment during the earthquake twenty years later when I lingered on the memory of those sweet faces with a very special and savage intensity.

"No, no, Nat, not sucklings and babes-babes and sucklings! sucklings and babes-babes and sucklings! " "

" Yessum Yessum . Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou . Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, that thou mightest ordained strength because of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger still the enemy and the avenger."

"Yes, that's just right, Nat. Now then, verses three and four.

Slowly, slow- ly ly! And careful now!"

"When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained. and the stars, which thou hast ordained. And-And-I forgets." And-And-I forgets."

"Forget, Nat, not forgets. No darky talk! Now- What is man- What is man- " Yessum Yessum . What is man that thou art mindful of him? and the son . What is man that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visiteth him? of man, that thou visiteth him? Well, uh- And Well, uh- And , For thou hast , For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels and hast crowned him made him a little lower than the angels and hast crowned him with glory and honor! with glory and honor! " "

"Wonderful, Nat! Oh, wonderful, wonderful! Oh, Sam, there you 126.

are! You should just hear hear Nat coming along! Come here, Sam, sit beside us for a moment and listen, sit here by the fire! Listen to our little darky recite out from the Bible! He can speak it from memory as well as the Reverend Eppes! Isn't that so, Nat, you smart little tar baby, you?" Nat coming along! Come here, Sam, sit beside us for a moment and listen, sit here by the fire! Listen to our little darky recite out from the Bible! He can speak it from memory as well as the Reverend Eppes! Isn't that so, Nat, you smart little tar baby, you?"

"Yessum."

But suppose again that it had been Ma.r.s.e Samuel who had died, instead of Brother Benjamin. What then would have happened to that smart little tar baby?

Maybe you will be able to form your own judgment from some things I overheard on the veranda one sultry, airless summer evening after supper, when the two brothers were entertaining a pair of traveling Episcopal clergymen-"the Bishop's visitants,"

they called themselves-one of them named Dr. Ballard, a big-nosed, long-jawed bespectacled man of middle years garbed entirely in black from the tip of his wide-brimmed parson's hat to his flowing cloak and gaiters b.u.t.toned up along his skinny shanks, blinking through square crystal gla.s.ses and emitting delicate coughs behind long white fingers as thin and pale as flower stalks; the other minister dressed like him in funereal black but many years younger, in his twenties and bespectacled also, with a round, smooth, plump, prissy face which at first glimpse had caused me to think of him as Dr. Ballard's daughter or maybe his wife. Not as yet advanced to the dining room, I labored in the kitchen as Little Morning's va.s.sal, and it was my duty at the moment to fetch water from the cistern and to keep the smudge pot going: positioned upwind in the sluggish air, it sent out small black-oily clouds of smoke, a screen against mosquitoes. Across the meadow, fireflies flickered in the dusk, and I recall from within the house the sound of a piano, the voice of Miss Elizabeth, Benjamin's wife, breathless, sweet, in quavering, plaintive song: "Would you gain the tender creature, Softly, gently, kindly treat her . . ." Softly, gently, kindly treat her . . ."

Though usually the sedulous snoop, I had paid no attention to the conversation, fascinated instead by Benjamin, wondering if this would be one of those evenings when he fell out of his chair.

As Ma.r.s.e Samuel and the ministers chatted, I watched Benjamin stir in the chair, heard the wickerwork crackling beneath his weight as he let out a sigh despairing and long, raising his 127.

brandy gla.s.s on high. While Little Morning came forward to serve him he sighed again and the sound was aimless, distracted, dwindling off into a little uh-uh-uh uh-uh-uh like the tail end of a yawn. I think I recall Dr. Ballard glancing at him uneasily, then turning back to Ma.r.s.e Samuel. And the like the tail end of a yawn. I think I recall Dr. Ballard glancing at him uneasily, then turning back to Ma.r.s.e Samuel. And the uh-uh-uh uh-uh-uh sound again, not loud, still pitched between yawn and sigh, gla.s.s half filled with sirupy apple brandy extended negligently in midair, the other hand clutching the decanter. I watched his cheeks begin to flush, blooming tomato-pink in the twilight, and I said to myself: Yes, I think again tonight he might fall right on out of that chair. sound again, not loud, still pitched between yawn and sigh, gla.s.s half filled with sirupy apple brandy extended negligently in midair, the other hand clutching the decanter. I watched his cheeks begin to flush, blooming tomato-pink in the twilight, and I said to myself: Yes, I think again tonight he might fall right on out of that chair.

But even as I watched him I heard him suddenly exclaim: "Ha!"

Then he paused and said: "Ha! Ha! Jesus b.l.o.o.d.y Christ! Come out and say it!" And then I realized that despite his yawns and rude noises, he was listening to Dr. Ballard and so then I too turned and gazed at the minister, who was explaining: "-and so the Bishop is marking time, as he says. We are at the crossroads-that is the Bishop's own expression-we are at the crossroads, marking time, awaiting some providential wind providential wind to guide us in the right direction. The Bishop is so gifted in his choice of expressions. At any rate, he is aware that the Church all too soon must make some decision. Meanwhile, as his visitants, we are able to send him rea.s.suring news as to the condition of the slaves on at least to guide us in the right direction. The Bishop is so gifted in his choice of expressions. At any rate, he is aware that the Church all too soon must make some decision. Meanwhile, as his visitants, we are able to send him rea.s.suring news as to the condition of the slaves on at least one one plantation." He paused, with the bleak and wintry suggestion of a smile. plantation." He paused, with the bleak and wintry suggestion of a smile.

"It will be so rea.s.suring for the Bishop," said the younger minister. "He will be interested, too, in knowing your general views."

"General views?" Ma.r.s.e Samuel inquired.

"General views on the inst.i.tution itself," Dr. Ballard explained.

"He is greatly concerned to know the general views held by- how shall we say it?-the more prosperous prosperous landowners of the diocese." landowners of the diocese."

For a long moment Ma.r.s.e Samuel was silent, his face drawn and reflective as he sucked at a long clay pipe. It was becoming dark.

A mild gust of wind, feather-light upon my own brow, sent an oily curl of smoke across the veranda. In the distant swamp, frogs sang and throbbed in a wild, pa.s.sionate monotone. Little Morning approached Dr. Ballard with a silver tray balanced on the tips of black fingers. "Is you gwine have some mo' port wine, mastah?" I heard him ask.

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Still Ma.r.s.e Samuel remained silent, then finally he said in a slow and measured voice: "Doctor, I will be as direct with you as I can.

I have long and do still steadfastly believe that slavery is the great cause of all the chief evils of our land. It is a cancer eating at our bowels, the source of all our misery, individual, political, and economic. It is the greatest course a supposedly free and enlightened society has been saddled with in modern times, or any other time. I am not, as you may have perceived, the most religious of men, yet I am not without faith and I pray nightly for the miracle, for the divine guidance which will somehow show us the way out of this terrible condition. It is evil to keep these people in bondage, yet they cannot be freed. They must be educated! To free these people without education and with the prejudice that presently exists against them would be a ghastly crime."

Dr. Ballard did not immediately answer, but when he did his voice was detached and indistinct. "How interesting," he murmured.

"Fascinating," said the other minister, sounding even more far away.

Suddenly Benjamin lurched erect from his chair and walked to the far edge of the veranda. There in the shadows, unfastening himself, he commenced to p.i.s.s into a rosebush. I could hear the noise of a lordly stream of water, urgent, uninterrupted, a plas.h.i.+ng cascade upon leaf and thorn and vine, and now Benjamin's voice above the spatter: "Oh, my beloved brother!

Oh, my brother's bleeding heart! What a trial, what a tribulation to dwell with such a saint, who would try to alter the mechanism of history! A saint saint he is, reverend visitants! You are in the presence of a living, breathing saint! Yas!" he is, reverend visitants! You are in the presence of a living, breathing saint! Yas!"

Dr. Ballard blushed, murmuring something I could not understand. Watching from behind the smudge pot, I was suddenly tickled and I had to smother my amus.e.m.e.nt behind my hand. For the minister, in a desperate fidget, was obviously unaccustomed to conversing with anyone who was in the process of taking a p.i.s.s, which Benjamin did without a flicker of a thought and in the most public way whenever he drank in the company of men. Yet now Dr. Ballard, though agitated, had to pay even more deference to Benjamin than he did to Ma.r.s.e Samuel, for distant and apart as Benjamin may have been this evening he was still the older brother and the plantation's t.i.tled owner. I watched joyfully as the minister's lips became puckered 129.

and bloodless, bespectacled eyes gazing in wild discomfort at Benjamin's back. Suddenly the torrent ceased and Benjamin wheeled about, languidly lacing up his fly. Weaving a little, he crossed the porch, drawing near Ma.r.s.e Samuel and letting his hand fall upon the back of his brother's neck; as he did so, Ma.r.s.e Samuel glanced up at him with a sour-sweet look, rueful, glum, yet touched with quiet affection. Although they were so dissimilar as to seem born of different families, even the most un.o.bservant house servant was aware of the strong bond between them. They had quarreled many times in the past in their fraternal and peaceable way, seeming oblivious of all eavesdropping (or more likely they did not care) and many a black servant gliding around the dinner table had divined enough of their talk to know where each brother stood, philosophically, at least about his body if not his soul.

"My brother is as sentimental as an old she-hound, Doctor,"

Benjamin said in an amiable voice. "He believes the slaves are capable of all kinds of improvement. That you can take a bunch of darkies and turn them into shopowners and sea captains and opera impresarios and army generals and Christ knows what all.

I say differently. I do not believe in beating a darky. I do not believe, either, in beating a dog or a horse. If you wish my belief to take back to the Bishop, you can tell him that my belief is that a darky is an animal with the brain of a human child and his only value is the work you can get out of him by intimidation, cajolery, and threat."

"I see," Dr. Ballard murmured, "yes, I see what you mean." The minister was paying Benjamin close attention, with a squint-eyed look yet still very deferential. "Yes, I do see clearly what you mean."

"Like my sentimental and most gentle-hearted brother," Benjamin continued, "I am against the inst.i.tution of slavery too. I wish to Jesus it had never come to these sh.o.r.es. If there was some kind of steam engine you could invent to plant corn or cut timber, another to pull suckers, another fine machine to set out in the field and chop tobacco, still another big grand machine to come chugging through the house, lighting the lamps and setting the rooms in order-"

There was an attentive burst of laughter from the two ministers, the younger one t.i.ttering behind his fingers while Dr. Ballard made small chuckles and Benjamin himself continued, appreciatively grinning, with one hand resting friendly and 130.

familiar on his brother's shoulder. Still the soursweet expression lingered on Ma.r.s.e Samuel's face and the faintest outline of a sheepish little smile. "Or a machine, I fancy," Benjamin went on, "that when the mistress of the household prepared herself for an afternoon's outing, would harness up the mare and bring Old Dolly and the gig around to the front entrance, and then with its strange mechanism set the lady down on one seat and itself on another and prod Old Dolly into a happy canter through the woods and fields-Invent a machine like that, I vow, invent a machine like that, furthermore, that won't eat you out of house and home, that won't lie and cheat and thieve you blind, that is efficient instead of being a paragon of blockheadedness and sheer stupidity, that you can lock away at dark in its shed like a pumping engine or a spinning jenny without fear that this machine is going to get up in the dead of night and make off with a prize goose or your fattest Guinea shoat and that when this machine is worn out and beyond its usefulness, you can discard it and buy another instead of being cursed with a no-account old body that conscience dictates you've still got to supply with shoes and mola.s.ses and a peck of corn a week until the age of ninety-five- Hey! Invent a machine like any of these, gentlemen, and I will say a happy adieu to slavery the moment I can lay my hands on the likes of such a mechanism!" He paused for a moment, taking a swallow from his tumbler, then he said: "Needless to say, I do not see in the near future the possibility of such a machine eventuating."

There was a brief spell of silence among the company. Dr.

Ballard continued to chuckle faintly. Miss Elizabeth had ceased singing, and now in the deep shadows of evening I could hear only the whine of mosquitoes at bay beyond the cloud of dark smoke, and nearby the soft insistent cooing of a mourning dove, a dull fretful sigh- weehoo-hoo-hoo weehoo-hoo-hoo-like a sleepy child in pain.

Dr. Ballard crossed his legs abruptly, then said: "Well, from the general tenor of your remarks, Mr. Turner, I presume-well, how shall I say it?-I presume that you feel that the inst.i.tution of slavery is-well, something we must accept accept. Would that be a proper interpretation of your remarks?" When Benjamin failed to reply immediately, still gazing down with a crooked bemused smile at Ma.r.s.e Samuel, the minister went on: "And would it also be accurate to discern in what you have just said a conviction that perhaps the Negro lags so far behind the rest of us-I mean, the white race-in moral moral development that, well, for his own welfare it might be best that he-well, be kept in a kind of benevolent subjection? I mean, is it not possible that slavery is The Confessions of Nat Turner development that, well, for his own welfare it might be best that he-well, be kept in a kind of benevolent subjection? I mean, is it not possible that slavery is 131.

perhaps-how shall we say?-the most satisfactory satisfactory form of existence for such a people?" He paused, then said: " form of existence for such a people?" He paused, then said: "Cursed be Canaan. A servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren Canaan. A servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren.

Genesis, ninth chapter, twenty-fifth verse. Certainly the Bishop is not completely disinclined to take this viewpoint. I myself-"

But he hesitated, falling silent then, and the whole veranda was quiet, disturbed only by the creaking of chairs. As if his mind for a moment had wandered far away, Benjamin stood there and made no reply, gazing gently down at Ma.r.s.e Samuel, who sat very still in the gathering dark, calmly chewing on his pipe but with a woebegone expression, strained and pinched. He made a movement with his lips, thought better of it, said nothing.

Then Benjamin looked up and said: "You take a little slave like that one there-" And it was an instant before I realized he was speaking of me. He made a gesture toward me with his hand, turning about, and as he did so the others turned too and suddenly I could feel their eyes upon me in the fading light.

n.i.g.g.e.r, Negro, darky, yes-but I had never heard myself called a slave slave before. I remember moving uneasily beneath their silent, contemplative gaze and I felt awkward and naked, stripped down to bare black flesh, and a wicked chill like cold water filled the hollow of my gut as the thought crashed in upon me: before. I remember moving uneasily beneath their silent, contemplative gaze and I felt awkward and naked, stripped down to bare black flesh, and a wicked chill like cold water filled the hollow of my gut as the thought crashed in upon me: Yes, I am a Yes, I am a slave slave.

"You take a little slave like that one there," Benjamin went on, "my brother here thinks he can take a little slave like that and educate educate him, teach him writing and arithmetic and drawing and so on, expose him to the masterpieces of Walter Scott, pour on the Bible study, and in general raise him up with all the amenities of learning. Gentlemen, I ask you, in all seriousness, ain't that a him, teach him writing and arithmetic and drawing and so on, expose him to the masterpieces of Walter Scott, pour on the Bible study, and in general raise him up with all the amenities of learning. Gentlemen, I ask you, in all seriousness, ain't that a whangdoodle whangdoodle of a notion?" of a notion?"

"Yaanh-s," said Dr. Ballard. The "yes" was a thin whickering sound high in the nose, vaguely distant and amused, yaanh-s yaanh-s.

"Although, gentlemen, I do not doubt that given my brother's belief in colonization and emanc.i.p.ation and his faith in education and G.o.d knows what all, given his pa.s.sion to prove that a darky has the native gifts granted to the average college professor, he could take a little slave like that one there and teach him the alphabet and his sums and the outlines of geography and right before your eyes you'd think his case was proved. But, gentlemen, let me tell you, my brother does not know darkies like I do. Either that or his saintly belief in reform prevents him from 132.

seeing the truth. For, gentlemen, I know better, I know darkies better. I'll swear to you that if you show me a little darky whom you've taught to read the complete works of Julius Caesar forward and backward in the original Latin tongue, I will show you a darky who is still still an animal with the brain of a human child that will never get wise nor learn honesty nor acquire any human ethics though that darky live to a ripe old age. A darky, gentlemen, is basically as unteachable as a chicken, and that is the simple fact of the matter." He halted, then slowly yawned: an animal with the brain of a human child that will never get wise nor learn honesty nor acquire any human ethics though that darky live to a ripe old age. A darky, gentlemen, is basically as unteachable as a chicken, and that is the simple fact of the matter." He halted, then slowly yawned: "Ah, time for bed!"

The ministers and Ma.r.s.e Samuel rose, murmurously chatting, but now as night fell and the bright globe of a full moon rose radiant above the distant woods, I felt Little Morning squeeze me hard on the flesh of my arm, a signal, and I ceased listening to anyone talk, turning to help the old man carry bottles and gla.s.ses from the veranda, dousing the smudge pot with sprinkled water, busying myself with a mop against the planks of the pine floor. The chill in my bones would not leave nor was I able for a long time to banish from my mind the thought which hung there as if written on a banner: I am a slave I am a slave. After some minutes, returning from the pantry, I saw that Benjamin had disappeared, and then I spied Ma.r.s.e Samuel lingering alone at the edge of the veranda. He leaned with one hand propped against the railing and his eyes seemed to follow the two ministers as they made their slow way, black against a blacker black, into the shadows of the night. "G.o.d watch over your dreams, Mr. Turner!" the younger one called in a tone girlish and clear.

"And your dreams too," Ma.r.s.e Samuel replied, but his voice was the thinnest murmur and they could not have heard it. Then he was gone from the veranda and I stood suddenly afraid, listening to Little Morning all agrumble, in gloomy discussion with himself as he limped stiffly among the chairs. A fragrance of tobacco smoke still hung sweetly on the hot still air. For a moment the two ministers, groping their way across the lawn toward the wing of the house, were illumined in a shaft of moonlight, then they vanished for good among the shadows, while the moon itself, rising behind a black frieze of sycamore trees thick with summer leaves, was suddenly obscured, pitching house and lawn into smothering darkness. Well, I am a slave Well, I am a slave, I thought, and I s.h.i.+vered in the windless, sultry night which seemed-just for an instant-to surround me cold and treacherous and, more somberly, beyond the hope of ending, as if its long ticking course 133.

through the hours might lead only to a deeper darkness, without waking, without green glimmerings of dawn or the sound of c.o.c.kcrow.

Only a few months after this Benjamin died, way out in the swamp, crushed beneath a gigantic bald cypress just as he was engaged in brandy-befuddled remonstrance with two black timber hands. The Negroes later claimed that they had tried to warn of the great tree toppling at their master's back, but their gesticulations and whispers had been ignored, and they themselves had skipped lightly away as the monster crashed down upon poor drunken Benjamin. Certainly from the rate at which Benjamin had begun to stow away liquor, the story seemed true enough. Among the Negroes for years after there were dark hints, barely spoken, of foul play-but for myself I doubted it. Slaves have put up with far meaner owners than Benjamin.