The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial by Sharon Ewell Foster Page B

ashamed to acknowledge that she had thought herself at least a little better. She was prepared to teach, not to be taught. She was prepared to lead, not to be led. Harriet had been preparedto give, not receive. She thought she needed nothing from them. But perhaps it was she who most needed the gifts that they in their poverty offered to her. She had never suspected that she was the needy one and they the ones chosen to give. How could she have lived so long and so near people all her life and known so little about them? How could she have known so little about herself?
    Through association with Frederick Douglass and the other refugees, Henry’s and her lives had been enriched. Through their efforts for the cause of enslaved Negroes, they had been transformed from an impoverished preacher’s children—he into the most famous man in America and she from a poor theologian’s wife into a celebrated author of means welcomed at royal tables. But the greatest changes had been wrought inside: Their challenges had taught her to love.
    Frederick and the others had become her teachers. They had challenged and improved her writing. They had helped improve her heart.
    She tried to imagine the faces of slaves she had passed on the street and to imagine what she might have missed. She imagined what treasure might have been hidden there.
    Harriet had had a great deal of schooling. She had taught; she was well read and an esteemed author. Yet Douglass reminded her that she had much to learn about others… and about herself. “Study to shew thyself approved.” Harriet was willing to learn.
    Frederick Douglass leaned forward in his seat, his eyes intent on her brother.
    Henry stepped toward the front of the pulpit. “To gain true happiness, man must learn how to love. How to love, not a little, but a great deal; how to love, not occasionally, but so that he is tied up by it; he is in bondage to it, it rules him.”
    He turned and walked toward them. Now Henry stood among the people. “For the only slave on God’s earth that needs no compassion and pity is the slave of love.”

Nat Turner

Chapter 8
    Cross Keys Area, outside Jerusalem, Virginia
    Christmas 1830
    N at Turner’s feet were thawing and had begun to ache. He looked down at them, at the fissures—the bleeding cracks in his flesh, wide as a small child’s finger. He looked around the room at all the suffering feet. Shoes, even old worn ones, would have been a gift of love.
    The children had moved on to another Christmas song.
    Jesus, Jesus!
    Oh, what a wonderful child!
    Jesus, Jesus!
    So holy, meek, and mild!
    New life, new hope to all He brings.
    God had sent him back for them.
    Listen to the angels sing,
    Glory! Glory! Glory!
    To the newborn King!
    The aroma from the iron kettle, the sweetness of the corn bread, and the salty, vinegary smell of the pigs’ feet filled the room.
    Dred, one of Nathaniel Francis’s slaves, spoke now. “More could be with us, but they are drunk, drinking the whiskey given tothem to keep them drunk during the holidays. Christmas whiskey nothing but wet chains.”
    Nat Turner answered, “Maybe they drink to save their lives.”
    â€œFunny words from someone whose lips have never touched liquor.” Nat’s friend Hark laughed.
    â€œThese are hard times with no good choices. I don’t think drinking is best, but perhaps they do what they have to not to explode—to dull the pain, to stay alive.”
    Whiskey for Christmas was what the white people gave them. A turkey and a full stomach would have been a better Christmas gift—a book to read, or even a coat to wear.
    Three of the boys went outside for more wood to keep the fire burning. Joshing, coatless, and shoeless, they piled out the door.
    Nat Turner, looking through a crack in the boards that covered the window opening, was reminded of himself and Hark. He remembered when the two of them were as young as