The Execution of Nat Turner

Nat Turner was a born slave from Southampton County, Virginia. Born in October of 1800, he was a devoutly religious and highly intelligent individual. The rebellion he led in August of 1831 was violent and gory, and led to the deaths of nearly five dozen whites in the county. The following is a work of fiction but based on the known facts of Turner’s life and death. No offense is intended to you, the reader, for anything that may be deemed insensitive or inappropriate.

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The rays of the sun flitted through the rattling leaves of the surrounding trees. They provided little warmth on this cool November morning, the breath of the onlookers rising in puffs above the crowd. Nat stood before them, chin up… defiant. He felt the autumn breeze invade the holes in his pants and his shirt, hard and rough from weeks of dirt and grime. The crowd was silent as the sheriff spoke, he was extolling the charges that were brought against Nat. And as he proudly announced that the sentence for his conviction was death, the cheers and angry screams drove a small flock of robins out of some nearby trees.

Nat clenched his jaws, eyes widening in rage before the white-skinned throng. He was to die, and the words he spoke during an interview not long ago came back to him; “Was not Christ crucified?” He used those words to instill calm to his being. Christ died for His people, and I shall die for mine. Filling his lungs deep with the crisp air, he straightened his back and puffed out his chest. He vowed to show no weakness before these people.

The barrel that Nat stood upon was kicked away, and the world began to fall with it…

Nat stood silently as he stared down the barrel of Mr Phipps’ musket. He moved slowly and cautiously, knowing that the man before him would shoot out of shear terror with any sudden motion. The fear in the white man’s eyes shone like the midday sun, but he held the old musket steady, aimed right at Nat’s head. The cool of the black, steel blade against his hand was like dipping his hand into the babbling brook just over the rise behind him. It was over now, and he would pay with his life; a rebellious slave was a dead slave.

He felt the instant burn as the rope tightened around his neck…

Anne Vaughan lay on the ground dead, her body broken. Her eyes were still open, staring in the direction of Nat, seated upon his brown gelding. As he stared at her lifeless form, clothed in blood-stained dress, the clamor of his fellow rebel slaves broke his concentration. Widow Vaughan, who so strenuously pleaded to pray before her death, was now dead. The bloodied body was tossed, without care, next to her niece. This was the end of long night and morning of blood, terror, and death, and Nat felt satisfied that God’s command to him was being fulfilled.

He felt the pinch of the rope against his throat, his breath now trapped in his lungs. Nat was now near eye level with the frozen faces of the crowd, his body slowing, though not as fast as the rope…

It was late morning in Master Travis’ field, and though he felt better, Nat’s muscles felt strained and tired. His belly rumbled with hunger, his illness had not allowed him to eat very much. He closed his eyes to wipe the sweat from his brow, the August heat searing in his lungs. When he opened his eyes, something had changed. The light was different, and he looked to the sun. An eerie green light emanated from it, and he raised his hands in praise to the Almighty God. This was it! This was the sign! “Thank you, Lord! Praise Jesus!” he yelled to the sky. The faint aroma of burning wood escaped his senses while he ran back to his kin and his friends. The preparations had long since been made, and now was the time to act!

Searing pain jolted through his body as he felt the rope slice through his throat…

The cold air enveloped him like a wave as the wind picked up speed. But Nat stood in the field transfixed as the late afternoon sky darkened. The moon was hiding the sun, the black was overtaking the white. Now was the time for the black man to rise up against the white man! For three years he had waited for the sign of fulfillment of the prophecy spoken to him by the Holy Spirit. The words of 2 Timothy flooded into his mind, ‘For God gave us a spirit not of fear, but of power and love and self-control.’ “I will fear no more!” he thought and laughed at the hidden sun.

As his vision darkened, Nat watched his headless body, upside down to him, fall to the ground. The last thing he saw were the dry, brown blades of grass before his eyes. The last conscious thought he had was simple, “I had a dream…”

The early afternoon sun baked his sweat-basted skin while he worked the fields of the kindly Master Moore. Suddenly, a loud noise burst from the heavens, and as Nat looked to the sun, he saw there a winged silhouette in the form of a dove. “The Serpent has been loosed, child, and God’s Son hath laid down the Yoke of Sin, that thou shouldst bear it and strike back at the Serpent,” boomed the voice. “For the time fast approacheth for the first to stand last, and the last to stand first!” He stood in the glory of the Lord and knew that his great work must soon commence.

The crowd cheered loudly once again, the decapitated corpse of Nat quickly set upon by the most fervent spectators. Sheriff Rochelle stood by watching the carnage with joy and satisfaction. He knew that the slave had sold his body to science for dissection, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t allow the good folks of Jerusalem their just desserts for the brutal murders of their kin at the hands of these uppity negros.

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Nat Turner’s skinless remains, minus the skull and a few other body parts sent to a Norfolk surgeon, were soon buried, unmarked, at the Pauper Cemetery. His rebellion was violent and awful, yet it was the start of many slave uprisings in the ensuing decades of the Antebellum South. A self-proclaimed prophet of the Lord, his actions spurred abolitionist sentiment in the North and secured the eventual freeing of all slaves in the United States in the bloodiest conflict this nation has ever known.