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

they give us whiskey to pacify us and stupefy us. Women and whiskey to give us pleasure—to dull the ache—to keep us bound.” Nat swung his axe, then grabbed three firewood-size pieces and threw them in back of the wagon near them.
    Hark was the calm one, the one easy to laugh. He survived because he took it all as it came. Hark nudged him and winked. “I can turn down the whiskey, brother, but not women. If that’s the plot, then they have me. I have no food, no clothes, but keep feeding me women and I won’t ever leave!” Hark chuckled. He grabbed six large sections and with no effort tossed them on the wagon pile.
    â€œIs that all we are? Breeders?” Nat Turner wanted to convince his friend. Each baby born was one more slave—like they were.
    And it was easier to keep his vow if he was not alone. “We are just animals to them that breed more livestock that they can sell or use in the field. Is that what we will allow them to make us? Juststuds who leave our children like calves scattered here and there? No thought for them or their lives and futures? That is not who we are.” Nat Turner raked his arm across his sweaty forehead. Lifting the wood was not easy for him.
    â€œWe could be like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. We could be like Daniel and refuse to get drunk on what our captors offer us. We could fast from pleasant things—temporary pleasures that kill us and our people while they grow rich. We can fast from pleasant things that keep us slaves.”
    Hark leaned on his axe, laughing out loud. “Fast from pleasant things? You expect me to give up the one thing that makes my life tolerable?” His face sobered. “I didn’t make this world or this life I suffer. Am I not entitled to some comfort? I couldn’t live without women. You wouldn’t want to know me if I lived without women.” He lifted his axe and began to chop again. “Maybe being alone is why you brood too much. It’s not safe for a black man to think too much.”
    Nat wiped his face with his arm again. “Well, I will do it alone then. I would rather die a man with honor, alone, than to live as a beast they use. I will take the vow to live alone.”
    â€œNo women?” Hark threw more wood on the wagon. “I am not as strong-willed as you, my friend. Not for the rest of my life”—Hark chuckled—“not until next week even. I am just doing what I have to do to stay alive.” Smiling, he shook his head and threw more wood on the pile.
    Nat Turner looked at his friend, his brother. Hark had grown to look like a warrior, as Nat imagined St. Moses the warrior saint, like a giant statue carved from onyx.
    â€œYou are my friend, Nat Turner, and I believe you have good intentions. I believe you are a holy man if ever I saw one. But I think you should have made your vow in winter.” Hark looked at the sky, the grass, and the wildflowers around them. “Let’s see what spring has to say about your plans.”
    They finished their task in silence. Nat felt safe telling most ofhis thoughts to Hark. But there were some things kept private. A man’s mind was a secret place.
    There was truth that people held to themselves about the people they lived with—secret thoughts that mothers held about daughters, sons about their fathers, and husbands about their wives. There were thoughts kept behind a veil, thoughts that even lovers did not share.
    In his life, at the end of his life, he wanted his mother’s secret, sacred thoughts of him to be that he was a good man. He did not want her to see him become a breeder, he did not want her to see him grow into a man with no self-control, but he also did not want to risk his heart.
    He did not believe he could know a woman’s mind—not enough to trust his heart and thoughts, his insecurities to her. He did not believe he could share all he was, and all he was not, with her. He