The Confession of Latrese Mugumbo (Nat Turner)

The world has changed. Four hundred years ago there was a nuclear holocaust. Civilization was destroyed. Small, scattered groups of people, living primitively in tribes segregated by race, religion, and tribal identity, totaling less than 2,000,000, are all that remains of the United States, and, because of the nuclear winter that followed, most of those are in the southern most part of the United States, which, as a governmental entity, no longer exists. Europe, except for around the Mediterranean, is only populated by small groups of wondering nomads. Russia and China are frozen wastelands. The only region to escape devastation was equatorial Africa. It’s the only part of the world that could be considered to be civilized, and its level of civilization is similar to 15th century Europe.

Forward to the Confession of Latrese Mugumbo by Patare Lumada

I interviewed Latrese Mugumbo, the leader of the slave revolt shortly before his execution. While I, in no way, condone his actions, I feel that his reasons for them should be published, if for no other reason, to prevent the reoccurrence of a similar revolt

Mugumbo, a tall white slave about thirty years-old, with blond hair and blue eyes, was being held, chained and naked in a small, damp, cell. He had not only been castrated, as are all male slaves, but his penis had been removed as well. As he tells in his story, it had been done to him when he was ten years-old, after which he had been sold as a sex slave. His body was completely hairless, except for a slight, nearly invisible, down on his arms and legs. His crotch was smooth, except for a small opening through which he urinated. Neither was there any hair on his face. Even disfigured as he was by the torture that he had received, one could tell that he had been handsome. This is his story:

The Confession

My name is Nathan-or Nat-Turner. That’s the name given to me by my mother and father. I don’t acknowledged the name, Latrese Mugumbo, which is a slave name, given to me by my first black master. I was born in the land you call Merica. We were a small tribe, no more than about two hundred, but were at peace with our neighbors, banding together, when raided by larger, more distant, tribes. In my immediate family there was only my mother, my father, and me, although, since it was a small tribe, I was, in some way, related to most. I had a younger sister, but she had been taken by a fever.

For food, we hunted, gathered fruits, nuts, herbs, and certain roots that grew wild, and cultivated some vegetables. Life was hard; we often went hungry; but we were happy. Then, one night, it all changed.

I was awakened to shouts and loud reports, not unlike the clap of thunder which results from the close strike of a lightening bolt. My father, when he rushed to the door of our hut, was struck down by a blow to the head. Strangely dressed, brown-skinned, men, entering our hut, dragged my mother and me outside, where we were herded together with the rest of our village-those still alive. I saw the bodies of several men of our village, and even some of women and children, people I had known all my life. The brown men, using brush and wood from our huts, built a small stockade around us, imprisoning us, where we waited, fearfully, for the dawn.

After a night, during which few of us slept-soon after it became light-a short, brown-skinned man, with a scar across one eye, the pupil of the eye milky white, came into the stockade surrounded by his men, who called him, Jefe. Speaking in a language which I couldn’t understand, he pointed to certain men, my father included. Then, after staring at me, he cupped his chin with his hand, nodded, and pointed to me as well.

Protected by long knives (swords) and sticks which, with a loud explosion, belched flame, smoke, and death (muskets), several of his men came into the stockade to bind the hands of all the men, killing, or knocking unconscious, anyone who resisted. Then they came for me.

My father, although his hands were tied, attempted to prevent them from taking me, but several men, grabbing him, took him to the center of the village, where he was strapped to a pole. When they again came for me, my mother, flying at my would be captors, was savagely skewered with a sword by one of them, . Falling to the ground, she died speaking my name. As I watched her eyes glaze over, blood seeped onto the ground from the corner of her mouth. I screamed for her, the first words that I had spoken.

While I was being carried to a table set next to the pole which held my father, I fought, screamed, hit, kicked, but, against a grown man, to no avail, . The Jefe, the man with the scarred face, waited for me there. On the table, a brazier of hot coals held several knives, their blades glowing from the heat. I was frightened, but, more than that, shocked and dismayed by the death of my mother.

Laid on the table, I was held there by three men, one holding me by my upper arms, pinning my shoulders to the table, and two others, each holding one of my legs by the thigh, splaying them, the knees at the end of the table, my lower legs hanging over, my butt pressed hard to the surface of the table. Squirm as I did, I could barely move.

I was already naked, as, in the summer, are most pre-pubescent boys in our village. Picking up a glowing knife and stepping in between my legs, the Jefe grasped my small testicles in one hand. Then I felt a searing, almost unbearable pain-such as I had never before felt-as, with the hot knife, he cut-or burned-through my scrotum at its base. I screamed. I tried not to scream-tried to be brave-but I screamed. Glancing down, as he pulled away the sack, discarding it on the table beside me, I saw my naked balls, hanging by cords below my cock, which, as if in anticipation of what was to come, had shrunk, withdrawing as if trying to hide. Then, grasping my balls, splaying them between his fingers, he cut through both sets of cords at the same time. The stench of burning flesh filled my nostrils-the pain-even more intense-I felt deep within my abdomen. For an instant, the world faded, but, as if drowning, I fought my way to the surface, not losing consciousness; there was more to come; grasping my tiny penis, he applied a fresh knife to its base, severing it. I’m sure there was more pain, but my senses, already overwhelmed, didn’t register it. There was little blood. The hot knife had cauterized my wounds. My hands and feet were tied, and I was placed into the back of a wagon. My father was next.

From my perch in the wagon, I watched the Jefe castrate him. I didn’t want to see my father hurt, but I couldn’t look away. As with me, he first removed his scrotum, slicing it off at its base, revealing my father’s balls, walnuts to my acorns. These, the Jefe grasped, one at a time, slicing through their cords individually, tossing the detached orbs onto the table where mine still lay. I heard, or imagined that I heard, a sizzle, as the knife burned through the cords-because my father made no sound-no outcry whatsoever. I wish I could have been as brave. Bound hand and foot, my father soon joined me in the wagon, where, paying no concern to his own injury, he attempted to console me. Nestling my head in the hollow beneath his collar bone, I wept for my loss: my freedom; my genitals; my mother; the world as I had known it.

Over the next several hours the Jefe and one of his men castrated the rest of the young men and older boys of the village. Then-the rapes and the killings began, first with the old people, the men-and the women. They were all killed, hacked, slashed and spitted on swords-everyone. The children followed-even the infants. I even saw one man hold aloft, spitted on his sword, a baby-Erica Hanson’s newborn daughter. Surely, I thought, these weren’t men, but demons. No man would treat another so; but, I was later to find out that they were men, men who didn’t consider us-our race, the Whites-to be human. They thought that we were no better than animals; but, we-the animals-wouldn’t even treat animals so. Many of the women, the young girls-the pretty ones-were raped before they were killed. I came to be glad that my mother was already dead. I wouldn’t have wanted to see her shamed-then killed.

In my young life, I had never known hate-but, at that moment, seeds of hate germinated in my soul-hate which grew into a forest during my captivity: hate for all slavers, and for all those who, through the purchase, the owning of a slave, supported the institution; hate for a nation that would allow it; hate for a people who would tolerate it. For twenty years, it festered within me, growing, crowding out any ability to love, any sympathy for other than my brothers-the other slaves-the Whites. To me, the Blacks were the ones who were less than human-beneath concern-compassion.

After all were dead, other than those being taken, the village was burned. We left, loaded on the wagons with the smell of it in our nostrils-the pyre which had been our home, on which our friends-our relatives-our mothers-burned.

I don’t remember much of the earlier part of the trip. Delusional with a fever, I passed in and out of consciousness; but, I remember, that, every time I awoke, my father was beside me, muttering words of encouragement, words of hope-of love. Without them, I might well have died. Possibly, it would have been better if I had.

Eventually, we reached the slaver’s fort, which, because they hadn’t been there with enough slaves to fill the slave ship, had been burned, its inhabitants killed, or carried away. The Jefe sold us to another Brown slaver, who sold us to the Blacks.

The ship, lying at anchor, in the harbor, was beyond my comprehension. I had seen canoes, some large enough to hold as many as six men, but this vessel could have held our whole village, and did, across the vast ocean-a body of water that took months to cross-carry more than twice as many people as had lived in our village, but in such wretched conditions, that many died. Men, women, and older boys were loaded in a foul hold, chained, naked, lying on their sides, spooned, head to toe, unable to move, other than to shift slightly from one uncomfortable position to another, lying in their own filth, and the filth of their neighbors, allowed out on deck, a few at a time, in clement weather, to eat meager rations-bread filled with worms-and drink foul water; the only consideration given them was that, when they returned to the hold, they were chained lying in the other side, to reduce the severity of their sores.

I was luckier. I, along with four other boys, also with smooth crotches, with no cock or balls, were locked forward in the hold containing the anchor chain. At least, not chained together, we could move around, obtaining some degree of comfort, even though our bed was the links of the rusty anchor chain. We were also allowed up on deck more often. We were all, I guess, beautiful. At least the Black sailors seemed to have difficulty averting their eyes from us. I would occasionally see my father, when he was brought upon deck, but was never allowed to speak to him.

After we had been some weeks at sea, men began dying. Each day, one-or more-would be dragged up from the hold and thrown, unceremoniously, overboard. After an interminable time, after so long, that even the sailors had begun to despair, we arrived-in Africa.

We were taken from the ship to a stockade a short ways from the pier. Many were so weak that they had to be carried. Shortly after we arrived there, the slave traders and brokers began looking us over. Again, the four of us, the younger boys, were kept separate from the others. Although I would occasionally get a glimpse of my father, I never spoke to him again-and, being one of the first to be sold, I soon left, never to see him again. To this day, I have no idea what happened to him, or whether he is still alive.

I suffered many indignities, examined by countless would be buyers, poked and prodded by each, my teeth examined, fingers poked up my ass to determine the tightness of my hole, to see if I were still a virgin. the scars of my crotch appraised, my pee hole checked to see if it were open enough for me to pee, checked for signs of infection, the color of my pee even studied. Many wanted me, but few were willing to pay the price asked.

When purchased, I was taken, on a boat, up a broad river (I later learned it was the Congo) to the city of Kinshasa. I had thought that the port city where we had landed in Africa was a grand city. Certainly, compared to anything I’d seen in Merica, it was, but compared to Kinshasa, it was a village. I was struck with awe-and despair: awe that man could construct something so grand; despair that my people, the Whites, could never compete with the Blacks. Compared to them, in many ways, we were like animals. Never, certainly not in a hundred years, could we match their accomplishments.

I was taken to the brothel, which was to be my home for the next five years-until I became too old to attract that brothel’s clientele. An adult white slave, a eunuch (In all my years in Africa, I never saw a white male, older than a baby, with balls) took charge of me. He was chosen because, having been brought from Merica, he could speak my language. Although his accent was strange, I could-with difficulty-understand him, but not the boys. They had all been born in Africa. Most were like me-without cock or balls, but a few still had a penis, although different from the one I once had; there was no skin covering their cock’s head. I later learned that, since the Blacks are Muslims, the foreskin was trimmed from the cock of each boy baby, free or slave.

If I had thought that I would have something in common with the other boys, since we were to share the same fate-to be whores for the Blacks-I was quickly disabused. Born and raised wild, I was a wolf cub in among cattle, bred and raised in captivity-domesticated. They had white skin like mine, but, were house cats; I was a lion. At least, outwardly I was a lion. Often, especially at night, I wanted nothing more than to have my mother’s arms around me. I missed her-and my father. As brave as I tried to be, I was still a ten year-old child; but, when I felt as if I were going to cry, I would remember my father’s example-how, when he was castrated, he didn’t make a sound.

Despite my beauty, they regretted buying me. Each sexual encounter, at least at first, was a rape. Fortunately-for the brothel-that’s the way some of their customers liked it-taking it by force. Eventually, I learned, that, if I pleasured them with my hand or my mouth-if they pumped out their seed-I could avoid having their cocks stuck up my ass, which was, to me, the greatest indignity. Still, it happened-and always by force. I was often beaten for biting or scratching a customer; but the worst of the beatings were from some of the clients-customers who derived more pleasure from inflicting pain than from sex.

By the time I was fifteen, I was becoming too big-too strong-despite having been castrated before puberty, to be easily raped, and I still would not, without a fight, allow myself to be fucked in the ass; so they sold me-this time to a plantation.

The slaves of the plantation, except for the house slaves and those who prepared and cooked food for the rest of us, were wild slaves-those stolen from Merica; they were used for the plantation because, not having been castrated until grown, they were stronger-better suited for hard labor.

A Merican slave was easily recognized. Clothes, in the heat of Africa, weren’t needed, so all slaves, men and women, except for a few house slaves, were kept naked. Most of those born in Africa had never worn clothes. Male slaves from Merica, those castrated after puberty, had hair on their bodies-around their cocks, under their arms, and, some had hair on their chests. Most also had beards. Except for fine hair on their arms and legs, male slaves born in Africa had no body or facial hair. The African slaves were circumcised. Most of the Merican slaves were not.

Because of my appearance-having been castrated before puberty-they thought I was an African slave; I was, at first, ostracized by the Merican slaves, until, through my ability to speak their language and my knowledge of Merica, I convinced them of my origin.

On the plantation, we were beasts-beasts of burden, without identity or name-except Nigger, which was usually punctuated with the crack of a whip-the sting of a lash across a bare back. We were worked everyday, dawn to dark, clement weather or not, partaking of meager rations-stumbling in at night to sleep on the bare ground, sometimes in huts, sometimes in open corrals-even in the rain. A slave could expect to survive no more than five years before losing his life to either accident, illness, or the brutality of an overseer. I was there ten.

Eventually the plantation was worked out. The soil of the rain forest was poor, rapidly losing its ability to grow even grass after being stripped of its trees, the fields becoming a quagmire during the wet season and a brown, baked, desert during the dry. It became no longer profitable to transport the crops, or the lumber from freshly cleared fields, to the markets.

I had survived, despite having earned many beatings through my recalcitrance. I had preached insurrection, but the plantation was too isolated for implementation of the plan I was formulating in my mind. Even if we had overthrown our oppressors-without boats-we would have had no means of reaching civilization, of extending our insurrection beyond the plantation. The closing of the plantation-the selling of the slaves, spreading them across Africa, provided me with that means. I had planted a seed in the minds of many of the Merican slaves, one which I hoped would germinate and grow once they reached more fertile soil.

I was sold to the owner of a small farm. Although the hours were long, compared to the plantation, it was an easy life. My master was kind. Having confidence in me, he gave me increasing responsibility; but he was a master; I was his slave. I was rarely beaten. Being intelligent, I rapidly learned my tasks, even teaching myself to read and write-biding my time. After five years I decided that it was time.

Being a Muslim holy day, even the slaves, other than those cooking and serving, were given the day off. After a feast, a group of us lingered over our meal, waiting until others, including the master and his family, had gone to bed. We decided to begin our insurrection, beginning with the master and his family. I was to shed the first blood.

Arming ourselves with knives and axes, we went to the master’s house. Hark, one of our group, went to the door with an ax, for the purpose of breaking it open. We knew we were strong enough to murder the family, even if they were awakened by the noise-and murder we intended. None were to be spared-neither according to age or to sex. Not, however, wanting to arouse the neighbors, we determined to enter the house secretly and murder them in their sleep.

Rather than breaking open the door, I had Hark place a ladder against the house. Ascending it, I opened a window, entered, came down the stairs, unbarred the door, and opened it for the others, Will, Hark, Henry, Austin and Sam (Among ourselves, we used our Merican names). After taking the guns from their places, armed with a hatchet and accompanied by Will, I entered our master’s chambers. It was dark. Either that, or last minute compassion, prevented me from delivering a fatal blow. The hatchet glanced off my master’s head. Springing from his bed, he called out to his wife. It was his last word. Will laid him out with a blow from his ax, killing him instantly. His wife, as she lay in bed, shared the same fate. The murder of this family of five, was the work of a moment; other than the master, not one of them awoke. There was an infant sleeping in his cradle, who was forgotten until we had gone some distance from the house; Will and Henry returned to kill it. We obtained, at the house, four guns, several old muskets, and about two pounds of powder.

We remained some time in the barn where we went over our plan, then marched off to the Salathul place which was about six hundred yards distant. Sam and Will, going to the door, knocked. Mr. Salathul asked who was there. Sam, replying that it was he, said that he had a letter for Mr. Salathul. When Mr. Salathul opened the door, Sam and Will immediately seized him, and dragging him a little ways from the door, dispatched him with several blows to the head. There were no other Blacks in the house, but his house nigger (Although I hate the word, we often used it for the house slaves, those born in Africa, who having accepted their servitude, were the true niggers) tried to come to his aid. We killed him as well.

From there, we went to Mrs. Reeso’s house, where, finding the door unlocked, we entered and murdered Mrs. Reeso in her bed-in her sleep. Her son awoke, but only to return to sleep-the sleep of death. Only having time to ask who was there, he was no more. We mutilated his body, castrating him, cutting off his cock as well as his balls, something we had decided to do to each of our male victims. The Blacks had first done it to us.

From Mrs. Reeso’s house we went to the Turnero’s place, about a mile away, which we reached about sunrise on Monday morning. Going around to the barn, Henry, Austin, and Sam found Peebles, the overseer, who Austin shot. The rest of us went to the house, but, having been alerted by the shot, the family shut and locked the door, in hope of keeping us out-a vain hope, since, with one stoke of his ax, Will opened it. Inside were Mrs. Turnero and Mrs. Wilsu, both already almost dead from fright. Will dispatched Mrs. Turnero with one blow from his ax. I attempted to kill Mrs. Wilsu with a sword by striking her over the head, but, since it was dull, I was having little success. Will killed her as well. We searched the house, as always, for money, weapons, and ammunition, then destroyed as much as we could, without setting the place of fire. We didn’t wish to alarm the unsuspecting neighbors.

By this time, having obtained recruits, my company numbered fifteen, nine of which were mounted. Those of us on horseback, headed for the Whitsuma place, while the other six went to the Bruzu’s, after which they were to join us at the Whitsuma’s. Coming upon Mr. Whitsuma standing in a field, near the lane fence, we called him over, where our executioner, Will, with his fatal ax, sent him to an early grave. Castrating him, we left his genitals lying on his chest. The others rode on to the house while Will and I finished with Mr. Whitsuma.

By the time he and I arrived, all the family, with the exception of Mrs. Whitsuma and her daughter, Margut, were murdered. Will pulled Mrs. Whitsuma out of the house, and, near the back step, with his broad ax, almost severed her head from her body. Margut had concealed herself in a corner, formed by the projection of the cellar cap from the house. On my approach, she fled, but I soon overtook her, and, using a piece of fence rail, killed her with a blow to the head. By that time, those who had gone to the Bruzu place had returned, informing us that they had successfully performed their deadly task.

We again divided, part going to the Portu house and thereafter to the Franci place, the others going to the Harsi’s, then to the Dola’s. Upon reaching the Portu’s house, I discovered that he had fled with his family. That’s when I realized that the alarm had been spread. I immediately rode to inform the party sent to the Harsi and Dola houses, telling the others with me that I would join them at the Franci house.

I met the group that had been sent to the Harsi house-returning. They, having met Mr. Dola on the road, had killed him and learned from others who had joined them that Mr. Harsi was at home. While they went on to the Harsi house, I attempted to catch up with my former group, bypassing the Franci house, since they would have already completed their grisly task there, going on to the Edu place; but, when I arrived there, they had already murdered that family. I went to Mr. Baru’s house. They had been there, and murdered him. Pursuing their track to the Harsi place, I found the larger part of them mounted, now numbering about forty. They shouted and cheered as I rode up. They said that Harsi and his family had escaped, so they had sacked the house, destroying much and taking money and other valuables. I ordered them to mount-and march-instantly. It was about 10:00 AM, Monday morning.

Proceeding to the Walla house, about two or three miles distant, I took my station in the rear. From there, I could watch and direct the action. As it was my intent to carry terror and destruction wherever we went, I placed fifteen to twenty of my best armed and most dependable men in front. They would charge a house as fast as their horses could run, both to strike terror in the inhabitants, and to prevent their escape. Because of this, and my desire to keep watch, I seldom reached the houses until the murders were committed. By the time I reached the Walla house, Mrs. Walla and her ten children were dead, and the men were going about their task of castrating the boys. That done, we immediately set out in search of other victims; the next were Mr. Willi and his two little boys. Mr. Willi was killed immediately, but the two boys were castrated-then killed. Mrs. Willi, while the men were so engaged, fled some distance from the house, but was pursued, overtaken, and made to mount behind one of the company, who brought her back. After showing her the mangled bodies of her husband and two boys, she was told to lay down beside the body of her husband where she was shot.

At the Jaco house, the family was murdered, along with a Mr. Druru, who had come to see Mr. Jaco on business. He was pursued, overtaken and shot. The Vau home was next. After murdering the family there, and arriving at the gate to the Portu place, I was determined to go to the town of Jerusa, which was about three miles distant. At that time, my party numbered about sixty men. Some of the men, however, having relatives at the Portu house wanted to return to get them, so, while eight of us waited at the gate, the rest rode across the field to the house, about a half mile away.

When they didn’t return, I became impatient and started to the house for them. On our return to the gate, we were met by a party of Blacks, who had followed our blood stained track. They, about eighteen in number, unbeknownst to me, had fired on those I had left at the gate, dispersing them. Ordering my men to fire, we rushed them. After firing, they retreated. We pursued, leaving some of them for dead; then, after pursuing the rest for about two hundred yards and crossing the crest of a small hill, we saw that they had been joined by others. They fired on us. Several of my bravest men were wounded-and there were more Blacks coming up. The rest of my men, becoming panic stricken, scattered across the field. Hark had his horse shot out from under him, but I caught him another.

Defeated in that engagement, with twenty men, I went by a back way, determined to cross the Notto river by a bridge three miles below Jurusa, attacking the town in the rear to procure arms and ammunition. I overtook two or three of my men, who told me the others were scattered in every direction. Not having enough men to carry out an attack on Jurusa, we rode around to several other places. Although the Blacks had fled, we were able to recruit more men, raising our total again to about forty. Our recruits, however, were raw. Most of them fled at the first sign of trouble, reducing our number again to about twenty. Determined to recruit more, we rode to Dr. Blunt’s house. On riding into the yard, Hark fired a gun. Immediately fired upon, we retreated leaving several of my men behind. I don’t know what happened to them. I never saw them again. We rode on to the Harsi house, where we were met by another party of black men, at which time I was separated from all but two of my men, Jacob and Nat. After concealing ourselves in the woods until almost dark, I sent them to search for Henry, Hark, Nelson, and Sam, directing them to rally all they could and meet me in the woods by my master’s house. When I went there, however, I saw a group of Blacks riding around the place as if they were looking for someone. I concluded that Jacob and Nat, captured, had been forced to betray me. Although I hid out for over two weeks, I was eventually captured. Now, I await my fate.

Thus concludes the Confession of Latrese Mugumbo.

Postscript

The following is an interview which I had with Mugumbo after recording his confession:

“What did you hope to accomplish?” I asked. “Surely, you didn’t think that you would succeed.”

“But, I did succeed,” he answered.

“How can you say that?” You were captured, and now await crucifixion. All of your men are either dead, or in custody. Many other Whites, even those who had nothing do with your insurrection, have been killed.”

“But-now they fear us.”

“What good does that do?” I asked. “They’ll just watch you closer now-and treat you worse.”

“But, now they are aware of us. Every time they see a slave, especially one from Merica, they will wonder if he could repeat our atrocities.”

“But, why the savagery? Why did you kill children-even infants. Why did you mutilate the bodies? I understand that you even castrated some children before killing them.”

“Terror,” he said. “We had to instill terror-to let them know that even their children, their babies, their dead bodies, were not safe from us. If we’d just killed a few grown men, do you think there would have been such an uproar?”

“I still don’t understand what you think that you’ve accomplished?” I said. “We, the Blacks, will just be quicker to kill you white slaves whenever you cause trouble. You’ve only made the lives of all slaves worse, and you are about to die on the cross-a painful, lingering death. How can you say that you’ve succeeded?”

“Have there, since I’ve been imprisoned these many months, been more incidents-more killings of Blacks?”

“Well-yes, although there’s an attempt to suppress the news of such attacks.”

“Then,” he said, a slight smile on his face, “I have succeeded. It will continue.”

“We will retaliate, killing ten Whites for every one of us that you kill.”

“Yes, I know,” he said.

“Is that what you want-to get every white slave killed?”

His answer shocked me. He said, “Yes.”

“You want them all killed?” I shouted. “You are insane. How can you want your own people killed?”

“Because, if you fear them, if you’re forced to kill them, it will no longer be profitable to enslave them.”

“But, none of the African Whites have joined you. None of them have killed their masters.”

“Although I deplore slavery, no matter who is enslaved, they’re not my concern. They, no longer my people, have become a different breed-a breed of cattle. Most of them, have accepted their enslavement; although I wouldn’t be surprised if that changes. The idea of freedom is contagious. It may spread, even to them; but I haven’t done this for any of the slaves in Africa, whether born here or in Merica. I’ve done it for my people-those still in Merica. I hope to stop the importation of slaves. If you fear us, you won’t pay to enslave and import us.”

“You’ll still be a primitive, backward people. Your culture is hundreds of years behind ours. We’ll always be greater-more advanced.”

“Maybe,” he said, “and maybe not. Your culture has stagnated, as all slave owning cultures do. You haven’t made significant advances in hundreds of years. Slaves do all the work, even educate your children. There is no incentive to do things better, to find ways more productive ways. And, having no enemies, there isn’t even an incentive to improve your weapons. Possibly, in a hundred years, if left alone, we will be your equals.”

“And for that hope, for people you don’t even know-people on another continent, you would sacrifice yourself, and the lives of all your fellow slaves.”

“That’s our power,” he said, “our willingness to die for our cause-for freedom. As long as we have that, you can never defeat us.”

“We could wipe out your entire race. everyone on your continent, if we wished.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but, where’s the profit in that? Without a profit, you will never undertake such a venture.”

I shall not attempt to describe the effect of his narrative, as told and commented on by himself, in the condemned hole of the prison. The calm, deliberate composure with which he spoke of his late deeds and intentions, the expression of his fiend-like face when excited by enthusiasm, still bearing the stains of the blood of helpless innocence about him; naked and covered with chains; yet daring to raise his manacled hands to heaven, with a spirit soaring above the attributes of man; I looked on him and my blood curdled in my veins.

Epilogue

Staked to a cross, Mugumbo took three days to die. Each day crowds of white slaves, mostly those born in Africa, gathered at the foot of his cross, cursing him and pelting him with offal and small stones in an attempt to separate themselves from him. While I was standing among them shortly before he died, he looked at me, and, I think recognizing me, said, “I forgive them. They know not what they do.”

The insurrection continues, not flaring up as violently as before, but in isolated incidents-the killing of a master-his wife, or his child. Describing one such incident, the following appeared:

“It was a Sunday night, and after coming home from the mosque, Jam H. was awakened by a White coming through the gate. Jam H. jumped up and asked the White what he wanted. When the White started to run, Jam H. attacked him with a pipe, and in the ensuing fight, the White ran at Jam H. with a knife, cutting him across the stomach ‘to the hollow’ and his intestines gushed out. Catching the intestines in his hands, Jam H.

walked back and sat down on the side of the bed and said, ‘He has killed me.’”

Increasingly, there is talk of stopping the slave trade-the importation of slaves from Merica.

Historical Notes

Most of the description of the insurrection was taken from the actual confession of Nat Turner, edited at times for dramatic effects or to put it more in line with my style of writing. Names of victims were changed to make them seem more African. The description of the incident in the epilogue, after changing White to Negro, mosque to church, and Jam H. to James H., is a verbatim description of the death of my great great great grandfather.