“I do not like the way you are talking. There is no need to be snide.”
“You have choices and freedom and you are telling me that you allow fear to steal them from you? You are a free man, and it is good enough for you to just make do?”
Thomas sighed. “What is the point? Law just does not suit me.” He flopped down beside Nat Turner on the stone. He gestured with his hands as he explained. “The law is not about helping people; it is about helping those who have to get more. It is rules and regulations and manipulation of those rules and regulations by people who already have power. If I were to write, I could say what I pleased. I could write and maybe change the world, or at least please myself. Writers have freedom. My pen would be my own.”
Nat turned to him. “You think if you wrote there would be no price or struggle? There is a price for freedom no matter what profession or circumstances—writer or slave. There is a price whether you are in a courtroom, writing at a desk, or walking behind a plow.”
“You don’t understand, Nat. Be grateful. You talk about a world you will never know. They put pressure on me to get the verdict, not to do what is right, but to do what they want done.”
Grateful? Thomas’s skin color, his gender, his family name with its connections, entitled him to a certain position and station in life. He did not work for what was handed to him. He did not question it. It was nothing great; it was only fair. It was natural, comfortable, and right to him. Since he was comfortable, he could not, did not want to, understand anyone else’s discomfort. Nat wondered how many times he had underestimated someone else’s burden.
Thomas did not know, did not have to know, did not want to know about the other side of life. The same ones who made Thomas’s life easy told Nat he wanted something for nothing. They were the same ones who took everything he hoped to own. He was a thief and a troublemaker to them. Nat Turner’s dreams labeled him a menace. “Freedom requires courage, Thomas, and the willingness to fight—perhaps to shed your blood.”
“You don’t understand. You are a slave. You have no responsibilities, and choice has been taken from you. You don’t know it, but you are better off.”
No responsibilities? Thomas wanted Nat’s life to be what he imagined—a carefree life singing songs, playing banjos, and eating watermelon. He had never worked in a field, so Thomas didn’t know what it meant; it was nothing to him. He didn’t have to worry about how his family would eat or if they would live. Thomas had no idea what it meant to be a black preacher, a circuit rider. It was dangerous and there was no earthly reward—Negro preachers were mocked and given no respect. But it was not Thomas’s life, so he did not understand. He didn’t need to understand.
“I don’t understand why you make things so difficult for yourself, Nat Turner. You imagine trouble and mistreatment everywhere. You are as melodramatic as Shakespeare.”
Nat looked at his friend, trying to see the person he remembered, the person who was on his side. It was not so long ago that they were all boys playing together.
Chapter 39
1831
The four of them—Thomas, Hark, Benjamin Phipps, and Nat—took over the ship’s deck, waving their swords. They sailed the seven seas searching for pirates’ treasure. Ahoy! They sailed in search of newfound lands.
But they were no longer boys. They were men now struggling with the things of men. Thomas Gray wasted the freedom for which so many others prayed.
Nat Turner imagined that if he were free, he would choose and read whatever books he liked. He would read until his eyes were dimmed.
He would be an inventor and he and his family would travel the world. He would travel from church to church reminding people that their freedom was a gift from God they should not waste. He would use each opportunity that freedom afforded; he would wring life until it was dry. He would not waste it.
If she were free, he imagined that his mother would fly back to her beloved Ethiopia and find the family left behind. If Mother Easter were free, she would not scrub any more floors and maybe she would learn to read and open a dress shop. He could imagine Hark and even Will becoming gentlemen farmers or maybe shop owners. “I think it is a sin to waste your life, Thomas.”
“What do you know of my life, Nat?”
“I know that white men only listen to other white men.”
Thomas rose and stood in front of him. “I am your friend, Nat Turner, and it is cruel of you to accuse me. Though I would be disowned and beaten myself if others saw me, a white man, speaking to you this way, sharing books with you, I come here to listen to you as a friend. It wounds me that you think of me with so little care.” Thomas Gray pulled at the vest he wore. “We are talking about you and me, Nat. I try to speak with you as an equal, as no other white man would, but you mock me. I think you take me for granted.”
“You hear but you don’t listen. We only listen to those we love and respect.”
Thomas’s forehead reddened when he was angry, just as it had when he was a boy. “We are lifelong friends; of course I care for you. I risk my reputation for you!”
“When I speak my thoughts to you, Thomas, unless I agree with your thoughts, you tell me I am wrong. We do not reason together.”
“What you say is outlandish. When I disagree, I am trying to help you, Nat. Is there no room for me to help you? Can I not correct you?”
“Do you honestly believe that only you know the truth? Do you honestly believe that God only speaks to you?”
“You make me sound arrogant, Nat.” Thomas smirked. “Besides, I have never said that God speaks to me. That honor belongs to you, I think.”
They had been friends a lifetime, but there seemed so wide a gulf between them. “When you tell me how it feels to be a white man, when you write or speak about how you feel, I listen. I say to myself, ‘Ah, this is how my friend feels,’ and I try to understand.
“When I tell you how it feels to be a black man or share something I have written with you, you tell me I am wrong—unless my thoughts match your own. You disagree unless I think what you believe I should.”
“This is ridiculous. Do you wish to cause trouble between us? How can you say I don’t respect you, Nat Turner? I have told you that you are one of the smartest natural men I’ve known… perhaps the smartest. But I don’t understand you… or this anger I think I see.”
Nat Turner tried to calm himself, to quiet his heart. He had not meant to show so much passion. But he had been pressed down so long, held in chains so long. “I have never been a scion, a plantation owner, or a slave owner. So I listen for you to describe it to me, to help me understand.”
Thomas Gray’s expression was both earnest and perturbed. He sat beside Nat Turner again.
“You have never been a slave, never beaten. You have never gone without enough in your stomach. You have never been bound so that you could not set your own course. When I tell you what it is like for me, you tell me I am wrong. To be right, I must see my world as you imagine it. Otherwise you call me misguided and impatient. You tell me it is not that bad, never having been lashed or spit on. You believe it’s not bad because you have never had your wife and child stolen.” He felt a burning in the pit of his stomach, felt his hands clenching.
“‘We give you plenty to eat,’ white men say as though they feel the emptiness in our stomachs. ‘You people do not have hearts; you don’t know love,’ they tell us as they steal and sell our families away.
“I don’t know what it is to be above, to be in front, to be the one whose favor everyone wants to court. But I do know what it is to be despised. As my friend, I want you to listen, to try to understand how I feel without telling me I am wrong.”
Thomas was silent. He did not look at Nat. He looked past him. “I am only trying to encourage you. I am trying to help you not to be morose.”
“I have every reason to be morose! If you want to help me not be miserable, then help free me! Don’t tell me I am wrong—join with me to change my circumstances, lo
ose my bonds.”
Thomas Gray sighed. “What you ask of me is too hard for one man.”
“You romanticize slavery because it serves you. If you are my friend, care enough to make my heartbreak your own. Be willing to be poor so I can be free. If you are my friend, raise your voice, raise your pen to set me free! You choose to not understand because it benefits you. You don’t have to help me because you discount me because you think I am inferior to you—it is easier to believe God meant this life for me than to stand up and do something about it. We give our lives to make you rich; risk your life to set us free!”
“You wound me, Nat Turner. You push me too far.”
“I know what I say is not safe, my friend. The safe thing is to tell you what you want to hear, to be Red Nelson. But that is not the honest thing. That is not the truth. And is that what you really want, for me to be a buffoon like Red Nelson?
“If a nail goes in my foot and it hurts, you understand; we have this pain in common. But you seem not to want to understand that a burden too heavy for your back is also too heavy for mine. My heart hopes like yours. My heart breaks when you steal my son as yours would if your daughter were stolen.”
Thomas rose and turned away.
Chapter 40
1831
There was no way for Thomas Gray to know that this was Nat Turner’s last summer. There was no need to tell him; he wouldn’t believe.
Thomas Gray had romantic notions of slavery. He thought life would be easier as a slave, a slave with no responsibilities, a slave with no choices. He thought that if he were a slave, though he was bound, it would mean freedom for him. No one would care what he did.
Summer was coming, harvesttime, and this might be the last time he would see his friend. He did not want to part with angry words. “We are not so different. Each one of us must choose and fight to be free. In the end, we are all slaves if we don’t have courage.”
Thomas turned back to him. “I’ve been thinking of your dilemma and I think I have a solution.”
Nat Turner turned to face his friend. “My dilemma?”
“You should never have been a slave; it was never meant for you. But I’m sure you will agree, those Negroes that drink, and brawl, and steal should be slaves. What else are we to do with them?”
“You treat me differently, think of me differently, because you know me. If we were not friends, you would count me as one of the nameless, faceless ones you think are only worthy of slavery. Slavery was never meant for anyone.”
“There are white men, I think, who deserve no more than to be slaves.”
“We are not judged by how we treat those we love, but by our treatment of those we despise.”
“It is always religion with you, Nat Turner. Why the allegiance to a God who has no allegiance to you? If it were not for God, notions of God, there would be no slavery. If I were in your position, I don’t think I would believe. How can you sniff after the white man’s God? All it brings you is trouble.”
The words brought Nat Turner to his feet. He grabbed Thomas by his vest, almost lifting him from the ground. “You have stolen my homeland, my wife and family! Now you wish to steal away the God of my fathers!” Nat shook Thomas. How much more was he supposed to bear? How much more could be stolen from him?
Thomas tried to pry his hands away.
“My fathers knew Him long before you. He was never the white man’s God. Any man who says so is a liar and does not know Him. He is the God of all nations!”
Thomas struggled to loose himself from Nat’s grip. “What is wrong with you, Nat Turner?”
Nat Turner hit him then. A red mark appeared near Thomas’s mouth. Even as boys he had never raised his hand to Thomas.
Thomas jerked himself free. “Are you mad? How dare you!” He bent forward, collecting himself.
Nat Turner looked at his hands. The rush of anger had surprised him. He had been hit by others but had never struck anyone himself. His hands seemed to have a will of their own.
He had seen fear in Thomas’s eyes. It was a new sensation. The power felt good, but the feeling startled Nat.
Thomas straightened his clothes. He swiped at his mouth, checking for blood. “How dare you hit me? If we were not friends…” They circled each other in the clearing like two wolves ready to attack.
Thomas snarled at him. “I happen to think your life might be more pleasant without your brooding over a god who may or may not exist. It seems all the cruelty in the world is somehow connected with your religion.” Thomas Gray was goading him now, trying to get under his skin.
“Don’t try to take God from me! What is my belief to you? Atheists rape, steal, murder, start wars. Look what you do for the sake of wealth—enslaving people, stealing from them—and you don’t believe.”
“Must everything with you be about slavery? Slavery and religion? Oh, my little Candide, you are so innocent and trusting. Someday you will see that all this belief that you set such store by is for nothing. It only torments you. You’ll likely hang for it!”
“Take my life then! Everything else has been stolen from me.” Nat was tired of being threatened. He’d lived his life under threats. “If I allow you to steal this one thing I have left from me, what will you give me in return? If I don’t believe, do you mean to tell me that white men suddenly free me?” He lifted his shirt, showing his back. “Will these scars magically leave my body? Will you return my mother to Ethiopia? Will you return my wife to me?”
Nat Turner stopped himself so that he would not pound his friend, who stood now in the place of all other captors. “If I give up God, what do you, a mere man, have to offer me?” What could Thomas Gray give him? His fear? His doubt? His discontent?
Thomas Gray waved his hand dismissing the argument. “Whatever the case, you are a slave. That is your lot. Make peace with it; it will not change!”
The game always ended the same.
Chapter 41
We won,” Nat insisted. “We bested you and fair is fair.”
“You cannot win. We always win.”
They were in the clearing again. Virginia had returned and, again, they were in Southampton, boys holding sticks instead of swords. Nat drew back his fist.
The slap stung his face and brought water to his eyes, but he would not cry.
Nat looked about the clearing. Make peace with slavery? How could he make peace with it? How could he make peace with something so unnatural? It was Thomas Gray who had brought Nat Turner the Declaration of Independence to read. How could he be content without the rights given to him by God? How could he make peace with allowing another man to usurp rights that could not even be given away? How could Thomas Gray consider something so ridiculous?
“I am no man’s slave. I am a captive held against my will.”
“You are always quibbling over words, Nat.” Maybe it was no surprise that Thomas didn’t understand; years ago, when they were children, Thomas had been learning, too.
Nat didn’t want to argue about slavery. He wanted to sit with his friend. He wanted to talk about the books. It might be their last meeting.
Thomas walked to his horse, preparing to leave, and then he turned. “I could purchase you.” From the expression on Thomas Gray’s face, Nat Turner could see that he was sincere. “I would pay more than you’re worth; poor Sallie would be grateful for the money. Her husband and she are poor as church mice.”
“More than I’m worth? I will not be bought by you or any man again.”
“Why do you fight against it? Why does my offer to help offend you? Is there nothing I can say that does not anger you? Do you wish to die?”
“Your plan of rescue, at best, only rescues me. What about my family? What about the others? How could I have peace with my family in chains? How could I have peace with you in chains?”
Thomas laughed. “Me? In chains? You know if you continue to speak this way, I really will believe you are crazy. Even worse, if others hear you, you will end up dead.” Thomas
Gray did not recognize how the life he had accepted kept him bound. He thought like others that it was all to his advantage.
“I do not want to die, Thomas—I want freedom, I want hope. But if a sacrifice must be made, better me than my child. There are worse things than death.”
He slapped Nat Turner on the back. “I think my offer is a fine one, and I still don’t understand why it offends you.”
“I am offended, my friend, because you ask me to be satisfied with what is wrong. You ask me to depend on you for my peace and happiness. You know me better; you know this could not satisfy me. If you owned me, how could I ever cross you or disagree? Some business or illness could change my fortune. It would make you my god, and only God is my master.
“If God only desired my freedom, I never would have returned. I would have boarded the ship I was hired on and sailed far away.” He had returned to deliver his people. July 4th would come soon. “You have many gifts, Thomas.”
“So have you—you are not formally educated, but you are probably the most intelligent man I know.”
“You could change things, Thomas. You could do so much good if you had the courage.”
“The courage?”
“You are intelligent, you can write, and you can tell a story. You might change the whole country if you used your gifts for good.”
Thomas Gray’s smile was tinged with bitterness. “You speak as though I had so many choices.”
“You do. You are a free man.”
“Free is relative, my friend.” Thomas forced a laugh. “This has been a fine afternoon—a spirited talk about religion and books, and even a round of fisticuffs.” He leapt to the saddle. “Your principles will be your undoing, my friend.”
It was a strange way to say good-bye. Nat Turner had imagined they would part with kind words. He had imagined they might embrace as friends. He walked nearer to the horse, took the bridle in hand.
Chapter 42
The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial Page 17