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.