He continued on his way to their meeting spot, past trees thick with leaves. Birds flitted from limb to limb. He pushed the branches out of his way. He and Thomas always met in the same small clearing-a place with a boulder in the center, a good place to sit and rest. The two of them would be cloaked by nature so that no one would see them.

Everyone knew that Nat Turner could read and write, but it was still forbidden by law. Thomas Gray had made it a habit to lend him books to read, sometimes newspapers. Thomas had even once shown him the Declaration of Independence reprinted in a Fourth of July newspaper. Then the two of them would meet to discuss, every two months or when the weather would allow it, what Thomas had shared. Nat Turner would return the loaned items and usually Thomas Gray would have something new for him.

Sometimes Nat Turner shared his experiments-like trying to make wallpaper or trying to make gunpowder and small fireworks. He told no one else about them; it was dangerous for a slave to dream beyond what others planned for him. He showed Thomas Gray plants he had discovered and rocks that he had collected.

They discussed history and war heroes, like Nathan Hale and Crispus Attucks. Thomas Gray fancied himself a literary critic and thought he could, if he wanted, be a great writer. So, often, they debated novels. In past times there had been tales like The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes. This time there had been two plays: one written by Shakespeare, a story of family jealousy and betrayal; and the other a translation of a play auth.o.r.ed by a French playwright, Alexandre Dumas.

There was no doubt that Thomas would find something wrong with Hamlet and the new play Charles VII at the Homes of His Great Va.s.sals. He was critical of every story-every story except Voltaire's Candide.

Though he was grateful when his friend brought him books, Nat Turner often felt that the cost was Thomas Gray's lording it over him. Gray always had to a.s.sert himself as better; he always had to know more, to be more. But Thomas Gray was still Nat Turner's friend. Gray was jealous of those he loved. Gray was not perfect, but now that there was so little time left, Nat Turner valued what he had.

Since the sun had darkened, he had traveled throughout the area preaching to the captives-preaching against the lies about G.o.d and Africa. When they would listen, he even preached to the captors, warning them and hoping they would turn.

He could no longer count the number of people he had preached to throughout the coasts of Virginia and North Carolina. He never held back; he didn't mince words. He told them what G.o.d told him to tell them. He had seen the sign in the heavens and he knew the end was near. It was worth their tears or offense if he could help protect their immortal souls.

But it was much easier preaching to strangers. It was hard to speak the truth to friends and loved ones, especially a friend whom he could see dying before him.

Nat Turner knew his friend Thomas Gray did not believe that G.o.d would ever punish him. Wrong and sin had been a.s.signed to others, to scapegoats, and bypa.s.sed him. Thomas Gray was absolved, and so he didn't worry about G.o.d or what G.o.d wanted. He considered h.e.l.l, and all he considered superst.i.tious, fit only for poor folk and slaves.

The two of them had remained friends since childhood, though now they kept their discussions to books and weather; at least Nat Turner did. Thomas Gray could discuss anything; he was a free white man. But Nat Turner didn't know if their friendship could survive what he might say if his tongue were freed.

Thomas Gray wasted too much time with people who despised him. He drank too much. He was throwing away his life. Nat Turner wondered if he would have told his friend the truth if they were just friends and not a slave speaking to a master, not a captive speaking to a captor.

But he knew in G.o.d's eyes they were brothers, not slave and master. He would not be forgiven because he bowed down and did not speak the truth as a slave; he would be held accountable for failing to act out of brotherly love.

In truth, he and Thomas were friends closer than his own brothers. The two of them shared thoughts and feelings that Nat Turner never would have been free to share with Samuel-and especially not with John Clarke, whose heart was too full of envy to have room for friendship or love.

Nat Turner swept past the trees and through the brush lush with leaves. He looked up at the sky. He reminded himself to remember this day and not to waste any opportunity. Brotherly love. He had so much to tell his friend. There was so much to say, so much he did not want to say.

You are wasting the gifts G.o.d has given you because you are afraid to even try. You are afraid of life. G.o.d will hold you accountable for keeping men and women in chains. There was so much to say, but Nat Turner did not want to say it. Hypocrite. Sot. Wastrel. Adulterer. Manstealer. They were all names he could use, but he did not want to hurt his friend, his brother. It was easy to be a prophet among strangers but more difficult among those who were your own.

Better to risk their friendship in this world than to doom their brotherhood eternally. Nat Turner did not want to lose his friend even though it was, he admitted to himself, a shallow friendship. They stayed in shallow relationship because it was safer and there was less likelihood of drowning.

Nat Turner looked forward to their talks about the books. For a few moments, when they met secretly, they could exist in a world without skin color, without cla.s.s, without rules, and without slavery. Both of them could drop their struggles with who they were and with whom they wanted to be. But there was so little time-the sky had darkened and the corn would soon be bearing, and there was so much left to say.

When Nat Turner saw Thomas Gray, he extended his hand. There had been many years since their imaginary sword fights. Their lives were different in ways Nat Turner had not wanted to imagine then. They both were married-though his own marriage was considered counterfeit-and they both had children. Thomas Gray had a daughter whom he adored.

But Thomas had become a practicing lawyer, though a discontented one, while Nat Turner had become a slave. July 4th was fast approaching. This might be his last opportunity to see his friend, to warn him. "Thank you for sharing these with me." Nat Turner handed the books to Thomas Gray.

"So, how did you enjoy Mr. Shakespeare, Nat?" In the forest alone there were no t.i.tles; they were Thomas and Nat. They were friends... almost.

"Very much so. He might have been writing about Cross Keys as well as Denmark."

"I thought his writing might agree with you, but then you find something good in most writers." Nat Turner's friend shook his head. "If I wrote, I would never write like that. It's all too much drivel and just a waste of time. Tell me the story, don't preach to me." Thomas Gray tied his horse to a nearby tree. "For my money, I prefer the swashbuckler. There is too much romance in Shakespeare, but I did enjoy Romeo's swordplay."

Nat Turner rested on the boulder.

"So much fighting, you would have thought they could get along." Thomas Gray smiled and gave him a baiting look. "It rather reminds me of the fighting among your people in Africa."

Nat Turner did not want to argue. He wanted his last memory of his friend to be a pleasant one.

"Why do you people always fight one another?"

Nat Turner laughed to hold back the bile. "Why do you people always fight one another?"

"You mock me."

"No, I answer you."

"We do not fight. White men live in peace with each other as civilized men. We have laws and courts to decide our disputes."

"In Ethiopia, we have elders, wise men, who settle our disputes."

"But you are still always fighting. Black men are always fighting one another."

Nat Turner laughed again. "You are always fighting one another. White men, the British, came here in 1812 to fight you, other white men. And you are still afraid; you worry at night thinking they will invade again."

"But they are British. We are Americans."

"Like you, we are Montagues and Capulets. We are Ethiopians and they are Sudanese or Moroccans."

"But you are all black-fighting each other."

"You are all white. The kings and queens of Europe who fight each other, they are all white and all related, aren't they? They play and fight with each other on soil that does not belong to them and play with other people like rag dolls. They put meal sacks and white gloves on farmers so they can play their make-believe games."

Thomas's face reddened. "It is not the same. You people brutalize each other, beating one another with clubs and stabbing one another with spears."

"A spear, a club, a cannon-it is exactly the same. Is it more civilized, more humane, for one man to kill another eye to eye or for one man to stand at a distance and kill hundreds or thousands who never see his face? Anger, greed, power l.u.s.t have no color. Everyone who looks like you does not mean the best for you." Hutu and Tutsi. Poles and Russians. Serbs and Croatians.

Nat Turner looked at the rifle in Thomas Gray's saddlebag and the whip next to it. "Tell me who wants to kill others." He looked back at his friend Thomas. "Why create weapons if you do not dream of violence? The evidence is against you."

Thomas Gray did what he always did when the water got deep: He paddled for the sh.o.r.e. "I think Hamlet feels sorry for himself. If he doesn't like what his mother and uncle are doing, he should leave Denmark and move on."

His friend could be casual about family relations because his family had never been threatened. He could be casual about leaving because he had never been stolen away; he was free to go where he pleased. There was no pa.s.s required for him to leave; Thomas Gray had to find only the courage. "I find Mr. Shakespeare's writing too laborious, moralistic, and romantic. Too melodramatic for my taste."

Thomas Gray could criticize Shakespeare because he avoided criticism by never writing a word. "Why don't you try your hand at writing, Thomas?"

"Someday. Perhaps, when I'm less busy."

Thomas noticed a scar on Nat Turner's temple. "A recent gift from our young friend Nathaniel Francis? Why do you taunt them, Nat? Why do you make your own life hard?"

"I didn't make my life hard. I didn't make myself a slave."

Thomas sighed, shook his hands with exasperation. "Why do you fight against it, Nat? We have the lives that are given to us. Did you ever consider that this might be the best life for you and the others? Maybe you are happier this way as slaves. Sometimes I think I would be happier being a slave-no responsibility, no expectations."

"No one wants to be a slave, Thomas."

"All right then, a simple farmer with a pretty wife on a small farm tucked away in a place no one could find us-that might be a better life for me. My wife and I, we would have six children, fat babies with no shoes, and I would be a writer. It's true; I might be happier with that life. But that is not the life that has been given to me. I must make the best of the life I have."

"But the life you have doesn't make you a beast to be beaten, to be lashed, to be raped or stolen. The life you have does not manacle your children. The life you have doesn't force you to work a lifetime with nothing to show for it."

Thomas shrugged. "It might have."

"But it doesn't. Is slavery the life you would choose for your daughter? Would you make your sister a slave? Would you stand by and say 'be patient' if it were your daughter being raped? We have hearts and blood like you. We have feelings like you. We are all Abraham's children."

Thomas Gray looked away. "But why do you taunt them, those like Nathaniel Francis? Why can't you be more like Red Nelson?"

Nat Turner knew Gray's thinking. Like the other captors, thoughts that he knew better and was better were unconscious. Like a man living on a dung heap, he had lost the ability to smell his own arrogance.

The thinking had gone on so long no one remembered when it started. No one even noticed it; it-thinking he knew better and was better-seemed the right and natural thing. Only standing against the thinking caused a sensation. Feeling superior must be seductive as well as insidious. Nat Turner knew his friend would not want to give up what he had inherited.

"How can you tell me who I should be like, Thomas? Perhaps I think you should be like Ethelred Brantley or Benjamin Phipps."

Thomas Gray did not answer; instead, he began a new conversation. He rose to stick the packet of books in his saddlebag. On the way he paused and shook the books. "I could do better than this. At least I could do no worse. Maybe I should have gone into writing after all. Who knows? I might write a great work of fiction."

"Why did you choose the law?"

"The law chose me. Really, my family chose it for me."

"Your family?"

"All of us are lawyers. It was a family expectation. It's what my father wanted me to be. It's what my family counted on."

"As a free man, you couldn't say no?"

Thomas Gray bristled, turning to face him. "I could have said no."

"You couldn't leave this place? Do you think slave catchers would come after you?" There was more cynicism in Nat's voice than he intended.

"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 circ.u.mstances-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, ent.i.tled 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d only speaks to you?"

"You make me sound arrogant, Nat." Thomas smirked. "Besides, I have never said that G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion. 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."