Jefferson's Sons

In late December Miss Edith came home in Davy Hern’s wagon. James was a beautiful baby, bigger than Maddy, and just as bright-eyed. Joe Fossett couldn’t take his eyes off them, James or Miss Edith, either one. He held Miss Edith on his lap and kissed her neck, and she laughed and smiled. He bounced baby James on his knee.

Beverly wished Master Jefferson would come to their cabin, hold Mama on his lap, and bounce Maddy on his knee. He wished Master Jefferson would smile at him as often as Joe Fossett smiled at baby James. It was hard, knowing Master Jefferson was right there in the great house, and not getting to see him at all.

Of course the great house was full of all kinds of people, not just Master Jefferson. Miss Martha, who had lived with him in the President’s House all fall, came to Monticello for Christmas, instead of going to her own farm only three miles away. She brought her grumpy husband and all six of her children with her, and a slew of maids and nurses. Friends of Master Jefferson came too. They filled the great house, top to bottom, side to side.

Field hands didn’t work on the days around Christmas, but up at the great house there was more to do than ever. When Mama came back to the cabin at dawn, she prodded Beverly awake. “Get up and help Burwell,” she said. “Fetch firewood.”

Beverly groaned. All the bedrooms in the great house had fireplaces. Beverly hauled armload after armload from the woodshed to the house, up the narrow twisting staircases to the second and third floors. He took wood to Master Jefferson’s room, the parlor, and the dining room. After that he carried armfuls to the kitchen, where Uncle Peter was stirring and chopping and cooking fit to bust. Then he ran errands, to the stables where the guests’ horses were, or to the big storeroom or the smokehouse. Then Uncle Peter told him to wash the dishes and dry them and stack them up without breaking one, as though he weren’t almost eight years old and didn’t know how to stack a dish.

All the time, all he could think about was Master Jefferson. He longed to see him. Sometimes he imagined conversations with him. They could talk about violins or music or France. Maybe Beverly could tell him how awful James Hubbard’s whipping had been. Then Master Jefferson could explain that the overseers had made a terrible mistake, and that Master Jefferson would never let it happen again.

The guests at Christmas ate so much that Master Jefferson didn’t have enough food in his cellars to feed them. That was good news for the slaves. On the Saturday before Christmas, Uncle Peter sent word all over the mountain that Miss Martha was buying for the great house.

All year long, everyone except Beverly’s mama grew vegetables or raised chickens for their own. The field hands did it so they’d have something to eat besides the cornmeal, fatback, and salt fish that was all the overseers gave them, but even they saved extra to sell. Now they slit the throats of the oldest of their chickens, or dug into their store holes for sweet potatoes or turnips or eggs. They stood in a long line by the back door of the great house, holding whatever they could scrounge for sale.

Miss Martha stood on the porch, pursing her lips while she chose. She took coins out of her purse and dropped them into people’s hands. Beverly collected whatever she bought, and carried it to Uncle Peter in the kitchen.

Uncle Peter was feeling fine. “Some turkeys would be tasty, did anybody catch any,” he told Beverly. “And I’d never say no to possums or nice fat raccoons.”

“I didn’t see any turkeys,” Beverly said. You could catch them sometimes in snares. Raccoons and possums were hunted at night, but they were hard to find in winter when they holed up in their dens. “I saw lots of folks with sweet potatoes,” he said.

Peter grunted. “You tell Miss Martha I need a whole bunch. Tell her to buy every sweet potato she can.” He grinned at Beverly. Beverly grinned back. He knew Peter already had all the sweet potatoes he could use, but Miss Martha didn’t know it. “Whatever you see people holding, you tell Miss Martha that’s what I need,” Uncle Peter said. “Got that?”

“Good heavens!” Miss Martha said, when Beverly reported back. “How can Peter possibly need more sweet potatoes? You tell him I don’t want them on the table every meal!”

“Well, sure,” Miss Martha said, more calmly. “He must want them for the servants. I forget how you people like your sweet potatoes.”

That comment stuck in Beverly’s head. He couldn’t puzzle it out. He couldn’t imagine anyone not liking a sweet potato. “Which people was she talking about?” he asked Mama at night.

After the excitement of Christmas was over and most of the visitors had gone, Beverly asked Mama, “Will you get Papa to listen to me play again?” He was still with them for another week.

“That’s for calling him Papa,” she said, shoving him onto the edge of the bed. “Quit crying. Next time it’ll be a switch, and if there’s a time after that it’ll be Joe Fossett and a big leather strap.”

Beverly sniffled and sobbed. He got down on the floor and wriggled under the bed to fetch his violin. Mama took it from him. “That’s mine until he goes back. Maybe if you worry less about who’s going to hear you play, you’ll remember to mind your tongue more.”

Three days later Beverly finally saw Master Jefferson alone. Beverly was just leaving the great house after delivering still more firewood when Master Jefferson returned from his daily ride. Beverly hurried to the edge of the porch, and took the horse’s reins while Master Jefferson dismounted. He looked at his father. Suddenly, he couldn’t speak. “Hello,” he whispered, looking away.

Master Jefferson put his hand under Beverly’s chin and lifted it, so that Beverly had to look at him. “Then I won’t ask. We’ll leave it between you and your mother.”

“Thank you,” Beverly said. Master Jefferson put his hand down and started to walk toward the house. “Sir?” Beverly asked quickly, trying to make Master Jefferson stay. “Do you like the sound of words? Like—like inebriation or transgression?”

Master Jefferson stopped walking. He laughed. “Yes,” he said, turning back toward Beverly. “Yes, I do. Those are fine-sounding words. But their meanings, perhaps, leave something to be desired. What about—let’s see—what about tranquility. There’s a word that’s beautiful in meaning and in sound.”

Tranquility. Peacefulness. Beverly smiled. He watched Master Jefferson walk into the house, then led the horse to the tranquility of the stables.

When Master Jefferson returned to Washington, Miss Martha and all her people went with him. Mama shook her head. “If I were Miss Martha,” she said, “this time I’d stay home.” Miss Martha was about to have another baby. “Four days in that jolting carriage,” Mama said. “She’ll be lucky if she doesn’t give birth on the side of the road.”

Miss Martha was lucky. It wasn’t until January 27 that she had her baby boy. Uncle Peter got word of it in a letter. “James Madison Randolph,” Uncle Peter said.

“It might have been Master Jefferson’s doing,” Mama said. “He likes naming babies, and James Madison is his particular friend.”

“Families often use the same names over and over,” Mama said. “Maybe someday you’ll have a son, and you’ll name him James Madison too.”

In spring, Miss Fanny married Davy Hern. Not long after that, Master Jefferson made her go to Washington, to take cooking lessons alongside Miss Edith. Davy was sad when she left, but he knew he’d be going to Washington in July to bring Master Jefferson’s luggage home. He planned to bring Fanny, Edith, and baby James home for the month too.

Everyone knew what day to expect Davy, and when they heard the wagon coming up the last part of the mountain they all came out to Mulberry Row to say hello. But when the wagon rounded the corner only Fanny sat beside Davy on the seat. Miss Edith and baby James weren’t there.

Everyone stared. Joe Fossett ran up to the side of the wagon. He grabbed Miss Fanny’s arm. Miss Fanny leaned over, took him by the shoulder, and said something to him, low and hard. Beverly couldn’t catch the words.

Joe Fossett’s face closed up like somebody’d snapped a shutter over it. He turned on his heel and walked away. He didn’t go to the blacksmith shop, even though he had a horse waiting to be shod. He walked to his cabin on Mulberry Row, went inside, and slammed the door.

Mama looked troubled. “Nobody died,” she said. “Nobody died, and the rest is none of your business. It’s grown-up business. You leave it alone, do you hear me?”