Jefferson's Sons

Peter laughed. He ran across the green lawn, looking back over his shoulder at Maddy. Maddy was all the time trying to make him sit down with that book. Peter wasn’t going to do it, no sir.

Maddy chased him, as Peter hoped. Peter ran, squealing, but Maddy tackled him and rolled him over on the grass. “Spell your name for me,” Maddy said.

Peter rolled his eyes and giggled.

Maddy tickled him. Peter squealed. “Do it,” Maddy said.

“P-E-T-E-R,” Peter said.

“Good,” said Maddy. “Now Fossett.”

“N-O-S-I-R,” Peter said. He rolled to escape Maddy’s grasp and sprang to his feet. “I gotta go!” he said. “It’s almost time for the Eagle! I gotta go!”

Maddy let him go. He dusted his pants legs and watched Peter run barefoot across the grass. Worry hovered over the mountaintop like thick, dark storm clouds, but Peter Fossett was pure light.

Peter Fossett knew he was just about the luckiest boy in the world.

He lived at Monticello. That meant “little mountain” in Italian, Maddy said.

It was the most beautiful place in the world. He lived on the mountain’s very top. From the front of his daddy’s blacksmith shop he could see one direction, over the mountain to other mountains far away, and from the back of the shop he could see another direction, still over mountains and still far away, both directions as far as his eyes would work, and that was pretty far. Peter didn’t think Monticello was a little mountain. He thought it was a great big mountain.

Maddy knew lots. He liked to tell Peter stories about other places, especially Poplar Forest, Master Jefferson’s other farm. Peter enjoyed Maddy’s stories, but he knew Monticello was really the best place, no matter what Maddy said.

Peter’s daddy was the best blacksmith in the entire world, and his mama was the best cook ever. All the visitors who came to see Master Jefferson just couldn’t believe how good Mama’s food was. They filled their plates two and three times and rubbed their full bellies and licked their lips and said, “Could I have another muffin, please?”

Burwell told Peter white people were gluttons, but Peter knew he’d be a glutton too, if anybody would let him. Peter would love to sit in that dining room and eat all the muffins and ice cream he could hold. Lucky for him, his mama would sneak him a little taste, him and his little sister both, of anything she made for the great house.

Peter was seven years old, not old enough to work hard all day, but old enough to be useful. In the morning, he usually went up to the great house and helped old Burwell clear the breakfast plates away. Peter stacked them in the little box in the wall, and then he pulled on a cord and whoosh! sent the plates and the box down to the basement.

Once Peter climbed into the box himself. He rode down to the basement, and when his big sister Maria, who was fifteen, opened the door and saw him, she screamed. Then she laughed. But she told him not to do it again. He was such a big boy, what if he broke the box? Then they’d have to carry the plates up and down the stairs, and that would be a job.

Once the breakfast table was cleared, Peter took a little broom and swept around the fireplace in the dining room. Then he had a bit of time while Master Jefferson wrote his letters. Peter might go back to the kitchen, or he might visit Maddy and Beverly and Eston in the woodshop. He might even just sit down in the front hall and wait. If he did that he could listen while Miss Martha taught her younger children, all except the littlest one, George. Maddy was always after Peter to pay attention to Miss Martha’s lessons, but Peter didn’t care about schoolwork the way Maddy did. He liked to be doing things. Sitting still with a book made him itch.

Maddy was always reading through his old primer or looking up words in John Hemings’s dictionary. “But you’re grown,” Peter protested when Maddy tried to teach him. “I bet you didn’t mess with books when you were a little boy.”

Maddy said, “When I was your age, I messed with books all the time. I got Miss Ellen to teach me.”

Miss Ellen was an old maid, twenty-six and still no husband. “She ain’t going to teach me,” Peter said. “She won’t have a thing to do with me.”

“She isn’t going to teach you,” Maddy corrected. “I know she won’t. That was a long time ago; she’s different now.”

Peter hopped from one foot to another. “On Sunday, when James comes . . .”

“Yes?”

“Let’s throw away that book and go fish.”

In the mornings, when Master Jefferson finished his letters, Miss Sally would come out to the hall and say, “Peter?” in her quiet voice. Peter would run to the stables.

“It’s time for the Eagle,” he would yell.

The big boys who worked in the stable smiled at him, and old Eagle stuck his head over his stall door and whinnied. Eagle was Master Jefferson’s riding horse. He was the best horse, and the smartest, and the sweetest in the world, and he was always glad to see Peter.

On his way into the barn Peter grabbed a handful of oats from the bin. He gave them to Eagle. Then he stood on a stool and brushed Eagle all over, head to toe. One of the big boys saddled Eagle, and helped Peter buckle the bridle.

Peter led Eagle to the great house. That was his very favorite part of the morning. When they came out of the stable Eagle always blew out his breath—Phww!—and lifted his head and pricked his ears. He looked as happy as Peter felt. But he never rushed or stepped on Peter’s toes. Eagle had wonderful manners. He needed them. Master Jefferson was almost eighty years old, and not very steady on his feet. A fall from a horse would kill him. But Eagle was too sweet a horse to let Master Jefferson fall.

Peter walked Eagle up to the back porch and pushed him sideways so Eagle’s body was right against the porch. He sat on the edge of the porch, holding the reins, and they waited for Master Jefferson. Eagle was always patient. He might sniff Peter’s hands to see if Peter had more oats, but he never moved his feet.

Master Jefferson came out to the porch with his hat under his arm. He was tall and skinny and bandy-legged. He grew his white hair long, the way Peter’s daddy said people did back in the old days, and he tied it with a scrap of ribbon. His breeches were always loose and his coat always flapped.

Master Jefferson settled his hat on his head. He took the reins. “Thank you, Peter,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said. He held on to one rein until Master Jefferson’s seat was safe in the saddle. Master Jefferson rode away singing. He was always singing.

After that Peter usually visited the woodshop, if he hadn’t already. He wasn’t going to be a carpenter when he grew up. He was going to be a blacksmith, like his daddy. But he liked visiting the woodshop.

“Morning, small fry,” Maddy said when Peter came in. “How’s Eagle today?”

“Prime,” said Peter. He climbed onto the workbench and dangled his legs.

“Watch, now,” said John, the head carpenter. “No splinters.”

“I don’t get splinters,” Peter said.

John grunted. “Then you’ll be the first boy that didn’t.”

“What are you making?” Peter asked Maddy.

“The same thing I was making yesterday,” Maddy said.

“A table for Poplar Forest.”

“That’s right.”

Peter liked the table. It had a wide top and fancy carved legs. The pieces weren’t put together, but he could see how they would be. “Can I help?” he asked.

“I could use you over here,” Beverly said. “Hold these for me.” He brushed glue on the sides of two long pieces of wood. Peter pressed them together and held them tight while Beverly screwed on the clamps. “There! Thank you.”

“How long until the glue dries?”

“Day or two. Depends on the weather.”

“What are you going to do next?”

Beverly grinned. “How many questions are you going to ask?”

“Depends,” Peter said. “How many are you going to answer?”

“You could get us something to eat,” Eston said. “I’d answer a lot of questions if I wasn’t so hungry.”

Eston was always hungry. He was fifteen, taller than both of his brothers, and thin as a rail no matter how much he ate. Peter’s mama said it was hard to get enough food inside a growing boy. Take Peter’s brother James. He claimed he ate plenty over at Edgehill, where he lived, but he still looked scrawny. Every Sunday, Mama fed James a whole tableful of food, and packed more in a cloth for him to carry away, but he didn’t fatten up at all.

Peter went to the kitchen and rounded up some scraps for Eston, and then he hung out in the shop and sanded some boards for fun. A noise on the road made him look out the window. “Visitors,” Peter said.

“Something new,” said Maddy. He was joking. They always had visitors.

In the afternoons Peter helped his daddy in the blacksmith shop. Daddy didn’t talk much while he worked; he said talking led to carelessness, and you could never be careless around hot iron. He taught Peter lots, though. He was going to train Peter to be a blacksmith when Peter was just a little older, and then they’d run the shop together. When his daddy trimmed a horse’s hoof, he held it up for Peter to see, both before the trimming and after, so Peter could learn how a hoof was supposed to be balanced, with all the trim lines straight. Peter worked the bellows and shoveled charcoal onto the fire. Sometimes his daddy even gave him a piece of scrap iron and let him heat it up and pound on it, to make his arm strong, but that was only if the shop wasn’t busy.

Once the sun set, the workday was finished. Peter helped his daddy tidy the shop, and in the kitchen his sisters helped Mama wash dishes. The white folks ate their big dinner in the great house at three in the afternoon. After that, all Mama had to do was clean up from the big meal, make supper for the mountaintop workers, fix a little snack for the great house for the evening, and maybe bake cookies or set bread dough. Mama’s kitchen filled up with workers right after the sun went down, but everyone ate fast, and pretty soon it was just Peter’s family, all of them except for James. They always wished James was with them.

Mama banked the kitchen fire. They all went to the room next door, which was just for their family alone. Peter’s big sisters talked with his daddy while Mama tucked Peter, his little sister, Isabella, and his baby brother, William, into the trundle bed and sang them to sleep.

One evening in early spring, Peter decided to go back to the kitchen early, before his daddy shut down the forge. He had just gotten there when Beverly came in behind him, carrying his violin.

Beverly, Maddy, and Eston all played the violin. Beverly had a small one, Eston a bigger, better one, and Maddy played whichever he could lay his hands on. Maddy didn’t mind not having his own violin. He said Beverly and Eston were the real musicians in the family.

“May I play a song for you, Miss Edith?” Beverly asked.

“Why aren’t you working?” asked Peter.

“I left off early,” he said. “Miss Edith, what would you like to hear?”

“Why’d you leave off early?” Peter asked. Nobody quit work early. It wasn’t allowed. Eston did go to Charlottesville once a week for violin lessons, but Maddy and Beverly were too old for that.

Beverly didn’t answer. Peter’s mama smiled. She told him her favorite song, and he played it, right in the kitchen, sweet as could be. When he was finished, Peter’s mama had tears in her eyes. Peter didn’t know why. His mama never cried. “I’m going to fix you up some pie,” she said. “A big piece of rhubarb pie.”

“I’d like that,” Beverly said. “Miss Edith, I’d like that very much. Thank you. Peter, what about you? Can I play something for you?”

Peter turned to Mama. “Why does he get pie?” At lunchtime she’d told him he couldn’t have any. She said it was for tomorrow at the great house. “I don’t want you to play for me,” Peter said to Beverly. “Why would you play for me?” Beverly played for the house dances. Eston played for himself. Maddy played for Peter.

“I just thought maybe you’d like a song,” Beverly said. “A song all your own. A gift song.”

“I never heard of a gift song,” Peter said.

Peter’s big sister Betsy-Ann said, “I’d like a song.” Beverly played for her, and then for Maria and Patsy and even Isabella and William, and then he played a little song that he said was for Peter whether Peter wanted it or not. Then Beverly took the pie that Peter’s mama had wrapped up in a cloth. He put it in his shirt. He bowed deep to Peter’s mama, a fancy bow like a white man would do, and he left with his violin tucked under his chin. Peter could hear him walking down Mulberry Row, still playing.

Beverly played songs for everyone. He played for hours. Late into the night, from Miss Sally’s room one door down from Peter’s family’s, Beverly’s music poured onto Mulberry Row.

Maddy came to their door. “Mister Joe,” he said, “Miss Edith. Beverly wants to know if he’s keeping you all awake. Because he’d like to keep playing if he’s not.”

“Tell him keep on,” Daddy said. “We’re enjoying the music. We don’t mind.”

Peter minded. He couldn’t sleep and it didn’t make sense. Beverly never played this late.

“Why isn’t he quiet?” Peter asked. “It’s night.”

Mama shushed him. “I think it’s pretty,” Maria said.

“That’s because you’re sweet on Beverly,” Peter said.

“Fat lot of good it does me,” Maria shot back.

Mama said, “Both of you, hush.”

Eventually Peter fell asleep. In the morning he ate breakfast, helped in the dining room, and brought Eagle up to the house. Master Jefferson set off on his usual ride, humming his usual tune. Peter went down to the woodshop. Maddy and Eston were working there, but not Beverly.

“Is Beverly sick?” Peter asked. Maybe that was why he’d acted so strange about playing the violin.

John gave Maddy a look Peter didn’t understand.

“Come here,” Maddy said to Peter. “We better talk private.”

Peter scooted over to the corner. Maddy sat down next to him. “Do you remember when Beverly went away for a while, three years ago?”

“No,” said Peter.

“Well,” said Maddy. “He’s gone again. Only this time he’s not coming back.”

Peter stared at Maddy. Maddy stared back at him. Peter started to cry. “Like James,” he said. “Oh, no. Like James.” Mama and Daddy never talked about it, but Peter’s sisters had told him how James got taken away.

Maddy hugged him. “No, not like that,” he said. “It’s not like James. James went away because he had to. Beverly went away because he wanted to. It’s happy, not sad.”

That didn’t make any sense to Peter. Maddy looked sad, and besides—“People can’t just go away because they want to,” he said. “They can’t do that.” People had to do as they were told. Mama had to listen to Miss Martha, Maddy had to listen to John, and everybody had to listen to Master Jefferson.

James had been sold. It was terrible and hard to understand, but Peter knew it was true. “Who bought Beverly?” he asked.

Maddy smiled, an odd, faraway, sad-and-happy smile that frightened Peter a little. “Nobody bought him. He went away free.”

“Free of what?”

“Free,” Maddy repeated. “Free to do whatever he wants. He won’t have to listen to anybody unless he wants to.”

Peter thought about that. “Except Master Jefferson,” he said.

Maddy said, “Not even Master Jefferson. Beverly’s gone away from Master Jefferson. He won’t see Master Jefferson ever again.”

“He’s not coming back on Sundays?” James said.

“No,” Madison said, with the same funny smile but with a catch in his voice like he might cry. “He’s not coming back. He’s got his story straight and he’ll never come back again.”

Eston came over and put his hand on Maddy’s shoulder.

Peter said, “You mean he’ll never see you?”

“He’ll never see me,” Maddy said.

“He’ll never see his mama?” Peter started to cry again. He was sorry he hadn’t wanted Beverly to play for him. He was sorry he hadn’t said good-bye. “Why would he leave?” he sobbed. “He’ll miss his mama.”

Maddy hugged Peter. “Shh, now,” he said. “It’s okay. It’s good, it’s happy. And we’ve got to be quiet about it. Okay? But it’s happy.”

“It doesn’t feel happy,” said Peter.

Eston said, “It doesn’t feel happy, but it is.”

Maddy said, “You’ll understand when you’re bigger. But right now, just trust me. And don’t talk about Beverly. Okay? If you have a question, or you need to talk about him, you come to me. Just me, or Eston if you can’t find me. You can talk to the two of us about Beverly, but not anybody else.”

“Not even my mama?”

“Not even her.”

“Not even my daddy?”

Maddy scratched his forehead. “I guess you could talk to your daddy,” he said. “I don’t want to say you can’t. But I think it’s better if you just talk to me.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “Maddy?”

“Yes?”

“I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“How come Beverly gets to be free, but James didn’t?”

Maddy shut his eyes and then opened them. “That’s a very hard question,” he said. “I know the answer, but I can’t explain it just now.”

“It’s not fair,” Peter said.

“No.” Maddy took his hand and led him back to the workbench by the window. “It isn’t fair. Here. You hold this board so I can measure it. Then I’ll mark the spot, and I’ll show you how to use a saw.”

Maddy had never let Peter saw a board before. It was harder than it looked, and Maddy had to help. After that Peter swept the floor without being asked. No one spoke. Usually the woodshop rang with laughter and singing and jokes. The silence hurt Peter’s head.

“Maddy?” he whispered at last.

“Yes?”

“I still don’t think it’s happy. And I still don’t think it’s fair.”

“It isn’t fair,” Maddy said. “Don’t you ever let anybody make you believe that it’s fair.”

“You going to be free someday?”

“I hope so,” Maddy said.

Peter nodded. “Me too. I think it sounds pretty fine.”