Jefferson's Sons

One spring night, Master Jefferson dreamed of a way to make enough money to save them. Peter listened to him tell Miss Martha about it at breakfast the next morning. Master Jefferson’s face shone like a boy’s.

He would hold a lottery, with the farm as a prize. No one would pay a high price for his land right now, but surely hundreds, even thousands, of people would pay a small price for a chance of owning it.

No, Master Jefferson said, his face falling a little. Not Monticello. Surely not. He could never sell Monticello. But he would be willing to sell his farmland, if only it would bring enough to clear his debts. If enough lottery tickets sold— tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands, given the size of the nation—it might be that he could pay all he owed and even have money left over, for Miss Martha to live on after he died. Lotteries were illegal, but that didn’t bother Master Jefferson. He wrote Congress immediately to ask them to make an exception.

Miss Virginia’s new piano arrived before Congress replied. Miss Virginia hovered anxiously as the carters unpacked it; as soon as they were finished, she sat down to play. Master Jefferson came in to listen. He said, “That’s a lovely instrument. If our lottery succeeds the way I hope it will, I may buy one like it for myself.”

The idea of the lottery seemed to buoy Master Jefferson. His health improved. He started riding again, every day, at first only short walks around the mountaintop road, but gradually longer ones until he sometimes stayed out for an hour. He even trotted a little. Miss Martha fussed, but Miss Sally smiled when Peter brought Eagle to the house. In the saddle Master Jefferson looked spry.

But it didn’t last. The rubber gum tubes and the careful nursing and even the lottery weren’t enough. On the sixth of June, a bright, clear day, Master Jefferson’s hands trembled as he took Eagle’s reins from Peter. He looked so feeble Peter hesitated to let go.

Miss Sally, who had come out with Master Jefferson, put her hand on Eagle’s shoulder. “Maybe you should rest,” she said, “and ride tomorrow.”

He came back early, exhausted. Miss Sally shouted for Peter to take the horse as Burwell carried Master Jefferson into the house. Master Jefferson went to bed and didn’t get up again that day.

For a few weeks Master Jefferson could sit up sometimes. He wrote a few more letters and once in a while had something to eat. Miss Sally, Miss Martha, and Burwell made sure he was never alone.

Congress allowed the lottery, but only if Monticello itself was part of the prize. The great house would go to the lottery winner.

“If it pays the debts, that will be enough,” Miss Martha said. “I know I can always find a home among my children.”

But the lottery failed. So few tickets sold that eventually Mister Jeff canceled the whole thing. Some people and even some state governments sent Master Jefferson money out of charity, but no one, it seemed, wanted Monticello.

Peter couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He’d been scared at the thought of Monticello changing hands, but everyone around him seemed more upset that it wouldn’t happen. As long as Master Jefferson is alive, Peter repeated to himself, we’ll all be fine. Master Jefferson had been sick so many times before. He had always gotten better. Surely he would this time too.

One morning in the woodshop John Hemings asked Peter to bring him a board. Peter took one out of a group of fine, straight boards leaning against the back wall.

Master Jefferson had finally written a will, Miss Sally said. She didn’t know what it said, but she knew he’d written it. Miss Sally seemed happy about that, beneath her sorrow.

Daddy looked him in the eye. “When he dies,” he said, “we’re going to work hard and stick together as much as we’re able. We’ll do our best, the same as always.”

By the second of July, Master Jefferson no longer ate or drank. He no longer spoke, and opened his eyes only if someone shook him. Peter wasn’t allowed near him, of course, but Maddy got the details from his mama.

Maddy explained that July 4, 1826, was fifty years exactly after July 4, 1776, which was the day the constitutional delegates signed the Declaration of Independence that Master Jefferson wrote, and the country America was born.

Some other old man named Mr. Adams, who was president even before Master Jefferson, was dying too. He lived a long way away. Peter had heard of him because he and Master Jefferson used to write letters to each other all the time. “They’re both trying to stay alive until the anniversary,” Maddy said. Peter didn’t see why.

If not for the worry on the mountaintop, everything would have been so beautiful. Summer was in full bloom. The garden burst with fruit and vegetables. Ripening peaches hung golden from the trees. Grass shimmered green in the fields. When Peter visited Eagle in his pasture, the horse whuffled hello and came eagerly to get whatever treat Peter brought him. Eagle smelled so good in the sun.

Without the worry, it would have been wonderful, but Peter felt like no one other than him even noticed the sunlight or the warmth or the green crops growing. All over the mountain, everyone was holding their breath, waiting for Master Jefferson to die.

July second passed. On the afternoon of the third, Master Jefferson woke for a moment. He seemed unhappy, and tried to speak. Burwell shifted his pillows. Master Jefferson nodded, and closed his eyes.

Much later, Peter heard that just before old Mr. Adams died, on the night of July the Fourth, he opened his eyes and said, “Jefferson survives.” But by then it wasn’t true. Master Jefferson died at ten o’clock in the morning, July 4, 1826.

His will gave Poplar Forest free and clear to Francis Eppes. Monticello, all the property there, and every single debt went to Mister Jeff. That hardly seemed right. Mister Jeff had always worked so hard. But the debts had to go to someone. Someone had to pay.

The will gave Burwell his freedom immediately. It gave Joe Fossett, John Hemings, and John’s “two apprentices” their freedom from exactly one year after the day Master Jefferson died, or, in the case of the apprentices, on the day they each turned twenty-one. The apprentices were Maddy and Eston, of course, but Master Jefferson didn’t write out their names.

Joe Fossett and John Hemings were given the tools they used. Master Jefferson’s will also asked the legislature of Virginia to allow all five freed men to remain in the state, instead of leaving it immediately once freed, as Virginia law now demanded.

Daddy’s face looked like it might break. He took a long, terrible breath, and then he folded his arms around Peter and held him tight, just as Peter always hoped he would. But he didn’t speak. Peter felt a wave of overwhelming dread.

“That won’t matter,” Daddy said. “They’re going to take all the money Master Jefferson owes, and put that number on one side of a scale. Then they’ll turn every last thing he owns into money, put it on the other side of the scale, and try to make the two sides balance.”

“They won’t.” Peter’s daddy looked angry now. He looked furious. “Not from all I’ve heard. But that’s not our problem. Our problem is that Mister Jeff will have to sell everything Master Jefferson owns. He’ll have no choice.”

Daddy spat in the dirt by the forge. “I don’t give a fig for Monticello,” he said. “I suppose they’ll sell it. The big house, the fields, the farms, the furniture.”