Jefferson's Sons

The night before the auction was savagely cold. Icy air seeped into Peter’s family’s room from the walls and ceiling and floor; it blew in under the door and around the windowpanes. Daddy built the fire high, but the cold remained and seemed to deepen the coldness in their hearts.

For months they’d known the auction was coming. They’d watched the preparations being made. Daddy had worn himself out. He’d worked every job he could for wages, but he didn’t have enough money to buy them all. He’d tried to broker deals with some of the white men in Charlottesville, so that at least they would all stay nearby. The auction had been advertised in newspapers across the nation. If a stranger from the Deep South—no, Peter wouldn’t think of that. He drew his knees up sharp and huddled closer to his sister Isabella.

They were all on the one bed for their last night together. Peter, Mama, Daddy, Maria, Patsy, Betsy-Ann, Isabella, William, and Daniel. And the new baby, the baby Mama was carrying in her belly, the baby Mama had told them about only a week ago. It was crowded, but Peter wanted to be crowded. He wanted to be surrounded by his family forever.

Daddy said, “You all remember this. No matter what, we are a family. We belong together. I will not stop working until we can be together. Do you hear me?”

“I want you to understand,” Daddy said. “All of you. I have to bid on Mama first. The babies—William and Daniel—they’ll go up with her. That’s how it’s been arranged.

“Jesse will do all he can,” Daddy continued. “He’s got all the money we could scrape together, between us and all our friends. He’ll bid on Mama first—he’s got to get Mama.

“It has to be like that,” Daddy said. “Bella, Peter, do you understand? I love you with my life. I love you equal, every one of my beautiful children, I love you all the same, but I’ve got to get the girls first, and I’ve got to get the older ones safe before the younger ones. Do you understand? Peter?” Daddy’s voice was pleading.

Peter understood. Since slave marriages weren’t legal, Mama wasn’t safe. Some slave owner—some white man—might want Mama to have babies she didn’t want to have. Or Maria—or any of them. Except Peter, because he couldn’t have babies.

“I won’t ever rest,” Daddy said. “I will never rest in my life until we are all together again. Free and together. We are family no matter how far apart we are, but someday, I promise you, someday we will live like one. All of us free.”

“And they said Mama was worth three hundred twenty-five,” said Patsy. The auctioneers had come around with paper and pencil, and looked at all of them, and written numbers down. What they were worth.

“If Mama goes for that much . . .” Maria’s voice trailed off. She was next, so she might be safe. Mama would be sold with the little boys, and she was a trained cook. The paper said Mama was worth a lot more than Maria.

“I hope we can do pretty well,” Daddy said. “But if not, you keep your chins up. I’ve made all the deals I can. So long as you get bought by the right people, I’ll be able to buy you back once I get the money raised.”

Peter knew what Daddy’d said before, that a white man’s promise wasn’t necessarily worth the spit that sealed the handshake. Daddy said, “We’ve done the best we could do.”

Morning came. The wind howled, and the rising sun seemed unable to warm the frigid air. An endless row of horses and wagons and people streamed up the mountain, white people, cash in hand. It seemed like everyone in the world wanted to buy something from Monticello.

Suddenly Mama stood on the block with Daniel in her arms. William clung to her skirts. Mama stood tall and proud. The auctioneer, a white man, told her to smile.

“Let them see your teeth!” To people watching he said, “This one’s still got her teeth!” He thumped Mama’s shoulder, hard. From the edge of the crowd Peter cried out. Maria slapped her hand over Peter’s mouth.

“You can also see she’s an excellent breeder!” the auctioneer continued. “Birthed eight living children, and young enough for more! You’d turn a handy profit on her in just a few years. Better yet—folks, this is hard to believe, but I have it on very good authority that she’s been trained in the art of French cookery. Ever since Thomas Jefferson left the president’s mansion, this wench has cooked his every meal! All up and down the Albemarle I’ve heard raves about the food at Monticello, and now here’s a chance to have that food served at your very own table—and get these two fine boys into the bargain, with more coming if you know how to get them! What am I started at? What am I bid?”

So many people put their hands into the air. So many numbers. Peter shook. His sisters’ hands steadied him. So many people bidding on Mama—how would Daddy ever win? Larger and larger numbers, until at last they slowed. The auctioneer dropped his hammer. “Sold, for five hundred and five dollars. To Mr. Jesse Scott.”

Peter’s heart leaped with relief and horror. Maria sobbed. Mama and the babies were safe. But five hundred and five dollars! Jesse would have nothing left.

At last Peter climbed onto the tall wooden block. The wind cut through his pants, stockings, and coat, seared his arms and legs. He bit his lip hard so he wouldn’t cry out, and tasted the metallic tang of blood.

He was too cold to shiver. He could hardly see. The bidding started, but he couldn’t hear the numbers. He couldn’t hear anything but the wind.

Someone moved to stand in front of him. It was his father, looking straight into his eyes. That look sent strength into Peter. Whatever else happened, he would be Joe Fossett’s son.