Jefferson's Sons

Two years passed. Peter grew into a sturdy little boy the very image of James. Eston started working in the woodshop. He grew skinny and tall; Beverly, broad-shouldered and strong. Beverly was a good carpenter and a lively musician. He played for the dances Miss Martha’s girls held. Master Jefferson turned seventy-six years old and was still strong enough to ride every day. He went to Poplar Forest twice a year, and always took Maddy and Beverly along. Sometimes Maddy felt like everything inside him waited for those days.

At Christmastime Mama gave Harriet a long length of fine linen, bleached snow-white. Harriet smiled in delight. “That’ll be your underthings,” Mama said. “Petticoats and shifts and stays.”

“Why’s she need those?” Maddy asked. No one wore fancy shifts in the weaving room. He moved closer to the fire. Beverly was tuning the violin. Eston whittled a chunk of wood.

“I don’t mean the cloth is white,” Harriet said. “I mean it’s for my white person’s clothes—for when I’m living as a white woman.”

Harriet would never say when she “became a white woman,” or “passed for a white woman.” Harriet said she was exactly what she was. Right now she was living as a slave, later she would live as a free white woman. Who or what she was wouldn’t change one bit.

No matter who or what Maddy was, he wouldn’t pass for white. Eston would. Maddy still hated being the one left out. Sometimes he wanted to ask Eston to stay black with him, but Eston was only ten years old, and anyhow the question wasn’t fair.

“I don’t know why you’re worried about clothes now,” Maddy said. Harriet wasn’t even eighteen. She wouldn’t be allowed to leave until she was twenty-one.

“Time enough we get started,” Mama said. “The sewing will take a while, especially if we do it right, which we will. We’ll take it bit by bit.” She smiled at Harriet. “I’m not sending you out into the world in a ragged shift and old leather shoes.”

Harriet held out her foot, clad in the rough leather shoes all the slaves wore. “I won’t be sorry to be rid of these,” she said.

“Dancing!” Maddy snorted. What would Harriet do at a white dance? She wouldn’t know the figures. She wouldn’t have the first clue what to do.

Eston sprang up in the firelight. He stood in front of Harriet and bowed from the waist, like a gentleman. Harriet laughed. Eston took her hand, lifted her from her chair, and swung her around the room. He hummed while they danced.

Eston, Maddy thought, could make himself into anyone. He asked Mama, “Why aren’t you worried about Beverly’s clothes?”

In answer, Mama held up the shirt she was sewing. Maddy had assumed it was for Master Jefferson. “No,” Mama said, guessing what Maddy was thinking, “this is for Beverly. I’ve got half a dozen shirts put by, and some fine-hemmed cravats, and a waistcoat. His coat and breeches will come from a tailor’s shop. We’re working on it.”

“Where are we getting the money for that?” Maddy asked. He knew he sounded snippy. He didn’t mean to, but all their money put together wouldn’t buy tailor-made clothes.

“Where do we get the money for anything?” Mama replied. “You didn’t think your father would send you out into the world naked, did you?”

Maddy didn’t know what he thought. Mostly, he thought that Beverly’s twenty-first birthday was only three months away. Three more months until he never saw Beverly again.

First, Master Jefferson got sick. He went to soak at a famous hot springs for his rheumatism, and something in the water made great big boils break out all over his backside. Eston laughed when Mama first told them, but Mama said it wasn’t funny at all. She said that during the long carriage ride home the boils had gone septic. Infections were serious. Master Jefferson might die.

Maddy didn’t believe Master Jefferson could possibly die from something as undignified as boils on his backside, but as weeks passed he began to worry. All Master Jefferson could do was lie on his side in bed. It hurt too much to sit and he was too weak to stand. He couldn’t write letters or talk to his visitors. After a few weeks he developed a fever. Mama said the infection had gotten into his blood.

Doctors came and went. Mama spent all her time at the great house, nursing Master Jefferson. He grew better, then worse, better, then worse. When at last he was out of danger, and starting to walk again, he looked like he’d aged ten years.

Then Burwell’s wife died suddenly. Grief laid Burwell and his eight little children flat. The rest of Mulberry Row mourned too.

Then Charles Bankhead up and stabbed Mister Jeff. Charles Bankhead was the drunken fool who had married Miss Anne, Master Jefferson’s oldest granddaughter. Everyone knew it was a miserable marriage. Charles Bankhead hit people when he was drunk, and he was drunk most of the time. He hit Miss Anne. Miss Martha and Master Jefferson worried that one day he would kill her. They begged Miss Anne to leave him and come back to Monticello, but she wouldn’t, and no one understood why. She had little children. Maddy thought she’d want to stay alive.

Mister Jeff hated Charles Bankhead for hitting Miss Anne. Charles Bankhead hated Mister Jeff because he hated nearly everyone. They ran into each other in Charlottesville and got into a fight, and Charles Bankhead pulled out a knife.

A man from Charlottesville rode hard up the mountain just after dinnertime to tell them Mister Jeff had been stabbed, and was dying. Master Jefferson was still too weak to ride, but he called for his horse anyhow and galloped straight down to Charlottesville in the dark. Miss Martha fell to pieces worrying over her son, her father, and Miss Anne. Mama tried to comfort her, but Maddy knew Mama was anxious too.

Mister Jeff had been stabbed in the gut, which should have killed him, but it didn’t. He was sick a long time. He’d been stabbed in the arm too. His arm never worked right again. The sheriff drew up assault charges, but Charles Bankhead grabbed Miss Anne and their children and fled across the county line to escape arrest. Miss Martha begged Miss Anne to come home. She wouldn’t.

If a woman won’t leave the man that stabs her brother and leaves him for dead, there’s no hope for her, Mama said. She said Miss Martha’d made a bad choice, marrying Mr. Randolph, and now her daughters were making bad choices too. “Harriet!” she said. “If a man ever hits you, even once, I want you to leave his house! That instant! You come back here if you have to, you hear me!”

Maddy laughed, but not Mama. “Beverly,” she said, turning on him, “you take care of your sister. You keep an eye on the kind of man she ends up with. You hear me? You’ve got to take charge since I won’t be there. I want you both with good people—with kind people. You hear me?” Mama’s voice choked. She wiped her eyes.