Jefferson's Sons

by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

  “Got it,” Beverly said. Everybody ought to have a little money at Christmas.

  “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!”

  Beverly rubbed his nose and looked away. Sometimes Miss Martha sounded exactly like Harriet. “Lots of extra folks around,” he said.

  “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.

  “Enslaved people,” Mama said. “That’s what she meant. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I’m the same people she is,” Beverly said. “I’m her brother.”

  Mama sighed and rubbed her hand through his hair. “Don’t say that,” she said.

  “It’s true,” Beverly said.

  “A lot of things are true,” said Mama, “but that doesn’t mean we say them out loud.”

  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.

  Mama swooped Beverly under her arm. She pulled Beverly’s pants down and walloped his bare bottom hard. Beverly howled.

  “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.”

  “But it’s true!” Beverly said, between sobs. “He is my papa! He is!”

  “It’s also true you’re not to call him that. Not ever. Do you hear me?”

  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.

  “Hello, Beverly,” Master Jefferson said, as though they spoke every day.

  Beverly smiled. He liked it that Master Jefferson called him by name.

  “I haven’t heard any music lately,” Master Jefferson said.

  “Aren’t you practicing?”

  “Oh, yes—” Beverly kept his eyes on the ground. “Mama took my violin away. For punishment.”

  “I see. What was your transgression?”

  Transgression. That was a lovely word, but Beverly didn’t know what it meant. “Sir?”

  “What did you do?”

  Beverly studied his feet. “I’d rather not say. Sir.”

  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. Beverly loved it. “What does it mean, sir?” he asked.

  “It means peacefulness.”

  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.

  James Madison was Maddy’s name. Beverly didn’t think Miss Martha should be allowed to take it for her own baby. He said so.

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

  “But we had it first,” Beverly said.

  “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.”

  Beverly doubted it. “If I have a daughter,” Beverly said, “I won’t name her Martha, that’s for sure.”

  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.

  The look on Joe Fossett’s face made Beverly’s stomach hurt. He ran for Mama.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her, after she’d had a chance to speak with Miss Fanny. “Did Miss Edith die? Did baby James?”

  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?”

  Beverly had to find out. But, before he got a chance, word came. Joe Fossett had run away.

  Summer 1806

  Chapter Seven

  Joe Fossett

  Beverly thought he would vomit. He thought of Joe Fossett with his arms tied to the whipping post, Joe Fossett with blood running down his back. Joe Fossett working in the fields, the way James Hubbard did now. Joe Fossett bowed down, the smile gone from his eyes.

  “Quit crying,” Mama said. “Nobody’s going to hurt Joe Fossett.”

  “Why not?” Beverly said. “James Hubbard was the best nail boy, and they still whipped him.”

  “Joe isn’t running away from Master Jefferson,” Mama said. “He’s running toward Miss Edith. There’s trouble between them. Joe’s gone to make it right.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The kind that’s none of your business.”

  “Does Master Jefferson know about it?” asked Beverly. “Does he know Joe isn’t running away?”

  Mama pursed her lips. “I’ll see that he does.” She went to the great house. When she came back she looked upset. Beverly and Harriet saw her walking down the path to the kitchen and ran to catch up.

  Mama sat down on the bench inside. “I told him,” she said to Uncle Peter and Miss Fanny. “I told him Joe just needed to see Edith and he sa
id, ‘Why Edith?’ ”

  Mama sank her face into her hands. Beverly grabbed Harriet’s hand and shrank back against the door. “Like he didn’t realize who her family was,” Mama said. She shook her head. “I think it’ll be all right. As long as he doesn’t take Joe’s leaving personally, I think it’ll be all right.”

  Mama caught sight of Harriet and Beverly. “You all get out of here!” she said. “This is none of your business.”

  Harriet scurried back to the cabin, but Beverly hightailed it to the great house instead. He crept along the corridor until he could peek inside the half-closed door into Master Jefferson’s room. Master Jefferson sat at his desk, his back toward Beverly, writing. Beverly wondered what he was writing about, and to whom.

  Burwell grabbed the back of Beverly’s neck and hauled him away from the door. “Go home,” he whispered. “And be glad I’m not your mama, catch you spying like that.”

  For over a week, nobody heard a word about Joe Fossett. Without him the blacksmith shop fell apart. The drunken white blacksmith, Stewart, couldn’t control the nail boys, who cracked jokes and acted foolish instead of making nails. Stewart lamed one of the farm horses brought in for a shoe—lamed it bad, with blood spurting and the horse thrashing around. He reeked of cheap brandy and let the forge go cold.

  Mama said, “Joe’ll get caught or he won’t. He’ll have seen Miss Edith first or he won’t. We can’t do anything to change what happens, so we just have to wait.”

  Beverly asked, “What if he can’t fix it?”

  Mama gave him the eye. “Fix what?”

  “Whatever’s wrong that you won’t talk about.”

  Mama sighed. “That’s not our business either. The only part that was my business was making sure Master Jefferson understood why Joe went away.”

  The next night after dinner, Beverly heard violin music wafting on the sweet summer breeze. Master Jefferson was playing on the porch outside his bedroom. Beverly stood outside the cabin door, listening. Mama came out behind him. “That’s a French song,” she said. “Isn’t it lovely?” She kissed Beverly good night, then hurried up the path.

  Beverly ran for his violin. He stood in the doorway and tried to match the music Master Jefferson was playing. His tune was simpler, and slower, but it sounded a little like Master Jefferson’s tune.

  Beverly felt a wave of peace—of tranquility—wash over him. When Master Jefferson stopped, Beverly kept playing, until Miss Aggie, who watched them now instead of Miss Fanny, said she’d heard enough, and made him go inside.

  Always before, Beverly could find out whatever he wanted to know by asking Mama, or by listening to talk in the kitchen or the blacksmith shop or somewhere else along Mulberry Row. With Joe Fossett it was different. Grown-ups shut their mouths tight whenever any child came around. Beverly knew there was trouble between Joe Fossett and Miss Edith, but he never learned more about it than that.

  Before long word came up the mountain. Joe Fossett was caught, and coming home. Beverly buried his face in the bed to hide his tears. He couldn’t bear to think of Joe coming back like James Hubbard, bent down in a wagon bed, handcuffed, with his face like stone. Harriet came in and lay down beside him. “Maybe we won’t have to watch,” she whispered.

  But they didn’t hear any shouts or commotion. Eventually they got up and walked out of the cabin, hand in hand. One of the overseers strode down Mulberry Row. Harriet shrank back, but Beverly made himself follow the man. The overseer went to the blacksmith shop and talked in a low voice to Mr. Stewart. That was all.

  In the kitchen Uncle Peter said he was too busy cooking to talk. “But Joe—” said Beverly.

  “Get me some wood,” snapped Uncle Peter. “And shut your mouth. It don’t concern you.”

  The next day Joe Fossett rode up the mountain straight and unbound on the wagon seat beside an overseer. He looked perfectly calm. He went into the great house and spoke with Master Jefferson, and then he went to the blacksmith shop and shouted at the nail boys, just as though he’d never run away.

  Beverly was amazed. He and Harriet and some of the other children hurried to the shop. The nail boys were pounding nails as quick and hard as they could. Joe Fossett shoveled charcoal onto the fire. Already his arms gleamed with sweat.

  “You all want something?” he asked them.

  “No, sir,” Harriet said.

  “Then run back out of here,” Joe Fossett said. “I got work to do.”

  Beverly had seen all he needed to. Joe Fossett’s face looked stern, but his eyes were smiling.

  “He went to Washington,” Mama said, later on. “He saw Miss Edith. Now he’s home and everything’s fine.”

  “So he really wasn’t running away,” Beverly said. “That’s why he didn’t get whipped.”

  Mama started to answer, but paused. A small smile came to her lips. “I don’t know,” she said. “I doubt we’ll ever know. Joe won’t be whipped because he’s Joe Fossett, and because they found him in the President’s House with Miss Edith, and because he came back without a fight. But if they hadn’t found him when they did—maybe he and Edith would have taken baby James and run. Maybe. I hope so.”

  Beverly scowled. He couldn’t picture Monticello without Joe Fossett. “I don’t,” he said. “I’d never run away.”

  “You will,” Mama said.

  “Of course I won’t.”

  “Of course you will,” Mama said. “I’ve told you. When you grow up you’ll be free. You won’t have to run, but you’ll go away. Free, Beverly. You’ll never be a slave.”

  “If I’m free,” Beverly argued, “then I’ll be free to stay here with you. I’ll never leave Monticello.”

  Mama pulled him close and stroked his head. “I love you. Don’t worry. Everything will turn out fine.”

  Beverly hid his face in the folds of her skirt. “Never,” he said.

  Christmas 1806

  Chapter Eight

  Hidden in Plain Sight

  Joe Fossett worked hard in the blacksmith shop. At Christmas, Miss Edith and baby James came home with Davy Hern and Fanny, and neither Miss Edith nor Joe Fossett acted like anything had ever been wrong. Beverly didn’t understand. He supposed he never would.

  For Christmas Joe gave Miss Edith a big piece of Turkey red cloth. Miss Edith cut it up and made it into a headscarf for herself, a neck-scarf for Joe, and a tiny little coat for James. She said that way everybody could see they were all one family. Beverly liked that. He wished his family could do the same—him, Mama, Harriet, Maddy, and Master Jefferson. But Mama didn’t say anything about it, so Beverly kept quiet too.

  Baby James and Maddy were both just two years old. Both of them were learning to talk. James said Maddy’s name first. He pointed his finger at Maddy and said, “Mah! Mah!” while Beverly and Harriet cheered. Maddy took a few days longer. He was sitting on the floor of the cabin one morning when Miss Edith came in carrying James. Maddy looked up and said “Hi, James!” like he’d been saying it for months already.

  The great house was packed full for the holiday. Miss Martha came, of course, and her crabby husband and her horde of children, and so did aunts and uncles and cousins, and guests whose names Beverly never learned. He stayed busier than ever, hauling wood and water, taking ashes away and poking up fires.

  Burwell spent half the day fetching wine and French cheeses out of the fancy cellar storerooms. Those rooms were kept locked, and only Burwell had a key. Beverly wasn’t sure why. There were rules about what you could take and what you couldn’t. Taking anything out of the great house, including the fancy storerooms, was stealing. It was flat wrong and you would be whipped for it. Taking things out of the cabins, or swiping the vegetables folks grew on their own, that was stealing too. But helping yourself to a bit of extra salt pork from the smokehouse, or a handful of corn from the stables for chicken feed, or a spare potato or two from the main gardens—that wasn’t stealing. That was justice. The enslaved workers grew the crops. They tended the gardens, the fi
elds, the orchards, and the animals. Anything they put into their own pockets was no more than what should have been theirs already.

  Beverly asked Mama once why they didn’t raise chickens or grow vegetables. Everyone else did, even Joe Fossett and Uncle Peter. Mama lifted her chin, proud. “I don’t sell things to Master Jefferson,” she said. “If we need money he will give us some.”

  Beverly couldn’t remember Mama asking for money, but he was glad to know she could have some if she needed it. “Maybe you could buy a piece of fancy cloth,” he said, “and make Master Jefferson a shirt from it, and then make me something out of the scraps.”

  “Oh, Beverly,” Mama said.

  “Just the scraps,” said Beverly. “So we look like—”

  Mama cut him off. “If we looked like all one family,” she said, “what kind of secret would it be?”

  Master Jefferson—or Papa, as Beverly still called him in his heart—went back to Washington like always. Beverly missed him. Even if his father didn’t talk to him, Beverly felt like he had a father when Master Jefferson was nearby. Now the quiet mountaintop seemed lonely and forlorn. Some days clouds hung down so far upon the mountain that the cabins and the great house poked out the top of them. The tip of the mountain, with the house and cabins, looked like an island on a sea of cloud. “Is this like the ocean?” Beverly asked Mama.

  She drew her shawl around her shoulders. “Very much like the ocean,” she said, “only you don’t get seasick here.”

  That night Mama told them again about her trip to France. “When Mrs. Jefferson died,” she said, “Miss Martha was ten years old. I was nine, Miss Maria was four, and little Miss Lucy had just been born.