Jefferson's Sons

by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

  Then they both burst into tears.

  Peter never saw grown men cry before. He didn’t know what to think. The fat old marquis hobbled up the front walk. Master Jefferson hobbled down the porch steps. They looked at each other from a few feet away, and then they fell onto each other’s shoulders and bawled. Peter had to look away. Miss Martha had tears streaming down her cheeks, and so did old Miss Sally. The marquis and Master Jefferson tottered up the steps and went into the parlor. The crowd cheered and wiped their eyes, and then, to Peter’s relief, began to leave.

  Peter found Maddy. He said, “I don’t understand this at all.”

  Maddy took Peter’s hand. “Come with me.” They went through the side door of the house. Maddy peeked into the entrance hall. It was empty. He led Peter inside. He picked Peter up and held him in front of one of the glass-framed squares on the wall, the one with writing in it instead of a picture.

  “Read that,” Maddy said.

  “You know I can’t. Besides, the writing’s squiggly.”

  Maddy sighed. “You are working on your reading and writing, aren’t you?”

  “Some. But I can’t read that.”

  “Okay.” Maddy set him down. “Just listen. Part of it says, We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  “Master Jefferson wrote that,” Maddy said. “It’s why our country fought a war. It’s why Lafayette helped.”

  “Say it plain,” Peter said.

  Maddy said, “We think all people are equal, that God gave everybody the right to live, be free, and try to be happy.”

  Peter looked up at him. “If Master Jefferson wrote that, how come he doesn’t believe it?”

  “He does believe it,” Maddy said. “At least, he thinks he does.”

  Miss Sally and Miss Martha hurried past, but neither of them spoke to Maddy or Peter.

  “But it says all people are free,” Peter said. “Not all white people. Right?” He frowned at the paper. “Read it again.”

  “We hold these truths to be self-evident,” read Maddy, “that all people are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  “It does say all people,” Peter said.

  Maddy sighed. “Yes. It does.”

  “What does that first part mean? We hold these truths to be self-evident?”

  Maddy paused. “That means—it means, this is so true everybody ought to know it. It’s plain truth. It’s obvious.”

  “But people don’t know it,” Peter argued.

  “I didn’t read it to you to tell you that,” Maddy said. “I read it so you’d understand what those two old men were crying about. They believed this a long time ago, when almost nobody else did, and Master Jefferson wrote it down, and they made a whole new country around it. And now they’re so old they’re almost dead, and they’re crying for what they did a long time ago.”

  “But they didn’t really do it,” Peter said.

  Maddy shook his head. “I know,” he said. “But they think they did.”

  1825

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Extra

  Master Jefferson was sick most of the following winter. He improved a little in time for Miss Ellen’s wedding at the end of May. Miss Ellen was marrying a wealthy businessman from Boston. She would be moving there to live.

  “I feel like I’m deserting a sinking ship,” she said to Miss Martha, the week before the wedding. “I feel like a coward, running away.” She and Miss Martha were at the breakfast table. Peter was sitting on the floor in the corner, waiting to clear.

  “I’m thankful your situation at least will be secure,” Miss Martha said. “It’s one consolation in the face of our impending misfortune.”

  Miss Ellen said, “Grandpa says it will get better.”

  Miss Martha nodded. “He always thinks so. But I don’t despair. If we have to, we can sell some of the extra Negroes.”

  Peter frowned. He must have misheard. Negroes meant black people. Surely Miss Martha hadn’t said that. Extra people? Who did she think was extra? She could sell some extra furniture—they had plenty of that. Or extra livestock, there were baby calves and lambs. Or some of the books or china or wine—lots of extras there.

  Maybe she hadn’t said Negroes. Maybe she had said clothes. The word clothes sounded like Negroes. Some of the extra clothes. Miss Martha and her family had more clothes than they needed, that was sure.

  Peter sat back on his heels. Surely Miss Martha had said clothes. And why would she need to sell anything? Master Jefferson was still alive.

  “I don’t know,” Maddy said, when Peter asked him about it. His worried expression made Peter feel worse. “They must be in more trouble than we know. I thought they’d be able to manage, while he lived.” He shook his head. “Pay more attention next time, okay? And tell me whatever you hear. Like my mama says, keep your mouth shut, your eyes and ears open.” Maddy went back to work. After a while he spoke again. “I never thought Miss Ellen would marry.”

  “Why not?” Peter never thought about Miss Ellen at all.

  “Something she told me, a long time ago.”

  “She used to talk to you?” Peter said.

  “When I was a little boy. Look here, Peter, you need to get serious with this primer. You hear me? I want you to get serious about learning to read.”

  “I hear you,” Peter said, but he rolled his eyes.

  In August, Maddy and Eston traveled to Poplar Forest one last time, to replace the roof on the house there the way they’d done at Monticello. Master Jefferson stayed home. He was too weak to make the trip.

  The flood of visitors continued unceasing, even as Master Jefferson declined. Miss Martha tried to always answer the door herself, so that she could turn strangers away, but if Master Jefferson heard the door he would totter out to the hall and invite everyone to spend the night. He couldn’t preside at lengthy dinners anymore. He was always tired, but he needed laudanum to get to sleep.

  “Daddy?” Peter asked. “Are we going to be okay?”

  “I wish I knew,” Daddy said.

  The Marquis de Lafayette visited again before he returned to France. Peter begged Burwell to let him help serve in the dining room. He loved the sight of the long table loaded with the best food his mama could make, and with china and crystal glasses that glittered in the light. The diners toasted Lafayette, and Jefferson, and freedom; they cheered and raised their glasses high. But Master Jefferson lay in bed, too sick to attend. He and Mr. Lafayette wept again when they said good-bye.

  “What do you mean, no piano?” Miss Virginia’s angry voice filled the hall. “Mother! You promised this time!”

  Miss Virginia and Miss Martha were sitting in Miss Martha’s little parlor. Peter was waiting in the hall, to see if Master Jefferson wanted Eagle. On his good days he sometimes still rode.

  Miss Virginia had been whining about a piano for months. Peter was sick to death of hearing about it. He supposed Miss Martha was too.

  “Jeff tells me he spent the money elsewhere,” Miss Martha said. “I thought he’d set it aside for the piano, but he says he didn’t, and it’s gone.” After a pause, she added, “He says we can’t afford a new piano.”

  “How ridiculous!” Miss Virginia huffed. “I refuse to believe it. He simply doesn’t care about my needs. I know our situation is bad, but I must have a decent instrument if I’m to have any hope of keeping up my skills. Think of all the time I’ve invested in learning to play. The old piano is hopeless. It’s inadequate.”

  “I agree,” Miss Martha said. “But Jeff seems to feel that any indulgence, however small, is too much for us now. I’ll tell him again how important it is.”

  In the hall, the door to Master Jefferson’s bedroom creaked open. Peter jumped up. “Eagle?” he whispered to Miss
Sally.

  Miss Sally shook her head. Peter nodded. He went to the stables, and turned Eagle out to grass for the day.

  In the kitchen Peter told Miss Sally and his mama about Miss Virginia and her piano. Miss Sally shook her head. “That girl is worse than a two-ton mosquito,” she said.

  Miss Sally told Peter’s mama that Master Jefferson couldn’t pass water. His water was getting blocked up in him, and that caused terrible pain. The Charlottesville doctor was bringing them tubes made from rubber gum, which could bend without breaking, to stick inside Master Jefferson and let his water out.

  Peter’s mama shook her head sympathetically. She seemed about to say something when Peter’s little sister Isabella came in. “Miss Martha said to tell you twenty-six for dinner today.”

  Mama looked at Miss Sally. “When will it end?”

  At first the gum tubes helped. Then Master Jefferson got an infection from them. It was terrible to get infections up inside of you.

  Night and day, either Miss Sally or Burwell stayed at Master Jefferson’s side. They sponged his forehead to bring his fever down, and fed him broth Peter’s mama made. He survived.

  Christmas came. With Master Jefferson sick in bed, no one felt like celebrating. Peter thought of what his daddy had said: As long as Master Jefferson lived, all of them would be just fine. As long as Master Jefferson lived. Please don’t die, he begged Master Jefferson in his head. Please don’t die.

  Miss Virginia borrowed money for a piano from a friend of Master Jefferson’s. Her brother Jeff argued hard against it, but she shouted him down. She wrote to Miss Ellen in Boston to find a good piano and have it shipped to them.

  “I told her we didn’t want to spend more than two hundred and fifty dollars,” Miss Virginia told Miss Martha.

  Peter perked his ears. Two hundred and fifty! He never dreamed pianos cost so much. No wonder Mister Jeff didn’t want to buy one.

  He still wished he knew for certain what Miss Martha had said that day—selling Negroes? Old clothes? He told himself over and over that Negroes didn’t make sense. If Miss Martha sold the workers, there would be no one to grow crops on the farms. Then there’d be even less money.

  Negroes, old clothes. She’d said Negroes. In his heart, Peter knew.

  Worry lived on the mountaintop. The cold winter winds blew it back and forth, around the edges of the doorways and down the chimney draughts. Mister Jeff’s face stayed creased and his fists clenched tight. Master Jefferson, up again and walking gingerly about the house, never smiled. When folks knocked on the door now, they were more likely to want money that was owed them than to meet the president.

  Burwell said there was a heap of debts, from little ones to wine merchants and tailors to big ones like the one left over from Mr. Nicholas. Nobody knew their total, except maybe Master Jefferson. “And I doubt he does,” Burwell said. “He doesn’t want to know.”

  One winter night Peter went up to the great house with a cup of hot spiced wine his mama made for Master Jefferson. He scratched on the door of Master Jefferson’s room and handed the cup to Miss Sally. “He’s sleeping,” Miss Sally whispered. “Tell Miss Edith thank you. I’ll give it to him when he wakes.”

  Instead of taking the stairs to the basement, Peter stepped through the parlor onto the back portico. The new brick steps were still unfinished along one side. Master Jefferson had forgotten them. Peter looked across the broad lawn, peaceful under the moonlit sky, and there, standing beside the north pavilion, was Master Jefferson.

  He stood hatless, his back to Peter, his coat open and one hand on his hip. Peter knew Master Jefferson had no business being out on a cold night. He’d get sick and die for sure. “Master Jefferson!” Peter called. “Hey—Master Jefferson!”

  Master Jefferson didn’t turn around. He’d grown pretty deaf in the past months. Peter ran forward, still calling. He had nearly reached him when the man finally turned—but it wasn’t Master Jefferson. It was Eston.

  “Oh!” Peter said. “I thought you were Master Jefferson.”

  Eston looked down at him and smiled. “No. He’s in bed, I hope.”

  Eston was tall, over six foot, the tallest man on the mountain besides Master Jefferson. He was thin, and he moved in the same loose way Master Jefferson did. Peter had never realized before how exactly they resembled each other. “You look just like him,” Peter said.

  “Mmm,” said Eston. “Stars are pretty tonight, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” A gust blew, and Peter shivered.

  “Come on,” said Eston. He put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. They walked across the lawn, back toward the kitchen. “He’s my father,” Eston said. “Master Jefferson.”

  “I know,” Peter said. “Everyone knows that.”

  Eston smiled. His smile looked like Master Jefferson’s too. “I thought it was a secret,” he said.

  “Not really,” Peter said.

  1826

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Waiting for the Fourth of July

  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.

  “The house too?” Miss Martha asked. “Monticello?”

  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.”

  Miss Virginia looked puzzled. “But you don’t play the piano, Grandpa,” she said.

  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.”

  Master Jefferson looked at Miss Sally. “I think I need to ride today,” he said.

  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.

  “Don’t bring Eagle anymore,” Miss Sally told Peter the next morning. “He won’t ride again.”

  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 alwa
ys 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.

  “Not those,” John said. “I’m saving those.”

  “What for?”

  John took a deep breath. “For when I make his coffin.”

  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,” Peter asked, “if Master Jefferson dies, what are we going to do?”

  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.