“He loved me more than you! He loved me! You are nothing, you black slut! You slave whore! You know your children are not his! Never! They’ll never be his!”
“Perhaps, but I was his. He loved me, Martha. It is not out of vanity or pride that I say it, but that was how it was between us. We loved. It was all that mattered.”
“How can you speak of love between a master and a slave … between a hero and chattel?”
“We had no need to speak of it. …”
“You were nothing to him! A convenient slave paramour, a … receptacle!”
The evil words clattered like iron nails in the coffin of silence. There was nothing but pure hatred between us now. Martha’s face pressed into mine and I looked into its decay as if in a mirror. Those eyes would not leave mine. She would not leave me in peace. The breath. The feverish face. We were like two bitches worrying over a rotting and long-dead carcass. Didn’t she understand that it was over?
Then she drew back. Dread seized me by the throat like some wild animal. She was going to tell me something.
“Didn’t you ever love me?” she whispered.
It was the same thing her father had asked. A wild, uncontrollable desolation bore down upon me. A howl like that of a wild animal caught in my throat. When … when would they understand this farce and this tragedy? I knew that only the one who stopped loving, who stopped needing love, would survive. And hate seemed to drop over me like a veil. Love had left me, and hate had filled that space. The grief and loneliness without him; the empty meaningless days and nights dissolved like dry straw. Hate lifted me up in a kind of exaltation. The white envelope which said I was free but which I knew would never really free me remained in her hand.
I didn’t need anything anymore. I didn’t need Martha. Martha needed me to free, but I didn’t need Martha to free me.
I, like my mother and her mother before her, had survived love.
CHAPTER 43
NOVEMBER 1826
Notice from Richmond Enquirer, 7 Nov. 1826
EXECUTOR’S SALE
On the fifteenth of January, at Monticello, in the county of Albemarle, the whole of the residue of the personal property of Thomas Jefferson, dec., consisting of valuable negroes, stock, crops, etc., household and kitchen furniture. The attention of the public is earnestly invited to this property. The negroes are believed to be the most valuable for their number ever offered in the state of Virginia. The household furniture, many valuable historical and portrait paintings, busts of marble and plaster of distinguished individuals, one of marble of Thomas Jefferson Ceracci with the pedestal and truncated column on which it stands, a polygraph or copying instrument used by Thomas Jefferson for the last twenty-five years, with various other articles useful to men of business and private faculties. The terms of the sale will be accommodating and made known previous to the day. The sale will be continued from day to day until completed. The sale being inevitable is a sufficient guarantee to the public that they will take place at the times and places appointed.
[signed] THOMAS JEFFERSON RANDOLPH
Executor of Th. Jefferson dec’d.
It has long been known that the best blood of Virginia may now be found in the slave markets. . . .
FREDERICK DOUGLASS, 1850
THOMAS JEFFERSON RANDOLPH, better known as Jeff, sat in his grandfather’s study, his long legs stretched out under the old man’s writing table. He was the image of Thomas Jefferson.
He stared at the laboriously written inventory. It was pitiful, he thought. Not more than five years ago, these people would have brought four or five or even ten times these amounts. Of course, the most valuable slaves were not at Monticello, but at Poplar Forest, where they were about seventy odd who would bring in money as prime laborers. The Monticellian slaves were all more or less fancies, highyellow or white slaves, highly trained, but they were too old. He had never known Monticello without them.
He had lined them all up on the west lawn, practically in front of the window he was now gazing out of, and had gone around from one to the other making the inventory with Mr. Matter, the auctioneer. His nurses, his playmates were all there. He had taken out his own slaves—Indridge, Bonny Castle, and Maria—and those of Aunt Marck’s, which were the most valuable, except for Davey Bowles. Damn! Davey Bowles should have been able to bring at least two thousand. . . . He had passed each familiar face, some so dear to him, that tears had welled in his eyes. When he had stood before Fanny, he had wanted to throw himself in her arms bawling.
Mr. Matter had kept apologizing for the low estimates, explaining that the bottom had fallen out of the market in the past year and that prices had plummeted almost eighty percent! At least they would keep the house with one miserable acre. That was all.
His eyes roved to the miniature staircase at the foot of his grandfather’s bed. The passageway would be sealed at the request of his mother. Only the tiny staircase would remain. No one had taken the trouble to explain the relationship between the Hemingses and the Randolphs, but children had a way of finding out what they wanted to know, thought Jeff. Like the day of the inventory when he had looked into the eyes of Sally Hemings. He had heard Mr. Matter’s automatic whisper:
“Age?”
“I reckon between fifty and sixty,” he had answered.
“Fifty dollars,” Mr. Matter had said.
And Sally Hemings had said, “Oh my husband,” looking straight at him.
She had said it, damn it. Clear as a bell. Only once, but he had heard it. When he had told his mother of it, she had shrugged and said that Sally’s mind was probably wandering with the shock of the sale. She had never had a husband. Then his mother had announced that she was freeing Sally Hemings because his grandfather wanted it that way. It meant they would have to petition the Virginia legislature for her to remain in the state—dangerous.
Of course, Sally Hemings hadn’t said those words to him, for her eyes had been fixed on the Blue Ridge Mountains, and they had had the most unearthly yellow glow. God damn!...
CHAPTER 44
JANUARY 1827
THE DISMANTLING of Monticello by the slave auction of 1827, the abomination of the sale of my kin, the ticketing and labeling and pricing of every stick of furniture, every sheet, every curtain, every dish, every book, painting, sculpture, each clock, vase, bed, table, horse, mule, hog, and slave that had been Thomas Jefferson’s; that had been he, himself; all his parts and pieces, his choices, his favorites, his ears, his hands, his eyes, was the sorrow and pity of my life. His life had been parceled and lotted and priced by the auctioneers who thronged through the house. His life’s bits and pieces probed and handled, weighed, inspected, and priced. Everything, animal and human, including my own flesh.
I despised the steaming crowd that had gathered round the west portico of Monticello that January day, come to bid like vultures on the carcass that had been a man and his house. If only he had not loved everything so much! If everything had not been love and memory as well as collection!
People arrived by the wagonloads. A county-fair atmosphere reigned as the prospective buyers strolled in and out of the barns that held the slaves, and the house that held the objects, their flyers in hand, inspecting: objects tenderly accumulated in Paris; a house of brick and wood assembled by my kin; the brilliant English gardens, now brown and colorless; and the orchards, now leafless and barren; and beyond, the rolling fertile fields, woods, cascades, and rivers. Already the deep black lands of Pan tops and Tuffton, Lego, Poplar Forest, Bear Creek, Tomahawk, and Shadwell were gone, now the humans attached to them were going. One thousand four hundred and fifty lots had been auctioned off that day, forty-two hogs, fifty sheep, seventy cattle, fifteen horses, eight mules, and fifty-five humans from Monticello—more than half of the slaves were my sisters, brothers, cousins, nieces, nephews. And one hundred and twenty from Bedford.
The crowds had begun to assemble early that day. They had come from as far away as Kentucky for a chance to buy pr
ime black flesh, livestock, or an object that had been, as I had been, a possession of Thomas Jefferson. There had been that same lewdness in the air, that same miasma of death and contempt and titillation that always accompanies the trial, judgment, and condemnation of a man’s life. Around me festered the curiosity about the great, the aura that sets some men above others and brings out that predatory hatred of the common for the extraordinary.
My master had left debts of one hundred and seven thousand dollars. Martha and Jeff had struggled valiantly to save Monticello, selling off all the other lands and plantations; the lots in Richmond and Charlottesville, everything. But everything had not been enough. The gods had demanded and got all but the mansion of Monticello.
Strangers had roamed his precious gardens, treaded his polished floors, inspected his linen, looked into his barns and the mouths of his slaves, pinched velvet and flesh, sniffed tobacco and the smell of human sweat, hefted samples of cotton and the private parts of male field hands, rubbed their hands over the woolly rumps of Marina sheep and the heads of pickaninnies, discussed the qualities of Monticello blooded bays and Monticello pure-bred bodies.
Hatted and veiled, my identity hidden behind my color and the name of “Frances Wright” of Tennessee, I had roamed the crowds that day as a freedwoman, despite the danger, willing myself to engrave every moment in my memory, hoping to save one or two of the children, and vowing never to forget the sale of Thomas Jefferson.
“If you don’t be good, I’ll tell Master, and he’ll sell you to Georgia, he’ll sell you so fast…”
How often had those words struck terror in a slave child’s heart? How long, how much longer, would they continue to? He had been good, but he would be sold anyway.
“What do I have, whatdo I have, whatdoihave for this lot number thirty-four, three prime male field hands, twenty-six to twenty-nine, broken here at Monticello, in perfect health, no scars, bruises, defects of any kind; never been whipped, docile, strong, perfect for breeding. What am I bid, whatamibid, three hundred, four, four fifty. Do I hear five? Five, five twenty-five, six, six, six. Do I hear seven? Yes seven, seven twenty-five, seven fifty; only seven fifty for this prime lot, three … ladies and gentlemen, three prime Monticello slaves, three for the price of one. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you, is this the best you can do? Eight, eight fifty. Do I hear nine? Nine, do I hear nine, nine, nine, nine—going once, nine going twice, nine going three times—sold, sold to the lady for nine hundred dollars. Prime, male house slave, thirty-two years old, Israel, father of seven in the next lot, locksmith and metalworker. Prime, housebroken pickaninnies, a lot of seven. Just a few years and they’ll be prime field hands or house servants, healthy stock, no blemishes, light-skinned. Do I hear five hundred? Five hundred once, five hundred twice, five hundred three times. Sold! Sold! Sold! A female, twenty-nine years old, breeder, light-skinned, seamstress and cook, perfect for a housekeeper for a young gentleman; may I start at four hundred? Four hundred fifty? Elizabeth, Israel’s wife. Do I hear four? Four, four fifty, five … female slave, fifteen, guaranteed virgin, healthy, bright, best stock of Monticello, trained as a house servant. Priscilla, Israel’s daughter.
“Do I hear three hundred? Three hundred. The best stock at Monticello. Docile, perfect for a lady’s maid. Only five hundred dollars. Ladies and gentlemen, Christmas was a week ago! I cannot let this prime female go for less than three fifty. Do I hear three fifty? Yes, three seventy-five. Do I hear four? Four. Four. Do I hear four? Sold to the gentleman for four seventy-five. Dolly.
“Prime first-class female. Cook. Thirty-six years old; served at the President’s House in Washington City. Pastry and all-around cook. Do I hear one hundred dollars? Two? Do I hear three? Three for this treasure trained in French cuisine. Of impeccable stock, guaranteed fertile, mother of three. Three fifty, do I hear four? Four fifty, do I hear five? Five fifty once, five fifty twice, five fifty three times. Sold to the lady for five hundred and fifty dollars. Fanny. One big black healthy mammy trained as washerwoman, midwife, and pastry cook. Weighs in at two fifty [laughter]. House servant for twenty years. Sixty-two years old, ladies and gentlemen, I won’t lie to you, but she still has some good years in her. Loves children, mother of eight herself. All them children in lot fifty-six hers! Loyal, honest, clean house mammy. Do I hear thirty dollars? Thirty-five, do I hear forty? Fifty? Do I hear … fifty it is. Going, going gone. Sold. Sold. Doll.
“Now here’s a perfect lady’s maid, tall, beautiful, bright, breeder, a child sold along with the female, two months’ … one lot, ladies and gentlemen, one lot. Ursula.
“Twenty years old, ladies and gentlemen, look at that body. Born to breed. Look at those breasts. Ladies and gentlemen, do I hear four fifty? Do I hear it? Do I hear five? Five for the lot, ladies and gentlemen. Buy her and get the sire of the next lot. Do I hear five fifty? Five fifty, once, five fifty twice, five fifty three times. Going, going, gone.”
Critta’s Milly, sold to Mississippi. James Hubbard sold to Kentucky. Washington Hemings, my nephew, sold to West Virginia. Critta had fetched one hundred dollars despite her age. Nance, six hundred and fifty dollars with two adolescent grandchildren thrown in. Betsy, her daughter, sold pregnant at one thousand to North Carolina. Betsy’s husband brought five hundred, sold to Georgia. Isaac brought seven hundred and Wormley six hundred. Davey Bowles, the highest price of all, one thousand dollars, sold to New Orleans.
At the end came the “extra articles” prized because of their beauty, their color, their training, their pedigree. The white Hemingses came under that category … all my sister’s children, Lilburn, Henry Randell, Martha, Maria, Dolly. Peter Hemings, as a first-class chef, brought five hundred. His twin boys brought seventeen hundred for the pair.
John had given his seven hundred to a white man to buy his son, and Joe Fosset bought his wife for nine hundred fifty, and his mother, Mary, for twenty-five dollars. My room, with all my possessions, had been sealed. Only later would John be able to retrieve them. I had only the clothes on my back. But I had the locket. If only I had tried to sell it. The little money I had with me, I had hoped to buy one or two of the children, perhaps Critta’s ten-year-old Nancy, or Rachel’s six-year-old twin girls. I wanted to save one or two small children, my sister’s children being grown and too expensive. I hadn’t realized that they would not be sold one by one, but in lots. In lots of three or four children for two to four hundred dollars. Too late, I realized I had not enough money to buy a lot. Too late, I realized that the locket was my condemnation to everlasting hell.
I had stood like a survivor of a shipwreck who had managed to be pulled ashore and lay half-drowned on the rocks. The worst was the end, when the leftover children and women were sold in lots away from their husbands, or mothers, or children. The screams of the children, the cries of the mothers, the groans of the fathers and husbands rang in my ears.
Then I saw him before me on the block, unclothed, his lean, naked, white body covered with its soft red down as I had seen him when I was a young girl; the wide square shoulders; the long, heavy-wristed, heavy-thighed, heavy-angled body with its powerful neck supporting the delicate head; the leonine burst of thick auburn hair. A white, male, shorn of his gifts, his power, his possessions, his history, his family, his children, his lands, pale and vulnerable.
Over the hallucination, I heard the auctioneer droning—“Prime male, unusually strong, intelligent, trained as a carpenter, a gardener, a horse trainer, a secretary, a musician … useless in the fields, but a good breeder. Going once, going twice, going three times. Sold! Sold for seven hundred dollars. . . .”
PART VII
1835
Albemarle County
CHAPTER 45
JUNE 1835
St. Claire laughed. “You’ll have to give her a meaning or she’ll make one.”
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 1852
PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4th, 1776
He has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violati
ng its most sacred rights of life & liberty in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating & carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in their transportation hither. This piratical warfare, the opprobrium of INFIDEL powers, is the warfare of the CHRISTIAN king of Great Britain, determined to keep open a market where MEN should be bought and sold. He has prostituted his negative for suppressing every legislative attempt to prohibit or to restrain this execrable commerce, and that this assemblage of horrors might want no fact of distinguished die, he is now exciting those very people to rise in arms among us, and to purchasing that liberty of which he deprived them, by murdering the people on whom he also obstruded them; thus paying off former crimes committed against the LIBERTIES of one people, with crimes which he urges them to commit against the LIVES of another.
THOMAS JEFFERSON
The Declaration of Independence, 1776
(Excised from the final draft by consensus)
Nathan Langdon released the pressure of his thighs and reined in his horse. He had just taken the rotting dilapidated barrier on the western slope of Monticello at full speed, and now he rested in the cool, vaulted overgrown forest, still criss-crossed with Thomas Jefferson’s bridle paths.
It was the first time he had returned home for the summer in two years. The handsome face and the pure gaze were slightly touched with the cynicism of his profession. He was a Washington lawyer now, considered one of the best, and he was Washington-wise and Washington-weary, full of compromise, adroit at survival, and totally successful. The beautiful mouth revealed a line of disappointment. There was no more black or white in his life, only infinite shades of gray.
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