Peter felt like the floor was opening up beneath his feet, like he was falling, falling. He was last in line. Who would protect him?
“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.”
The words gave Peter something solid to stand on. “I’ll help you,” he promised. “I’ll work too. I won’t ever stop.”
Maria asked, “How much money do we have?”
Daddy drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know exactly. I think it’s around five hundred dollars.”
“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.
Peter had been appraised for the same amount as a decent pig.
He wished he could find that funny.
“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.
The morning passed without Peter knowing how. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t even seem to feel the cold.
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.
Mama opened her mouth wide. She didn’t smile. She showed her teeth.
“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.
Peter’s sister Maria stood on the block.
Sold, to a man whose name Peter didn’t hear.
Patsy.
Sold. To Mr. Charles Bonnycastle.
Betsy-Ann.
Sold. To Mr. John Winn.
Isabella.
Sold. To someone else entirely.
Wormley’s wife, Ursula.
Sold.
Their children: Joseph, Anne, Dolly, Cornelius, Thomas, Louisa, Caroline, Critta, George, Robert, and Burwell.
Sold.
Davy Hern.
Sold.
His wife, Fanny.
Sold.
Their children: Ellen, Jenny, Indridge, and Bonnycastle.
Sold.
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.
He heard the hammer fall.
Sold.
Afterword
Every time I have written a piece of historical fiction, I have been asked afterward which parts of my book were really true. The answer for this book, like the story itself, is complicated.
I believe Thomas Jefferson was the father of all of Sally Hemings’s children. So does almost everyone else who’s investigated the subject—and there has been a lot of careful research done, including what DNA testing could be done without actually digging up Thomas Jefferson’s body. If you want to read further, the “Report of the Monticello Research Committee on Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings,” which can be found online at www.monticello.org, is a good place to start.
Every named character in this book comes from history—their ages, situations, and relationships to each other are all historically documented. Most, though not all, of their actions in this book are also historically documented. However, we really know very little about them. We know what they did, but not how they felt; where they worked, but not how they spoke or what they said.
For example, we know that Beverly Hemings left Monticello right around the time of his twenty-first birthday. We know that he returned a few months later, and that he left for good three years after that. But we don’t know why he returned. We don’t know anything about what happened to him during the months he was gone; we don’t know how he felt about leaving his family, or how they felt about seeing him again. I’ve had to, as best as I am able, put myself in Beverly’s shoes—to imagine, if I were Beverly, what could make me go back to Monticello. And if I were Sally, or Maddy, or Harriet, how would I react when he did?
As another example, we know that Maddy was taught to read and write by one or more of Jefferson’s grandchildren. We know that Miss Ellen was the most scholarly grandchild, and we know that Maddy later named one of his own daughters Ellen. We don’t really know whether it was Miss Ellen who taught Maddy—that’s an educated guess.
We know that Miss Cornelia gave John Hemings a dictionary. We know that Peter Fossett secretly carried a primer he treasured with him to his new master’s house after the auction. We don’t know where Peter’s primer came from; when I wrote the scene where Maddy gives it to him, I was making that up.
We know James Fossett became the property of Thomas Randolph around the time of his eleventh birthday, but we don’t know why. We don’t even know whether he was sold or was given away.
Different people might draw on the same facts I did and come up with a very different story. That’s okay. This is Beverly’s story, and Maddy’s, Eston’s, Harriet’s, and Sally’s. It is Peter Fossett’s story, and Joe Fossett’s, and James Fossett’s. It is Thomas Jefferson’s story, and Martha Jefferson Randolph’s, and Burwell’s and John Hemings’s and mine. I have done what I can with what we know now. I’ve told all the truth I can find; so far as I know, nowhere have I written anything that couldn’t be true—that contradicts something we know for sure.
But history changes; that’s part of the wonder of it. Even during the three years I have been writing and researching this story, historians have uncovered new information in old letters, cen
sus records, and long-buried documents, and I’ve had to revise my story accordingly.
Madison Hemings, the overseer Edmund Bacon, and Peter Fossett all left personal recollections of their lives at Monticello. Maddy’s tells us that Harriet and Beverly both married white people, and had children. Neither ever told their new families about their past. They are lost in history; though Madison said they lived in Washington, D.C., he and Eston died without revealing the names Beverly and Harriet lived under.
Madison and Eston stayed in Charlottesville with their mother until her death in 1835. They then moved to Ohio, which had become a free state. Both married light-complexioned free black women and had families. Among Maddy’s eleven children were sons named after his brothers and himself, and daughters named Sally, Harriet, and, as I said before, Ellen. Although Maddy never passed for white, some of his children did.
In the early 1850s, Eston, his wife, and their three children moved to Wisconsin, changed their last name from Hemings to Jefferson, and passed into white society. Eston was a professional violinist whose signature tune was Jefferson’s favorite, “Money Musk.” I don’t know where or how Eston acquired his violin. Thomas Jefferson was known to have owned at least five violins; three of them, including his expensive Italian violin, can be traced after his death.
Joe and Edith Fossett and their children Daniel, William, and Betsy-Ann (whom Joe was eventually able to buy), along with Lucy and Jesse, who were born after the auction, moved to Ohio around 1840. Peter escaped slavery when he was thirty years old, and joined them. He became a Baptist minister and a conductor on the Underground Railroad. We don’t know exactly what happened to Patsy, but she may have run away from her new owner after the auction: She is listed in the 1850 census as living free in Cincinnati. Peter is said to have forged a pass allowing Isabella to run away, but we don’t know if she succeeded; she does not seem to have reunited with her family. Neither did Maria; we don’t know what happened to her.
Historians believe James Fossett married a woman named Mary. Nothing else about his adult life is known.
Most Useful Sources for Further Study
The best place to go first for more information about Thomas Jefferson, Sally Hemings, and the other people in this book, is the website Monticello.org. It’s a huge site, with lots of information tucked in odd corners—I particularly used the Plantation Database and the Digital Family Letters Archive.
Monticello itself is a fascinating place to visit, as is Poplar Forest, Jefferson’s retreat home.
The books I found most useful are listed below. A more comprehensive list of sources can be found on my website, www.kimberlybrubakerbradley.com.
Betts, Edwin Morris, ed. Thomas Jefferson’s Farm Book. Rev. ed. Charlottesville, VA: The Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundation, 1999.
Gordon-Reed, Annette. The Hemingses of Monticello: An American Family. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2008.
———. Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings: An American Controversy. Charlottesville, VA: The University of Virginia Press, 1997.
Lanier, Shannon & Jane Feldman. Jefferson’s Children: The Story of One American Family. New York: Random House, 2000.
Stanton, Lucia. Free Some Day: The African-American Families of Monticello. Charlottesville, VA: The Thomas Jefferson Foundation, 2000.
———. Slavery at Monticello. Charlottesville, VA: The Thomas Jefferson Foundation, 1996.
Webster, Noah. American Dictionary of the English Language. Facsimile copy of the 1828 edition published by the Foundation for American Christian Education, Chesapeake, VA, 1995.
———. The Original Blue Back Speller, 1824. Facsimile copy published by the Vision Forum, San Antonio, TX, 2009.
Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, Jefferson's Sons
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