The Others at Monticello- Volume I

By Esther Franklin

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The Others At Monticello, volume I is is a historical fiction novel that draws heavily upon the Thomas Jefferson's personal library at Monticello to portray the story of his relationship with his slaves, especially Sally Hemings and her children. Volume I especially focuses on the course of events that bring Sally Hemings' son, Beverly, close to the former President. The vivid prose brings members of the Hemings family to life; no fewer than 10 years of research flesh out this captivating tale of bonds, prejudice, and interpersonal relationships.

- Midwest Book Review (Oregon, WI USA)

What do you know about the others who lived at Monticelllo? How would it have felt to be part of the Hemings family, wondering about your physical features and why you were treated differently from many other slaves? Volumes of history and biography have recorded Thomas Jeffersons life and works. Some call him Democracys Champion. Countless persons have visited his unique home, heard of his daughters, his grandchildren. More people are learning about his second home, the Natural Bridge, and the Peaks of Otter. Many readers know of his slave, Sally Hemings, and recently about her descendants; few are aware of her parentage. Nor have many been informed of the contributions of her brother, John Hemings - his great talent as an artisan in wood. Virginia law decreed that slaves should not learn to read and write, yet there is tangible evidence they did. Jeffersons personal Library was a source of much pride and satisfaction to him; would members of the Hemings family have known about these books? How are all the above individuals connected to the War of 1812?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 21, 2002
• ISBN: 9781450081139

Esther Franklin

Esther Franklin’s historical novel, The Others At Monticello is the result of ten years of research. She lived in Charlottesville, Virginia, for three of those years and spent many hours at both of Thomas Jefferson’s homes. She also used extensive resources at the Library of Congress and other institutions in addition to scholarly books about the Third President. She became acquainted with a number of his descendants. Following publication of the book, she made presentations at educational meetings, such as California Council for the Social Studies and California Association of School Librarians as well as to other groups, Book Clubs and Humanist Forums. Thomas Jefferson: Inquiry History for Daring Delvers has roots in discussions/reactions following her talks. Plus it is the result of more years of study of books, films, and created/recordings about Jefferson created since she began her original research - a number of these are not as complimentary as those she first examined. Her new volume - non-fiction - is intended for a wide audience. It might be used in both high school and college classes. Or it may be interesting for Book Clubs or Senior Home Presentations.

Book preview

THE OTHERS

AT MONTICELLO

VOLUME I

Esther Franklin

Copyright © 2002 by Esther Franklin.

Revised 2003

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

BACKGROUND SOURCES

1   YOUR SYSTEM SIR

2   A SLAVE WONDERS

3   HEAD, HEART, AND THE LAW

4   PARIS REMEMBERED

5   WAGGON LOADS

6   SALLY’S PARIS STORIES

7   FREEDOM STORIES, ILLEGAL GAMES

8   MAY I GO WITH YOU?

9   SPECIAL DAYS

10   FOREST SECRETS

11   GIRL TALK

12   WHY, GRANDFATHER?

13   MADISON’S QUEST

14   BOOK-LOVERS’ AGONY

15   DILEMMA, DECISION, DEBATE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PHOTOGRAPH AND ART CREDITS

JEFFERSON’S BOOKS

For Bengee, my Mentor and Love.

He knew how to encourage me to pursue dreams.

BACKGROUND SOURCES

Historical novels are by definition dependent on information gleaned from a variety of individuals. My quest began by exploration of E. Millicent Sowerby’s amazing five-volume Catalogue of the Library of Thomas Jefferson, and went on to the article analyses of Professor Doug Wilson; ultimately his Jefferson’s Books. This was followed by reading many of the works of Jefferson Scholars, including three of Dumas Malone’s six-volume biography, Jefferson and His Time, and Merrill Peterson’s Thomas Jefferson: Writings, which contains many of the Bard’s Public Papers and Letters, as well as Autobiography and Notes on the State of Virginia. Other books read during this period were Thomas Jefferson: A Life, Willard Sterne; Mr. Jefferson, John J. Nock; The Lost World of Thomas Jefferson, Daniel Boorstin; Thomas Jefferson: American Humanist, Karl Lehmann and The Family Letters of Thomas Jefferson, edited by Edwin Betts and James Bear, Jr., and The Half-way Pacifist: Thomas Jefferson’s View of War, by Reginald C. Stuart.

As my focus moved to Monticello, I read Jefferson and Monticello, Jack McLaughlin; The Domestic Life of Thomas Jefferson, by his Great-Granddaughter, Sarah N. Randolph, and Jefferson at Monticello: Memoirs of a Monticello Slave, edited by James A. Bear. The miscellaneous pamphlets produced by the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundation are useful for concise information; the recent Monticello Guidebook’s graphics, including figures of slave families was especially instructive. Shifting to the Bedford County property, I read The Natural Bridge and its Historical Surroundings, E. P. Tompkins and J. Lee Davis, and Poplar Forest , S. Allen Chambers, Jr.

Later I read the volume Jeffersonian Legacies, edited by Peter Onuf of value for a better understanding of current research on this complex man. I found the chapter by Professor Jan Lewis, The Blessings of Domestic Society, gave me insight on Jefferson’s relationship to women. This period found me particularly attracted to such works as The Religious Life of Thomas Jefferson by Charles B. Sanford and The Jefferson-Dunglison Letters, by John Me. Dorsey, (a Medical Doctor.) From Thomas Jefferson and his Unknown Brother, letters edited by Bernard Mayo, I learned more about the relationship between these two very diverse siblings.

Anyone who has the audacity to undertake serious study of our very complicated Third President knows it becomes somewhat of an addiction. I found myself going from the Huntington Library in California to the Jefferson Expansion Library in St. Louis on my way to the University of Virginia, the Monticello Foundation. Later I traveled to Philadelphia and the New York Public Library, the Massachusetts Historical Society before settling in at the Library of Congress. More study was then completed at The UV Alderman Rare Books Room. I struggled there with decisions about which parts I could read of the huge, multiple volumes of Paul L. Ford, ed., The Writings of Thomas Jefferson and Julian Boyd, The Papers of Thomas Jefferson. For change of pace I would visit the Charlottesville City and Albemarle County Public Libraries. For three years I lived in a wonderful daze of Account Books, The Farm Book, manuscripts, original letters, microfilm and the books which had been in Jefferson’s own Library, and are now primarily in the Rare Books Room at the Library of Congress. (I also fit in an UV Extension Class focused on Monticello, coordinated by Dr. Paul Jordan, Director of the Monticello Foundation.)

On trips to Washington D. C. to the Library of Congress, I also examined multiple materials on the history of this great institution itself. These included The Story Up To Now . . . , David Mearns; History of the Library of Congress, (Volume I), William Dawson Johnston. Lucy Salamanca’s Fortress of Freedom was not accurate in every detail, but was very readable. Charles

A Goodrum’s The Library of Congress contains interesting small information. For Congress and the Nation : A Chronological History and Jefferson’s Legacy . . . , both by John Y. Cole are crucial to this research. The Handbooks of the New Library of Congress and the Facsimile edition of The 1812 Catalogue of the Library of Congress were fascinating little resources.

In preparation for the chapters focused on the bringing of Jefferson’s books to Washington City, I explored The Beginnings of Washington by Philip Lee Phillips; Historic Houses of George Town Washington City, by Harold Eberlein and Cortlandt Van Dykee Hubbard; and Capital Losses by James M. Goode, as well as a number of other materials.

It was, however, Professor Fawn Brodie’s Thomas Jefferson: An Intimate Biography which was to have the most profound effect on my writing, for it was she who brought me closest to the feelings of this celebrated genius who suffered so much sorrow in his life. It was she who introduced me to Maria Cosway and Sally Hemings. While examining the Brodie papers at the University of Utah, I discovered correspondence between her and a Minnie Woodson in Washington, D. C. Mrs. Woodson had written to comment on the Biography and tell of her findings on Sally Hemings’ descendents. In one of the twelve letters I found (from Dr. Brodie) I am increasingly impressed with your research. This was a signal to me that I must try to meet this person, which I did when I returned to the east coast; sadly, she was in late stages of cancer. However, I also met her husband, John Woodson, who is actually the Hemings heir, and with whom I still correspond. The course of my book began to change. It was the tireless dedication of this unheralded Reading Teacher who first brought serious attention to study of the descendants of Sally Hemings. Her genealogical compilations (now available in the Library of Congress) on the Woodson family (the name Sally’s first son took when he was sent away from Monticello) were of interest to other descendants living throughout the United States. What had heretofore been primarily oral history began to find itself on the computer page. Lucia Stanton, now Shannon Research Historian at the International Institute for Jefferson Studies traveled to Ohio and continued her research on the slave descendants. Stanton already had worked with James Bear, and is recognized by scholars for their monumental work on Jefferson’s Memorandum Books; more recently, she is reaching the general public with Free At Last, centered on slave families at Monticello.

Two novels by Barbara Chase-Riboud whetted my desire to learn more about not only Sally, but others of the Hemings family. Law Professor Annette Gordon-Reed’s ThoJefferson and Sally Hemings: An American Controversy was extremely helpful, and after that Jefferson’s Children: The story of One American Family by Shannon Lanier and Jane Feldman has been enlightening.

One cannot read about the Hemings and not become more involved in the study of slavery. Did Jefferson care that he owned and controlled the lives of so many human beings? What were the details of his freeing the Hemings and only a handful of others? When did he learn of the grizzly killing of a slave by one of his relatives? (That account found in Fawn Brodie’s Thomas Jefferson, An Intimate History.)

"When I Can Read My Title Clear": Literacy, Slavery, and Religion in the Antebellum South by Janet D. Cornelius was stimulating in relation to slavery and education. Many words of righteous indignation became available as chapters of books or in articles. "Thomas Jefferson and Anti-Slavery: The Myth Goes On" by Professor Paul Finkelman in a 1994 issue of The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography was perhaps the most enlightening.

The feelings in any novel, historical or other, must have roots in more than books, manuscripts, and scholarly impressions. Personal letters are useful, but beyond these I tried to become acquainted with the feelings of my characters by walking in their footsteps as much as possible. I ambled, danced and ran down Mulberry Row at different times of day. I tried to spend extra time in the dependencies, especially the kitchen at Monticello. Multiple times, during different seasons, I drove to Poplar Forest, stopping at Snowdon (Jefferson’s brother’s home) and other places where John Hemings might have driven the supply wagons. I’ve looked up at the skylight there at the Bedford County home and tried to imagine John’s frustrations both putting it in and when it leaked. I’ve gone on to Natural Bridge to feel the beauty at sunrise, mid-day, sunset; later, under the stars. I have felt the exhilaration of reaching the top at the Peaks of Otter.

The Wagon Master at Williamsburg let me get up in a wagon similar to the ten which would have taken Jefferson’s books from Monticello to Washington City after the disastrous fires. At the Smithsonian I held harness pieces and learned (with Beverly Hemings) how it felt to know more about driving mules. In the Octagon House, I tried to touch the wood of the spiral staircase in a way that would bring John Hemings there by my side. I walked the area where the Blodgett Hotel once stood and imagined the wagons unloading and the toil of moving the boxes of books to the third floor.

I was privileged to go to Paris to have many feeling experiences. It was amazing to walk down the length of the Jardin dePlants knowing Jefferson had walked there with the scientist-director, Buffon—George Louis Leclere, compte de Buffon to be exact. I wondered as I strolled between the trees toward the well-known Natural History Museum what they would have said to each other as they ambled along that same Plan. There is a Bibliotheque there, dating back even before that era. I discovered a wonderfully helpful Bibliothecaire who, (using her computer,) found titles of books which Monsieur Jefferson could have used. It seemed inevitable that the Minister, busy as he was, must have had a sense of excitement seeing (perhaps using) these royally-sponsored institutions, as well as the famous Bibliotheque Nationale; surely he would have wanted to share this zeal for exploration and learning with his family—especially on cold winter nights when it was impossible to travel about the city. I became convinced that Sally Hemings would have learned and been moved by conversations she must have overheard and the many adventures she had as a lady’s maid; further that she would later have wanted to pass this knowledge, these impressions on to her family the way all mothers do.

The feeling experiences were the ones which enhanced my appreciation of all the others who exist as history is made—the others whom history fails to mention. My admiration accelerates when I think of all of them, not the least the humble Hannah, Jefferson’s faithful servant who kept the Poplar Forest household running, whether he was there or not. Hannah could read and write well enough to send her Master a letter, which I treasure not only for its value as historical verification, but as one of my feeling sources.

1

YOUR SYSTEM SIR

1.jpg

Beverly sounded out each letter slowly as his long beige fingers pushed the word into the mud. The slave boys down the mountain laughed at his gal’s name; they also teased him about having no father. Cept we know who yo papa is, they’d giggle. In his eleven years living at Monticello, Beverly had learned to cope with their taunts. He knew he was a Hemings and that made a difference since they were treated better than other servants, as the Master called them.

At the top of the chart he was creating in the firm ooze, were Captain Hemings, his great grandfather and an African woman, his great grandmother; nobody was sure of her name. On the next line was Elizabeth Hemings—how he’d missed his strong, loving grandmother in the two years since her death. Though he knew four men had been fathers of her fourteen children, he’d written in only his Mama Sally’s papa, John Wayles.

Mr. Wayles had been the Master’s wife’s papa too. That seemed strange, but Mama knew it was so, just as she knew her brother John’s papa was Jon Nielson, a white-man carpenter. He pondered some of these things as he finished adding his siblings’ names to the family tree. While she was alive, Grandma Betty had held together this big clan he was printing and made them proud to be Hemings. Somehow they all had learned to live with the resentment some of the other slaves felt about the privileges they enjoyed; at the same time, they were well aware that in spite of being referred to as family, many times, they were in bondage and could be ordered rather than asked to do tasks if any of the Jeffersons, including the youngest grandchild, felt in the mood to make their status clear.

Beverly looked carefully at the names. He drew circles around his own, his mother Sally’s, and the uncles about whom he knew the most—James, John, and Peter. It had taken two lines to record his mother’s children—partly because he put gone under his oldest brother Tom, and died under two sisters—the first Harriet and Edy.

Beverly was pleased with his work. His mother had helped him write the names on a slate before, and he had seen a copy of the chart she had made on paper. But chalk was scarce, and paper precious; so he had learned to practice writing on wet earth. He decided he would put a frame around it, possibly with decorations; then he would bring his Mama to see it before the Jefferson family returned from church. Sundays were so wonderful—especially during these beautiful fall mornings after a rain had washed the sky to a perfect blue and the air was just the right temperature for being outside. Besides, the ground was not too soaked; this was not deep carriage-slowing mud—just surface pudding, inviting to hands of one without paper.

Probably his Uncle John was helping his Aunt Priscilla clean up their cabin, and then she would have him reading the Bible. Maybe his Mama was reading hers too—teaching his brother Madison how to recognize some of the words. That is, if Baby Eston wasn’t making too much noise. And Harriet was no doubt dancing, the way she always did in her spare time. He moved closer to the mud with a concentration on his design so intent that he was totally unaware that the Master had come up behind him and was observing him very carefully.

Mr. Jefferson had felt a little guilty about not accompanying his daughter Martha and her big family into Charlottesville, but this October day he had decided to make Nature his religion and had been walking in the woods that led up to the mountaintop. Besides, much as he loved them, his grandchildren sometimes made him weary with all their chatter and activity. He was, after all, sixty-six years old, and the long years of public service hadn’t made him any younger. How good it was to be retired from the spotlight of the Presidency and able to wander around his beloved Monticello.

When he first came to the top roundabout road he had seen the boy and thought it was one of Martha’s who had been left behind. Why? He approached quietly and realized it was Sally’s son. What was the lad drawing there in the mud? He moved closer and observed the deliberation of the young hands, the total absorption. Beverly was changing rapidly from a boy into a youth. The red hair was pushed back from his face, accentuating his pointed features. Jefferson recalled when John Hemings, the plantation’s most skilled artisan in wood, had described his nephew as being a Dreamah. At the time it had reminded him of his own mother’s words, "Always dreaming around with your nose in a book.

The Master looked closer at the writing. He stared in amazement at the document the eleven-year-old had written in the mud. It was a family tree. These were all his house servants, (how we hated the word slaves!) the large, intelligent Hemings family. The older ones had belonged to his father-in-law John Wayles’ before him; then inherited by his late wife. Now . . . his recounting paused . . .his. (Was it he Thomas Jefferson who had written about the imbecility of the [slave] system?)

How old was this boy now? He knew it was recorded in his Farm Book, of course. Born to Sally Hemings before the First Election; before . . . he felt a long-suppressed pain . . . before her young Tom had been sent away. He must not think of those things.

What are you writing, Beverly?

The boy seemed startled. He jumped up, almost at attention when he realized it was the Master speaking to him.

It’s my Family Tree, Sir, he answered proudly.

Who taught you to do this? Jefferson’s voice was almost gruff.

Oh, Sir, the eleven-year-old hesitated, his skin was red, green eyes now fearful and downcast; it was, almost whispered, my Mama Sally, Sir.

The Master sensed the immediate changes in the young servant’s demeanor. Obviously the child had been told about the law, the unwritten rules relating to teaching slaves to read, much less write. Yet, the student’s first response had been pride, confidence. He must not stifle that eagerness for learning.

Don’t be afraid to talk to me, Beverly. I am aware that your Mama Sally is an unusual servant. I’ve talked about this with your uncle John at Poplar Forest.

Relief flowed through the boy’s entire body. His clear green eyes looked up again . . . trusting. Oh, thank you, Sir.

Tell me more about your chart.

Do you really have the time, Sir?

I have the time.

Mama says you are too busy to speak to servant boys.

I realize this has been true, Jefferson answered, wistfully, I’m afraid I’ve been too busy to speak to any of the servants, as I might have, including your Mama and your sister Harriet. He sighed heavily, I’ve never once played with your little brothers.

We’ve been taught to understand, Sir.

Jefferson was startled at the wisdom in the upturned young countenance. He nodded.

It was hard being the President, wasn’t it Sir? Besides being the manager of plantations and an architect too. Uncle John helped Mama talk to us. They always try to lighten your burdens, Sir.

Now Jefferson blushed. Such compassion in the words of one so young! Earnest feelings of loyalty. Did he, their master, deserve this kind of loyalty?

I appreciate what their actions have meant to my well being—even when I don’t express my sentiments. Now more about your chart.

This first name, Captain Hemings, was my great grandfather. He was an Englishman, a sea captain, Sir.

Your Mama has told you about him?

It was more Grandmama Betty. He pointed. Do you remember her, Sir?

Jefferson laughed softly. He thought of the powerful woman with the house keys on her belt, the one who had been responsible for keeping his home in order while he was away—until she passed the responsibility on to Sally. She’d be hard to forget, wouldn’t she, Beverly?

Oh, you do remember her, I can tell. The youth’s face was lit with a mixture of pleasure and longing. It was sad times for all of us when she died, Sir.

I’m aware that was so, Beverly. Your grandmother was an exceptionally strong woman. Do you realize she had fourteen children?

Most of them lived to be good people, Sir. See, their names are on the Family Tree. She said, ‘Always remember you’re a Hemings, Beverly; it’s a proud name!’

Somewhat surprised by the boy’s pride, the Master questioned further, What else did your grandmother tell you?

She told me that her father was brave. Do you know that it takes courage to be a sea captain, Sir?

Yes, I do.

Have you ever been afraid on the ocean?

A muscle in Jefferson’s cheek twitched. His face became flushed. Obviously Sally had not revealed to her son his Master’s fears of storms related to water, his propensity to seasickness, and

his unease about ocean crossings.

Yes, Beverly; I’ve been afraid on the ocean.

Then you’d understand why we Hemings are proud of our great grandfather, Sir.

Yes, I’d understand.

They were silent. Both were sensing satisfaction in this most unusual conversation, their newly discovered mutuality. Jefferson was reminiscing further about the Hemings family—unique among his servants, surely (the Grandmama Betty whom Beverly remembered). He recalled that soon after he’d returned from Washington, D. C., to Monticello last March, he’d realized how much other members of his family of workers still missed her. Her death in l807 had left a poignant void.

Martha had spoken of her in tender tones as well. She had been a part of his daughter’s childhood and youth. She was the matriarchal slave at the deathbed of his wife—his beloved who’d left him so young with their children still a tender age. She had also been there when his beloved Maria had passed away in l804 to join her mother, Elizabeth. Painful memories; he must not think on them.

What was it about females with African blood that gave them such endurance? His wife’s father, John Wayles had put three wives in their graves before he took Elizabeth as his concubine, and she gave him the six children the Jefferson’s had inherited. Two more were born at Monticello. Attractive quadroons, the six, and John as well, fathered by a white carpenter. Each had made a unique contribution to his plantations. His mind methodically recounted their skills. Now they were spread out before him on the boy’s chart.

You are close to your uncle John; aren’t you; what do you know of your other uncles and aunts besides John Hemings, Beverly?

Aunt Thenia works for Vice-President Monroe, Sir. Critta is your weaver, you know. The boy pointed carefully to each name as he spoke. Robert is a barber, a free man, who lives in Richmond.

James learned to be a fine chef in Paris. He was a free man too for five years, but he’s dead now. The youth’s eyes were sad. Then they brightened. But he taught your cook Peter to do French cuisine before he left.

Does Peter know about the Hemings line?

Yes indeed, Sir.

He writes too, I suppose, the Master hardly asked, but recorded in his head one more servant who was literate.

Yes, but truthfully, he’s more interested in things like recipes than thought writings.

What do you mean by thought writings?

I refer to reading—the ways they relate, Sir.

You read well, do you?

Mama says I comprehend well for a boy of eleven, Sir.

What books do you read, Beverly?

Oh, a good number, Sir. There was joy and passion in his earnest face. Then he caught himself, stopped short. His eyes dropped down again as he remembered that he was talking to the Master and that he really was not supposed to be reading— much less the Master’s books.

Once more Jefferson sensed the confusion, the hurt in the lad’s change of expression. He continued his reassurance. Be proud of your reading skills as well as your family line. When did you learn to read, Beverly?

Cautious, but eager, the slave continued, It goes back a long ways, Sir. (Like his Master’s, the boy’s recollections of the precise time he’d begun to read were difficult to pinpoint.) I was maybe only four. Mama used to read Fables to me.

Fables?

Again Beverly’s face turned red with embarrassment. He took a deep breath. I must be honest, Sir, the words rushed out, I’m afraid it was your book of Fables, Sir. He waited for whip words; hearing none, he pushed on, The big house was very lonely, Sir, with you away being President. Do you know that often other servants don’t treat house servants kindly?

I’ve heard that occurs sometimes. A myriad of feelings rushed through the man as he listened to the maturity of the thoughts being expressed by one so young. Already the boy understood the slave hierarchy: House slaves, craft slaves, field slaves . . . which he and George Wythe had discussed before his Mentor’s death.

You deserve credit for your honesty of answer, Beverly. I once wrote to my nephew, Peter Carr, that nothing is so mistaken as the supposition that a person can extricate himself from a difficulty by an untruth. He who permits himself to tell a lie once finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual.

The boy’s shoulders straightened in relief. Still he felt pressured within himself to provide more explanation. Many of the hours in the winter months can be dark and cold; Mama said she found solace in reading, Sir. She probably will be angry that I am confessing that she used your books, Sir. I know she felt guilty. But she needed them so much! Do you know of her love for reading, Sir?

I know some about this, Beverly.

It’s a secret from most people, Sir. She writes poems too.

To whom does she show this poetry?

Primarily to me, Sir. Sometimes to Harriet or Uncle John. Then she tears the paper up and burns it.

Burns the poems? Jefferson’s inner self struggled with tender feelings.

Yes, she says she doesn’t want her heart whispers to turn into slave songs.

No, she wouldn’t. (All these years he thought he had known this woman, yet her son was revealing an even more interesting individual than he had realized.)

You must have noticed, Sir, that she teaches us that Hemings people should learn to talk like free people.

I’ve observed this. Now about the books you’ve both read.

Please understand, Sir. She did her work. She dusted the books, the shelves. She took perfect care of your Chamber. She had the keys, of course, after Grandma Betty died. But she was cautious she came and went. No one saw her remove any books and you know she would return them. Of all your servants, would not she understand the best how much your books mean to you?

Yes, Beverly, I think she would.

Sally had come outside looking for Beverly. Her l8-monthold Eston was toddling by her side. He struggled to run to his older brother, but she restrained him. She could see the Master and Beverly across the yard together. Was it possible that Thomas Jefferson was sitting on the lawn talking to her son? That would not be in character for the man who had been too busy to appear to notice any of her children since her first son Tom had been sent away when he was twelve, to Goochland County to his Master’s cousin, Josiah Woodson.

Something in the way the two seemed to be communicating gave her pause. She stopped, held Eston very tight. Beverly was an unusual boy, the Dreamah John called him. Yet Sally knew he had spirit too, that he was wise beyond his years. He learned so fast, so very fast! He read well. He wrote well. Would the Master realize this? He’d know, of course, who taught him. Also John had spoken to her of his conversations about reading and writing with the Master at Poplar Forest.

Sally had remembered too how Miss Maria had commented on Beverly’s unusual abilities when he was only five—one year before dear Maria died. (Had she lived, would she have helped Beverly develop his talents in the ways her own son Francis’ were being stimulated?)

Sally decided to wait and not disturb them. She would take Eston for a walk in the front yard. Her heart beat fast. Were her dreams, her prayers for this special son going to be fulfilled? This different boy—would his passion for learning be recognized, channeled to help others? She shivered slightly. Her thoughts raced on. Would the former President really be willing to help her son (the son who resembled the man himself in so many ways)? As she hurried around the corner hoping they had not been noticed, another thought surfaced. Was Beverly disclosing the use which had been made of the Master’s books? She shivered again—too late to worry; the damage—or the good—was already done. Besides, Beverly himself could be persuasive at times . . . almost as persuasive and passionate as the Master—in his quiet way.

Across the lawn, the conversation continued. In your Library, it’s almost like a . . . Beverly stopped. Then his tongue ran on, a free man’s church.

Truly startled, the Master queried, How can you think that, Beverly?

One must be so quiet. So clean, so careful of everything touched. Mama always said there were gifts in the books. When I was younger I didn’t understand, but now I know what she means.

Which of the books do you understand, Beverly?

Mostly the ones Mama takes down and shows to me. But I like to just look at them and enjoy their backs too. I like the shapes and sizes, the colors of the leather, the different languages of the titles. I like your books very much, Sir.

I can tell you do, Beverly.

But I have a question. The boy was bashful, afraid to speak again.

Go on.

It’s about your system, Sir.

My system?

Yes, your system. How do you keep track of all your books? Even Mama isn’t sure. Yet Uncle John says you can find any book you need in just a moment’s time. The piercing, earnest eyes looked up again. Is it a secret, your system, Sir?

Jefferson laughed softly. He patted the boy’s hand gently in approval. (Could this eleven-year-old comprehend the concept of the Faculties of the Mind?) No, it’s not a secret. In fact, I use another man’s system—a man named Sir Francis Bacon— that I’ve adapted to my use. The system should match the use of a library. The law was my profession, and politics my occupation. A physician or businessman would have modified it differently.

Big libraries are for everyone; aren’t they, Sir?

"Yes. Well.., yes . . . , that is, they should be so. Mr. Bacon wrote of his system in a book called The Advancement of Learning. He thought men had three ways in which their brains worked.

And women’s brains too?

Yes, the Master smiled, "Women’s brains likewise. Let me use your stick. I will write the three terms in the mud. Jefferson took the improvised pen and wrote in bold letters:

MEMORY           REASON           IMAGINATION

Do you understand those words?

I think so, Sir. Memory refers to things we recall which have already happened. Reason is when we try to think things through.

The Master looked down in amazement as the boy continued.

Im-ag-in-ation is harder. Let me concentrate, as Mama says. He thought awhile to himself, looked again. Imag-image! To see something. No, imagin, is that to see something that isn’t in front of you; is that it, Sir?

Yes, that’s a part of it. Yet it doesn’t have to be a thing you see; it can be an idea you think about.

Like a dream you dream when you’re awake?

Yes, that’s another part. Or music which composers feel and then write out.

Or poems in peoples’ heads which they put down on paper?

Yes and paintings artists see, then paint with a brush.

Beverly was silent, thoughtful; his satisfied face looked up once more. Imagination—it’s the brain’s connection with the heart; isn’t it, Sir?

Jefferson was finding it difficult to keep up with the creativity of Beverly’s responses. Never had he imagined that a servant boy had this much capacity to comprehend. Astonishing! (True. He did have more white genes in his heredity than black . . . yet he was a servant . . . Still . . . this talent, this lust for learning must be channeled. Thoughts raced through his mind.)

He checked himself; he was on a dangerous path; he must show proper restraint! (The boy was alive with eagerness; waiting for his Teacher to proceed, yet knowing he must wait his turn, show proper respect.)

I must think about this conversation further, Beverly. Perhaps I shall ask your Uncle John to help you with your reading?

That would be most kind of you, Sir. The lad looked somewhat wistful now, almost as if thinking something he could not say.

It may turn out that you will be helping him as much as he helps you.

A smile crossed over the young face. We’ll help each other, Sir. Uncle John is Master of many useful skills such as working with wood. Mama says I must learn these too.

Your Mama is wise. All men need practical skills. Now as to reading and writing, there is a book that I had mentioned to John. One of mine. I was somewhat surprised when he said he’d seen it already.

Another deep blush covered the light skin. The head dropped once more. Very quietly the boy said, "I know. It’s the Young Man’s Companion. It’s back on your shelves, Sir."

2

A SLAVE WONDERS

Which is harder, Master, to learn to read or to write?

Mr. Jefferson was started by the query. He had come to Poplar Forest to supervise continued building at his retreat in Bedford County. He had come to rest, read, ride, and analyze the farming operation; to find serenity. Not to answer his servant John’s questions.

He continued musing to himself. Finishing the last year of his Presidency had been an ordeal. The return trip to Monticello from Washington had been four miserable days over bad roads, including an eight-hour snowstorm. Construction at Monticello, which had been going on for thirty years, was mostly finished, but the social activity had been akin to the Capital city. His daughter Martha, her husband, Thomas Randolph, and their large family had moved in with him at Monticello the previous summer. Guests, uninvited visitors, relatives, even his beloved grandchildren had worn him out! He wanted to be away—even from his beloved mountain home.

However, John, as well as the whole Hemings family had played an important role in his life. He smiled as he thought about how John’s mother Betty would have felt about the question. She might have said, You ‘sposed to be hammerin’ with your hands, son, not botherin’ the Master with head questions. (She probably would have enjoyed his capacity to ponder the matter and listened attentively to the response, however.)

That’s not an easy question to answer, John. Finally, the sixty-four-year-old slave owner replied. Give me some time to think about it. Mr. Perry was hoping you would get that section of shingling completed this afternoon. You know the sun doesn’t last too long on these November afternoons.

You’re right Sir; and I shouldn’t take my time or yours to ask such foolish things. I mean no disrespect, you know.

I do know, John, and it isn’t a foolish question. Come to the kitchen this evening. After Hannah fixes my soup, I’ll speak with you. He hesitated . . .I probably will be prompted to inquire why you wonder about this matter. Nonetheless, you have set my mind on a course I had not expected it to take today. I will be weighing the complexities of learning.

Jefferson watched his carpenter take up his tools and climb the ladder. Almost forgotten was the reason he’d called him down from the roof—to suggest he might pick up the shingles in a manner that would save both time and labor. John always took corrections in good spirit—genuinely interested in trying to do things efficiently, as they should be done. His congenial manner was reminiscent of the servant’s mother, Elizabeth Hemings (Betty).

John Wayles’ concubine had produced not only a large, but unusual family. Attractive quadroons, they were light and had talents above average for mulattos. Each had made—some were still making—a contribution to his life, his welfare. In his mind he noted their skills in the methodical way he had recorded their years of birth in his Farm Book. Sally Hemings (his pulse rate increased as he saw her name on his mental ledger) myriad stories blazed through his brain. The public had never known about her passion for learning, her joy of discovering she could read French as well as English. James had been so insistent there in Paris that his younger sister be tutored also. The long ago setting came back; surrounded by the mores of that city, somehow it had been easier for him to want to feel a part of helping the servant girl progress in her development toward womanhood. He remembered taking her to the Bibliotheque with its many volumes of books.

His thoughts moved back to Sally’s mother. Elizabeth had been concerned about his sister’s (Mrs. Eppes) decision to send Sally across the ocean to accompany Jefferson’s seven-year-old Maria, whom he’d left in Virginia two years earlier. Perhaps the slave parent, who had been so giving during her life, held back because of her memories of herself as a fourteen-year-old turning fifteen, then sixteen. (She must have known how attractive her daughter was becoming—her long black hair, her perfect beige skin.)

Now twenty-two years later, Sally still was attractive. With her mother as a role model, she had developed strength and forbearance. Those inner qualities of importance set her apart not only from the field servants, but other house servants as well. She was a good seamstress and weaver, too. The public did not know of her compassion for creating beauty as she worked.

Crushed in spirit for a time over her mother’s death in 1807, Sally had gone forward. Was it he himself who had told her that life was for the living? Had Betty had premonitions and trained her daughter so well in domestic management, or did those skills become apparent because of necessity? During his many absences from Monticello performing public service, it had been comforting to know that he had trusted servants like the Hemings to keep the household running smoothly.

It was not that his daughter Martha wasn’t capable, but living as she had at Edge Hill (though it was close) she could not have been expected to make daily decisions while he was in Washington City. Jefferson well knew that efficiency was often dependent on successful management of details of everyday tasks. Besides, in addition to Martha’s own home and servants to supervise, Martha had borne nine children (and another). Eight of them were living and needed her attention. The oldest, Anne, earlier had been of some assistance, but she had married the previous year at seventeen years of age. How fine that the rest of the Randolph family now was under Monticello’s encircling roof with Martha in charge. That gave him more freedom to come here to Poplar Forest

He wondered if Sally Hemings was accepting of Martha’s