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!...

1812    monticello