Sally Heming (12 page)

My mother had suddenly turned and looked at me and said,
"Sally will go. She'll have James to look out for her." And before
Mrs. Eppes could get her breath to ask if I had had my smallpox, or how old I
was, Mama swept me out of the parlor, down the hall, and out through the
kitchens, leaving Cook with her mouth wide open, ready, but unable to get her
two cents in. I was breathless and scared. I had never been a nurse or a lady's
maid or anything. Most I had been before then was a child! But Mama, she kept
right on going, I can remember her skirts whistling, up the back stairs, into
the linen room in the back, out with a straw trunk and three cases, then back
to her own chests of linen to find chemises and petticoats and stockings and
bolts of cloth for dresses.

Nothing Isabel had for the voyage fit me, even the
underwear, so, in less than a week, everything had to be made new.

I was going and we couldn't miss the ship that was waiting
in Norfolk. Master Jefferson was not going to tolerate any more delays. I
suppose my mother could have found someone to fit into Isabel's things. After
all, there were some three hundred and sixty-four slaves she could pick from,
at least half were female and grown. But something pressed her to send me. To
this day I don't know why. If it was fate, then she had a hand in it.

"It will be Sally, then. I can't think anymore,"
Mistress Eppes had said, finally and belatedly, for her voice was lost in the
preparations of my departure.

I was leaving Monticello, the only home I knew, for a
strange country.

Monticello, the most beautiful place in the world. The
grass was greener, the scent of flowers keener, the blossoms bigger, the air
clearer, the animals more healthy, the rigs more elegant, the cooking better,
the slaves happier, the master—whom I had not seen since I was ten— better than
any other place. Of course, I had never been outside the boundaries of
Monticello. I was born at Bermuda Hundred, the plantation of my father, but he
died three months after I was born, and the next year I came with my mother to
live at Monticello, perched on its mountain, looking onto the Blue Ridge Mountains.
My mother loved it more than I. It was always cool, with a breeze even in the
hottest summer, and had a great hall that carried the freshness through the
house. With horse and carriage, it took almost one hour to reach the main gate
from the road.

Master Jefferson spent much of his time away from the
plantation, in Philadelphia or New York, but every time he came home he would
tear something down or build something new or rebuild something. He always
arrived with his plans, and he would summon my brothers James and Robert and
the white workmen, and they would start to work.

The slave cabins dotted the hillside in back of the Big
House; they climbed up the hill like white morning glories gone wild with the
smoke drifting out of the chimney fires. Along the back of the main house was a
long covered walk, looking onto the kitchens, the meat house, smokehouse,
icehouse, laundries, storehouses, and servants' quarters. This was my mother's
domain. She oversaw twenty-five or more house servants.

We never had the number of servants a big plantation had.
Master Jefferson didn't want it, and as Mistress Jefferson was frequently ill,
she couldn't have managed to run them. My mother could have, of course, but
there didn't seem to be much point in having a footman behind every chair and
no mistress.

And, of course, there were always everybody's children,
black and white, running everywhere. Once Master Eppes came rushing in to find
Master Jefferson, tripped over a baby in the hallway, and slid seven feet on
the parquet that had just been waxed for the fourth time that day. Fractured
his rib, I remember. My mother usually kept everybody in the back and made do
with Martin and Big George when the master was home.

My mother was beautiful. She was not very tall, but well formed
and light mahogany in color. Her skin changed colors on different days;
sometimes there was a rose tint and sometimes a yellow tint. She had her
"dark" days and her "light" days. She used to say that my
father would always remark on her color every morning. Once I surprised her in
the fields just standing perfectly still like a statue among the tall wheat;
her skin had taken on the same color, her eyes were blazing, and there were two
tears running down her cheeks, but there had been no sounds of weeping.

A great calm had settled on our ship. Another day and still
there was no wind, so we lingered, sitting on the tranquil sea, like a turtle
in its shell. Sailors and passengers alike were lulled by the silence, the
absence of movement. Games were organized and promenades. We made friends with
the sailors who would make us gifts of little soft animals, creatures made out
of rope and hemp. Polly and I used to "fish" over the side of the
ship, which amused the sailors, who would ask us if we had caught any
"catfish." One fat, red little sailor with a blond beard and green
eyes made me the figure of a little dog in the image of a certain race they had
in France. He made it out of hemp, and around the neck, tail, and legs was a
mass of curls shaped like shrubbery. I later learned this race of dog was
called
"caniche"
and was in
fashion with the Paris gentry. I tied a ribbon on mine and called him George
Washington. I would climb up to my hiding place, my "Monticello,"
with Washington, and there I would sit, making lists in my loneliness, to pass
the time.

Blue. Sky. Water without wind. No clouds. Sixteen sails.
Three flags. Birds. Seven Masts. Sun. A long railing of polished brass. God.
Silver on blue.
85
spokes in the railing.
48
sailors on the ship.
3
cooks.
1
surgeon.
2
mates.
1
adjunct.
4
officers.
1
Captain. Captain Ramsay. The cargo; sugar, tobacco, rice, barley,
molasses, peanuts.

Partial inventory of Polly's trunks:
1
stiffened coat of silk;
2
silk dresses,
1
cloak,
8
petticoats;
8
pairs of kid mittens;
4
pairs of gloves;
4
pairs of calamanco shoes;
8
pairs leather pumps;
6
pairs fine thread stockings;
4
pairs fine worsted stockings;
2
fans;
2
masks;
4
pairs of ruffles;
7
girdles consisting of
2
white,
2
dark blue,
1
rose,
1
yellow,
1
black;
6
linen drawers;
6
silk drawers;
13
chemises;
1
silver mirror;
16
dolls;
1
flute....

Inventory of my trunk:
2
cotton petticoats;
1
quilted petticoat;
6
dresses,
1.
pair worsted stockings;
4
linen aprons;
2
girdles;
12
chemises;
1
pair of shoes;
2
nightshirts;
1
wooden crucifix carved by John;
1
woolen shawl;
1
flute.

We got under way again. It had been still the whole day,
when suddenly a breeze whipped the ribbons of our bonnets as Polly and I
strolled on deck. There were sailors everywhere, running and leaping in a noisy
slippery dance. The sails swelled before our eyes and the ship shuddered,
rolling under us like one of my master's galloping bay horses. In about an hour
we had begun to take on speed, and what a beautiful sight were the waves we
made, frothing in the setting sun, the last streaks of light quarreling with
the dark that finally came, dropping like a black cloth. From then on we made
good time. I started looking forward to the future instead of being homesick
for the past. That night we celebrated the trade winds.

Everyone dressed for dinner, and Captain Ramsay put on his
dress uniform and fairly took our breath away. It was of a bright- but
deep-blue hue, a velvet jacket with golden tassels on the shoulders hung with
golden cords. The lapels were red satin, with a matching waistcoat. His cravat
and shirt were a snowy white, with lace at the cuffs, and his small cloths were
also white with blue stockings. His hair was powdered and tied with a blue
ribbon, and his shoes were black patent-leather, with silver buckles. His
buttons were of silver and he had a silver watch and a great sword in a silver
harness and a blue sapphire on his hand. I will never forget the splendor of
Captain Ramsay. Little Polly had found her first love. Oh, he was a splendid man,
Captain Ramsay, and Polly did adore him! I think it was because she missed her
father.

I remembered her father well, but Polly had been only four
when he had left, and she had no recollection of him at all. All that she had
known, as love and family, she had left in Norfolk with her aunt's family. I
felt sorry for Polly. I loved her in a way I never loved her sister Martha.
Martha was one year older than I, yet I was her aunt, just as I was Polly's. We
had grown up together at Monticello, fought, played, rode, and laughed
together. I was with her when Mistress Jefferson, my half sister, died. A long,
pale, hot afternoon, stinking and mosquito-filled. We had tried to keep the
bugs off her, taking turns fanning her. The doctor came at the end, but Master
Jefferson wouldn't let him bleed her. My mother had dropped all her household
duties to nurse her mistress. Master Jefferson had moved his study next to her
bedroom and had not left her for the whole time it took her to die. Monticello,
which had always been a house full of people, babies, guests, kin, and animals,
seemed to empty out, and there was just my mother, Master Jefferson, Martha,
Polly, and me, and the rest of the servants. At the end, my master had fainted
dead away. He remained unconscious for so long his family thought he had died
with her. The last thing she had made him promise was not to marry again.

It was my mother who had bathed her and laid her out and
wept over her. The mistress had been like a daughter to my mother, even though
they had been, like Martha and me, almost contemporaries. Whatever
accommodations they had had to make in their lives because of my mother's
concubinage, they seemed to have made long ago, because they genuinely loved
each other. Mama combed her long hair out onto the pillow. Mama wept and wept
and cleaned her and put on her jewels, draped the room and filled it with fresh
flowers, and wept. She wouldn't let anyone else touch the body. She had tended
Master Jefferson as well, who seemed to have lost his senses and his will to
live. She cooked his meals and practically fed them to him, nursed him until he
was able to go out riding again. Then he had ridden like the wind for days and
days until he was exhausted. Martha rode with him sometimes, but mostly he was
alone. And mostly Martha was alone. She couldn't reach her father in his
terrible grief, so she turned to me. Or rather we turned to each other. We
didn't cry over Martha Jefferson's death, but then Master Jefferson and
Elizabeth Hemings wept enough for all of us. Martha and I seemed to enter into
some kind of covenant; tearlessness. We were shocked by the conduct of the
grown-ups. Somehow it didn't seem dignified. One day Martha, who was called
Patsy to differentiate her from her mother, held up a mirror to my face and
said: "You look more like her than I do. I look like my father."