America's First Daughter: A Novel (3 page)

I dropped my spoon. Weren’t we safe yet, having come all this way? Apparently, Papa believed the British were still chasing us through our own countryside like outlaws. And before I could make sense of what was happening, we were off again, with Papa scouting ahead for enemy soldiers and Mr. Short guarding our carriage with his pistol.

I wished I’d eaten more porridge. Hunger squeezed my belly, thirst clawed at my throat, and sweat dampened my hair as our arduous journey continued under the hot summer sun. Dust kicked up under our carriage wheels, and I was grimy with it. But I dared not complain. Not of grime, not of hunger, not of anything else.

For Papa was unshakeable despite the danger. When he circled back to mark our progress, he rode alongside our carriage, pointing out the beautiful natural settings. “We’ll remember this as a grand adventure one day,” he said. And though Mama’s lips tightened at the assertion, I drew strength from Papa’s bravery.

But Mama grew paler each time he took us off the main roads, leading us into thick woods where we crossed streams and ramshackle bridges that didn’t seem as if they could possibly bear our weight. If our wheels broke through the planks, we were in danger of going down into the water with our carriage, horses and all.

We were afraid to cross, but our terror of what lay behind us was even greater.

Finally, when we reached the dark green rush of Rockfish River, Mama said she could go no farther. Since the death of her infant a few weeks before, she’d been sick in body and heart. Now she appeared ready to swoon. Worried for her, I dampened a kerchief using water from our carved wooden canteen then gently dabbed at her cheeks and forehead. “All will be well, Mama. Just like Papa said.”

With a weary smile, she tucked strands of ginger behind my ear. “I know, child.”

Finally, we came upon a small cabin in the woods. I peered out of the carriage window as Papa knocked at the door and explained our situation. The owner scowled. “No room for you here, Gov’ner.” The man said the last word contemptuously, spitting tobacco juice into the carpet of fallen leaves and pine needles surrounding his shack. “If the king wants you strung up, he’ll have you strung up, and I won’t risk harboring fugitives.”

I gasped, certain Papa would dress down the crude frontiersman for speaking to him this way, but instead, Papa calmly said, “I beg of you only take in my wife and daughters. I won’t stay. It’s near nightfall and—”

The man abruptly slammed the wooden door in my father’s face.

“
Tories,
” Mr. Short muttered like a curse.

Papa said nothing though his jaw was clenched as he mounted Caractacus again. Where could we go now, trapped on this side of the river without shelter? With sunset nearing and a river too treacherous to cross, we’d be forced to sleep the night in these woods where bears prowled and British soldiers might ambush us.

Papa insisted we keep riding, and at length, we came upon a tavern, Joplin’s Ordinary. There Papa bought food and supplies, and asked for help fording the river. Mr. Joplin himself offered to guide us to shelter beyond the river, but Papa hesitated, as if the words of the angry frontiersman were still ringing in his ears. “There’s no need to risk yourself further, Mr. Joplin.”

But Mr. Joplin insisted. “You’re of too much consequence to the country to risk your capture, Mr. Jefferson.”

As these words echoed in the forest, Papa might’ve lifted his head with pride. Instead, his eyes fell to the reins in his hands, as if burdened by them. And the words sank into me with an unaccountable weight.

When I think back, perhaps I should remember with bitterness the man who turned us away and who didn’t care if the king strung up my papa. But I prefer to remember the way our other neighbors helped us—the dangers they faced for our sake—because it fills me with pride in my countrymen. And because it reminds me that I’m
justified
in honoring them and their cause even through deeds that might otherwise deserve censure.

It was a Virginia militiaman who took us in that night after Mr. Joplin guided us across the river. Gravely, the militiaman told Papa that he worried important state papers and prisoners had fallen into the hands of the British. I tried to listen, but with my mother’s warmth and softness beside me on the straw-stuffed mattress, the voices faded to a low hum. And with the faint scent of my mother’s lavender water as I buried my nose against her shoulder, I lost the battle against sleep.

The next morning, awakened by the crow of a rooster, I tried to remember where I was. The important thing, I supposed, was that there’d been another dawn, and Papa hadn’t yet been caught by the British. We were on the road again before the glow of sunrise, making our way farther into the countryside. And good thing, too, because we would later learn that Tarleton’s dragoons were pursuing us, knifing open feather beds, breaking mirrors, and setting fire to homes along the way, hoping to make someone give Papa up.

When we stopped at Mr. Rose’s house, slaves hurried out of their cabins to fetch water for our horses. Inside, the smell of warm bread nearly dizzied me and tempted me to forget the danger.
We’re safe
. The thought brought more comfort than the food. For who would find us here, hidden in the mountains? Papa must’ve felt it was safe here, too, because as he cleared his plate he asked if his wife and children might lodge with the Rose family until he returned.

My stomach fell, and I lifted my gaze from the bread I’d been stuffing into my mouth. Mama froze beside me and gripped the edge of the table. Frowning, Mr. Rose said, “You can’t be thinking of going back, Mr. Jefferson.”

“Lafayette will come to drive the British from Virginia. Until then, we must know where the enemy is,” Papa replied, calmly.

But Mr. Rose wasn’t reassured by my father’s faith in the young French nobleman who was now commanding part of Washington’s army. In fact, Mr. Rose pounded the table, making me jump. “If the Virginia militia would only turn out!”

Papa never approved of loud shows of temper, and stared into his cider. “But they haven’t. Even the threat of court-martial hasn’t worked. I have no military experience, but even I know this: the whole of the British army may be descending upon us and we cannot guess if we’ll prevail . . . or if we must sue for peace . . . without knowing our enemy’s strength or whereabouts.”

“To go back is folly, Thomas,” my mother said. We all turned to her in surprise that she’d inserted herself into the men’s conversation, contradicted my father, and called him by his given name in mixed company. But the color on her cheeks told me that she was in high temper. “They’re hunting you, Thomas. They’re
hunting
you.”

Papa rested his freckled hand atop hers. “My dearest, the British are rounding up every legislator and patriot in the state. I am but one more.”

“No, sir,” Mr. Short broke in. “That’s not true.”

It seemed to me at the time that if there were anyone less likely than my mother to challenge Papa, it would’ve been my mother’s unassuming kinsman, Mr. Short. But, the truth is, William has always argued for what he believed was right. Even when it cost him. Even when it frightened him. Maybe even especially then. And that day, when we were all fugitives together, Mr. Short insisted, “The British want you because you’re the author of our independence.”

I knew this about my father, of course. About how soldiers were, as we spoke, fighting and bleeding for the ideas my father so ably expressed in the Declaration of Independence. But the pursuit of the British, the willingness of our neighbors to risk themselves, and Mr. Short’s vehemence gave me a new understanding of my father’s importance. Short leaned forward, intently. “Mr. Jefferson, if the British take you, they’ll take Virginia. And if they take Virginia, it will be the end of our revolution.”

Hope that this argument would change Father’s mind about going back made my heart thunder against my breast. Alas, Mr. Short’s words seemed to have the opposite effect intended. Papa squared his shoulders, a determined glint in his eye. “I’m the governor. Or at least, I was until a few days ago. There are others better suited to this emergency, but there can be no revolution without patriots willing to risk themselves.”

The bread dropped from my hand to my plate, the remains of it like sawdust in my mouth. Papa’s mind was made up. He’d summoned his courage. He’d go back, no matter the risk. . . .

My father’s enemies now claim that when his mettle was tested in wartime, he faltered. Their censure forced him to speak of it ever after as an
unfortunate passage
in his conduct. But I was there. I witnessed those days as some of his most courageous moments. And though it was plain to me that my mother wasn’t moved by his high-minded sentiments, I was. I was as proud of him as I was terrified for him.

And I knew I’d never want to be
anyone
else’s daughter.

W
HILE WE AWAITED NEWS
that the British had been pushed back or that Papa had been captured, Mama was short-tempered with us and declared we must make ourselves useful at the Rose household. Polly and I were sent off to help the slaves fetch water, churn butter, and sweep the floors. Mama herself was always on her feet, helping to cook breakfast and ease the burden on our kindly hosts. But after a week of this, when she was tending to the laundering of our dirtied clothes, she swayed and fell.

Mr. Short rushed to her side and gently lifted her. Together, we settled her into a rocking chair, where she struggled to recover herself. Given how recently Mama had lost her baby, she was apt to be sad and fragile. And the next day, she was still in that chair, needlework forgotten in her lap, when a rider approached the house.

At the sound of the horse hooves, Mr. Rose readied his musket and Mr. Short crouched by the window, pistol in hand. I froze, clutching a broom, wondering if I could wield it against a Redcoat if one should come through the door.

But then we heard Papa call to us.

Dropping my broom, I ran out to meet him. Though he’d been gone only a week, he looked thin and mangy. His skin was sunburnt and he’d traded his gentleman’s clothing for the garb of a frontiersman. Clad in brown leather breeches, a hunting shirt open at the neck, and a black hat that shadowed his eyes, he dismounted Caractacus and grabbed me into his arms, carrying me all the way inside. I clung to him, burying my face in his neck as he entered the house.

From the rocking chair, Mama attempted a smile, but her lower lip wobbled. “Have Lafayette’s forces fought back the British? Have we lost Virginia?” And when Papa’s mouth thinned into a grim line, she asked, “Is it burned? Is Monticello gone?”

“Only some wine is missing,” Papa told us, and relief had me heaving a long breath. But when Papa spoke next, there was ice in his words. “Would that I could say the same of Elk Hill.” Elk Hill was one of Papa’s other plantations where he grew corn and tobacco and raised livestock. “Elk Hill is left in absolute waste. The British burned the barns and fences, slit the throats of the youngest horses, and took everything. They carried off our crops, our livestock, and our people. At least thirty slaves are gone.”

Mama gasped and I knew she worried most for her Hemings slaves. “What of those at Monticello?”

Setting me back down, Papa crossed to the rocker and squeezed Mama’s hand. “Some were carried off, but most remain.”

“Carried off?” Mr. Short asked with a strange intensity in his boyish gaze. “Or did they flee at the promise of freedom?”

Papa’s jaw clenched, as if Mr. Short’s question carried with it some note of impertinence. “If Cornwallis took them to give them their freedom, he’d have done right. But I fear he’s only consigned them to death from smallpox in his camp.”

Mr. Short put his pistol away and bowed his head. “Is the war lost then?”

My gaze flashed to Papa, dread squeezing my stomach.

Papa answered with scarcely disguised bitterness. “The war, I don’t know, but my honor is certainly lost. They’ll remember me as the governor of Virginia who let plumes of smoke rise over the James River for nearly thirty miles. And there’s a nine-year-old girl the British soldiers—” Papa’s eyes landed upon me, and because I was nearly nine years old myself, I was desperately curious to know what he’d been about to say. But he didn’t finish. “I fear history will never relate the horrors committed by the British army.”

“What of the remaining legislators?” Mr. Short asked after a moment. “Surely I’m not the only one who escaped.”

“A few were captured. Most are gathering in the Old Trinity Church in Staunton. All things considered, our cause fared well.” Despite his words, the etched lines on Papa’s face made it clear the losses pained him. “Thanks to Captain Jouett’s ride. Had he not warned us . . .”

Mr. Short nodded. “I must join the legislature. I’ll carry your messages to them, sir.”

I couldn’t imagine Mr. Short riding through the woods by himself, even with a pistol in his belt. Papa was the son of a surveyor and knew the land, but Mr. Short was a bookish young man, so gentrified that even in exile, he still wore a lace cravat tight against his throat, as if expecting to pose for a portrait.