by Jodi Daynard
“So this is how you honor the memory of our friend?” she asked. “Wallowing in the dark, and on such a very fine day as this? Come out, John. You’re a fright to behold.”
Johnny demurred, but Kate was not to be gainsaid. “How should your poor mother feel having left Cassie and her own failing mother, to bring you here, to enjoy the fruits of their labor, while—”
“Enough, I beg you.”
Kate had no need to go on. One more harsh word would bring him to tears.
“Come on, John,” she said more gently. “Let’s walk by the river and enjoy the day, in honor of our dear lost friend. Eliot cannot do so, and we do him an injustice to mope about indoors.”
“Yes, all right. Give me a moment.” Johnny bounded up the stairs to his chamber, where he readied himself to walk among the living.
They spent the afternoon pleasurably, strolling the banks of the Charles, speaking of nothing in particular. Kate went directly home from the river. When Johnny returned to his chamber, he found a letter slipped under his door.
My Dear Boy
I find myself with an unusual moment of peace, during which I write to tell you of some distressing news. Philadelphia is not safe. The yellow fever rages there, and I fear it shall remain in this pestilential state for some time. Meanwhile, I have arranged for you to apprentice with another attorney by the name of Luther Martin. Though a Republican in all ways save his dislike of Jefferson, he is not odious like most of them and indeed is very well esteemed. He shall have much to teach you, I believe, regarding constitutional law. His offices are on Charles Street in Baltimore.
“Baltimore!” Johnny cried aloud. He had resolved never to go south again. If his mother was dismayed at the prospect of Philadelphia, only think what she would have to say about Baltimore. Johnny swore and threw the letter onto the floor.
Who was this Martin fellow, anyhow? Wilson had been an unsung hero of the drafting of the Constitution. But about Mr. Martin, Johnny knew very little.
It was not too late to search for information in the library. Before exiting his chamber, Johnny picked up Adams’s letter, gently dusted it off, and placed it atop his chest of drawers.
According to one book, the city of Baltimore possessed a beautiful public garden between the town and the Lehigh River, a fine set of mills upon its banks, straight roads, and a number of theaters. Mr. Martin had been a delegate to the Constitutional Convention of ’87 but had refused to sign the Constitution, believing it to infringe upon states’ rights.
This last fact did not sit well with Johnny. Unity was everything; Johnny didn’t relish the prospect of going either to Mr. Martin’s or to Baltimore. But if Philadelphia was unsafe, there was little to be done. He consoled himself with the thought that all those he hoped to meet in Philadelphia would need to evacuate until later that fall or even winter. Until then, Baltimore it would be. It was only left to tell his mother.
In the dead of night, just days before commencement, Johnny was awakened by the bell’s shrill ring. He thought it signaled a fire and grabbed his dressing gown. He fled down the stairs and into the yard. There, other scholars already stood gaping at a hellish vision: John Adams, on fire.
The face, a stuffed sack, had been meticulously rendered. From a distance, it bore an uncanny resemblance to the living being. Huge flames danced out from its breeches and greatcoat, licking the air. But the body was far thinner than the man himself, having been half-devoured by flames.
Surrounding the burning effigy were five boys in black hooded robes with the word Liberté sewn upon them. They brandished burning torches.
“Unmask them!” someone cried.
A dozen scholars ran at once toward the robed boys. Two of them were caught, but three managed to escape. Tutors ran to procure buckets of water as others knocked down the effigy and stamped out the flames as best they could. President Willard, dressed only in a nightshirt, led the two guilty students away.
Johnny returned to his chamber, but he was too shaken to sleep. The hatred had been palpable; he could not help but feel that those boys might as easily have burned the man himself. He wondered why these Republican scholars had chosen that week to light their effigy. He thought it might have had to do with the publication, just the week before, of a letter from Thomas Jefferson to his former neighbor Philip Mazzei.
The letter had caused a great scandal. Written more than a year earlier, it was a scathing condemnation of the Federalists in general and President Washington in particular. The letter was an embarrassment to Jefferson, who never meant it to see the light of day. But somehow the Republican scholars took it as a legitimization of their Anti-Federalist cause.
At breakfast the following morning, a rumor spread that the two captured culprits had been expelled. But then another rumor made its way around that President Willard had commuted their sentence to six months’ suspension in exchange for the names of the three escaped students. These were Selfridge, Shattuck, and Peter Fray.
By breakfast, Selfridge and Shattuck had already left the college. But as Johnny returned to his chamber from the commons, he came face-to-face with Peter Fray. The boy was dragging his heavy trunk down the stairs. Without speaking, Johnny took up one end and helped Peter down toward the street with his trunk.
“Thank you,” said Peter.
“Quite a stunt last night,” Johnny said, for lack of anything else to say.
“Yes. We thought so.”
“Must have taken a lot of planning. I thought the face a particularly good likeness.”
“You would know.”
Johnny glanced at Peter with some alarm, for he had never told Peter that he knew Mr. Adams. How, then, did Peter know? What’s more, Johnny could discern no anger in his former friend, neither anger nor the blame that he had felt so palpably after Frederick’s death. Where had it all gone? Had Peter, in fact, forgiven him?
Bolstered by the thought, Johnny said, “Well, I’m sorry it’s gotten you suspended.”
Peter shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I needed to leave anyway—no money, old mole. Everything’s gone. The tobacco, the servants. Even the foxes seem to have disappeared. It’s all gone, or nearly. I have an uncle who for the moment supports us, but that cannot last.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I head to Richmond. Papa has connections there. Newspapers and such.”
“Newspapers?” Johnny was surprised. “I never figured you for a reporter.”
“Oh, I hear it doesn’t take any particular gifts.” Peter glanced insinuatingly at Johnny.
“Well, I wish you the best of luck.” Johnny extended his hand.
Peter didn’t take it. “I wish I could say the same, old mole. I really do.”
28
July 19, 1797
AT LONG LAST, THREE YEARS ALMOST TO the day he arrived in Boston, Johnny found himself about to graduate Harvard University. Though only eight in the morning, it was already hot. His trunk was packed, and he was ready for his oration. It was the same one he had given to the overseers that April, though much abridged.
His palms were moist with anxiety. A great number of people would be in the audience: not only students and tutors but parents and town officials. The governor, Samuel Adams, would be in attendance, as would Johnny’s entire family.
Without, tents and stalls had been erected and would soon be buzzing with activity. Johnny wondered whether he would see the fat baby, or the monkeys, whose captivity he had so pitied three years earlier. As he stood in the yard, he heard whoops and cries from the playing field. He walked toward the field and saw a crowd of people watching a contest of target shooting. On one side, crowded together, were a dozen Natick Indians; on the other, a dozen Harvard scholars. Johnny watched, mesmerized, until it became clear that the scholars had no chance against the Indians. For some reason, that made him smile.
Leaving the playing field, Johnny walked to the road. There, just at the entrance to the college, stood a baby elephant. It was tied to a thick rope,
and its skin appeared unwholesomely dry and flaky, which made Johnny’s heart contract with pity. Next he came upon a bizarre cabaret of people dressed as mermaids and mummies, followed by a display of live, braying two-headed calves.
The grotesque displays along the road had not changed, but he had. Three years earlier, Johnny had marveled at the strangeness of these commencement festivities. Now, he felt only disgust. There was no music, no dancing, no real joy. This was nothing like Crop Over. This was a pathetic show of dominance by small men over helpless creatures for monetary gain.
People were already coming and going from the meetinghouse. He peered in: extra benches had been installed, and all the doors were flung open. He looked at the freshly built platform from which he would give his oration, and his heart thudded once like the kick of a stubborn horse.
Continuing on, he walked toward the river, where he stood for a long time. He was ready to leave Harvard. And yet, some dark thought intruded just beneath his consciousness, and he wished to know what it was. He had been so filled with hope, so certain that his fellow scholars would be intelligent and honorable. But the only real intelligence he had found resided in a girl who lived down the road and had never attended school. And the only real honor had been in a sickly boy, now dead, reviled by all the pretenders.
When Johnny returned to the meetinghouse, the guests were gathered. Seated on the men’s side were Mr. Lee and Mr. Miller. On the right, just across the aisle from them sat Kate, Lizzie, Martha, his mother, and the children. They greeted him with broad, proud smiles. He approached them and hugged each in turn, near tears at the sight of them.
Soon it was time to mount the platform, and the assembly fell silent. Only the whoosh-whoosh of the ladies’ fans could be heard beating the hot air, like the wings of trapped birds.
Pastor John Pierce gave a sonorous welcome speech. A third-year student read a poem. Another boy gave an oration. After what seemed an eternity, Johnny finally heard his name being called. He wiped his forehead and gathered himself. Then, slowly, he stood.
His speech, a quiet plea for union, lasted a scant five minutes. When he had finished, he heard soft clapping and took a grateful step down the stairs, believing the ceremony to be over. But President Willard’s hand stayed him and he returned to his chair.
Ten minutes later, it was all over. The inmates of the meetinghouse dispersed quickly, for it was now infernally hot within. When a cool breeze reached Johnny from the river, he inhaled deeply, gratefully. He shut his eyes and thought of his father. He would be so proud. Harvard had just graduated its first black man.
29
THE WOMEN WERE PACING LIZZIE’S KITCHEN. ABIGAIL had just returned from Philadelphia and had told them about the yellow fever.
“I would not let him go within one hundred miles of that city,” said Lizzie.
“No, I agree. Something must be done,” Abigail added.
“Oh, but it was all planned! He shall be vastly disappointed,” Eliza said.
They spoke as if Johnny were not sitting right there, at one end of the kitchen table. He stared out the window at the boats drifting to and from Boston, seemingly indifferent to their conversation.
Finally, Johnny cleared his throat, then pulled a letter from his pocket.
“What is that, pray?” asked his mother.
“A letter.”
“From whom?” Eliza’s blue eyes flared.
“From President Adams.”
“Why, what does he have to say?” Abigail asked suspiciously.
“I shall read it if you like.”
“Yes, do!” they cried.
When Johnny had finished, his mother did not know whether to be relieved or dismayed.
“Baltimore! Oh, Johnny, why did you not say so?”
It seemed to Johnny that she would have preferred the threat of yellow fever to the prospect of his living in the South.
“I thought it best not to interrupt your convocation.”
“You are too cruel, Johnny,” said Lizzie. “We were very worried.”
“And have you replied?” his mother asked.
Johnny recited his reply to Mr. Adams:
Dear Mr. President
I am disappointed not to be able to go to Philadelphia just now, but I thank you most sincerely for arranging my transfer to Mr. Martin in Baltimore. Perhaps my stay in Baltimore shall not be of very long duration. On a different note, I hear through unnamed sources that you are eager to move the dirt from the base of Penn’s Hill to the top, for reasons that elude me. I would like to warn you against any ideas you might harbor about doing so by yourself, lest David prove no match for Goliath. Sullivan or Trask will be happy to help. Or, if you can be patient, I arrive on the 19th of this month, ready to serve.
Yours most faithfully, etc. etc.
“The cheek, Johnny!” Lizzie cried.
“Ha!” said Abigail, delighted.
Eliza sucked on her lips as if to keep from smiling. But Abigail and Lizzie lost all restraint. They pinched and tickled Johnny and boxed his ears until at last he found an opening through which he dashed into the parlor and out the front door. The children were in the kitchen garden, playing catch. When they saw Johnny, they hugged him and cajoled him to play, for, in Eliot’s absence, they loved him best once more.
When Johnny woke up the following morning, having slept in the parlor bed where he had been born, he felt his friend’s spirit everywhere. The spirit followed him into the kitchen and back into the parlor as he dressed for the day. The feeling was not unpleasant, exactly, but uncanny enough to propel Johnny out of doors without taking more than coffee for breakfast.
It promised to be a fine, hot day. The air had a fecund smell as he set off for Peacefield; he could hear the low ceaseless buzz of the crickets. He strode the scant mile and a half on foot and then down the path flanked by Abigail’s exuberant flower beds. Johnny knocked upon the door, but no servant arrived to greet him. Perhaps the Adamses were out. But the door was open and, not wishing to have walked there in vain, he called, “Hallo! Mrs. Adams? Anyone?”
There was no answer.
Johnny looked about him. The house was utterly quiet. He mounted the stairs and knocked upon the president’s study door. Then he walked in.
When Adams heard the door creak open, he woke from a doze and turned. Delight spread across his face at once. Johnny bowed, but Mr. Adams waved him over.
“Come here, lad.”
He took Johnny’s hands in his own.
“Well, hello, hello! Abigail told me that the graduate had arrived, and in more or less one piece, too.”
“Indeed. It is very good to be home.”
“I heard you gave a fine speech. Brief as well. The best kind. Well, but shall we head over to Penn’s Hill?”
Instead of rising, however, Adams placed a hand on his forehead. It trembled slightly.
“Sir—are you ill?”
“Nay. But events do weigh upon me, and I have a sudden urge to feel the sea breeze. You know, Johnny, work can wait.”
“Very well,” Johnny replied. He had no great desire to climb Penn’s Hill in the heat.
They strolled in silence down to the road and across it, toward the dunes. Once on the shore, Mr. Adams sat down upon the sand. It was rocky in places, and he moved about to find a smooth place to lie down. Johnny did the same. The president then proceeded to remove his shoes and stockings, revealing pale, swollen feet covered in spidery blue veins. He wriggled his toes with a grunt of pleasure, then stretched out upon his back and closed his eyes.
Johnny placed his arms beneath his head. He closed his eyes and listened to the gulls and squabbling crows. The rising sun shone orange behind his eyelids, and the breeze was warm. Johnny began to breathe more deeply and might have fallen asleep had not Mr. Adams said, “I suppose you’ve heard about Jefferson’s letter to Mazzei, that former neighbor to whom he wrote a calumnious letter, and which the dastardly friend made free to publish?”
“Wh
o has not?” Johnny replied.
“Can you recall it, child?”
“I think so. Some of it, at any rate.”
Johnny, eyes still closed against the burning sun, recited,
The aspect of our politic has wonderfully changed since you left us . . .
“Something, something . . .”
. . . timid men who prefer the calm of despotism to the boisterous sea of liberty . . . It would give you a fever were I to name to you the apostates who have gone over to these heresies, men who were Samsons in the field and Solomons in the counsel, but have had their heads shorn by the harlot England.
When Johnny had finished, Adams mused, “Quite a condemnation, I should say.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“But of whom, exactly?”
“Hamilton, certainly, and Washington.”
“And me?”
“The arrow points in your general direction, sir.”
“And this is my vice president,” Adams muttered. He pounded the sand with a fist. “Well, what must be done? What is the response to be? This has been the cause of my agitation all morning.”
“None that I can think of.”
“Why not?”
“It is what it appears to be. The people now know all. He has hoist with his own petard. Or quill, more like.”
Adams lifted himself up onto one elbow and looked at Johnny with some surprise.
“That is precisely what Abigail said. Now, if only we had received that letter last autumn, he would not be my vice president.”
They were silent for a while, enjoying the sun, sand, and sea breezes with their eyes closed. A traveler upon a boat would not have guessed that the old man lying on the beach with his belly jutting into the air and pale, bare feet squirming in the sand was the president of the United States.
Finally, Adams sat up with a sigh. “The truth I cannot seem to forget is that there are those who would sooner see a dissolution than to be denied their so-called rights. One of them happens to be my vice president. What kind of country is that, would you say?”
“A divided one, sir.”
The president paused. Then he said, “Do me a favor while you’re in Baltimore.”