A More Perfect Union: A Novel (The Midwife Series Book 3)

by Jodi Daynard

  Johnny knew all this. “What is your question, sir?”

  Adams glanced malignantly at Johnny. He was feverish and in a very bad mood. But Johnny didn’t take his demeanor personally.

  “The question is, Am I obliged to tell the secretaries when the convoy leaves?”

  Johnny understood that Adams asked a moral question, not a legal one. But he replied, “They exist to give you advice, not permission. Is that not so?”

  Adams was about to make a comment when a man burst noisily through the door and into Adams’s chamber. He had auburn hair, and though he was of no great stature, his eyes flamed and his nostrils flared, making him look more lion than man.

  “Adams! I’ve heard of your secret business, and I say I forbid it! Would you willingly lead us all to ruin?”

  “Ruin, you say?” Adams replied, reaching for his handkerchief to blow his nose. He sat upright in his bed, surrounded by phlegm-sodden rags, looking feverish and miserable. “I fail to see how peace with France spells ruin. That’s a savings of thousands of lives and millions of dollars. You will no doubt care most about the latter.”

  The argument continued, poor Adams coughing and croaking out his words. No one thought of making introductions, and Johnny was too spellbound to interrupt.

  Finally Johnny was unable to bear the assault upon the sick president any longer. “Mr. Adams is unwell, as you can see. I suggest you return at a more auspicious time.”

  The man’s eyes flashed at Johnny. “And who are you?”

  “John Boylston,” Johnny said defiantly.

  The little man laughed. “Why, you’re just a boy. Albeit quite tall.”

  Johnny moved closer, as if to take hold of the man’s arm, but the fellow glanced malevolently at him and then at Adams. “I’ll return in a few days. By then, you should be over your cold.” He then fled the chamber without bowing to either of them.

  Once the man had gone, Johnny turned to the president. “Is the man mad, to come bursting in here demanding an audience, without so much as a ‘by your leave’?”

  Adams nodded, then searched among the bed covers for a clean rag to blow his nose. He coughed, cleared his throat, and said, “The man may be mad, but he’s shrewd as a fox. Take care you don’t underestimate him. That, by the way, was Alexander Hamilton.”

  The government remained several weeks in Trenton before Philadelphia was declared free of the fever. On their return journey, both men were quiet, lost in their own private thoughts. Adams probably thought about his convoy and the farm. Johnny thought about Marcia Burnes. Arrived in Philadelphia, Adams’s coachman dropped Johnny at the Francis Hotel, and Adams returned to the President’s House.

  After this, Johnny hardly saw the president. He studied every waking moment, hardly coming up to eat or dress. In early November, he felt ready to take the bar and did so, handily passing it just after celebrating his twenty-first birthday.

  Briesler, on Adams’s orders, held a dinner for Johnny at the City Tavern. A small crowd of Adams’s friends was already jolly with wine when Senator Langdon entered, followed by another man. At the sight of these men, the company fell silent. The stranger was impressive for his regal bearing; he was a man in the prime of life, with a lofty forehead and dark eyebrows above piercing eyes.

  Johnny believed this man was John Marshall. Mr. Marshall had a law practice in Richmond and also served in the House of Representatives. He was one of Adams’s closest allies.

  Johnny’s guess was confirmed moments later when Senator Langdon shook Johnny’s hand and then introduced his friend.

  “John Boylston, this is Congressman John Marshall.”

  Johnny bowed. “Sir, to what do I owe this great honor?”

  “I merely wished to meet you, having heard so much about you from Senator Langdon.”

  Johnny offered Mr. Marshall some refreshment, but he waved it off.

  “Nay, I stay not long, but I should like to speak with you at your leisure. My lodgings are close by, if you would call upon me one afternoon this week. Wednesday, say?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Perhaps you’ve heard I have a very busy practice in Richmond.”

  “I have, sir.”

  “I find it difficult to manage everything given my current service in the House.”

  He bowed, handed Johnny a card, and was soon gone.

  Johnny stared at the card in his hand disbelievingly. “What just happened?” he asked Langdon.

  The senator smiled and nudged Johnny’s arm. “If I’m not mistaken, you just received an offer of a position in Richmond.”

  That night, Johnny awoke and thought he had dreamed the meeting with John Marshall. But then he saw the attorney’s card upon his desk glowing white in the half moonlight that shone through his window.

  To Johnny, the idea of moving to Richmond was strangely alluring. In Richmond resided the most elite men of the South. There were many Republicans there, to be sure, but also staunch Federalists such as John Marshall. Johnny considered that even one year with Marshall’s firm would assure his future. And the idea of living the Southern life, the life of Moorcock, though without slavery, was enormously alluring. But could he abandon Mr. Adams during an election year? Would his mother, hearing the news, die of heartbreak? Johnny fell back asleep before he could resolve it all in his mind.

  The following day, Johnny told Adams what had transpired between himself and Marshall. Adams said, “If he makes you an offer, you would be a fool not to accept it.”

  “But I have no wish to abandon you during this critical year.”

  “Ah! You fancy yourself that essential to my survival, do you? Oh, well, perhaps you are—or shall be quite soon. I know not what the year shall bring, only that it will be a struggle to the death. Jefferson and I shall play the elderly gladiators. See if Marshall will keep it open for another year. Tell him I need you now, but shall release you from my grip in a year’s time. By then”—he shrugged—“who knows.”

  On Wednesday, November 13, 1799, Johnny took a meal with Congressman Marshall at his lodgings. They spoke freely with each other on a number of topics. They had been discussing a point of moral philosophy when Johnny suddenly laughed and put a hand to his forehead.

  “Why do you laugh?” Marshall smiled.

  “When I was in school, a few of us formed a little society. We called it the Slotted Spoon Society, and we took it very seriously. As seriously as only those with no real experience of life can.”

  Marshall smiled warmly at Johnny. “I suppose like bright young men everywhere, you solved all the world’s ills.”

  “Most of them,” Johnny admitted. The two men laughed. Johnny could not bring himself to tell Marshall that one of the bright young men had been a woman.

  They parted on warm terms, Marshall asserting that they would certainly meet again, and that his offer stood until such time as Johnny felt free to accept it. Johnny left the meeting humming with excitement. He could not wait to write Marcia. So exhilarated was he that he was halfway back to his hotel before he realized that he had failed to take his old coat. He had to race back to retrieve it, to his great embarrassment.

  On December 17, 1799, a fire began at Rickett’s Circus and quickly spread. Johnny heard the cries on the street below. He saw horses galloping by, and carts carrying water rumbled quickly up from the wharf. Johnny ran out into the street. He wished to help, but there was little to be done. By morning, the entire block was a smoking black pile of rubble. Oeller’s, where he had seen his first cube of ice, was gone.

  Later, people said that the fire was a bad omen, for that same night a lone rider galloped into the city to tell its citizens that George Washington, their great and unifying leader, was dead.

  46

  HE HAD DIED THREE DAYS PREVIOUS, AT his home at Mount Vernon. As the news spread, rumors abounded: The Federalists had killed him. The Republicans had killed him. He had killed himself in despair. Then, finally, on December 31, 1799, a story appeared in
the Virginia Gazette that had the ring of truth, being written by the doctors who had attended Washington at the end.

  Some time in the night of Friday the 13th, having been exposed to rain on the preceding day, General Washington was attacked with an inflammatory infection of the upper part of the wind-pipe, called in technical language, cynache tracheatis. The disease commenced with a violent ague, accompanied with some pain in the upper and fore part of the throat, a sense of stricture in the same part, a cough, and a difficult rather than a painful deglutition, which were soon succeeded by fever and a quick and laborious respiration . . .

  Some whispered that the Union would not hold without him; others whispered that the Federalists were finished. Jefferson did not attend Washington’s memorial service; the two had never spoken again after that business of the Mazzei letter.

  Johnny did go, however. He followed the solemn procession behind the empty coffin and the riderless horse. Everyone in Philadelphia—dignitaries and common folk alike—wept together as the procession slowly made its way to the New Lutheran Church.

  Like others across America, Johnny had half believed that Washington would live forever. He was their North Star. This light extinguished, all was darkness and greed below.

  Now Johnny heard church bells tolling. Shopkeepers closed up shop, housewives held their children by the hand, and senators and congressmen all walked toward the church. Washington himself had been quietly interred at Mount Vernon in the family vault. But where his body lay mattered not. They came to honor his indomitable spirit.

  When Johnny entered the church, the president and Mrs. Adams were already seated in the front row. Both wept at the sight before them: Washington’s horse. In the stirrups, pointing backward, the general’s worn Hessian boots.

  Johnny sat directly behind the Adamses, for the front row was full. Adams, seeing Johnny, reached for his hand across the back of the bench. Soon, John Marshall would speak.

  Oh, where was he? Gone! Gone! And what fateful timing, to leave them at this somber close of the eighteenth century. It felt much as Johnny had predicted in his editorial: like the death of honor itself. The noble white horse stood alone, very alone.

  Johnny burst into tears and hid his face in his hands. When he finally looked up and cast about to see who might have noticed, there, across the aisle, sat Peter Fray.

  By the time Johnny made his way through the crowd, Fray was already standing outside, beside a magnificent black stallion. Surrounding him were a group of acquaintances.

  “Hello, Fray.” Johnny bowed.

  “Oh, hello,” Peter replied. He then turned his back on Johnny and returned to his banter.

  Nonetheless, Johnny asked, “What brings you to Philadelphia? I thought you’d gone to Richmond.”

  “Has Miss Burnes not told you? I’ve lately arrived to cover the news for the Richmond Examiner.”

  “James Callender’s Examiner?”

  “The same.”

  James Callender was the scoundrel who continued to calumniate the Federalists at every turn. But Johnny endeavored to hide his alarm when he asked, “You had no wish to return to Moorcock?”

  “Impossible, old mole. Though, thanks in part to my employment, Moorcock yet belongs to us.” Peter smiled, but his stone-blue eyes let Johnny know that nothing had been forgiven or forgotten.

  “Apparently you are not too busy to correspond with Miss Burnes,” Johnny said.

  Peter paused only momentarily in his surprise. “Well, what of it?”

  “You told her lies about me.”

  “Not so! I told her the absolute truth, though I may have omitted a few items. As we all do.” Peter shrugged and grinned knowingly at his friends. These appeared to be slightly older, Southern versions of Shattuck, Farquez, Wales, and Selfridge.

  “Truth? I was never engaged to Miss Lee and you know it.”

  “Semantics.” Peter smiled. “Anyway, what do you do, Johnny? No, wait, I can guess. You write high-minded editorials about the death of honor whilst spying for the Monocrat.”

  Johnny reeled. How much did Peter know?

  “Oh, and I hear congratulations are in order. You plan to marry and perhaps even move to Richmond?” Peter then said, with a disingenuous attempt at joviality, “The ladies always did love you.”

  “Some still do,” replied Johnny.

  Peter shrugged again. “Well, I’m off. A shame about Washington, eh? A real legend. I expect we shall soon have statues of him everywhere.”

  A Negro stable boy locked his fingers together, and Peter stepped on them to mount his horse. He waved to his friends.

  Peter Fray in Philadelphia, and working for the Examiner. That was not good news.

  After Washington’s death, an embattled air fell upon Philadelphia. As spring of 1800 approached, attacks in the newspapers grew more bitter and violent. For the second time in his life, Johnny saw John Adams burned in effigy. In the middle of busy High Street, a band of masked men set a straw-stuffed doll afire with torches and then ran off before the constable arrived. Someone had placed dry ears of corn in Adams’s head, and when the flames reached them, the head exploded.

  Every afternoon, Republican floats rode down High Street with banners that read “Liberty Under Siege!” Federalist banners warned of Jefferson’s “creed of atheism and revolution.” He was “the greatest villain in America.” Farther afield, in newspapers across the states, partisan editors warned of imminent disaster. In New York, one paper cried that if Jefferson were elected, “bibles would have to be hidden” and America would be overrun by the “refuse of Europe,” meaning Irish and French immigrants.

  Johnny did not see how either Mr. Adams or their fragile Union could weather another year of such violence, both verbal and, increasingly, physical.

  The President’s House took on a somber, battened-down air. Adams was irate and resigned in turns. At times, Johnny came upon the old man mumbling that he simply wanted to go home.

  One afternoon, Johnny entered Adams’s study in time to see him throw down the paper he’d been reading and exclaim, “Republicans! I have a mind to arrest the whole lot of ’em!”

  Johnny said, “You would need to arrest half the country, sir.”

  “Oh, but it’s all lies!”

  “Perhaps. But the First Amendment does not say our citizens have the right to truthful speech alone.”

  Adams sent Johnny a withering glance.

  “My only interest is to avoid war.”

  Johnny wanted to remain silent, but he could not help himself when he said, “You would avoid war abroad at the cost of inciting a civil war at home?”

  “Incite! Incite?” He exploded, smashing his fist upon the desk. “You’ve no idea what it’s like to be vilified, attacked by lies at every turn. It can’t be borne!”

  Johnny replied, “Mrs. Adams says that what cannot be avoided must be borne.”

  “Mrs. Adams! Dammit, Johnny, I’ve had enough of you both for a lifetime!”

  Johnny decided then that the most helpful thing he could do for Adams was to keep track of the opposition press and counter it where he could. The invectives grew, both in violence and in quantity, and Johnny countered them word for word in nearly two dozen articles that winter. While Adams rarely mentioned Johnny’s editorials, Johnny knew he wrote with Adams’s silent consent.

  One morning, as he perused Adams’s mail while Adams sat writing a letter, Johnny found a pamphlet entitled The Prospect Before Us. The author was none other than James Callender. He read the pamphlet in its entirety and then looked up at the president.

  “Listen to this, sir. The blackguard says that your administration is a ‘tempest of malignant passions.’”

  “Humph,” Adams replied. “What else?” He continued to write his letter.

  Johnny read:

  As president, he has never opened his lips, or lifted his pen, without threatening and scolding. The grand object of his administration has been to exasperate the rage of contending parti
es, to calumniate and destroy every man who differs from his opinions . . .

  “I calumniate? I calumniate?” Adams, now beet-faced, set his pen down and rose from his chair. He stared at Johnny with something very akin to malignant passion.

  “What else?”

  “More of the same, sir.”

  “Read it! Go on!”

  Johnny read:

  Mr. Adams has laboured, and with melancholy success, to break up the bonds of social affection, and, under the ruins of confidence and friendship, to extinguish the only beam of happiness that glimmers through the dark and despicable farce of life.

  Adams sat back down and mastered himself with an effort. “A poisonous snake. One who, I must admit, can write.”

  He certainly can, Johnny thought.

  Johnny left the President’s House feeling he was, once more, on the scent of some treachery. All his senses told him that this pamphlet had been Jefferson’s doing. And yet, he could not believe it. He did not think Jefferson would stoop to such personal vilification.

  Finally arriving at his hotel, Johnny wearily mounted the stairs. He was ready to collapse onto his soft bed when, glancing in the direction of Jefferson’s chamber, he noticed that the door was open.

  Johnny slowed his steps and moved toward the open door. He peered inside. The room was large, with two windows fronting onto the street. There was yet some light to see by, and everywhere he looked, there were books and papers: on the floor, the bed, and especially the elegant writing desk at the other end of the room.

  “Hello?” he called. No one answered. An overwhelming curiosity called him forward. He stepped inside and moved quickly to Jefferson’s desk. At once, he found a plaintive letter to James Monroe and another to one of his slaves at Monticello regarding a purchase of iron for his nail manufactory.

  On the left side of the desk sat a large account ledger, bound in worn brown leather. Johnny opened it and ran his finger down the most recent page: purchases of books from France and England, various bottles of French wine. Then, in the same neat, careful handwriting as the rest: “To James Callender, $50.” This entry was repeated not once but several times, dating all the way back to the previous autumn.