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

by Jodi Daynard

  This was bad; Johnny had not truly expected to find such confirmation of his worst fears. At the thought of telling Adams, he felt his stomach heave. Johnny hastily closed the ledger and, in so doing, dislodged a piece of paper that had been folded within its pages. The paper fell to the floor, and he picked it up. He was about to replace it unread when he heard people enter the hotel below. He stepped swiftly into the hall, leaving the door ajar.

  The people now headed up the stairs, laughing and speaking in loud, cheerful voices, as if they’d just returned from a tavern. Johnny fled into his chamber and peered out the crack to see Jefferson and a Negro manservant engaged in lively conversation. When he noticed his door ajar, Jefferson stopped on the landing and said, “What? Was it you who left it so, Jupiter?”

  “No, sir.” The servant shook his head.

  “I recall perfectly well that we left this locked. Blasted chambermaid!” Jefferson looked quickly about the hall. “I’ve asked her twice not to bother with my chamber. I shall have to speak to John Francis. Or better yet, it’s high time we found our own house. I’ve ignored that onerous task for far too long.”

  They entered the chamber at last and shut the door, though Johnny could hear Jefferson’s angry voice coming from within.

  Johnny finally exhaled. He looked down and saw that one hand still gripped the letter. It was addressed to a Miss Sarah Hemings of Monticello. It had a line running through it, as if Jefferson had thought better of sending it. Or perhaps he had made a fair copy and meant to destroy this.

  My dearest one, I long to be home among my beloved family. I was grieved beyond words to hear of our little girl’s death, but shall speak no more of it here and save my grief until I am in your arms once more. I am in a viper pit here and fear I shall be stung many times before finding my way out. If only I were there to place my weary head upon the breast of my beloved Sally!

  P.S. Please send love to your Mistress Martha from me. I pray you are able to console one another for the loss of our little one.

  Martha, Johnny knew, was Jefferson’s eldest child. But who was “Sally”? Suddenly, and with perfect clarity, Johnny recalled his painful parting from Moorcock years earlier. He then recalled Frederick’s mocking words about Jefferson: “Yes, perhaps you’ll even be so fortunate as to meet his favorite slave, Sally.”

  There had been rumors but never proof. The story of Jefferson and his slave was but one of the many vicious depredations that circulated at the time. Now, here was proof, or very near it. Johnny believed he had found something that, if made known, could change the course of the election.

  47

  THERE WOULD BE NO SLEEPING FOR HIM that night. It was past midnight when he finally dressed, pulled on his coat and hat, and left the hotel. He walked down Market Street to the river, where he watched the boats rocking in the moonlight and a lone dockworker lowering a crate from one of the ships onto a cart. He walked along the harbor, passing the shops on Front Street, now closed. Then he turned up Church Street toward Christ Church. The city was quiet, save for the constant chirp of tree toads.

  Johnny considered what he knew and what he still needed to find out: He knew now with certainty that Jefferson was paying the scoundrel Callender to defame Adams. He sensed, but did not know absolutely, that Jefferson had helped to write that cruel, ugly pamphlet. Johnny knew that Jefferson loved a slave named Sally but not who she was or the exact nature of their relationship. This he would need to unearth.

  He stood before the church a moment, feeling his heart thud against his ribs. Gently, he tried the latch. The church was open. He entered, though within was complete darkness save for the scant reflection of the moon through the windowpanes.

  Now, in the vacant dark of this holy space, Johnny weighed the possibilities. He could reveal what he knew and win the election for Adams. He could tell Adams about both discoveries, or only one. Or, he could do nothing, tear up the letter, and pretend he’d never stepped across that threshold.

  Johnny realized that he now held in his hands the “sledgehammer” Mr. Adams had spoken of. It would penetrate even the thick American skull.

  To publish this information would be a dramatic and probably effective political decision. But would it be a moral one? How much did the public have a right to know? If Johnny were like Callender, he would use it at once, without a thought for the ethics of the thing.

  Johnny wished he had his beloved Slotted Spoon Society before him. For more than an hour, sitting on the hard bench in the dark church, Johnny imagined a conversation of his little society in which they addressed several questions: One was, Might Johnny condemn an esteemed man to political death for the sake of the greater good? Was Jefferson’s lie by omission—his relationship with this Negro woman—pardonable? And finally, if Johnny condemned Jefferson on this score, would he not have to condemn himself?

  Jefferson’s payments to Callender, on the other hand, did bear exposure. They were cowardly and backstabbing. Adams himself would think them seditious in the extreme. Then, once the information was made known, would Congress arrest the vice president for sedition?

  Johnny remained in the dark church for some time. He wished God would speak to him; he wished his faith were stronger. He experienced God as a kind of silent space that allowed man to look into his own soul. But no guidance did he find. What religion on earth could untangle these uniquely American threads? As he finally rose from the pew at around four, his legs were stiff, his soul heavy.

  He returned to his chamber and lay down on the bed fully clothed. He slept till six, then rose, procured a steaming mug of coffee, and sat down to his desk. He would administer to the public a hefty dose of the truth. Jefferson didn’t deserve to lose the election because of a personal scandal. He deserved to lose because he was an underhanded traitor to the Union.

  Behind the Mask of James Callender

  The pen that accuses our president of monarchism and intolerance of dissent has, in the comfort of secrecy, been funding the most vicious and slanderous attacks against him. Unmask yourself, poison pen, and stand up for your beliefs in the light of day, so that all may judge whether loyalty to the Cause or base Treachery be your motive!

  The moment Johnny finished his article at around ten that morning, he broke down and sobbed. Writing this piece had not ameliorated the doubt or the demons that swirled about his brain.

  He walked up the high street to the offices of the Gazette, article in hand. As he walked, he realized he had yet to choose a new pen name, finally settling on Littera Scripta Manet. The written word endures. Johnny smiled bitterly. For better or worse, he thought. After placing the piece on his editor’s desk, he walked directly to the President’s House.

  It was turning into a pleasant spring day. The market teemed with women wearing airy gowns and holding parasols. Dogs darted back and forth across the lawn. And behind them all, as in a silhouette, was only the blackened, empty space where the Fire of ’99 had burned all the buildings to the ground.

  Johnny ran up the steps and through the front door. He took the stairs two at a time and found Mr. Adams in his office, spectacles on his nose, peering intently at a document. When he heard Johnny cough, he looked up over his spectacles.

  “Oh, hello. Just looking over McHenry’s resignation. I fired ’im. About time, too. Lost my temper, though, which I regret. Why, why can I not control such a simple thing as my own temper?” Adams let out a long sigh. It was a rhetorical question, and Johnny did not answer it. “I find myself more and more alone, Johnny. I’m getting rid of Pickering as well. This is long overdue. I’m sorry for his son’s death. But those who worship false gods must do so on their own time, not mine.”

  Johnny knew that by “false gods” Adams meant Hamilton. It was true that Adams had lost control of his cabinet. It was true he was entirely alone. But whether this was entirely Hamilton’s doing, Johnny knew not. He found that explanation too easy, somehow. By now, half the nation had turned against Adams.

  Jo
hnny hesitated. Was this the time to share yet more bad news? He said, “I’m afraid, sir, the news I have to impart shan’t help matters.”

  Adams closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I feel a dreadful headache coming on.”

  “I can return later, if you like, sir.”

  “Nay, sit and tell me your news. You look as weary as I feel.”

  Johnny sat, pulling his chair close to Mr. Adams.

  “I have just now come from my editor’s offices at the Gazette, having delivered an article that shall, I believe, be published Tuesday next.”

  “An article, you say?” Adams looked interested. He usually enjoyed hearing about Johnny’s articles. “What, calling for my resignation? You won’t be the first, ha ha!”

  “Worse than that, sir. It’s a reply to Callender.”

  “Oh, that scoundrel. Well, he’s an easy target, I should say. You know I’ve put a warrant out for his arrest. We’ve got to find him first, though, the blackguard. No doubt he’s fled to Virginia, where he won’t be spotted as easily. There, Callenders are everywhere.”

  It was as good an opening as Johnny was likely to get. “Speaking of Virginians, sir, I have reason to believe your vice president had a hand in that poisonous pamphlet.”

  “A hand? What mean you?”

  Johnny hesitated. “Editorially, I mean. You need not know the details.”

  Here, there ensued a dangerous silence. Then Adams slammed his fist down on his desk, rattling several old dishes of partially drunk tea.

  “I’ll know, dammit! I’ll not suffer mere conjecture!”

  Johnny wanted to say that he never merely conjectured but instead blurted, “I have proof.”

  “Proof? How, and where, did you acquire proof?”

  “His door was wide open, sir, and I entered the chamber and saw his account book lying upon his desk.”

  Adams moved toward Johnny but then continued past him to shut the door to his study. He turned to the boy.

  “Let me warn you before you go any further down this path: to speak against the vice president, to incite discontent among the people towards any of our leaders, is grounds for arrest.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “You know, you know—and yet you know nothing!” Now Adams exploded. Johnny had witnessed many of Adams’s fits of temper, but he’d never seen him in such a state as this: he looked like a madman as he began to pace his chamber in fury. “What if Jefferson chooses to arrest you? There is nothing I could do. Nothing. Why, you’ve gone stark raving mad—like the rest of us.”

  Johnny endeavored to calm him down. He said, “Jefferson won’t arrest me.”

  “And why not? You think him above such hypocrisy? Then you know him not as I do!”

  “He won’t arrest me, for I know something about him that, were it generally known, could be the death of him. Politically speaking.”

  But instead of asking Johnny what this information was, Mr. Adams walked to the window and looked down onto the street below. His shoulders curled in, and he placed his hands upon the windowsill, as if in need of support. He was silent while the volcanic fury in him slowly cooled.

  In a changed voice the old man said, “Son, I can recall first meeting Jefferson just here, in the room below us, as if it were yesterday. That was in 1775. Oh, he was so young, so young and tall. His hair was quite shockingly red, with not a trace of gray, you know. We were both young, Johnny. Full of fire, like you. Fire to create something, too, not simply to destroy. I don’t know how we got here. I really don’t.”

  Johnny waited. Adams turned around. He had tears in his eyes.

  “Washington was right to warn us,” he continued. “I only hope—I do yet believe—that Jefferson acts against me from some fundamental idealism, not base ambition. Abigail says not, yet it is my fervent hope.”

  After a few moments, Johnny said, “I don’t doubt the greatness in Jefferson, or his great gifts to this country. Even so, should he not be held accountable for his current treachery?”

  But Adams had made up his mind. “Do not do it. Do not publish this piece on Jefferson and Callender. They’ll go after you like wolves.” Adams sighed. “Johnny, you’ve got courage beyond anything I’ve ever seen since the war. You’ve done your job. But I would not have you wade any further into the mire. No, I won’t have that upon my conscience. To have to face your mother—”

  “You mustn’t worry about me.”

  “But I do! Naturally I do! Yet even were it not so, I admit that I fear the Union shall suffer a fatal blow. At the end of the day, I must choose the well-being of the country. For the country to lose complete faith in its government . . .” Adams shook his head. “People revere Jefferson almost as much as they did Washington.”

  “But the attacks upon Washington, upon you—”

  Adams shook his head. “Jefferson wrote such words as future generations shall live by. You can’t take that away from our citizens. Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

  It was an angle Johnny had not, for all his cold hours in the church, considered: what was good for the people of this country. And they called Adams a Monocrat!

  Johnny was convinced by Adams’s argument. But he suddenly realized that he needed to fly back to his editor’s office to retrieve the essay from his desk before they closed for the day. He bade the president a hasty farewell and raced back to the Gazette.

  The letter was not on the desk where he had left it. For several minutes, he looked through the piles of papers on the desk, becoming more frantic as the minutes wore on. He had left it in plain sight. But neither the essay nor Johnny’s editor was anywhere to be found. Heart thumping, Johnny called out to a young boy who stood at the other end of the room. Johnny recognized this boy as the one he’d seen running back and forth from the printer’s shop down the street.

  “Say,” Johnny called to him. “Do you happen to know what has become of my article? Has Dennie retrieved it?”

  “Nay.” The boy did not look at Johnny when he spoke but continued to gaze out the windows, as if he were waiting for someone to arrive. “He’s not been in. Gone to see about something up at the State House. His secretary was in, though. You just missed him.”

  Johnny thought that perhaps Dennie’s secretary had taken the article for editing. He would have to return first thing in the morning to ask the editor himself about it.

  When Johnny exited the building, he turned left and headed west on High Street. Two men who had been loitering before some shops slowly began to walk behind him. Johnny took no notice until he had turned onto Fourth. He had just reached his hotel when he thought he heard scuffling behind him. He turned to find four men holding rough wooden clubs.

  “What? Who?” Johnny raised his arms defensively as they quickly surrounded him.

  “Never mind who,” said one of the men, inching closer. He was no child but more near forty, as were the rest of them. Johnny knew not who they were, but that they were not gentlemen was certain.

  “Citizens, let us use our God-given powers of discourse!” Johnny cried. “Surely you are civilized men.”

  Another man laughed. “Discourse! he says. C’mon, let’s give the boy his long-deserved discourse!”

  They attacked him then with their clubs. They struck vicious blows upon him. Johnny’s vision wavered, and then his world went black.

  48

  HE LAY IN THE STREET ALL NIGHT. Passersby must have thought he was drunk, for no one came to his aid. Toward morning, it began to rain. He felt the rain on his face. Rising into consciousness, Johnny knew he had been assaulted, but he seemed to have lost the will to pick himself up. Yes, it was a failure of will, a kind of indolence that had him lying there in the dirt, knees drawn up, spine twisted to the side, groin wet—not from rain but his own urine. His mind commanded him to rise, yet he continued to lie there.

  Dawn broke, the rain ceased, and the street sweepers appeared. With one open eye, Johnny saw two of them upside down from a distance. One
sweeper came quite close to where he lay, and he cried, “Help, please help. I’ve been attacked.” But the cry came out a whisper. With preternatural will, Johnny managed to shift himself so that the sweeper saw he lived.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

  The sweeper whistled to a mate down High Street, who set down his broom and came running.

  “Lord, what’s this, Tommy? In his cups, what?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Help me up,” Johnny said. “I’ve been attacked. I’m not drunk.”

  They bent down to look more closely at the boy, who did seem quite purple about the face. His hands were bruised and bloodied from his attempt to defend himself.

  “Easy. Slowly,” said Tommy.

  “That’s it,” said the other. “Let’s set him on the stoop.” But the moment they shifted him, Johnny lurched forward and puked at their feet.

  “He’s sick—let’s move it!”

  “Nay.” Tommy shook his head. “They’ve beat him about the head. I hear that can happen, afterwards. It makes a body powerful sick.”

  Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Johnny slurred, “Mr. Francis, within. Tell him Mr. Boylston—”

  Tommy entered the lodgings and returned with Mr. Francis, who was still in his nightcap and gown. The three of them managed to carry Johnny through the door and up the stairs to his chamber. Mr. Francis called for a doctor at once. At the feel of his soft bed beneath him, Johnny drifted into a welcome, painless darkness.

  Two days later, he woke to find a large black, damp hand dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth. The poor woman had thought him all but dead, and the act of opening his eyes scared her half to death.

  “Oh! You’re alive. Goodness! I’ll tell Mr. Francis.” She set the rag aside and stood up. “I’ll be right back.”