by Jodi Daynard
The swampland of the Potomac awaits. Tomorrow, I leave my peaceful plot of earth and expect to arrive in Gomorrah ’round about the 1st.
So it was that, on November 1, Johnny once more found himself climbing the makeshift platform on the south side of the President’s House. He entered into the oval parlor, where the old man greeted him with a warm embrace.
“You are a sight for these sore old eyes, lad.”
“And you, sir.”
“Ha ha! I dare say.” Here, Adams grew somber. “But say, are you well? Are you fully recovered?”
At first, Johnny knew not to what the president referred. Then he stared at the old man. “You knew?” he asked. “But how?”
“You’re not my only eyes and ears, lad,” said Adams. “But are you? Recovered, that is? You gave us a fright.”
“Yes, quite recovered now, thank you. Does Mama know?”
On this point Adams was evasive. “I might have told Abigail something about it.”
“Oh.” Johnny placed a hand to his head. He suffered to think that he’d given his mother unnecessary pain.
“She knows you are well now,” Adams hastened to say. “And we are all very glad of it.”
Johnny sighed. He should have known that Adams could not keep a secret from Abigail, and that Abigail would not keep such a secret from Eliza.
“But come, I’ll show you around,” Adams said cheerfully. “How like you my ‘palace’?”
“It is coming along nicely.”
“Why, you’ve already seen it? How can that be?”
“Miss Burnes took me through a few months ago.”
“I should like to meet her.”
“You will. Hopefully, you’ll be in Washington in May and can attend our wedding.”
Adams sighed. “I’d like nothing more, Johnny. But it doesn’t look good. More and more, I find myself thinking that I would simply like to go home.”
“There will be time to go home, sir. Now is the time to lead.”
Mr. Adams nodded dejectedly. “I will lead if the people still wish me to.”
Johnny cast the president a cynical smile. “Surely you know the evil machinations going on behind closed doors just now have naught to do with ‘the people.’”
Adams glanced at Johnny and then waved him forward without comment. “Come,” he said. “Let us leave that for another day. Come and see our beloved friend.”
Adams led Johnny to a small parlor that served as his office. From the windows of this parlor, Johnny could see the wagon-rutted field beyond, strewn with stone and rubble.
“Look, Johnny. Just here.” Johnny looked up to where Adams pointed. Before him hung the great Lansdowne portrait of George Washington by Gilbert Stuart, one of many the artist had painted. It was more than eight feet tall and dwarfed all else in the room. The general had been painted in his black velvet suit and, with his right hand reaching out, palm upward, he seemed to invite Adams, Johnny, and the future itself to carry on his mission.
“I miss him so,” said Adams simply.
“A portrait of honor itself.”
“I wonder,” Adams muttered. “Was it all an illusion?”
“Was what an illusion, sir? Not Washington’s honor, surely.”
“Nay, not that. But all the rest. Our pride at victory. Our belief that we had achieved something extraordinary.”
“But you did, sir,” Johnny replied. “The question remains whether we can sustain that achievement.”
Mr. Adams smiled.
“Why do you smile?”
“On days like today, I feel like a tired old man who wishes nothing more than to potter among his fields and leave solutions for the younger generation. But, say—perhaps you’ve not yet heard about France?” The old man’s tired eyes brightened.
“What about it?”
“Follow me.”
Adams returned to his desk and rummaged among his papers. He soon found what he was looking for and handed a paper to Johnny. “Read this.”
Johnny read. He then set the paper down, and a powerful wave of emotion overcame him.
“A peace treaty has been signed with France. Sir, this is a very great accomplishment. You have campaigned on the promise of ‘Peace and Neutrality’ for many months. Now you’ve made good on that promise, sir.” Johnny walked the length of the study to the window. “And yet I can easily predict the result of this great achievement. Why, it will be the nail in your coffin, Mr. Adams. Those who say they wanted peace with Britain will call you a warmonger. Those who wished for war with France will say you lacked courage.”
Mr. Adams gazed calmly at the boy. “And so you finally grasp the fundamental experience of being president of the United States.”
50
November 1800
IN THE SECOND WEEK OF NOVEMBER, A severe snowstorm fell across the East Coast and prevented the United States government from reaching Washington. When they finally arrived, on November 17, nobody turned out to greet them, the weather being too inclement for celebration.
That same day, Marcia had come to town to attend the parade, not knowing that it had been cancelled. “Well, now that I’m here, what shall we do?” she asked Johnny as they stood in the parlor at Tunnicliff’s.
“We could stroll up to the Capitol and tour the north wing. I’ve not yet been inside.”
“I’ve a better idea.” Marcia smiled mischievously.
“What’s that?”
She took his hand and whispered, “That we stroll to your chamber and have a tour, for I’ve not yet been inside.”
“But you have.” He frowned.
“As your nurse,” she replied.
“But Marcia, what if someone sees you?”
“They won’t.”
She took his hand and led him up the stairs. She opened his chamber door, removed her cape, and then shut the door. She threw her arms about his neck, whispering, “Kiss me.”
He did. She placed his hands upon her chemise. After Johnny caressed her beneath the thin muslin fabric, Marcia turned her back to him and said, “Undo my stays.”
Hands trembling, Johnny did as she requested, though she could easily have undone them herself. These stays were quite short and did not take long to untie.
Johnny caressed her bare shoulders, marveling at the pale little freckles there. Turning back to him, she smiled and reached up to remove the pins from her hair. Her thick, nearly black tresses tumbled down her back and shoulders. Johnny placed his hands inside her stays against her bare flesh. It was warm, soft, and supple. He whispered, “Marcia,” but she placed a finger to his lips and said, “Shh.”
Then she pulled away and looked at him carefully. He stood before her, and, seeing the state of things in his trousers, Marcia laughed and began to unbutton his shirt.
“But if—” he began.
“We are soon to be married. So what if I become with child? Unless . . .” She looked pointedly at him, as if suddenly doubting him.
“I love you, Marcia. We shall be man and wife in six months’ time.”
“Well, then, let me sample what I shall soon be purchasing.”
She pulled his shirt over his head. Johnny sat on the bed and removed his shoes and trousers. He crawled into bed and waited for her as she slowly revealed herself, emerging from her gown and undergarments like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. She stood before him, naked and unabashed, and Johnny thought, When God created Eve, this was what she must have looked like.
He reached for her.
Beneath him as he moved, Marcia maintained a mysterious smile upon her lips. Her eyes remained half-closed and unreadable. It was too much for him, and it was over too soon. Afterward, Marcia turned on her side, away from Johnny, and dozed. Johnny propped himself on one elbow and stared at her as she slept. At her white, soft skin, her small waist, large breasts, her long legs that had only recently wrapped themselves around his back . . .
Johnny lay back on his pillow and shut his eyes.
He w
ished . . . it seemed too brief. Should he say something? He had no idea. But somehow he thought it less than . . . the moving of the heavens.
He dozed and woke an hour later to find Marcia already dressed. She was gazing at herself in the small mirror by his dressing table.
Johnny asked, “What do you think about?”
“About the election, actually,” she said, not turning around.
“The election?”
“Yes. I’m wondering who shall win. From what I hear, Jefferson shall edge Adams out. But it is close, is it not?”
Johnny smiled. “I see that if I wish to bring out the civic-minded in you, I need only to bring you to bed.”
“I brought you to bed,” she corrected him with a tiny smile. “And yes, I plan to serve man a great deal once we are married.”
At this, Marcia laughed so gaily that Johnny had to remind her to keep her voice down.
“But tell me truly, Marcia, do you really wish for Jefferson to win?”
She shrugged. “It seems disloyal to support another fellow when Jefferson is a close friend of the Frays. I have met him and conversed with him on several occasions. I have found him to be everything affable and upstanding. He has even told Peter that, should he be elected, he might have a position for him.”
Marcia continued to comb her hair.
Johnny replied with more mildness than he felt, not wishing to argue with her just then, “I agree that Adams may not look the part, but he is a thousand times more honorable than Jefferson. There are things you don’t know on this score that, were you to know, would change your mind. Why, even on the subject of Negroes—”
Johnny shut his mouth in mid-sentence, literally closing his lips. Marcia turned to face him, her eyes hard and alert.
“What about the subject of Negroes?”
Johnny knew he needed to be silent, but his pride would not allow it. “I have knowledge as would topple Jefferson in a day, were it known.”
The words were in the air, in Miss Burnes’s ears, and they could not be retracted. Her eyes flashed. “What mean you?”
Johnny fumbled to cover his mistake. “It was just something I heard having to do with his finances.”
“If you mean his debt”—she turned back to look at herself in the mirror—“well, everyone already knows about that. No one cares overmuch. Does not your Hamilton keep hammering on about how good debt is?”
“That’s different, Marcia. Hamilton speaks of national, not personal debt. And he’s not my Hamilton. I detest the man personally.” Indeed, Johnny had only recently read Hamilton’s letter published the previous month, “Concerning the Public Conduct and Character of John Adams, Esq., President of the United States,” which assassinated the president’s character at nearly interminable length. Fortunately, many considered this letter the ravings of a madman.
But Marcia, who was both quick and shrewd, remained unconvinced that this was what Johnny had meant.
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Mr. Boylston.”
“There isn’t.” Johnny blushed.
She said nothing more on the subject. Instead, she yawned, stretched her arms above her head, and said, “I’m bored. Let’s go abroad.”
In the ensuing days, Marcia arrived at his lodgings just after dinner and remained with him till suppertime. Once more, but only once, she insisted on entering his chamber, where she laid herself next to him. Though he held her close, Johnny would have no repetition of that amorous interlude which had put him so off his guard.
One time, Johnny fell asleep briefly, and when he woke up he found Marcia sitting at his desk. A drawer was open, and she hastily shut it.
“What do you search for, Marcia?” he asked from the bed.
“Oh, nothing. You’ve been sleeping so long, I knew not what to do with myself.”
After this occasion, Johnny no longer invited her to his chamber, and he moved Jefferson’s letter to a trunk beneath his bed.
Marcia was not happy about being rejected in this manner. But one afternoon, after he steered her abroad, Johnny said gently, “Dearest, I think only of your honor.”
“Honor, indeed.” She glanced at him coolly.
Several times, Miss Burnes endeavored to engage him on the topic of Jefferson, but Johnny was now canny enough to change the topic. He didn’t know absolutely whether she was merely curious or whether she wished to help her friend Mr. Fray. But he would err on the side of caution from now on.
Johnny knew he would never reveal the contents of that letter from Jefferson to Sally Hemings, not even to his wife. Then why had he not burned it already? He should have. Yet the letter confounded him: Repulsed as he was by Jefferson’s hypocrisy, the letter moved him, connected him to Jefferson somehow. It even gave him a bizarre lift of hope.
He knew not what to do. What if Adams lost the election and Johnny could have prevented it? Over and over it he went. Finally, on the morning of November 28, Johnny strode down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the President’s House bent on telling all. A second storm had blanketed Washington in a foot of snow, creating a haunting stillness. The snow masked the stumps and rubble, and Johnny kept tripping until he finally mounted F Street and walked along the smoother, higher ground.
From a distance, “the Palace” appeared like a portrait of lonely responsibility. Johnny walked up the south-side ramp and knocked. A black girl opened the door, and Johnny heard a feminine voice call from within: “She’s a well-paid servant, Johnny.”
Johnny grinned and ran to Mrs. Adams as if she were his own mother. She was standing on the other side of a large unpainted parlor. A fire raged within, and she was hanging laundry to dry. After a deep bow, during which he noticed the unfinished brick walls and hewn beams where a ceiling should have been, Johnny ran to hug her. But such was the force of his big body against hers that she was nearly knocked off her feet.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am!”
Mrs. Adams laughed. “Never mind. You’ve grown very strong. But there is snow yet clinging to you.”
Johnny looked down at his feet and obligingly stomped some of the snow off.
“Goodness, not in here!” she cried.
“Oh, sorry!” Johnny bowed awkwardly and then moved toward Adams’s office, where he saw Mr. Adams. Or rather, he saw the man’s black silhouette against the white landscape beyond his study window. He was sitting with his spectacles on, reading something that seemed to puzzle him. He heard the door open, and when he saw Johnny, he set down his reading and removed his spectacles.
“Johnny! Torn yourself away from your beautiful lady to visit with an old man, ha ha? An old and depressed man, I might add.” Johnny knew that Hamilton’s scandalous pamphlet had hurt Adams, though the old man sought to make light of it. “To what do I owe the—but what is it, lad?” Adams suddenly noticed Johnny’s expression. “What has happened?”
“Nothing, sir.” Johnny glanced behind him and realized that the office had no door. He moved closer to the president and lowered his voice. “May I sit, sir?”
“Do.” Adams pointed to a chair in a corner of the room.
Johnny pulled his chair close to Adams’s desk, shifting his thoughts with the chair. “Since our last conversation on the topic, sir, I have considered what to do with certain information in my possession. For many months now, I’ve thought it right to burden no one with it, including you. But now, as election day nears, this knowledge weighs upon me. I have kept it locked inside for so long, it begins to burn me. I could not forgive myself if—”
“But what is this knowledge, child? Surely not that Callender business. That’s old news.”
Johnny inhaled. “Last winter, during that same event about which I in part told you, I happened upon a letter.” Johnny whispered into Adams’s ear, “It was from Mr. Jefferson to a certain ‘Sally.’ She’s a slave at his estate, his daughter Martha’s maid, I believe. I heard her spoken of years ago, in Fredericksburg, though I thought nothing of it at the time.”
&nbs
p; Adams held up a forestalling hand. “How did you ‘happen upon’ this letter?”
“It fell out of his account book.”
“And why did you not return it to its place?”
“I heard footsteps—I ran. I didn’t mean to take it.”
“And what were the contents, exactly?”
Johnny recited the letter, long since etched in his memory:
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.
Adams was silent a long moment. He then quietly asked, “I can hardly believe it. But since you recite it so to the letter, it must be true. Where is this letter now?”
“I have it in my possession, sir. In a trunk at Tunnicliff’s, beneath my bed. I was unable to return it, the rightful owner reappearing quite suddenly.”
Mr. Adams turned away from Johnny and walked toward the window. He rested his arms on the newly planed windowsill and looked out.
“Such a beautiful dream we’ve created, Johnny.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve known you a long time, lad. You are like one of my own children. You have greater gifts than my own sons, and a much gentler nature. But this was your first mistake, and a bad one.”
Johnny didn’t understand, but he nonetheless felt the swift sting of Mr. Adam’s rebuke. “Sir?”
Mr. Adams began to pace about his office, avoiding Johnny. He said, almost to himself, “I suppose it’s better you should make it with me than with anyone else.”
At once, Johnny felt a lump of hurt pride rise in his throat. “What is that, sir?”