Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings

by Stephen O'Connor

  “Did Captain Ramsey send you?” asks Sally Hemings, thinking the man may be the porter. But her question only makes the chopped-up English tumble ever more rapidly and loudly out of his three-toothed mouth.

  He keeps jerking his wheelbarrow back and forth on the cobbles. It is stacked high with oil casks and has no room at all for Polly’s chest.

  “He just wants us out the way,” Sally Hemings says, and pulls Polly back until they are both standing with their heels half over the quay’s edge. The bearded man grunts and pushes his wheelbarrow through the gap between their toes and Polly’s sea chest.

  “Where’s my papa!” cries Polly. “I hate this country! I wish we stayed with Aunt and Uncle Eppes.”

  “There, there.” Sally Hemings pulls the weeping girl into her arms, feeling that it will be only a matter of seconds before she, herself, will be crying.

  Polly was furious at being left behind when her father and Patsy went to France, and she only became more so when little Lucy died of whooping cough, a disease she might never have gotten had she and Polly gone to Paris, too. And when her father finally wrote to Aunt Eppes saying that he wanted Polly to join him, she said that she wouldn’t go. “Don’t you want to see Patsy?” her Aunt Eppes asked her. “Don’t you want to live in a real castle and see real princesses walking the streets?” No! Polly was determined. If her father didn’t love her enough to come and take her to Paris himself, then she wouldn’t go, and no one could force her.

  Finally Aunt and Uncle Eppes told her that they would go to France with her. They packed valises for themselves and carried them onto the ship at Jamestown. When she was settled in her cabin, they gave her a medicine they said would keep her from getting seasick, but that actually just put her to sleep. And when she woke up, she and Sally Hemings were all by themselves on a boat full of men, miles and miles at sea. Sally Hemings had never felt so lonely and afraid as she did during the hours she sat beside the sleeping Polly, and she feels a little of that loneliness and fear now.

  She squeezes Polly against her chest and kisses the top of her head. “Your papa loves you,” she says. “That’s how come he sent for you. He’ll be here soon, and you’ll see how much he loves you. Everything’ll be just fine.” She kisses Polly’s head a second time, and the little girl returns her squeeze. “Who knows?” says Sally Hemings. “Maybe Captain Ramsey found your papa already and they’re just talking down there in that big house.”

  Polly is no longer weeping, but she keeps her head tight against Sally Hemings’s breast.

  It’s been more than half an hour since Captain Ramsey left them. All of the other passengers on their boat are gone, and Sally Hemings feels more alone every instant. Maybe this isn’t London. Maybe all these gruff men in their leather aprons and grease-stained clothing aren’t speaking English at all but some other language she’s never heard of. Maybe Captain Ramsey has just abandoned them here.

  She gently extracts herself from Polly’s grip and says, “You wait here, Polly-Pie. Let me go see what’s taking that Captain so long.”

  “No!” cries Polly, grief-stricken all over again. “Don’t leave me!”

  “I’m not leaving you. You can see me the whole time. I’m just going down this dock here, so I can see in the windows of that big house. You got to wait here, because someone’s got to look after our stuff.”

  Polly’s eyes are jittery with tears, and there is a groove of worry between her eyebrows, but she doesn’t complain. Sally Hemings steps backward and, after a few yards, begins to hurry sideways, alternately looking where she is going and back at her charge. She knows there is no reason Polly shouldn’t come with her. All of the men on the dock are busy with their own labors, and they could never make off with that big chest without her noticing. But somehow she can’t stand the idea of Polly coming with her. The two girls have been together every single minute of the last thirty-seven days. Sally Hemings would just love a few moments alone. Nothing bad could happen in so short a time.

  She has gone only a dozen yards, however, when she spots a heavy-shouldered woman in a blue gown hurrying down the quay, clamping her feathered hat onto her head with one hand, her knees thrusting, one after the other, against her shimmery skirt.

  “Polly!” the woman is calling. “Polly!”

  She is close enough to see Sally Hemings’s smile of relief, and she, too, starts to smile, even as she continues to run.

  “I am so sorry!” the woman says between wheezing gasps when at last she is at Sally Hemings’s side. “We were told . . . you wouldn’t be . . . getting in . . . until tomorrow . . . or the next day. . . . When I heard . . . your boat . . . was here, . . . I ran all the way. . . .” She stops talking, grips Sally Hemings’s wrist and places her other hand against the base of her own throat, gasping so fiercely that she makes a ghost moan with every breath.

  “Forgive me!” she says at last, letting go of Sally Hemings’s wrist. “I haven’t introduced . . . myself. . . . I’m Mrs. Adams. . . . A friend of your father.”

  “I’m Sally,” says Sally Hemings. “That’s Miss Polly over there.” She points toward the little girl who has already taken several tentative steps in their direction.

  “Yes. Of course,” Mrs. Adams says briskly. “So sorry.” And with that she runs toward Polly with both arms extended. “Polly! Oh, Polly! It is so good to see you at last!”

  London june 26 1787

  My dear Sir

  I have to congratulate you upon the safe arrival of your Little Daughter, whom I have only a few moments ago received. She is in fine Health and a Lovely little Girl I am sure from her countanance, but at present every thing is strange to her, and she was very loth to try New Friends for old. She was so much attachd to the Captain and he to her, that it was with no small regret that I seperated her from him, but I dare say I shall reconcile her in a day or two. I tell her that I did not see her sister cry once. She replies that her sister was older and ought to do better, besides she had her pappa with her. I shew her your picture. She says she cannot know it, how should she when she should not know you. A few hours acquaintance and we shall be quite Friends I dare say. I hope we may expect the pleasure of an other visit from you now I have so strong an inducement to tempt you. If you could bring Miss Jefferson with you, it would reconcile her little Sister to the thoughts of taking a journey. It would be proper that some person should be accustomed to her. The old Nurse whom you expected to have attended her, was sick and unable to come. She has a Girl about 15 or 16 with her, the Sister of the Servant you have with you. As I presume you have but just returnd from your late excursion, you will not put yourself to any inconvenience or Hurry in comeing or sending for her. You may rely upon every attention towards her and every care in my power. I have just endeavourd to amuse her by telling her that I would carry her to Sadlers Wells. After describing the amusement to her with an honest simplicity, I had rather says she see captain Ramsey one moment, than all the fun in the World.

  I have only time before the post goes, to present my compliments to Mr. Short. Mr. Adams and Mrs. Smith desire to be rememberd to you. Captain Ramsey has brought a Number of Letters. As they may be of importance to you to receive them we have forwarded them by the post. Miss Polly sends her duty to you and Love to her Sister and says she will try to be good and not cry. So she has wiped her eyes and layd down to sleep.

  Believe me dear Sir affectionately yours &c &c,

  A Adams

  London june 27 1787

  Dear Sir

  I had the Honour of addressing you yesterday and informing you of the safe arrival of your daughter. She was but just come when I sent of my letter by the post, and the poor little Girl was very unhappy being wholy left to strangers. This however lasted only a few Hours, and Miss is as contented to day as she was misirable yesterday. She is indeed a fine child. I have taken her out to day and purchased her a few articles which she could not wel
l do without and I hope they will meet your approbation. The Girl who is with her is quite a child, and Captain Ramsey is of opinion will be of so little Service that he had better carry her back with him. But of this you will be a judge. She seems fond of the child and appears good naturd.

  I sent by yesterdays post a Number of Letters which Captain Ramsey brought with him not knowing of any private hand, but Mr. Trumble has just calld to let me know that a Gentleman sets off for paris tomorrow morning. I have deliverd him two Letters this afternoon received, and requested him to wait that I might inform you how successfull a rival I have been to Captain Ramsey, and you will find it I imagine as difficult to seperate Miss Polly from me as I did to get her from the Captain. She stands by me while I write and asks if I write every day to her pappa? But as I have never had so interesting a subject to him to write upon [corner torn off] I hope he will excuse the hasty scrips for the [corner torn]y intelligence they contain, and be assured Dear Sir

  that I am with sentiments

  of sincere esteem your

  Humble Servant,

  A Adams

  Thomas Jefferson gets two letters from Abigail Adams at once, six days after they were sent. In the same post is a letter from Maria Cosway, telling him for the second time that her visit to Paris will be delayed and all but begging, since she remains in London, to be allowed to visit Polly at the Adamses’. Thomas Jefferson feels a sinking ache as he reads her letter. He would love for her to meet his darling Polly and for the little girl, perhaps, to come to love her. But Mrs. Adams is a veritable savant of what she calls “secret life.” Were Maria to utter one item of intimate knowledge—say, about Mistress Jelly, Polly’s favorite doll, whose name Thomas Jefferson has more than once applied to Maria herself—then all would be revealed. The mere fact that this woman, whom Mrs. Adams knows only as an acquaintance of John Trumbull, should be so interested in visiting a mere child would be suspicious enough all on its own. No. Impossible. Out of the question.

  But Thomas Jefferson suffers another sort of ache as he reads Maria’s letter, because this new delay means there was simply no reason for him to have pretended to be off in Tuscany negotiating a trade agreement when Polly’s ship arrived. He could easily have met her at the dock in London as he had promised and returned to Paris in time for Maria’s visit—if, in fact, she will be visiting at all. He might also have been able to see Maria in London, though that could have been decidedly unpleasant, given that he would most likely have had to see her in the company of her husband.

  As he thinks about it now, he knows for certain that Maria will not be visiting—and this is the most potent source of his ache. She already loathes herself for having betrayed Richard; how is it possible, then, morally and emotionally (to say nothing of practically), that she will manage so complex a deception as getting to Paris on her own? And how could Thomas Jefferson have let himself imagine she would! No doubt, in her heart, she doesn’t want to see him ever again. Hasn’t she told him repeatedly that Richard is a good and tender man? And that she couldn’t bear to live if he were ever to find out? This is how it has always been for Thomas Jefferson. The only woman who ever returned his love with all her heart was Martha. As soon as he revealed the strength of his passion to Becca and to Betsy, they vanished like quail into the forest. And now it is the same with Maria.

  And the worst of it is that he has already sent Petit to London in his place. Were he to go there now, he would probably find that Petit, Polly and the Hemings girl had already set out for Paris. So he has nothing to do but wait. And nothing to distract him from thinking about Maria. And nothing whatsoever to stop him from pitting the ever-more-hopeless possibility that she might, in fact, visit against the ever-more-monumental-and-oppressive certainty that she won’t.

  He is standing in his study off the garden, in front of the cabinet where he keeps his wine, and he is pouring himself a second glass. How could he have strayed so far outside his better nature? Isn’t this relentless agony his punishment for having betrayed the memory of his tender and beautiful wife and for having neglected his dear daughters? He is nothing but a monster and a fool, who will be unloved and lonely in his old age, a pathetic, neglected, ridiculed, gout-ridden inebriate and an incurable onanist—and that will be the only fate he deserves! It is an unfortunate fact of his nature that his moral instinct is strong enough only to punish him for his transgressions but not to preserve him from transgressing in the first place. He pours himself another glass.

  “Are we here!” Polly says. “Are we here!”

  The coach passes along a grand boulevard lined with row on row of geometrically shaped trees through a massive wrought-iron gate and then turns right, with a lurch like a ship surmounting a swell, into a small courtyard before a magnificent marble-and-limestone house with columns on either side of its portico and marble steps cascading down to the sandy paving.

  “Are we here!” says Polly.

  “I don’t know,” says Sally Hemings, although, in fact, she does know; she just can’t bring herself to say it.

  “Are we here!”

  “Yes, you silly girl!” says Monsieur Petit. “This is your new house, the Hôtel de Langeac. Your father is waiting.”

  “We’re here, Sally! We’re here!”

  Polly has grabbed hold of Sally Hemings’s forearm and is shaking it up and down in her excitement. For some reason Sally Hemings is not excited. She is the opposite of excited. There is an ache in her heart and stomach, as if something bad is about to happen.

  “Yes, my little Polly-Pie,” she says softly. “We’re here.”

  A female voice is calling, “Polly! Polly!”

  At the top of the steps is a huge black door, half open, with a young woman standing in it. “Polly!” she shouts, waving her plump, pale hand. “Polly! Dear Polly!” And now the young woman has lifted the skirts of her embroidered green gown and is drifting down the stairs, her little feet appearing and disappearing beneath a white cloud of lace.

  Can this possibly be Patsy? The last time Sally Hemings saw her was almost exactly three years ago. They’d both been eleven years old then, and it was the day before Patsy left Monticello for Paris. She had just been to say good-bye to her horse and was sitting on a box in front of the stable, scraping manure off her boots with a stick, tears making pale trails through the dust coating her cheeks. When Sally Hemings had asked her what was wrong, she had wailed, “I don’t want to go! I’m going to hate Paris! Why can’t I stay here with Polly and Lucy?” How is it possible that this young woman, in her flowing gown, with her hair pinned high atop her head and a cameo pendant at the base of her neck, should ever have been so filthy and abject with grief? It is not just that Patsy’s clothes are so elegant and her manner so refined, but that she seems even at fourteen (though she is almost fifteen) to have shot right out of girlhood and be ready for marriage.

  “Patsy! Patsy! Patsy!”

  Polly is so excited that she can’t get the coach door unlatched, and Monsieur Petit has to walk around from the other side to do it for her. The little girl leaps straight to the ground and races up the steps. By the time Sally Hemings has lowered herself to the gritty, yellowish driveway, the two sisters already have their arms around each other and are rocking from side to side.

  A number of other people have emerged from the big black door, servants mostly, though none Sally Hemings recognizes—

  But then she sees a tall, dark-skinned young man in a burgundy frock coat, a yellow waistcoat and yellow stockings. It is Jimmy, of course, but somehow she can’t allow herself to believe it. He smiles and waves but doesn’t come down. He seems to be waiting for her to mount the steps and greet him. Jimmy is twenty-two, and except for his fine clothing, he looks almost exactly as he did at nineteen, when he left Monticello. The big difference is in his manner. There is a somber hesitancy in the way he holds himself at the top of the stairs. Or a seriousness. Maybe he, too, has
shot into adulthood.

  Just as Sally Hemings is about to rush up to her brother, someone else steps through the door—a tall, rangy man with white-laced red hair and alert hazel eyes. He holds his shoulders square and his head high and seems possessed of immense strength. He descends the steps with the fluid rapidity of an athlete.

  Sally Hemings knows that this is Thomas Jefferson, and, indeed, he has changed less than any of the other people with whom she has been reunited. But he scares her. There is something in the length of his legs and arms, in the confident elevation of his chin and even in the happy squint of his eyes as he sees his daughters that makes it impossible for her to look away from him but that also makes her dread the moment when his eyes will turn in her direction, and he will speak, and she will be compelled to answer.

  . . . My mother didn’t like to talk about my father. That was another topic that would make her face go still and drab. When I asked about him, she would say, “He was just a man. But he’s gone now.” Maybe it was the flat hush in her voice, but from the very beginning I understood “he’s gone now” to mean he had died. I remember thinking that knowing my father was dead was my secret, as if it were something I had stolen from my mother without her noticing. But then, when I finally worked up the courage to ask her about it, she said, “That’s right. Your pappy’s dead and gone. You were just an apple pip when he died. He hardly got to hold you in his arms.”

  I never actually grieved for my father, but I did miss him. I’d watch other children riding on their fathers’ shoulders, and I would wish I had somebody who would do that for me. Or I’d see some big, strong man get down on his knee and tickle his little girl, then hug and kiss her while she laughed and laughed, and I would feel pierced through by loneliness. Of course, Bobby and Jimmy were eleven and eight years older than me and most of the way to being men—in my eyes, at least—by the time I started paying attention to these things. But they didn’t love me the way a father would. Every now and then, they’d give me a little squeeze, but the main way they showed their love was by teasing. Jimmy’s nickname for me when I was little was “Cider Jug.” He was always saying things like, “How come your belly’s so big and round, Cider Jug?” or, “You best stay away from the men after sunset, or they’ll pop your head like a cork and drink you down.”