Stephen O'Connor - Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings

Although it is early April, the weather belongs to July, and Callender is aware of the rank effluvium being suffused by his own person and wardrobe. He remained naked much of the previous day, as he scrubbed his solitary suit of clothing and then waited for it to dry. He had worn those same clothes every day of his imprisonment and, despite numerous washings, had never been able to rid them of the fetid stench of his cell. This morning, lifting his coat and breeches to his nose, he concluded that his efforts had at last met with success, but now, thanks to the heat of the sun and of his own body, he knows that he will never cease smelling of the jailhouse until he has the funds to purchase an entirely new wardrobe.

But maybe that is a good thing. Maybe nothing would be better than for Thomas Jefferson to experience this mere hint of the suffering that James T. Callender endured on his behalf. Maybe then he will comprehend the rankness of his own failure to live up to his obligations.

Callender’s requests could hardly have been more humble: the mere two hundred dollars that Thomas Jefferson has already promised him and an appointment as postmaster of Richmond. Is that too much to ask? The money would only cover the fine he had to pay after his conviction, and the job could hardly be more innocuous, nor easier for a president to effect. The current postmaster is, after all, a Federalist, and it is only in the government’s best interests to purge every last Federalist occupying an administrative post.

While Thomas Jefferson seems to have entirely given up answering his letters, Callender does not see how the man could possibly deny the justice of his requests once he has been confronted by them in person.

A hot day indeed, and a brilliant one, especially once he ventures across the muddy plain that surrounds the president’s mansion — so brilliant that he can see almost nothing once he has stepped into the building itself. But he can hear Thomas Jefferson’s voice echoing down a corridor to his right. And even though Callender can still make out little more than floating wads of darkness and smears of illumination reflected off polished floors, he hurries in the direction of the voice, knowing that Jefferson could well choose to avoid him if given the chance.

Callender has hardly taken two steps, however, when a figure looms out of the obscurity and catches him by the elbow. It is James Madison, Jefferson’s lackey and attack dog. “Mr. Callender!” he says. “What a surprise! Might I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

James T. Callender tugs his elbow from Madison’s grasp and says, “I have essential business with the president.”

“Yes, yes — I’m sure you do. But I need to have a word with you first. It’s important.”

This time Madison grips Callender’s arm with such force that it would be impossible to escape without a struggle. “Right here,” he says, and all but shoves Callender through the door into an office, pleasantly decorated with mahogany furniture and gilt-framed paintings and suffused with golden daylight. “Please,” says Madison, indicating a chair in front of the desk, behind which he himself takes a seat.

“I have to talk to the president immediately,” says Callender.

“I’m aware of that,” says Madison. “But I have to speak to you first.” He indicates the chair again, and Callender, thinking better of making a dash for the door, finally sits. He pulls his flask from his pocket and takes a deep swallow but pointedly does not offer any to Madison.

Everything transpires exactly as Callender expects. The corruptive magnetism of power cannot be resisted. Within the precincts of Monticello, Thomas Jefferson was an immensely articulate opponent of all forms of power, and so Callender dared to imagine he might prove truer to his own principles than most. But in the end, words and principles are less substantial than the breath it takes to speak them, and they have no force except insofar as they prettify brutal self-interest. Now that Thomas Jefferson has achieved the most powerful position in the land, his own words and principles are only an embarrassment, because they expose, by contrast, the true nakedness of his greed.

This is precisely what Madison is referring to — although he himself may be entirely unaware of the fact — with all his sanctimonious chatter about “practicality,” “indiscretion” and “extremism.” And so Callender cuts him off in midsentence by getting to his feet and declaring, “I have no business with you, but only with the president.”

In fact, Callender has just abandoned all of the arguments he was formulating over the last several days. Thomas Jefferson may now be insensible to argument, but he will not be insensible to Callender’s physical presence, nor to the threats that Callender now realizes he has no choice but to make. Once a man’s soul has been infected by power, he will heed only those who might help him increase his power and those who might take his power away. Since Callender is no longer welcome as a member of the former category, he will do his damnedest to occupy the latter.

As soon as he emerges from Madison’s office, he makes straight for the corridor down which he can still hear Thomas Jefferson’s voice resounding. But Madison, not two steps behind him, calls out to a pair of soldiers, and after some hasty contention involving insults, grunts and an elbow to the cheekbone, Callender’s arm is wrenched up behind his back and he is marched out into the brilliant day. Some hundred yards from the presidential mansion, he is let go and told that if he dares to enter the building again, he will be shot on sight.

Callender wants to laugh at the retreating backs of the soldiers, but he can’t quite manage it. The reason he wants to laugh is that he knows Thomas Jefferson goes for a ride every afternoon, and so all he — James T. Callender — has to do to have his moment with the president is sit down within sight of the stables and wait. He walks around to the rear of the mansion and finds a comfortable place to sit, on a rock outcropping beside a dirt track designated as New York Avenue.

There is only one thing wrong with this plan: Between his trip from his hotel that morning and his audience with Madison, Callender has already emptied his flask and he is not at all sure he will have the necessary fortitude to confront Thomas Jefferson without another swallow or two.

Even in so imaginary a city as Washington, there can’t be very much distance between taverns, so Callender sets off and does not have to walk even a quarter mile before he finds himself sitting at a table, a glass of brandy in front of him and his flask refilled. He would have been back at his lookout point beside New York Avenue within fifteen minutes, but he gets into an argument about the superiority of militias to a standing army and ends up not starting back to his post until the sun is a good third past its zenith. He walks with heavy steps, all but certain that Thomas Jefferson has already returned from his ride. But then, still some twenty yards from the rock outcropping, he catches sight of a tall man on a bay stallion just approaching along New York Avenue. Lifting his coat hems with each of his hands, Callender sprints until he is standing directly in front of the bay and its rider.

“Now you have no choice but to hear me out!” he declares between gasps.

“There’s no point in wasting your breath,” says Thomas Jefferson. “Randolph has given up his suit, and you will have your money forthwith.” He tugs the horse’s reins to the right, but Callender leaps again into his path, before the horse has taken half a step.

“Damn the money!” he shouts. “I don’t care a pig’s prick for the money! I only want my just and deserved recompense for the services I have rendered you!”