Stephen O'Connor - Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings

Now her heart thuds with a different sort of urgency, because she has recognized the rhythm of the movements below and, more particularly, the man’s breathing. She is halfway down the stairs when the shadows of the balusters loom and then swing rapidly across the wall. Thomas Jefferson catches sight of her just as he puts his hand on the banister. He lifts his candle so that he might see her more clearly, then smiles and speaks in a voiced whisper, “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

Sally Hemings shakes her head. She takes a step back upstairs, but he scoops the air rapidly with his hand, indicating that she should come down.

As she descends, he sets his candle on a step, takes off his cape and holds it out to her. “What’s that?” he says, looking at her right hand.

She lifts the broken table leg and smirks. “I thought you were Mr. Chambliss. I was going to hit you on the head with it.”

“Sounds like you don’t much care for Mr. Chambliss,” says Thomas Jefferson.

“I hate him!” The force of feeling in her own voice surprises her. “He’s a very bad man. You should dismiss him.”

“Here.” He is still holding out his cape.

She leans the table leg against the wall and takes the cape, which is warm from his body and redolent of his familiar smell. She drapes the cape over her shoulders and draws it tight across her breast. Her feet are freezing.

“Come,” says Thomas Jefferson. “Peter has gone to get some wood.”

She follows him over to the parlor fireplace, where the coals of their evening’s fire are still winking and making tiny clicks. She steps right onto the brick apron to warm her feet.

Thomas Jefferson is crouching over one of his bags, and just as he stands and holds up a bottle of cognac, Peter comes into the room with an armful of firewood.

“Sally!” he says, lowering the pile to the floor. He steps over to her, touches her hand and smiles in a way that promises his real greeting will come later.

Sally Hemings finds herself moved almost to tears at seeing her brother again. She has to swallow before, speaking to Thomas Jefferson but looking at her brother, she asks, “Why were you so delayed? You were supposed to have been here on Monday.”

Peter’s expression conveys both embarrassment and concern.

“I’m sorry,” says Thomas Jefferson.

She looks at him coldly. She does not want to hear his apologies.

“To begin with,” he says, “we were delayed a day because I had some business to attend to with Mr. Madison in Belle Grove.”

“You should have sent a message, then.”

“Yes, I suppose I should have. But I thought we would make up the lost time on the road.”

Peter, who has begun placing logs on the bed of coals, grunts ironically.

“We’ve had something of an ordeal, Peter, haven’t we?”

“Oh, yes indeed!” he says. “The gods were against us the whole way!” Peter gives her an entreating smile. Then he crouches and blows on the coals beneath the logs. Flames leap up almost instantly.

“The worst thing was that we lost a wheel in Findlay’s Gap, and that cost us another day and a half. Then we got caught in a terrible downpour this afternoon, after which the roads were so muddy and flooded that we almost gave up and stopped at New London. But we both wanted to be here so badly that we decided to just keep on going by moonlight. We’ve been riding since sunup.” He puts the bottle of cognac down with a firm smack on a table beside the fireplace. “Which is why we are so in need of a glass of this!”

“But you still should have told me you would be delayed, right at the beginning, when you knew you would have to stay longer with Mr. Madison.”

Thomas Jefferson is at the sideboard, where he has gone to get glasses.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I never expected that it would take this long.”

Sally Hemings doesn’t respond. Peter, standing up and dusting off his hands, gives her a significant glance.

Thomas Jefferson opens the bottle and pours three glasses.

Peter finishes his in a gulp. “I need to go settle the horses.”

Sally Hemings takes a sip from her glass. She is very tired. She should go back to bed. But instead she draws a chair closer to the fire and sits down with her feet tucked under her. She takes another sip from her glass and watches the flames leap and vanish against the black fieldstone.

Thomas Jefferson also pulls a chair up to the fire and sits. Out of the corner of her eye, Sally Hemings can see him lift his glass, but she doesn’t look at him.

“What’s the matter, Sally?” he says as he lowers his glass.

“I told you, Mr. Chambliss is a cruel and evil man.”

“He’s always struck me as an exceedingly stupid man.”

“He’s much worse than that,” says Sally Hemings. “He should be dismissed. He should never have been hired.”

“Let’s talk about that in the morning.”

Thomas Jefferson finishes his glass and pours himself another. He holds out the bottle toward Sally Hemings. First she shakes her head, then extends her glass to let him top it up. She takes another sip.

“You’re upset.” He gives her a sympathetic glance.

She holds his gaze for a moment, then turns to the fire. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He leans toward her, resting his elbows on his knees, hands wrapped around his glass. “I am truly sorry. I know I should have written.”

“You don’t know anything!” The words come out in a ripping whisper.

Thomas Jefferson looks both hurt and confused.

She takes a big sip from her glass, then takes another, emptying it. She puts it on the floor beside her chair.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” she says.

“Why would you think that?” He shakes his head, incredulous. “Of course I was coming! Why wouldn’t I come?”

“I thought you only sent me here to get rid of me!”

“Oh, Sally!” He puts down his glass and comes over to her chair. He crouches on one knee and reaches for her hand, but she pulls it away. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because of what people are saying in the papers. Because if you don’t get rid of me, they’ll force you out of office.”

“Oh, no! Oh, no! You poor girl!” He reaches for her hand again, and this time she lets him take it. “It’s nothing like that! Not at all! I don’t have to be afraid of these people. They’re all fools, and everyone knows it — even their allies. You don’t have to worry.” He strokes the top of her hand. “Really, there is nothing to worry about.”

With his back to the flickering firelight, she can hardly see his face.

“And besides,” he says, “if you want to know the absolute truth, I am already sick of Washington, and I am sick of the presidency. I could walk away from it in a minute if I had to. I am willing to give my country my sweat and my time. I am willing to make every effort to do what I think needs doing. But I am not going to surrender my soul.”

It is when he says these last words that Sally Hemings begins to cry. Thomas Jefferson pulls her into his arms, squeezes her hard. And kisses the top of her head.

“Don’t worry, Sally Girl. Nothing bad is going to happen. You’ll see. Everything will be fine. We’ll enjoy ourselves here for a few days, and then we’ll go home.”

Thomas Jefferson has no idea what Sally Hemings’s life is actually like. He thinks her tears are only feminine weakness, and so his consolations mean nothing at all. And yet she can’t stop crying.

She lets him pull her close. She lets him lift her to her feet. She puts her arms around him and kisses his neck and cheek and mouth. She feels the strength in his arms across her back, and she feels the strength of his back beneath her hands. She knows that it would be easy for him to lift her into the air. She squeezes him hard and lifts both feet up behind her — and then it is happening: He is holding her in the air as if it were nothing at all.