Stephen O'Connor - Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings

But as he folds the letter and slips it into an envelope, he thinks that should she not understand his true meaning, that might not be so bad. At this moment, when he is in such despair over the corruption of so many of his onetime allies and friends, perhaps it would be best if he were able to transcend his own human weakness, even at the cost of hurting a lovely and kind young woman.

The day after Mr. Richardson reads Martha’s letter, Sally Hemings drags the trunk containing her Paris clothes off the hidey-hole under her bed and pulls out the primer. That night she goes to Thomas Jefferson’s chambers, where, taking his pen in hand and opening his inkwell, she copies out onto several sheets of foolscap every letter of every word in all the couplets. She works until long after midnight, and the result of her efforts looks more like an assemblage of broken twigs than actual writing, and the muscle between her thumb and first finger has grown so hard and painful that she has to sit on her hand before she can open it flat. But this time she knows that she has actually read every word she copied rather than recited it from memory or simply guessed what it might be. And she also knows that her marks will become more and more like real writing with every new attempt.

The next night she makes two copies of the couplets and the following night three, and with every repetition she feels the sounds the letters signify rising more naturally within her mind and the forms the letters take flowing more naturally from her quill. She repeats the exercise for two more nights, and on the third she brings Notes on the State of Virginia with her and copies out its first page, a much more arduous labor that takes her two long nights, not because there are more words but because the words are much more difficult to sound out and comprehend — especially since there are no rhymes. But even so, by the time she has copied the whole page, she feels that she has mostly understood what she has read: that Thomas Jefferson is explaining the circumstances under which the book was written and apologizing for its flaws, which he ascribes, in part, to “the want of talents in the writer.”

Sally Hemings is surprised that even Thomas Jefferson should worry about his writing, but at the same time his confession is a comfort, because it tells her that writing is difficult for everyone, and so she feels less alone.

With this thought in mind, she closes the book, and just below the last sentence she has copied, she inscribes:

“I am Sally I can red and writ”

By the time she finishes these eight words, her heart is pounding as if she has just climbed a mountain, and a strange, uneasy thrill is running all through her body. It takes her a long moment to understand why she should feel as she does, but then the thought comes to her that she has just acquired a dangerous skill. She isn’t sure how she is going to use it or if she should let anyone know that she possesses it. She is proud of herself — very proud. But she is much more afraid than she is proud, and she isn’t sure why she should be afraid at all.

James T. Callender is hated because he sees people exactly as they are — and they know it, even when he keeps what he sees entirely to himself. But since the truth is a weapon, and one that gains potency according to the wealth and influence of the man it concerns, many people are willing to pay Callender to put the truth into words. Almost all of these people are either cowards, who are actually paying him to say what they dare not say themselves, or hypocrites, who desire nothing more than the brutal evisceration of their enemies but who rely upon Callender’s perspicacity and impeccable journalistic reputation to give them license to proclaim, at the first twinge of guilt or hint of condemnation, “But it’s the truth!”—as if paltry factuality were an unassailable guarantor of virtue.

While the clarity of his vision is what has kept Callender in meat and drink for decades, it is also the primary source of his despondency. There is not, for example, another man on the American continent whom Callender admires more than Thomas Jefferson. Again and again, on reading Jefferson’s remarks on the natural rights of man, the corruptions of monarchism or the evil of concentrated political or economic power, he has had the uncanny sensation that he is reading his own thoughts. And so, when his Philadelphia publisher brings a tall, redheaded man into his office and introduces him as Vice President Jefferson, Callender staggers as if a thunderbolt has burst within the room. Were Jesus Christ standing before him, he could not have been more cowed by awe. But then he shakes Thomas Jefferson’s soft, perspiring hand and knows the truth: The man is both coward and hypocrite, animated solely by a desire for revenge. There follows a brief moment during which Callender is enraged that Thomas Jefferson should turn out to be so abjectly human. But in the next moment, Callender realizes that his former hero’s weakness amounts to his own strength.

Thomas Jefferson says nothing of his real motives, of course, but, on parting, Callender intimates that he understands them perfectly. Making a gesture that combines a deferential bow with a knowing wink, he says, “Should you ever have need of my services, I am entirely at your disposal.” And, indeed, two days later Callender receives a message from Thomas Jefferson asking for a private conference at the home of their mutual friend, Thomas Leiper.

While secretary of state, Thomas Jefferson rented Leiper’s house, and as has been the case in every house he has rented, he substantially renovated it during his tenure. The stately room where he and Callender meet, with its mauve walls and brass chandelier, was once divided by a rough wooden partition into the work and storage rooms for a hat manufactory. Leiper was extremely dubious when Thomas Jefferson suggested that he might renovate, but so satisfied with the results that he moved into the house after his illustrious tenant departed and now rents out his former home instead.

After the briefest exchange of pleasantries, Leiper places an open bottle of burgundy and two glasses on the table and leaves the room. The bottle poses a question: Which of the two men will pick it up and serve the other? Callender decides to answer this question by remaining perfectly silent and still. When, at last, Thomas Jefferson reaches over and begins to fill one of the glasses, Callender raises his hand, palm forward. “That’s for you.” Thomas Jefferson glances at him, perplexed. “I’ve brought my own.” Callender pulls a silver flask out of his pocket. “Don’t have much taste for wine, actually.” He fills the empty glass with brandy, then taps its base against the glass Thomas Jefferson has already filled. “To your health.” He smiles. Clearly disconcerted, Thomas Jefferson returns the smile uneasily, then begins to chatter compulsively about President Adams’s proposed Sedition Act, his monarchist tendencies and the betrayal of the Revolution by the Federalists in general. But finally, after pausing to moisten his dry mouth with a sip of wine, he comes to the point. “I am wondering if this might not interest you in a professional capacity, which is to say if you mightn’t make some of these points in an essay or a pamphlet?”

“I am at your service,” says Callender. And then he says, “I’ve met Adams on a number of occasions. The man is a clear sodomite.”

Thomas Jefferson glances down into his wine.

Callender smiles. “I’m sure it would be no trouble to come up with incontrovertible evidence of his proclivities, although our best sources might be his neighbors in Braintree.”

“I don’t think that…” (Thomas Jefferson’s mouth hangs open indecisively for a long moment.) “… will be…” (Another long pause.) “Well, let’s just say I’m not sure that would be a productive avenue of inquiry.”