The Jefferson Allegiance

Poe swallowed hard.  He reached down with his right hand and placed it on Jefferson's.  "It has been the greatest honor, sir."  He took the leather bag, and Hemings escorted him out of the bedroom, to the rear door, where a saddled horse awaited.  He leapt onto it and galloped off into the darkness.  She saw that he was reaching into his saddlebag for a bottle as soon as he was on the road.

She returned to the bedroom. Jefferson had closed his eyes and for a moment she wondered if he had passed, but noted the slight rise and fall of his chest.

His lips parted and he said something.  She moved closer.  "Excuse me, sir?"

"Do you remember Paris?" Jefferson asked.

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Maria," Jefferson whispered, a forlorn smile creasing his lips.  "I should have followed my heart, not my head."  His last breath rattled through his throat, and then he was still. 

Sally Hemings slid the blanket up over the slack face of the third President of the United States.

***********

"Independence forever."

Five hundred miles to the northeast, the dawn came slightly earlier to Quincy, Massachusetts, than it did to Monticello in the hills of middle Virginia.  John Adams needed assistance to hold up the crystal glass to give his toast to the fiftieth birthday of the country he helped found, and of which he had been the first Vice President and second President.  Even that minor effort exhausted him and he barely wet his lips with the alcohol as the others in the room drained their glasses.  He slumped back on the bed, his gaze raking over those hovering around his bed.

He thought it a strange group, reflecting the diverse life he'd led.  Politicians, judges, businessmen, writers, thinkers, even clergy. Come to pay reverence to one of the few remaining Founding Fathers of this young country. Over the years many had forgotten that despite his speeches against the Stamp Act in the 1760s, and his fight for the Declaration of Independence in 1776, that in 1770 he'd defended the British soldiers accused of firing on the crowd during the 'Boston Massacre.' His arguments to a Boston Jury had been so persuasive, that six of the accused had been acquitted.  The law, always the law, was his guiding force. 

His gaze fixed on a man hovering near the doorway to the bedroom in a mud-splattered uniform.  "Let me speak with Colonel Thayer alone," he ordered.  The crowd shuffled out with many a curious glance, leaving the officer standing alone.

He nodded Thayer toward the mantle above the fireplace.  "There.  Behind the painting."

Stiff and sore after his hard ride from West Point, New York, Thayer walked over.  In an alcove behind the portrait of a young woman was a packet wrapped in oilskin.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Adams said.

"Yes, sir," Thayer replied as he took the package and slid it into the messenger pouch draped over one shoulder.

"Abigail," Adams whispered to himself.  "I miss you so."

Thayer didn't react to the comment.  He spun on his heel like the Superintendent of the US Military Academy ought to, and made for the door, a soldier on a mission.

"Philosopher."  Adams mustered the energy to call out, causing Thayer to halt and spin about on his heel once more, stiff at attention.

"Sir?"

"To be used only as a last resort. When all other means have failed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Split the disks you have there with two other Philosophers. Jefferson will send the next Chair to you with further instructions. Make sure all the Philosophers who follow in your footsteps understand. It's a very, very powerful thing you are guarding. A dangerous, but necessary thing Jefferson and Hamilton did so many years ago."

Thayer nodded, his face grave. "I understand very well, Mister President."

"Power cuts both ways, Philosopher."

"I know, sir." Thayer paused.  "And the remaining seven disks?"

"In the Chair's hands," Adams told the young lieutenant colonel. "You'll be contacted.  The Chair is always a civilian." The voice was slight, drained.

"What, sir?"

"Always a civilian in charge."

"Yes, sir."

Adams dismissed the soldier, his old hand fluttering in farewell. "Godspeed."

Thayer left and the others came crowding back in. Adams turned his head and saw the morning light streaming in through the window.  "Fifty years," he murmured to himself, closing his eyes.  "We never thought what we created would last this long. The United States. At least now it can start over if need be." 

His body shook and he felt the darkness closing in. He thought of the first time he saw Abigail. And then of all the time he had spent apart from her, working to make this new country come alive. He felt it had been worth it, but there was still much he regretted.

"Mister President?"  Someone in the crowd leaned close.

He struggled to open his eyes.  Too tired to even turn his head, he shifted his eyes, peering out the window.  He saw Thayer on horseback, galloping away, the pouch bouncing on his back.  John Adams, the second President of the United States, drew in a hoarse breath and spoke for the last time:  "Thomas Jefferson survives."