Chapter Fifteen #2
He didn’t say he had refused the position, which was all I wanted to hear. Instead, all I heard was the jingle of the bridle,
buckle, and other horse accoutrement. And every moment of silence that stretched between us only made me more wroth. I’d had
my husband back only a few weeks. A few happy weeks. Now he forced me to ask, “Have you accepted?”
John finally looked me in the eye. “No.”
My voice took on the most pleading tone of my life. “Then tell me you won’t. Tell me you won’t allow Congress to rob me of
my newfound happiness. Tell them no. Tell them other men are making fortunes for themselves while your children are growing
up in something very much like real want.”
John sucked in a long breath. “I’ve already told them I’m ill qualified to be sent to France, but they do not agree . . .”
So they’d appealed to his vanity, which I knew was a strong appeal indeed. As panic rose, I needed for him to see reason.
“Don’t you know what will happen if you’re captured on the high seas? They’ll throw you in the Tower and hang you for treason.
That is, if you even survive the trip. With good reason do few reputable ship’s captains ever cross a winter’s sea.”
John couldn’t argue that. Instead, he said, “Abigail, an alliance with France will win the war.”
“Isn’t that why Dr. Franklin is in Paris? Surely, he’s more than capable.”
“Dr. Franklin is aged and ill. He needs assistance.”
I could see in the squareness of my husband’s shoulders and the firm line of his mouth that he’d made up his mind. And though
my heart flailed at the very prospect, I screwed up my courage. “Then we’ll go to France together. We must hazard it all for
our country as a family. If disaster strikes, then it strikes us one and all.”
With a look akin to pity, John reached to stroke my cheek with his gloved hand. “Let us go inside, where we can get warm and
speak sensibly.”
“John, we cannot withstand another year apart.” Tears flooded my eyes and I tried to brush them away because they made me
feel childish. I willed myself to be calm and forced a cheerfulness I did not feel. “I’ve always wanted to see more of the
world than the twenty miles around this farm. Think of the opportunity for your boys to learn diplomacy at their father’s
knee. And think of the opportunity for our daughter to learn French and meet well-off suitors.”
John frowned. “Our daughter is yet a child. And you’ve already pointed out the dangers of this venture. What sort of man would I be to risk my wife and children’s lives over a winter’s sea with British warships lying in wait?”
Mercilessly, I reminded him, “You risked all our lives the moment you accepted a role in politics. This venture is merely
an extension of a gamble already undertaken. A gamble I undertook with you. All I wanted then, and all I want now, is to share
in it. To be your companion. To meet God or glory together, come what may.”
My husband drew me to him, pressing his cold nose into my hair as he tried to soothe me. And I might’ve let him if he hadn’t
said, “I’m fortunate to have so courageous a wife, but if we go to France together, who will look after the finances and the
farm?”
The finances and the farm . . .
I’d pleaded with him as a wife, lover, and patriot. Yet, he’d replied with cold practicality. And though I was a practical
woman, this was too much to bear.
“Who indeed,” I muttered frostily.
I pulled away from him, turning to go, and he called after me, “Abigail!”
“I’m going inside,” I said over my shoulder. “For I am suddenly feeling quite cold.”
“Wife!” he snapped, following me. “It’s one thing to risk my life, quite another to doom my family to poverty.”
I spun back around to face him. “Then don’t go, John.”
No sleep was had that night as I argued with him. He said he couldn’t duck his duty to end this war if possible. Yet he forbade
me to go with him. He wished to shield me, and he also wished to guard a future for our family because if we went together,
everything would fall to ruin.
“You’ll have the help of neighbors,” he promised. Of our family members. Even of his colleagues and members of Congress. “You’ll
be able to call upon Mr. Lovell at any time. He’s promised to stand in my stead and send you word and wages.”
John’s reasons were sound, and by the wee hours, I couldn’t argue any longer. He was too good of a lawyer. Yet, I felt as
if my primary worth as a partner had been laid bare as a manager of his affairs. And, perhaps more crucially, as an enabler
of his rise.
By morning, I sat by the window, my shoulders slumped in defeat. I pressed my cheek to the glass lest anyone catch a glimpse of my distress. Perhaps I ought not to have worried, for my face felt too leaden with shock to lift into any sort of expression at all.
I knew now that it had been foolish for either of us to think—for even a moment—that John could retreat and leave the revolution
to others. It was a fantasy born of exhaustion and grief. The truth was that our whole fate still depended on the outcome
of this war.
If it was lost, the king wasn’t going to pardon my husband simply because he’d returned to his law practice in the midst of
the fight. So, our discussion, which had gone long into the night, had only managed to persuade John that he must go and take
our eldest two sons with him.
He feared his own sons wouldn’t know him if he went away. And we both feared that I couldn’t provide for four children on
my own. If each of us only had two to feed, it would be easier.
Besides, ten-year-old Johnny’s mind was exceptionally agile and avaricious for knowledge. He’d surpassed the learning he could
find at his mother’s knees. Visiting France would give him a depth of experience as well as learning; any career he wished
for would benefit greatly. Then there was my little Charlie Cherub, who hadn’t even yet turned eight. He was already suffering
for the want of manly example. To prosper, he’d need more of his father’s attention.
I told myself that for the boys, this might be a grand adventure—the making of great men. If I wanted what was best for them,
I had to let them go. And yet, my mother’s heart cried out with indignation at risking my sons on a sea that I could not cross
myself.
Even my faith could not soothe me. When we read scripture together on Christmas Day, John urged me to surrender all to God’s
hands. But I couldn’t. And neither could five-year-old Tommy, who, when being tucked in for the night, wailed, “Papa, why
can’t I go, too? Don’t you love me as much as my brothers?”
My husband climbed into bed with our little boy and cuddled him close. “If you dry your tears, I’ll tell you a secret, Tommy.”
Tommy fisted both his eyes, trying not to blubber.
Then John whispered, “You are Papa’s favorite. Which is why I’m leaving you to enjoy the company of your mama and your sister,
whereas we will be bereft without them.”
I couldn’t bring myself to go to the docks on the wintry February day of their departure. We said our farewells at the house.
My fingertips stroked Johnny’s cheek, trying to memorize the shape of his face—round like his father’s, with dark brows and
eyes like mine.
My precious oldest son hugged me tight round the waist before making a solemn promise. “Mother, I will remember everything
you have taught me.”
My heart squeezed, knowing that he was still the same brave boy who took me up Penn’s Hill to see the fighting. I could no
more hold him back now than I could then. “It’s a difficult task for a tender parent to part with a child. Nor could I consent
if I didn’t know your father will care for you well. But I want you to remember, John Quincy Adams, that young as you are,
the cruel war into which we’ve been compelled may stamp upon your mind this certain truth: the welfare of all countries, communities,
and individuals depends upon their morals. And you must guard yours.”
There would be many snares and temptations in Europe. Some of the worst of which my sons were likely to escape because they
were young. Yet there were many that might stain their morals even at this early period of life. Even so, to exclude my sons
from temptation would be to exclude them from the world in which they were to live—to fix a padlock upon the mind.
A thing I would never do.
Johnny promised he’d guard his morals, then said, “You have been so kind and tender a mama that I believe I shall never be
able to repay you.”
“Repay me?” I said, laughing a little through tears. “You shall repay me by being a dutiful son and by watching over your younger
brother.”
With this, I turned to Charles, who was fearful and didn’t want to go. If I could only offer him a reprieve! Sniffing back
emotions that he feared were unmanly, Charlie asked, “You’ll take care of my songbird?”
“I’ll take the very best care of your little songster,” I promised. What advice I gave him in parting was no doubt pinched and distant, for if I said anything warmer, I’d grasp him to my bosom and refuse to let him go. My husband would have to tear him from my arms!
“All will be well, Abigail,” John promised. “And I have something for you.”
With that John pressed something cold and delicate into my palm, grasping my fingers, and enclosing them with his own over
my heart.
When I opened my hand again, I found within it a gold-rimmed pendant. “Oh, John,” I said, staring at the portrayal of an ancient
heroine staring out at the sea, shaded by a sturdy tree. “It’s beautiful, but the expense!”
“More than you know, for if you look carefully, you’ll see the leaves of the tree are made from our hair. Yours and mine.”
It was a romantic gesture, the most romantic he’d ever made. For he was not prone to lavish gifts or baubles. But this one
had a practical purpose. In the portrait, a shield supported the matron’s arm, and emblazoned upon it were the words I yield—whatever is—is right.
“You are my Portia,” John reminded me, encouraging me to face this separation stoically.
In truth, this locket did put iron in my spine.
My husband—once a simple country lawyer—was now to prove himself upon a world stage in an effort to found a new nation. And
despite being left behind, I meant to help him do it. So, I sent my husband and sons off with kisses, watching them go under
an arrow of wild geese winging their way south. My own geese made plaintive cries as if they yearned to follow, and I felt
their sorrow in my soul, for my wings, too, had been clipped.