Chapter Forty-Nine
QUINCY
Massachusetts
My raspberry bushes and strawberry vines were likely to bear a fine crop, I thought, dusting mud from my gardening gloves.
In the far-off field, my granddaughters were feeding the geese. And John was carting a load of salt hay because Tommy had
gone off somewhere without a word, as he was prone to do more and more these days.
“He’s too busy courting to tend to his chores,” John had complained. That was true. But I’d also heard from my sisters that
Tommy was frequenting taverns—a thing I’d warned him no man in our family ought to risk.
Nevertheless, my mood was fine. For in the year past we had the pride and joy of seeing our son John Quincy Adams elected
to the United States Senate on the Federalist slate.
“Ah, there he will exact revenge for his father’s political downfall,” many said. But to the frustration of his fellow Federalists—and his mother, too—our boy had shown a remarkable independent
streak. He even went so far as to back President Jefferson in his bid to purchase Louisiana.
“Curse the stripling,” some angry Federalist wrote of my son’s refusal to tow the party line. “How he apes his sire!”
Like his father, my son took an almost perverse pleasure in acting contrary to the desires of his party.
John heartily approved, living vicariously, it seemed, through our son’s political career.
And whenever we were melancholy about how the country had discarded us, John Quincy would say, “Father, neither your fame nor your honor will suffer by the result. Posterity will show that you were the man, not of any party, but of the whole nation.”
Of course, posterity might need a little help on that score—and John needed more to do with his mind than fodder cattle, potter
in the garden, and plant a potato yard lest, he said, “ennui rain upon me in buckets.”
So, with my help and encouragement, John had begun writing his own history. And on an afternoon when we took a gentle horse
ride together on the seashore, I attempted to jog my husband’s memory about certain things he meant to write down.
Unfortunately, present matters intruded.
“I cannot understand John Quincy’s political support of Jefferson’s decisions,” I said. “I don’t recall any provision in the
Constitution that empowers the federal government to buy Louisiana. And isn’t Jefferson always crowing about how dangerous
the powers of the government might be if enlarged?”
My husband chuckled. “Well, Jefferson can either preserve his ideological purity or adopt the more reasonable point of view
that the Constitution empowers us to make treaties that ensure the general welfare of generations of Americans by doubling
the size of the nation. Johnny is right to support it, though it will be unpopular here when people find out the cost.”
“Whatever the right thing is to do will always be unpopular with our ungrateful countrymen,” I said.
It was the kind of thing my husband used to say, but lately the misanthrope had changed his tune. “My dear, I still love the
people of America and believe them to be incapable of ingratitude. It’s as John Quincy said. They’ve been deceived. It’s the
duty of somebody to undeceive them.”
Not my duty, I thought. I’d mothered the country enough. For what years I had left to me, I wanted to steer clear of anything that brought
Jefferson to mind. But then, in May, we heard the news . . .
John found me in bed in the middle of the day, huddled beneath a quilt, blinking tears away. “What’s happened, Abigail?”
With a voice that seemed to echo from afar, I said, “The president’s daughter has died.”
John sank to the edge of the bed. “Which daughter?”
“The youngest,” I said, remembering darling Polly, and how we’d come to love her in London. “Mrs. Eppes was her married name.
She died in childbed.”
John released a sorrowful breath. “A heavy blow for Jefferson.”
And a heavy blow for me, too, since this news brought back every tear of grief I had suppressed for my Charles, and now I
couldn’t help but sob into my pillow. “The heaviest for a parent to endure!”
I felt anew all my regrets that I hadn’t been with Charles when he died. All my resentments that we might’ve been more forgiving
with that child. And a malaise encircled me that I couldn’t shake.
I remembered how, when I learned that Charles had died, I’d wandered the president’s house, my soul in agony. I wondered if
Jefferson was doing the same now.
My mind searched back. Had he expressed sympathy for the loss of our son? I think he must have. For whatever else he was,
Jefferson was a diplomat—a man of decorum. I thought I remembered now his condolence before the dinner party into which I
walked on his arm. In the fog of grief in our last days in Washington City, I had simply forgotten.
Or perhaps I was misremembering now, only because my heart yearned for kindness and kinship.
In the days that followed, I tried to distract myself with household chores but couldn’t put the poor doomed Polly Jefferson
out of my mind. Kneading bread. Sweeping floors. Canning fruit. None of it gave me respite. I kept remembering that darling
girl stuffing cakes into her mouth at my table or clapping at puppet shows or clinging to my skirts.
To my irritation, I supposed there was a little corner of my heart where Jefferson once sat as a friend whom I esteemed and
loved, from whence I found it hard wholly to discard him. So I gave up to temptation and picked up my quill pen.
When was the last time I wrote Jefferson? I could not remember. Much had passed between us since that made it difficult to
write. Still, I tried.
Sir,
It has been some time since I conceived of any event in this life which could make me feel sympathy with you. But I know how
closely entwined around a parent’s heart are those chords which bind parent to child, and when snapped asunder, how agonizing
the pain. I, too, have tasted the bitter cup. That you may derive comfort from a firm belief in God is the ardent wish of
she who once took pleasure in calling herself your friend.
I shouldn’t send this letter. At the very least, I should show it to John before opening a discourse with the new president
of the United States. But I’d raised no issue of politics. It was right and good to extend condolences amidst another person’s
grief.
And sending it made me feel better.
At least until June, when came Jefferson’s reply.
Now I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Escaping the heat of the day, I went into the house to read it alone. And I was gratified by the tender and warm words Jefferson
returned to me.
Dear Madam,
I can assure you my daughter always asked whether I had heard lately of you, and how you did. In giving you this assurance
I perform a sacred duty for her and am thankful for the occasion furnished to express my regret that a line of separation
has arisen between us. The friendship with which you honored me has ever been valued and fully reciprocated.
If I’d stopped reading there, it would’ve been a balm for old wounds. Unfortunately, Jefferson’s letter went on in that fine
politician’s script, flowing from his pen in eloquent hypocrisy.
I will only say that I considered Mr. Adams’ midnight appointments as personally unkind.
They were my most ardent political enemies.
After brooding over it, and not always resisting the expression of it, I forgave it cordially and returned to the same state of esteem and respect for him which had so long subsisted.
I blinked. He forgave it? Well, we hadn’t asked his forgiveness. Nor was I conscious of anything we’d ever done for which we’d need his forgiveness.
The nerve of the man!
Now I wished to march straight out into the fields where my husband was supervising our farm help and show him this infuriating
exchange. But, of course, I’d begun it without his knowledge. And my anger was too hot to wait upon anyone else’s advice.
Again, I took up my pen.
Sir, you have been pleased to enter upon some subjects which demand a reply.
I reminded him that the Constitution gave to a president the authority to make appointments right up to the end. That President
Washington had done exactly the same. We’d filled vacancies with men we believed would be faithful to the Constitution and
the government. Men who would resign from their duties if political differences embarrassed the new president.
Moreover, we couldn’t have filled those posts with a motive of personal unkindness, for at the time we didn’t even know if Jefferson would be president or the tie vote would be broken in favor
of Aaron Burr.
I wrote all this swiftly, in a fury. Then I decided that since Jefferson was of a mind to vent his spleen, so would I, for
we had grievances aplenty.
I pointed out that he’d rewarded the newspaperman James Callender for printing libels against us—the very same serpent who
bit him with the Sally Hemings scandal. That’s how badly he miscalculated the man’s character.
My anger having been given full expression, I felt it important that he not think he jousted with my husband. I wanted him to know it was me.
This letter is written in confidence. No eye but my own has seen it.
I did not anticipate a reply. Then again, I’d poked him with a zeal that many would say was unladylike. His pride might not
tolerate that. As indeed, pride was the byword by which all our political enemies now seemed to destroy themselves.
I’d scarcely posted this letter when my husband stumbled into the kitchen as if someone had struck him between the eyes with
a hammer. “Hamilton is dead.”
This I could not credit unless it be of some venereal disease. And yet, John explained that at a place called Weehawken, Hamilton
had fought a duel with Vice President Burr, to whom he would not apologize for some disparaging remark or other.
I wouldn’t cry for Hamilton, though I could almost admire his inability to apologize and retreat from a fight though it cost
him his life.