Chapter Fifty
QUINCY
Massachusetts
All should’ve been quiet in our retirement. But thanks to our son-in-law, we couldn’t enjoy it in peace. I will never understand
why Colonel Smith couldn’t simply be content in the government position we’d secured for him. Why he couldn’t have simply enjoyed his renewed prosperity, buying Nabby
new dresses, attending meetings of the Society of the Cincinnati, and swanning about New York with his jeweled cane and modest
political influence.
He and Nabby spent six years rebuilding their lives and fortune in New York City, only for him to now throw it away on another
mad scheme.
As it happened, Colonel Smith had used his own money to outfit a mission of private soldiers intent upon liberating Venezuela
from Spain. He had even allowed our oldest grandson to withdraw from his studies at Columbia to fight as a soldier of fortune
in this plan. Our grandson Willy had been nursed on tales of the revolution, so we couldn’t be entirely surprised that he
got caught up in his father’s ill-considered adventure.
But Colonel Smith was a government official. And his actions reflected upon the president.
“Jefferson fired him from his post and ordered his arrest,” John Quincy reported. “And though I did my best to intervene on
his behalf, I must tell you as a senator of these United States, Jefferson had little choice but to arrest him lest Spain consider this an act of war.”
Hearing this, my enraged husband shouted, “It would’ve been better if, instead of our grandson, it was his fool of a father
on that ship to Venezuela and we’d be glad if he sank down into the ocean with it!”
It was a terrible thing to say. I was glad Nabby wasn’t present to hear it, for it would’ve added to her heartbreak. Our daughter
stood loyally by the man she’d vowed to God to love, and I admired her for it.
But I couldn’t help but silently agree that her husband was cursed.
At least Colonel Smith had the good sense to send Nabby to us in Peacefield so that she wouldn’t have to endure the scandal
of the trial. And we comforted her as the drama played out, month after month.
Thanks to Johnny’s legal advice, Colonel Smith was acquitted, but, as my eldest son explained, “There was no point in jailing
him. He is thoroughly ruined. His public career is done, and his place in society forfeit. Now he really will have to try his hand at farming on the frontier.”
How my heart ached for Nabby; we’d tried to save her from this fate, but there was no help for it.
Fortunately, after nearly being captured by the Spanish, our grandson returned home safe to us, chastened by his misadventures
on the high seas. “We did reach Venezuela, Grandmama. But it didn’t seem as if they wanted to be liberated. There were no pamphleteers spreading the
spirit of freedom. No Sons of Liberty meeting in taverns. No militias drilling in anticipation of a fight.”
My poor grandson. He’d perhaps imagined revolution to be a more unified affair than the long, ugly, and uninspiring slog from
boys being shot in the snow to the country in which Thomas Jefferson had been re-elected to a second term in office.
“All glory to the Man of the People,” John muttered when the results of Jefferson’s re-election came in. “And a continual
pox on the House of Adams.”
We’d been so occupied with family woes that we had somehow not yet read the history of the revolution published by Mercy Otis Warren. Friends and family had hinted grimly that we wouldn’t like what she’d written. Nevertheless, we were still shocked when we finally cracked open the pages.
“What in the devil have I ever done to Mrs. Warren?” John demanded to know.
He was back at his stone wall with tools, trying to repair the winter damages where the edifice was falling away. And as he
violently split a rock, he asked, “How have I merited such unjust treatment from a lady about whom I’ve never uttered an unkind
word?”
I didn’t know how to answer him, for I, too, had been thunderstruck by Mercy’s accusation that my husband had been corrupted
by his time in Europe.
“Corrupted!” John brought a hammer down on a chisel to break another stone. “Well, who sent me to Europe? If I was corrupted there, perhaps
I ought to sue the public for damages.”
“John,” I warned softly, for he was so red in the face I feared he might huff and puff his way into the grave.
“She writes that I was for monarchy—this woman who was our friend. By what evidence does she purport to know this? Have either of us ever said or written anything to her of the kind?”
“Of course not.”
Mercy had written but two letters to me in ten years, and both contained political barbs aimed at my husband. As a result,
I was more apt now to give credence to what my sister said about Mrs. Warren’s pettiness. “She’s still nursing a grudge that
we wouldn’t find her husband or sons public employment.”
“Then who is the corrupt one?” John asked.
I made no defense of my old friend. Indeed, I’d begun to question my judgment of people altogether. To be betrayed by one
intimate friend was no reflection upon a person. But to be continually betrayed by old friends spoke to a pattern of credulous
na?veté.
Like my husband, I felt the effects of time chipping away at our bodies and legacy. We’d been out of the public eye for years,
and what we’d accomplished was increasingly mischaracterized or forgotten. I, too, wanted to do something about it. To shore
up the truth, break up the lies, and patch the holes in the stories now being told of a nation I’d helped mother into being.
“The history of our revolution will be one continued lie from one end to the other,” John groused. “The essence of the whole will be that Dr. Franklin’s electrical rod smote the earth and out sprang General Washington.”
“Don’t forget Jefferson,” I sniped, which broke the tension and made John laugh.
“Yes, Jefferson. They’ll surely carve his face somewhere in the pantheon. Whereas John Adams will only appear in some dusty old tome with an asterisk.”
“Then why won’t you finish your autobiography?” I asked, because he’d been scribbling and tossing drafts into the fire for
years. “Set the record straight!”
“No one will read it. And if they did, they won’t believe it. They’ll say ‘the envy of this John Adams could not bear the
truth of his insignificance.’”
I was sorry that Mercy’s book had upset him so.
It had upset me, too.
But at present we had enough to do to keep our family from ruin. When I went back into the house, Nabby was tying Willy’s
cravat so he’d look smart in applying for a position at the school here in Quincy.
“From sailor to schoolhouse,” Nabby said.
Having sworn off adventuring, my grandson said he was ready to take up employment as a teacher. Yet, I feared he lacked the
stern discipline required to manage rowdy children.
“Don’t forget your spectacles,” I warned as we pushed him out the door. “They’ll make you look older and wiser than you are.”
My grandson laughed. “Grandfather already humbled me this morning. Now I go off with a double dose. I’ll see you at dinner!”
Dinner was, as always, to be at one o’clock. John Quincy was coming from Boston with his wife and children. Which meant that
we’d need extra pies for the occasion. Having sent my granddaughters to gather berries, I now picked over the baskets on the
porch, scowling whenever I found a berry that was underripe.
Meanwhile, my husband—having exhausted himself of his rage while working on the stone wall—collapsed into a porch chair with a newspaper. “It seems in this eternal war between England and France, our country is still but a squeaky mouse being batted about by two cats.”
“No doubt your son, the senator, will have something to say about that tonight,” I said sourly, for our oldest boy continued
to show an irritating willingness to side with President Jefferson on matters of state.
“There are whispers of an embargo,” John said.
I gave an indelicate snort. “An embargo would be the most foolish, destructive policy possible, so naturally Jefferson will
pursue it.”
“I think the proposed embargo is a bit cowardly,” John said, closing his eyes against the sun. “But an interesting experiment
to prevent war with Britain. In any case, I’m determined to support Jefferson in this as far as my conscience and honor will
allow.”
Not that Jefferson would care or appreciate it.
John might still be capable of fair-mindedness, but I could hold a grudge. And when it came to President Jefferson, I held it fast.
I retreated to the kitchen to bake my pies. I was particular about the crust, having perfected Phoebe’s old recipe. There
was an art of mixing the dough—one I didn’t trust anyone else to master. Which meant I insisted on doing it myself, even though
my arthritic hands took twice as long with every task.
“Why won’t you let me help, Mama?” Nabby asked.
“Because I’m set in my ways. And I should do things myself whilst I’m still able.”
“I think it’s because you fear I’ll scorch the crusts,” she accused. “Which is why you only let me make the Indian pudding.
And even then, you fear I’ll bake another spoon into it—which wasn’t my fault.”
One of the grandchildren had dropped the spoon in while she wasn’t looking, and we all had a good laugh when it was discovered.
Given all the trials of her family, it had amazed me that Nabby could laugh. So I encouraged it by continuing the playful quarrel until John poked his head into the kitchen to chide me. “Wife,
your uncontrollable attachment to the superintendence of every part of this household truly vexes me.”
“You don’t want to vex Papa, do you?” Nabby asked, but when she saw my sidelong glance she sighed. “I’ll go make myself useful by helping Sally pull out an extra table for tonight.”
Upon Nabby’s exit, John playfully tugged me away from the pastry dough by my apron strings.
“John, I have flour on my hands!”
“So you do,” he replied, refusing to release me. “You’ll save yourself much trouble if you let our daughters and granddaughters
take more responsibility in the household, you know.”
I sighed, because I knew it was true. “But they won’t get the crust right.”
“And the boys never manure the cornfield to my liking. But I’ve learned that sometimes it is more important for the work to
get done than to get it done your way.”
He was right to tease me, of course, because my insistence that I could do everything better than anyone in my family ensured
that I was therefore punished for my own vanity and conceit.
“Abigail,” he said, “Come out riding with me on this fair day.”
I groaned, confessing, “It is more and more difficult to ride, these days.”
“Which is why we must keep at it. Given how few minutes either of us has left to live, I want to spend them together, so leave
the pies to Nabby. She’ll need the practice, as she will soon be a farmer’s wife again.”
Colonel Smith and his brothers were now building houses together in what was being called Smith’s Valley in western New York.
And Nabby was resigned to her fate. It’ll be better to start fresh, Nabby had said. Better for us to leave society behind for a plow. In truth, I’ll henceforth teach my children that they’re better off eating
locusts or sawdust than chasing patriotic ideals.
She was bitter, and I couldn’t blame her.
The least I could do was trust her with pastry.
That night, as we passed Nabby’s perfectly crisped pies round the crowded dining room, I was struck by the most affecting
realization.
There, sitting safely between his mother and his grandfather, was our beloved twenty-year-old grandson, Willy, who had appointed himself master of cutting slices.
Near to him sat his sister, twelve-year-old Caroline, waiting eagerly for her portion.
Charlie’s orphaned daughters—ten-year-old Susanna and eight-year-old Abbe—childishly whispered to their mother behind cupped hands.
At the other end of the table presided John Quincy and his pregnant wife, Louisa, who scolded their plump boys—six-year-old
George and four-year-old John-John— for snapping napkins at each other. Meanwhile, to give his own wife a respite, Thomas
bounced his restless toddler upon one knee.
“All my children,” I said, overcome with a sense of well-being that had eluded me for some time. We had all three of our surviving
children and all but one of our grandchildren gathered here tonight at Peacefield.
The only one missing was Nabby’s seventeen-year-old Jack Smith, who, to the relief of his grandfather, was finishing his studies
at Columbia.
Through all the privations of war, the sacrifices, and separations, John and I had still somehow forged this family. Brothers
and sisters and cousins and nieces and nephews who all cherished one another. And despite all the turmoil and disappointments
of political life, perhaps the Lord might yet grant us time to build our family into something that might endure. Could we
devote ourselves now to preserving this private legacy—and could it be enough?