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.”
Callender doesn’t respond, only stares straight into Thomas Jefferson’s eyes, smiling all the while.
“My concern,” says Thomas Jefferson, “is entirely for the continuance of the Republic.”
“Of course! Of course! You know that no one has greater respect for you or is in closer accord with your political philosophy than I.”
Thomas Jefferson crosses one leg over the other and finishes his wine in a single swallow. His contempt for Callender is palpable, but so is his helplessness.
Callender lifts his index finger admonishingly. “Given how critical it is that we quash Adams and the Federalist traitors, we must pursue our every advantage. Anything less would show both a lack of backbone and a profound underestimation of the dangerousness of our enemies.”
“I agree that we should stop at nothing to defeat the Federalists, but it is my firm belief that we will be most likely to succeed if we pursue only necessary efforts. Irrelevant or unsubstantiated attacks will make us seem indifferent to moral and political principles and to care for nothing but the maximization of our own power, and so could undermine rather than advance our cause.”
“Mr. Jefferson?” Callender is holding out the bottle of wine.
Thomas Jefferson seems at first not to understand the significance of the gesture but then extends his empty glass.
Returning the bottle to the table, Callender sits back in his chair. “No one holds moral principle in greater estimation than I,” he says.
Thomas Jefferson recrosses his legs and takes a sip of his wine, his gaze turned entirely away from Callender.
“But in all due respect,” Callender continues, “you must bear in mind that our friend Colonel Hamilton was not brought down by the actions of the courts nor by any investigative body but by my revelations concerning his callous disregard for his wife’s reputation and feelings and his sordid exploitation of the poor Mrs. Reynolds.”