The next morning when we awoke, I was silent. While Frobisher chattered on
about the comforts of the great house and wondered how long we would enjoy
them, I got dressed, mulling over my task at hand. At the breakfast table I was
courteous but curt, and Jefferson, who had arrived a little late, seemed
content to let the old lawyer compliment him on his furnishings and design with
little comment. When at last there was nothing else to do, the lanky grey man
turned to me.
"Well? What shall you
do today, Mr. Jandt?"
"Nothing," I said.
I put my napkin down. "There is nothing more to do. I have seen the
Slave's Ghost, and I know why he has been walking."
"What!" Frobisher
banged his hands to the table. For the first time in Jefferson's presence, he
showed his own authority. "When? Where?" he said sharply.
"Last night, at the
bedside," I said calmly. "He was as close to you as I am now."
"Why didn't you tell me
this morning?"
"There seemed little
point. It spoke to me. It gave me a message for you, Mr. President. It will not
come again."
Jefferson looked around. For
the first time I became aware of the half-dozen servants all about us.
"I think we should
retire to the library once more. That is, after all, where your investigation
began."
Mr. Jefferson rose and led
the way. Some steps behind him Frobisher grabbed my arm and began berating me
in a low voice.
"What do you mean by
this, Jandt? Why didn't you let me review the findings first? Because I warn
you, if he doesn't like what he hears --" his voice went lower, his voice
hoarser -- "and he can be one of the most tetchy of men on earth-- I will
not have to suffer the unpleasantness of firing you, because the Bureau will be
sunk!"
I pulled my arm away.
"It would have made no
difference, Ballantine. I have been charged with a message, and if I do not
deliver it, that thing will haunt me, perhaps till my death. And the President
deserves the truth."
We caught up with Jefferson
as he reached the doors and opened them. He went and sat at his desk, and I
stood before it. I felt as if I were standing before a judge. Frobisher stood
to one side, arms crossed, looking uncommonly like a prosecuting attorney.
The President pulled out a
sheet of paper, dipped a pen, and started writing.
"Report," he said.
"This creature appeared
to me, looking exactly as described. I charged it to speak, and it spoke. It
told me that what I had guessed was true, and that I must tell you. It said it
would return no more, when you had been warned."
Jefferson continued writing
and did not look up.
"And? What had you
guessed, Mr. Jandt?"
"It is somewhat hard to
explain clearly. Have your religious studies ever touched on the far east, on
India or the Hindoo religion?"
"Yes, but in no great
detail."
"There is a belief
there, that if one concentrates enough on an idea, it begins to gain substance.
Think of it this way. Before there was the United States, you and men like you
had the idea for it. By belief it came into being. And now it has a kind of
momentum, a life of its own. I understand there is even a figure now, like
England's John Bull, called Brother Jonathon. People speak as if he were
real."
Jefferson looked up at me.
"You don't mean to tell
me that this ghost is like a newspaper cartoon come to life?"
"No, no." I rubbed
my eyes. "How to explain? There is a dark part of the mind, that no-one
wants to look at. Hatred, anger, fear, guilt; they all roil there. When we look
away from them, deny them, they grow strong. The country -- yes! Our country --
is like one mind, and there is a dark spot festering away in it. And it is
causing this nightmare. But it is a nightmare that wants to wake up."
"I see." Jefferson
bent down and continued writing. "And why does it appear here at
Monticello?"
"I believe it is
because of the law of correspondences. You draw it here, like a lightning rod,
and something in your brain makes it welcome. You built Monticello. In many
ways, you built the country. And -- I beg your pardon, sir, -- you have allowed
slavery to continue in both."
"And what should I do
at this point? I am not in the center of power anymore. What can I do against
half a country?"
"There must be some
hope. You can speak out against it, muster your old eloquence, free your own
slaves as an example. I sincerely hope something can be done, otherwise I
foresee harsh consequences for all. Shall I diagnose your case, Mr.
President?"
"Please do."
"Your father, as you
told me, wanted you to be one way, but you wanted to be something else. This
made you feel angry and guilty, and when he died, there was no way to salve
this guilt. You tried to remove it, not by conforming to his wishes, but by
trying to remove the possibility of a judge who might condemn you. Hence you
developed your Enlightenment principles, with a distant god and no final
judgement. But even under Natural Law, there are elements of your behavior that
are condemned, thus leaving you with an irreducible element of guilt."
"Interesting
theory."
"I believe you founded
the Bureau as something of a last-ditch effort to explain the ‘mysteries of
life’ by finding that they are either frauds or have a natural cause; you take
comfort in the frauds, but over the years you have been quietly plagued by the
cases we find true."
"I think perhaps you
have strayed from the subject."
"Slavery is such a
monstrous wrong, there can be no secular forgiveness. You might free their
descendants, you might give recompense to people who have been slaves, you
might apologize again and again, but nothing material can wash that dark blot away.
There is no way, within history, to redeem it, for those that suffered it. I
think you realize this; perhaps that's why you haven't freed your slaves.
Because even that is not adequate. There can be no forgiveness without
redemption, and the system of government you have set up, the empty heaven you
have erected over it, has no provision for that. No simply material cork is big
enough to plug the hole.
"And this legacy of
your compromise with the dirty devices of this world, along with your genius,
must be passed along to the Republic, in an almost voodoo exchange. The ghost
was not a real slave that died, it is the Ghost of Slavery itself that lives,
which unless you help to lay it, now, is destined to haunt these United States
down the ages. There must be a change of heart and satisfaction made. You must
get a new soul and give it to your country."
Jefferson looked at me. His
eyes gleamed under craggy brows. He turned to Frobisher.
"Your best man,
eh?"
I drew myself up.
"I aspire to be better
than the best man, sir. I aspire to be a good man."
"Hm." He shook his
head and looked down at the paper under his hand. He wrote a few more words,
sanded it, and handed it to Frobisher.
"Thank you. That will
be all, Mr. Jandt."
Frobisher accepted the
document with a trembling hand. He glanced down at it glumly, and his eyes
widened. He held it up and read it through quickly, and he brightened.
"Thank you, Mr.
President! Thank you! I will get this to Mr. Monroe as soon as possible. Look,
Jandt! Our endorsement! Come, pack your bags and we'll be on our way. We are
most pleased to have done anything that could help you!"
He pulled me to the door,
but I stopped and turned back.
"Have I helped
you, Mr. Jefferson?"
"You've delivered your
message, Belteshazzar. What else can you do?" He smiled bleakly.
"You have mentioned
your study of the New Testament. Are you as familiar with the Old?"
"A grab-bag of violence
and fables. Not worth my time."
"Then let me quote you
a little. It comes to me that it may be applicable. 'Because, even because they
have seduced my people, saying, Peace; and there was no peace; and one built up
a wall, and, lo, others daubed it with untempered mortar: Say unto them which
daub it with untempered mortar, that it shall fall: there shall be an
overflowing shower; and ye, O great hailstones, shall fall; and a stormy wind
shall rend it. Lo, when the wall is fallen, shall it not be said unto you,
Where is the daubing wherewith ye have daubed it?
'Therefore thus saith the
Lord God; I will even rend it with a stormy wind in my fury; and there shall be
an overflowing shower in mine anger, and great hailstones in my fury to consume
it. So will I break down the wall that ye have daubed with untempered mortar,
and bring it down to the ground, so that the foundation thereof shall be
discovered, and it shall fall, and ye shall be consumed in the midst thereof:
and ye shall know that I am the Lord.
'Thus will I accomplish my
wrath upon the wall, and upon them that have daubed it with untempered mortar,
and will say unto you, The wall is no more, neither they that daubed it.'"
I bowed my head.
"He that hath ears, let
him hear."
As Frobisher and I went down
the dim hallway to pack, he chuckled and patted me on the back.
"Jandt, you are
my best man, if a little ... visionary, let's say."
When we had returned to the
Bureau at last, I sat down to write up my report. Frobisher came over, took my
notebook, and tossed it in the fire.
"This one shall be off
the books, I think. It is too personal, and too outré, in my judgement. And it
does not reflect well on a certain friend in high places."
I agreed at the time but
have since wondered if I had a greater duty. Now I have written it all up
again, to get it clear in my head. Perhaps I will destroy it once more, or
someone shall find it when I am gone, and the story passed on. Only time will
tell, I suppose, if I was a prophet or a fool.
Bob shut the file and looked
once more at the cover. Burn This. So Jandt must have come to some final
decision at last. Or had he? After all, here was the tale. He looked at his
watcher. It had stopped spinning and was inert once more.
He walked over to the little
stove and opened the pipe. Curiosity had been satisfied. Now, decency or duty?
He looked at the folder and its urgent red letters. He opened the stove door.
Yes. If the Bureau needed this, it was in his head now. He pulled out his
matches.
When he left the room with
the bundles of books and papers, a little pile of ashes steamed a bit in the
grate, joining its acrid smell to the gunpowder tang of the July air.
.jpg)
"What are your own religious convictions?"
He wagged his finger at me.
"Now, I told you, no
state secrets. If I had broadcast my opinions during the elections, I doubt I
could have been President, and even now I do have political friends. I'd not
have them tarred with my own skeptical brush."
"You are a skeptic,
then? After all the reports of strange things from the Bureau?"
"I do not doubt that
there are many strange, unexplained phenomena on this earth, Mr. Jandt. I do
not see any reason to posit an unprovable world beyond or behind it."
"You do not believe in
God?"
He shrugged.
"I am a deist. It seems
to be a philosophical necessity for there to be a First Cause to begin the
universe. But for there to be a personal power, that cares what mankind does or
furnishes an ultimate fate? I see no indication of such a being."
"And Christ?"
"A very good man, who
had some legends grow up about him. I have done work on a version of the New
Testament, in fact, purging it of some obvious fairy tales that have become
attached to the Great Teacher. I certainly do not think he was the Son of God.
It would be akin to saying he was the nephew of the Law of Gravity. The
morality of the Natural Law is sufficient for any good man."
"Mm-hm," I said,
making my notes. "Now about your slaves ..."
"I inherited most of
them from my father, and others belong to my wife. I cannot simply cut them
loose, unprepared. They are a responsibility."
"Worth quite a lot of
money too. They labor in your farm and factories."
"I intend to set them
free upon my death..."
"When you are beyond
any earthly need of them. But your father. May I ask, did he or any other
members of your family mistreat them in any way?"
He drew back. The distance
was in his eyes again.
"That depends on your
definition of mistreatment, I suppose. Nothing mortal, no. If anything, I would
say loving, as far as it goes."
"I believe I understand
you. Do you feel guilt about this?"
"I do not believe in
inherited guilt. I may well have brothers and cousins among my people: it is
another reason I care for them but cannot acknowledge them. It has even been
used as a stick by my political opponents to beat me. I say nothing, to either
affirm or deny. But if I did pleasure myself among them, my wife not objecting
and the girl willing, why shouldn't I?"
"A woman who cannot say
no, as a slave to a master, cannot really say yes, though, can she?" I
shook my head. "No matter, sir. When did your father die?"
"I was fourteen."
"What kind of man was
he?"
"What can I say? He was
the master, the king of his castle, absolute on his ground. Distant.
Unapproachable. Demanding."
"How did you feel when
he died?"
"To be honest?
Liberated. I was already growing in my studies. Music. History. Mathematics. He
couldn't understand what I wanted to do. I could follow my own way. But not all
at once.
"For a while I was
under the thumb of an executor, and in the hands of James Maury, an educated
man, but very pious. I learned much literature from him, but his Anglican
religiosity put a bit of a brake on my notions. By the age of twenty-one I was
free."
"Your trail of
liberation seems quite progressive. From your father, from church, and finally
from King George. Tell me, do you think there is any authority to which you are
beholden?"
A wintery smile.
"Perhaps only to the
judgement of history. And by the time it comes, shall I care?" He reached
over and pulled the bell. "Come, I think it is time to dine."
We had a very pleasant meal, but Jefferson ate very little and Frobisher
even less. He had whiled away the day growing dyspeptic with worry in the
library and burning a hole in his stomach at afternoon coffee. By the time we
retired to a bedroom on the east side of the second floor my old friend was
worn to rags with the questions he had longed to ask but was too polite to
bring up at the dinner table.
"Well? Is there any
progress?" he asked, pulling off his boots.
"Oh, most certainly.
This is no fraud. He is surrounded by loyal people, who I do not think would
ever let harm come to him and seem to have little reason to wish it." I
laid my suit out over a chair.
"Any theories about
what it is then? A ghost? A sending? A walker?"
"I have the beginning
of a thought. I have one more person to question, and I don't think I will be
long in meeting him."
Frobisher slumped.
"You mean the thing
itself." He rubbed his forehead. "You know this sort of being is
notorious for not showing up when expected."
"I know." By now I
was down to my nightshirt and looked like something of a ghost myself.
"But this spirit ... I don't think it can help but appear."
I sighed and got between the
sheets.
"The problem, I
believe, will be to get it to go away."
Frobisher finished
undressing, doused the lamp, and got into bed. It had been a long day, and soon
we were fast asleep.
I awoke with an urgent need
for the chamber pot. I reached out for the side table, and my hand was staid by
a body interposing between I and it. My
eyes flew open. There, in the moonlight, was the Slave's Ghost.
I had heard descriptions of
the thing all day, but to see it was another thing altogether. It was hunched,
almost gnomish, but with powerful shoulders that trickled with blood, black and
wet in the moonbeams. It was shackled at both wrists and ankles, and there was
blood there too. The pitiable state of its body, combined with the power of
violence that seemed to quiver throughout it, ready to leap forth and avenge,
struck my soul. I stood dumb for a moment staring into its unblinking fiery
eyes. Then my training came through.
"If thou hast any
sound," I began, throat dry, "Or use of voice, speak to me: If there
be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease and grace to me, Speak
to me."
Yes, it was Shakespeare. There is no magic in the words, except that they
can be memorized and used when your brain is paralyzed. They ask the old, old
questions.
"If thou art privy to thy country's
fate," I went on, "Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O, speak!
Or if..."
"Tell him," it
rasped. If a hole from a grave choked with weeds could speak, it might sound
like that. "You have guessed. Tell him, not for death, but for my life. No
more warning from me. Tell him."
His eyes fixed on me; his
form thinned until nothing was left but his stony gaze. Then that vanished,
leaving only moonlight. I turned and looked at Frobisher, who snored under his
nightcap. He had never even stirred.
(To Be Continued ...)
"Very good, sir." He turned to me. "What would you like to
see, Mr. Jandt?"
"Show me where this
thing first appeared to you, Mr. Colbert. That was ... the silver closet, was
it not?"
"Indeed, sir." He
looked uncomfortable, glancing over at his master.
"Wherever he wants,
Colbert. In the meanwhile, I think my old friend Frobisher and I will have some
wine and discuss things a bit."
As the door shut I caught a
last glimpse of the old lawyer loosening his stock and gulping down a hasty
draught, as if in preparation of an imminent ordeal.
As we walked to the back of
the mansion I plied the man with questions.
"How long have you
lived here, Mr. Colbert?"
"I was born here, sir.
And it is Colbert."
"Ah. Forgive me. You
are not a free man, then?"
"No, sir."
"A slave, then."
"Yes, sir."
"You look rather
well-cared for, for a slave."
"Mr. Jefferson is a
very kind man to all, particularly to me. He educated me, gives me an
allowance, and has exempted me absolutely from the whip."
"Treats you like
family, eh?"
His lips snapped shut.
"Here we are,
sir."
He withdrew a key and
unlocked the closet. Inside were shelves lined with plates, bowls, tureens,
candlabra, and drawers of flatware, all sparkling in the little lamp that
Colbert lit. A chair and a small table with cleaning rags and a tin of polish
lay directly under.
"So you were in
here?"
"Yes sir. Alone, and
locked in."
"No other way in or
out?"
"Of course not. It is
quite secure."
"Tell me exactly how it
happened."
"I had retired here
after supper and settled down to my task..."
"Any drinking at
supper?"
"Two glasses of watered
wine. I had locked myself in, as is custom. As you can see, there is no room to
hide in this place. I was deep into the job when I happened to look up, and he
was there." He pointed.
I moved over and stood on
the spot. I felt nothing. I removed my watcher and took a reading. Not a
twitch.
"Had you ever seen this
person before, or anyone resembling him?"
"I have seen many men
in his condition, bleeding, chained, but no, never this man."
"If you could describe
this man's attitude, the one mastering emotion in his face, what would it
be?"
"Anger." He
shuddered. "For a moment, I thought he would kill me, his gaze was so
terrible. I felt...guilty, somehow. Implicated."
"I see. Tell me,
Colbert. Are you confined to the house itself, or do you go around the slave
quarter's as well?"
"I was born there. My
family is there."
"What are they calling
this phantom, among themselves? They must have a name of some sort. Do they
have someone they believe it might be?"
"No. Many have seen it
now, and no one, from the oldest to the youngest, recognize him. They just call
it the Slave's Ghost."
"That seems to the
point. Tell me, has the oldest matriarch seen this spirit?"
"Oh, yes."
"Let's go call on
her."
He carefully locked the
cabinet up and we proceeded outside the house, to a series of buildings outside
called Mulberry Row. Here, in a little house, humble but well-kept, I was
introduced to a tiny, ancient lady, with bones like a bird. This, I was told,
was Gran-mere Liza.
Was she French? Lord no, but
so many of the children knew French, she had been granted the title. Had she
been with the Jeffersons long? She had belonged to Master Tom's father, so a
goodish while. How old was she? No idea, but some days she felt a hundred. It
was written down on a paper somewhere.
"You must know a great
deal of the family history, ma'am. Can you think of any reason for this ghost
to walk here?"
I will not even attempt to
reproduce her peculiar accent, but this is the gist of what she said.
"In all my years, I
can't think of an action that would merit such a vengeance. Master Tom is the
mildest of masters, asking for much industry of course, and meting out just
punishments for breaking the rules. He's helped some to buy their own freedom
and seen them settled, and word had gotten down among us of the industry he's
had in working against the peculiar institution himself."
"And yet he still owns
you," I said.
"Maybe not
forever," she mumbled. "It'd be hard to leave him, and hard to take
care of ourselfs. He won't just turn us loose to fend."
"Indeed. Now, I imagine
that you know everything that goes on here."
"I expect so."
"Anything that goes on
gets to you eventually?"
"That's so." She
shifted uneasily.
"I'm going to ask you a
question, and I want you to be completely forthcoming. It's just about an idea
I've had. No one will be punished if it's true. Do you understand?"
"I always tell the
truth!"
"I'm sure you do. It is
just a maybe story, you see? I am wondering if perhaps, one night, an escaped
slave came to Monticello, maybe out here to Mulberry Row, and died before he
could be helped. Perhaps he was secretly buried here, to avoid any trouble, and
since nothing more could be done. Perhaps he wants a proper burial?"
The old lady actually
laughed.
"Lord, sir, you should
write up ghost stories for the papers, like they read us! No sir, nothing like
that. That would have been exciting!"
I laughed too.
"Now, you've seen the
spirit, this Slave's Ghost, at least three times. How did it look to you? What
was its expression?"
"Oh, sad, sir, sick and
sad; stretched past sorrow, if you know what I mean. It opened its mouth like
it wanted to speak, and I reach out to pat him, and he's gone."
I thanked her, and we went
to question others, some at work and some in their quarters. It was all much
the same story. The spirit had looked angry or sad, and it tried to speak, but
said nothing. At last as the dinner hour drew near we returned to the house,
and after inquiries we were directed to Jefferson's cabinet, adjacent to his
bedroom. He had disported his long limbs on a couch and was reading a book.
"Well, have you spoken
to everyone you wish, Mr. Jandt, and looked everywhere you wanted?"
"There is just one more
interview, Mr. Jefferson. I want a deeper, more private conversation with you,
if you please."
He sat up, shutting his book
with a clap.
"And what more could
you learn from me, do you think, Mr. Jandt?"
"I don't know," I
said. "That's why I'd like to find out. You are the first to see this
thing, and you are the one who has seen it most. Did you know that? There is
some deep connection between you and it, though I cannot see how, as yet. Shall
we talk? Alone?"
"Colbert. Leave
us." The man bowed out. I sat down on a chair, and took out my pad and
pencil again. "I am at your disposal, Mr. Jandt. But I reserve any state
secrets."
I smiled.
"I do not think that
will be necessary. And again, I tell you, please be as honest as possible. Your
revelations will be as sacrosanct as a Catholic confession."
He snorted, almost a laugh.
"As safe as that? Ask on, Mr. Jandt."
(To Be Continued)
The apparition was first seen by Jefferson near the end of March. He awoke
one morning to find it standing over him as he lay in bed. It was bright
sunlight already so there was no chance of misidentification. Its appearance
was that of a male negro, powerfully built but hunched, dressed in tattered
clothing and wrists bound in shackles. His hair was grey and grizzled, his eyes
red and staring, and he was bleeding, slowly but profusely, from great welts
everywhere on his body.
Jefferson's first reaction,
was, of course, shock. Punishment as severe as this man had suffered was not
allowed at his plantation, certainly not when he was present, and this man was
no one he knew. Was he sure of this? Yes, he was quite familiar with all the
residents of the plantation. Might he have been a passing fugitive? It was
unlikely such a one could have made it into his bedroom.
He reached for the bell-pull
to summon his valet, and in the fraction of a second the figure had
disappeared. He jumped up and examined the room, and no trace could be found.
The door was locked from the inside, the windows secure. Was there any chance of
a hidden door or chamber, through which a trickster might have made an exit?
Mr. Jefferson was quite familiar with the layout of his house, having built and
rebuilt it many times over the years. There was not an inch that he did not
know intimately, not a space unaccounted for.
After a moment he dismissed
it as a leftover fragment of dream and began his day. He is sure he told no one
of the incident, not even his daughter. That is what made what followed more
inexplicable.
A week later, he saw it
again. It was once more in broad daylight, and this time he was wide awake. He
had entered at one end of a corridor, only to see the same man in chains
turning the corner to the right out of sight at the other end. The corridor between
them had been dim, but the hall at the other end was brightly lit. What was
more, the figure had not seemed to block the light at all.
Jefferson again dismissed
it, this time as a trick of the brain, brought on by the surprise at his
awaking before. He advanced across the corridor, and at the end he turned
right, and found one of his house boys standing as if struck. At first, he
thought this accounted for the illusion, until he realized the figure had gone
left. Still, a shadow perhaps? Then the boy said, Who was that man, sir?
Jefferson closely questioned
the boy, and got a description fitting in every detail what he himself had
seen. I asked, Was the boy at all a tale-spinner or prankster? No, an
intelligent and truthful fellow. He said the man had passed him, coming out of
nowhere, then disappearing at the end of the hall. Where he pointed was only a
window, the shutters drawn back, but still fixed fast against drafts. There was
dust, undisturbed, on the sill.
This was when the President
began keeping a record of the appearances. Might I see it? Of course. The
document produced (from a secured drawer) and examined. I found written there
the date, time, location, and person. I drew up a rough table and began to make
some calculations.
"I am most impressed,
Mr. Jefferson," I said, as I wrote. "Not only by your efficient
observations, but by the impulse to record them in the first place. I think you
would make an excellent agent in the Bureau yourself."
"Heaven forfend."
For a moment two hectic red spots bloomed on his pale cheeks. Was he flattered?
"I am far too occupied with more practical things. And I don't think I
could pass incognito among the general populace."
"Even so. Think how
your commanding presence might compel confidences and confessions."
"Surely that would skew
the results to some degree? The urge to please or interest..."
"Indeed." I
finished my notes. "Which is why I would rather interview the other
witnesses on my own, if you don't mind. I do not wish them to become tangled
under your scrutiny."
He frowned.
"They have already
testified to me. I doubt if their story will change."
"Then there is no
reason not to allow me private interviews, is there, or take up your time? I
have a few questions you perhaps have not thought of, and new inspirations
might strike. I will, of course, share whatever I might uncover."
He interlaced his hands and
looked at me over the knot.
"Very well," he
said. "Who would you question first?"
"Your valet, if you can
spare him for a few hours," I said. "Then he can lead me to the
others I wish to speak to."
He rang the bell, and a
tall, well-dressed black came in.
"Colbert, you are to be
at Mr. Jandt's disposal for a while. Take him wherever he wishes in Monticello
and answer all his questions. Tell Samuel he's to attend my call in your
absence."
(End Part Three)
We left by coach the next day, and over the days of our trip, Frobisher
debated and planned strategy, aloud and at length, aided only by the occasional
monosyllable from me. It was all politics, and the political side of our
business never engaged me. I was more preoccupied with my usual travel
sickness.
It boiled down to this. Mr.
Jefferson had established our Department, as part of his government. His
successors, Mr. Madison, and until recently, Mr. Monroe, had honored his
creation. Monroe's ambitions had left his administration somewhat impoverished,
and he was looking for economies. Frobisher had not heard from Jefferson for
some time and was unsure of his continued interest and support.
Frobisher came back, over
and over, to one conclusion, as if to press it home to me, and reassure
himself.
"If we can help him
with this haunting, if we can either rid him of this spirit or discover if some
deception is being practiced on him, I'm sure we can get a strongly worded
letter of support. Monroe will not -- even at this late date -- go against
Jefferson's advice."
Finally I could not stand
the vain repetition any longer.
"Ballentine," I
said sternly. "You must compose yourself. This nervousness will serve no
useful purpose. Consider: what if the worst happens, and we fail? The Bureau is
dismantled. Then what? You still have your law practice. I still have my
studies. The sun will still rise, and the waters still run. And there will
still be good folk to fight these dark powers, as there have been for thousands
of years before us."
"But not as efficiently
as we do." He subsided, grumbling. I knew he thought of the Department as
his legacy, almost as his brain child, but I also knew that many a child never
reaches its promise. Alas, how many books I have conceived that remain
unwritten! Frobisher, admonished, spoke no more of it the remainder of the
journey, but I could see by the darting of his eyes and restless turning of his
head that it still occupied his thoughts.
Once in Charlottesville we
left the coach and hired a couple of horses, leaving our luggage to be
delivered and riding the short way to Monticello, Mr. Jefferson's dream castle.
Seen from a distance, this house, built mostly in the Palladian style, was a
red and white vision of order, floating on a green hillside, a veritable
fortress on a hill.
As we drew closer to it, of
course, one began to see its flaws, its weathering, the compromises of its
working life. I learned later that it was constantly having parts torn down and
built up again, as new ideas and improvements flitted through its master's
head. The yard around the building was slovenly, with footpaths running like
ant trails through the grass. Still, its grand portico, supported by massive
pillars, was most impressive and made me feel rather insignificant as we
ascended the steps.
We were greeted by a footman
at the front door, a slave as it turned out, although he was rather
"bright" as they call lighter-skinned negroes, and dressed in elegant
clothes, so that I did not at first realize his status. We announced our names,
and were told we were expected, then ushered into the vast cavern of the house.
I felt at first that we were going through some kind of museum, or even
mausoleum, for the rooms though impeccably kept were devoid of any sign of
occupancy, beautiful but lifeless, like flowers dipped in wax. That changed as
we neared what I soon saw was the brain of the house.
We turned down a dim
corridor. Our escort knocked discreetly on a battered door, opened it, and we
were announced. We entered Mr. Jefferson's library.
He rose from his desk as we
entered, flanked on either side by ranks of books. He was a tall man,
majestical, but a little stiff from arthritis. He was dressed in an ancient
green coat, trimmed with grey fur, and his clothes were loose on his gaunt
frame and rumpled with work and wear. I only noticed all this later. What held
me immediately was his expression, pale-eyed, distant, tight-lipped. I had seen
that look when I was with the French in Egypt, looking out over the eternal
sands.
The Director led me up to
the desk.
"Mr. President,"
he said, bowing, the slightest tremor in his voice. I was surprised to note the
sweat suddenly beading my old friend's balding head. I have never known him to
be anything but under utmost control.
"Frobisher,"
Jefferson replied. The slightest tilt of the head in acknowledgement. His eyes
slid to me.
"May I present Mr.
Augustus Jandt, our best man. I am sure he will be able to get to the bottom of
this trouble for you and bring it to a swift and successful conclusion."
I stepped forward, performed
a military bow, and proffered my hand. After a slight hesitation he took it. We
shook briefly, and without warmth. He dropped my hand immediately.
"You are welcome to
Monticello, Mr. Jandt," he drawled. "I do hope your stay here will be
brief and satisfactory. This... apparition has been most upsetting for my
people."
"And for yourself,
surely, Mr. President?"
Again, the distance.
"You may drop the
title, Mr. Jandt. I am at present a simple farmer and a private citizen. The
appellation belongs to another. And to be frank with you, I do not care about
this phenomenon one way or another. What concerns me is the effect it is having
on my household."
"And what effect is
that, sir?"
Jefferson arched an eyebrow.
"Am I to presume the
investigation is starting already?"
"It began a half hour
ago, sir. This is simply the part when the questions begin."
He turned to Frobisher.
"Your best man wastes
no time, I see."
"Would you want me to,
Mr. Jefferson? It is perhaps best to think of me in this process as a
physician. I am going to ask some rather personal questions, and I will require
very honest answers, the better to diagnose the case. In return, I pledge the
discretion of a doctor for whatever you reveal to me. I may ask things that
seem irrelevant or even impertinent, but believe me it is not from some
perverse curiosity."
Jefferson looked at me like
I was some new species of beetle he had suddenly found crawling on his desk.
"Does the Bureau
initiate all its investigations in so straightforward a manner?"
"Of course not,
sir," Frobisher began apologetically, but I interrupted.
"You are the founder of
the Department, Mr. Jefferson. You summoned us here. I see no reason for
subterfuge or hidden agenda, no disguises or delicacy. Do you? I find the
circumstances most refreshing myself, being able to begin with no dancing around
the subject, the client being so obviously intelligent and completely aware of
the situation. So should I waste time?"
We stood toe to toe for an
agonized instant. Frobisher looked as if he were waiting for the pin to
transfix the beetle. Then Jefferson smiled a wintery smile.
"You think logically,
Jandt. Good. I appreciate that. By all means, let us begin." He gestured
for us to be seated.
I pulled out my small pad
and a pencil. Jefferson sat back at his desk and began the facts as follows.
(To Be Continued)
