Jefferson Wept Preview

FOREWARD

 Dear Reader, Kindly fill in the blanks:

  If________________could see this country today, they would_________________!

 Choose any relative or famous person, long dead, and imagine what their reaction would be to our present state of affairs. I would assume that you have, most likely, and on more than one occasion, already engaged in such speculation. This would have been, for example, somewhat akin to, “Boy oh boy, if my great grandma could see Viagra sellin' on the TEE VEE, she'd drop dead” or, “If Jesus Christ came back and saw the Vatican he'd have a conniption fit.”  These are just examples of such conjecture concerning our collective past. But, what if it could happen? What if Thomas Jefferson could visit our time? How would he react? How would we respond to his words? Would anyone listen and follow him? How would he get here in the first place? Would he be pleased at what he found here? That is what this story intends to tell and that is why I have called it:

Jefferson Wept.

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A HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE: FRANCE 1785

 An accidental juxtaposition of famous “Fathers” occurred in Paris of that year. One of our founding fathers, Thomas Jefferson, the author of The Declaration of Independence, was newly appointed Ambassador to the throne of King Louis and his wife, Marie Antoinette. He was there to succeed his close friend, Benjamin Franklin, the “father” of electricity. This was a politically correct maneuver by the Federalists who didn’t want Jeffersonian democratic sentiment to interfere with the architecture of the “business of governance” as represented by the Constitution. So, Jefferson was sent about as far away as possible from The Constitutional Convention being crafted in Philadelphia.

Also intersecting the destiny of these men was Antoine Lavoisier, considered by history to be the “father” of Enlightenment Period chemistry and serving as a sort of catalyst for the meetings among all these gentlemen was the mysterious Dr. Anton Mesmer, the “father” of clairvoyance, psychic healing and time travel. At the start, not even the great Mesmer himself firmly believed nor completely understood all of those strange events these giants of history would be thrust together to share. It all began with Marie Antoinette and her trances at Mesmer’s salon. The queen was highly disturbed, so King Louis assigned two commissions to investigate Mesmer; one was headed by Lavoisier and the other known by his nickname at court, L’ambassador L'ectrique, better known as Benjamin Franklin.

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Copies of those written reports of both Franklin and Lavoisier concerning Mesmer are in documents which can be viewed at the Library of Congress. Lavoisier was convinced that the doctor was a charlatan. Franklin was of a different opinion but chose politically adroit language so as to disabuse the king's fear that his wife's “flights of fancy” had no basis in reality. Everyone seemed content. It turned out that everyone's conclusions were, quite literally, fatally flawed.

Little has been reported of the events that followed, until now. As Franklin further investigated Mesmer, he enlisted the aid of his friend, Thomas Jefferson, and these two great minds plunged headlong into what at first was a reluctant confederation with Mesmer. However, as they learned more, they helped this eccentric but brilliant doctor in experiments that led them all to both wondrous and perilous adventures that would affect a change in the destiny of our nation and their (and soon, dear reader, your) understanding of Time itself.

LONDON 1989

Professor Stephen Hawking, laboriously using his only working digit, clicked away on his voice processor this following determination: “Just as the Second Law of Thermodynamics justifies the Big Bang, so that same Big Bang in today's cosmology justifies the Second Law. It is the reason, in the view of many physicists, why Time as we know it—with a past, present and future, exists at all. This is one of the deepest paradoxes of conventional physics. According to all the laws of physics today, there should be NO DISTINCTION BETWEEN PAST AND FUTURE, NO DIRECTION TO TIME ITSELF. Time is simply the fourth dimension - there is no more difference between the past and the future than right from left. Nor is this law true exclusively to Einsteinium Relativity. Both Newton's Laws and the Laws of Quantum Mechanics also are what is called Time-Reversible: they define no unique direction of Time.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In order to capture the flavor of Jefferson's era, when those relevant historical scenes play out, I have employed dialog that represents the vernacular appropriate to that historical period. 

PREFACE

 “The reward of great men is that long after they are dead, one is not sure that they are dead.” – Jules Renard

 Washington, D.C. | The White House | April 29, 1962

President John F. Kennedy addressed the guests who comprised the assemblage of the forty-nine Nobel Laureates of that year with this toast, “I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent that has ever gathered at the White House---with the exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined here, alone.”

In trying to fully appreciate Thomas Jefferson, I was faced with a paradox: although one can never fully understand him, I learned to love him in spite of some obvious moral inconsistencies. He was the preeminent force and major contributor to our country's themes of liberty and equality, yet his personal behavior was not democratic. He never freed any of his slaves, except two of the five children whom he sired with Sally Hemings, his slave-mistress of more than thirty years. Although he didn't free Sally either, (his daughter, Martha, did that after Jefferson's death) he did believe that all men and women would eventually achieve the sort of liberty and equal opportunity originally afforded to that exclusive class of white, male, landowning, founder-elites from which he came.

Nearly two centuries would have to pass before Jefferson's words of the ideals of Liberty were finally realized. He was deliberately kept from contributing to the very Constitution upon which all of his concepts of freedom and citizen governance were to be implemented. The Federalists wanted no democratic voice in the architecture of the document, especially his. So, they sent Jefferson as far away from the Constitutional Convention as they could. He was to go to France so as not to tinker with inclusions of democratic sentiment such as a bill of citizen's rights. And there he stayed until the Federalist deed was done.

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By the time he returned to America the document was completed minus his sentiments. His bitterness about this stayed with him for the rest of his life, although he was gratified by the first ten amendments to that revered document: Our Bill of Rights.

It would take him almost two-hundred years to do something about the rest of his intentions and he could not have made this astonishing journey through Time without the help of a certain balding genius from Philadelphia. Benjamin Franklin, who it seems, had developed an odd, non-lethal precursor to what is now known as the electric chair and this, in a very strange way, would serve as Jefferson’s “magic carpet” as he sailed through time and space.

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      “I should have no objection to go over the same life from the beginning to the end: requesting only the advantage authors have of correcting in the second edition the faults of the first.”
– Ben Franklin

Chapter 1

Philadelphia | The Franklin House | April 17, 1790 | 9:30 P.M.

The tenth son of seventeen children of a Boston soap maker was one and one-half hours from his death. As he had accomplished a great deal more in his life than his soap-making father, he had in attendance at this deathwatch, none other than the very first Secretary of State of the United States, Thomas Jefferson of Virginia.

Benjamin weakly waved his old friend closer to his bedside and spoke thus, “Thomas, as my end hastens, you must grant me two last boons, both of great importance.”

Jefferson bent low over the bed and kissed Ben on the forehead to seal the accommodation as he said, “Ah, dear sir, ask anything and, be it within my power, such requests are guaranteed of their fulfillment.”

Upon hearing such a commitment, Ben ordered the doctor from the room and motioned, painfully, to have his beloved daughter leave as well. He watched as the door closed and then immediately grasped Jefferson’s sleeve and stared imploringly into his former collaborator’s eyes as he said, “Promise me you will never use Mesmer’s Baguet unless you are sure no harm will come to anyone under its influence.”

Thomas smiled almost patronizingly and gently lied, “Why, Ben, I’ve barely given thought to that Mesmer business since we returned from France.”

Knowing this to be less than truthful, Ben fixed his stare even deeper and said, “Then it will be that much easier to swear that you will not use that infernal device until you are certain it should prove harmless. Swear such to me, Thomas Jefferson. Swear it to me upon the very life of your own darling child!”

Realizing that he had been caught by his old confederate, Jefferson amended his proclamation, “All right, Ben, I swear thus…that I shall never use Mesmer’s powers except when my knowledge is more complete and even then, use only myself as its subject.”

“Then make such an oath, Thomas, make it n-” Ben’s words were cut off. His insistent urgings were interrupted by the abscess in his lungs which forced phlegm and pus-like excretions into his throat. Above the rattle of his rasping, came Tom’s response, “It is so sworn and upon my daughter’s very life and that of my own, I pledge this thing.”

That done, Ben seemed to relax and his breathing became less labored for the moment as he remarked, “So you would use yourself to experiment further with Mesmer’s work? Is the possible sacrifice of a man so great as Thomas Jefferson the only way to atone for what we did?”  

Jefferson answered, “My knowledge is and may always remain too limited to ever proceed; however, should certain enlightenment in the discipline enhance the possibilities of future success, then, yes, I could…nay, I shall attempt this experiment. I do it partly for selfish curiosity, partly to advance science, but mostly to assuage my own guilt.”

“Alas, Thomas, your redemption may yet be obtained, but I have no time afforded to achieve mine,” came the wheezing and gasping reply.

Jefferson became solicitous and affectionate in tone as he attempted to console his dying friend and spoke with as much conviction as he could convey, “In your case, good sir, there was never cause to seek redemption.”

At these words, Franklin displayed renewed agitation and demonstrated as much anger as an old man, mortally ill, could muster as he snarled out, “Mr. Jefferson! Such a crafted attempt to assuage my guilt ill befits our long association. The last words I hear from your lips should not be tainted by prevarications, no matter how well intended. I am too late for reparation of those matters at the Bastille, but your promise can help me slip away knowing your acts will be proper and any sacrifice limited to your person alone. That is something we should have done in Paris. Do this someday then, only if you have a chance of success and only under the conditions just attested, in order to balance the scales.”

Jefferson patted his friend’s hand and repeated his pledge, “It is so declared, Benjamin. It has been so sworn.”

Franklin remained quiet for a few moments, trying to gather the remainder of his energy sufficient to make his second request. Finally, the great man spoke, a wry smile overtaking his countenance. “The other boon is merely a question, but the answer has always eluded me up to these very last moments. It started in Paris shortly after your arrival and continued during all the times we spent in the sporting salons of the fleshy world of Eros. It is this:  what was the fascination you had with those dark-skinned wenches?”

Thomas appeared to be taken aback, but Ben continued the interrogatory with a scientist’s zeal, “Come now, Tom…what was it that consumed you so when one of those Abyssinians met your fancy?”

The Secretary of State could no longer hold back an astonished laugh. His long-time friend and collaborator seemed to be saving his last suffocated gasps to inquire about Jefferson’s sexual proclivities. “Ben, you old rake! What would the historians think if it were recorded that some of the last words from the Sage of Philadelphia were questions such as these? And what would the ages to follow think if it were discovered that your last utterances explored my interests in the netherworld of female flesh?”

More animated than before, Franklin retorted, “It is not my intention that these shall be my last words, but if they prove to be, then the devil with the historians…for they will write what they want and to hell with the sensitivities of generations to come, for they shall believe what they choose! But I want to understand the stimulating aura you seemed to sense in those mysterious African loins. Tell me, Thomas, what is it about the likes of Sally Hemings; or do you no longer lust for her any more than you give thought to Dr. Mesmer and his Baguet? That amazing contraption!”

At this Thomas once again laughed aloud, but Ben interrupted the levity with a frightening gasping and hacking. After partially regaining control of his breathing, the old man’s strangulated words wheezed forth, “Bah, perhaps these are my last moments after all and so must not make waste with such dalliance…enough…enough! You consign me to my grave both ignorant and confused about those mulatto and high yellow ladies to speak nothing of the octoroons. The likes of Sally!”  At this, Franklin added a final affectionate wink and attempted a weak chuckle, but his lungs afforded no longer such social graces and so, he only whispered his adieu, “Leave me now, dearest friend and send in my daughter and my grandson. I must give them my last instructions.”

At this directive, Jefferson leaned forward and kissed his colleague on the top of his head signaling his farewell. As he bent over the dying penitent, Ben whispered, “Better to remember all those dusky amours and forget all together that most untidy business of Dr. Mesmer.”

Tom hugged Ben and said, “That Mesmerian adventure of ours, I cannot forget, either. Farewell, dear sir.”

As Jefferson closed the bedroom door behind him, he thought of Ben’s teasing advice. He could remember each of those dusky naked bodies and he seemed to remember the first one most clearly of all, but even that lusty image was suddenly replaced by the recollection of Mesmer and the screams of his patients inside the Bastille.

Franklin was now only minutes away from his end. He gave Sarah Bache, his daughter, final instructions as to certain matters and asked her to make haste to draft up a letter that he intended to sign. As she scurried from the room to accommodate her father’s last request, Temple Franklin could hear her sob as he closed the door to his grandfather’s room.

Now, just Ben and Temple, the bastard son of his bastard son, William, remained in the death-room. The old man spoke painfully, each breath an agonized effort as the last stages of pneumonia’s suffocation took hold. “Ah, Temple, dear lad, to be with you, again, in Paris just one more time.”

Temple took his grandfather’s gray-blue hand and felt the icy grip of Death within. He wanted to try to squeeze the cold out; force his own warmth in…push Death away, but it was a useless thought and neither of these men were prone to squander time on useless thoughts. He simply continued to gently squeeze the nearly dead hand and say, “Dearest grandfather, can I do anything to make you more comfortable?”

Waving off the request, Ben said, “It is not possible to do anything more for this body, but there may be one last kindness you can administer for the sake of my soul.”

Temple was taken aback by such an exclamation. He knew his grandfather better than anyone else, except perhaps Thomas Jefferson and the last thing Temple was prepared to hear was even the slightest hint of a deathbed conversion from the likes of this prostrate man. His grandfather had never denied the possibility of God, but he was skeptical, even doubtful, that the concepts of souls and heavens or hells held any validity. “Your soul, sir, did I hear you say…your soul?”

Ben seemed greatly disturbed as he said, “Speak more quickly, boy, my time is nearly here! Yes, I used that term, but what matters the word? Soul? Conscience? You must help me free myself from this burden that I still bear as the graveyard beckons loudly in anticipation of my most immediate arrival.”

Temple wanted to assuage his grandfather’s apprehensions, but feared the old man was about to breathe his last and, so, did not waste what little time was left on lily-white-lies normally squandered on the terminally ill. He leaned closer as Ben murmured something. “What was that, dear sir, I could not hear?” he said.

“I said, you must promise me never to repeat what I tell you to anyone else, with the exception of Thomas Jefferson! Not another living soul!”

Again, the mention of the soul was not lost on Temple and he wondered what matters weighed so heavily on the mind of his grandfather that he imposed such conditions. Knowing, however, that there was no time to ponder these matters, he responded. “Whatever you request, dearest sir, I gladly pledge a most solemn discretion.”

That commitment would haunt Temple Franklin for the next thirty-six years. Having heard his grandson's pledge, Benjamin Franklin now confessed to homicide and named Thomas Jefferson as his accomplice.

 Temple was astounded by the words that came pouring out between Ben’s coughing fits. This is what he heard.

“So, there we were in the Bastille, Thomas and me. We’d convinced King Louis that experimentation with some of his political prisoners might allow us to change their mind in favor of his majesty. Of course, that was never our objective, but where else could we get intelligent, fairly healthy candidates? Alas, we were watching Mesmer demonstrate his ability to place a person into a semi-sleep-like-hypnotic trance and then transport this person’s mind…not simply his imagination…but his vision, into the future.  Of course, we first were not at all convinced, since we ourselves could see nothing of this description of the future until, later, something else occurred…or shall I confess, Thomas and I helped contrive.”

As Ben got caught up in the reverie, he suddenly stopped, sucked in a deep breath and then hacked up an enormous quantity of mucous. Temple cleaned his grandfather’s lips and chin as Ben struggled to go on. “It was not possible…that which we saw before our eyes, yet it was happening! Not only was the spirit, or mind or imagination leaving for another place in time, but for several moments, the body left as well. There it was! And then we took the most gigantic step in the history of science! We used my knowledge of electricity and Lavoisier's chemicals to magnify the process Mesmer had demonstrated with his magnetism and…voila! A sort of electro-magnetism manifested itself! We succeeded beyond our most fantastic imaginings!”

Temple needed to interrupt; to ask about this supposed homicide before all the energy being expended by Ben finished him faster than anticipated. “Grandfather, I do not understand. How can what you are describing be related to homicide or murder?”

The old man stared at Temple for a moment, lips turning nearly blue-black and, gasping for breath, wheezed out an attempted shout, “Yes, murder it was, both there at the Bastille and later! Murder, soon to be on a gigantic and national scale, would consume some of the best of France and we could have stopped it! But we dared not! Ah, Lavoisier, forgive me!”

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Temple was now more perplexed than ever. What was his grandfather raving about? Was he blaming himself for the French Revolution of the past summer? Was this nothing more than the meanderings of an old man's mind before Death placed that final kiss of greeting upon Ben’s lips? Or was there more to this than he had, thus far, been able to decipher?

Ben was consumed, now, by the most horrific attack of wheezing and hacking. Temple tried to prop him up to relieve his strangulated efforts. The old man lurched as mortal pain made its final thrusts and he gasped, “Promise me this, because my time grows exceedingly short and this tale is too long! When the time comes, if it ever comes…Jefferson may attempt to finish this business…and the complete story of our both grand and tragic adventure. You will go to him the moment he summons you. Bring with you all of my documents, drawings and instruments that I have sequestered and now place in your charge; especially the chair of electrical conduction. Study those things if you wish, but no matter what you may think you must keep them safe should Thomas call upon you for their deliverance.”

This was almost too much for Temple to absorb, but his love for and loyalty to his grandfather bonded his commitment.

Weakly the old man spoke one more time, “If you study these things, you will learn how Thomas and I so grievously offended both natural philosophy and history by not revealing what we had discovered of the future and what we knew was certain to come to pass!”

Another bit of rasping and wheezing and gasping came from the old man, only much weaker, now.

 “Shame…shame…Did I hear you proclaim your oath? Did I hear you state that you would keep this awful trust? I cannot hear you lad…Temple, beloved son of my not so beloved son…my grandson and my dear friend…I cannot hear you…nor can I any longer see yo-.”

And then, the great old man was gone, taking Temple’s solemn oath with him.

So, it would come to be that a full thirty-six years would pass before that dreaded beckoning finally came. Temple, ever true to his word and his grandfather’s memory, made haste for Monticello where he would reacquaint himself with his grandfather’s partner in crime.

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“It takes many good deeds to make a good reputation, and only one bad one to lose it.” ---Benjamin Franklin

Chapter 2

The Coachroad | VIRGINIA Thirty-six Years Later | JUNE 29, 1826

The coach raced through the muddy back-trail toward Monticello. Inside the careening cabin, Temple Franklin held tightly to the door frame of the swaying vehicle. “Faster,” he commanded, though both reason and caution made him wince as he considered the precariousness of such an order. Nonetheless, he abandoned concern for himself and pushed the coachman and their collective luck to the brink. He did all this because of his sworn commitment to his grandfather’s dying request those many years ago.

“Damnation,” he thought to himself, “If I survive this most jolting of a ride and get to old Tom before it is too late, what I bring him, should he use it, may end his life for near certain. Lord, All Mighty! I shall finish my life by helping to do in the greatest man to have ever lived in Virginia!”

Suddenly, the coach hit a fallen tree branch in the road and Temple Franklin went straight up in the air, bumping his head, painfully, into the roof of his cabin. More startled than injured, he yelled, “Bravo, my good fellow! Keep up the pace!”  And then, he sighed out loud, and laughed to himself as he made a play on words while rubbing the top of his skull.

“Oh, grandfather! How is it that you have gotten me to agree to such skullduggery? Quite so! For perhaps skull-drudgery is the term for this misbegotten adventure!” Temple's sense of humor and irony left much to be improved, but such matters were the least of his problems.

Temple Franklin regretted his returning to America after faking his own death in 1823 to avoid bankruptcy in France. “I suppose it’s Karma or the Fates, but one must always pay his debts…one way or another,” sighed Temple.

Monticello: The Jefferson Residence | June 29, 1826 | Early Evening

As Temple’s carriage moved from the coach highway on to the private road leading up the hill taking him to Jefferson’s home, he wondered why it had taken more than three decades to receive this most dreaded and fateful summons. As those years had passed, Temple thought less and less of his grandfather’s papers and equipment, including that chair of electricity. He forgot about most of those things, which had, at one time so obsessed his grandfather. Although there had been one occasion, a few years after Ben's passing, when Temple did peruse those papers and was most sorely tempted to destroy them. Nonetheless, he desisted and, true to that death-bed oath, now carried the damnable documents and his grandfather’s contraption to Jefferson.

Well into middle age himself, Temple wondered about the condition of Jefferson, this venerable, octogenarian host with whom he was about to reacquaint himself after much more than a generation of time had passed. And he thought to himself, “He must be well over eighty by now and ’tis a pity that we did not share more of each of the other’s company. I could have enriched my youth by spending time with this man. Perhaps he might even have entrusted me to confide completely as to what he and grand-papa and that Mesmer fellow were up to. Alas, all I have are the fading memories of Thomas and Ben, in Paris, so very long ago.”

He thought of all those episodes as his carriage approached Monticello, that great house named after the little mountain upon which it so gracefully stood. He also thought of his grandfather’s delirious death-bed confession making him and Thomas Jefferson accomplices in homicide. “Ridiculous” said Temple aloud as he hoped for better things to come though he feared the worst.

Monticello | June 29, 1826 | Early evening

At that very moment, Thomas Jefferson, the singularly most gifted American scholar, inventor, philosopher, scientist and statesmen of the past two centuries, was preparing for death. He had been losing weight and strength for the past three months.  At the age of nearly eighty-three, the recent attacks of amoebic dysentery and a urinary tract infection promised to finish him soon enough.

The old man moved with considerable effort to his favorite chair by the fire.  The hand of Death seemed to grip his shoulder and Thomas used much of his remaining strength to shake it off, shouting, “Stay away, you thieving fiend! It is not yet time for me to travel with you for I have another destination in mind before my final journey!”

And the Reaper retreated for the moment, but Thomas could almost feel the chill breath of his shrouded enemy and knew the appointed hour must be near at hand.  He glanced, for what must have been the twentieth time that day, at the clock on the mantle. “What was keeping Temple Franklin?” he complained to the clock.

The agony in his intestines distracted him from lamentations about Temple’s tardiness and he cried out in pain. During those moments of intestinal agony, he almost welcomed Death’s invitation, for he knew it would release him from much suffering, but first he had to accomplish one more thing and without Franklin’s grandson and the notes and that device of Ben's, this, his last adventure, would be impossible.

Jefferson poured himself some water with a touch of laudanum in it and closed his eyes and waited for the pain to leave his bowels and for Temple to arrive at his door.

There were many things still left unsettled in the great man’s mind. But one singular mystery that begged solution was this:  does Alexander Hamilton win, or do I? Is it small and local government or a larger and larger central power? Of course, there were other questions of great import as well:  Will any of that which I wrote and set forth endure? Will all men finally be educated and free?  What is the fate of the Negro? Will women vote?  But all of these, as important as they were, remained subsumed by whether the Federalists or the Declarationists would win the hearts and minds of the citizens of this still young country.

Most men would have avoided probing the unanswerable by simply accepting the old bromide about “The future not being anyone’s to see.”  That seemingly irrefutable maxim might have consoled the curious but practical mind of even Thomas Jefferson, but that would have been before his friend Franklin had introduced him to the infamous Anton Mesmer. This would then lead Jefferson to write “I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past.”  That introduction and those events that followed had forever changed Jefferson’s view of life and death and time and eternity. And Temple Franklin was bringing him the means to make that journey for himself.

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In the swaying cabin of the coach, Temple distracted himself from his coming rendezvous and thoughts of further calamity by reminiscence of his days in Paris. “Ah,” he thought, “The City of Light where all the darkness would come with the arrival of Anton Mesmer, but that was to happen much later. Ah Paris!

To be young in Paris and well off was one thing, but to also be there with one’s mentor who happened to be the most famous and respected American residing in Europe, a man who gave advice to the very king and queen of France; well that was extraordinary, indeed! There he was, personal secretary to his own grandfather, Ambassador Benjamin Franklin, lately of Philadelphia.

Temple smiled as he recalled all that he had experienced under his grandfather’s tutelage. Ben had offered Temple an eclectic series of lessons in everything from court protocol to zest filled debauchery.  As a matter of fact, he remembered, it was in a sporting house filled with the most amorous and accomplished ladies that he had occasion to first hear mention of that mysterious Doctor Mesmer. He hoped Thomas would share his remembrances in kind if Time itself allowed them.

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Monticello | June 29, 1826 | Evening

As the coachman reined up in front of the great house and opened the cabin door, Temple was shaken from this reverie. Gathering firmly the pouches containing his grandfather’s notes, and instructing a servant to unload Ben’s chair, Temple stepped into the foyer of Monticello.

As the black butler helped him off with his things he thought, “To finally see Thomas again, after all these years, but under such dreadful circumstance, perhaps a lethal one at that.”  If only it were other than this. If it were only to fondly recall France and the ladies of Paris when they and even the city itself were young and full of life.

 But, no, this was not to be. This appointment was not for the purpose of recalling their halcyon days with grand-papa. This visit was to possibly help Thomas Jefferson perpetrate his own self destruction.

As the butler motioned for Temple to follow him to Jefferson’s library, he hesitated. He thought for a moment of giving the little black man the pouch of papers, then retreat to the safety of the carriage and urging a swift withdrawal back toward his home.  He actually turned to make his escape when he was bumped, rather unceremoniously, by the coachman and another servant who were struggling with the heavy and very odd chair with the dangling wires.

“Well then sir, just where do we put this strange furniture?” the coachman asked.

Temple, as if nudged by the ghost of his grandfather, turned back into the house and said, “Follow me and mind you to not damage that object!”

“Oh, grandfather,” Temple said under his breath, “A promise is a promise, but this? This is almost too much to endure,” and Temple advanced, on now quaking legs, to that long-last meeting with Jefferson.

When Temple entered the library he was, at first, pleasantly surprised to see how erect the posture of Jefferson remained. He’d expected the years and the reports of illness to have diminished the tall, stately frame.  Instead, as he drew near, the man appeared to deport himself with a remarkably excited vitality. The handshake he received, however, was the first sign that Thomas was not as fit as first appearance portrayed.

Jefferson ordered a brandy for Temple but abstained from anything stronger than water with an extra dash of laudanum. They exchanged pleasantries and memories for a few hours; each man politely skirting the subject that was the purpose of their rendezvous.

Finally. Thomas, appearing anxious to move to paramount subjects, stood up with a strange, pained look upon his face and said, “I believe you must be hungry after such a journey, so why don’t you retire to your room and a servant will attend your ablutions while I instruct the cooks to present us dinner.”  At that, Jefferson moved surprisingly rapidly from the room.

Later, at dinner, Jefferson ate barely anything whereas Temple, famished from his travels, made up for it.  As the two settled back to enjoy cigars, that same strange expression of pain overtook Jefferson’s face once more. Temple tried not to stare impolitely, but Thomas noticed the inordinate attention and explained, “It’s my innards, dear fellow, they are filled with the foulest of humors, but I will not allow the doctors do to me what they inflicted upon poor George Washington; there shall be no purgatives or bleeding for old Tom.”  With that said Jefferson rose as quickly as possible and moved quickly toward the direction of the new latrine he had installed indoors.

After waiting for what seemed an inordinately long time, Temple rose to see if the great man was well enough to return to the table. As he approached the door of the commode, he could hear noises emitting from both ends of this Founding Father.  The sounds of dysentery-wrought diarrhea and the accompanying moans were interspersed with both curses and flatulence.

“Damn this abomination!” wailed Thomas, “Must my last days be wasted merely befouling the air of Virginia?” A gigantic grunt followed by even more ambitious flatulence and heroic curses dislodged Temple from his listening post and he retreated to the drawing room to await the hoped-for return of his host.

Another few minutes passed and Jefferson returned, his countenance no longer revealing any signs of suffering and politely commanded, “My dear Temple, it is time we move to my studio so we can pursue the intent of your kind visit.”

When they arrived at the room Jefferson referred to as “his studio”, Temple was struck that it should have more rightly been called his laboratory. He marveled at the many charts, gadgets, and equipment proliferating the room’s appointments.  And, there, right in the middle of those things, now stood his grandfather’s chair of electrical conductivity which had been connected to what Jefferson explained was a generator. On the tables lay all Ben’s notes.  Thomas winked at Temple and said, “I did not wish to squander an opportunity for I reviewed these while you were freshening up for our dinner.”

“You certainly accomplished a lot in so little time,” remarked Temple.

Jefferson, ignoring the compliment, went on, “Your grandfather was a wonder. He added a great deal of additional material regarding this Mesmer affair.  The old fellow seems to have been working on this right up until his last illness, but he never let on! Not even on his deathbed did he suggest that he had kept such vigilant pursuit of those events in Paris. I should have suspected that the curious mind of Benjamin Franklin could never have resisted the fascination we both were swept up with at that time.”

Temple said, somberly, “Pardon me, dear sir, but I must say this and must most embarrassingly confess that I haven’t looked at these things for more than three decades and when I did examine them, could not understand the half of it. But I must say that from what I could gather from Ben’s scribbling as to this subject of Mesmer, that both he and you had lost your grip.  Forgive me, Thomas, but I thought you and Grandfather had, perhaps gone a bit daft.”

Jefferson looked at Temple with a sort of mild amusement as he responded, “Perhaps we were more than a bit mad,” as he patted the Franklin chair, “and perhaps I still am when it comes to this business. That will be for you to decide as we proceed; but first I must explain to you what all these notes mean and what really took place in Paris.”

At this, Temple moved quickly to the door and closed it. Returning near to the tall great man, he stood on tip-toes and whispered in his ear, “And the murder?  Will you tell me of the murder that you and grandfather…well, I mean. Ben was dying and said that you two had…oh dear me…I”

Jefferson pulled slightly away and put his arm around the short, embarrassed and very nervous man. He seemed to look past Temple, through the walls of the room and out into the cosmos itself as he replied, “Murder?  Why, of course! That is precisely why you are here and what this final experiment is all about.”  Tom paused for a moment and then went on, “There was not just one death, you know, there were many, many more.”

He then released Temple and the younger man seemed to slump for a moment as the impact of these words hit home. Temple’s heart sank; this not being at all what he had wanted to hear.  After all those years since his grandfather’s “delirious confession,” he had hoped that Jefferson would refute the whole thing. He had fervently wished that Thomas would deny the matter and Temple was fully and most earnestly prepared to unquestioningly accept that denial in honor of Benjamin’s memory.  Instead the confirmation of the deed had been pronounced by the very accomplice himself and worse, had suggested culpability in deaths on some monstrous scale! Temple could barely believe he was now being confronted by some arch criminal and could hardly conceive that he could continue the conversation, let alone be party to further such experiments.

Jefferson seemed to wait, to deliberately let what had just been said to sink in and allow Temple to regain a semblance of composure. After a few moments he said, “In order for you to understand all that did happen and what is yet to take place, I must start by explaining the Baguet.”

Temple slumped into a chair and, his mind still reeling, forced himself to listen.

“Baguet was a term Mesmer adopted to define the device he used to treat his patients. The word is derived from the French word, baguette, denoting a type of a gem,” Thomas explained this as he unveiled the large, previously draped object that surrounded the Franklin chair.

As the light from the candles and lamps illuminated the glass rods and metallic appendages, it seemed to glow like a gigantic jewel.

Temple rose and moved closer to inspect this thing as Jefferson explained further.  “The device you see before you is a miniature of the much larger one in Mesmer’s salon.  His was built to hold as many as twenty patients at one time. This version that I built needs accommodation of only one person...me.”

Temple continued to walk around this device, this Baguet as he listened to Jefferson's story of it.

“Let me start by explaining what Mesmer was experimenting with well before Paris and what had gotten him into difficulties with the powers in Vienna. As he tinkered with his theories of universal energy, or as he called it, fluidity, he became convinced that the essence of this force was, somehow, the common denominator of life. It flowed through all living matter and was the essential glue that held us and the rest of the universe in place. Mesmer reasoned, therefore, that if someone loses a part of this magnetic fluidity, they become ill and, it seemed to him, that if he could concentrate enough of this fluidity through his Baguet, he could redirect these life currents and heal the patient. This he did. Or so it seemed.”

Temple was as skeptical now as when he had first read his grandfather’s notes. He thought to himself, “Universal fluidity?  This is the essential glue that holds us and the universe all together?

Rubbish! Magnetic rubbish indeed. I was right! Jefferson is mad.”  But out loud he said, “Then, why would there have been such a fuss over what appeared to have held such great promise?” Before an answer could come forth Jefferson made his apologies and headed for the latrine.

“Fluidity seems to be in abundance, if not in the Baguet, then most certainly in that old fool’s bowels,” Temple thought to himself as he said aloud to himself “Universal magnetic glue, indeed. Though Jefferson could use a bit of ass-glue at the moment!”  Temple chuckled to himself at his juvenile attempt at humor. But that was the last thing he'd be smiling about during the events that followed on this fate-filled visit.

The moment Jefferson returned from the commode, he answered Temple’s question regarding the Austrian reaction to Mesmer’s discovery. “Because it worked on the mind as well as the body and perhaps mostly on the mind, as I think more on it, the process affected the intellect and the spirit. Mesmer observed certain manifestations of what a meta-physicist would call clairvoyance. This ability to take peeks into the future frightened many people who considered it blasphemy to assume that anyone but God had power to see what was to take place before it happened. The uniqueness of this phenomenon described by Mesmer’s clairvoyant patients was that they insisted that they did not just have a premonition of some future event but were actually witness to it!”

“Forgive me for interrupting again, sir,” countered Temple, “but there have been numerous charlatans throughout history who produced these sorts of prognostications and other manner of physical cures through the power of their persona or employment of paid confederates skilled at theatrical legerdemain.”

Jefferson smiled and answered, “Ah, most certainly! And your grandfather, well aware of the wiles of the prestidigitator, was only too anxious to expose this latest fraud, this Mesmer.  The problem was that this time and after Benjamin Franklin had met the Austrian and examined his notes and seen the Baguet, well then, my good man, well, well.”

“Well?” Temple inquired.

Jefferson grabbed at his stomach but shook off the pain and continued, “Ben knew that Mesmer was on to something, if true something very extraordinary but alas, I’m not sure Mesmer, himself, fully grasped what it was he was to further discover.”

Thomas paused to drink some water, gulping it down as compensation for his fits of rapid and excessive excretions, then continued, “The problem of how to truly use what Mesmer had stumbled upon was threatened by, as usual, politics, religion and tradition and those normal fears of that which is considered unbelievable. There was also human vanity, of course, all roiling around a rather brilliant, but bullheaded creature, Antoine Lavoisier. That pompous fool! We could have saved him, along with the king and the queen, but he proved such a political obstruction that we were forced to conduct most of our experiments in secret, thus creating even more loss of life.”

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Jefferson quaffed more water and said, “Because of Lavoisier’s poisonous influence upon King Louie, we held back our knowledge that Marie Antoinette’s premonitions were correct when she saw the fatal future of that doomed monarchy.”

Temple took a deep breath as his heart seemed to be released from the strangulated grip of depression, as he thought, “So these are the so called “murders” this most genteel and moral man claims responsibility for and indicts poor guilt-ridden grandfather as well. How sweet, but how foolishly self-chastising is this great, good man.  It is quite understandable that, since they could not possibly prove what would happen until it did, that they were forced to hold back such information for fear of ridicule or retribution by the king.”  Temple breathed the largest sigh of relief as he convinced himself that his deductions were correct. They were somewhat accurate but not completely so.

 Not giving Temple time to enjoy his reverie, Jefferson enlisted his assistance with instructions to help him double check the wiring connections of the chair according to the diagrams in Ben’s notes.

Temple suggested, since he was stronger and much younger, that the experiment could be carried out more safely by employing himself as the subject. Honestly though, Temple was well relieved that Jefferson would have none of it as he said, “Quite gracious of you, my good fellow, but I must insist upon declining so brave an offer. There are three very good reasons why I must be the one to take such mortal risks as there may be. First, I am near my earthly end whereas you, hopefully, have many more years to live. Secondly, I am sorely curious about the fate of this young country. What directions will it take? Will all of the people have the opportunity to be educated? Will they take an interest in, if not, indeed, a part in the governance of this magnificent land?  Will the Federalists win? Will genuine democracy prevail eventually?  Will the slaves be free and at what cost? To all these matters I plan to find answers.”

“Even if this act should kill you in the attempt?” cautioned Temple.

“Better it kills me than any other soul,” Thomas answered and then, pausing for what seemed an inordinate length of time, the great man got to number three and Temple winced as he heard what came next.

 “Finally, and most importantly, there is the matter of the deaths which have yet to be paid for and only I can attempt to set the scales in balance for my immediate and your grandfather’s posthumous redemption!”

Temple surrendered any further objections to the old man's plans. There was no use in attempting to dissuade Jefferson. Once more Temple was tempted to leap up and rush from the room and run away from Jefferson and Monticello and his promise to his grandfather but he did not. Instead, he obediently got up and commenced in following instructions the insistent Jefferson commanded, “The hour is late and I grow weary. Let us get to work.”

As they made preliminary preparations, Jefferson told Temple how he and Ben got themselves tangled up in this most unfortunate case of scientific experimentation leading to multiple deaths.

Jefferson continued working and talking as Temple was wrapped in awe. “By the spring of 1786, Ben and Anton had greatly improved the electrical stimulation as I had first seen demonstrated on that poor prisoner from the Bastille.  Such an unfortunate lad! In our determination to quench our scientific curiosity we ruined him, sacrificed him!”

It was obvious to Temple that Thomas Jefferson was determined to carry whatever guilt he felt for that accidental incident and all the other “confessions” he had revealed. He would take responsibility for all the prisoners from Paris, all the Negroes in bondage and even the duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr. All these burdens, Jefferson spoke of and placed on his large shoulders. Temple shook his head and wondered if there would be enough room for Jefferson and all his “guilt-ridden burdens” in that little chair of electricity.

Jefferson stopped in his narrative, to concentrate on the connection of some of the wires in the Franklin chair and grimaced as he said, “The thought occurs to me that should this transportation of the mind and body prove successful, that during that period where my spirit and corporeal essence may be moving in one direction, my bowels may be moving in a less ethereal form.  Therefore, it is my express desire that you not attend me even though I may soil myself. Ignore such ministrations for fear that you break either the trance or hopefully my transportation.”

Without waiting for Temple to agree, Jefferson went on with his story, “It was your grandfather’s suggestion that we place his chair in the absolute center of the Baguet, thereby escalating the concentration of powers, both magnetically and electrically. We assumed that this convergence of various energies would be substantial. We were wrong!  The confluence was Euclidian! Geometric! Astronomical!”

Jefferson stopped and looked up at the ceiling as if he could see through it and through the clouds and past the stars and right through the heavens; as though he could stare eyeball to eyeball with God, Himself. Jefferson asked, “Just what does constitute homicide or murder? Is it simply the deliberate or careless taking of human life in other than times of war? Or, as societies evolve in higher levels of sophistication, can murder also elevate its forms taking less dramatic but, still, a lethal similarity?” Temple had no idea what Jefferson was talking about or for that matter to whom.

There was another pause and Temple heard more confusing recollections from this Founding Father.

“So, notwithstanding that homicidal complicity may have various permutations, including from the basest forms through the most sublimated, your grandfather, Dr. Mesmer and I proceeded post haste.”

Jefferson made his “bowel-trouble” face again but continued: “Mesmer was on to something none of us understood fully; not even today do I have a complete ken of what he was uncovering. The fascinating part of that episode was that none of us knew what we were doing, but we all knew we had to continue doing it and hopefully toward wherever it led us. We thought, vain fools all, that we were in charge of what was happening; that we were the ones prodding and prying open the lid to the infinite! We could, therefore, not have been more astonished when we started to realize that both the Past and the Future were a single power doing things to...us!”

It was now Temple’s turn to look up at the ceiling, not to communicate with the Deity, but, rather, vainly searching the rafters for a trap door that would lead to the roof and escape from Monticello and this man who, he was now convinced, was a little more than mad.

Jefferson sat in the Franklin chair, gripping the arms, testing the straps, pressing his shoulders against the back, pushing his neck against the head rest; familiarizing his body with every square inch it contacted; making friends with this piece of furniture, this most unusual of a chair, this device that would help transport his life force, or, end it.

Temple could see that the old man would soon be anxious to begin. But he wanted to know more about the murder, or homicides; or whatever it was that had truly happened. So far, all Temple could digest was that his grandfather, Tom and Mesmer had most certainly been cavalier about the welfare of that unfortunate chap in the Bastille, but other than that unintended compromise of the prisoner’s life, what more could there be to that escapade of so long ago? He soon found out.

Tom got up from the chair and patted, then almost caressed its back, as if he were ministering to a favorite steed before preparing for a particularly pleasant ride. “In a way,” he thought, “this is exactly what it will be; the ride of a life time and what a journey I hope it to be! A ride from one life time into another!”

Thomas, convinced that everything was in order called a halt to anymore proceeding for that evening and suggested that they both get a good night's sleep.

If Jefferson got any rest, Temple did not know of such matters. He only knew for certain that he, himself, caught not one wink.

Monticello | June 29, 1826 | Evening

The next day Jefferson went through all the details regarding the Baguet and Ben's chairs several times, checking and rechecking all of Ben's diagrams and cautionary notations again and again. Finally satisfied the Master of Monticello took one more and seemingly longer trip to the latrine, then drank as much water as possible, in the hope that thirst might not interrupt his journey. He then slowly drank the chemical concoction Lavoisier had reluctantly brewed up for him. The mixture contained very finely ground iron particles that looked like granules of pepper. Lavoisier had declared that he was convinced that this iron element would enhance the body's reaction to all those Mesmer magnets. It most certainly did!

When Jefferson finally arrived back into the room he was surprised to see what Temple had done.  In the middle of the seat of the Franklin chair was a hole, recently cut under which Temple had positioned a large chamber-pot.

Temple smiled as Jefferson looked at it. Then he remarked, “Mr. Jefferson, I believe you will be happier knowing that, should the ill humors possessing your lower regions become un-manageable, that your fear of soiling yourself has now been eliminated.”

Jefferson smiled and said, “That I should not have taken pains to do this myself is of some embarrassment, being occupied by more pressing technical matters but I thank you nonetheless. However, if I should die in this position, do not let the undertaker see me so.  I would not like history to think that my last act was to again learn to use a child’s potty chair with my pants about my ankles.”

Temple, replying in the hope that he would bolster Jefferson’s apprehensions said, “Let your mind be at ease over such an eventuality, though there are many men who would have wished to die with their pants off.”  This attempt at humor as usual falling flat, Jefferson said, “Ah, but that would have been when I was much younger and wrapped in Eros in the form of the legs of some young woman; not here, with my backside hanging out through a hole.”  That said, Tom slid down his pants and sat in Ben’s chair.

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Temple, as instructed by Thomas, began fastening the straps and attaching the contact plate that ran the wires from the generator to the base of Jefferson’s head near the occipital ridge.

Now came Jefferson’s final instructions.

“Firstly, good fellow, remember that what little of my life reposes in your skilled hands, I absolve you of any mishap that may befall my person. I have indicated this in a document in my desk drawer.  Use it as your shield against any prosecution should events turn out less well than what is hoped.”

“Secondly, should I be successful in reaching this other part of Time, try to communicate with me though I may not answer in a manner which you and I are accustomed. This journey may sap what remains of my strength and only the fates know what arduousness may be my lot during this event.  Thirdly, be not faint of heart should I manifest signs of the unusual, the theatrical, or, even, the absurd. Make notes of all you hear and see to the recording of such manifestations no matter what transpires, for later determination if I survive this...otherwise destroy all such evidence.”

There was a long pause and the great man said, “Fourthly, as to the matter of those deaths, I have told you that we continued our work after the loss of that poor fellow in the Bastille.  We did not want spies of the king, or for that matter, Lavoisier, to discover all that we were about, so we abandoned both the Bastille and even Mesmer’s salon at Dr. Delson’s clinic and repaired to your grandfather’s studio in Passy. Some of Delson’s associates had control of a hospital for the poor where we could get all the patients we needed. Unlike the unfortunate fellow before, who had shown such great clairvoyant capacities, Mesmer had to sift through the entire population of the hospital to secure appropriate candidates for further trials. He succeeded, but at terrible expense; Ben’s electrical current being too powerful at times and sporadic at other times. Those that did not suffer or die lost their minds. Mesmer kept these mortalities from your grandfather and I, but we suspected the worst, and, were it not for our overwhelming curiosity, we would have forced a cessation of the activities thus attempting to spare the lives of those poor souls. But we knew Mesmer would continue without us, if not there in Paris, then elsewhere without us for certain.  And so, because of our insatiable curiosity, we did not save all of them although we tried to limit their risks.”

Jefferson paused again before he remorsefully continued, “Shame on the lot of us! But we thought that science had to be served.  I only regret that we did not have access to patients from the aristocracy; their being so many useless members of that miserable class, but we were only left with the poor and their fate was left to us!”

Temple was greatly relieved to hear that Jefferson had admitted, finally, that both Thomas and his grandfather were not directly involved in murder though their complicity as silent partners in lethal experiments obviously weighed heavily on Thomas’ conscience. “Well, finally, enough of those matters,” Temple thought. He thought wrong.

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Jefferson then described to Temple, in such colorful and impassioned terms as to what happened at the Bastille, that Temple could almost see the place—feel the atmosphere there as if in his telling this tale, Jefferson was able to transport Temple back to the Paris of nearly forty years ago, a place that Temple was now, it seemed, being forced to recollect whether he wanted to or not.

Jefferson spoke rapidly but very carefully, “It was in the dungeon of the Bastille where Mesmer, Ben and I crossed our very own moral Rubicon. We were all equally shocked by the death we had just witnessed. One moment the young man had been in an ecstasy of wonderment as he claimed to be floating above the spires of the Paris cathedrals looking at horseless carriages and the next moment he seemed to be overcome by the most frightening and unbelievably horrendous and violent spasms and contortions his bound limbs could muster. For some period of time he had disappeared, but now he was back and then...he was dead. There had been no sign previous to these spasms that gave us warning which might have afforded another result. Nevertheless, we had killed him; sacrificed him on a machine that Ben had not yet perfected and all for the sake of science.  We were heart sick and hesitant to go forward. Ben and I knew that we could perhaps risk it, because we were still functioning under authority of the monarchy; but the temperamental and fearful King Louis might not countenance our adventures if word was made known that we were actually killing some of his political opponents. And so, we just decided that we would abandon the further pursuit of so dangerous a scientific undertaking with possibly lethal political consequence. At the Bastille at any rate!”

Temple wondered why Jefferson seemed to go over the same events he'd brought up moments earlier. He soon found out as Jefferson carried on.

“But that is when Mesmer startled us with his discovery of monumental importance! In the dead man's hand was a strange rectangular piece of material. Here, let me show it to you.”  Jefferson handed Temple the object. “We were not sure what it was, nor am I, still; but we thought our patient or our victim, brought it back to us from whatever time he had visited in the future. It may be a talisman or an icon of some political or secret religious society or perhaps some gentleman’s club. It has a date on it, look here by these strange raised letters.”

Neither man could know that the thing in Temple’s hand was an American Express card with an expiration date of 1973.

“So, convinced that this man had been able to bring, from another place in time, something physical; well, you can imagine that had us more enthusiastic than ever! We forgot about the body of our victim even as it lay there not yet cold from our malevolent conduct. We had to go on! As fortune rarely does, we were given a grand opportunity; to peep into and even tinker with the future and no one could stop us! At least that is how we felt as we planned our next moves. All remorse for the innocent victim of our scientific adventures had nearly passed when we heard that this prisoner had been pardoned by the Crown and was expected to be released to his young wife the very next day.”

Jefferson stopped his story and made one of those faces that told Temple his bowels had the best of the great man. He hoisted up his pants, got untangled from the chair, and quickly excused himself for the latrine. Temple wondered what he would hear next. He thought he had seen and heard enough. He was wrong again.

Temple wanted to know who would be operating the contraption with the chains and gears that moved the wheel-like device Jefferson had called Ben's generator. That is when Jefferson called in a very old slave and very dear friend, a house-slave named Jupiter.  Thomas had Jupiter mount the device and insert a foot into the pedals powering the gears while turning a few test cycles to the beat of the metronome Jefferson had attached to it.  “But,” exclaimed Temple, “How can an old man such as this continue during a time that is of a possibly extended duration for such an event?”

Upon hearing this question, Jupiter started to laugh and holler at the same time, “Y'all come in heah,” the old black fellow called out and in a moment three other Negros of various ages appeared. Jupiter beamed as he showed off his team and said, “These here boys are my son and grandson and great grandson. They’ll be spellin’ me whenever I need some relief.”

Temple shook his head in disbelief as he thought silently to himself, “Thomas Jefferson now risks his life with not only my poor services but adds additional precariousness by putting himself in the hands, or shall I say feet, of three or four house-slaves. What madness drives this once great man?”

Jefferson had everyone rehearse their roles and duties; practicing again and again the timing of the metronome to the pedaling cycle of Jupiter and his family. He again tested and retested the current and the connections; all of this in between many trips to the commode. It wore everyone out, especially the Master of Monticello. Jefferson then called Temple aside to meet with his daughter and go over the documents he had prepared in the event of his death.

Martha was visibly shaken by her father's determination to embark upon such a dangerous experiment and even more disturbed by the letters that Thomas had given her. As Temple read them, he further understood the woman's distress. The first letter read thus:

“The physicians have been dismissed because they would neither understand nor approve of what I intend to do. Therefore. let it be officially reported that they did their best and were in faithful attendance by my supposed bedside, but the disease that plagued me proved too much and I finally succumbed on whatever date becomes the case.  After my body returns from wherever it shall have gone, fill in the date and time, then memorize these words without mention of my experiment and destroy this missive. No record should be in evidence which might encourage others to follow in such dangerous undertakings”.

The second letter was addressed to Temple Franklin and it read as follows: Should I return unresponsive or dead make quick work of the destruction of all of your grandfather's notes. Then take pains to destroy my own writings on all of this Mesmer business; dismantle both Mesmer's Baguet and especially your grandfather's chair. Our society and our present natural philosophy are not prepared to delve into what I now attempt to engage with. Perhaps mankind will be equipped to peruse such tasks at some future date. After all have been attended to, destroy these instructions and speak no more of such things to anyone forever.”

While Temple and Martha read and re-read Jefferson's directives, the Sage of Monticello went to Sally Heming's room for the last time. She was weeping silently. As she turned to her master, her lover and the father of her children she tried to force a smile of greetings but her capacity to do so was overwhelmed by both grief and fear and soon with anger at what came next.

Sally tried once more to dissuade Thomas from proceeding, but when she reluctantly determined his intent was steadfast she broached the subject of another letter which she begged him to sign. As Thomas read her letter he shook his head in obvious disagreement and immediately crumbled the paper and put it in his pocket while attempting to explain to Sally the reason for his action, “My dearest woman. How I shall miss you more than anyone else. How fond are my memories of all that we have shared. How loyal and comforting you have been since we first lay together in Paris those many decades ago.”

The great man paused for a moment and then went on. “But I could not in good conscience, release your children...our children. Free blacks in Virginia do not fare well and so to protect them-”

Hearing those words Sally Heming's leaped up and pushed Jefferson backwards, nearly knocking him off his already unsteady legs. “How dare you abandon us and leave us still in bondage you hypocrite!”

Jefferson, recovering his balance, stood open-mouthed for a moment at this never-before demonstration of anger and near assault from his slave/mistress and blamed himself for having tutored Sally in the King's English when she was with him in Paris as he answered, “There is no two-faced behavior in my decision. It is out of affection for both you and our children that I not release you from Monticello and expect you to thrive without my protection!”

“A benevolent guard in a prison does not make the prisoners any freer!” countered the mother of five of Thomas' get.

Jefferson left the room and returned to his laboratory where the remnants of Ben's and Mesmer's inventions beckoned to him.

Temple tried pressing Thomas for as much further information on the so-called murders as he could obtain since he was fearful that once Jefferson submitted to the stress of Mesmer's Baguet and Ben's electrical devices that all further opportunity would, most likely be forever lost. But time was up and now Jefferson’s journey was about to commence. He settled into the chair for the last time. Temple and Jupiter followed the great man's last instructions.

Temple, both his courage and his confidence in the same state as his diminished hope for success, watched as the tubes and rods of the Baguet began to glow Then he tripped the switch that sent the current through the wires attached to the base of Jefferson’s occipital ridge, that area of the skull that meets the top of the spinal cord. Temple held his breath as the current made Jefferson’s arms and legs strain against the ropes holding them in place. Jefferson’s chest heaved and then did not seem to retract.  The body became absolutely rigid and then collapsed against the constraints of the chair. Not sure if he had just killed the former president of the United States, Temple let out a cry of fear and panic.

Jefferson’s head rose from the recesses of his chest and he spoke softly, “Damn it, my good fellow, your alarmed outcry has broken the trance.”

Temple, grateful and embarrassed at the same time, promised that he would not carry on in such a manner should Jefferson feel strong enough to continue, to which came the great man’s response: “I don’t feel strong enough not to continue as Death approaches soon in either event so let us make haste. Who knows? Perhaps I may, for a time, outrun that Dark Horseman! We all have seen how quickly this electricity travels, so perhaps it can help me to out-distance the ghostly stallion upon which the Shrouded Stranger pursues us all.” And, with that said, they continued.

Jupiter kept his steady cycling in perfect time with the metronome but deliberately turned his face away from the direction of Jefferson. He did this because, if his contribution in this strange experiment did not accomplish what was intended, he was not inclined to watch as he aided his old master and closest friend towards death's portal.

Temple had no idea what was happening to Jefferson. The only measure of communication, if one could call it that, were the facial expressions, rapid eye movements and body gestures, but no words were uttered or exchanged.  Not that Temple did not try to gently whisper to him, but Jefferson could not, or would not, respond verbally. So, it was Temple’s lot to try to decipher what was happening through the old man's body language.

The things that constantly troubled Temple were fears; fears of interrupting; fears of going forward and not being able to bring him back; fears that Jefferson had not gone anywhere except mad; fears that he would, despite Jefferson’s dispensations, be found guilty of this great man’s assassination. Nonetheless, and fears aside, Temple persevered in this attempt to fulfill his most reluctant commitment.

The Franklin and Mesmer devices were completely activated now and Jefferson seemed to swoon. His body began to appear translucent and then transparent, as if he might disappear completely. Temple Franklin was tempted to stop the device before they lost him, but Jefferson’s instructions and commands had been clear and so it continued. Jefferson, or whatever remained of his essence, no longer responded. The wraith-like thing still showed Jefferson’s faint image and it seemed to be breathing and so Temple kept the contraption going as he prayed for the Sage of Monticello.

Washington, D.C. | July 1, 2019 | The Jefferson Memorial | Midnight

The dream-like trance that Jefferson was experiencing became more real, or at least seemed to, as he opened his eyes and looked around him. He was astonished to see a large bronze edifice in front of him and as he approached it, he was even more surprised when he saw positioned in the very center of it an imposing statue of none other than himself. He smiled with satisfaction that his likeness held a copy of The Declaration of Independence which Jefferson considered as the most preeminent of his many contributions to the country. He turned from the statue and gazing about the memorial was gratified to see the many inscriptions on the walls of the imposing edifice.

On the southwest wall were excerpts from the Declaration of Independence. The southeast wall featured his statements on the evolution of the law and the Constitution taken from a letter he had written in 1816. He chuckled as he recalled the other letter he had written to his friend, James Madison, the documents principal author who had sent a copy of the Constitution to him when he was in Paris. “They should have included my response to Jimmy Madison when I wrote back that this Constitution would please any Polish king,” he said out loud. Jefferson had written that excoriation because it lacked any provisions for human rights. That would follow somewhat later as the First Ten Amendments more generally referred to as The Bill of Rights.

The old Founding Father roamed about the interior and noticed that the northwest wall was inscribed with a combination of his quotations excoriating the evils of slavery and others insisting on the necessity to educate the masses so an informed citizenry could aid in maintaining the fledgling democracy. He laughed ironically when he recalled that those sentiments got the Federalists and the slave-state representatives joining together to make sure Jefferson was nowhere near the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia.

Thomas wandered over to the northeast wall and noticed a quotation from his “Acts of Religious Freedom” which he had written in 1779 thus eliminating the state church in the commonwealth of Virginia. When he would later visit the National Cathedral he was sure this inscription had proved meaningless to many. But that would come later. At the moment he stopped reading and started admiring the actual architecture of the Memorial. Much of the design reminded him of his own design of the Rotunda at the University of Virginia. Unknown to Jefferson the architect deliberately used Jefferson's design in homage to the third president of the United States of America. The old patriot decided to wander around the exterior and walk its surround. There was no one else to ask a question until a short while later when a man showed up intent upon suicide.

Chapter 3

“Though a good deal is too strange to believe, nothing is too strange to have happened”

----Thomas Hardy

Washington, D.C. | Representative Danielson’s Congressional Office | July 1, 2019 | 12:30 a.m.

Winter Danielson, Congressman from Michigan took the gun out of his briefcase, put it in his mouth and squeezed the trigger. He winced when he heard the click and wondered when he finally loaded the weapon, whether his hand would still be as steady. He got up from his chair and walked into the bathroom. Several thoughts had occurred to him. “What if I don’t do a good job of this either? Like the rest of my life lately, and in this case make another real mess to boot.”  So, he stood there facing the mirror as he placed the gun in his mouth again. He cocked his head right and then left tying to imagine the best angle to blow the greatest amount of his brains out through his skull and on to the pavement at the monument. “How did that guy, Vince Foster, do it?” he wondered. “Did he suffer?” he worriedly asked as he addressed his own image in the mirror.

Winter started having second thoughts. “What if I don’t kill myself right away?  I’ll just lay there smelling my own brains and blood and writing around in piss and agony ‘til I die? Or worse, maybe not kill myself at all but just turn myself into a blind cripple or a vegetable?”  Winter went back to his desk, popped a couple of Xanax's and washed them down with another generous helping of scotch whiskey. He sat back and thought about his life for the last time, those times before the Flint Water Crises. Or his earlier experiences with Gulf War Syndrome which led to alcoholism, divorce, etc.                           

Long ago, Winter felt he was headed for a great life. Harvard was the first benchmark and he loved it and did well, except for the social side of things. Oh, he was a fine student and roommate and frat alumnus, but he didn't cotton to the ladies very comfortably.  If only his lust could have supplied an equal dose of self-confidence his success with the girls might not have been so sub-par. But then fate changed things in the form of the Vassar-night dance. When Winter first heard about the coming event, he planned to drive off campus and go fishing; anything as an excuse to avoid the possibility of discomfort he knew he would feel once these debutantes hit Harvard and avoided hitting on him or vice versa.

He was a small city kid from a lower middle-class neighborhood.  He had no interest in trying to prove himself to a bunch of presumptively snooty blue-bloods and his anticipated rejection of the likes of Winter Danielson's social status. But the Fates had other plans for the young man.

As Vassar-night arrived, his car had broken down and he would have to wait until the next morning for a mechanic, so he went to the dance and that was the beginning of his end. As the evening progressed, he was sure he was in love. He should not have chosen Sharon Crossnorth as the object of his blind affection, but she sure was beautiful. When he was later invited to come to dinner at her family's enormous estate, he'd figured he'd hit the jackpot. That was then. He could not then possibly have known better. How could he have imagined what was in store for him? Only Sharon and her father, George E Crossnorth III knew and they would never tell him how he fit into their grand and amoral political schemes until it was much too late.

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Winter stopped thinking about that and reminded himself that he had an appointment with the statue of that bronze likeness of the Man from Monticello. He loaded the gun, put it in his briefcase, and took the private elevator leading to the Congressional Parking area underneath the Capitol Building and headed toward the Jefferson Memorial.

Winter drove slowly, almost meandering, toward his last destination, waiting for the pills and the scotch to assist him in his goodbye-cruel-world ceremony. He was sort of laughing and kind of crying, but neither really, as he drove around and around near the monument. “I’m circling my own future carcass like a friggin’ buzzard!” he snorted.

Before he finally got out of his car the Congressman took one more Xanax from his pocket and washed it down with the scotch he always kept for company. He wanted to make absolutely sure his hand would not shake when he squeezed the trigger and he hoped all the pills and booze would help to do the trick.

He put his briefcase down at the foot of the Memorial, opened it up, taking out his gun and the suicide note “I still can’t believe this is happening to me!” he murmured. The congressman paced up and down in front of the statue, making sure no guards were about. Then he looked up at the stoic face of Jefferson and cried plaintively, “Well, so long old buddy.”

Winter thought he heard something and twirled around. He could see nothing. He turned back toward Jefferson’s statue and said, “Maybe we’ll meet in a better place,” as he moved the gun toward his quivering chin. Then he turned away, ashamed to look that imposing and dignified image in its unseeing eyes as he prepared to pull the trigger.  His finger twitched and he pulled the gun out of his mouth as he heard that sound again.

“Damn, I can’t even blow my brains out in peace and quiet!”  The ridiculousness of that statement was lost on Winter as his eyes darted toward the source of the unusual sound. Then he saw it and the thing closed in. It was large and seemed to lumber forward with an unsteady gate. As this entity moved nearer the light, Winter cried out, “Oh, for Christ sakes! I can’t believe this!”  Winter, raising his pistol, took aim at the man and said, “What in the hell are you doin’ here? Don’t you know this place is closed?   I can’t goddamn believe this is happening to me!”

“Neither can I quite believe this has happened to me, as well, my good fellow.” came the reply from the still partially obscured figure that kept advancing toward him.

For a brief second Winter suspected that what was heading toward him was the product of his semi-suicidal, alcohol-induced, drug-depressed state of mind. Before him now stood a tall, elderly gentleman dressed in a very authentic-appearing, early-colonial costume, tugging up his pants as he lurched forward. Winter was convinced that an apparently wayward celebrant from some octogenarian's pre-Fourth of July party now displayed himself.

Winter waved the gun at the man and said, “You had better leave this place right now before you get in trouble, pops.”

“Leave? How absurd!  Why, I’ve just arrived and, besides that, I haven’t a clue as to how to go back, even if I wanted to!” came the answer.

Winter just stared at the man, trying his best to understand what he had just heard. Was he confronting a drunk, a maniac or just some poor demented and senile victim of some nursing- home Independence Day party gone bad? He was about to ask more of this antique annoyance, when the old fellow spoke. “Is that a firearm you are prancing about with, my boy?”

“It’s a gun, yah and it’s loaded and I know how to use it so just keep your distance,” came the warning; but it was spoken halfheartedly as if Winter was almost embarrassed by his threatening tone directed toward this elderly intruder.

The man, aware of this temporary change in demeanor, moved even closer, alarming Winter and stirring the adrenaline. He raised the gun and pointed it at the stranger as he warned, “Now, hold it, goddamn your ass. I told you I know how to use this thing!”

“Extraordinary looking weapon, this. What did you intend doing with it?” asked the odd visitor.

Winter, exasperated, shouted, “I told you, goddamnit! I’ll shoot you!”

The stranger, nonplussed, smiled and said, “Bah, you had that pistol out before you discerned my arrival. So, just what were you about on this balmy summer night?”

“As a matter of fact, I was just planning on killing…uh…killing...time,” came the sheepish answer.

Knowing a lie when he heard one, the stranger said, “Well, son, if it is Time you are trying to kill, you would be on a fool’s errand.” Then, changing from the philosophical to the pragmatic, he asked, “Can you tell me where I am? What city is this and in what year is this conversation transpiring?”

These questions convinced Winter he was dealing with some old man recently escaped from an Alzheimer’s facility or insane asylum and the adrenaline shot up again overcoming the haze wrought by booze and valium cocktails as he shouted, “O.K., buster! This isn’t your night to get any humoring from the likes of me! You picked the wrong man at the wrong time to be asking a bunch of stupid arsed questions.  I’m definitely not anywhere near a state of mind to fiddle-fuck around with the likes of you.”

The old man burst out laughing as he thought of how anyone would want to fornicate with a violin and, though he loved playing the violin himself, he was never moved to the point of coitus and so he said, “Even if you removed the strings, there cannot be much pleasure in such a sexual aberration.”

Winter, not connecting his slang phraseology with the reaction on the part of, in Winter's opinion, a certified nut-job in front of him, once more waved the pistol menacingly.

Then, seeing through his own chemically induced psychosis for a moment recognized the ridiculousness of the situation. He asked himself, “Why? Why should I be alarmed by this old fruitcake or anybody else for that matter? What was this ancient maniac going to do? Kill me? Well, hell! Good for him! What do I care about whether I do myself in or be dispatched by this overdressed-Tea-Party-costumed grandpa or whoever the hell it is that I’m dealing with?”

Now, it was Winter’s turn to laugh, but with aching bitterness.

Allowing this young man to finish what sounded like a painful and ironic guffaw, this presumed costumed lunatic, once again asked about their location and the date.

Winter stopped laughing and once again became angry that he couldn’t even kill himself without such a ridiculous interloper spoiling any chance of an undisturbed and private exit.

“What did you say?”

Jefferson, growing a bit impatient at this strange young fellow with the even stranger weapon, repeated his questions again, “I said where am I and what year is this?”

“Yah, that’s what I thought you said. Look, eh are you ill, or did you have too much to drink at the office party or what?”

At this the old fellow grew irritated and scolded Winter: “Listen, young man, a little manners would be appropriate when one gentleman poses to another gentleman a few simple questions”.

Winter was flabbergasted as he said, “Simple questions? Like um.... Where am I?  What year is this? For Christ's sake, why don’t you ask me who the frig you are, too?”

“I know who I am! How insulting! I am Thomas Jefferson of Virginia.”

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