by Wiles, David
“Mister Jefferson,” Samuel Adams said after standing. “You are black, Sir!”
There was another long pause in which neither Washington nor Jefferson showed any reaction whatsoever. Then John Adams stood up and turned to Samuel Adams and the rest of the assembly.
“Well,” John Adams stated. “Nothing gets by YOU, Sammy!” With that, the entire crowd burst into laughter and then stepped forth to greet Thomas Jefferson.
Chapter 31
The Sons of Liberty Meet Thomas Jefferson
It would be an understatement to say that the Sons of Liberty were surprised that Thomas Jefferson was a black man. Many of these New England patriots had been corresponding with Jefferson for years, having had no idea of his African heritage. Jefferson’s reputation as a writer, farmer, architect and inventor had preceded him, earning him respect and honor throughout the American colonies. These white colonial leaders had never even considered the possibility that Jefferson could be anything but white. But the shock over Jefferson’s ethnicity would wait a while.
The discussion among the Sons of Liberty quickly turned to the topic of the use of Zombie soldiers by the British.
“It’s just more proof that the British are truly cocksuckers,” Samuel Adams bellowed, to the general agreement of those assembled.
Most of the membership present knew that the British were using zombies, and those that did not know were soon enlightened. Washington presented a short review for those unfamiliar with zombies. He touched upon their presence in the Colonies, how they were being created, trained, and used by the British. Most importantly, Washington stressed how the creatures could only be killed by inflicting damage to the brain, or by beheading. And Washington stressed the importance of not allowing oneself to be bitten by the zombies, lest one become a zombie oneself.
To their credit, not one member of the Sons of Liberty even suggested the notion of using colonial zombie soldiers to defend against the zombie soldiers of the British. The idea of using undead soldiers was acceptable to the British, but it was most certainly not acceptable to the American colonists.
Jefferson spoke also about his experiences with zombies, and cautioned other colonists to remain vigilant. All of the Sons of Liberty thought it best to conceal the existence of the zombie soldiers from the general colonial populace, lest panic ensue. And Jefferson agreed with them all. The existence of zombie soldiers would thus be concealed from history.
For their part, Washington and Jefferson pretended to be mere acquaintances, instead of the close friends they once were. Washington wanted his friend Jefferson to shine here among the Sons of Liberty. And shine he did.
Jefferson had also brought papers and drawings with him, which were quickly spread out on the table before the group. Sketches of inventions, newly drawn maps, and architectural designs for homes and public buildings dazzled the assembly. All these Jefferson had done by himself. When Jefferson spoke with the group about his opinions on human rights, freedom and law, most of those listening agreed that Jefferson was summarizing their own opinions, but in a noble and poetic manner that most public speakers were unable to convey.
After nearly an hour of conversing with Thomas Jefferson, there were none present who did not regard him as “the smartest person in the room.” These patriots, many of them brilliant in their own right, were simply blown away by the knowledge and insights Jefferson offered. And as they read many of his writings and documents, it was clear his writing skills were unmatched. They all agreed to embrace him as a brother patriot, regardless of his ethnicity.
“We still have a problem,” Samuel Adams said bluntly. “If people find out that Jefferson is black, he will have no credibility whatsoever. And neither will WE.”
“It is true,” John Adams agreed. “We live in a prejudiced age where men will judge another man, not by the content of his character, but by the cut of his jacket, the buckle on his shoe, or by the color of his skin.” Then Adams smiled broadly as a great idea came to him. “I have, perhaps, a solution,” Adams said finally.
Among the present gathering was Charles Willson Peale, one of the greatest artists and portraitists who ever lived. Peale was even now doing small sketches and paintings of the patriots seated at the other end of the room. John Adams, Samuel Adams, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson all approached Peale and, after a short conversation, the five men moved to the front of the meeting room where the light was best, and seated Jefferson upright in the chair directly beside the window.
Peale posed Jefferson in the chair, turned slightly to his right, almost in profile. Peale’s assistant brought canvas and paint and Peale made a rough sketch of Jefferson in pencil upon the canvas, as the assistant mixed the paint shades and dabbed small splotches upon the artist’s palette.
Peale worked quickly while Washington and Samuel and John Adams looked on. In twenty minutes, Peale had painted a beautiful and physically accurate portrait of Jefferson as he actually looked, which was something like comedian Chris Rock.
“Gentlemen,” said Peale to Washington and John Adams, “what do you think?”
“A remarkable and true rendition,” Washington admitted. “It looks exactly like the man.”
“Aye,” Samuel Adams said after walking over and taking a look at the portrait. “And that there’s the problem.”
“A more skillful rendering I have seldom seen,” John Adams stated truthfully to Peale. “And yet…I’m wondering, most respectfully, if you might not make a few subtle…changes?”
“Changes?” Peale asked, a bit shocked, unused as he was to criticism of his work.
“I think the gentlemen are asking,” Jefferson said, guessing their intent, “if you could, ‘lighten me up’ a bit in the portrait?”
“Lighten you up?” Peale asked.
“It’s imperative that other colonists not know that Thomas Jefferson is black,” George Washington said, pointing to the portrait. “Perhaps here, you might …lighten up the hair, and add a bit of red?”
Somewhat reluctantly, Peale grabbed palette and brush again, and began to overpaint the previous image, lightening Jefferson’s hair and adding just a touch of red.
“And the nose,” John Adams said. “Might we not thin out the nose and streamline it?
“And generally lighten the skin tone a bit? “ Samuel Adams suggested.
Peale continued to work on Jefferson’s portrait amid this frustrating cacophony of critical suggestions, lightening the skin tone, thinning the nose, streamlining the lips, sharpening the angularity of the jaw and raising the forehead. Within twenty minutes, Peale had completed a painting of the Thomas Jefferson we all know from history, a fictional rendition of a face that, until moments ago, did not exist.
“It’s a masterpiece,” George Washington exclaimed. “Noble and austere.”
“It looks nothing like him!” Peale replied.
“Exactly!” Washington replied. “But you have masterfully captured the ‘essence’ of the man, if not his true ethnological features.”
“Aye,” Samuel Adams agreed, clasping his arm around Jefferson. “That there is a Jefferson you can trust. Not to imply that you are any less trustworthy as your real self, Sir.”
“No, it’s fine,” Jefferson replied, slightly miffed, but also understanding the importance of this conspiratorial public relations move. A ‘white’ Jefferson would simply be more accepted in these racially biased times.
“We should distribute miniatures of this image throughout the colonies,” John Adams suggested. “Let the colonists get a look at the real Jefferson.” Jefferson sighed in tacit acceptance of the plan, unable, even with his own brilliance, to think of any better plan to win him general acceptance throughout the colonies.
With a final flourish of handshakes and back slaps, the Sons of Liberty concluded their meeting, even as Peale remained behind to paint an additional three small miniatures of the fictional visage of Thomas Jefferson. These small portraits would be sent to newspaper publishers
in Philadelphia, New York and Richmond, that colonists might familiarize themselves with the freshly crafted Thomas Jefferson.
Washington and Jefferson later met secretly at the boarding house where Jefferson was staying for the night, before returning to Monticello.
“I am sorry,” Washington said honestly, “that most colonists will not trust you, simply because you are black.”
“It’s cool, my friend, it’s cool,” Jefferson replied. “I understand. It’s a battle I’ve fought my whole life,” Jefferson said truthfully. “Hopefully, someday, things will change.”
“It is my fondest hope,” Washington said, hugging his friend before saying their goodbyes, and beginning the long trip home from Boston to Mount Vernon, Virginia.
Chapter 32
Cornwallis Initiates A Good Whipping
“Smithers!” bellowed British General Cornwallis, calling his subordinate into his newly rebuilt office at his secret zombie development center in Virginia. “Come forth immediately and bring pen and parchment, Lieutenant!”
Following the burning of his previous home and office, Cornwallis set the British troops under his command to work building for himself a new office and domicile, twice as big as the previous one. It was an ostentatious, two story affair, much resembling a small stone castle, with carved wood accents and even stone gargoyles adorning the façade. A stone exterior was less likely to burn, nearby colonists comically mused. A grand, interior staircase greeted entrants to the new structure.
Cornwallis had sat at the ornate, hand-carved oak desk in his new office for many weeks and fumed over the Boston Tea Party as he contemplated the inevitable and required retaliation. “The colonists are like bad dogs in need of a good whipping,” he often told his subordinate Smithers. The whipping was about to begin.
Smithers rushed into the office with ink and parchment in hand and sat down at the small writing table across from Cornwallis’ own desk. He could see that Cornwallis was already red-faced and angry. Smithers brought an extra large quill after hearing the angry tone of the general’s bellow. He knew that the arrogant and pretentious Cornwallis, like all Englishmen, always resorted to the use of large words when angered. Thus, Smithers anticipated the excessive use of much ink.
“Take this down,” Cornwallis began as Smithers quickly dipped his quill into the ink bottle. “Insofar as the American Colonists have acted with unchivalrous vulgarity in disrespect of the King’s property,” Cornwallis began, “they have become the abominable progenitors of conduct requiring a harsh reprimand by his Majesty’s military forces.”
“A… harsh …reprimand,” Smithers said as he scribbled the words upon the page.
“Therefore, “Cornwallis continued, “The General Commanding of His Majesty’s Military Forces in Colonial America authorizes that the following homeland security crackdown against American Spies and Saboteurs be initiated, hereafter to be known as Operation A.S.S. CRACK-down.”
“ASS- Crackdown,” Smithers said aloud as he scribbled the words across the parchment.
“British troops are hereby ordered to occupy the cities of New York and Boston, effective immediately,” Cornwallis said to a shocked Smithers. “British troops may lodge and quarter themselves in any appropriate building suitable for military lodging. In the absence of suitable public facilities, troops may occupy and garrison ANY private building, dwelling, home or facility available for the housing of the King’s troops. “
Smithers now scribbled in silence, somewhat shocked at the contents of the orders he was transcribing.
“All persons, houses, barns and public buildings shall be subject to search without the requirement of a judicial writ,” Cornwallis continued. “Additionally,” he added, “all methods of conveyance such as horses, wagons, carriages and boats shall also thus be subject to unannounced inspection at any time.”
“Unannounced inspection at any time,” Smithers said aloud as he wrote the last sentence.
“And these, these are copies of marching orders for individual field commanders,” Cornwallis said, handing Smithers seven sealed envelopes. “These orders establish timetables for redeployments of both living troops as well as zombie soldiers. See that those envelope dispatches are sent to the field commanders at once,” Cornwallis said. “And see that copies of the Operation ASS Crackdown proclamation be posted to all newspapers throughout the Colonies.”
“Yes, Sir,” Smithers replied. “Very good, Sir”
“If the Colonials want conflict,” Cornwallis thundered, “then we shall oblige them willingly!”
Chapter 33
George Washington’s Sad Homecoming
“We have received word by courier that Mister Washington is due home from his travels this afternoon,” said Martha Washington. “Please make sure that dinner will be ready upon his return.”
“Yessum,” replied Mrs. Washington’s slave, Oprah. “Lordy, me, Missus Wash’ton, it sho will be good to have Colonel Wash’ton back home safe un sound.”
“Yes it will,” Martha Washington replied. “Beyonce, please make sure the children are washed and nicely dressed as well.”
“I’ll get down an scrubs dem chilluns myself if dey don’t wash deyselves right,” Beyonce replied. “I’ll make sure dey’s nice an clean fer dinner.”
Beyonce and Oprah proceeded down into the basement of Mount Vernon to begin preparations for dinner, and found Denzel and LL Cool J there working on adjustments to the cooking stove and oven. Once safely in the privacy of the basement, the slaves were free to converse naturally, abandoning the façade of conversational ignorance to which white folks were accustomed.
“Did you two finally correct uneven heat distribution on that oven?” Oprah asked the two male slaves. “It’s nearly impossible to bake any fine cakes or pastries in an oven with variable and uneven temperature fluctuations.”
“I think we found the problem,” Denzel replied. “The heat distribution regulator we installed last year malfunctioned and was stuck in the open position. So we replaced the faulty part.”
“It looks like it’s functioning properly now,” LL Cool J added.
“And the left- front burner on the stove?” Beyonce asked? “Is that fixed?”
“We fixed that as well,” LL Cool J replied. “The heating induction chamber was blocked up and there was insufficient air flow for the burner to activate. We just cleaned out the induction chamber, and that seems to be functioning properly, too.”
“Well, thank you,” Beyonce replied. “We just received word that Colonel Washington is due to arrive home here late this afternoon, and we have a labor intensive meal to prepare, in celebration of his return.”
“Yes thank you both so much,” Oprah agreed. “If I’m going to spend hours rolling layered, water-based dough, détrempe, to make fine, french puff pastries, I will certainly need an oven that heats evenly.”
“You know she’s going to take credit for making the pastries, anyhow,” Beyonce said jokingly, referring to Mrs. Washington, and prompting laughter from all four assembled slaves.
“I know, I know,” Oprah said, still laughing. “But she’s a good lady and she watches out for us all.” Oprah paused for a moment and smiled. “Plus, we all know who REALLY made the pastries, don’t we?” And Oprah smiled again in the pride of her baking skills.
Several hours later, amid the aromatic scent of vegetable stew and freshly baked pastries, a bell began to ring from the courtyard of Mount Vernon after Washington’s horse was sighted in the distance. George’s wife Martha and Washington’s step children Patsy and Poopy Washington joined the slaves out in the courtyard, assembled for the senior Washington’s return.
Unknown to them all, however, the ringing of the bell would become a funeral knell for one of those here assembled. For many months ago, when the zombies had previously attacked Mount Vernon, one of the attacking creatures became separated from the main body and was soon lost in the woods. Here in the forest, the zombie wandered aimlessly, caught in t
he briars and thickets, sinking in the bog, and meandering without purpose.
For all these passing seasons the creature wandered, often tangled and trapped in the deep overgrowth, flailing helplessly with its dead limbs, until at last it had extricated itself and would begin its aimless wandering anew. This afternoon, the creature was in the woods very near the main residence at Mount Vernon, perhaps fifty yards from where the family stood to welcome George Washington home.
As the bell rang to welcome George Washington home, the zombie turned from the thicket where it was trapped and began to follow the chiming of the bell. The zombie knew, as all zombies instinctively did, that noises often indicated the presence of human flesh, waiting to be devoured. So the zombie followed the sound of the bell towards the main house at Mount Vernon.
From atop their horses, Washington and Reebock could see the assembled slaves and family members waiting in the courtyard in the distance, in the front of the house. The two riders waved from afar, and the crowd waved back in delight.
Young Patsy was bursting with energy and enthusiasm upon her father’s return, and could hardly contain herself.
“Poppa!” cried Patsy, as she began to run gleefully up the reddish dirt road towards her father. “Poppa has come home!” she shouted as she began running forward.
Patsy was midway down the road and all alone when the single wayward zombie stumbled from the woods, emerging from the thick growth just a few feet away from her. She screamed as she saw the horrible creature approaching, and she turned to run away. But as she spun about make her escape, she stumbled and fell before the approaching creature.
George Washington’s ninja reflexes were as sharp as ever, and Washington spurred his horse forward in an instant, soon travelling at a full gallop towards his fallen daughter, drawing his sword in one swift motion as he rode. But he was simply too far away.
