The Jefferson Files

By Martin Herman

It is 1806; a powerful and criminal secret society has almost complete control over many of the elected officials, international finance, and commerce in the young nation. Its leaders arrange for a dissident to be brutally murdered and left floating in the Potomac River so that the body surfaces within clear site of Thomas Jefferson's White House.

This criminal act is intended to send a message to the President and all those around him: 'the society's power should know no limit -- elected officials -- including the president -- must acknowledge and support us, allow us to do whatever we want, when and wherever we choose, or suffer the consequences'.

Almost two hundred years later, after discovering a hidden diary written by someone who lived in the White House during that time, a small group of college students and a world class computer hacker learn all there is to know about this particular crime... the identity of the victim and what, if anything, Jefferson did about it? They also learn all about the secret society. By digging into this two hundred year old crime the students attract the attention of the modern day version of the secret society.

The current leader threatens the student's very existence - but rather than retreat, the students decide to fight back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Jun 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945211034

Book preview

day.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Sunday 12 January, 1806,

Washington City, District of Columbia –

Pre-dawn during the middle of January in almost any east coast city can be filled with all sorts of intimidating sights, sounds, and unexplained comings and goings; most of which seem to be far less troublesome in the light of day. On this specific night, in America’s newly designated capital situated far from major population centers, it all seems to be far more menacing for Horace Freeman. On the best of nights the shadows radiating from the many lanterns as they sway in the wind barely illuminate the unfinished walkways much less the hazards surrounding each of the massive construction sites. Most days Horace can easily deal with the darkness and visualize the hope and potential greatness this work in progress represents… but not today.

Horace was Thomas Jefferson’s body man. Although both Horace and his wife, Becky, were officially registered as slaves, Horace was generally able to come and go as though he were a free man. He usually walked proudly through the new streets, tall and dignified, giving little notice to the few people still up and around or the stray animals foraging for warmth and food. He related the sights and smells of the new construction with the hopes that many had for the young nation. Although always deep in the background, he was proud in the knowledge that he held a front row seat to history. These walks provided an easy separation from his full and active day while providing him a little time to think through the events of the day and allow him enough time to shape them into interesting little stories he could share with Becky when he returned to their room.

In good weather or bad, Horace felt safe along the makeshift streets that surrounded the new nation’s President’s house. Shortly after he and Becky were brought here from Monticello, Horace began this nightly ritual. After the President retired for the night Horace would take one last look around, making certain that everything was in its place. He then methodically selected and gathered the President’s clothing for the next morning, and quietly slipped out through the side door of the President’s mansion. Becky referred to this as Horace’s soothing time.

The length of the walk, and even the route changed ever so slightly from day to day. How long he would stay out on any given night depended mostly on the anticipated demands facing him the next day. With a clear view of the sky, he felt free to stare up and converse with God: to say a nightly prayer of thanks for all he and Becky had, most of which was the love for each other, and the faith and trust of his master, Thomas Jefferson.

Ultimately, Horace returned to the small space he and his wife shared in the basement of the President’s mansion by the Potomac.

On the rare occasion when the walk and fresh air did not act as calming agents, just knowing that he would be returning to his darling Becky was enough to rev up his spirits and bring the day to a peaceful close.

Tonight, making his way through the second heavy snowstorm of the New Year, Horace was deeper in thought than usual. The cold winter air with fresh snow beating against his face or even the thought of Becky’s waiting arms could not take his mind off of the events of this day.

*****

When he was in the mansion, President Jefferson spent as much time as he could inside the drafty room on the southwest corner of the first floor. He often worked on multiple projects at the same time. The President opted to keep this room entirely for himself as his office and personal library. Here he could quietly work or reflect on the problems facing the new nation as well as his personal concerns about his farm and home in Virginia. He would look out the window at the new War department building or towards Alexandria, Virginia, just beyond the flowing waters of the Potomac, or just think. He ended most days reading. During the cold winters what little warmth there was in the room came from the well-used fireplace on the East wall.

During most days, this time of year, bright sunlight streamed through the tall window on the side of the building. The President kept his pet mocking bird, Dick, in an ornate cage suspended by the tall window. The bird was often let out of the cage to fly freely around the room. Jefferson trained the bird to ride on his shoulder.

Heavy tables filled the majority of the space within the room. Each table had assorted books and documents and objects pertaining to a specific project or current interest of the versatile leader. It was not unusual for him to move from one table to the next and back again, numerous times during the day.

Although this was a strange place for the leader of the new nation to spend so much of his time, it was his favorite part of the house. No one dared disturb him while he was within its walls. The rest of the household understood that he would re-enter their world when he wanted to – and not a minute sooner. Very few people other than the President’s children and grandchildren and Horace, whose regular place was on a tall stool just inside the main door, were ever permitted inside this room. Martha, the President’s eldest daughter, was the first to refer to it as "the sanctuary", and the name stuck.

*****

It was a particular source of pride for Horace that he was the only non-family member permitted free access into this room. Even during confidential discussions, Horace was always within clear sight of the President. Conversations were open and free around him, never hushed because of his presence. Horace was trusted by all.

Horace could anticipate most of the President’s needs and more often than not was able to anticipate Jefferson’s need even before it was expressed.

*****

Thomas Jefferson had a knack for filling his days with a wide variety of subjects and visitors. Each visitor was expected to come to the point quickly and stay on message. When he felt it was time to move on to the next topic or for the visitor to leave he would nod to Horace who promptly stood and brought the visitor’s coat as a sign that anything left unsaid would have to wait for another time.

This day was different, very different. One single meeting with the same three visitors lasted from very early in the morning until well past midnight.

John Breckinridge, former senator from Virginia, now Jefferson’s Attorney General and close personal friend and confidant, arrived just before dawn. He quickly jumped from his carriage and went to the front door, pounding on the door until a sleepy servant responded.

As soon as the door opened Breckinridge pushed through and demanded to see the President. Sensing the seriousness of the request, yet fearful of disturbing the man of the house after he had gone to bed, the door servant woke Horace instead. Horace quickly dressed and went to meet the early visitor.

When Breckinridge saw Horace, the usually soft-spoken Virginian spoke in hushed tones, "Horace, I must see him straight away. Wake him for me now."

May I take your coat and offer you something hot to chase the chill away?

No, Horace. Nothing for me, just tell him I am here and it is essential that we speak.

But he is still asleep, General, can’t it wait, sir?

No, I must see him now. Please, do as I ask without further delay.

But Mr. John, he just went to bed. He will be up in a few hours…

Raising his voice, Breckinridge grabbed Horace’s arm, Horace, wake him. Wake him now!

Horace knocked lightly on the President’s bed chamber door and without waiting for a response slowly turned the door knob and entered the room. He walked over to the President and barely touched his arm as he whispered, Mr. Tom.

The President rolled over. Horace tried again, Mr. Tom, please wake up. Attorney General Breckinridge is here and he says it is of utmost importance that he sees you.

The President leaned on his elbow and looked towards the window. I’ve just gone to bed. What is he doing here now?

I do not know, Sir, but I have never seen him so stressed as this ever before. He says it is of the greatest importance.

Horace, just tell him to return later in the day. It is even more important for me to try to get back to sleep.

"He says it is very important, Sir. And he emphasized, very."

The President sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes, Horace, God help you both if this is not ‘life or death’ important. Bring him here if it is so important.

Here, to your bed chamber?

Yes, Horace, right here. The quicker I find out what is on his mind the quicker I can get back to sleep – or at least try to get back to sleep.

Yes, Sir.

Horace placed the President’s robe at the foot of the bed and left the room, quickly returning with the early morning visitor. Breckinridge was still wearing his overcoat and boots as he pushed ahead of Horace. We need to speak, Tom.

So speak. You have already brought the nighttime chill and fresh snow into my bedchamber. Just tell me what is so important that it couldn’t wait for a more civilized time.

Horace stood frozen at the door as Breckinridge leaned over and whispered into the President’s ear. Even in the dimly lit room Horace could see anger building on the President’s face.

Breckinridge stepped back and waited for a response. Staring past his visitor, in a hoarse whisper, the President said, Give me a moment to get dressed. Then, in a more forceful voice he turned to Horace, Please help this messenger of doom and gloom off with his snow covered coat and wet boots and bring him some hot tea. Almost as an afterthought he added, Take him to the sanctuary. No need to wake everyone else in the house. I will be along shortly.

By the time Horace returned with a fresh pot of tea the two men were already deep in discussion. He filled each cup, added a new log to the roaring fireplace, and took his place by the door.

We should have exposed him and that band of scoundrels a long time ago, Tom.

The President sat quietly with his hands in front of his face. He abruptly stood and began to pace in front of the fireplace. He walked towards one of the tables, began moving some of the documents around, then in a fit of temper grabbed the edge of the table and banged both hands against the top until they ached.

Send for the Speaker of the House, he yelled, and that devil reincarnate, Philthrow. If they have to be dragged out of their warm beds, do it and do it NOW!

Within an hour, the two men had joined the President and Breckinridge in the sanctuary. As usual, Horace maintained his place on his tall stool by the closed door. Given the subject matter he was hoping that he would be sent away, but it seems that was not likely to happen.

James Philthrow, unofficial aid to Jefferson’s former Vice President, Aaron Burr, and full time influence peddler – or as the President referred to him, the ‘one man corruption ring’, did most of the talking. The President and Breckinridge asked questions from time to time – anger and obvious disgust growing on each of their faces. The Speaker seemed to have little to say; looked relieved that the spotlight was on someone else.

Horace could hardly believe what he was hearing – this was not good, not good at all, he kept thinking.

Shortly before midnight, Horace watched as the three visitors left. There was none of the usual small talk about the weather or anything else. Each man quietly put on his own overcoat, not waiting for a servant to assist, as was the custom. Then, each walked silently to their own waiting carriage and left.

*****

Regardless of the hour, Becky always waited up for Horace to return from his nightly walks. Together for more than 40 years, the bond between them seemed to get stronger with each passing year.

Let me help you off with your wet shoes, Horace, she said when he returned from his walk, How about a hot cup of cocoa?

No cocoa tonight, dear. I just want to take my bath and go straight to sleep.

Want company?

No dear, not tonight. Go to bed, Becky, I’ll join you soon.

Is there anything wrong, Horace?

No, dear, I just want to think something through, nothing to be concerned about, everything is good. Everything is good.

Horace gave Becky a hug, holding her so close that she could feel his heart pounding. He held her tightly for what seemed like a very long time. Then he released his grip, gave her a kiss on her forehead and went to take his bath.

Becky looked around the now empty room and sighed, Everything is good, indeed. She shook her head slowly from side to side, Oh my poor Horace, why are you hurting so badly this night?

She moved over to their bed and sat quietly on the edge, eyes fixed on the door, her hands on her lap, waiting anxiously for him to return.

*****

Horace took an extra-long bath. He was hoping that Becky would already be asleep when he quietly returned to their room. He should have known better.

Feeling refreshed, dear?

Startled, surprised to see her still awake and sitting on the edge of the bed, he whispered, Why are you still up?

I was waiting for you, my love. Are you feeling refreshed? She asked.

Much. He said.

Then do you feel better about talking to me now? She asked.

He smiled nervously, It has been a very long day, Becky. Let’s talk in the morning.

Now Horace, I know you so well and I know that this is not at all like you. Something is deeply troubling you tonight, my darling.

Horace joined her on the edge of the bed and leaned over to gently kiss her cheek. It has just been a very long day. Please leave it at that.

She cradled his face in her hands and said, Now, look me in the eye, Horace Freeman. Something is weighing heavy on you tonight. I can feel it. Please, lighten this load by talking to me so we can both go to sleep.

He stood up and slowly walked towards the small window just below the ceiling.

The accumulated snow outside blocked much of his view. His eyes fixed upon one of the shapes closest to the thick window. He began to speak slowly, Becky, this is not something that I dare to speak about.

Not even to me?

Not even to you.

Becky stood and walked over to him, Horace, my darling, I have never seen you like this. Are you... are you in any trouble?

No, Becky, he smiled weakly. It is not about me.

She reached for his hand. Horace, you’re trembling. Is it Mr. Tom? Is he all right?

Knowing how persistent she could be, especially if she believed that something was wrong, he held her close.

She put her arms around him and spoke slowly, Share the weight of this burden with me, Horace. Please.

He looked at her then turned his head away and gazed down at the floor. Becky gently moved his hand up to her lips.

Horace Freeman, I love you with all my heart. There is never going to be anything that can or would change that. Talk to me.

Gently cradling her face in his hands, he whispered, Becky, I wish with everything that is holy to me that I had never heard what was spoken in this house today. Just knowing what I now know is more frightening than anything you can possibly imagine.

What could be so horrifying for you?

Slowly, almost mechanically, he began sharing the events of the day with his partner of four decades. As he spoke, her eyes widened until he thought they would pop out of their sockets. When he was all done he leaned closer, bringing his lips to her ear. I hope that I will not be sorry that I brought you into this dirty, dirty mess, Becky. Only God knows where this will end.

Poor Mr. Tom, she murmured. What will he do?

I don’t know. I fear that whatever he does he will become knotted in with something that can soil his good name for many years to come. Becky, you must promise me, in the Lord’s name that you will not tell a living soul what I have shared with you this night.

But surely it will all soon be known by everyone anyway. Won’t it, Horace?

I don’t know if it will or not.

No one, not even Mr. Tom could keep this a secret for very long.

Just tell me that you will not share this with anyone.

Don’t you trust me after all of these years? she said with a weak smile.

Becky, this is very different. Very different from anything we have ever spoken about before. You must never utter a single word about this to anyone. Not a word. Do you understand?

I understand.

You must say the words, Becky, please.

He was frightening her; she had never seen him this agitated. I promise I will never tell another human being. As God is my witness, I promise. She crossed her heart and pressed her fingers tightly against her lips. Now, try to sleep, you have to get up in just a few hours and you will need all of the rest you can get for the new day ahead.

He held her close and whispered in her ear, I love you, Becky.

And I love you, my darling. Now try to rest your body and your mind and go to sleep.

Horace kissed Becky and then walked around to his side of the bed and got under the covers. He leaned in, gave Becky one more kiss, and then turned over, tightly wrapping the cover around him.

Staring into the darkness, he was feeling guilty for having sworn her to secrecy. From his unique vantage point he regularly saw the President at his best and his worst. He was often reminded of his father’s response when Horace told him he was chosen to accompany the new President to Washington. Just remember, Horace, no man is a God, the best of all men are still merely human and capable of being both very good and very bad. Now you will be able to see up close every wart on this man’s soul. You will soon understand why no man is a hero to his valet.

Each night as he cuddled next to Becky he would tell her about everything that happened during the day. She always listened quietly as he described the President’s comings and goings, interrupting only occasionally to ask for more details as the stories ranged from human frailties to important matters of state for the still fragile republic.

Horace always felt secure in sharing these events with Becky. She never gave him reason to doubt that whatever news and happenings he shared with her would stay within their four walls. To the best of his knowledge she never repeated a single word to anyone. But then again, never before had they talked about such potentially explosive information as he shared with her this evening. He closed his eyes, thinking to himself: of course Becky can be trusted. More than anyone else in the world, Becky can be trusted, shame on me for doubting her.

Neither Horace nor Becky nor the master of this house slept very much this night or for many nights to come.

*****

Horace’s remorse would have quickly turned to fear if he had known that Becky kept a personal diary. On its pages, she regularly recorded the events of her day, including the contents of their late night discussions.

In one form or another she kept the diary since she was a young girl and just continued the practice in her adult years. The events of the past fifty or so years now filled numerous bundles of individual pieces of paper. Each bundle neatly tied on all four sides with thin red hair ribbons.

Becky stored them in her special hiding place, the hollowed out compartment of a cabinet that her father had built for her when she turned ten years of age. Her father was an experienced carpenter. He had been brought to Monticello to build various pieces of furniture and shelving to hold Thomas Jefferson’s massive collection of books. Although the cabinet he built for Becky was made from scraps and odd pieces of wood left over from his work for Jefferson, it was sturdy and to Becky, it was a treasure in itself.

It was rare in that time for the child of a slave to be taught to read and write, and even more rare for a female – slave or free. In exchange for his unique carpentry skills, Becky’s father arranged for a local minister to secretly teach his youngest daughter to read and write. Becky was an eager student and by the time she was seven she could read the bible from cover to cover. Fearful that she would be labeled a witch for these abilities, both the minister and her father warned her not to ever let anyone know she could read or write. Never tell nobody you can do this, her father warned, Never! Early in their marriage she thought of telling Horace but never did.

The day her father gave her the cabinet he showed her the secret compartment. This will make my gift to you even more special, he whispered. a secret compartment for your very own treasures. He showed her how to gain access to the compartment by twisting a portion of the upper molding to the left while pressing the side with her other hand. To the best of her knowledge, no one else ever knew about this private hiding place or about her diary and any of its contents.

Chapter 2

Monday, September 9, 1985,

Brooklyn, New York –

Max Barnes was not like most of the other kids on the block in either his appearance or his interests. He was shorter than most of the other kids in his neighborhood, overweight, and lacked many of the usual child-like notions usually held by most other kids his age. While the others talked about sports and as they grew older, girls, he talked about current affairs, and as he grew older, even more current affairs. Most of the other kids on his block had many heroes to idolize and daydream about but from the time he was nine years old and had been introduced to early American History in Mrs. Abondola’s 4.1, 4th grade class in Brooklyn’s P.S.16, he had only one hero: Thomas Jefferson.

Two powerful themes greeted all