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Be A Lamb Darlin' and Sing Me No Sad Elegy

Chapter Text

Let's start our story with a visual of our main character, John Quincy Adams.

Quincy was a short fellow. His hair had side bangs, the top-front with a tuft of curls and the rest of the length in fly-away curves. It was raven in color, lined with silver for age. His skin had a pale yellowish tan. Facial hair lined above his lips.

He liked to dress according to trend (as he found breeches disgusting and outdated), yet somehow still showed his father's style--slightly skirtish and outlined. He usually clothed himself in a baby lavender color, as was now the color of his coat, which was embroidered with stars and stripes.

Quincy paced about in his office. As the book of Job stated, every man's days are numbered.

And damn right his days as President were numbered.

Honestly, trying to prep up for his leave was stressful.

Particularly when the populus was agreeing on having a madman for a President.

Jackson called himself a man of the people, and as much as Quincy himself loved the people--of which loved unity and peace as much he did--he felt that Jackson could not understand that the people aren't completely capable of running themselves all the time.

I mean, what's the use of a government then? Of Congress? The Cabinet? The Senate?

The Presidency?

Quincy's father, along with men from the generation, blabbed and always blabbed about legacy--a topic that seemed dead to everyone ever since the beginning of Thomas Jefferson's second term.

Oh how Quincy wanted a second term. He guessed that all Adamses are cursed with the ability to be granted only one term.

But legacy--if it was still a matter taken seriously, or with more respect at least--would do good for Jackson.

And probably bad too.

He's heard collegues of his father's speak of his father's sense of prophetic air. Quincy believed he inherited this trait.

He would be remembered, sure, but how he was remembered was more of the matter--Jackson was redefining it, wasn't he?

Andrew Jackson, redefining American legacy.

It was no longer worrying about how people, unknown as to whom, would tell your story, but rather how you yourself would've told it--took it, for the matter, and control it.

And the populous always saw their lives in such a way--it's a wonder why they loved Jackson.

That bitch had bullets to shoot through time and space!

Apparently America was run by magical people. (Hence the country being run by "The Chosen Few")

If Quincy's self-believed prophetic ability did not betray him, Jackson would remain as controversial as he knew him right there.

And the people would throne him next to Jefferson, probably for what they stood for.

Shit, he and his dad had way too much in common.

Quincy then reflected on any of the other Founders' children:

William Franklin had opinions opposite his father's.

Washington had no biological children.

Patsy Jefferson was a supportive woman with helpful ambitions.

Madison didn't seem to have biological children either.

Philip Hamilton paved and in a way mirrored his father's fall.

Peter Jay followed after his father, albeit with mirroring success and more privacy. (Thank God he ditched the Federalists--he would've ended up like Jay.)

And yeah, there was him.

John Quincy Adams, son of Founding Father John Adams and Abigail Adams.

John Quincy Adams, brother to Nabby Smith, Charles Adams, and Tommy Adams, the first two dead by cancer and alchoholism perspectively. (His youngest brother ought to be gone in a few years time--Quincy knew.)

John Quincy Adams, diplomat, Senator, Secretary of State.

John Quincy Adams, sixth President of the United States.

Quincy laughed to himself, pausing.

That's quite a lot for one lifetime.

Yet, Quincy came to the conclusion, long ago, that the world will never be satisfied.

Whenever he prayed to Providence whether what he had done was enough, he is met with indifference. The sun comes up; the world still spins.

John Quincy Adams, the man who still never wins anything.

"Jesus Christ, Quincy,"

The President cuts himself off, a sharp breath escaping in his gasp.

"C-Calhoun-"

"So yer the bitch that's been gigglin' all over the White House, huh?"

Behold Quincy's VP, John Calhoun.

His hair was dyed in an unatural platinum color, the sides of his head shaved. His complexion was white gold, with spots and blotches of a paler white all over his skin. His eyes were a dead dark brown, his frame scrawny. His sholders were broad but his hips in curve.

He wore earings and a nose piercing, and clad himself in dark mustard yellow colors.

"Giggling?" Adams's hands fidgeted. "What g-giggling?"

"The Secret Service was convinced there were ghosts and shit!" Calhoun exclaimed. "Fuckin' hell, Quincy."

Walking further into the room, papers in hand to which he placed on Adams's desk, "Yer not 'bleeding yourself', aren't ya?"

"Don't confuse me for Jackson, Calhoun,"

"Ah heard it's a trend--"

"Which I refuse to follow."

Quincy swore in his mind that everyone in America was going through some stereotypical depressive teenage phase--everyone was either an asshole, suicidal, stupid or also suffering social anxiety just like him.

"Alright then," Calhoun turned to face Adams, leaning against the desk. "Explain yer gigglin'."

"I was not giggling!"

"Sure ya aren't."

Adams frowned. "What's that you've put on my desk?"

"Essays of ours that have been mixed together."

Adams raised a brow. "How?"

"Clay found 'em and said we fix 'em together."

"Couldn't he have done it himself?"

"And let that bitch run his phallus-quill pen over my writin'? Fuck no."

"Not my fault Clay's against the 'peculiar institution' you so passionately defend."

A bitter hum escaped Calhoun's pursed lips. "Yer with that hypocrite, you fuck."

Calhoun snickered, "Surprised you still haven't acted upon your stand."

"The unity of the nation always comes first, Calhoun. I-I hope you haven't forgotten." Adams walked to his desk and picked up his walking cane.

This was the same one his father carried. Quincy tied some trinkets onto the handle when his father finally passed away. One was a quill, another a star, and the last a lightning bolt.

"Of course not--why do you think Ah'm defendin' slavery in the first place? We both know our country oughta split if we push through with those...shitty abolitionist ideas."

Adams hated ignoring the slaves of the Nation, but he knew Calhoun was correct. America would split if he pushed on any further.

That could explain Washington--why the Founder had him remain in politics in the first place--they both shared the same sense of neutrality.

"They're not shitty, damn it." Adams softly tapped the floor with his cane.

They both glared at each other.

Calhoun broke first, "Fuck it, Quincy. Let's just get this done."

"Y-yeah, you're right."

And so Calhoun took the papers and dropped them on the floor.

"What the fuck, John," Quincy cursed, noting the reasonable amount of papers that flew into his face.

John had already sat down on the floor, "Just sit yer ass down, Quincy."

He obliged, and so they began to sort.

After what seemed like an hour, both having less than 5 papers left, Calhoun goes, "And look what Ah found."

"Hm?" Adams was organizing his pile.

"An unopened letter from yer father," Calhoun studied the envelope.

"Gimme that," Adams frantically flicked his wrist for the envelope.

Calhoun handed the letter over to him.

Quincy studied the seal and the age of the paper.

"Ah'mma head out now," John breaks Quincy's focus, all his papers and essays in hand.

"Van Buren's having a dinner at 6."

"He invited you too?" Asked Calhoun.

"Yeah." Replied Adams. "I mean, he may not always be useful, but he's still a nice guy."

"Sure, because our queer asses here in Washington still love him."

"You don't seem to be as happy as your words are."

"'Cause Ah ain't goin'."

"Why not?"

"Jackson's comin' too."

"Incredible." Quincy faceplanted into his pile of essays.

John laughed and left Quincy in his desired solitude.

Quincy then took his pile and placed it on his desk, sat down and proceeded to open the envelope.

Judging by the date, the letter had been written a few decades before.


 

Well, it is wonderful to hear great tidings from you. I pray for your safe return from Prussia. And now, to address and confide information you may desire or like to keep in mind.

Now, I've come to write this after having a conversation with the incoming Vice President, Aaron Burr. To be third incubent of the position I started.

See, he had suspicions about Mr. Jefferson of which aroused the attention of my own concerning the President-elect. Our talk was...something. (It's very disquieting actually.)

With my interest still aflame, I will have been considering collaborating with Mr. Burr on the topic. Perhaps in the form of an essay, if we do have the time.

Here lies some of my unfinished writings on the topic of Thomas Jefferson's clearly tumultuous lovelife, by your loving Father, J. Adams.

P.S. I've corresponded with Mr. Burr for your sake; you owe him praise for his willingness to respond--he's a vague man and all of America knows this.

 

Chapter Text

I've always loved the  fellow--his  eloquence, his silence, his desire for an independent America.

From his cloud of  silver-lined  corkscrews to calm cladding, Thomas was one of the greatest friends I've ever had.

Now Quincy, you may find my sudden praises odd but do not. I've written about him to you before, but I only wish to write to you reminiscence.

You know, it's quite an experience being friends with I used to call "Virginia's Most Famous Lover!"

When we were tasked into the committee of writing the Declaration, that fool was honestly aggravating.

He would not stop yapping about going back to Virginia.

Too bad,  Jefferson--Lee  already called dibs on Virginia. Twice!

And the first time that  horse-riding  prick did so, it was useful.

Come to think of it, Lee was acting reasonab-lee reasonably.

You do not know how much support to my claims did I have to show Jefferson, son! For so long, he could not be swayed!

I mean, if I were to do it, Congress would ought to run their quill pens through it! Well...I'm obnoxious and disliked, you may have been told that.


Quincy chuckled softly to himself. If only his father lived to see where he is right now. Suffering and will still do so until the world has ridden of him.

What has the first of the Adamses done to have him and his father suffer this much?


Anyways, Thomas had been married to his Martha for around 4 years at the time of writing.

I sent her a letter saying that she come visit after our week of planning--I honestly expected Thomas to have been finished by then.

You know what pisses me off sometimes, Quincy?

When things don't get done.

No wonder he got chosen to be in  Congress--if  you plan to join it, know that things hardly get done.


"Piddle, twiddle, twist, resolve!" Quincy remembered, his father's vigorous voice echoing in his childhood memories.

Quincy considered joining Congress after he leaves--what do you know? His father was indeed prophetic!


Like, nothing's ever solved!

See, a week later, Benjamin Franklin and I paid him a visit.

This is where I discovered that he did not make any progress. Not at all! Could you believe that?

Of course, I scolded  him--that  prick, that  no-good , just smugly there, his rear atop his disgusting contraption of some spinning chair,  RELIEVING  HIMSELF WITH HIS GOD DAMN FIDDLE!

Hello? We have a country to free here!

And Franklin had to give himself a nap instead of backing me up.

Just as I managed to get him up, there arrived Jefferson's wife.

If my memory serves me well, her hair was like the night sky, dark with a  starlike , silky shine, and the edges of her bobbed hair were like  crescent  moons.

Her small, thin, caligraphy-like eyes beamed a similar feeling. Her skin was as white as  East-grown  cotton and silk, accented with classic Virginian rosiness.

She was a petite woman, with very dainty and womanly features, who always knew how to dress herself. She would dress herself in periwinkle, a sweet contrast to Jefferson's earth brown.

Oh yes, Thomas Jefferson actually dressed like a normal person at one point in his life.

Honestly, brown suits Thomas better. It spoke more truth about him than obnoxious  magenta-purple .

If Martha lived to see America, I could see her shifting to a platinum gold. It would go well with Jefferson's choice of color.

Just as Franklin began to whisper his naughty thoughts to me, Thomas immediately got up, and somehow Ben and I had to watch their public display of affection.

I would like to address the relationship between the married couple to be a wonderfully passionate yet still secure one. When the subject of wives would come to play, Jefferson's eloquence is somehow always at its best.

Martha loved him, and so beautifully and wonderfully, she did. Pleasantries with her concerning him felt like a song, with the dance of independency most appropriate.

She knew him very well, and she revealed to Ben and I his more affectionate and creative side.

I was placed in Jefferson's shoes through dancing with her. 'twas a long story--unless you have this leaning to breaking randomly into song like your mother and I--for that is what we did.

(Was it Martha or Abigail I danced with that day? Does Thomas have a quirk which we share that had woman who danced with me look at me with such intensity?)


It's no wonder why Quincy would sing (well, rap at first) out of nowhere sometimes. It was a trait that ran in the family.

Then again, the American goverent did have these same tendencies.

Quincy's mind goes to Louisa, the love of his life--strong and firm and perfect, yet Mother felt she wasn't enough.

Love never discriminates, and it took Quincy and brought him down on his knees while still trying to figure out proper human interaction.


"No wonder he couldn't write; who could write the Declaration while having her?" Franklin said to me, lusting at any decent woman in his sights.

I love the guy, but honestly...you get what I mean, right?

Well...even then, you shouldn't have been deprived the chance to meet Ben  properly--to  know him, befriend him, and share with him the same affection I gave this eccentric pimp I call my friend.

I'm sure you remember a little of what he looked like; he had a curly puff of dark, gray-laced hair, skin the color of old copper, and a relatively large form and bearing.  Thick-browed  he was,  long-lashed , sharp but  hollow-nosed ...with a graying beard-goatee.

He was fond of wearing cladding made of fancy, expensive  materials--he  usually paraded in spring green or vibrant orange.

I pray this description would spark your memory.


It did, actually.

Quincy was nine then--sick at the time but still capable of doing simple tasks.

He and his siblings were summoned by his father and mother; they were then introduced to the famous Dr. Franklin, inventor of the stove.

The famous Dr. Franklin, signer of the Declaration, Founding Father of the United States.

Quincy remembered that Franklin wasn't exactly fond of him--this friend of his father's--this man had expected more from him.

Because people hate children who wouldn't speak up, children who would shy away.

Quincy hated pressure, but it had grown into him to please--no, satisfy--people deserving of his efforts, and that the idea of letting them down is like committing the most grave of sins toward God himself.

It's no wonder why he preferred solitude. While his parents preferred it due to their intolerance to stupidity, he liked solitude because he didn't have to experience the hardship of satisfying your neighbor.

At this point, Quincy wished he was like Jackson, who although gave less shits, managed to captivate and attract the American people towards him.


Anyways, back to Thomas!

It comes to memory that not only was Jefferson a Southern gentleman, but also a classic Virginian.

And Virginians, Quincy, Virginians ought to appear at the head of any significant business.

Although these kinds of people have their...slaves, love of farming, and habit of making bets, to be a part of such a people is something one can consider an honor.

I'm now reminded of Lee--Richard Henry Lee in particular. (I'm sure you know the Lee family is everywhere; they would sing of themselves, "Here a Lee, there a Lee--everywhere a Lee!")

What a huge God damn ham--his booming voice was thick, had that Southern twang, and oddly enough...it was a nice-sounding voice.

He was a great help to our cause at the time.

He and Tom were the representatives of Virginia. If my memory serves well, they were fond of each other.

I remember that time when Hancock proposed we all have one dinner together, just as we signed the document that could've killed off the entire Second Continental Congress; somehow Hancock managed to get most of Congress to participate.

At the time, Jefferson had excused himself to relieve--once he was gone, the talk of him began.

"What do you think of Tom, ay, Johnny?" Lee asked.

"What of your thoughts, good sir?" I returned, sipping my wine.

"A quiet lad, that one!" Out went Mr. McKean. Cue laughter.

"Tom's got a good heart, if you oughta know," Lee responded to my question. "And the man's got a vision these states should hope to look like."

I celebrated the idea just as everyone else did when Lee's words left his lips, but as I write this, I am beginning to feel that this posibility would be a nightmare.


A nightmare?

Quincy personally believed in some of Jefferson's policies--one of the reasons why he switched parties. (Really, it was mostly because the Federalist Party was falling apart, and he wanted needed to stay alive politically.)

Flashback to the War of 1812--inadvertedly Jefferson's fault.

And this is why Quincy believed in trading.

He sighed and reclined in his chair, folding the letter closed.

Being in politics for this long meant watching Jefferson be so dependent on America's lands and agriculture--isn't that what happens when you have a farmer run America?

Quincy believed in diplomacy, neutrality, keeping ties and unity.

To be fair, all he wanted was for everyone to get along and not push their individual slightly personified agendas and ideals into the governing of the country.

Just some God damn peace would do.

He straightened up in his chair and folded the letter open again.


"Now, your words, John?" He deviously brought the attention to me.

I said, "Jefferson's a brilliant writer, although a man of wit and genius, he is awfully unable to appear politically sociable."

This statement stirred tension and murmurs.

"Although with that and other shortcomings, like his excessive silence and timidity, he is most definitely a man of great virtue."

And the tension lightened.

I regret now uttering these words. So, so much.

You have me to thank at your disposal, Quincy.  Lest you find this letter late.

"And one thing's for sure, he is a man of incredible fidelity--"

"And I quote Mr. Adams," Franklin cut me off so suddenly,  that son of a bitch  "'Ah yes, Thomas Jefferson: Virginia's Most Famous Lover!"

Ah, b eautiful laughter.

"And what makes for me, then, Benjamin?!" Lee raised his voice, cutting the joy short.

"Why," Franklin snarked. "You're Virginia's Most Devious Lee!"

And we all laughed so hard, it seemed that Tom was jealous at missing out on all of the fun, in fact, he returned in time.

Pennsylvanians are natural snarkers, aren't they?

"I-I hope I'm not t-too late," Tom stutter-chuckled, extending the laughter.

As he went to sit, "Fun with y'all is something one ought not ta miss."

"Nothin' t' worry about, Mr. Jefferson," Rutledge spoke. "There ain't a thin' here fer ya t'miss."

We laughed heartily.

"For a second there, I thought you were a man o' honor, Mr. Rutledge," Jefferson spat with a snicker, just having drank from his glass.

"Hey now, what's that supposed t'mean?!"

"I don' got any intention to provoke your anger, Mr. Rutledge; erm, d-do calm down."

"I'm fine an' well, Mr. Jefferson," And Rutledge had shut up, for by then our conversation flew towards more...scandalous topics to discuss.

s candalous  controversial topic I wish to address to you my son is the peculiar institution of slavery.

I know for one that you are not in favor of preserving this institution. Neither am I.

I must address that we, the Adamses, although pure and clean for as long as I could remember, are predominantly soul-blind.

I was called this.


Quincy was called that too--far too many times, most especially by Calhoun.

Having to disagree on big issues with your Vice President was painful.

Well, John Adams's Vice President was Thomas Jefferson.

At least Quincy's relationship with Calhoun wasn't as toxic.


You may think of this a figure of speech (for so long apparent, the imagery of racism was expressed through the vision of a man's soul), but do know this is more of a lacking in physical ability.

Not that you should consider yourself disabled, but rather as someone having no need to see people with a disgusting, discriminatory disctinction.

Franklin first observed it with me; he explained the concept of man's ability to see a physical visualization of a soul.

He said that our souls are white; the souls of Negroes are black--mulattoes and quadroons would have a color that were in certain shades in between.

As we are in the Enlightenment-- the scientists, the knowledgable--they claim this a reason for racial distinction.

A corrupted Church doctrine had said that dark-souled are cursed by Providence and we ought to avoid them. (I call this rule corrupt, for He said that we are to love each other, sinner or saint.)

Franklin never got to describe for me further the appearance of souls, but he mentioned that the appearance of a soul--the sight of our inner selves--cannot determine the good, true, and free nature of an individual. (For this, his discriminate view had shifted in his young life.)

Of course, this racial distinction had nothing to do with our physical complexions--ha! I bet your confusion (if you ever had any) would be explained here.

After all, most of us Americans aren't even physically white. (The British are; same goes with half of the French.)

Had our racial distinction be based off physical complexion, I bet this country wouldn't have come to exist! (Or perhaps, the America we know and love would maybe just be physically white; the spirit of revolution is an omniscient one.)


Quincy slammed the paper down on the desk and took a good look at his hands.

"C-Calhoun?" He called out.

No response.

Quincy sighed, folding the paper closed, and stood up-

"YOUR EXCELLENCY," The door burst open.

Behold Henry Clay, Secretary of State.

Best described to be always in a state of "shook".

His hair was black, a pile of curls and corkscrews, long and well-fashioned. It was fashioned a sidebang and the other side tied back behind his head. His skin was as dark as burnt coffee, with large brown eyes covered with spectacles and curly lashes. His nose was sharp and pointed yet his nostrils flared and was very thick-lipped.

His cladding was dark navy blue, ragged looking yet carried a classy air. In his clutches he caressed his weasel. (The furry thing was adorable, but it was as mischevious as Clay.)

"Mr. Secretary-" 

"I WAS SUPPOSED TO ADDRESS THIS TO VAN BUREN, BUT HE ISN'T HERE." Clay slammed the door closed with his foot. "ARE YOU AWARE OF HIS WHEREABOUTS?"

Adams produced his walking cane. Placing it down, "I don't think so. Hmm...no."

Frantically glancing corner to corner then faced the President, "Well, SORRY FOR INTRUDING, MR. ADAMS."

Henry was stopped by Quincy when his hand was on the doorknob.

"Hold on, Mr. Clay-"

"WHAT IS IT?" He tensed up, nearing Adams.

Adams tightened his grip on the cane. "Is John Calhoun right about me being soul-blind?"

Clay raised a shaky brow. Lowering his voice, "Am I white?"

"Well, I mean you're here-"

"NO--look aT ME PROPERLY, QUINCY!" An eye twitched behind Clay's glasses. "MY OUTER SKIN?"

"B-black?

"MY INNER SKIN?"

"I..." Quincy's hands were frantic and shaky.

He then proceeded to unbutton Clay's coat.

The weasel in Henry's hands growled.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" Clay jerked away from Adams.

"Well, uh-"

"GOD, QUINCY! CALHOUN'S RIGHT." Clay buttoned his coat back again. "YOU ARE SOUL-BLIND."

Quincy's hands fidgeted. "Um, what about you?"

"What tHE FUCK DO YOU MEAN?!"

Quincy looked at his hands again. He faced Henry. "I me-"

"IN REGARDS TO YOUR BLINDNESS, I'M WHITE."

"..an whether or not you're soul-blind too."

"I'M NOT."

"...huh."

Henry tsked after Quincy's pausing. "YEAH, THAT SUCKS, DOESN'T IT?"

Quincy sighed. "You can go; ask Congress, they might know where Van Buren is."

"THANK YOU." And gone was Henry Clay.

John Quincy Adams then walked back to his table and opened the paper again.


Know that Jefferson owned slaves--a good lot of them too.

We were editing the draft of the Declaration--it was perfect, Quincy. Perfect!

But we all know that compromises cannot always be avoided.

Edward Rutledge was one of the representatives of South Carolina--the youngest of all of us, except Ben Franklin. (Honestly, the young man seemed to have represented the South in its entirety.)

His dark hair was bleached. His skin was pale, white, and sun-accented. His small eyes were dark brown, covered with glasses. His cladding was all in bright pastel colors.

The man 's clearly jejune, inane, and puerile!

What surprised me however was that he had one hell of a singing voice.

It was young and thin, but it was flexible; it imitated well and boomed chills into anyone's spines.

See, there was a clause regarding slavery in the draft and he  demanded  that it be removed.

To accuse the South would trigger him; I did this and his sermon-song could not leave my head for years. The true nature of this correspondence brings me memories of his voice.


"True nature?" Quincy got up instantly.

He began to fear the said nature.

The fact that the letter was written decades ago made him all the more scared.

He began to pace frantically, and then continued to read.


"I wonder if we might prevail upon Mr. Thomson t'read again a small portion of Mr. Jefferson's declaration," The moment Neddy called Hancock, even Ben told me to brace myself.

"The one beginnin', ' He has waged war, '"

And Secretary Thomson read again, " He's waged war against human nature itself in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere. Determined to keep men bought and sold, he has prostituted his- "

"That will suffice, Mr. Thomson." He then directed the attention of Congress and his own to Jefferson.

"Mr. Jefferson, I can't 'xactly make out what it is y're talkin' about-"

"Slavery, Mr. Rutledge." Tom was never one to cut people off, let alone in Congress. I like to think it's by defense of his work or his general awkwardness in speaking.

"Ah yes--as in us as t'King's slaves?"

"N-no." He was flustered in the nervous way, fidgeting in his naturally horrible posture"I-I mean our black slaves."

"Ya coulda said so, Mr. Jefferson. Were ya tryin' t'hide yer meanin'?"

"I've got nothin' t'hide; if you like to, call it another literary license."

Rutledge scoffed. "I don' like at all."

I really hate this guy--he clearly wanted us to say something incriminating.

"Black-souled slavery is t'peculiar institution an' much cherished way o' life here 'n South Carolina!"

"E-Ev'n then, we oughta abolish it!" Thomas retorted. "It's also clear in our Book o' Faith that these people have a right ta an' deserve this freedom we happen ta equally seek!

"Our main concern righ'now is what's on that li'l paper o' yers over there, not t'Book o' Faith!"

"That 'li'l paper's' dealing with freedom, Mr. Rutledge. Freedom for Americans." I cut in--I was having none of it.

"Oh, really?" He mock-laughed. "List'n up, Continen'al Congress! Mr. Adams has just called our black slaves 'Americans!'"

He walked up to me, trying to produce an intimidating stance. "Are they now, sir?"

"Well, they're people who are here--the only requirements for an American. Do tell if I've forgotten anything, Mr. Rutledge."

He hmphed. "You've fergotten that they ain't people! They're property--"

"No, they're people bein' treat'd like property!" Jefferson defended. "The rights o' human nature are  deeply wounded  by this  infamous practice! "

"Why not see t'yer own wounds, Jefferson, for we all know--the Lord knows--that you yerself are a practitioner! Are ya not?"

------

"Mr. Adams,"

Quincy, startled from pacing about, fumbled with the letter. "Y-yeah, Calhoun?"

"Someone requests they speak with ya."

"And who would that be?" He straightened himself, folding the letter closed.

"Ol' Hickory."

Quincy almost dropped his cane he just picked up. "Never."

"Go see fer yerself." And John Calhoun left with the door open.

John Quincy Adams then got up, letter and cane in hand, and walked out his office.

Still aware that Calhoun was nearby, "Where is he?"

"The East Hall."

Incredible. Adams thought to himself.

Jackson requesting he speak to him? Let's see how this goes.